textfiles/sex/EROTICA/D/deserve.txt

                             You Deserve What You Get
                    Copyright 1992 by Scott Smathers

 It was 9:40: I had just enough time to rush out to my car, break numerous
traffic codes, and ruin the treads on my tires -- and, if luck was with
me, my videos wouldn't be late.  There is nothing I hate worse than a late
fee.  The worst thing about them is that you know you have no one to blame
but yourself -- and they're always almost more than the movies cost you to
rent in the first place.
 I was fuming over the possibilities of getting stung (and as I always
rented at least four movies, the fee translated closer to "gouged" than
"stung") when I became aware of a figure kneeling next to my car.  I
froze.  My best friend had just gotten her car stolen and I'd be damned if
it would happen to mine.
 The kid was crouching next to my back left tire, nervously looking
around.  I had managed to blend into the shadows cast from a tree near the
apartment parking lot; but why hadn't he made a move to jimmy the door?
 The kid grabbed something from his back pocket -- a knife!  The fucker
was going to slash my tire!  Losing control, I ran up behind him bellowing
and angry as hell.
 All right, all right.  It was a dumb-ass move.  I realize this on
reflection.  All right men, I could hear the General Schwarzkopf of my
mind yelling during debriefing, When unarmed against an armed opponent,
you should first bellow like a sickly bison to let them know you're
coming, then flail your arms widely so that you may have no chance to
defend yourself against an incoming knife slash!  Very Clever!  Collin
Powell, I'm not.
 The gods (whomever they may be) though usually rewarding such idiocy by
removing the offender from the gene pool as swiftly as possible, granted
me some special dispensation.  The kid froze.  (I'm surprised he wasn't
paralyzed with laughter.)  My mad lurch managed to kick him over on his
back, sprawling.  The knife skittered out of his nervous hand somewhere
under one of my neighbor's vehicles.  I grabbed the kid (who was luckily
shorter and more slender than I was) by the collar.
 "You asshole!  What do you think you were. . . ." I stumbled for a
moment.  Recognition hit me like a pie in the face.  "Eric?"
 It was Eric Terrence I was shaking down -- an acquaintance I'd known back
in high school.  He graduated the year after I had and gone on to the
local community college, while I had gone on the the University.  What in
the hell was he doing slashing my tire?
 "What in the hell were you doing slashing my tire?" I asked in a grand
spark of unoriginality.
 "Oh, God, Scott.  I'm sorry -- I didn't know it was your car. . ."
 "What does it matter whose car you were after?"  I spun him in the
direction of my apartment, my movie errand forgotten.  "Now march!  You
and I are going to have a long talk!"
 Eric whimpered a little, but marched submissively in front of me.  After
all, what could he do?  I knew who he was, where he lived -- hell, I even
knew where his parents lived, if it came to that.  But really, what in the
hell was going on?  Had I just stepped into the Twilight Zone?  Eric was a
pretty nice guy, had been on the wrestling team (the kind where they don't
refer to the theater department for their lines first) and in band.  Sure,
he sometimes did a couple of stupid things, but he didn't strike me as the
kind of kid to play at petty vandalism.
 I opened my apartment door and ushered him in.  Unfortunately, I had to
be careful as I walked.  You see, I suffer from this war wound -- chronic
horniness.  And Eric had always been one of my minor fantasies in High
school.  A slight build, shaggy yet comfortably styled hair, smooth skin,
an ass you could. . . . well, anyway, my thoughts would go in that
direction.  And where my thoughts went, my dick was sure to try and
follow.  I attempted to quit the auto-strip function of my eyes while I
found out what the problem was.
 Eric stood there, shuffling his feet a little, staring at one
particularly fascinating stain in the carpet.  "I guess I'm in for a
dressing down, huh?"
 Talk about an unintended Freudian slip!  I almost blushed -- and it
wasn't me who was in Dutch!  His brown eyes -- dammit, Disney could have
drawn them -- peered at me intently.
 "I've got a whole lot of lines going through my head," I started.  "Most
of them sound like Parent Speech variation #1-100.  Such as, 'What did you
think you were doing?'  'Why?'  'What did I do to deserve. . .'  The only
one which strikes me as particularly inappropriate to this is 'I had you
in labour for fourteen hours; I brought you into this world, and by heaven
I could take you out.'"
