Re: Greg
Denis F. Oliver
you're as crappy a writer as grace is, larry. Give it up.
Denis
"Barrister" <Barr...@Assville.com> wrote in message
news:eqddq...@drn.newsguy.com...
> This is from November, 1996. Something in one of Grace's stories made me
think
> of it. I don't think it's ever been reposted. I've left the original
intros
> intact. Please read the warning carefully.
>
> This story is copyrighted by me. Please honour it.
>
> Barrister
>
> ******
>
> This story was inspired by McSpanks recent "Work Room" story. It
> put me in a reflective mood. Then I was lying in the hammock on
> Sunday, staring at my favourite tree swaying in the hot breezes,
> reading my favourite author, John Updike, and this story came to
> mind.
>
> This is a disturbing story. I wrote it and it disturbs even me.
> It is not a jerk-off story. Even I, who is turned on by almost
> everything, didn't get hard writing it as I usually do. It is
> one of those stories that everyone who writes will recognize. An
> idea comes into your head. It then takes on a life of its own
> and almost writes itself, taking directions that you never
> envisaged.
>
> This story is NOT autobiographical.
>
> Bonnie first thought that I should not post this story as it
> might be misunderstood, flamed and do damage to my reputation.
> Then she helped me to edit it and change it to better reflect
> what I was trying to say. There's nothing like a good editor.
> <G>
>
> Anyway, here it is. It is heavy and edgy, but it's also
> reflective of real life which is also sometimes heavy and edgy.
> It contains M/m severe whipping, brutality, really; F/m incest of
> a sort and F/M whipping and loving sex.
>
> WARNING !!!
>
> If you have been the victim of childhood abuse or if reading
> about it disturbs you, please do not read this story.
>
> I welcome all constructive comments and discussions. Flames will
> be ignored, of course.
>
> Barrister
>
> *************
>
> As Greg hung from the eyebolt in the ceiling of the basement,
> having just been whipped with a switch by his wife Johanna until
> he had started to cry, he felt the cool touch of her hand on his
> hot, bare bottom. Her other hand snaked around to find his
> quickly surging penis and begin the loving ritual with which she
> always ended his "punishments". "Hmmmm! I see that my Greggie
> hates being switched", she purred into his ear. All Greg could
> do was moan with pleasure as his desire mounted and his mind
> wandered back in time to another house in another era.
>
> *************
>
> He had lived in that old house with his mom and dad from his
> birth until he had left home. His dad.... Now that
> was a subject that Greg still had difficulty talking or thinking
> about.
>
> Greg's dad was dead now. He had been a big, burly, gruff man who
> never had been able to warm up to his children and who seemed
> uncomfortable with his wife, Greg's mom. He was also a strict
> disciplinarian. No, not strict, brutal. His only outlet in life,
> other than drinking beer and yelling at his family, was watching
> sports on television. Woe to the child or spouse who interrupted
> one of his "games" on TV.
>
> By sixteen, Greg had been the recipient of numerous punishments
> from his father. It probably wasn't accurate, he knew, to call
> them punishments or spankings or discipline. They were beatings,
> plain and simple.
>
> The incident that happened on October 13th in his sixteenth year
> was probably no different than many of the others, but it was a
> turning point in Greg's life.
>
> It was a Saturday, and worse, it was a FOOTBALL SATURDAY. That
> meant that his dad would start watching college football games at
> noon and continue until there were no more to watch. It also
> meant that he would begin drinking beer at noon, until there was
> no more to drink.
>
> Around 3:00, Greg went into the TV room to ask his dad if he
> could have some money to pay the papergirl who was at the front
> door. Greg's timing was off and he was about to pay dearly for
> that sin. His dad threw some bills at him and snarled, "come
> right back here when you're through at the door. You're in deep
> shit young man."
>
> After paying the papergirl, Greg debated with himself if he
> should simply go out the door himself and go over to Sam's house
> to let his dad cool off. He thought better of it as it would
> probably only make things worse. He should have gone.
>
> He re-entered the TV room with dread. He had a pretty good idea
> what was in store for him as each of his punishments were almost
> identical. His dad always made him go out into their big back
> yard, more of a field than a yard, it was so huge. The yard was
> surrounded by tall cedar hedges and was totally hidden from the
> view of the neighbours. He would have to go out there and cut
> nine, exactly nine long, green and supple switches from the peach
> trees back there. He would then have to strip each switch of its
> leaves and buds until there were nine nasty looking whips. He
> knew that they would be used in groups of three until they were
> completely worn out, regardless of how long that took.
>
> Once the switches were prepared, he would have to go back to the
> house and fetch his dad. If it wasn't an opportune moment in the
> game, Greg would have to stand there, switches in had, facing the
> corner until there was a natural break in game.
