Long ago, I took the train down to Providence to meet, sight unseen, a spanking Dad who lived in the suburbs. He picked me up in his Volvo, and he turned out be be very hot: about 50, 6' 2" tall, solid, with a football player's build, a mustache, balding, hairy, dressed in a brown leather jacket and blue jeans. When I slid into his car and fastened my seat belt, he said, "Are you comfortable?" and I said, "Yeah." "Good," he said, "because you'll be sore on the way back. You'll have a sore bottom."

I swallowed and nodded. He lit a cigarette. "Have you been a bad boy?" he asked. "Yes," I said. "Yes, what?" "Yes, sir."

When we got his house, he offered me a glass of ginger ale, which I drank slowly. My mouth was dry, I was nervous, and I kept chattering on about my train ride. Eventually, Dad stood and sternly said, "Let's go."

"Go where?" I said.

"Down cellar. For your spanking," he told me. "Don't question me."

He strode to my side and pulled me by my ear. "Come on, young man." Tugging my ear, he went clattering down the cellar stairs, pulling me along with him as my ear stretched and stung. I think my balls contracted when I saw how prepared he was as a Dad. He had set up a straight-backed chair, and, next to it, a table with a variety of instruments of punishment: a hairbrush; several paddles, with holes and without; a ping pong paddle; a razor strop; another belt...

It was daylight, in winter, but his cellar had windows, so I was afraid someone from the neighborhood might look down in and see me getting a bare-bottom spanking. "Dad," I said, and mentioned my concerns. He yanked at the curtains, but they wouldn't fully close. "No one looks in these windows," he said. "And it doesn't matter. You're being punished. If some man sees your bare bottom, that doesn't bother me."

I felt very uneasy.

He sat heavily in the chair and pulled me over his knee. He began swatting the seat of my corduroy pants. I kept slipping and he steadied me. "That's a warm-up," he said. He stood me up and unbuckled my belt and undid my fly and zipped it down. Then he lowered my pants. Then, to my shock, he immediately pulled down my briefs as well and bent me, bare, back over his knee. I thought he'd spank me on my briefs first.    

"You're getting a bare-bottom spanking," he said, angrily.

I was so embarrassed that Dad could see my crack this early in my spanking. All I could do was look at his huge shoes. Whack, whack, whack.

"Stick your bottom in the air."  

"Yes, sir... Can you see my bottom, Dad?"

"I certainly can. It's bright red. But nowhere near red enough."

Squirming, kicking, and closing my eyes, I squeezed the legs of his chair and scratched at the rug as he spanked harder and harder and harder, and I got a licking with one instrument after the other. "Ow, Dad, ow! That hurts."

"It's supposed to."

"Aaach! Not bare, Dad, not bare." I was whimpering...

Finally, Dad announced, "My hand hurts," and said he was taking a break. I was sweaty and my bottom was numb, sandy-feeling. I squirmed to get up.  But Dad wouldn't let me. He pinned me down with his hand on the back of my neck. "You're staying right where you are. Bare and over my knee."

I heard Dad light a cigarette and smoke. He placed a heavy glass ashtray, cool as an ice cube, on my bare behind. He could have his smoke and see my crack right though his ashtray. "Dad's enjoying his smoke," he said.

He stood me up. He felt my balls and boner. Gently, he unbuttoned my shirt and pulled it from my shoulders. Then he stood too and pulled off his own pants, briefs, and shirt, so that he was as naked as I was. He cupped his big hand around my bare bottom. “Upstairs. Time to rest.”

He took me into his bedroom. “Lie down,” he said. I lay down on the bed on my belly, my red bare bottom in the air. Dad walked toward the bathroom, and, as I watched his muscular bare behind, he cut a loud fart, and I snickered. Then I heard him tinkling, a strong steady stream, drumming into the toilet.

He crawled into bed and held me in his hairy embrace, his huge moist dong against my sore bare bum. Two bums and two cracks, bare-bottom time.

Later, after fingering between my crack and nuzzling his face in my hair, he announced round two, and marched me back downstairs. He bent me, bare, over his knee, and adjusted my position. "You need to be taught to be respectful," he said. "And not to snicker." The chair he was spanking me in had a woven cane seat, so, now, I could see his bare behind, his dark hairy crack, through the cane.

“I see your bare bottom Dad,” I said, “through the seat."

“I’ll spank your bare bottom,” he snapped and began walloping me harder than ever.

"Ow, Dad, ow! Please, please!"

He spanked and spanked.

During the rest period, my bottom had become tender again and hurt more than ever, so I began kicking and squirming and fighting tears all over again...  

"Does your bottom hurt?" Dad asked, in the car on the drive back to Providence. He was right: I wasn't comfortable. For about three days.




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