Tool-Shed Memoires
By: Dick Eberhard & ben tover
(© 2007 by the authors)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

 

Chapter 1
The Paddle

Mr Flemming was angry because his favorite horse was allowed to escape from the corral, when the manager's son failed to lock the gate. He'd told the manager to keep that boy under tight wraps before, too many times . . . and now, action had to be taken.

"You son may be an adult now, but if he's going to be irresponsible as a child he will need to be disciplined as one," Flemming said to Mr Hyde.

Mr Hyde hung his head in shame, knowing he'd failed both his boss and his son . . . the boy would have to be made to pay this time.

"Now, you bring that kid of yours over to the barn, the scene of his crime, and I'll give him a lesson that will surely make a man out of him!" Flemming said, sternly but delightedly, welcoming the opportunity to discipline the flaxen-haired youth personally.

Hyde thought of what  his son's reaction to this would likely be, and how the 21-year-old would handle Flemming's old-fashioned fire-and-brimstone punishing, as he walked off to get the boy.

When the pair arrived in the barn, Mr Flemming was waiting with a long paddle in his hand.  “Son, that horse was worth $25,000, and you'll have to pay for your carelessness . . . so drop those britches and assume the position, over that barrel!” Flemming barked, pointing to a barrel over to the left of the barn-door.

The boy had been told by his father on the way to the barn not to misbehave or back-talk to Flemming, because his own job was at stake here . . . and the whole family would become homeless if Flemming fired Hyde over the boy's willful misbehavior now.

“Hyde, you'd better tie his hands together on the other side of that barrel, and then you can go . . . I won't force you to watch.”

"Sir, he's my son and I've failed him as badly as I've failed you for raising him like this . . . I'll stay and witness this, Sir, if it's all the same to you", and he tied the boy down as Flemming had directed, with his pants pushed all the way down, around his ankles.

“It's not 'all the same to me' . . . I think I made my wishes clear. What part of what I said did you not understand?” Flemming asked angrily, exerting his power over the manager, as only a mean-spirited bastard can.

"But . . . yes, Sir . . . I understand," said Hyde, as he very reluctantly walked away from the scene of his only son's first serious punishing, glancing back at the terrified boy only once as he left the barn.

"Ten seems like a fair number . . . five for each cheek.  When the paddle hits, I expect to hear you thanking me.  Now count off!"

Flemming gave this as an order, and the boy thought wildly about how best to handle this increasingly bad situation . . . he'd never even been spanked before, let alone brutalized with a paddle!

"Ayeiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii," he yelled, as the paddle landed the first time, half-blinding him with pain.

Flemming stifled a grin, saying, "You didn't thank me, boy! How about we start over, OK?" and let the boy have another memorable whack.

"I´m sorry, Sir.  Please forgive me and give me another!"  the boy managed to say, after another long yell.

"You screwed up again, boy, so we're starting over again! Remember to thank me after this one!" and he lambasted the boy's ass once more, with feeling.

After letting loose with another long roar of pain, the boy barely remembered to add, "uuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmm, gawd, thank you, Sir, ONE, SIR!"

Whapp!

Nearly ripping his hands off as he flailed helplessly, trying to avoid the inevitable torment of the paddle, the boy pleased Flemming with another fine audio performance, and remembered to say, "Sir, thank You, Sir, two, Sir!”, adding this time, “May I have another, Sir?"

"Good boy, I knew you could learn with the proper discipline," Flemming teased the boy.

The boy remained silent, as he hadn't been asked to flap his jaws, although he squirmed mightily, trying in vain to find a comfortable position.

As he squirmed, Flemming was entertained by a lovely view of his testicles, which hung low, bobbing and swaying between his smooth, firm thighs.

The boy suddenly had a thought . . . about how his balls were just waving in the breeze back there, waiting for old man Flemming's sadistic notice . . . and he suddenly started to squirm a lot more, in the beginnings of all-out panic.

"Keep those thighs spread apart, or you'll be starting the count all over again!"  Flemming ordered, feeling delight at seeing the boy trying to protect his precious jewels by holding his legs together.

