By Amy Carter
There are three things I must tell you about Martin. First, he’s a tall, gangly youth, lean and fidgety, with a shock of black hair, earnest brown eyes and cute button nose. Second, he’s a perfect brat, mucky minded and insolent with it, and third, I had the misfortune to be his aunt.
He usually stayed with me for a week or two during the summer holidays, to give his mother a break. She had younger children to cope with, and Martin’s slovenly ways and cheek were a constant source of anguish to her. I lived alone, and was better able, I felt, to devote the requisite time to improving his behaviour and manners. For the first few days I simply observed him, without interference or comment. The wicked boy! He refused to clean or tidy up after himself; he was clearly spoilt, and altogether too accustomed to having someone meet his every need, without his even having to ask. Well, slovenliness in a young boy is hardly surprising. But his other crimes simply appalled me. Whenever I went upstairs, or bent over, I was always aware of his wicked little eyes, upturned, feasting greedily on the delicious sights to be found around and between my thighs. Yes, really! Isn’t it shocking? He would make a point of following me upstairs, two or three steps behind, and when I spun my head round I would always find his mucky little neck craning up towards my hemline, like a homing pigeon. Now, my skirts are, admittedly, on the short side. I’m rather vain about my legs, which are slender and shapely, and I do choose to expose them general admiration much of the time – but I hardly expected it from my young nephew! And really, the way that boy had craned his neck, I swear he could see my black stocking tops and suspenders, if not my little black knickers as well!
His fascination with my undergarments was further confirmed when I decided to brave his bedroom, to open his curtains, air and make his mucky bed. I winced slightly at the sweet, sweaty smell, the faint stickiness that pervaded the sheets, pummeled up the pillows – and found beneath them three pairs of my frilliest, dirtiest underwear!
Well, for heaven’s sake. That was absolutely the finish for me. Before I went to work that morning I cornered the little beast – still unwashed and sleepy-eyed, naturally – and told him, very firmly, we’d be having a serious talk when I returned. I was slightly mollified to see a flicker of fear in his eyes. Perhaps, with careful handling, he could be trained and transformed into a decent young man. Perhaps. It was surely my duty to try.
That night I came home to find he’d made at least some effort to wash up and tidy after himself, however shambolic. But I was hardly likely to forgive and forget, just because he was starting to behave as a guest should.
“Stand up, Martin! Face your Auntie.”
He stood before me, hands clasped behind his back, eyes to the floor. I was in my highest heels, determined to tower over him.
“Have you any idea, Martin, why I might be angry?”
He shook his head, still gazing at the floor, as if he expected to supply the appropriate response.
“No? Well, do these garments -” I shook the offending undies in his face – “ring any bells?”
He looked genuinely terrified at that. His breath quickened, the colour drained from his cheeks.
“I – I was just tidying up a little for you, Auntie – you’d left them in the bathroom, and – ”
“What, tidying them under your pillow? How terribly thoughtful.” His excuses wilted under my less than subtle sarcasm; the bulge in his trousers, I noted, did not.
“You’re going to be punished for this, Martin. Punished severely. I’ve a good mind to tell your mother – ”
“Oh God, no!” Real anxiety now: his eyes met mine, big and beseeching. “She’ll be so upset – so angry – ”
“You should have thought of that sooner, surely – ” I swear I saw his knees buckle. The obvious fear I was instilling in him gave me a sudden flash of inspiration.
“All right, Martin. Suppose – suppose we don’t tell your mother.” He looked up at that, sudden eagerness flickering across his features.
“Don’t look so damn excited until you’ve heard the alternative. Suppose instead, I – ” Would he swallow it? I felt almost as agitated as he looked, at the prospect? “Suppose instead I provide you with a little of the proper physical chastisement of which you’re so obviously in need?”
He flinched, the realization of exactly what I was suggesting slowly dawning. “You mean…?”
“Yes, Martin. A spanking.” I gave a chilly smile. “And given your extensive knowledge of my undergarments, and more, I think it’s about time I evened the score. Don’t you? Take off your trousers.”
“My – trousers? Surely you’re joking, Auntie?”
“Not at all.” Before he could even think to run away, I hooked a delicate finger through his belt, and in one swift, smooth movement sat down on the chaise-longue and compelled him to follow me, face-down, over my stockinged lap. Martin whimpered slightly, and struggled in a token way, but it was clear he understood I was in charge, and it was pointless to resist. With grim satisfaction, I cupped my hand and brought it down firmly, relentlessly, on to his buttocks, in a barrage of short, sharp smacks.
“Ow! Oo Oh, Auntie, you – you can’t do this, it isn’t right!”
