8
Stuart
Here’salittlesomethingnot everyone knows—spankings don’t have to be hard to be effective. Pain is certainly part of the deterrent, but it’s not the be-all and end-all of it. There’s so much more to it. There’s the shame of being bent over, the humiliation of knowing you’re allowing it, and the humility of being put in your place.
All those count for just as much as discomfort, if not more.
Over the past week, I’ve spanked Elliot at least once a day, most days more. Every time, it’s been no harder than the first time, and still, it’s proving to be highly effective. I couldn’t be happier with his progress. After he agreed to my rules, I put a shoe shelf in the entrance hall and installed a hook on the wall above it for him to hang his work bag on. In three short days, he started using the shelf and the hook without persuasion from me.
All it took was a few trips over the dining table and, voilà, lesson learned.
That’s not to say it hasn’t been a busy week. Bringing a boy like Elliot to heel is no small matter, and I’ve had to keep my wits about me. I’ve had to keep a very close eye on him. I’ve had to ensure I’m nearby to take matters in hand as soon as an incident occurs. Punishment works best when doled out immediately, as it allows a clear association to form between the behavior and the consequence. It’s taking a considerable amount of my time, but I’m happy to do it. Not just for Elliot. Though I believe in my bones this is exactly what he needs, it’s good for me too.
Since Damien left, this side of me has lain dormant. Anyone wired the way I am will tell you this part of oneself never goes away. It changes and grows, but it’s always there. It suffers, but it doesn’t die just because you don’t feed it.
I’m starting to feel tiny flickers of purpose again. It feels almost like life returning to limbs that have been still for too long. I feel useful in a way I haven’t felt in a very long time. It’s strange because I didn't realize that usefulness is the feeling at the forefront of what I get from being a Daddy, but evidently, it is. Knowing I need to check on what Elliot’s managed to get up to since I sent him to bed has made it easier and easier to get out of bed in the morning this week. The same goes for coming home in the evening. Knowing the chaos he could cause if I leave him to his own devices has me all but rushing home after work.
I’ve been spanking him over the dining table to keep a measure of distance in place. I think that’s wise. There’s no sense in blurring lines. Clear boundaries are good for everyone. Not just for boys.
Spanking doesn’t have to be sexual. That’s another thing people don’t tend to know. You might think it does, but it doesn’t. When I was part of an organized scene years back, I spanked plenty of women at parties, and it felt valuable and necessary, but there was never anything remotely sexual about it for me.
It can easily be done.
All I have to do is stay focused on the task at hand and remind myself once or twice per day that Elliot is Jeff’s son, and there’ll be no threat to the integrity of the Daddy arrangement whatsoever.
Elliot is in a formidable mood. He’s come in hot from work, complaining about traffic and a glut of other issues. When I remind him it’s seldom worth getting upset about things you can’t change, he glares at me for a split second, but before I have time to correct him, he plasters a bright smile on his face and says, “You’re right, Stuart.”
He hasn’t called me Daddy since the first time I spanked him, and that’s fine. I meant it when I said it’s something that needs to be earned. I’m happy to put in the time and effort to earn it.
What I’m not happy about is his mood tonight. In my experience, distraction is the best thing for boys in this kind of state. Boys need a job to take their minds off things when they get like this, or they run the risk of acting out.
“Would you mind chopping some garlic for me, please? I’m making Beth’s honey-garlic meatballs and every time I make it, I say to myself, ‘There’s no way a dish needs that much garlic,’ and every single time, as soon as I have the first bite, I’m reminded of Beth’s most annoying quality: she’s almost always right.”
“Yeah, nah. Can’t,” he says without looking up from his phone. “I’m in the middle of something.”
I’ve always hated it when people lump others into broad categories based on their age, and wherever possible, I try to avoid it, but seriously, how fucking rude is Gen Z when it comes to their use of technology? I can’t bear it. It gets under my skin in a very big way.
I give him a heated look. He ignores that, too, though I see the corners of his mouth twitch.
“Elliot.”
He looks up, and his expression changes rapidly from something I can’t quite put my finger on to sheepish and finally lands on his go-to: annoyance. His thick brows knit together, and he tosses his phone onto the sofa unnecessarily roughly. He stalks over to the kitchen and starts hacking at a head of garlic without so much as peeling it or getting out a chopping board.
“Elliot.”
“Geez, what the fuck now? What do you want from me, bro? I’m chopping the fucking garlic like you asked.”
Bro?
Did he just cuss and call me bro?
I feel a quick expanse of warmth in my chest as my temper flares, and I make a mental note to addno coarse languageto the list of rules.
“Come here,” I say.
He saunters to the dining table, puffing a long, pained breath through his teeth. He’s narrowly managing to stop himself from rolling his eyes at me, but I can tell the effort is costing him. My temper heats more and starts to fray at the edges.
He unbuckles his belt and pushes his pants down without fanfare, exposing his underwear. His boxer briefs hug his buttocks snugly, covering just enough to be considered decent. Instead of predictable black or white, or even red or blue, his boxers are apple green with cartoon drawings of overripe peaches spilling over his cheeks.
