[This installment of the Eric and Dean saga appeared in Pledges & Paddles 1, long out of print. Though this isn't actually a typical frat hazing story it must be remembered that Dean's experience of being a pledge at Eric's hands went on for three of his four college years.]
4
Making Eric's Paddle
As requested, here’s the story of spring break my freshman year and what precipitated the making of the special paddle.By the end of the pledge period my freshman year, Eric, who had been my big brother, had made it unmistakably clear to all our fraternity brothers that I would continue to be his “slavegirl” for the next three years until he graduated. Having prided myself on being something of a “free spirit,” I had firmly resolved that I would be no one’s slave, not Eric’s nor anyone else’s. I had also decided that I would put an end of Eric’s silly delusions the day after I was initiated into the fraternity. Unfortunately, the day of my proposed self-liberation came and went and I was forced to face the fact that, as much as I hated to admit it, I simply didn’t have the guts to stand up to Eric. He was, after all, five years older than me, an ex-Marine, and totally intimidating physically. I continued to find myself seething inside as we settled into a daily routine in which Eric’s ironclad will always prevailed and to which my response was always an obedient “Yes, Sir!”
Any fantasies I may have had about getting out from under Eric’s thumb were totally dispelled by the beginning of spring break several weeks later. My dad had, without asking my opinion or consent, invited Eric to come home with me to our small spread in the country northeast of Dallas. Although I was beginning to fall in love with Eric, nevertheless I had spent the last six months being forced to respect him and submit to his discipline, and now I deeply resented not being able to get away from my unrelenting Drill Instructor even for one lousy week. I was also irritated by the way dad and Eric had immediately taken to one another. To make matters even more touchy, my feelings were still bent out of shape because of dad’s request, when I became a pledge, that Eric “make a man” of me. Perhaps I was also a little jealous, too, feeling that Eric was probably the kind of macho son dad would like to have had.
Consequently, for the next few days, until it was time to leave for home, I went into a nasty pout and began to indulge in some subtle forms of rebellion which Eric, strangely enough, appeared to ignore. However, as I think back, my shitty behavior was undoubtedly having its effect on him since our sex life had gone completely to zip.
I was still acting like a spoiled little shit as Eric and I headed north for Dallas that Friday afternoon in my little red MG convertible, with my mouth spouting abuse at the rate of approximately ten insults per mile. As was typical of that first year with Eric, my inability to read the warning signs often had me in deep shit; in this case, before the first fifty miles of I-35 had rolled by.
When Eric had finally endured all of the pouting and surliness he could bear, he asked me to pull into a truck stop. Although I had no idea what he had in mind, there was something about his tone of voice which communicated the message that I had better obey. After showing me where to park, Eric reached behind the seat for his duffel bag. Fishing out the butt plug harness and a tube of KY jelly, Eric ordered me to go into the men’s room and strap it on under my panties. With one last gasp of belligerence, I told him to go fuck himself.
In a flash, Eric was around to my side of the car, jerking me out the door and yelling that I had precisely five minutes to obey or I would find myself hitchhiking. Attempting to camouflage the KY, harness and plug by wadding them all up together, I made a mad dash for a stall in the men’s room. By the time I emerged, Eric was sitting smugly in the driver’s seat, his mouth bent into that crooked disdainful smirk, watching me jog stiffly back to the car. Flinging myself angrily into the car on the passenger side, I was nearly maimed as I crashed down on Eric’s Marine Corps handcuffs and leg irons which he had laid out on the bucket seat. It was at that moment that the awful realization dawned on me that I had just pushed Eric too far.
As we took off down the highway, Eric was clearly back in control. “From now on, asshole, you follow orders. Understood?” When, finally, I responded with “Sir, yes Sir!” Eric said, “That’s better. Now, pull off your shoes and socks and clamp those irons to your ankles.” It was quickly apparent that Eric had shortened the length of chain between the leg irons by “short-circuiting" most of the links with a padlock. When I had hobbled myself to Eric’s satisfaction, he continued his instructions. “Now roll up one of your socks and stuff it in your mouth so you won’t be tempted even to think about giving me any more of your shit.” After I had complied, Eric said, “Now lean forward and cuff your wrists behind your back.”
