Sunday, December 16, 2018
Saturday, December 15, 2018
Saturday, November 17, 2018
MR OGLESBY
Mr. Oglesby Gets His Wish -- M/M Alex Cee
2009 was a tough year for lots of people and it wasn't clear I'd be able to go to college after graduation. My summer was shot when the job I had lined up disappeared, which made things worse. Mr. Oglesby had run the small grocery store in our town for ever, knew everyone and everything, and when he learned I had no summer job, offered to take me on. Bagging, stocking, cleaning up, etc. He'd never had help before, and business was down, but he said that his back was bothering him and he could use the help. Funny, though, I never saw any problem with his back. This was not a job that interested me and it showed. On the third day, I messed up the same simple task for the third time. “I don't know if I should spank you to wake you up or just let you go,” he told me. “I'll decide by the end of the day.” Door locked, sign flipped to “Closed,” he took my arm and said, “Come on, let's go.” It didn't seem real and even to this day my memory of it is disconnected. He took my pants and underwear down, spanked me about a dozen times and said, “From now on, whenever you're careless and don't follow instructions, you'll get the same thing.” That night it felt like I had been jolted into something new. Things just seemed different. It was confusing and I wasn't sure what to do. The next morning I knew I was going to work the minute I woke up. Things were fine. Nothing was said. I did the job ok. As the days followed and I made minor flubs, I wondered if I'd get spanked for it. I'd think about getting spanked, well, quite a bit during the day. Like I was getting used to the idea. The dumpster in the back was in a tight enclosure and had to be aligned right so it could be scooped up by the collector's truck. Whoever dumped stuff into it had to make sure it was pointed correctly. Mr. Oglesby called me out back, “You see how the dumpster is angled? I guess you need a reminder.” My heart was pounding and it felt like a dream but I was very aware. He locked the front door, turned the “Closed” sign, took my arm and turned me toward the stairs. “C'mon, let's go.” He followed behind me as I walked up the stairs. In walking up those stairs something within me shifted. My last spanking just kind of happened, but this time I was allowing it to happen. At the top of the stairs, there's a storage room to the right and his cluttered office to the left. Between are two chairs. He sat at the chair on the left. He took my arm and positioned me next to his right thigh. His hands went to my belt and undid it, then the clasp, then to the zip, pulling it down. Both hands grasp my jeans at each hip and pulled them down to mid-thigh. Next, he inserted his index fingers inside my underpants at my abdomen, ran them along the elastic to my sides, then slowly lowered them to my jeans. He put his right hand under my shirt tail, cupping my left buttock and kept it there as he took my left arm in his left hand and guided me over his knees. He adjusted me to the position he liked, then slowly and pointedly lifted back the shirt tail to completely bare my bottom. Most of my weight was held by the empty chair to his left. Both my upper thighs were supported by his right thigh. The effect was to put my bottom directly over the center of his lap, and thrust it up a little. It felt like he was savoring a victory as he lingered in fondling my bottom, offered to him so openly. It's hard to describe what that feeling of offering your bottom, the vulnerability, the submissiveness to another man is like for a str8 like me. It feels like a separate world with new feelings and emotions. And it can be overwhelming. He started spanking me slowly and lightly, but soon spanked harder and as it reached a point of real discomfort an overwhelming awareness fully overcame me -- that I was bare bottom over his knee, getting spanked. It was too much and I started to cry. He soothed me, saying that I should let it all out, that it was good for me. Then he pulled me tighter and really started to spank me. It was horrible, just this huge gush of pain and shame and wanting it to be over. Being under his control, not being able to get away, him spanking me as long and as hard as he wanted to, these were like bulldozers knocking down walls and finally I just let go and really deeply sobbed. It felt like a burden was lifted. He was obviously pleased when I arrived for work the next day. There was a closeness between us, he was kinder and gentler, and the next week when I screwed up again, he wasn't angry or frustrated, just a little chagrined as he patted my bottom and promised a reminder upstairs after work. In the days after my second spanking I was confused and really very sad. I didn't understand what was happening. How did I get into this? The problem was that I was thinking about the spankings, about how embarrassing they were, how much they hurt, how really awful they were. Yet, they were terribly exciting, like almost nothing else I had experienced. And thinking