>
> Then his dad would march him back out into the yard until they
> were standing under the old maple tree directly in the centre of
> the yard about half a football field from the back of the house.
> From experience, he knew that his mother would be upstairs in the
> back bedroom, peeking out from behind the heavy curtains, unable
> to stop what was about to happen, but totally unable to resist
> watching the unfolding ordeal.
>
> Once they were under the tree, Greg's dad would order him to
> strip naked. By now, Greg had long stopped begging him to let
> him keep his underpants or shirt or something, anything on. He
> would say no, and it would be worse for Greg, if that were
> possible.
>
> Once totally naked (it was good that they lived in the deep
> south, as at least it was still quite warm out), Greg's dad would
> throw the old, almost smooth from wear, clothes line over the
> lowest limb of the tree. He would tie both of Greg's wrists
> tightly together with one end of the rope. Then he would pull on
> the free end of the rope until Greg was on tiptoes, his toes
> barely touching the dirt, and tie the free end of the rope off
> around Greg's wrists. This left Greg dangling from the tree limb,
> weight mostly on his arms, toes twitching, naked, vulnerable and
> waiting.
>
> As he entered the TV room, Greg didn't have to wait long for his
> dad. The Crimson Tide had just scored on the Bulldogs as time
> was running out in the first half. "Let's go", was all his dad
> said as he chugged the rest of his Budweiser, patted his beer
> belly and belched loudly, hitched up his sagging pants and strode
> towards the door. Greg glumly followed.
>
> As they exited the back door into the yard, he turned his head
> slightly and looked out of the corner of his eye at the second
> floor. Sure enough, there was his mother peeking out from behind
> the curtain at the unfolding scene. It was as if her mother's
> sixth-sense knew when her only child was going to be punished,
> even if she had missed the judgment and sentencing.
>
> Things ran true to form, and soon Greg found himself dangling
> painfully from the limb. His father was big on preparations, so
> he picked up three of the switches, held them in his fat but
> muscular paw and whipped them back and forth as if to test them.
> His real purpose, of course, was to torment Greg. Greg tensed at
> each "whoosh" as it slid past him. He could feel the bile rising
> in his throat and wanted to scream out, "JUST GET ON WITH IT",
> but, of course didn't. He also felt the same weird feeling that
> he had the last two times that he had been punished like this.
> He remembered them vividly as the new, strange feeling had
> appeared out of nowhere. It had been in April and in June of
> this year. Each time, just at this point in his ordeal, he began
> to feel some sexual arousal. It was a feeling with which he was
> familiar, but never, ever in this context. The feeling had
> disappeared quickly after his whipping had begun, but he had
> remembered it later when, in the privacy of his room, he had
> cried himself to sleep while holding his penis and masturbating.
> The feeling troubled him, but he had no one to ask about it.
>
> This time, as the feeling returned, it was stronger. To his
> horror, he actually felt his penis begin to thicken and grow
> hard. Of course, his father noticed it, and had apparently done
> so the two previous times, as he said in his most cutting,
> sarcastic voice, "well, son, it looks like that pathetic pecker
> of yours likes getting whipped. Let's see how long that puny
> hard-on lasts." With those words, his father began to whip him
> unmercifully with the three bundled, pliant switches. While Greg
> was in no condition to note it, his dad was right, his incipient
> erection disappeared after the third stinging stroke.
>
> His father whipped Greg's bare bottom, bare thighs and bare
> calves with the three switches until they began to splinter and
> to disintegrate. There was an eerie silence as the spent
> switches fell to the ground. Before then, there had been only
> the sound of the switches as they whisked their way to Greg's
> suffering body. One of the rules was that Greg could not utter a
> cry or make a sound as he was being whipped. According to his
> dad, "real men don't cry, they just suffer in silence". Greg
> would have loved to scream out his pain and torment, but the
> penalty for breaking the rule was that after his switching was
> over, his dad would lash him with his wide leather belt until
> Greg stopped all sound. The one time that it had happened
> convinced Greg that he never, ever wanted that to happen again.
>
> As his father bent to pick up the next bundle of three switches,
> Greg quivered and swung at the end of his rope. His bottom,
> thighs and calves were one flaming mass of angry red welts and
> pain. His skin wasn't broken - yet. It would be before his dad
> was satisfied. The second third of his whipping began and Greg
> slipped off into that private place in his mind where he went
> during these painful times. He could still feel the agonizing,
> cutting pain, but, somehow, he could bear it by retreating into
> this private place. In his mind, he was a little boy, being held
> on his mommy's lap in her old rocking chair. He was crying and
> she was rocking him and whispering comforting nothings in his
> ear.