Sometime later, after I had finished immobilizing myself, making me virtually a prisoner in my own car, Eric broke the ominous silence and gave me a preview of what my life was going to be like during spring break. He said, “I had hoped that you and I would be able to have a great vacation together—maybe go to Six Flags or whatever—but you’ve managed to fuck up all that. So, tomorrow we’re going to find us a nice big slab of hard wood and set you to work making a new paddle; a very special kind of paddle. You’re going to drill some holes in it so it’ll sting like wasps, and then, after it’s been stained to a high gloss, we’re going to take it out to that barn you told me about and try it out on your naked ass.”
Although I wasn’t particularly thrilled by this news, it was his next words that really got my attention. I felt my sphincter lock tight around my butt plug as Eric said, “I think I’ll also give serious thought to inviting your daddy to come out and watch his smartmouth, pantywaist son learn a little lesson in discipline and manliness.” Probably sensing that he was getting to me, Eric added, “I’ll just bet he could even find us a sawhorse or something to bend you over. We’ll probably need some rope, too, to tie you down. Paddles with holes in them can make bare-assed sissies pretty jumpy.”
As we covered those endless south Texas miles, I broke out in a cold sweat. One minute I was sure Eric was bluffing and the next minute I wasn’t nearly so certain. Being beaten by Eric in private was bad enough, but the thought of being stripped, tied up and paddled in front of my father was humiliating beyond anything I could endure.
After several hours, Eric pulled off the Interstate onto a dirt side road so we could pee. Instead of releasing me so I could take care of my own needs, Eric led me, barefoot and hobbling in my leg irons, over behind some trees. Leaving my hands cuffed behind my back, he unzipped my OP corduroy shorts and lowered them along with my panties. As he took my penis in his hand to aim it away from me, he grumbled about there being no place for sissies to sit down to pee. Hours later, at Waxahachie, just south of Dallas, Eric pulled off the Interstate to take off my restraints. However, to my chagrin, he denied my request to remove the butt plug.
It was around ten thirty when we got home. Instead of letting us hit the sack, dad took us into the kitchen and insisted that we make sandwiches and down a few beers with him. As I watched dad and Eric interacting together, I realized that I had had good cause for concern. They were enjoying each other so much that I began to wonder if I had suddenly become invisible. I felt the blood rush to my face when Eric made good his threat and asked dad if we could use his woodworking shop. I prayed fervently that Eric would be merciful and not give dad all the embarrassing details. However, ignoring me completely, Eric simply guzzled his beer and continued his harangue, telling dad that my recent display of surliness and bad manners clearly indicated the need for some “attitude adjustment,” which he felt could best be accomplished with a paddle. He based his argument on the fact that, during the pledge period, when I was being spanked regularly, there had been a noticeable improvement in my attitude. “So it’s really too bad,” Eric concluded, “that I didn’t bring a paddle with me.”
With a smile of recognition, Dad told Eric that he was well acquainted with my nasty mood swings and my frequently atrocious manners and, to my horror, admitted to Eric that, had I been paddled earlier in life, I would probably not have grown up to be such a spoiled brat. Eric instantly agreed, adding that this was another good reason for allowing the paddle a chance to make up for lost time. It still might not be too late to alter my behavior patterns.
At this point I felt as though I was in the middle of a bad dream. Dad knew very well that the pledge period was over, yet here was Eric, telling my father that he wanted to continue using the paddle on me. While I don’t believe that dad was, as yet, aware that anything sexual was going on between us—this was something with which he’d have to deal later—yet dad certainly knew and approved of everything else that was happening, including Eric’s intention to keep me firmly under his domination.
I felt totally defeated as dad enthusiastically gave Eric permission to use the shop. He also told him to see to it that I did a good job making the paddle, and that he would look forward to inspecting it and hearing of its effectiveness.
It must have been about midnight when Eric abruptly dismissed me from the kitchen saying that he had some things he wanted to say to my father in private. Then he added insult to injury by ordering me to go unload the car and get ready for bed. To be ejected by Eric with no objection from my father was really humiliating, and it especially galled me that dad appeared not to think it unusual that my fraternity brother was treating me like a naughty child.
