This was submitted by Uchikimatsu
(I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did)
Glancing at the clock on his phone for the third time, Dave noted the hour with slight irritation and navigated to the site while waiting, making his way to the Suggestion Blog. He occasionally gleaned inspiration from the banter between members, and although he already had a pretty good idea about the day’s shoot, he thought it couldn’t hurt to spare a glance at anything new that might have come up.
It really wasn’t typical for Andy to be this late, and although it was only a mild annoyance, a shoot rarely went perfectly and he preferred to keep to schedule. Before Dave could tap the home button to check the time yet again, he heard Andy let himself in and decided his late arrival was not worth mentioning. Cameras were already in place and furniture arranged, but as was his wont to do, large gaps in storyline and dialog were left undecided until and in between filming. Andy had been with him since the start of his venture and being able to rely on Andy during the creative process made him more than just one of the models, it made him a friend, and Dave was relieved when Andy finally poked his head into the sitting room, the familiar grin sitting easily on his whiskery face. Something – he couldn’t have said what – seemed wrong when Andy passed through the door to greet him, but they were already too far behind schedule now for Dave to be concerned about it.
“Listen, Andy, we’re not doing a builder story so I…. What’s that?”
There were soft shuffling noises coming from just outside the sitting room door. Andy glanced toward door, knitting his eyebrows, and countered with a rather unconvincing, “What’s what?”
“That!” Dave pointed at the door and at the murmuring that could be heard in the foyer. A low giggle followed by a sharp slap was clearly audible and Dave swung his finger from the direction of the door to Andy’s nose. It was then he realized what was wrong about his friend. Andy wasn’t dressed for the storyline they had planned.
Andy covered his mouth and coughed loudly twice, obviously a signal to the boys who now fell into the room all at once in a tangle wearing nervous grins and shoving at each other, evidently none of whom wanted to be on the frontline. Eventually it was Patrick that ended up in the lead, possibly feeling bold for the presence of his big brother, or possibly just the pawn of bad luck. Oliver and Bailey paused behind him, bottlenecked by the arrangement of furniture and cameras.
“Come on, then,” Dave said, gesturing the lads into the room. His gaze reached Andy’s face, scanning it for any clue as to why his sitting room was now full of jittery, albeit gorgeous young men; not that he was opposed to such things, but it just wasn’t on the schedule.
Andy wasn’t looking at him, though; he was looking over at his brother, Patrick, while Oliver and Bailey shared a look between each other. They all seemed to exchange a collective thought and turned to Dave at once, shouting, “Happy birthday, Dave!”
It was immediately apparent what they had in store for him. His birthday celebrations were long over now, but their jumble of nervous grins and uneasy shuffling told tales on them. He would let them have their fun, of course. In fact, he probably didn’t have much choice in the matter, and it could be entertaining for him too, he mused.
Every birthday spanking he administered, at least one to each of them and more than one to some he noted, had been a scripted affair for sake of website and wallet. Evidence of their genuine respect and affection was obvious in the arrangement of this day for him that had nothing to do with business. A wide grin spilled across his face before he was able to school his features back into the inscrutable air typically worn by Mr. X.
In a moment he was face down over the arm of his own sofa, the soft brown leather cool and comforting on his clean-shaven cheek. Someone gently pried the iPhone from his hand and he realized it was Andy, bent low, tilting his head to grin widely at him. “Ha, ha!”
His friend grabbed both his hands, pushing them into the cushions of the couch. He felt other powerful hands gripping both of his legs and pressing firmly into the center of his back. Without any warning at all a rain of quick smacks fell onto his upturned bottom accompanied by a round of nervous giggles.
After the first few swats the lads found their confidence and their voices. The slaps became increasingly harder as they laughed and shouted over one another.
“Happy birthday, Dave!”
“There you go!”
They managed to change places without letting up on the spanking, the blows from four different hands landing everywhere on his bottom at random intervals, the inability to predict and prepare for them making the ordeal much more painful and frustrating. Without wanting to, he tried to stand; however, it was now Patrick restraining his wrists. The boy looked a little hesitant, and he definitely wasn’t above using that to his advantage by directing his best Mr. X scowl at him. Patrick simply looked toward what could only have been his brother, then back down at Dave, and offered a sympathetic shrug, smiling ruefully. “Hurts like a bitch, don’t it?” the boy offered quietly.
And it did, indeed, hurt like a bitch. Not that his labors were effective, but he was straining to stand, or kick, or reach behind him, or even move his hips for just a moment’s reprieve from the onslaught. At least he wasn’t yelling, he hadn’t suffered that particular indignity quite yet, but it didn’t seem too far off. The cushion of the sofa had warmed to his skin now and was becoming damp with sweat. Just when Dave formed the humiliating notion that he’d have to actually order them to stop, he realized he was free and the spanking had finally ended.
