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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of o
o stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the o
o world. Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups). There is no o
o particular order other than offering them to you in alpha- o
o betical directories. o
o I don't believe in categorizing things. "I don't want to o
o be typed therefore I don't type things myself." I think it's o
o a lot more fun to browse around and find 'little' surprises o
o that you might not have even thought of looking for. o
o Lest we forget!!! This story was produced as adult en- o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors. o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Seat of Things, The (Fm, inc, ped)
by Dave Reston
***
My stepmother, Brenda, had an uncanny ability to tell
when I was lying to her, and once she'd caught me in a lie, she
had a 100 percent successful method of persuading me to tell her
the truth. Her skill at detecting falsehoods became apparent
only over time, but she demonstrated her unerring ability to
extract the truth--to "get right to the seat of things", as she
put it--within a month or two after she married my father and
came to live with us.
I was eight years old and had been used to feeling pretty
cocky when my dad was away from home. I'd been messing around
and had broken one of the "rabbit ears" off the TV set--I don't
remember how--but when Brenda questioned me I denied knowing how
it had happened. Not too smart, considering that there were only
two of us home at the time and Brenda obviously knew she hadn't
done it.
She didn't respond to my denial except to tell me to go
to my room and wait for her. I went in and sat on my bed, and
Brenda walked in a minute later, holding a wooden hairbrush in
her hand. She closed the door and looked at me.
"I asked you how the TV got broken and you lied to me."
It was a statement, not a question, and I didn't say
anything.
"I'm going to show you what happens to boys who lie," she
said. "Take your pants off."
That worried me some, but not too much. My dad had used
his belt, or a leather strap, or a wooden paddle on me a number
of times, and that hurt something awful, especially when I got it
on the bare butt; but I'd never been spanked by a woman before,
and I didn't think it would hurt much. I took my sneakers off,
and then my jeans, and stood there glaring at Brenda in my
T-shirt and undershorts.
"Take your shirt off, too."
I obeyed, secretly relieved that she was letting me keep
my underwear on.
"Now your underpants."
Blushing, I slid my shorts down past my knees and stepped
out of them. Brenda had seen me naked before, but that was when
I was taking a bath, and my nudity had been incidental to what
was going on. This time it was the whole point, and it felt very
different to be stripping in response to her instructions.
She walked toward me and sat on the edge of the bed, then
grabbed my arm and pulled me down across her lap. Goosebumps
spread across my bottom as I realized that it was positioned
directly under her right hand. She pulled both of my hands
behind my back and clamped my wrists together with her strong
left hand.
"I'm sorry I have to do this, but you'd better learn
right now that any time you tell me a lie, this is what is going
to happen."
The next thing I sensed was an incredible explosion of
pain in the right side of my butt. I was so surprised that I
didn't even cry out until the hairbrush landed again, this time
on the left side. The pain from that blow opened my mouth and I
started yelling like the proverbial stuck pig, and struggling
fiercely as well. But Brenda had a good grip on both of my
wrists, my feet were off the floor, and there was no way I could
gain any leverage against anything. All I could do was roll my
hips a few inches from side to side, and yell, as the remorseless
paddling continued.
Brenda spanked me only 10 or 12 times, but my little bot-
tom felt like it was on fire when she stopped. I lay across her
lap, sobbing, while she maintained her grip on my wrists.
"Tell me what happened to the TV," she demanded.
I was so outraged by the spanking I'd received that I was
unwilling to admit I'd lied to her. "I don't know," I sniffled.
My words were followed almost instantly by another shriek
of pain as the hairbrush smacked again into my already-bruised
butt. Once more I squirmed noisily but helplessly while Brenda
administered another dozen or so strokes.
"I told you," she said as my cries subsided, "what would
happen every time you lied to me. Now are you ready to tell me
the truth?"
"Yes," I mumbled. She said nothing, but my wrists
remained in her firm grasp. I told her something about trying to
adjust the picture when the antenna broke off in my hand. I'd
got about that far with my story when I felt the tension in her
body increase, and I knew she wasn't satisfied.
The next set of spanks hurt even worse than the first
two, because there wasn't a spot on my rump that hadn't already
felt the hairbrush at least once. I writhed and kicked my legs
frantically, the loud smacks of the paddle against my bare skin
resounding almost as loudly as my cries. After five or six
strokes I begged her to stop, promising to tell the truth, but
she continued the spanking until I'd had at least a dozen.
My defiance crushed, I told her the truth about what I'd
done to damage the television. Brenda was still gripping my
wrists, and I held my breath as I finished my explanation,
wondering if she would believe me.
"That sounds like the truth, finally," she commented. "I
wish you'd told me that in the beginning--it would have saved
both of us a lot of pain! But it's probably a lesson you needed
to learn some time. Do you understand now what will happen if
you ever lie to me again?"
I assured her that I understood and would never tell
another lie. She released my hands and I stood up, my hands
involuntarily cupping the battered cheeks of my butt. The heat
in them surprised me. "Can I get dressed now?" I asked.
"Not yet. If you'd told me the truth, I'd probably have
given you a little spanking with your pants on. As it is, you're
still going to get the spanking, and you'll get it on your bare
bottom, just to help you remember that lying always makes things
worse!"