I continued to fume as I unloaded our gear and carried it into the guest cottage. Midway through my junior year of high school, my parents had allowed me to take over the guest cottage. This was a neat little cottage several hundred feet to the rear of the big house. It had been vacant since the death of my maternal grandmother. The factor which had finally won them over was my suggesting that we move my seven foot Steinway grand piano into the living room of the cottage so the family would be spared having to listen to endless hours of scales and tedious note pounding. I had been using the cottage as a studio for about a month when I was finally successful in badgering them into letting me sleep out there as well. The cottage was nestled in a clump of trees and bushes and provided me with an atmosphere of beauty and privacy which I regretted having to give up when I went away to college.
I had just finished putting Eric’s things in a dresser drawer and was brushing my teeth when Eric walked in. I had already removed my clothes and was about to strip off my panties so I could remove the butt plug when Eric intervened and told me to leave things exactly as they were. As I pulled back the spread prior to getting into bed, Eric shook his head and said that, until my period of punishment was over, I would be spending the nights on the floor.
After Eric had slipped the chain latch on the door to insure privacy, he cuffed my hands in front of me. Then he took some rope, which he had obviously dug up somewhere—or was given—wrapped it around my neck a couple of times, looped it around the link connecting the cuffs, and then tied the ends together having pulled my wrists well up on my chest. The object, obviously, was to keep me from jerking off. Since I was being punished, there was to be no sex for me that week—not even of the solitary variety.
Eric quickly peeled off his sweaty athletic socks and gagged me with them, stuffing one smelly sock into my mouth and tying it in place with the other. Then he made me lie down on the carpet at the foot of the bed and fastened one cuff of the leg irons to my left ankle and the other cuff to one leg of the bed. Seemingly as an afterthought, Eric slipped off his jockeys, which were pretty ripe after a long day of traveling, and slid them over my head making certain that the fragrant, sweaty seat was placed directly over my nose. His final remark was to the effect that, since I wouldn’t be sleeping with him, at least I should be grateful to have something to remember him by. With that, he tossed a blanked over me, crashed into bed and turned off the lamp, leaving me to salvage what rest I could on the floor.
It took the better part of Saturday to make the new paddle under Eric’s supervision. As well as having holes drilled in it, Eric had designed it so that its handle could be gripped with both hands. After it had been sanded, stained and varnished, Eric made me stencil and paint my old adolescent nickname—”DONNIE”—on it because he thought it was a more sissy name than “Dean.”
At dinner following church on Sunday, Eric dropped another bombshell. In the course of the table conversation, dad casually observed that there were a number of odd jobs around the place that needed doing; things which had sort of gotten beyond what Lucas, our handyman, had been able to keep up with. Before I knew what the hell was happening, Eric had magnanimously volunteered our services for a week’s worth of grunt labor on the ranch. Dad’s reaction, after looking incredulously in my direction, was to tell Eric that it was a real nice offer, but that he had never been very successful in getting me to do anything involving manual labor, since I threw a tantrum and used as an excuse the need to protect my hands.
Just as I was about to chime in with an enthusiastic affirmation of dad’s observation, Eric shot me a look which guaranteed that I would be in even deeper shit if I so much as opened my trap. Eric quickly convinced dad that he would personally enjoy a few days working in the fresh air and sunshine. “But besides that,” Eric concluded, “Dean really needs this experience.” It was probably the accompanying look more than the actual words which suddenly clicked in dad’s brain. It was an undeniably clever maneuver on Eric’s part. What better way to get at me and, while punishing me, be making points with the old man than by trying to “make a man” out of his sissy son. After a mid-afternoon visit with Lucas, it became alarmingly clear that I had just been sold into slavery for the next five days.
It would have been almost impossible for Eric to have dreamed up a more humiliating punishment. I had spent my whole adolescent life making an artform out of ducking conscription as a goat roper of any variety, and here comes Eric, forcing me to do what even my father had never been able to accomplish.
At five o’clock sharp Monday morning I was awakened by the pointed toe of Eric’s boot jabbing me in the ribs and was told to get in a couple hours of piano practice before breakfast. Obviously, I should have known better than to use the need to practice as an excuse for getting out of the work detail.