"Whack!" Flemming swung the paddle hard.

Hyde Junior again tried to wriggle away from the infernal paddle, again with no success, and rewarded Flemming with a most satisfactory scream of pain, followed by, "Sir, Thank You, Sir! Three, Sir! May it have another, please, Sir???"

Flemming enjoyed seeing and hearing how quickly the young man was learning.  It would be a long time before he left a gate open again.  Thwack!

The boy's highly sensitized ass was losing its patience with the accursed paddle, and he roared out his pain and anguish . . . but remembered to add, "Four, Master! Thank You, Master! Master, please may it have another one, Master???", in a most sincere tone of voice.

Flemming interrupted his swings to check the damage he was inflicting on Sandy's rounded globes.  The boy flinched at his gentle touch.  “Easy boy, just inspecting your skin.  You don't want me to do any permanent damage, now, do you?" he asked the boy, with mock caring and sincerity.

"Master, no, Master! Please, Master, don't damage this bad boy, Master!" and he shook with pain, and out of fear of this man.

Flemming reached between his thighs and grabbed hold of Sandy's testicles and pulled on them.  "We don't want to damage the family jewels, either," he said, as an excuse to weigh and feel up the boy's balls.

Really shaking now, in mortal fear of what Flemming would do to his balls, Sandy could only say, politely, "Master, please, no, Master . . . please don't damage its balls, Master!"

"OK, then . . . brace yourself!¨ Flemming said, as he released the man-balls and prepared to continue disciplining the rebellious lad.

Sandy was quite sure that Flemming wasn't finished with his fascinated exploration of his balls, and he just knew in his heart that before this punishing was through, his balls were going to be punished, too . . . and very thoroughly, at that.

“WAP!” slapped the paddle against Sandy's already sore flesh, as Flemming surprised him by not castrating him . . . immediately.

"AAAAArrrrrgghhh!!! Thank You, Sir! Five, Sir! May it have another one, Sir???", the boy wailed out, thankful that his balls had been spared . .. this time . . .  but still believing that they were in deep trouble in the near future!

Relieved that the ranch owner didn't geld him, as he had seen him do to all too many horses, tears began to run down his cheeks . . . then it dawned on him that he had only received half his punishment, and that there were still five more swats to endure.

"Boy, I'm gonna let you have the next five real hard, because you've managed to really piss me off here today! You want me to do that for you, boy?" Flemming asked sarcastically, eager to make the boy suffer even more.

Sandy broke out in a sweat, caused by the fear that Flemming might notice how this thrashing was affecting his genitals.  He thought he would die, if his father's boss should discover his long kept secret.

Flemming was aware of how hard the boys cock had become, and he felt like he could use this to his advantage for a long time to come.

“So, I see we have a little pervert amongst us.  You ought to be glad I sent your father away and spared him the shame of witnessing your sissy ass,” said Flemming with total scorn for the boy, shaming him deeply.

He reached down and took hold of the boy's balls and gently squeezed them, tugging downwards as he did, and said, "A sissy like you doesn't need these, does he, boy?" and he laughed at the boy.

“However, I, being a tolerant and understanding, as well as upstanding, pillar of the community, and a humble deacon of our community reformed church, will give you an opportunity to redeem yourself, by meeting me in the tool shed at precisely midnight tonight, boy,” Flemming said, with a lusty leer to his voice.

The boy was sorely afraid now, because he'd heard about Flemming's love of 'stump-breaking' helpless employees and their dependents, and he knew exactly (or, thought he did, anyway) what was going to be happening in the tool shed at midnight . . . but, having no choice he could see, he simply said, "Yes, Sir, thank You, Sir!" and hoped that  that answer would do.

“Whapp,” the paddle slammed hard into his soft globes, which were quickly being reduced to butter-fat.

The boy could not cope with the fury of this last blow to his already macerated ass, and his was barely able to keep consciousness as he screamed out in pain . . . yet, he added afterwards, "Six, Master! Thank You, Master! May it have another, Master, please, Master???", and jerked and writhed in abject pain, his precious genitals swaying and bobbling with his movements, temptingly.

