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There were three incidents which occured in my life some 10 or 12 years back, while I was living in a small apartment on the extreme east side of the city. Each of them had struck me as being particularly odd at the time, as my mind during that period had been preoccupied with spanking and discipline fantasies.

Therefore, I couldn't help but wonder at the strange coincidence of being partial witness to three different real-life whippings within a few weeks of each other. All of these incidents were quite brief, but no less memorable for it. The first two both involved a boy of about 8 or 9 who lived two doors down from me, in the apartment just the other side of the building's maintenance room. I had overheard this boy on a previous occasion tell a young playmate, 'My dad is MEAN!'

, with a special emphasis on the word 'mean' as kids often do to give a word extra gravity. I didn't give it any further thought until a few days later when I saw the boy again, his father's hand firmly locked on the back of his neck, being marched down the long veranda that lead past my door to their apartment. As they drew closer, I could see the boy was crying.

And that Dad was carrying a long, green switch in his other hand. It was summertime and my door was wide open so I watched, mesmerized, as they passed me. The boy's head was bowed low, tears rolling down both cheeks as he stumbled along reluctantly a step or two ahead of his father. I could actually hear his quiet boo-hooing as he passed. Dad's face, too, was very serious. And very, very stern. It was rather like witnessing a funeral procession.

A few seconds after they'd passed I heard a door open, then dad's voice order loudly: 'Get your pants OFF!' These words were spoken with a crisp precision. The final, chilling emphasis on the word 'OFF' being the last thing I heard before the door slammed shut behind them.

Some days later, with the memory of that incident still fresh in my mind, I was in my bedroom one afternoon when I overheard a session that must have closely resembled whatever happened after the door closed that day. I became aware of it as I was taking a book down from a shelf that sat against the wall bordering the maintenance room. I guess the maintenance room must have acted like a speaker because I could hear everything from their apartment. The first thing I heard was a boyish, muffled 'No!' That was part sob, part scream. There was a pause of some several seconds (while, I assume, trousers were being removed) followed by the unmistakable sounds of a very thorough ass-whipping.

The implement being used was, under the circumstances, unclear to me, but I suspect it was a belt judging from the heavy, reverbarative smacks following each audible 'whoosh'. I could hear the boy's frantic begging, 'Please don't whip me! Please don't whip me!' Repeated several times in fast succession until it finally degenerated into a cascade of choking sobs.

I didn't actually count the strokes, but based on the pace of Dad's swing and the amount of time I stood there, I'd retro-guess it at about 15 or 20 licks. Somewhere around this same time-period, an open-air fruit market and plant stand had opened up in a large tent across the street from me, along the median in front of a small shopping mall. One of those family-based efforts, selling produce from their home garden for extra money.

I'd been in it once or twice looking for plants to decorate my apartment. On one particular visit, I couldn't help but notice that the proprietress was stalking the place like a tiger. Wielding a long, thin switch. Captivated, it only took me a moment of observation to put together that the object of her disciplinary vigil was a long-haired boy about 12, her son I assumed, who must've done something to seriously piss off mom because, before I'd left the premises, I saw her take the boy by the wrist (I couldn't tell what he'd done to provoke this) and ask him, in a low, taut voice through clenched teeth, 'Do you want me to switch you again?' The boy looked humiliated (they were no more than a few feet from me) and tried to wrench away from her but she twisted his wrist back til he winced and drew her arm up, brandishing the switch behind him with a menacing glare. I noticed the boy jump reflexively forward as she did this 'No.' He said nervously, very low under his breath.

I noted that his eyes were lowered, seeming to be fixed on an empty point in space about a foot from the center of his chest. 'Then you'd better mind me, mister.' I felt embarrassed for the kid, imagining how I'd have felt at that age had my mom done that to me. A few days later I was walking to work and happened to pass by the place. As I neared an enclosed section at the back of the tent, I suddenly heard the loud, familiar and quite distinctive sound of a switch in use. It nearly stopped me in my tracks, to be honest, but I was too embarrassed to really do so for fear of being noticed.

I slowed my pace as much as I could without it being obvious that I was listening. I couldn't see anything, so I only assume it was mom and the miscreant 12-year-old. If so, From the sound of it, she was laying it on pretty good. On the third stroke of the switch, the boy begin to chant the single word 'Stop!' Over and over again, increasing steadily in speed, volume and franticness with each lick he took. By the 5th or 6th stroke, his voice began to crack as he chanted it, his tone sliding rapidly from indignance to pleading. This reaction seemed to satisfy whoever was administering the switching as it stopped soon after. Flexi 8 Software Free. no more than 10 or 12 licks I'd say, at a guess.

Brief as it was, it's haunted my fantasies ever since. Did you enjoy this story? If you thought it was particularly good, you can help recommend it to other people! Your recommendations will allow authors and archive readers to identify the stories that are appreciated most. Let us know what you like best! (Please submit ONCE only - repeated votes by you for the same story will be discarded.

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