In Eric’s usual, compulsive fashion, he had already gone through my closet and laid out the clothes he wanted me to wear. On the bed were boots, cowboy hat, leather work gloves (to protect my precious hands!), a white T-shirt and a pair of overalls. I had originally bought those bibbed Oshkosh numbers because I thought I’d look cute in them. I never intended them for any serious work, for crapsake! In addition, and particularly conspicuous on the bed, were a pair of Eric’s own Hanes jockey shorts. Noting the puzzled expression on my face, Eric explained that, since I was going to be doing men’s work for a change, it would be permissible for me to wear men’s underwear. Of course, he made it all sound very logical, but I knew damn well that this was simply one more way of punishing me, since he knew how much I really loved wearing silk panties.
After sweating all day digging postholes, mending fences, painting and cleaning the shit out of the barn, I would be made to spend the evenings putting the finishing touches on the paddle or, later in the week, doing additional piano practice. At nine-thirty, totally exhausted, I would again be bound and chained to the foot of the bed for another night on the floor, only to be dragged through the same wretched routine the next day. On top of this, I had the ominous specter of a painful paddling session hanging over my head. Eric had already announced that this would take place Friday afternoon, after discovering that Lucas was leaving Friday morning for the weekend. I had been totally unsuccessful in getting Eric to move up the date. He just summarily dismissed the whole idea by saying, “You can just fucking sweat it out.” To make matters even worse, Eric spent the week giving me the silent treatment, speaking only when necessary in order to give me instructions, or to fuss at me for not doing something to his satisfaction. Frequently, he would even add additional paddle strokes to my impending punishment.
However, the worst punishment of all was the deprivation of our sex life. I was continuously exposed to the turn-on of Eric’s beautiful body clad only in his briefs, or packed into Levis, boots and a skin-tight T-shirt as we worked together side by side, yet I was never permitted any relief for my intense sexual frustration. By the end of the week, I had the worst case of “blue balls” in my entire history of getting my rocks off at least once or twice a day, sometimes more.
Eric worked me hard until noon on Friday. Then, while he headed up to the big house to get something to eat, I was sent back to the cottage without any lunch to prepare for my punishment. My orders were to get naked, gag myself with Eric’s dirtiest pair of socks, and clamp myself into the leg irons. After shutting myself in the closet and turning off the light, I was to cuff my hands over the clothes bar (using the Braille method) and then wait for him to come for me.
It was easily two o’clock before I heard Eric’s footsteps coming toward the closet. After releasing my hands from the bar, Eric fastened one of our dog’s collars around my neck and snapped a leather leash onto it. To add to my humiliation, Eric made me walk to the barn stark naked with my wrists cuffed behind my back while he followed holding the leash. As I climbed the steps to the attic, Eric kept prodding me in the crack of my ass with the tip of the paddle’s handle. The only good news was that we had the whole place to ourselves—to my vast relief, Lucas had left, and mom and dad had gone off in the morning to their respective pursuits; mother to her perpetual volunteer do-gooding and dad to his clinic in Richardson.
Rather than tying me over one of the sawhorses lying around the barn, Eric had chosen something more unique. Several days earlier, while cleaning out the barn, we had discovered, under canvas tarps, some old equipment from my dad’s clinic. It had been hauled out to the barn for storage and was now long forgotten. Included in this junk was an elaborate old examining table which Eric had made me help him drag out into the middle of the floor. The table was designed so that a patient about to undergo a rectal exam or sigmoidoscopy would bend over one end of the table while kneeling on a padded shelf. The table would then be elevated at a fairly steep angle so that the hapless patient would find himself with his head down and his derriere protruding in the air. I recalled that dad had gotten rid of this diabolical contraption because, not only did it put the patient in an incredibly embarrassing posture, but also, because of the slant, it put a lot of pressure on the upper thighs, thereby making an already uncomfortable procedure even more miserable. Not surprisingly, these very impediments were considered by Eric to be its greatest attributes and I quickly found myself kneeling over the table with my ass hoisted up to the pinnacle of vulnerability.
