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PADDLED BY DAD

I was sixteen years old, a high school student with short black hair and a smooth, athletic build I had worked hard to develop over the last couple of years. Even at my age, certain behaviors in our house were still guaranteed to earn me a spanking from my dad. Lying was at the top of the list, along with flagrant disobedience, talking back, or any other serious breach of the rules he had set. He never raised his voice or lost his temper. He would simply look at me with that calm, disappointed expression and say the words I dreaded most: You know what this means. Go downstairs and wait for me in the playroom.

The moment he said it, my stomach would drop. No matter how big or strong I had grown, that sentence still turned me back into a nervous kid. I knew exactly what was coming, and I always obeyed. I’d head down the basement stairs, my heart already pounding, and wait in the finished playroom where the old ping-pong table stood against one wall and a simple straight-backed wooden chair sat in the open space near the center.

The worst part was the waiting. I would stand there, shifting my weight from foot to foot, listening for the sound of his footsteps descending the stairs. Every creak on the wooden steps made my pulse race faster. When he finally appeared, he looked calm and determined, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt as he walked in.

Go over to the ping-pong table and bring me one of the paddles, he would say evenly.

I hated that walk across the room. My legs felt heavy as I picked up one of the thick, wooden paddles we used for table tennis. It wasn’t a toy in this context; it was heavy, smooth, and unforgiving. I carried it back to him, already starting to plead even before he sat down.

Dad, please... I’m really sorry. I know I screwed up, but I don’t need a spanking. I’m sixteen now. Can’t we just talk about it?

He never answered right away. Instead, he sat down in the straight-backed chair, his posture upright and authoritative. When I stood in front of him holding the paddle, he reached out and took hold of my belt buckle. As he slowly unbuckled it, he began the lecture in that steady, serious tone that always made me feel small.

You’re old enough to know better, son. Lying is unacceptable in this house, and you know the rules. I’ve warned you before. Actions have consequences, and today you’re going to learn that the hard way.

While he spoke, his hands worked efficiently. He unbuttoned my jeans, lowered the zipper, and tugged my pants down over my hips. The cool basement air hit my legs as the denim pooled around my ankles. I stood there clutching the paddle, cheeks burning with embarrassment, still trying to argue my case.

Dad, come on... I said I was sorry. It won’t happen again. Please, not the paddle...

He ignored my begging and hooked his fingers into the waistband of my underwear. With one firm pull, he dragged my briefs all the way down to join my jeans, completely exposing me. There I was—sixteen years old, muscular and smooth-bodied—standing bare from the waist down in front of my father, holding the very paddle that was about to blister my ass. The humiliation was intense. My cock and balls hung out in plain view, and I felt incredibly vulnerable knowing that in just seconds I was going to be over his lap getting spanked like a little boy.

Hand me the paddle, he said calmly, cutting off my latest plea.

My hand trembled slightly as I passed it to him. The moment he took it, he reached out with his left arm, circled it firmly around my waist, and pulled me down across his lap. He positioned me so that my upper body rested on the chair to his left while my legs dangled on the right. His strong left hand pressed against my lower abs, locking me in place so I couldn’t twist or squirm away no matter how much I tried. My bare ass was raised and perfectly positioned for the paddle, my smooth, muscular cheeks completely at his mercy.

Without another word, he brought the paddle down.

The first CRACK! echoed through the playroom like a gunshot. A blazing sting exploded across both cheeks at once. I gasped and jerked hard, but his arm held me securely. He didn’t rush. He took his time, delivering each swat with deliberate force, the heavy wooden paddle covering a large area of my ass with every impact.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

The paddle landed again and again, alternating cheeks and sometimes striking both at the same time. The sting was sharp and deep, quickly building into a burning heat that spread across my entire backside. I started squirming within the first dozen swats, my muscular legs kicking uselessly in the air.

Ow! Dad—please! It hurts! I cried out, my voice already cracking.

You’re going to feel this for a good long while, he lectured steadily as he paddled me. Maybe next time you’ll think twice before you lie to me. I expect honesty in this house, son. Always.

