Stepmom’s Deal part 2
minance. Wanjbili noticed his reaction and leaned in closer, her breath tickling his ear. "You know, Baruch, I think this is what you've been missing all along," she whispered.
"Someone who cares enough to discipline you, to give you the attention you crave." Her words cut deeper than the spoon, striking a nerve that made him whimper with a mix of pain and understanding.
Baruch had always felt a void in his life, a void that his busy father had never been able to fill. Despite his dad’s good intentions and his success as a doctor, he had never been able to connect with his son on a personal level. The few moments of bonding they had shared had been forced and uncomfortable, leaving Baruch feeling more like a burden than a cherished part of the family. The 12-year-old had a feeling that his old man was not good with kids, and that this is the real reason he got babysitters and nannies, not his hectic career as a veterinarian.
Now, as the sting of the spoon continued to radiate through his bottom, he couldn’t help but feel a twisted sense of closeness to Wanjbili. Her sadistic yet oddly affectionate tone and the care she took in preparing for his punishment was something he had never experienced from his father. The attention was addictive, and despite the pain, he found himself craving more.
Baruch’s legs twisted and kicked with every smack of the spoon, his cries of protest turning into moans of pained pleasure. Wanjbili had a knack for pushing all the right buttons, and she knew it. She had five more minutes of this thrilling power play planned, and she intended to make them count. The spoon landed in rapid succession, alternating between cheeks and varying in intensity, keeping him guessing and on edge. His voice grew hoarser with each scream, until he could barely squeak out a sound. His legs were like jelly, his body exhausted from the exertion.
When she finally set the spoon down, she didn’t leave to get him another drink this time. Instead, she scooped him up and tossed him over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes, his legs kicking wildly in the air. He could feel the warmth of her breath on his back and the firm grip of her hand on his throbbing butt, rubbing it gently in a circular motion that somehow managed to both soothe and taunt the pain away. The sensation was confusing, and he found himself letting out a small sigh of pleasure despite his sore bottom.
Wanjbili walked confidently to the kitchen, her steps echoing in the quiet apartment. She placed him on his feet, still keeping a firm grip on his arm to keep him close. With her other hand, she opened the fridge door, revealing the brightly lit interior filled with various drinks and snacks. She reached in and pulled out a bottle of cranberry juice, her eyes never leaving his tear-stained face. She set him down and released his arm, only to immediately replace it with a warning glare.
"Now, Baruch, you've been a very good boy and I want to reward you," she said, her voice still carrying that hint of sweetness that had been present throughout the spanking.
"But if you so much as think about rubbing that cute little bottom of yours, the spanking will start all over again. Do you understand?"
Baruch noddded frantically, his voice hoarse from the yelling. "Yes, ma'am," he croaked out, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and anticipation. Wanjibli smiled, pleased with his obedience, and turned around to place the cranberry juice on the counter. She opened one of the cabinets and pulled out a glass, setting it down with a clink. Her movements were deliberate and slow, almost taunting him to disobey. As she filled the glass with ice from the fridge is dispenser, then cranberry juice, she kept a close watch on him, her eyes flicking to his hands every few seconds.
He stared straight ahead, his body trembling, willing himself not to give in to the urge to ease his pain.
With trembling hands, he took the 8-ounce glass of cranberry juice she offered and drank it down in one gulp. The coolness of the liquid washed over his parched throat, briefly soothing the ache from his earlier cries. He handed the glass back to her, his eyes never leaving hers. Wanjbili's gaze was intense, filled with a mix of satisfaction and something else—a hunger for more. Seconds after the glass was out of his hand, he felt the urge to relieve himself again. He quickly retreated back to his room and entered the bathroom. Once he emptied his bladder and washed his hands, he took a deep breath and stepped out of the bathroom. His stepmom had followed him there so she had walked rather than run and was standing next to the bed with her hands on her hips.
"Time for phase three," she announced, picking up the large wood cutting board by its handle.
Baruch's eyes widened as he took in the sight of the formidable paddle. The reality of what was to come hit him like a ton of bricks, and his legs began to quiver. Wanjibli sensed his fear and took a step closer, her own excitement palpable in the air.
“Bend over the bed, Baruch," she instructed firmly.
“And remember our agreement—no trying to block my spanks with your hands or feet, or we start from the beginning."
Her stepson couldn’t do anything other than nod his head and obey.
Baruch bent over the bed, his face buried in the bedsheets as Wanjibli positioned the pillow under his waist, effectively lifting his bottom in the air for the most optimal target. He buried his face in the bed covers, bracing himself for the new level of pain she was about to inflict. The softness of the pillow did little to alleviate his anxiety, the cool fabric only serving as a reminder of the coldness of the deal he had made.