>
> The second bundle of switches went the way of the first. In the
> pause while his dad picked up the last bundle, Greg distantly
> heard him say, "peckers settled down now, boy", but Greg couldn't
> even remember to what that remark referred. His dad started in
> on the third part of his whipping and Greg had to concentrate on
> remaining in his private place as the assault of the switches was
> starting to breech the walls to that inner sanctum. For some
> reason, the pain was flooding over the edges and threatening to
> doom him to a painful strapping.
>
> Greg was successful in remaining silent although he must have
> come close to crying out as his dad had warned him twice, "one
> more sound, Greg, and it's the belt for dessert".
>
> As usual, after a whipping of this severity, Greg was left to
> dangle from the limb for a half hour to, as his dad said, "make
> sure that the lesson sunk in". His dad went back in the house.
> Greg then heard the front door slam and the car start up and
> leave the driveway. "Oh god", Greg dimly thought, "is he going
> to leave me here while he goes out drinking".
>
> As he hung there in a daze, aching in every muscle, every pore of
> his young body, Greg heard the back door swing open. He froze,
> thinking that his dad had come back and decided to give him that
> strapping after all. Before he could muster the energy to turn
> his head, he felt a cool, soft hand on his martyred bare bottom.
> Turning his head he saw that it was his mom. As he opened his
> mouth to speak, she put her index finger up to his lips and said,
> "shhh, Greggie, shhhh".
>
> She continued to stroke his burning, lacerated bottom. "Oh, god
> it felt so good", he thought to himself. He already knew that
> she wasn't going to be able to let him down from his agony. She
> had done that once, a year ago, and his dad had caught her when
> he came back unexpectedly from his errands. She had paid the
> price by taking his place, stripped naked, gagged and beaten with
> the belt until she had passed out. Then, as she had hung there,
> slowly regaining consciousness, his dad had buggered her. She
> remembered it better than Greg and had no intention of having
> that happen to her again.
>
> Greg luxuriated in her touch. His penis began to grow and
> stiffen as her hand caressed his bottom. Suddenly he gasped as
> he felt her other hand reach around him and grasp his penis. He
> groaned and let his head hang backwards. "Shhhhh", was all she
> said as she continued to stroke his front and his back. Greg's
> hips began to pump as he hardened even further. Forgetting his
> pain as his desire mounted, he knew that she was helping him to
> endure his ordeal in the only way that she could, by loving him
> in a way that a mother should not love her son.
>
> This tender moment between mother and son continued. The only
> sounds in that yard were his quickening breath, the creaking of
> the limb of the old maple tree and the crooning voice of his
> mother saying over and over, "Mommy loves you Greggie, mommy
> loves you". Greg climaxed with a force that he had never before
> experienced. His mother kissed him on his shoulder and quietly
> slipped back into the house just before the car door slammed in
> the driveway.
>
> Some minutes later, Greg's dad remembered his son in the yard and
> let him down, sending him to his room to "think before you
> interrupt me next time".
>
> That night, Greg packed his few clothes and prized possessions
> and, the next day when his parents were at church, Greg
> left home never to return.
>
> He never saw his father again. His mother finally summoned the
> courage to leave and made a life for herself across the
> continent.
>
> *************
>
> As Johanna's hand increased its pace, Greg began to pump his hips
> and call out her name. Suddenly he could hold back no more and
> came in a crashing, thrashing, moaning, gasping orgasm. He could
> hear her whispering to him, "I love you Greggie".
>
>
> --
> Barrister
zprymantis
> Greg
Well - I read it, and I should flame you most dreadfully! :) I not
only enjoyed the story, I enjoyed all the pre-warnings and the anxiety
I knew you felt before posting it the first time. I am glad you
reposted it. I am always fascinated by stories like this that are
written in this style that have that raw "real feeling" edge to them.
You have a knack for making your stories sound true, so I can imagine
why posting it the first time caused some concern.
I remember one time reading a magazine in a doctors office (when I was
around 14) that contained a "real" account of a kidnapping, rape and
beating by two boys against one other boy - and I read that account
with the same lusty need to take it all in, the same way I read stories
like this one now. It usually leaves me feeling a bit disgusted with
myself - of course, I read them anyway! :)
~zed
GrumpyOldPapa
>>> This is from November, 1996. Something in one of Grace's stories made me think of it. I don't think it's ever been reposted. I've left the original intros intact. Please read the warning carefully.<<<
I remember the story. In 1996 it was further into the dark side than I
wanted to go, but I had to read it then and re-read it now. But it is
all to real for far too many children.
Papa
CrimsnKid6
<story snipped>
This was pretty intense but sadly realistic, as we know more of it
today but it certainly occurred--albeit less recognized and reported--
in past generations as well.
In spite of it all, there was actually a happy ending which
nonetheless wouldn't justify or necessarily make worthwhile the past
pain.
This story clearly makes me happy for the gentle way that I
acquired our SSS *kink*...
H.I.A.W.B.,
--C.K.