about them afterward was, well, habit forming. It was a flip-flop between shame and abhorrence, and something deliciously naughty. By the time we got up the stairs and I saw those chairs just waiting for us and he started in unbuckling my belt, my cock was getting hard. This was frightening. Luckily, it wasn't obvious, not completely erect. I was afraid it might become erect during my struggles across his knee, but thankfully the awful sting of that spanking, which started off very hard from the first smack, calmed things down. Now my mind was assaulted by the shame of being spanked, the desire to be spanked and the fear of getting hard. Finally, a couple of spankings later, it happened. Walking up the stairs, I could feel it getting harder. And by the time we were upstairs, it was fully hard. He stopped as he undid my belt, the bulge in my pants obvious. Once the zip was down, he could see it at attention inside my underpants. When they came down, it fell and stuck out between the two shirt-halves. His hand reached up under my shirt tail and fondled my bottom. For a while. As he looked at my cock. It got harder and stood up higher. At last, he said, “C'mon, now,” and took me over his knee. The spanking that followed fell into the familiar pattern, firm to start, then being held tight and spanked harder, then released and spanked slowly, just as hard, for a long time. Thankfully, the sting of the spanks and the roughness of his jeans on my cock softened it and I was completely soft when I came up from across his lap. After a spanking, remembering it became this secret world that I would crawl into. It was safe, exciting and very arousing. After this spanking, the shame and arousal of having a hard cock while being undressed became a focus of my dreaming. It didn't happen the next time, but it was the spanking after that. I was immensely hard on the trip up the stairs and once the zip was down the tip of my penis almost peaked out the top of my underpants. When they were taken down, the head pointed toward the ceiling. There is a feeling when my cock is like that, like I am fully there, power and pride in how hard it feels. As his hand fondled my bottom under my shirt-tails, I was very conscious of that feeling, very conscious of his looking at my cock, proud to be showing my cock like that to him. It felt very very good. The spanking that followed, well, it was awful and I wanted it to end, as usual, and then letting go brought me to a calmer place than usual. At first, I thought I might come, but the scratchiness of his jeans did a number on my cock and my hard-on disappeared. Funny, I hardly noticed it under that relentless hail of hard spanks. After that it was a crapshoot. Sometimes hard, sometimes not, sometimes in between. But always, it would get soft during the spanking. My first few spankings were for messing up. Then, if several days had gone by, I'd get spanked for something pretty minor. And finally, after I'd gotten the job down and there were not many even minor mistakes, the spankings were “reminders.” Up the stairs and ready to be undressed for a reminder spanking, Mr. Oglesby ducked into his office for something, then took his seat. Laying there across his lap was a strap. It was about a foot long and two inches wide, tan in color and had a hole at a rounded end. I was taken over his knee and laid on top of the strap. A familiar spanking pattern followed, uncompromising, relentless, until I was spent and had submitted. He stopped and fondled my bottom, while I tried to calm down the sobs. We both were at our tasks for a while. Reaching under me, he said, “There's someone I want you to meet,” withdrew the strap and laid it across my bottom. It was the sound that struck me first, ominously singing through the air and then cracking down sharply. The first stroke was just such a shock that my bottom didn't know how to process it. The second stung, I could feel that. And the third one brought all three together, a really awful sting and the throb and heat from the first two. I shrieked like I never have and was soon frightened that someone outside might hear. As I caught my breath, Mr. Oglesby fondled my bottom and said, “You may not like him now, but you'll learn to love him.” That made no sense at all to me. And yet. A couple of weeks later, I was upstairs on an errand and peaked into his office where the strap hung on a hook behind the door. Strange how an inanimate object can seem to take on a stolid personality. “Where've you been? I've been calling you,” Mr. Oglesby said, appearing out of nowhere, then saw that I had taken down the strap and was, well, fondling it. He nodded his head with a small smile and said, “Fascinated, aren't you?” The strap had become a part of my reminders. A rather important part. After the spanking. After the calm down and fondle. There now was the strap. It was a hard thing to handle. Because at that point, I was feeling rather lovely. Well-spanked, well-touched, relaxed, endorphin rushed. Now I had to get the strap. The first few times it was three. Apparently he understand the dynamic