The spanking continued at a steady, relentless pace. Each solid smack of the paddle made my firm cheeks flatten and bounce back, the sound loud and humiliating. My smooth skin turned from pale to bright pink, then to a deep, angry red. The burn grew hotter with every swat. I was soon kicking and writhing over his lap, but his grip around my waist never loosened. He kept me pinned exactly where he wanted me.

Tears welled up in my eyes before long. The combination of the fierce sting and the deep embarrassment of being an sixteen-year-old man reduced to tears over his father’s knee was too much. I started crying openly, my voice breaking as I begged between sobs.

I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, Dad! Please stop—I’ll never do it again! Ow! Ow! It stings so bad!

But he wasn’t finished. He continued the lecture even as the paddle kept rising and falling.

You’re almost a grown man now, but that doesn’t mean you’re above the rules. When you act like a child, you’re going to be punished like one. This is for your own good.

The paddle kept cracking down on my burning, throbbing ass. He made sure to cover every inch— the tops of my cheeks, the undercurve, even the tops of my thighs. By the time he reached the final set of harder, slower swats, I was sobbing uncontrollably, my entire body tense and trembling over his lap. My once-smooth, muscular buttocks felt like they were on fire, swollen and blazing hot.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he stopped. The paddle rested against my scorched backside for a moment before he set it aside. I lay there limp and crying, my chest heaving, tears running down my face.

He kept his arm around my waist for another minute, letting me catch my breath while he delivered his final words.

I never want to catch you doing anything like that again, son. Do you understand me?

Yes, sir, I choked out between sniffles, my voice small and defeated.

Only then did he help me up. My legs felt shaky as I stood in front of him, pants and underwear still tangled around my ankles, my red, well-paddled ass on full display. He looked at me with a mixture of sternness and care.

Go upstairs and think about what you did. You can pull your pants up when you get to your room.

SPANKED AT THE BARBER SHOP

The bell above the door of Joe’s Barber Shop jingled softly as the last customer of the day left the shop. Now, well past nine o’clock, the tiny shop on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx’s Little Italy neighborhood was quiet except for the soft scrape of a broom held by Joe Speciale, Junior. Joe swept the discarded hairs across the old tile floor.

Joe was twenty-five, six-foot tall, broad-shouldered and muscular from years of lifting weights in the basement gym he’d set up behind the shop. His thick black hair was neatly trimmed, and his handsome Italian features—strong jaw, dark eyes, and easy smile—had made him a favorite with the neighborhood guys. Tonight he wore a tight white tank top that clung to his hairy, well-developed chest, and tight gray sweatpants that left little to the imagination. The heavy, thick outline of his big cut cock and its plump head was clearly visible in his sweatpants, swinging slightly as he swept. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

He glanced at the old leather razor strap still hanging on its hook by the mirror, the same one his late father, Joe Senior, had used without hesitation on his son’s bare butt whenever the boy stepped out of line—often right here in the shop, sometimes even in front of customers. Joe still remembered the sharp sting and the deep burn that followed. He shook his head and kept sweeping, ready to lock up and head home.

The door opened again.

“Sorry, the shop is closed, Charlie,” Joe said without looking up at first.

Charlie Sinclair stepped inside anyway, gym bag slung over one shoulder, white t-shirt damp with sweat, and tight red gym shorts hugging his athletic eighteen-year-old body. His legs were thick from leg day, thighs powerfully defined, and his round bubble butt filled out the shorts perfectly. Sweat glistened on his smooth skin.

“Please, Joe? I ran late at the gym doing legs and sprinted straight over. I need a haircut bad. Just a quick trim? Five minutes, tops.”

Joe finally looked up and let his eyes travel over the younger man. Charlie was handsome, built solid for his age, with a confident but slightly sheepish grin. Joe’s gaze lingered on those thick thighs and the firm, round ass. The bulge in Joe’s gray sweatpants twitched and thickened noticeably.

