Amity's Stories

Littleboy

©2000-2008 All Rights Reserved

"Have you been a bad boy?" I asked him very quietly but with sternness in my voice that was easy to muster on this cold and damp day.

His teeth clenched and his neck stiffened. It was so easy to read his body language that I almost felt the game wasn't fair. And it wasn't - I knew all about him even before I met him. He knew nothing about me, except the voice he'd heard and the directions he'd followed for those 60 interminable days prior to this one. I don't play fair; it's more fun for me that way.

I ran my nails down his back and he just sat there, in a straight chair, wondering and worrying what I'd do next. He'd waited all his life for this, he wrote so many times, and I love taking virgins who have been wanting me and simply not knowing that it is me that they want. As he sat there, I continued running my nails across his shirt and watched his eyes clench tighter.

After instructing him to sit in the chair facing the window and leave the door open, I walked in quietly and stood behind him. The blindfold fit snugly over his eyes and even after those 60 days of waiting and anticipating, he still didn't know what I looked like. But he knew my voice.

"You've been a bad boy," I switched to a declarative mode. His head nodded almost imperceptibly and I'm not sure he even knew he had made the motion. Grabbing his shoulder, I spun him toward me and I could feel him strain to see me, even through the blindfold. My fingers grasped his chin as I pulled his face within inches of my own.

"Bad, bad boy," I admonished in my sternest voice. Under my fingers, his face was wet with sweat and I could hear his breathing quicken. I knew that if I had him drop his pants, he'd be hard as a rock. There would be time for that, I reminded myself. He was mine for 3 hours and I was going to fulfill a lifetime's worth of his waiting into 180 blissful minutes. Tomorrow, he'd remember where he'd been today.

Pinching his ear between two fingers, I lifted him from the chair.

"I punish bad little boys," I cooed into an ear that burned from both my fingers and my voice. "I'm going to have to punish you," I continued. "Bad boys need to be spanked, don't they?"

It was fun to watch him struggle for those few seconds as to whether or not to respond to me. I hadn't given him explicit instructions on what to say or whether or not to say anything. One of my joys is watching submissives struggle with themselves and reveal so much of their souls to me through the process.

I think he grunted. I took it as a 'yes.'

"March over here to my desk," I instructed as I dragged him

by his ear to the closest table. "Bend over," I spat out as I pushed his back toward the wooden top. His hands rushed to grab his weight and keep his face from falling directly onto the tabletop.

"Not so fast," I warned him. "Open your jeans first."

Without so much as a whimper, he obeyed and within seconds his jeans were unbuttoned and his hands returned to the tabletop. I watched him shiver with fear and anticipation. After all, waiting for 45 years is a long time. As his shoulders twitched and his chest heaved and his lips sucked in a sharp breath, I saw his legs tremble. He was perfect - scared to death and uncontrollably excited at the same time.

I stood next to him so he could smell my perfume and feel my presence.

"Pull your pants down, little boy," I ordered. "Let everyone see what happens to bad little boys. Do it now - or I'll do it for you."

With one hand balancing himself on the table, he struggled to loosen his jeans from his hips. First one side slid down a little, then the other. It was an agonizingly slow process that I allowed to continue until I felt my lips curl up in a tight smile.

Moving my hand to his waist, which was now slightly exposed, I allowed my fingers to dance on his skin. His reaction was immediate. He gasped for air.

After a lifetime of waiting and 60 days of intense long-distance learning, my touch against his skin was more than he could stand. I knew that if I exposed him, I'd see a fully-erect penis, dripping with eagerness and expectancy. The only thing that mattered was how long I wanted to wait.

I leaned closer to his ear as I pulled the zipper down.

"Little boy, GET YOUR PANTS DOWN!" I hissed into his hot and red ear.

At that moment, it occurred to him that he owned two hands. Grabbing the open waistband, he pulled his jeans down to his ankles and stood awkwardly in front of me. He simply didn't know what to do next.

Walking around him, I inspected him from all sides. Without speaking a word, he desperately tried to determine where I was, yet was too excited and scared to move a muscle. I kept circling him, saying nothing, but watching every move his chest made as he inhaled and exhaled. I studied his stomach as it wrenched in and out with his labored breathing. Forty-five years is a very long time to wait.

Finally, I stopped right behind him and gave him a final instruction.

"Bend over," I demanded. "Bad little boys need to be spanked soundly."

My rattan cane is an old friend. What I like most about it is the sound it makes as it cuts through the air and the ominous whistle's effect on bad little boys. I wanted him to hear it before he felt it and I wanted him to feel it as it landed its first blow. After all, he had waited for a very long time. He deserved to have all his senses filled.

I swung it once or twice and watched his face contort with excitement and fear. Real fear can be felt, I believe, and what he showed me was gut-level terror. It tasted delicious as I allowed the image to invade me. He didn't dread the punishment; at least, not yet. He had waited too long to taste the cane against his ass.

"Bad little boy!" I scolded and landed the cane across his right cheek.

He gasped, shook and steadied himself on the table. But I didn't want him to think that little boys were caned only once. Sizing up his left cheek, I landed an equal blow to that side. He gasped again, steadied himself and I watched his legs quiver even more dramatically.