 Eric didn't know if it was appropriate to laugh; he sort of half smiled,
but still wouldn't look straight at me.
 "So what gives?"  I prodded on.  (The problem with word choice, I've
found, is that when one is horny, everything has a connotative meaning.)
 "I. . . I don't know."  He stammered.  He looked at me with those eyes of
his.  I detected a patented soulful / wounded look to be used against
parents and angry teachers.  "Are you going to turn me in?"
 "What do you think I should do, Eric?  You turned eighteen last summer. 
That's adulthood."  And age of consent, an evil little voice added in my
head.
 "Maybe. . . maybe I could make it up to you.  Promise not to do it
again."  He began to take intense interest in all sorts of objects around
the room that allowed him not to look directly at me.  "Like, you know,
you could punish me in private -- make me work for you, wash your car or
somethin'."
 Did he have to sound so goddamn earnest for me to do something "Private"
with him?  My groin, brain, and conscience were in agony.  If I took
advantage of this situation, and he did something wrong again, I'd be in
part responsible.  He wanted help. . . what could I do?  I spoke as calmly
and firmly (firm -- another innuendo.  Damn!)  as I could.  "I agree you
should be reprimanded.  We'll work out something fair -- but it will be
something to insure you don't do this again."  Sadly, for the life of me,
I couldn't see a blowjob as being a tool of reform.  "I'm not sure,
though, that just 'washing my car' is enough."
 Eric, who was not facing me -- which was just as well, since I'm not sure
I could look directly at his face either without some embarrassment --
tensed silent for a moment, seemed to make a decision.  Then, in an almost
monotone voice, some unreadable tone formed the words:  "Maybe you should
give me licks.  They worked in school."
 I'm glad Eric was faced away.  I think my dick burst the zipper on my
shorts.  For those of you who are not familiar with southern school
colloquialisms, "Licks" are the southern equivalent of being spanked by
the principal.  And, though he was moving slowly, he had spread apart his
legs a bit and leaned forward to grab the back of the couch.
 Every single small grey cell in my brain jumped ship there and then.  I'd
not stepped into the Twilight Zone; I'd suffered a heart attack on my way
to return movies and had been sent to Heaven without impending
notification.  It was the only rational explanation.  Here I was, being
able to get my hands on that well-rounded butt of his, and he not only was
asking for it, but he wanted it and might benefit from it.  If for some
reason I wasn't dead, I immediately pledged 10% of my future earnings to
charity for this opportunity.
 I examined the situation in front of me for a moment; it was as
delectable as a three-topping sundae from Baskin Robbins.  As he was
leaning forward, his bubbly butt, prominent and hugged tight by his jeans,
bulged enticingly in my direction.  He'd spread his legs slightly apart,
so that some bulged near the top of the inseam was visible.  There was
even something uncommonly sexy about the way that his jeans pulled up a
little, exposing the slight amount of leg fuzz which lurked above his
hairless ankles: I always had a soft spot in my heart (and a hard part in
other regions) for cute guys in deck shoes.  It's truly fascinating what
becomes important when you have a hard-on.
 "You're right Eric," I said in agreement.  "But not that way."  What the
hell -- go for broke, right?
 Eric turned and faced me, a questioning look on his face.  "Then how?"
 I pulled a chair from my desk and sat down.  "If you are going to act
like a spoiled brat, you will be treated as such -- I don't give a flip if
you're eighteen."  Actually, I did give a flip that he was eighteen, but
for different reasons.  "Get your ass over my knee."
 Eric seemed startled, and yet -- not really surprised?  As I said, his
face was unreadable, and I suspected any interpretations that I would have
suggested would have been biased.  Walking a little less stiffly now,
(easy for him!)  Eric dutifully leaned over my lap.  I could feel his warm
body against the bareness of my legs (I was wearing shorts.)  Could he
feel my hard-on?  How could he miss it?  Not, mind you, that I'm
incredibly endowed -- just your good, old, average six and a half inches
-- but it's reliable, high-performance, low-maintenance, and never needs
winding.  I'm sure Eric could feel it poking his stomach. . . I guess he
was either too polite or figured he shouldn't make a fuss if a spanking
was the worst he got instead of being ratted on to the police.