I pleaded with her, saying I'd already been punished
enough, but Brenda said that so far I'd only been punished for
lying, not for breaking the TV. She led me whimpering to the
corner of my bed and made me lie down, my knees gripping the
sides of the mattress and my bottom jutting out conveniently.
She pressed her hand hard into my lower back, making it
impossible for me to move.
"Remember," she said, "you could have had your pants on
for this, if you hadn't lied to me." Then she swung the hair-
brush, and my pleas were quickly replaced with cries. She only
spanked me eight times, but on top of the ones I'd already
received, those eight seemed to last forever.
Finally she stopped and lifted her hand off my back.
"All right," she told me, "you can put your clothes on now." I
found my undershorts and pulled them on, easing the waistband
gingerly over my bruised buttocks.
"Am I ever going to have to do this again?" she demanded.
I assured her that she wouldn't, but I knew deep inside that I
was already telling another lie. She didn't detect that one, but
most of my others she did--and for the next five years, at least,
her response was the same as it had been that first time.
She never issued a warning, and she never accused me of
lying when I was telling the truth. Once she realized I was
lying about something, she would stop whatever she was doing and
glare at me. "That's a lie," she would say, "and we're going to
get to the seat of things right now!"
I learned quickly that that announcement was shorthand
for several commands--"Go to your room this instant! Strip all
of your clothes off! And lie face down on your bed!"--and that
arguing with her was ineffective, and counterproductive in terms
of the degree of discomfort my buttocks were about to experience.
By the time I was in the designated position she would be
walking into my room, hairbrush in hand. She would pin my wrists
together behind my back and administer the initial paddling to my
naked backside without saying a word. (In the first year or so,
as I indicated, each set consisted of 10 or 12 hard spanks; as I
got older, though, or if I'd recently been caught in another lie,
I'd get 20, 25 or even 30 at a time.)
If I were smart, I'd be ready to tell the truth after the
first set, and then I'd have to "face" only whatever punishment
she decided to mete out for the offense I'd lied about. I wasn't
usually that smart--I'd try to con her with more lies, and then
with half-truths. Each lie or half-truth literally put my ass on
the line, because once Brenda starting swinging the hairbrush no
change of heart, no promise, no plea would persuade her to stop
until she'd finished that set. It usually took four or five sets
before I'd give up and tell her the whole truth, and once I fool-
ishly held out for ten sets; I couldn't sit comfortably for two
or three days after that spanking, and large areas of my
posterior still sported yellowish bruises a week later.
I've often wondered why I insisted on lying to Brenda
regularly, once it should have been apparent to me that that the
odds didn't favor my getting away with it. As far as I can
remember, I never lied to my dad, or anyone else either. Brenda
didn't catch every lie I told her, of course, but of all the
occasions on which she realized I was lying, there wasn't a sin-
gle time she failed to spank the complete truth out of me. Maybe
some part of me wanted to provoke her into spanking me; if so, it
sure wasn't the part of me that became so intimately familiar
with the feel of her hairbrush!
I've also wondered how much longer it would have gone on,
if something hadn't happened to make us both realize that the
contest needed to end. I was 13 and growing up rapidly--in sev-
eral ways--the last time Brenda spanked me. She gave me the
usual "we're going to get right to the seat of things" pronounce-
ment, and I went to my room and stripped. Instead of lying face
down on my bed, though, I lay on my back; I was proud of my
growing cock and balls, and the tufts of hair that had sprung up
around them, and I wanted to be sure Brenda saw them.
She came in with the hairbrush, and there was no way she
could miss what I was displaying. She strode over to the side of
my bed and raised the hairbrush. "Unless you want this in front
for a change," she snapped, "you'd better turn over quick."
Hastily I flopped onto my stomach, and the hairbrush burned into
my ass before I'd even finished rolling over.
Unlike all of the previous times, Brenda hadn't bothered
to grab my wrists, and one of her spankings was not something one
held still for voluntarily. I began thrashing around, and even
though she was leaning with a heavy hand on the base of my spine
I managed to get my knees under me. I thought she'd have to stop
the spanking and grab my wrists, which would have been a minor
victory for me.
Instead she lifted her hand from my back and slipped it
between my legs. She got a tight grip on my tender young balls,
squeezing them and pulling them backward until I straightened my
knees and lay prone again--all without interrupting her steady
paddling of my ass! She kept her grip until she finished the
set, which must have been twice as large as usual, while I
screamed with the dull ache in my balls and the burning pain in
my butt.
I was ready to be truthful long before she stopped the
spanking. We had a typical discussion, and then she told me I
had another 30 spanks coming for what I had done.
"Are you going to hold still while I give you those, or
am I going to have to get a grip on you again?", she demanded.
I promised to hold still, and though I'd never been able
to do it before, I lay without moving while the hairbrush landed
another 30 times on my blazing asscheeks.
I never lied to Brenda again, and I doubt that she would
have spanked me again if I had. It wasn't so much that she had
spanked me harder than ever before, or that I was affected more
by pain in my balls than by pain in my ass. But both of us
sensed that if things went on as they had before, something
unpredictable, and frightening to both of us, might happen.