"How many strokes does the bad little boy deserve?" I asked and waited for an answer. Again he struggled with himself, palpably unsure of whether I expected verbalization or blind, silent obedience. I hoped he made the right choice.

"Ten," he whispered. Apparently, he'd been reading too many stories. It's always 'ten.'

"Six," I corrected him. "Now, tell me why you are being caned."

I was pushing him. With a lifetime of waiting finally over, I forced him to talk to me and participate in his fantasy. Swinging the cane and listening to its siren song, I watched him flinch in terror as I neared his ass. Yet he knew that I would not land another blow until he answered my demand.

"Why - are - you - being - caned?" I dropped each word carefully.

"I was a bad boy," he tried to comply. For that effort, I landed two full blows across both cheeks. A nice red welt formed from the final blow and watching it rise on his white skin intrigued me. For a moment, I forgot that he hadn't fully answered my question. His hoarse voice regained my attention.

"I was a very bad boy," his lips formed each word with great effort.

"You were a bad LITTLE boy," I corrected him and landed three more equally timed blows against his ass. Each left a momentary impression. I wasn't even trying hard yet. There was so much more to come.

He nodded up and down ferociously as if shouting silently in response to my rhetorical statement. I grabbed his hair and pulled his head up. With my face perilously close to his own, I repeated my statement.

"You were a BAD LITTLE boy!" He nodded, but my fingers held fast. Each nod brought a new illustration of anguish to his face. I dropped my handful of hair and his arms caught him before his face splattered against the table.

It was time to bring him what he so desperately craved. It was time for me to have a little fun. What's a caning without a birch rod?

"You will receive 12 strokes of birch," I intoned and watched his back stiffen with expectancy. Without anymore warning than that, I brought the birch full bear on his ass. He howled with pain and shook with pleasure. Another blow graced his backside and another and yet another. In swift succession, he withstood 6 medium blows of stiff birch and his ass glowed red to prove it.

Rubbing his ass with gentle fingers, I felt him shiver with eagerness. When my nails raked the welts, he groaned with a guttural groan.

"I think you're enjoying this too much," I informed him. "Stand up," I commanded and he straightened immediately, trying in vain to face me when he still wasn't sure exactly where I was standing.

The poor little boy had been playing with homemade toys for so long, I thought he'd have more fun with real ones. Using adjustable nipple clips, I grabbed as much of his nipple as possible and tightened the clip on his left chest. I tightened it slowly and watched his lips part and his mouth drop open. Repeating the action on the other side, he was soon sporting clips that were pressing his flesh tightly in their rubber-tipped grip.

"You'd like to see real clips?" I asked. His head nodded feverishly as the anonymity of the afternoon promised to soon be over.

"Soon," I promised and watched him reel from the verbal blow.

"Open your mouth," I ordered, bent his head down and placed the chain between his teeth. "If you let go, I'll punish you again," I warned. Taking his chin in my hand, I lifted his head until the clips strained and pulled his nipples mercilessly from his chest.

"Higher," I ordered.

And without touching his chin, he lifted his head higher and straighter. What had been merciless was now almost intolerable and his visceral groan left no doubt in my mind that the intensity of the pain was washing throughout his body. He was learning how to overcome it, to allow it, to accept it. And he knew why he was taking it.

I kicked his legs slightly apart, as far as the pile of jeans around his ankles would allow. Using my little leather penis paddle, I rubbed the purple skin of his penis in long slow motions. His groans became moans and his mind yielded to his body. He wanted more - much more.

I swung the little paddle back and let it land soundly on the sweet spot under his balls. He jumped and yelped simultaneously. He was so far into his headspace that I had to reach out and steady him from tripping over his jeans. After he was balanced, I did it again.

It was time for him to understand the difference between wanting and having. With short deliberate strokes, I punished his testicles and penis over and over again until I was certain he was no longer capable of counting. I wanted him to stop thinking; to react; to take it all in and make it work for him. One way or another, I was going to make that happen.

There was one more thing I had to do.

"It's time," I announced and removed his blindfold. I knew he couldn't focus right away, but seeing clearly wasn't what I was after. Turning him toward the table again, I repeated my earlier admonition.

"You're a bad little boy," I spoke clearly and plainly and wailed the leather strap across his cherry-red asscheeks. Varying the rhythm and heaviness of my strokes, I brought 45 years of wanting to his eager backside and waited patiently for what I knew was going to happen.

With the chain from the nipple clips still in his teeth, I reached under his chest and jerked them loose from his skin. With a gleeful eagerness that surprised even me, I massaged his aching nipples unpityingly. After stopping while he caught his breath, I did it again.

With his ass red and welted, his nipples sore and aching, I stood him up to face me. And then I looked for what I knew I'd see.

Tears. Streaming down his face.

"Cry, little boy," I instructed him.

Forty-five years' of wanting rushed from the depths of his body and his soul. He sobbed as I held his head, rubbed his back and shoulders and soothed his untamed spirit. Marked, red and aching, I gave his body back to him, but I kept a small piece of his soul.

Until next time. When his virgin ass would also be mine. I just love virgins.

-=o=-