Chapter 58 Stuart
Stuart
Here’s a little something not everyone knows—spankings don’t have to be hard to be effective.
Pain is certainly part of the deterrent, but it’s not the be-all and end-all of it.
There’s so much more to it. There’s the shame of being bent over, the humiliation of knowing you’re allowing it, and the humility of being put in your place.
All those count for just as much as discomfort, if not more.
Over the past week, I’ve spanked Elliot at least once a day, most days more.
Every time, it’s been no harder than the first time, and still, it’s proving to be highly effective.
I couldn’t be happier with his progress.
After he agreed to my rules, I put a shoe shelf in the entrance hall and installed a hook on the wall above it for him to hang his work bag on.
In three short days, he started using the shelf and the hook without persuasion from me.
All it took was a few trips over the dining table and, voilà, lesson learned.
That’s not to say it hasn’t been a busy week.
Bringing a boy like Elliot to heel is no small matter, and I’ve had to keep my wits about me.
I’ve had to keep a very close eye on him.
I’ve had to ensure I’m nearby to take matters in hand as soon as an incident occurs.
Punishment works best when doled out immediately, as it allows a clear association to form between the behavior and the consequence.
It’s taking a considerable amount of my time, but I’m happy to do it.
Not just for Elliot. Though I believe in my bones this is exactly what he needs, it’s good for me too.
Since Damien left, this side of me has lain dormant. Anyone wired the way I am will tell you this part of oneself never goes away. It changes and grows, but it’s always there. It suffers, but it doesn’t die just because you don’t feed it.
I’m starting to feel tiny flickers of purpose again.
It feels almost like life returning to limbs that have been still for too long.
I feel useful in a way I haven’t felt in a very long time.
It’s strange because I didn't realize that usefulness is the feeling at the forefront of what I get from being a Daddy, but evidently, it is. Knowing I need to check on what Elliot’s managed to get up to since I sent him to bed has made it easier and easier to get out of bed in the morning this week.
The same goes for coming home in the evening.
Knowing the chaos he could cause if I leave him to his own devices has me all but rushing home after work.
I’ve been spanking him over the dining table to keep a measure of distance in place. I think that’s wise. There’s no sense in blurring lines. Clear boundaries are good for everyone. Not just for boys.
Spanking doesn’t have to be sexual. That’s another thing people don’t tend to know.
You might think it does, but it doesn’t.
When I was part of an organized scene years back, I spanked plenty of women at parties, and it felt valuable and necessary, but there was never anything remotely sexual about it for me.
It can easily be done.
All I have to do is stay focused on the task at hand and remind myself once or twice per day that Elliot is Jeff’s son, and there’ll be no threat to the integrity of the Daddy arrangement whatsoever.
Elliot is in a formidable mood. He’s come in hot from work, complaining about traffic and a glut of other issues.
When I remind him it’s seldom worth getting upset about things you can’t change, he glares at me for a split second, but before I have time to correct him, he plasters a bright smile on his face and says, “You’re right, Stuart. ”
He hasn’t called me Daddy since the first time I spanked him, and that’s fine. I meant it when I said it’s something that needs to be earned. I’m happy to put in the time and effort to earn it.
What I’m not happy about is his mood tonight. In my experience, distraction is the best thing for boys in this kind of state. Boys need a job to take their minds off things when they get like this, or they run the risk of acting out.
“Would you mind chopping some garlic for me, please? I’m making Beth’s honey-garlic meatballs and every time I make it, I say to myself, ‘There’s no way a dish needs that much garlic,’ and every single time, as soon as I have the first bite, I’m reminded of Beth’s most annoying quality: she’s almost always right. ”
“Yeah, nah. Can’t,” he says without looking up from his phone. “I’m in the middle of something.”
I’ve always hated it when people lump others into broad categories based on their age, and wherever possible, I try to avoid it, but seriously, how fucking rude is Gen Z when it comes to their use of technology? I can’t bear it. It gets under my skin in a very big way.
I give him a heated look. He ignores that, too, though I see the corners of his mouth twitch.
“Elliot.”
He looks up, and his expression changes rapidly from something I can’t quite put my finger on to sheepish and finally lands on his go-to: annoyance.
