Randy (lostncove) wrote in bearspanking,

bears spankin'

A spanking story, for your perusal

It's the bigger boys that need it most. That's your philosophy.

You're sitting in your hotel room, sipping a stout glass of ice water and musing. Ah, the internet. You can order in for anything these days.

You look over onto the bed for what must've been the tenth time since you stepped away from your computer. The black duffel bag sits, unzipped, ready. Several pillows piled on the center, check. Lube and condoms nearby, just in case. You like the randomness. It might happen, it might not. It'll be up to you, and you like the honesty of not projecting one or the other when your visitor first arrives. Maybe. But sex isn't the point.

Three knocks on the door, and you know it's not housekeeping. You go to the door and peep through the hole. Well now. He wore the uniform. This WILL be fun.

You open the door. He's standing there in a yellow and black striped rugby uniform, shorts showing off his stocky calves. He's a little taller than you, maybe six feet, definitely heavier than you, by about a hundred pounds. Big, stocky, beefy bear. Reddish-brownish beard, closely cropped. Glasses. Licking his lips from nervousness. No doubt has that pre-tingle every bottom gets knowing they are minutes from nakedness in front of a stranger, from rough bare bottom stimulation.

Yum. He's hot. Spankin' time.

"Kevin?" you say casually.

He nods. "Mr. Davis?" He pauses, then as an afterthought. "Sir?"

That's three with the thick wooden one already, you note to yourself. You wonder if he'll holler when he gets them since he'll already be sore, squirming over your knee, embarrassed that he needs this so much.

"Have you been naughty, Kevin?" you say, casually but in a clear voice.

He's acutely aware that he's still in the hotel foyer, discussing his deserving a spanking. "Yes," he mutters.

He’s got a British dialect. De-lish. "Yes, what?"

He can't help darting his eyes about, making sure no casual hotel patron is walking by to hear him say "Yes, I've been bad. Sir."

"I didn't say bad."

He blushes a bit. "Yes, I've been naughty, Sir," he says, grimacing that I made him say the word reserved for children. Then in a flash, he remembers our IM conversation. "Daddy."

There it is. You tell him to come in. His eyes move to the black bag on the bed as you close the door behind him. He turns around and is startled when you kiss him, deeply. He relaxes into the kiss and then breaks. He's not sure what game we're playing for a minute.

"I'm about to spank you, Kevin." You say it looking into his deep brown eyes.

"Yes, daddy." The front of his black mesh shorts seem full. You know the power of the word "spank". You're not afraid of it.

You turn him around and tell him to put his hands on his knees. His large bottom looms in front of you, ready for discipline. You rub his expansive backside, feeling the material, letting your fingers follow the curve of his ass, play into the crevice that splits his cheeks. He's known you for about two minutes and already he's given up his most secret part of himself to your probing hands. His mind must be racing right now. So's yours.

The first handspanks are warmups to be sure. You like to think they mentally prepare the bottom for his role. Each smack sends a message. "Your bottom is getting smacked. You are offering your bottom for spanking. You can give up control here. In fact, you won't have much of a choice."

Smack, smack, smack. All over that luscious bottom. High, medium, low, sit-spot. You stop to rub it every so often. You hear him sigh and you smile. He likes how you do it. He likes getting spanked. Your both getting comfortable. You’re setting your roles. Soon he’ll be losing those shorts. But the delay is sexy.

Spank, spank, spank, spank. The room is quiet except for the rhythm of hand on ass. How many times has this hotel room heard it before? He’s a bruiser of a guy. Probably commands respect at work. Bent over for a spanking. It’s a wonderful world.

You tell him to keep position and you go to the bag. You slip on your fingerless leather gloves. No sense in wearing out your hand early.

You cross back in front of the mirror and catch a glimpse of yourself. In a moment of randomness, you strip off your shirt, revealing the carpet of black hair that is your chest. The room temperature seems to go up a notch, a crackle of sexual tension in the air. You thought you caught your naughty rugby player stealing a glance at you between his own legs. That's five with the wooden paddle. He'll holler, all right. That thing is like a breadboard.

You come back and slam your hand into his butt. He gasps, not entirely ready for this stepping up of intensity. Smack, smack, smack, smack. You spend five minutes or so establishing that you are the spanker, and his butt is going to get it. He seems to understand. The spanks are getting him to pay attention. High, medium, low, sit-spot. Right, left. Then you step back and tell him to strip off his shorts and get over the pillows on the bed.

He straightens up and shucks his shorts, exposing a lightly pink and fuzzy ass, cradled in a black jockstrap. He climbs onto the bed and gets into position, hoisting that spankable ass into the air. You pull a sheepskin blindfold out of your bag and fit it over his eyes. Now there's nothing to look at. Now everything will be a surprise. Now there's nothing but blackness and his bottom getting spanked, over and over again. He wiggles his bottom a little, trying to tell whether he's going to be able to take it well or whether he's minutes from wriggling, grunting, and moaning. He’s about to find out.