He stood and turned, using both palms to wipe sweat from the hairline at his temples. “Ok,” he said softly, “had your fun, then?” He really should have known that wasn’t going to be the end of it. He really should have known before spying the four of them lined up like the most scrumptious firing squad anyone ever wanted to face, arms resting across their muscled chests, looking all too pleased with themselves, that they certainly had not had all their fun yet. After all, when did a birthday spanking from Mr. X ever begin or end on the seat of anyone’s jeans?
“I think you know what comes next,” said Andy, playing ringleader and spokesman. “Forty, now, is it?” He did nothing to mask the delight in his voice. “Oh, and with the cane! Ten over those jeans, twenty over your shorts, and ten on the bare bottom. That’s ten from each of us.” Dave made a mental note to wipe that shit-eating grin right off Andy’s face during the next shoot. Right. Off.
“Alright, Ok, lads.” Dave said good-naturedly, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt about taking forty with the cane, especially from these boys who’d all taken some harsh punishments from him and might feel entitled to a wee bit of revenge. The other risk being some silent contest developing between these competitive mates for who could make Dave yell the loudest.
Oliver was already sliding the small, straight-backed chair from its regular place against the wall to sit in the center of the room while Andy fetched the cane. Dave noted with an odd sense of pride that he rightly took the heavier or “senior” cane reserved for over clothing. Andy was playing with the cane, making swishing noises through the air as he walked back toward the group, enjoying, Dave surmised, the rare occasion to be of acquaintance with the other end of the implement. Oliver patted the seat of the chair amiably and stepped back, clapping once and rubbing his hands together in obvious glee. Dave found himself trying to calculate the likelihood of which lad would be administering the cane to his bare bottom. Andy giving him the cane over his jeans was a bit of good luck, but if Bailey ended up with the last ten over his bare bottom, he could be in some trouble.
He let out a slow breath before lowering himself over the back of the chair, resting his hands on the edge of the seat. If he trusted anyone here, he trusted Andy and was confident neither a call for revenge or ambitious competition would compel his friend to harm him.
“That’s right,” Andy said, tapping the seat of the chair with the cane. “Keep your hands right there,” he added unnecessarily, swishing the cane again. “Your birthday spanking. Ten from me, over these jeans.” Dave had to smile a little when Andy pulled and tugged at the waistband of his pants, imitating the man’s own habit of making certain the fabric was pulled tight against the bottom with no wrinkles to temper the swats. A few light taps across the seat of his jeans told him Andy was taking aim for the first swat. Dave took a breath and braced himself.
A loud crack of the cane over rough denim rang in his ears, bounding off the walls of the small room. A fraction of a moment passed before he actually felt the terrible bite across the crown of his cheeks followed by a series of shock waves darting up his spine. Any illusions he had about Andy going easy on him went up in the flames now ignited on his ass. He stood up without thinking, intending to ask what the hell Andy thought he was playing at. He turned around to see his friend smirking. He underlined and then highlighted the mental note about Andy’s grin. Right. Off.
Andy pointed to the chair, and when he turned back around to arrange himself into position, Bailey’s giant frame filled his vision. Dave bent over, placing his hands on either side of the seat and Bailey bent forward, securing his own hands over Dave’s to keep them in place. Both men stood bent, nose to nose, hand over hand, and Bailey looked questioningly at Dave.
“Did you forget something?” He shot a look at Andy who said, “You count your birthday spanks, that was one.”
“One what?” This was from Bailey, who, still holding his hands to the chair, was merely centimeters from his own face and oddly intimidating at that distance.
“One, sir!” Dave pronounced loudly. He was going to murder them.
Bailey nodded in approval, a wry smile dimpling one side of his face and repeated quietly, “One, sir.”
There was another tap, crack, and burn. This time he held his position.
“Two, sir,” Bailey echoed softly, nodding once, before letting go of Dave’s hands. Dave kept hold of the chair craning his neck to see what Andy was doing behind him. His attention redirected by the sound of knuckles rapping on wood.
“No,” the big lad said sharply, smirking, using four fingers to tap repeatedly on the center of the seat, “You look here, yeah? Right here.” He tapped again for emphasis. “Right here.” He made separate mental note about Bailey, realizing that his mental notes were becoming novels.
When he had made it through the remainder of Andy’s birthday spanking he stood up and did what he promised himself would never do if ever brought to these circumstances; Dave grabbed his bottom and rubbed it vigorously, attempting to soothe away some of the sting.