Charlie noticed too. His eyes flicked down to Joe’s crotch, then up to the barber’s muscular arms and hairy chest straining the tank top. A small smile played at the corner of Charlie's mouth.

Joe sighed. “Alright. But make it quick. And nobody else comes in.” He walked over, pulled the shade down over the glass door, and locked the door.

Joe draped the light haircutting cape around Charlie’s shoulders and fastened it snugly at the neck. Charlie settled into the single barber chair, hands resting on the wide armrests. As Joe moved around him—clippers buzzing, combing and trimming—Charlie’s fingertips occasionally brushed the front of Joe’s sweatpants. At first it seemed accidental. Joe didn’t pull away. So the next time it happened, Charlie let his fingers linger, then boldly wrapped his hand around the thick, heavy outline of Joe’s cock through the soft fabric and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Joe froze, clippers still humming in his hand. He looked down with a frown.

“Who told you that you’re allowed to do that?” His voice was low and stern.

Charlie yanked his hand back instantly, cheeks flushing bright red. “Um… I thought it would be okay…”

Joe set the clippers down. “You thought...wrong. You need to learn to ask permission, kid. And right now, you’re gonna get taught a lesson—the same way my father taught me when I was a boy and got out of line.”

Charlie’s eyes widened as Joe reached over and took the well-worn leather razor strap off its hook.

“What… what are you gonna do with that?” Charlie asked, voice cracking slightly.

“The same thing my old man did to me whenever I misbehaved. You’re about to find out what happens to boys who get grabby without asking first.”

Joe set the razor strap down on the counter. He then pulled the cape off Charlie in one swift motion, grabbed him by the upper arm, and yanked him out of the chair. Joe sat down himself, then had Charlie stand in front of him. With practiced efficiency, Joe yanked Charlie’s tight red gym shorts down to his ankles, then hooked his fingers into the waistband of the white briefs underneath and peeled them down too. Charlie’s hard young cock sprang up, already leaking.

Joe’s big hand grabbed firmly around the base of Charlie’s shaft, holding it tight. Charlie gasped at the touch—half pleasure, half shock—then yelped as Joe pulled him forward by his cock, positioning him perfectly over his thick, muscular thighs.

“You earned this, Charlie,” Joe said calmly, his left hand pressing down on the small of Charlie’s back. “Fifty good hard swats. Count them in your head if you want, but you’re taking every one.”

SMACK! 

The first hard bare-hand spank landed square on Charlie’s right cheek, the sound echoing sharply in the empty shop. Charlie jumped and let out a surprised “Ah!”

Joe didn’t pause. His big, calloused hand rose and fell steadily, delivering crisp, heavy swats that turned Charlie’s smooth, round bubble butt from pale to bright pink in seconds. Each smack was full force—Joe’s muscular arm putting real power behind it. He covered every inch: the fleshy mounds, the sensitive undercurve where butt met thigh, even a few stinging ones to the tops of Charlie’s thighs.

“Ow! Joe—fuck—owww!” 

Charlie squirmed hard, legs kicking, his hard cock rubbing against Joe’s thigh with every wriggle. “It stings! I’m sorry!”

“You should’ve asked first,” Joe lectured evenly, never breaking rhythm. 

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! 

“Grabbing a man’s cock without permission gets you punished. Twenty… twenty-one… keep still.”

By the time Joe reached thirty, Charlie’s ass was a deep, glowing red, hot to the touch. Tears pricked his eyes and his voice cracked with each new swat.

“Ahh! Please—owww—it burns so bad! I won’t do it again, I swear!”

“Damn right you won’t,” Joe growled, laying down the final ten extra-hard ones right on the sit-spots. 

SMACK! SMACK! 

Charlie howled and bucked, his bubble butt clenching and jiggling under the assault. “You take your punishment like a man when you mess up. That’s the rule in this shop.”

At fifty, Joe stopped. Charlie was breathing hard, ass blazing crimson, a few tears streaking his face. A large wet stain of pre-cum pooled on the front of Joe’s gray sweatpants where Charlie’s leaking cock had been grinding.