“Spread those legs farther apart, boy!” Flemming said, giving him a clear shot at his thighs . . . he didn't want to concentrate the next few blows too closely together.

The boy felt so utterly helpless, as he obeyed his Master and spread his legs even farther apart, still obsessed with the thought of what Flemming would surely enjoy doing to his balls back there.

Flemming however had another surprise for the virgin boy who was draped over his altar of sacrifice, and after applying all too little lube, forced a butt plug up the until-now exit-only ass-hole. Sandy gasped from the shock of its sudden and forceful entrance. "You keep that in there, until I take it out, you hear me, boy?” Flemming asked threateningly, feeling like a king at the thought of this boy being at his mercy later that night in the tool shed.

Sandy felt tears running down his cheeks and hoped that Flemming wouldn't see them, and he carefully said, "Yes, Master, it won't take it out, Master, and thank You, Master!" and then waited for stroke number seven to rock his world.

The next tsunami slammed his his butt cheeks with the force of a full hurricane and practically knocked the young man off the barrel, leaving no visible blemish on his body save for his glistening bright red derriere.

Sandy was nearing the end of his rope, and this paddling just seemed to get worse and worse . . . he bellowed out louder than he had with any other stroke, and felt like his ass was literally on fire, but he still remembered to add, before it was too late, “Master, seven, Master! Thank You, Master! May it have another, please, Master???" and his jerking and wriggling were fun for Flemming to watch, with the boy's nakedness against the raw, rough, splintery wooden barrel.

Flemming took time to rub his own balls, which were now under pressure in their confined space, due to the expansion going on in another part of his genitalia.

The boy's bubble-butt was so very tempting, and he wanted to ravish the boy right here and now . . . but he knew that the longer he prolonged this, the better it would feel when he finally claimed the boy's fuck-hole for himself, later that night in the tool shed, the scene of so many of his past conquests.

Sandy's body began to spasm so strongly, he thought that they were in the epicenter of an earthquake that was a seven-point-oh on the Richter scale, as he anticipated, with much trepidation, the next swats, which he didn't know Flemming was going to aim at his inner thighs.

Flemming was tingling with anticipation of the boy's reaction to this next swat, a real good one to his right inner-thigh, just below the boy's balls . . . "WHAPPP!!!", and he grinned hugely, waiting for the slightly-delayed reaction to come.

"Iiiiieeee!!!” Sandy screamed, and then began to breathe hard, before repeating his obligatory mantra. The pain was almost unbearable, and if he hadn't been tied down over the barrel, his feelings of wanting vengeance might have stimulated him to attack his attacker.

Flemming was grudgingly proud of the boy for remembering to give his thanks, and asking for another stroke, but, without pause, he let the boy have it on the opposite inner-thigh, harder than the last one, hoping for the boy to forget something this time, and earn himself a whole lot of extra suffering for it.

Sandy, however, was well aware of how Flemming would take advantage of the slightest error, so he concentrated all his efforts on doing exactly as he was told, in spite of the agonizing pain traversing his tender thighs and buttocks.

Still, his screams this time lasted for a very long time, and it was a seriously difficult task for him to say, finally, "Master!!! Nine, Master! Oh, Master, may it please have another one, Master, please???"

Bored now with spanking the young man, Flemming just firmly patted his butt cheeks with the palm of his hand, copping a feel before he helped the weakened stud-muffin to his feet. When the boy turned around, Flemming grabbed his cock and stroked it saying, “Don't you be playing with this thing before tonight, boy!”

The boy wondered why he'd been spared the last stroke, but kept his head about him, and answered Flemming with, "Thank You, Sir, for Your correction of this boy's mistake, Master! It won't touch its privates without Your permission, Master!" and he waited for Flemming to release him . . . or do something else.

Flemming didn't answer, but he did lean toward the boy, squeezed his cock and kissed him on the forehead.

*********

To be continued...
 

Posted: 09/21/07