of how three strokes work together. Then it was six. What a horrible shock that was the first time. After three, feeling sorry for myself. Then it was three more. I just hated it. And, of course, remembering the spanking later, it was thinking about that strap that made me come. Mr. Oglesby was fiendish. I was lucky. It was a very hard journey to 12. There were three. Then three more. After being spent from the spanking, the second set of three just smashed me. Then there were two more sets. Taking the 12 was having to abandon any hope of being in control. . . . Then Mr. Oglesby's friend Mr. Nash came to visit. Earlier in the afternoon I had been told that a reminder was in order. Mr. Nash arrived just before closing. When the door was locked and the Closed sign flipped, Nr. Nash was still there and I started to become apprehensive. They were having a conversation and I was called over and told by Mr. Oglesby that “I was just telling Mr. Nash about your reminders. He has a great deal of experience with boys like you.” By then, Mr. Oglesby had my arm and was leading me to the stairs. The upstairs is rather cramped. You could stand next to the door to the stockroom on the right or the door to Mr. Oglesby's office on the left. Once I was across Mr. Oglesby's knee, from the right you could see my face, then my torso and my bottom pushed up. From the left, you could see my bottom straight on and my head bob up and down. Mr. Nash was on the right at first, which gave him a good view of Mr. Oglesby undressing me, taking me over his knee and then beginning the spanking. He could see how my expression changed as the spanking became more intense. During a brief break, Mr. Nash crossed over to the left and got a first hand look at how Mr. Oglesby was turning my bare bottom into darker shades of red. Then when the spanking ended, he went back to the right to better watch my reaction to the strap. Of course, after the excruciating shame of being undressed in front of Mr. Nash and then the spanking began, my awareness of Mr. Nash was only fleeting, but terribly debilitating. How could this happen? When the strapping was over, Mr. Nash suggested that my shoes, socks, pants and underpants be removed and Mr. Oglesby did so, I having no say in the matter. Mr. Oglesby wondered if my shirt should be removed as well, but Mr. Nash said that it was more appealing for my shirt to remain on and for the shirt-tail to be lifted up, to reveal my spanked and strapped bottom. He asked Mr. Oglesby to do just that and savored the moment of seemingly being offered my deeply red bottom.
2009 was a tough year for lots of people and it wasn't clear I'd be able to go to college after graduation. My summer was shot when the job I had lined up disappeared, which made things worse. Mr. Oglesby had run the small grocery store in our town for ever, knew everyone and everything, and when he learned I had no summer job, offered to take me on. Bagging, stocking, cleaning up, etc. He'd never had help before, and business was down, but he said that his back was bothering him and he could use the help. Funny, though, I never saw any problem with his back. This was not a job that interested me and it showed. On the third day, I messed up the same simple task for the third time. “I don't know if I should spank you to wake you up or just let you go,” he told me. “I'll decide by the end of the day.” Door locked, sign flipped to “Closed,” he took my arm and said, “Come on, let's go.” It didn't seem real and even to this day my memory of it is disconnected. He took my pants and underwear down, spanked me about a dozen times and said, “From now on, whenever you're careless and don't follow instructions, you'll get the same thing.” That night it felt like I had been jolted into something new. Things just seemed different. It was confusing and I wasn't sure what to do. The next morning I knew I was going to work the minute I woke up. Things were fine. Nothing was said. I did the job ok. As the days followed and I made minor flubs, I wondered if I'd get spanked for it. I'd think about getting spanked, well, quite a bit during the day. Like I was getting used to the idea. The dumpster in the back was in a tight enclosure and had to be aligned right so it could be scooped up by the collector's truck. Whoever dumped stuff into it had to make sure it was pointed correctly. Mr. Oglesby called me out back, “You see how the dumpster is angled? I guess you need a reminder.” My heart was pounding and it felt like a dream but I was very aware. He locked the front door, turned the “Closed” sign, took my arm and turned me toward the stairs. “C'mon, let's go.” He followed behind me as I walked up the stairs. In walking up those stairs something within me shifted. My last spanking just kind of happened, but this time I was allowing it to happen. At the top of the stairs, there's a storage room to the right and his cluttered office to the left. Between are two chairs. He sat at the chair on the left. He took my arm and positioned me next to his right thigh. His hands went to my belt and undid