His thick brows knit together, and he tosses his phone onto the sofa unnecessarily roughly.
He stalks over to the kitchen and starts hacking at a head of garlic without so much as peeling it or getting out a chopping board.
“Elliot.”
“Geez, what the fuck now? What do you want from me, bro? I’m chopping the fucking garlic like you asked.”
Bro?
Did he just cuss and call me bro?
I feel a quick expanse of warmth in my chest as my temper flares, and I make a mental note to add no coarse language to the list of rules.
“Come here,” I say.
He saunters to the dining table, puffing a long, pained breath through his teeth. He’s narrowly managing to stop himself from rolling his eyes at me, but I can tell the effort is costing him. My temper heats more and starts to fray at the edges.
He unbuckles his belt and pushes his pants down without fanfare, exposing his underwear.
His boxer briefs hug his buttocks snugly, covering just enough to be considered decent.
Instead of predictable black or white, or even red or blue, his boxers are apple green with cartoon drawings of overripe peaches spilling over his cheeks.
They’re not what I expected, so it knocks my focus for a second.
I recover as quickly as I can, but it isn’t easy.
The fabric of his underwear is soft, probably expensive, stretching over the generous globes of his ass in a way that fills me with a fleeting sense of bewilderment about how I got myself into this.
The heat from my temper flows to my groin and my dick is momentarily confused about why Elliot pulled his pants down.
Ah yes.
I was a little flustered this morning when I spanked him for leaving his towel on his bedroom floor and told him that the next time I spanked him, it would be with his pants down.
Come to think of it, I might have said I’d spank him on his bare bottom the time after that.
I think I did. Not sure. There was a lot going on, and the lack of caffeine and how he looked in his flimsy pajama pants proved to be a bad combination.
Seeing him like this, eyes narrowed and surly, as he stands in the dining area with his pants around his ankles makes me question the wisdom of that decision.
Shit.
I have a weakness for this kind of thing that goes well past a desire to help a wayward boy. I should have known that about myself. I need to get it together, stat.
“Bend over.”
He places his hands on the table and leans forward at an obnoxious seventy-degree angle, making it clear he can’t even be bothered to bend over properly.
My heart starts to thud. I feel more heightened than I already was.
He looks back at me and then looks long and hard at the decorative plates that hang above the kitchen window.
It’s not quite an eye roll, but the intention is there.
I reach out and push him down, firmly but gently correcting his position.
A small, spluttery sound leaks out of him, and he twerks his ass out slightly, causing the muscle at the back of his thighs to pleat deeply.
Oh Jesus.
I have a weakness for that kind of thing too.
I raise my hand. My arm quivers notably with the effort required not to lift it well above my shoulder.
“Now, Elliot, what did I say happens to boys with bad attitudes?” He doesn’t answer, so I continue, “They get spanked. That’s what I said, isn’t it?
Just to be clear, huffing and puffing, eye-rolling, and coarse language have no place in this home.
I know you’re new to this, but believe me, boy, you’re going to learn.
Whether you learn the hard way or the easy way is up to you. ”
I temper my swing and bring my hand down on one of his cheeks with absolutely no more strength than is strictly required. Another sound leaks out of him, and it’s even worse than the one before. I scrape my teeth hard against my bottom lip, trying to center myself.
Old habits die hard. Or should I say, they don’t die at all.
My palm itches from the strain it takes to hold myself back.
I see flashes of Elliot’s sullen face, shadowy eyes, and every contrary look he’s ever given me.
The familiar dark tug of desire circles and finds me.
It flows through my arms and legs, making them feel leaden and heavy.
I ache for the sound of flesh against flesh and the heat of soft skin under my hand.
I can almost hear the little grunts he’d make and almost see his skin coloring from milky white to deep, dark, mottled pink.
Wait. What?
No. No, no.
There’s no need for that. Goodness. Of course not. What a thought.
That’s not what the situation calls for.
It’s not necessary at all. In fact, not sure if I've mentioned it before, but here’s something not many people know—a spanking doesn’t have to be hard to be effective.
You might think it does, but it doesn’t.
There are a whole lot of factors that make it a deterrent.
It’s quite complicated, really. There’s a science to it.
There’s the humiliation.
And the humility.
And something else I can’t think of right now, but it’s valid and very important.