In order to secure me to the table, Eric removed my cuffs and tied my wrists securely to the posts of the leg stirrups on either side of the table. Then he took off the leg irons and tied my ankles and knees tightly together. Just prior to bending me over the table, Eric had tied a piece of rope tightly around my cock and balls. It was the other end of this cord that he now attached to the leftover rope binding my ankles, which guaranteed that any attempts to buck my legs would prove extremely painful if not downright hazardous.
After carefully inspecting his handiwork, Eric slowly stripped off his T-shirt, picked up the paddle and walked over to me wearing only his Levis and boots. While giving me an exasperatingly detailed lecture in which he confessed all my sins, both real and imaginary, Eric rubbed the paddle lightly over my buttocks pausing occasionally to take a few jabs at the rope connecting my ankles to my gonads.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Eric stopped talking and grabbed the handle of the paddle with both hands. Swinging as hard as he could, the paddle descended with a whoosh, connecting with my ass in a thunderous clap. Each successive stroke was administered only after the pain of the previous one had been allowed to blossom fully, which dragged out the ordeal interminably. My determination to be stoic turned out to be a total fantasy, and I was in tears even before the first half-dozen strokes had been laid on. In addition, even the slightest involuntary reflex action of my body exacted a painful price from my balls. As many times as I had been paddled previously, I had never experienced anything quite like this. Obviously, a lot had to do with being beaten with a paddle of those dimensions, wielded by someone with Eric’s physical strength, who was pissed off with me to boot. However, another major contributing factor was obviously the awkward position of my body over that hellish table, which caused acute muscular strain and stress in all the wrong places. Even now, ten years later, I believe this spanking ranks among my top ten traumatic experiences. Although I was not yet familiar with terms such as “spanking fetish,” S&M, B&D and the like, I was certainly becoming aware Eric was, in all probability, deriving a very special kind of pleasure from tying me up and putting the wood to my ass.
When Eric had finished blistering my ass, he left me jack-knifed over the table for what seemed like forever, although it was probably not more than ten or fifteen minutes. After releasing me from the table, Eric recuffed my hands behind my back and led me by my leash back to the cottage where he made me take a long, cold shower. When, finally, he allowed me to shut off the water and towel myself dry, he laid me down on the bed and rubbed some burn ointment into my flaming buttocks. Then, mercifully, he took my car into town and got lost, leaving me to rest and to try to pull my shattered psyche back together.
I must have fallen asleep, for I recall being startled when Eric shook me, telling me to get ready for dinner. As I started groping around for some clothes, Eric handed me a pair of my nicest, silkiest panties, saying that I would probably appreciate wearing something cool and smooth against my hot bottom after the beating I had just taken. I forced back the tears as I realized that all these little acts of mercy—the ointment, the rest, as well as allowing me to wear my lovely undies again, were Eric’s way of saying that, even though I really needed that spanking and all the rest of the punishment that had been meted out to me, nevertheless, the debt had been paid and he still cared for me.
As I slipped into my place at dinner that evening, I winced involuntarily as my blistered cheeks made contact with the seat of the chair, causing dad to look quizzically in Eric’s direction. Unable to resist, he asked, “Well, Eric, do I assume from the stiffness of Dean’s walk and the delicacy with which he seated himself that the paddle project was a success?” To which Eric replied seriously, “O yes, sir! I believe the paddle accomplished what we needed it to accomplish, isn’t that right, Dean?” To which I had no choice but to reply, in a very chastened voice, too mortified even to raise my eyes from my plate, “Yes, sir.” Even though dad’s question was embarrassing, at least I have to give him credit for having the sensitivity not to ask to witness my humiliation in the barn.
That evening, after stripping down to my panties and brushing my teeth, I held out my wrists to Eric for our nightly ritual. However, instead of cuffing them, Eric took my wrists in his hands and looked directly into my eyes. Finally, he said, in a very quiet voice, “We’ll be back at school Sunday night. If you really want out, that’ll be a good time for us to go our separate ways.” When I started to cry, Eric pulled me to him and, as he hugged me tightly to his chest, rocked me gently back and forth. As he continued to hug me, it began to dawn on me just how much I loved this very forceful and unusual man. Not only had he cared enough to discipline me when I really needed it, but he had the strength and willpower necessary to do it, too, both physically and psychologically. The ability to tame and conquer me was something even my father, with all his talents in other areas, had never been able to do. Yet, Eric had done it, and I loved him for it and so, obviously, did dad.