“Yeah, that’s right, fuckin’ thing hurts, doesn’t it?” Dave didn’t think Andy’s question required an actual answer, but before he could think of anything clever to say, Patrick piped up.
“You know what’s next! Those jeans are comin’ down!”
He undid the button and zip of his jeans, pushing them down around his thighs without protest. The snug boxer briefs he wore would be a blessing against any stray swats that might accidentally miss their intended mark.
“Whose next, then?” he asked, intending to sound casual, but Andy must have caught a little something desperate in his voice.
“Never you mind,” he said lightly, pushing Dave back into position. Bailey gave another tap on the chair to remind Dave to keep his head forward and eyes down, then with a gesture that should have been a simple ruffle of his short, sandy hair, and would have been from anyone else, Bailey gave Dave’s head a little shove, his forehead missing the center of the seat by millimeters. He didn’t add any new mental notes to the growing list, knowing that it had meant to be affectionate.
His felt his jeans being tugged all the way toward the floor and there was the usual arranging of the waistband and smoothing of the briefs before the next lad took aim.
Tap. Tap. SWAT.
The smack to his briefs didn’t sting nearly as much as the ones he took over his jeans from Andy. There was hesitation in the stroke and he immediately thought “Oliver.”
After recent events still fresh in his mind, and physical reminders almost certainly still lingering on the boy’s backside, the reversal of roles must have made him a bit uneasy. To make matters worse, he heard Andy behind him groan and mutter, “aawww, ya fuckin’ pussy.”
Dave found himself wondering if Oliver hadn’t managed to put aside whatever lingering remorse he was harboring. As far as he was concerned, things were square between them, but Oliver’s hesitation with the cane indicated there’d be one more dialog on that subject.
Thankfully, Andy’s taunting didn’t drive Oliver to overcompensate, although when the cane found its mark again Dave winced. He barely had time to count and process the sting before he heard the cane whistle through the air a third time. He groaned loudly, doubling his resolve to murder them all, and counted the rest of the blows through clenched teeth. When last stroke from Oliver found the soft under curve of Dave’s bottom, he let out a yelp, rising from the chair involuntarily to shield his backside.
“Twenty, sir! Oh, you bastards!”
A strange relief filled him when he saw the cane pass from Oliver to Bailey, until he saw the modest smirk on the lad’s face transform into something akin to gleeful delight. He had little time to contemplate bath brush beatings and bare bottom beltings before he felt the tip of the cane resting on the back of his neck, pressing down. When he gripped the chair again, there was an immediate tap across his shorts and Dave couldn’t help flinching as if it were a hard cut. He didn’t have to anticipate long as Bailey’s first stroke followed swiftly after, clipping the top of his thighs. His fingers curled painfully around the edge of the seat as he hissed out the required count, tagging a loud “fuck!” onto the end of it. Without any time to recover, Bailey threw the next stroke, landing it just above the first one and he yelped, pushing up before he could help himself. Almost in unison, he heard every one of them recite the familiar, “you keep your hands on that chair!” and he chuckled despite the unbelievable burning in his ass. At least at Bailey’s hand the end came quickly, and by the time he reached the last strike, his count escaped in a strangled little whisper.
“Louder,” teased Bailey.
Dave finally managed to croak out a decent, “thirty, sir!” and Bailey parroted him in his quirky little style of approval.
“Ooooh, my turn now!” Patrick stepped over and accepted the cane from Bailey, his eyes bright with an unabashed enthusiasm. “Get them shorts down,” he instructed, smiling affably, his face falling comically when Andy reached over and snatched the cane from his hand.
“Not that one, go get the other one,” Andy ordered his little brother, pointing at the wall where the thinner rattan still hung.
Andy, Oliver, Bailey, Patrick. He had to wonder if the lads didn’t plan it that way to allow him to get through all forty strokes without ending up a puddle on the floor. If so, he’d remember to properly thank whoever conceived that brilliant strategy.
Patrick walked back, swishing the cane, grimacing when the tip snapped his own thigh. Good, thought Dave, suppressing a chuckle. Bent by age and humidity, and much thinner than the senior one, this cane was as difficult to control as a room full of testosterone filled young mates playing spank jenga.
Lifting the waistband of his briefs carefully over his welted bottom, Dave pushed his underwear down to meet his jeans at the floor. Of all the things in the known universe he might have expected at that moment, the noise that came from behind him was never one of them. A bizarre, unintelligible squeal rang off the walls like the screech from an hysterical, teenaged Bieber fangirl.
“Oooohhhh, lookit that red ass! All nice and red!” Andy exclaimed, practically dancing in place with relish.
He placed three asterisks next to the mental note about Andy’s grin. Right. Off.