 The back seat of his jeans now in my possession, I began to squeeze each
side in preparation as I gave the opening of my lecture.  Actually, this
was not "my" lecture, so to speak.  This is the same lecture which has
travelled from father to son, generation to generation, as part of our
oral tradition.  All parents have this speech.  I began using it now, yet
I was resolute at least not to say, 'This will hurt me more than it will
hurt you.'
 "I'm very disappointed in you, Eric."  This is always a good opening
line, used particularly well by mothers with aspirations of their children
to become President of the United States after discovering the cure for
cancer at age fourteen.  "I can't understand why you did what you did, but
you know that it was wrong, don't you?"  This is always a good follow-up: 
The rhetorical device asking the punishee to agree with your condemnation
(as if they had a choice at that point.)
 "I understand, Scott.  I know it will be for my own good."  Damn!  He'd
pre-empted my next bit of the speech.
 ""You will have to pay for it a great deal -- and more than once," I
added, hoping to get him to agree to do this again.
 "I know," he said in a quiet voice.  I was a little unsettled -- how had
he known?  Or was I being paranoid?  Oh, hell who cares?  I whacked his
butt!
 The sound of the smack caught me by surprise, almost as if I had expected
this to be a quiet game of checkers.  Eric jumped slightly forward,
rubbing with delicious friction against my groin.  Now I knew why all
those horny monks in Catholic school loved this exercise.
 I had only given him about fifteen swats when my hand began to sting. 
"This is no good, Eric.  You aren't feeling a thing."  Well, he sure as
hell was feeling my  thing, but that was another matter.  I slipped my
hands underneath his waist and reached for the front button on his jeans.
 Eric didn't resist; in fact, he lifted up a little, helping me gain
access.  In order to unzip him, I snaked my right hand between his legs
while holding the top of his jeans with my left -- a maneuver,
incidentally, which allowed my wrist to brush against the tender bulged
beneath his pants.  I slid the jeans down slowly, though it was awkward
pushing them all the way to his ankles.  I then turned my attention to his
buns.
 How nice!  Words nearly fail me -- the thin, white cotton underwear was
death-defyingly tight; it outlined the crack in between gracefully.  But
best of all, I now knew something else.  Freed from the confines of his
jeans, I could feel (more than ever) the heat of Eric's body. . . and the
partial erection which he had sprung!
 Maybe I should make that a 15% donation to charity and 100 hours of
community service!
 I know I had said I was going to spank him on the bare butt, and I fully
intended to.  But the meat before me was so choice, so rare, so
unobtainable through the USDA, that I was drawn to spank it still slightly
covered.  This was much more effective!  Each resounding >Thwack!< of my
hand caused Eric to squirm against my bare thighs. . . each little squirm
rubbed his half-erect member against warmth. . . . the delights of
frottage!
 After a good deal of time (and who knows how many spanks later) I could
stand it no more.  I wanted those buns!  Down the underwear went, but they
snagged --how delightfully! -- on his erection.  And Eric was embarrassed!
 He knew that it tacitly made both of us acknowledge that he had become
aroused.  In what might be considered a true humanitarian gesture, I
reached below and carefully unhooked his underwear.  Of course, I went as
slowly as possible -- I didn't want to harm anything.  Such operations
require skill and dexterity which can only be gained by hands that have
worked with such pieces all of their life.  And, considering my normal
rate of success, my hands ranked as master artisans.
 How wonderful his dick felt in my hand!  It was slender and firm, the
heat burning into my palm.  I dwelled on it a few moments, then went back
to business -- but how promising his erection was for the course of future
events!
 Eric's buns were truly a sight to behold; nearly hairless, with the
exception of a light fuzz near the crack, it dimpled and relaxed with each
new slap of my hand.  He also was thrusting forward more vigorously now,
and his dick kept slipping from being trapped between my leg and his
stomach to falling off my leg and pressing near my hip.  The more I
spanked him, the more he spread his legs to offer me increased area and
visibility.  Eric began making noises as his cheeks reddened and his
motion continued, little noises between grunts and moans.  I began to slow
down, placing my hand on his inside thigh between each swat, caressing him
gently between each crack of violence.  I even spread apart his cheeks and
hit, as best I could, against the inside of the crack and on his little
pink hole.  It seemed to have a life of its own, and I thought in passing
that if my fingers were to stray too close to it, or hit at the wrong
angle, his asshole would flex and swallow the fingertips for his
gratification.  By now, I had other plans for Eric's gratification.