When, finally, between sobs, I told Eric that I didn’t want to leave him, he asked if I was willing to continue to be his slavegirl. When I only nodded my head, Eric took my chin in his hand and said firmly, “Look at me! I want to hear you say it out loud. Get down on your knees and tell me properly that you want to be my slavegirl.” After I had knelt down and said, “Sir, I really do want to be your slavegirl,” Eric asked me another question. He said, “Do you want to be my slavegirl enough to wear my chains as a symbol that you really belong only to me?” At this point, even though I really didn’t know for certain what this meant, at least I was smart enough to answer, “Yes, Sir!” Within a week I was to know what it was like to wear Eric’s chains, and it would ultimately result in my piano instructor asking me some rather pointed and embarrassing questions.
When I had answered all Eric’s questions to his satisfaction, Eric made me turn words into actions. Doing a replay of the ritual which had first taken place the day Eric became my big brother, Eric cuffed my hands behind my back and forced me to lower his shorts using only my teeth, after which I was made to pay proper homage to his beautiful cock. After my period of enforced abstinence, I can honestly say that never in my life had a man’s penis tasted so good and I was looking forward, once again, to savoring Eric’s cream in my mouth. However, just before he was about to come, Eric reeled his cock out of my mouth and pulled me to my feet. While embracing me tightly, he kissed me long and hard, with his tongue exploring the interior of my mouth. Then, without breaking contact, Eric slipped his right hand inside my panties and began to pull very gently on my penis. Having the sensitivity to realize that I would not be able to endure much stimulation, Eric quickly slid my panties off and rolled a nice, tight rubber the full length of my cock.
After he had stripped the bed down to the bottom sheet, Eric removed my cuffs and tied me spread-eagled to the four posts. Then he did something he had never done before. He gave me a gentle massage, covering every inch of my aching body, and concluded by rubbing some more burn ointment into my still smoldering ass cheeks. Finally, after making certain that my erect penis was positioned comfortably in an upward direction underneath me, Eric greased both his cock and my ass and quickly mounted me, sliding in up to the hilt in one long stroke. As he slowly increased the tempo of his thrusts, he repeatedly kissed my neck and shoulders, occasionally reaching under me with one arm or the other to play with my tits. Although Eric had not yet introduced me to tit clamps, it was that night that I discovered how sensitive my tits are, as he worked my nipples harder and harder.
Even though I was tied down, my response to Eric’s lovemaking was apparently enough to fuel his passion to the point where he was soon riding me like he was breaking a bronco. Having had no sexual relief in over a week, I had ecstatically filled my rubber early on, and was well on my way to firing again when Eric shot off like a rocket in my ass. I fell into a deep, contented sleep that night curled up against Eric’s chest, although he still insisted upon cuffing my hands in front of me.
In the morning, which was our last full day at home, Eric decided it was time for us to have some fun together. We ended up in Arlington at Six Flags with me still walking somewhat stiffly and sitting very gingerly. However, in spite of my sore ass, Eric and I had the nicest time we had ever had together. Also, as I think back, it was during that wonderful day at Six Flags that Eric first allowed me to hold his hand. It all started when I worked up my nerve and cautiously reached for his hand during a ride in the pitch black dark. When Eric didn’t yank his hand away, I tried it again as we rode home that night. In between periods of holding hands, while continuing to drive with one hand on the wheel, Eric would occasionally slip his fingers teasingly under the elastic leg bands of my panties. It was the most playful he had ever been with me—almost out of character—and it goes without saying that, by the time we got home, I was a panting bitch in heat.
We arrived back at school about midnight Sunday night, exhausted, but much the better for having experienced that week together. To my way of thinking, as traumatic as most of that week was, it was probably because of that week that our relationship really took off and began to deepen and grow. We had a lot of living and growing together yet to do, and a lot of experiences were still in the future. Nevertheless, it was during that week that I was finally able to reconcile myself to the fact that I really did love Eric and wanted to be with him, even on his terms—and even if it meant surrendering some of my precious independence.
Comments