Joe lifted the younger man off his lap and stood up. Charlie’s cock was still rock-hard, pointing straight up. Joe’s own massive erection strained obscenely against the sweatpants.

“Look what you did,” Joe said, gesturing at the wet spot on his sweatpants. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband and shoved his sweatpants and tank top off, standing completely naked. His thick, veiny cut cock stood proud, heavy balls swinging below. “I’m not finished with you, Charlie.”

Joe pointed at the barber chair. “Take your shirt off. Then bend over the chair, hands on the seat, ass out toward me.”

Charlie obeyed quickly, peeling off his damp white t-shirt and gripping the edge of the chair, his freshly spanked red ass presented perfectly. Joe folded the thick leather razor strap in half with a loud snap.

“You’re gonna count these out loud. Twenty-five good hard ones. If you lose count, we start over. Understand?”

“Y-yes, sir…”

CRACK! 

The first stroke of the doubled strap landed across both cheeks with a sharp, biting sting that made Charlie’s entire body jolt.

“One!” he yelped, voice already tight.

Joe swung again, harder. 

CRACK! 

The leather bit into the undercurve, leaving a bright red stripe.

“Two—owww! Fuck, that hurts!”

The strapping was methodical and thorough. Joe put his full strength into each swing, the heavy leather cracking loudly against Charlie’s already tender bare butt. Stripes began to overlap, turning the glowing red skin into a deeper, mottled crimson with raised welts. Charlie’s cries grew louder and more desperate with every stroke.

“Seven—ahhh! Please, Joe, it’s too much!”

CRACK! CRACK! 

Two in quick succession across the tops of his thighs made Charlie dance on his toes, tears flowing freely now.

“Ten—eleven—owwww! I’m sorry! I’m so fucking sorry!”

Joe’s voice stayed firm. “You’re learning respect, Charlie. Keep counting.”

By twenty, Charlie was sobbing openly, his round ass a fiery, striped mess. His cock still throbbed untouched between his legs.

"Twenty-three—ahh! Twenty-four—owwww, god!”

The final stroke landed with extra force right across the center of both cheeks. 

CRACK!

“Twenty-five!” Charlie wailed, collapsing against the chair, crying hard.

He stayed there for a moment, sniffling, then turned his tear-streaked face toward Joe. “I’ll do anything to make it up to you… anything.”

Joe turned him around gently and pointed to the floor. “Get on your knees.”

Charlie dropped immediately. Joe stepped forward, his giant cut cock bobbing right in front of the younger man’s mouth.

“Open up and swallow it.”

Charlie did. Joe slid his thick cock between Charlie’s lips and began pumping steadily, fucking his mouth with deep, controlled strokes. For five full minutes the only sounds were wet sucking, Joe’s low grunts, and Charlie’s muffled moans. Charlie’s hand flew up and down his own cock the entire time, stroking furiously.

Finally Joe pulled out, stroking his slick shaft rapidly. 

“Gonna cum—”

Thick ropes of hot cum erupted across Charlie’s face, splashing his cheeks, lips, and chest. At the same moment Charlie cried out around a mouthful of spit and cum, his own cock spurting hard onto the tile floor.

Joe caught his breath, then reached down and pulled Charlie to his feet, wrapping his strong arms around the younger man in a firm, surprisingly tender hug. Their spent cocks pressed tightly together. Charlie moaned with pleasure as Joe held him tight.

“Now then,” Joe said with a small grin, “let’s finish that haircut… if you think you can sit down in the chair.”

Charlie eased himself gingerly into the barber chair, wincing sharply as his thoroughly punished, red-striped ass made contact with the seat. A soft gasp of pain escaped him, but right after it came a big, satisfied smile.

He looked up at Joe, eyes still a little watery but sparkling.