Wanjibli raised the brownish-orange cutting board high, her muscular arm flexing with the weight of the makeshift paddle. She took a deep breath, savoring the moment before she brought it down with a fierce swing. The impact was like nothing Baruch had ever felt before—a thunderous clap that seemed to echo through his entire body. He gasped, his eyes watering as the pain exploded across his buttocks. It was unlike the sting of her hand or the sharpness of the spoon; it was a deep, throbbing agony that seemed to resonate through his very core.
With each subsequent smack, she made sure to pull the swing back just enough to avoid breaking the skin, but hard enough to make him feel the full weight of the board. Baruch's squeals resemble a pig being slaughtered, and his body convulsed as though he were having a seizure with every blow. Yet, as she had instructed, he kept his hands out in front of him, gripping the bedsheets to keep from reaching back to protect his sore bottom.
Wanjibli's arm never faltered, delivering blow after blow with meticulous precision. She had done this so many times before that she had the timing down to a science—one swat per second and making sure to get the lowest and highest parts of his buttocks. The first fifty were the hardest, she knew, as his skin grew more sensitive with each smack. By the seventy-fifth hit, Baruch's cries had turned to muffled sobs, his body shaking uncontrollably. The sound of the wood connecting with his skin filled the room like a rhythmic symphony of punishment.
Wanjibli felt a thrill with every smack of the paddle, watching his flesh ripple and jiggle with the impact. Her heart raced in excitement as she continued her relentless assault, counting out the last twenty-five strokes.
"You're doing so well, Baruch," she praised, her voice filled with a mix of satisfaction and pride.
"Almost there."
One minute, 40 seconds, and 100 powerful spanks later, the Lakota Sioux stepmom stopped viciously beating her Assyrian stepson. Baruch's bottom was now a dark pink and almost purple color. He lay limply over the bed and the pillow, his body exhausted from the ordeal. His cries had faded into whimpers as he tried to process the pain that still throbbed through his lower half.
Wanjbili set the cutting board aside with a sigh of satisfaction, her hand stinging slightly from the exertion. She took a moment to appreciate the sight of his swollen cheeks, the clear imprint of the paddle standing out against the stark contrast of his pale skin. Then she went into the kitchen again, getting two lemon-mint mix drops out of a bag that was already open from the pantry, before speed walking back to his bedroom.
"Alright, Baruch, stand up," Wanjbli ordered gently, her voice a stark contrast to the harshness of the punishment she had just administered. Baruch slowly pushed himself up from the bed, his legs wobbly and his face a mess of tears and snot. He couldn't believe he had survived the brutal paddling, but somehow, he felt a strange sense of pride. His stepmother had promised him the world, and even though the cost was high, he had paid it.
“Suck on these, they’ll make your throat feel better,” the Lakota Sioux lady said, holding out her hand for him to take the two cough drops. He took both of them unwrapped both them, and then one at a time took them in his mouth and sucked on them until they dissolved. The menthol worked wonders on his aching esophagus and tracheal tube. once both drops had dissolved, she took his hand and led him back over to the bed, gently bending him over the pillow again. Wanjbli then spent the next three minutes blowing cool air onto his broiled buttocks.
“Does that feel good, baby?” she asked him in a gentle, motherly voice that was at odds with the harshness of her earlier tone. He nodded and said, “Yes mommy,” the coolness of the air providing a stark relief to the searing heat of his skin.
Once she felt that his skin was sufficiently cooled, Wanjbili announced, “Alright, my sweet, the grand finale is about to begin!” With that, she picked him up and slung him over her shoulder again, his legs dangling as she carried him into kitchen. She bent down with him still on her shoulder and opened the cabinet under the sink, taking out a roll of gray duct tape. Then Wanjbli brought Baruch into the living room.
Baruch felt a sense of dread as his stepmother walked towards the coat rack. He knew that the horizontal silver board with the silver hooks was not just for hanging coats, but also a part of her disciplinary tool kit. His legs were trembling, and he could feel his heart racing as she positioned him in front of the rack. Wanjibli gently took him off her shoulder, her strength surprising him despite her age. She then completely removed his underwear and pants, leaving him stark naked from the waist down. He was already feeling vulnerable, but the anticipation of what was to come was almost unbearable.
With a smirk, Wanjibli sat both his legs on top of her broad shoulders, his feet barely reaching her chin. The way she manhandled him made him feel small and powerless, yet strangely aroused by her dominance. She tore a length of duct tape with a snap and instructed him to place his wrists on the hooks. Despite his fear, he obeyed, feeling the cold metal press against his skin as he did so. She taped his wrists to the hooks, securing him in place, leaving his bare bottom fully exposed and at her mercy. He knew that this was just the beginning of his punishment, and he couldn't help but clench his eyes shut, bracing himself for the next part.
Wanjibli stepped back to admire her handiwork, then said, “I’ll be right back cutie pie!” and sauntered off towards his bedroom with a predatory grace. And she remembers she was carrying her rattlesnake skin belt in her right hand. The holes in the belt were facing toward his buttcheeks, since his stepmom knew they would reduce air resistance and the size of the belt, increasing its speed and delivering a much sharper sting. He knew what was coming, his heart thumping rapidly at the thought of it. The anticipation was almost worse than the pain itself, a delicious agony that had his stomach in knots.
