Page 18 of Thwack!

Abel nodded as best he could, given that his head was upside down.

“But perhaps not in the library. You were rather loud.”

Abel hung his head, embarrassed. He’d goaded Beau into spanking him and then he’d kicked and fussed and cried about it. He was a mess. Probably what he needed was more firm discipline.

Beau stood him on his feet and pulled his jeans up right over his erection without saying a word about it, but then he wrote his phone number on a sheet of notepaper that said “From the desk of Cecil Beaumont” across the top.

“If we were somewhere more private, we might make more progress,” he said as he handed the sheet to Abel. “If you understand what I mean.”

Abel glanced at the bulge in his jeans then at the matching bulge in Beau’s natty trousers. He understood what Beau meant.

~~The End~~

If you like brats who intentionally misbehave so they can get spanked, you might enjoy Schooled, in which a college student gets enrolled in a program designed to teach him some discipline and then flunks on purpose

About Time

It was Devon’s own fault that Sloane had been left in charge of him. Yes, Sloane was older, all of twenty-three, but Devon had turned eighteen earlier that year and if he wasn’t such a little shit, their parents—Sloane’s father and Devon’s mother—wouldn’t have thought twice about leaving them on their own for the week. Parents all over the country left their adult children home alone, but Devon couldn’t be trusted and they all knew it.

“Try to keep him in line,” Sloane’s father had said as he checked the oil level on his practical sedan out in the garage.

“How do you expect me to manage that?” Sloane asked. If Devon’s mother couldn’t keep him in line, Sloane didn’t see why it ought to be his job. Except he kind of wanted to make it his job. It was about time someone taught the spoiled brat a lesson.

“Damned if I know,” Sloane’s father said with a sigh. “But if you figure something out, drop me a hint.”

Sloane had been raised different. He didn’t understand why his father had gone so soft. Must be that woman he’d married. She refused to believe her baby boy was anything except perfect, despite heaps of evidence to the contrary. Sure, the kid looked like an angel. He sported soft brown curls tumbling over even softer brown eyes—Bambi in boy form, with the same spindly legs and long lashes and endless questions. Oh, so innocent.

Not.

Their parents didn’t know half of what that kid got up to. Like the molly Sloane had found in his underwear drawer that wasn’t his. It’d been stashed there by his stepbrother, who’d apparently snagged some of his underwear in exchange. Either that or Devon’s mother was pilfering Sloane’s boxers.

No, the kid was trouble. A druggie and a thief who skipped school and sassed his mother when she asked him where he’d been. If he kept going the way he was, he wouldn’t graduate, and then he wouldn’t go to college so Sloane could have their shared bedroom to himself. Which meant it was in Sloane’s best interest to drag the kid back onto the beam, and this weekend would be the perfect time to do it.

He stood next to the kid, their shoulders brushing, to wave goodbye to their parents, then turned to him with his arms crossed over his chest and laid down the law.

“Fuck up under my watch and there will be consequences.”

“Oooh,” Devon mocked, ever the brat. “I’m so scared.” He made wavy jazz hands to illustrate his sarcasm.

Sloane just nodded. He’d warned Devon, and now Devon was going to find out. If he knew Devon, it wouldn’t take long before he fucked up, but just to be sure, he pushed it.

“Curfew is at ten.”

“Curfew what now?”

“Is at ten. Ten is an hour of the day. It comes after nine.”

“No, dude. Before that. What the fuck do you mean by curfew?”

“I mean I expect you to be home by ten.”

“It’s Friday. I’m not going to be home by ten. And also, you’re not my father.”

“I am this weekend.”

Devon didn’t have a father, not one who was engaged anyway. Sloane figured that was why his mother was so indulgent. But an absent father plus an indulgent mother added up to the brat that was Devon. Shame about those rosy cheeks though. Sloane couldn’t help wanting to pinch them.

“You’re not my father,” Devon repeated over his shoulder as he made his way to their bedroom. He returned a few minutes later with a coat and a ball cap.