Smack, smack, spank, smack. Now you can see where you hand lands and see how slowly the pink cheeks are starting to deepen in color. You flashback to times when you were over some bear’s knee yourself, boxers to your ankles, feeling the relentless smack on your ass over and over again, that warm sore feeling spreading all over your backside and into your prostate. You know what he must be feeling. Smack, smack, smack. The pink starts looking mighty pinker.

He’s sweating a little, bobbing back and forth with each spank he takes. Blindfolded, rugby shirt, bare rosy ass perked up into the air. If only his coworkers could see him now, taking his spanking. You wonder how often he gets it as you rear back to pick up the pace and intensity. SmacksmacksmacksmackSMACKSMACKSMACKSMACK. Ahh, he’s starting to grunt and moan a little. Time to switch gears.

You pull out a leather oval shaped paddle. You rub it over his deep pink bottom. Then you swing it into home base. Thwack! He gasps a little. Thwack! He exhales a whispered “Oh yeah.” Thwack! You’re feeling a stirring down below. This is definitely all going very well.

You paddle him with the leather paddle for a solid ten minutes and get his ass to a very nice red. Toward the end he’s breathing a little heavier and moving about on the bed. He’s got to be feeling it now. The leather paddle has kissed his ass over and over. It’s time for something more interesting.

You go to the minifridge and pull out an aluminum paddle with holes. You rear back and smack that paddle right into the bear’s sit spot. This elicits a surprised yelp, very satisfying. Cold and thud and sting and spank all at once. The heat from his bottom contrasts the cold metal so acutely that the sensation is impressive. And you allow him to experience it, over and over and over. SMACK “oooo” SMACK “mmmm” SMACK “owch, ohhh” SMACK “oh man” SMACK

Over the next half hour, the bear experiences a spanking each from a ping-pong paddle, a lexan paddle and a thin wooden paddle covered in sandpaper. Each gets dutifully slammed into the bear’s ample, obedient backside, building a rich uniform red glow all over. He’s responding to each spank now, his bottom tenderized and sore. You reach under him and pull on his balls, run your hand over the head of his cock. He’s hard, he’s wet. So are you, You drop your pants during the next set with your leather tawse. His toes are curling and he’s trying to cross his legs, but he doesn’t dare. He knows he needs to take his spanking properly. You’re both sweaty and breathing heavy.

You pull out that wooden paddle you’ve been saving and look at it, rest it on the bed. The bear’s deep red bottom is in front of you, raised high, inviting more spanking, or perhaps more exploration. You run your hand over it, feeling the heat that’s radiating off of it. The bear sighs a little from the gentler touch. You get the sense that as long as your hand is touching his ass, no matter what the capacity, he’s happy.

You drop your boxers and sit on the bed, beckoning to him to crawl over your lap. He removes the blindfold (that’s three more with the wooden paddle) and obeys as you remove the gloves. He’s a big boy laying over your lap, looking ridiculous and sexy at the same time. His bright red bottom is right over your thigh, the perfect height for your attentions. He’s face down into the comforter, already gripping it in bunches, knowing he’s in for it now. Absorbing a steady hour or so of spanking and paddling has brought him to this: a very red bottom facing a final hand spanking. He looks like a punished boy over your knee, and you both know it.

You begin, crashing your bare hand into his bare ass, and he hollers. Smack, smack, smack. Those spanks are definitely sending messages now. Smack, “owch!” Smack, “ahhh” Smack “ungh”, Smack. There’s no resilience left, the sting is pronounced, even with just a hand spanking. All stoicism has been stripped away. Smack “ooo”, smack “oh! Oh man”, Smack “aggh”. You spend a few moments rubbing in between sets of smacks. It’s only a handspanking, but on a sensitized bottom, he’s feeling it. He’s a spanked bear, all right. He’ll feel this hours later on the bus riding home, feeling that burn after a good spanking and wondering if somehow everyone else on the bus knows that this burly bear is sporting a hot spanked ass.

You instruct him to get on all fours on the bed. You move around to where his head is, bobbing your dick in front of him. He doesn’t need much prompting to take your dick into his warm, waiting mouth. Then you pick up that wooden paddle, and he raises his ass for you. He’s ready. He knows you call this “quality control”—that if the blowjob gets even a little off-track, his bottom will feel the complaint of this paddle. After some time, you both lose yourselves in the sensations, you in the warm wet velvety mouth of the bear, and he with both ends being properly attended to.

Finally you pull out of his mouth, harder than ever. His bottom might as well be smoking, feeling tingly and warm and naughty. In a hefty growl, you tell him to turn around on the bed. As he obeys, you reach into the bag and pull out some lube. You turn back to the most wonderful red bottom you’ve ever seen.

Maybe, you think as you spread lube on his waiting, quivering hole, it IS about the sex. A little.
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