 Eric turned his head and looked at me.  He scooted his body forward, and
spread his slender legs as far apart as they could go with his ankles
still tangled in the crumple of his jeans.  The picture it made was tasty;
his butt was reddened, his pink asshole displayed; his legs were spread
far enough to reveal a dark brown puff of public hair and his fuzzy
ballsac.  "You can feel me while you spank me, if you like," he said in a
hushed tone.
 If I liked?  Does Deanna Troi like chocolate?  Do Republicans like
Kennedy scandals?  My right hand grabbed his balls faster than you could
say Chappaquaddick.  And what balls!  Plump, springy, slightly moist with
sweat, I squeezed and rolled them slightly in my cupped hand.  I spanked
him almost as an afterthought with my left hand, but his delicious
squirming which accompanied my spanking of him were well worth the extra
effort.
 Eric re-adjusted himself so that his prick was right between my legs.  He
had carelessly thrown back his left arm against my lap, and was awkwardly
trying to feel me up during his punishment.  I wasn't complaining; those
dexterous, thin digits of his were remarkably effective even in such an
awkward position.
 All good things must come to an end; in this case, Newton was to blame. 
Between Eric's new position, his increased frottage between my legs, his
off-balancing my massaging my crotch, and my squirming from his squirming
and fingers. . . we were, as the physicists say, an unstable compound. 
Gravity, which Eric had been defying, took hold and he tumbled off my lap,
leaving a trail of pre-cum on my thighs.
 The tumble shocked both of us; for a moment, I feared the break in action
would kill the mood.  Instead, it only changed it.  Eric stood up, his
slender rapier pointing accusingly at me (and just about at mouth level,
no less!)  He smiled.  "I know you weren't finished spanking me. . . and I
know that I'll need some more. . . but can I put in my time in community
service?"
 "It depends," I said in mock seriousness.  "Are you making a crack about
my weight by calling me a community?"
 We both laughed.
 I stood up, held him in my arms, and kissed him.  What a mouth!  He was
shorter than I was, and he had to stand a bit on tippy-toe to put his
tongue in all the places he was reaching; how marvellous it was!  His
trail of kisses, soft and warm puffs of air from between those enchanting
lips, the delightful flicks of his tongue. . . they snaked all over my
face, lingered tortuously upon my neck, and dealt devastating explosions
of eroticism when applied to my nipples.  All armed members of my mental
fortress surrendered before, well -- shots were fired.  In fact, it would
be one of the few cases where surrender only led to more shots being
fired. . . .
 I'm not exactly sure what happened to my clothes.  I swear that in the
future, Eric and I will undress each other slowly and agonizingly in
detail, to highten the mood.  I was dimly aware of my shirt and shorts
evaporating under his touch.  At some point during his oral assault
(another technique, no doubt, handed down by oral tradition) He divested
himself of the clothes hanging at his ankles and had teleported away his
shirt.  My hands had been exploring the rest of this territory like
squatters entering the Louisiana Purchase: every spot held promise, but
not too long after a place looked good to settle, there seemed to be some
more promising areas just over the next rise. . . .
 We staggered mutually into my bedroom, falling down on my blankets.  I
pulled myself away a moment, looked at him with all seriousness, and then,
as the moment lingered. . . . hit him squarely with a pillow.
 "Two can play at that game!"  Eric cried.
 The pillow fight was brief, but the half-wrestle half-grope session
wasn't.  I finally explained that he well deserved a well-splutted pillow
in the face for having stripped himself naked of every item >except< his
deck shoes.  Luckily, when he removed them they did not register as a
concealed weapon, as do many pairs of shoes worn without socks.  Eric
looked at me playfully.  "I got it on the ass.  You up to giving it to me
in the ass?"
 I pulled lube and a condom from a small box in my nightstand (the box
having been my version of a "hope chest.")  Let me tell the uninitiated:
if you don't think condom-wearing is sexy, have a lover with agile fingers
put it on you.  And make them do it while you are servicing their rod in a
sixty-nine like position.  I promise the start of a habit that will last a
lifetime (not to mention greatly extend it.)  God, but his fingers were
good!
 And, speaking of fingers, his gorgeous, reddened ass was getting some
fingerplay of my own.  I worked the lube into his hole, and gave him a few
"reminder swats" to keep his cheeks red.  Eric grunted, then stuck his
tongue out at me.  "A real man," he said after giving me a royal
raspberry, "would be less interested in surface values. . . would search
for deeper values."