They all leaned in to look at the mess they had made of his bottom, but only Bailey and Oliver had the good sense to conceal their smirks behind their hands. He felt Patrick take aim, and even the gentle pat over the criss-cross of swollen tram-line weals made him jump. All the aim-taking was for naught though, as the first cut brought the tip of the cane around to bite cruelly into his hip.
Because he knew that cane, he was ready for it. Sucking in a lungful of air around his teeth, he held it, patient as a parent, letting his breath out slowly through pursed lips. There was more shuffling behind him and then, thankfully, murmurs of a short lesson from Andy on usage of the implement. Another tap, light and tentative, preceded a stroke delivered with decidedly improved aim. He could feel the sweat pooling at his shoulders and under his palms, making it ever harder to keep hold of the chair. With every new swat and the strain to keep himself in place, he could feel perspiration travel from his sandy hairline into his lashes to sting his eyes. He wiped at them, first with one hand, and then the other, but only managed to dislodge a contact lens in the process. The hits from Patrick weren’t unkind, but Dave had ceased to feel individual cuts by then and only sensed a throbbing inferno working to devouring his entire backside through the tops of this thighs.
“Dave?” It was Patrick, his cool palm resting against Dave’s back, a tiny blessing conceded to him in his torment.
He must have lost count. He hoped like hell that it was forty.
“Forty, sir,” he managed.
“Yep.” Patrick said, apparently pleased.
He pushed himself up on wobbly legs that didn’t feel designed to hold him. He was grateful the ordeal was over, he was grateful for the love and affection shown to him by these lads, and he was grateful that they were careful with him, but most of all, he just wanted them to go away now. He reached for his shorts when a sharp tsking noise caught his attention.
“Aww,” said Andy, with a soon to be wiped right off his face shit eating grin. Right. Off.
“You know the tradition, Dave. One to grow on.”
Normally he gave the lads a choice between paddle and cane for their “luck” spank, but since they hadn’t used anything but the cane on him, he assumed he’d be getting another stroke from the cane. When they all backed away from him in a wide circle, he looked questioningly over at his friend. He followed Andy’s gaze behind him where Bailey stood, grinning, hands resting casually on slim hips. There wasn’t even time to make a guess what these lads were up to before Bailey moved in to stand astride Dave. Grabbing him around the middle, he was forced to bend forward once more. The big lad bent at the knees and tightened his grip on Dave’s waist, then stood, bringing the man up and off the ground in one swift, easy movement. Legs and arms dangling, red bum perched high on display for what to Dave felt like at least five minutes and was more like three seconds in actual clock-ticking time, Bailey reared back his arm and landed a spectacular sounding spank that caught the underside of Dave’s cheeks, setting his already sore bottom freshly alight.
He was back on his feet before he could worry about taking a header onto the sitting room floor, the lads around him, laughing and pointing at the unfortunate state of his bottom. He heard Patrick squeal “oh, shit!” behind his hand just before one of them, Andy he presumed, poked none too gently at the welt on his hip.
Even bending for his shorts and jeans stretched the skin uncomfortably and he groaned, then groaned again as he buttoned his pants, the layers of fabric feeling rough against his tormented bottom. Andy was the first to offer his hand, an official gesture to indicate the end of the traditional custom, which really, actually wasn’t. “Happy birthday, man.”
“Yeah,” Bailey followed, “Happy birthday.”
“Happy birthday, Mr. X,” Patrick joked, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Happy birthday, Dave,” offered Oliver, with a firm, solemn handshake.
It was entirely possible, Dave mused, looking out at these boys, that he was too overwhelmed to speak. He pretended to arrange his clothing and mop sweat from his forehead with the crook of his sleeve. Swallowing hard he tried his voice and found it.
“Thank you,” he said, sincerely, then added, “I think.”
None of them eager enough to find out just how far Dave’s appreciation extended, all backed toward the door, waving their final goodbyes.
“Ah, Andy,” Dave said, before his friend could follow his mates out the door. Andy turned, eyebrows raised questioningly.
“Where are you going?”
“Down to the pub…with the guys…”
“Ok,” Dave said quietly, more decision in the tone than acquiescence. “No.”
Gesturing over his shoulder at the door with his thumb, Andy shook his head, confused. “No?”
“No. I set aside this afternoon to film a movie, didn’t I?” He bent and scooped up the cane from where it had been discarded across the cushions of the sofa. “I think it’s prudent if we keep to our schedule, don’t you?” With the tip of the cane he hooked the faded black ski mask sitting on a nearby table, flicking it in the air and catching it with his free hand.
Making the cane whistle twice in the air directly in front of the boy’s startled face, Dave pressed further into his personal space and said “Andy, Andy. Shut that door behind you!”