THE MATH TEACHER SPANKS

Hi, my name is Matt Reeves. I'm an 18-year-old senior in high school, captain of the swim team, and yeah, I know I look good. Blond hair, lean and toned from all those laps in the pool, broad shoulders tapering down to a tight waist. My favorite part of the day is when I'm in that tight black speedo, the one that hugs everything just right. I love the way heads turn when I climb out of the water, water dripping down my abs, and especially the glances that linger on the big bulge in front. After practice or a swim meet, when we all hit the communal showers, that's the real thrill. Stripping down naked, my long cut cock swinging free, my round bubble butt framed by that perfect speedo tan line in the summer—pale cheeks against the rest of my tanned body. I catch the guys looking, and it gets me half-hard every time.

School, though? Not my strong suit. Mostly C's, the occasional B if I'm lucky. Math—algebra especially—is kicking my ass. And it's not helping that my teacher, Mr. Mendoza, is this hot Latin guy in his mid-thirties. Dark hair, muscular build, the kind of arms that stretch the sleeves of his polo shirts, showing off that thick dark hair on his forearms and just a peek of chest hair at the collar. Some days he wears these tight slacks that outline everything—the edge of his briefs, the curve of his round butt, and yeah, a solid bulge in front. I'd sit there in class, especially when I wore my skimpy gym shorts, staring at him instead of the blackboard. My cock would start thickening, tenting the fabric, and sometimes I swore Mr. Mendoza's eyes would drop down and linger. Made it impossible to focus.

I bombed the latest algebra test. My first ever F!

Mr. Mendoza handed it back with a sigh and told me I had to take it home, get my parents to sign it, and bring it back the next day. My stomach dropped. Dad had warned me: one F and there'd be consequences. He's an ex-Marine, still built like one—muscular, toned, no-nonsense. When I got home and showed him the test, his face turned red with rage.

"Matthew, what the hell did I tell you?" he growled.

Before I could even explain, he grabbed me by the earlobe like I was a little kid, right there in front of my mom and younger sister. I protested the whole way as he marched me out to the garage. "Dad, the windows are open—the neighbors will hear!"

"I don't give a damn who hears," he snapped. "You earned this. Strip. Naked. Now. Then get over that sawhorse."

My face burned with humiliation as I pulled off my shirt, then shoved down my shorts and underwear, kicking them aside. My cock and balls hung out in the cool garage air, my bubble butt completely exposed. I bent over the sawhorse, gripping the wood, ass up and vulnerable.

Dad unbuckled his thick leather belt, the sound making my stomach twist. He doubled it over and brought it down hard—CRACK!—right across both cheeks. I yelped, my body jerking forward. "Ow! Fuck, Dad!"

"Language," he barked, laying into me with steady, powerful strokes. Each lick landed with a sharp, echoing WHAP! that stung like fire. My ass cheeks bounced and clenched under the assault. By the fifth one I was howling, "Ahh! Dad, please—it's too much!" My voice cracked, loud enough that anyone outside the open garage windows definitely heard. He didn't let up, lecturing the whole time: "This is what happens when you don't apply yourself, boy. You think winning swim meets is enough? No sir. You will learn discipline."

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

The belt whistled through the air, painting bright red stripes across my pale cheeks, overlapping until my whole ass was throbbing and on fire. I kicked my legs, my long cock swinging between my thighs, howling louder with each impact. "YOW! I'm sorry! I'll do better—owww!"

Tears stung my eyes by the fifteenth lick. Dad's arm was relentless, the leather biting into my sit-spots and the undercurve of my butt. My sister and mom could probably hear every howl from inside the house. By the twenty-fifth lick, my ass was a blazing, welted mess. I was panting, whimpering, my body slick with sweat.

"Get up and get dressed," Dad said gruffly, buckling his belt. "And don't let me see another F."

The next day, my bottom was still sore as hell. Sitting in class was torture—I kept shifting uncomfortably in my desk, trying not to wince. I handed the signed test back to Mr. Mendoza. He glanced at the signature, then at me, noticing how I eased myself down into my seat with a grimace. At the end of class, he asked me to stay behind.