it, then the clasp, then to the zip, pulling it down. Both hands grasp my jeans at each hip and pulled them down to mid-thigh. Next, he inserted his index fingers inside my underpants at my abdomen, ran them along the elastic to my sides, then slowly lowered them to my jeans. He put his right hand under my shirt tail, cupping my left buttock and kept it there as he took my left arm in his left hand and guided me over his knees. He adjusted me to the position he liked, then slowly and pointedly lifted back the shirt tail to completely bare my bottom. Most of my weight was held by the empty chair to his left. Both my upper thighs were supported by his right thigh. The effect was to put my bottom directly over the center of his lap, and thrust it up a little. It felt like he was savoring a victory as he lingered in fondling my bottom, offered to him so openly. It's hard to describe what that feeling of offering your bottom, the vulnerability, the submissiveness to another man is like for a str8 like me. It feels like a separate world with new feelings and emotions. And it can be overwhelming. He started spanking me slowly and lightly, but soon spanked harder and as it reached a point of real discomfort an overwhelming awareness fully overcame me -- that I was bare bottom over his knee, getting spanked. It was too much and I started to cry. He soothed me, saying that I should let it all out, that it was good for me. Then he pulled me tighter and really started to spank me. It was horrible, just this huge gush of pain and shame and wanting it to be over. Being under his control, not being able to get away, him spanking me as long and as hard as he wanted to, these were like bulldozers knocking down walls and finally I just let go and really deeply sobbed. It felt like a burden was lifted. He was obviously pleased when I arrived for work the next day. There was a closeness between us, he was kinder and gentler, and the next week when I screwed up again, he wasn't angry or frustrated, just a little chagrined as he patted my bottom and promised a reminder upstairs after work. In the days after my second spanking I was confused and really very sad. I didn't understand what was happening. How did I get into this? The problem was that I was thinking about the spankings, about how embarrassing they were, how much they hurt, how really awful they were. Yet, they were terribly exciting, like almost nothing else I had experienced. And thinking about them afterward was, well, habit forming. It was a flip-flop between shame and abhorrence, and something deliciously naughty. By the time we got up the stairs and I saw those chairs just waiting for us and he started in unbuckling my belt, my cock was getting hard. This was frightening. Luckily, it wasn't obvious, not completely erect. I was afraid it might become erect during my struggles across his knee, but thankfully the awful sting of that spanking, which started off very hard from the first smack, calmed things down. Now my mind was assaulted by the shame of being spanked, the desire to be spanked and the fear of getting hard. Finally, a couple of spankings later, it happened. Walking up the stairs, I could feel it getting harder. And by the time we were upstairs, it was fully hard. He stopped as he undid my belt, the bulge in my pants obvious. Once the zip was down, he could see it at attention inside my underpants. When they came down, it fell and stuck out between the two shirt-halves. His hand reached up under my shirt tail and fondled my bottom. For a while. As he looked at my cock. It got harder and stood up higher. At last, he said, “C'mon, now,” and took me over his knee. The spanking that followed fell into the familiar pattern, firm to start, then being held tight and spanked harder, then released and spanked slowly, just as hard, for a long time. Thankfully, the sting of the spanks and the roughness of his jeans on my cock softened it and I was completely soft when I came up from across his lap. After a spanking, remembering it became this secret world that I would crawl into. It was safe, exciting and very arousing. After this spanking, the shame and arousal of having a hard cock while being undressed became a focus of my dreaming. It didn't happen the next time, but it was the spanking after that. I was immensely hard on the trip up the stairs and once the zip was down the tip of my penis almost peaked out the top of my underpants. When they were taken down, the head pointed toward the ceiling. There is a feeling when my cock is like that, like I am fully there, power and pride in how hard it feels. As his hand fondled my bottom under my shirt-tails, I was very conscious of that feeling, very conscious of his looking at my cock, proud to be showing my cock like that to him. It felt very very good. The spanking that followed, well, it was awful and I wanted it to end, as usual, and then letting go brought me to a calmer place than usual. At first, I thought I might come, but the scratchiness of his jeans did a number on my cock and my hard-on disappeared. Funny, I hardly noticed it under