“Oh, don’t be so ridiculous”, I say, continuing the assault, although my own hand is starting to smart somewhat, “I’ve barely touched you yet. And I don’t suppose you can feel a thing through those thick trousers anyway.”
“Oh, but I can, I can!” He continued to squirm and moan, but in a manner I feared might indicate pleasure, rather than pain. It’s so difficult to tell the difference sometimes! I intensify my assault, bringing my hand crashing down on his bottom with all the force I could muster. The nature of his moans became more apparent when, during a particularly prolonged wriggle against my thighs, I felt something distinctive, pointy and stiff, pressed against my thighs. I was appalled!
“Get up this minute, you revolting little beast!” I shout, hauling him off me and slapping him round the face for good measure. “Take off those trousers! Come on! That’s it, right now, this minute!” His hands were trembling, I noted: his own feverish excitement helped to calm me, and I assisted him with his buckle, yanking the wretched fabric down to his ankles; followed – despite his gasps of protest – by his pants. As I feared, his wicked little penis stuck out at me, hard and throbbing, a fleshly embodiment of insult.
“And what, Martin – ” I tugged on it gently, watching him squirm and fight back tears – “do yo call this?”
“I’m – I’m so s-s-sorry, Auntie”, he stammered, trying and failing to cover the monstrous growth with his hands. “It’s just – being so close to you – you’re stocking tops – I – ” Watching my face contort with rage, he wisely decided to stop speaking and looked to the floor instead.
“Right then. Martin.”
Slowly, deliberately, I stood and spun him round, to avoid seeing that repulsive tumescence, and applied a fresh volley of stinging smacks to his behind, which, I was relieved to see, was looking quite red and sore already. Very hot to the touch, too.
“If being over my lap has this unfortunate and unforeseen consequence, I’d better find another position to beat you in.” I picked up a heavy, mahogany-backed clothes brush I’d put aside earlier, little imagining how quickly it would need to be employed!
“Bend over”, I said, pushing his head down firmly until it came into contact with the dining-room table. “That’s it. Stop whimpering.” His cock, I noticed with no small satisfaction, was starting to shrivel with fear. “Up on your toes. Spread your legs. Stick out that bottom. Right then! Don’t dare move from that position. You’ll take twelve strokes of the brush; I expect you to count them, and thank me for each blow. If you forget the count, or move, or complain, we’ll go straight back to the beginning again, until you get it right. Understood?”
“Y-y-yes Auntie.” His knees were actually trembling! How perfectly delightful. I raised my arms, high above and behind my head, and let loose with every ounce of strength.
“Oh! Ow, ow, oh! I mean, oh, one, thank you, Auntie!”
A delightful, reddish-black mark gleamed low on his left buttock. My lips twitched at his desperate efforts to suppress his pain, humiliation and rage, in a bid to escape further punishment.
“I’ll let that one go. But I expect you to take the next eleven in perfect, stoic dignity, without moving a muscle or deviating in the least from what I told you to say. Got it?”
He nodded his head, clearly not trusting himself to make a sound. I hit him again. And again. And do you know, he didn’t complain once more, or move, or forget the count, so terrified was he of receiving more punishing strokes from that evil brush. You see, corporal punishment really can make a difference! When I’d finished, I kissed his cheek, damp with tears gratified to see his genitalia shrivelled and pathetic between his legs, curled protectively against one thigh, like a baby sea-slug.”I’m so,so sorry, auntie”, he whimpered, his plump little hands reaching round tentatively to explore his lumpy, throbbing bottom, black and blue from the finest thrashing it had ever taken. “I promise, it will never happen again. I’ll be a good boy from now on. I swear it.”
“Hmm. No more looking up my skirt? No more peculiar fixation on my lingerie, glancing at them, stealing them and God knows what else? And you’ll keep the house a little tidier from now on, too?”
“Yes. Definitely. I promise.” He looked calmer now, convinced this was the end of the trauma and embarrassment, and he could revert to his old sloppy ways henceforth. Infuriated by the creeping complacency, I gave him another slap round the face.
“I’d better believe you mean that. And if there’s any backsliding – any return to your old ways – you’ll be straight back here.” I patted the table fondly. “And I’m sure I can find plenty more vicious implements to hit you with, which will make this evening’s ordeal seem like a mere tickle. So you stay on your guard. And Martin?”
“For heaven’s sake, put your pyjamas on and go to bed. My friends are coming round later, and I very much doubt they want to see my naked nephew, his bottom engorged and fiery red, waiting to greet them. Although – ” I needed say no more; he picked up his clothes and scarpered up the stairs. But the way he paused halfway, to give me a final, longing glance, made me suspect he’d be back over my knee before the week was out. And truth be told, I couldn’t wait.
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