 At the moment of that remark, I knew Eric and I were going to stay
together for a while.  Maybe, even, we might be compatible and more than a
one night stand.  What a concept!
 I rolled him over onto his stomach.  Eric responded by spreading his legs
in a classic "Highway to Heaven" formation (what I call the gay Missionary
position).  I took a moment to stare; even this close to him, a lubricated
condom ready to prove its durability, and yet I enjoyed a second of
detached voyeurism.  His legs, at wide angles, were soft and well-formed. 
His little boy spanking had rosied up his cheeks to a succulent pink -- I
wondered if I would feel any heat on my groin from them as I came in for a
landing?  His back was slender and smooth, his hair rumpled, and his
all-broad grin attacking me with all the force cute could muster.  I
stretched my body over him, engulfing him, pressing as much of my front
around him before I entered.  He kissed me.  Hell, I almost could have
skipped the sex for that.
 Almost.
 His hips began that wonderful squirming dance -- my cock, ready as it had
been from the moment he entered my place, now entered him:  slowly, trying
not to cause too much pain.  My damn he was tight!  I almost got stuck at
the opening for a while (for while my cock is not particularly long, it is
said to have a decently-sized head.)  Eric made a series of sounds of
pleasure -- gasps, moans, squeaks, and a satisfied "Ah!"  [We'll skip the
initial "Ouch!" as a result of A) going too fast or B) poor aim.]
 I worked him slowly, slowly; he did the same to me.  I don't know why
couples think that once your dick is in, it should be a race to see who
reaches home first.  Instead, we used all of our mobile limbs and digits
-- hands, feet, legs, arms, and our mouths -- to heighten the motion.  I'd
thrust in gently as he caressed my legs with his legs;  I kissed the nape
of his neck, took in the scent of his hair, and picked up the pace
slightly; His fingers explored back as far as they could go on me, took my
right hand, and guided my fingers to his mouth.  What a moment!  He sucked
my fingers with such raw enthusiasm I thought he'd make my nails grow a
half inch!  And, as he worked on my fingers, my dick was surrounded my the
pillow-soft warmth within his ass. . . a sensation titillating and further
enhanced by the sway of his hips, the rocking of his thighs.   I could
have stayed still and he still would have plowed that tight little furrow
of his good!
 Then, it happened.  I began to pass my threshold.  I was at the point of
no return.  Moments before I came, I pulled my fingers from his hungry
face and stole a kiss from him as I began to spasm.  I orgasmed watching
his eyes.  We collapsed; I remained in him as we cuddled closed together.
 Finally, I had to pull out.  I repaired to the bathroom to dispose of the
evidence and wash up.  Not, of course, that I planned to be done with
Eric; not by a long shot!  As I was brushing my teeth (it seemed the
courteous thing to do) I noticed his reflection in the mirror.  He was
leaning against the doorframe, his penis erect once more.  There was a
glimmer of slickness against his belly -- he must have ejaculated as well
while I'd screwed him.  His entire body, relaxed and natural, filled me
with impish longings.  His unembarrassed grin and roving eyes communicated
a similar message to me.
 "Do you know," he said, dampening a towel and scrubbing around his
bellybutton, "that it took me two nights to finally catch you coming out
of your apartment?"
 I spit the toothpaste out in an involuntary reaction.  I turned on him,
slowly, eyeing him carefully.  "You what?"
 "Two whole nights!"  He said with some exasperation.  Eric rolled his
gorgeous eyes heavenward.  "And I nearly got twice by the security guards
in your apartment complex."
 My eyes widened.  "You set me up!"
 He grinned at me.  No shame whatsoever, that Eric.  "You bet!"  He looked
like the cat that swallowed the canary.
 "You scamp!"  I raced after him as he darted in my bedroom, knowing that
he and I had the start of a beautiful relationship. . .starting with
taking my videotape late fees out of his hide.  As I rushed in to greet
him, Eric had already bent himself over a chair and was waiting for me. 
The wisecracking little slut was setting me up again.  Well, you deserve
what you get, as my mother never used to say.
 Eric wagged his behind enticingly.  "To quote Monty Python," he said with
a smirk, "First the spankings, and then the oral sex!"
 Good thing I'd had the foresight to brush my teeth.

                                                  ---END---