that relentless hail of hard spanks. After that it was a crapshoot. Sometimes hard, sometimes not, sometimes in between. But always, it would get soft during the spanking. My first few spankings were for messing up. Then, if several days had gone by, I'd get spanked for something pretty minor. And finally, after I'd gotten the job down and there were not many even minor mistakes, the spankings were “reminders.” Up the stairs and ready to be undressed for a reminder spanking, Mr. Oglesby ducked into his office for something, then took his seat. Laying there across his lap was a strap. It was about a foot long and two inches wide, tan in color and had a hole at a rounded end. I was taken over his knee and laid on top of the strap. A familiar spanking pattern followed, uncompromising, relentless, until I was spent and had submitted. He stopped and fondled my bottom, while I tried to calm down the sobs. We both were at our tasks for a while. Reaching under me, he said, “There's someone I want you to meet,” withdrew the strap and laid it across my bottom. It was the sound that struck me first, ominously singing through the air and then cracking down sharply. The first stroke was just such a shock that my bottom didn't know how to process it. The second stung, I could feel that. And the third one brought all three together, a really awful sting and the throb and heat from the first two. I shrieked like I never have and was soon frightened that someone outside might hear. As I caught my breath, Mr. Oglesby fondled my bottom and said, “You may not like him now, but you'll learn to love him.” That made no sense at all to me. And yet. A couple of weeks later, I was upstairs on an errand and peaked into his office where the strap hung on a hook behind the door. Strange how an inanimate object can seem to take on a stolid personality. “Where've you been? I've been calling you,” Mr. Oglesby said, appearing out of nowhere, then saw that I had taken down the strap and was, well, fondling it. He nodded his head with a small smile and said, “Fascinated, aren't you?” The strap had become a part of my reminders. A rather important part. After the spanking. After the calm down and fondle. There now was the strap. It was a hard thing to handle. Because at that point, I was feeling rather lovely. Well-spanked, well-touched, relaxed, endorphin rushed. Now I had to get the strap. The first few times it was three. Apparently he understand the dynamic of how three strokes work together. Then it was six. What a horrible shock that was the first time. After three, feeling sorry for myself. Then it was three more. I just hated it. And, of course, remembering the spanking later, it was thinking about that strap that made me come. Mr. Oglesby was fiendish. I was lucky. It was a very hard journey to 12. There were three. Then three more. After being spent from the spanking, the second set of three just smashed me. Then there were two more sets. Taking the 12 was having to abandon any hope of being in control. . . . Then Mr. Oglesby's friend Mr. Nash came to visit. Earlier in the afternoon I had been told that a reminder was in order. Mr. Nash arrived just before closing. When the door was locked and the Closed sign flipped, Nr. Nash was still there and I started to become apprehensive. They were having a conversation and I was called over and told by Mr. Oglesby that “I was just telling Mr. Nash about your reminders. He has a great deal of experience with boys like you.” By then, Mr. Oglesby had my arm and was leading me to the stairs. The upstairs is rather cramped. You could stand next to the door to the stockroom on the right or the door to Mr. Oglesby's office on the left. Once I was across Mr. Oglesby's knee, from the right you could see my face, then my torso and my bottom pushed up. From the left, you could see my bottom straight on and my head bob up and down. Mr. Nash was on the right at first, which gave him a good view of Mr. Oglesby undressing me, taking me over his knee and then beginning the spanking. He could see how my expression changed as the spanking became more intense. During a brief break, Mr. Nash crossed over to the left and got a first hand look at how Mr. Oglesby was turning my bare bottom into darker shades of red. Then when the spanking ended, he went back to the right to better watch my reaction to the strap. Of course, after the excruciating shame of being undressed in front of Mr. Nash and then the spanking began, my awareness of Mr. Nash was only fleeting, but terribly debilitating. How could this happen? When the strapping was over, Mr. Nash suggested that my shoes, socks, pants and underpants be removed and Mr. Oglesby did so, I having no say in the matter. Mr. Oglesby wondered if my shirt should be removed as well, but Mr. Nash said that it was more appealing for my shirt to remain on and for the shirt-tail to be lifted up, to reveal my spanked and strapped bottom. He asked Mr. Oglesby to do just that and savored the moment of seemingly being offered my deeply red bottom.
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