"How did your dad react to the F, Matt?" he asked, leaning against his desk. His polo was tight today, arms looking extra muscular.

I swallowed hard. "He... he wasn't happy. Took a belt to my bare butt in the garage. Twenty-five licks. It was brutal."

Mr. Mendoza's eyes darkened with interest. He shifted, and I noticed the front of his slacks starting to tent. "Tell me the details."

I did—describing stripping naked, bending over the sawhorse, the sound of the belt, my howls echoing out the open windows, the way my ass burned. As I talked, Mr. Mendoza's bulge grew thicker, obvious now. He was getting hard listening to it.

He cleared his throat. "I have an offer. Private math tutoring at my place on the weekends. No swim practice this Saturday. Maybe we can turn this around."

I nodded eagerly. "Yes, sir. Thank you."

Saturday morning I showed up at his house in a tight white t-shirt that hugged my swimmer's chest and my gym shorts with a jockstrap underneath. Mr. Mendoza answered the door in a t-shirt and gray sweatpants that did nothing to hide his noticeable bulge. We sat at the kitchen table with the algebra book, but I couldn't focus—my eyes kept drifting to his arms, his chest, that bulge. After twenty minutes of me zoning out, he slammed the book shut.

"Clearly you need stronger motivation to study, young man."

My cock twitched and started hardening in my jock. "What do you have in mind, sir?"

"The same motivation you received from your father."

I gulped but nodded. "I'll accept whatever method you choose."

He grabbed my arm firmly and guided me to the bedroom. My heart pounded. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled me to stand between his knees. Without a word, he yanked my gym shorts and jockstrap down in one motion, exposing my half-hard cock and smooth balls. He guided me over his lap, my bare ass up, my cock pressing against his thick thigh.

"You need to focus in class, Matt," he lectured, his voice deep and stern as his big hand rubbed my still-tender cheeks. "No more daydreaming."

His hand came down hard—SMACK!—the sound sharp in the quiet room. I gasped, my body jolting. He spanked methodically, covering every inch of my ass with firm, stinging slaps that reignited the soreness from Dad's belt.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

My cheeks bounced under his palm, turning pink then red.

"Ow! Mr. Mendoza—ahh!" I yelped, kicking my legs lightly. The spanking built steadily, his hand alternating cheeks, occasionally catching the sensitive undercurve. "I'm sorry, sir! I'll pay attention—I promise!"

He kept lecturing between swats: "You're a smart kid when you apply yourself. This red-hot bare bottom is going to help you remember that."

The slaps grew harder, the sting deepening into a burning throb. My ass was on fire again, glowing hot, and I was whimpering and squirming over his lap. But the worst part—or best—was feeling my own cock fully hard now, leaking against his thigh, and the unmistakable thick erection pressing up from his sweatpants against my hip. He was rock hard from spanking me.

By the time he stopped, my butt was cherry red and throbbing. He stood me up. "Face the corner, hands on your head. Let that lesson sink in."

I shuffled to the corner, bare red ass on full display, cock bobbing hard in front of me. I stood there, breathing heavily, and behind me I heard it—the soft squeeze of lube from a tube, then the rhythmic, slick sounds of a hand stroking a thick cock. Mr. Mendoza was jerking off while staring at my punished bottom. My own dick twitched at the thought.

After a few minutes, his voice came out gruff: "You can pull up your jockstrap and shorts now, Matt. I'll see you next Saturday for another tutoring session."

"Yes sir. Thank you," I replied, my voice shaky as I dressed, wincing as the fabric rubbed my sore ass.

That night at home, lying on my bed, I replayed every second—the spanking over his lap, his hard cock pressing against me, the sounds of him stroking in the corner. My hand stroked my own hard cock until I shot a thick load, moaning into my pillow.

Now that corporal punishment has been restored in Jeremy's school, he just got a hand-spanking from his teacher.

"Please, sir. I've learned my lesson. I'll never cheat on a test again."

"I'm going to make sure of that, Jeremy. Stay right here. I'm going to get the paddle."