When she returned, she had a glint in her eye that spoke of something sinister. "Ready, Baruch?" she asked, her voice like silk. He nodded, his throat too tight to speak. She stepped closer to him, standing directly behind him, and he felt the coldness of the belt as it lightly touched his bruised skin. She took a moment to appreciate the tension in his body, the way he was holding his breath, waiting for the first strike.
Then she swung the belt with a fierce snap, delivering the first front hand lash. The pain was searing, like a miniature sun had just been placed on his buttocks. He yelped and jerked forward, but the duct tape held him firmly in place. She waited for his body to settle before delivering the backhand lash, which felt even worse, the belt biting into his skin with the force of her swing. This was going to be worse than the paddling, he realized with a sinking feeling in his gut.
Wanjbili continued her rhythmic assault, alternating between the front hand and backhand lashes. Each time the belt met his flesh, it left a trail of fire in its wake. The sound of the leather cutting through the air was punctuated by his cries and the slap of leather against skin. She was methodical in her delivery, ensuring that each blow landed with maximum impact.
Baruch's body began to dance in response to the pain, his legs kicking and his torso wriggling, but the tape held firm, keeping him in position for the onslaught. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his back, and his face was a mask of agony. Yet, there was something else there too—a strange, twisted sense of exhilaration. He had never felt so alive, so utterly in the moment, as he did now, at the mercy of his stepmother's whip-like belt.
After the first 100 lashes, 50 with her front hand and 50 with her back hand, Wanjbili stepped around to the left side of the rack, her eyes never leaving his flaming bottom.
"You're doing such a good job, Baruch," she cooed, her sadistic pleasure evident in her tone.
"But we're not done yet, my little Assyrian prince."
Wanjibli's voice was like a whip crack in the quiet room, bringing Baruch back to reality as she delivered another 50 backhand and 50 front hand lashes, alternating with the same rhythm she had established earlier. Each strike of the belt was a new level of torment, the pain searing through his body like a wildfire out of control. Despite his desperate attempts to stay still, his legs thrashed and his body arched with each hit, the only thing keeping him in place was the cruel embrace of the duct tape around his wrists. His cries grew louder, filling the room with the raw, primal sounds of his suffering.
Moving to his right side, Wanjibli began the next set of lashes, her eyes gleaming with a twisted delight as she took in the sight of his welted flesh. She delivered the strikes with the same precision and power, her hand never faltering. The leather belt sang through the air, a deadly serenade that painted a picture of pain on his young skin. His body jerked and bucked with each hit, his muscles straining against the unforgiving tape. The pain was so intense that it was all Baruch could do to keep his eyes open, to watch as his stepmother's arm swung back and forth, delivering the punishment that was both feared and, in a perverse way, desired.
Finally, after 300 lashes in total, she stopped. Baruch's buttocks were now a deep purple, a tapestry of stripe-shaped welts, the evidence of Wanjbli's mastery. The room was thick with the scent of leather and the metallic tang of pain. He was a picture of agony, his body limp and trembling, sweat glistening on his skin.
Wanjbli stepped back and surveyed her handiwork, her eyes gleaming with pride. She took a moment to appreciate the way his body responded to her, his youthful form stretched and bound to the rack, the perfect canvas for her discipline. She felt a thrill of power, knowing that she had complete control over him. After 30 seconds, she put her rattlesnake belt back, sliding it through the loops of her pants and buckling it, then she approached him, whispering into his ear, "Like Michael Jackson said, your butt is mine," she crooned.
Her heart raced as she took the scissors from the kitchen, the cold metal glinting in the light. She approached the coat rack and carefully cut the tape from his wrists, taking care not to touch his bruised skin. As he fell forward, she caught him in her strong arms, lifting him off the hooks like he weighed nothing. He was trembling and gasping for breath, his legs barely able to hold him up. She ignored his pained whimpers and gently placed him over her shoulder, feeling the warmth of his bare body against her. Wanjbli rubbed Baruch’s bare ass again as she walked toward the kitchen.
Once there, Wanjbli set her stepson down and opened the fridge and pulled out a fresh orange. Using her sharp nails, she peeled it with surprising dexterity, the scent of citrus filling the air. She squeezed it into a glass, the juice spurting out in a glorious cascade. With a practiced ease, she drained the last drops, leaving the orange shriveled and lifeless. The juice looked so refreshing, a stark contrast to the scene they had just endured. She set the glass on the counter, then grabbed the discarded fruit and tossed it into the trash with a flick of her wrist.
Turning to face Baruch, she brought the glass of freshly squeezed orange juice to his lips, her smile soft and nurturing.
"Here, sweetie, drink this," she said, her voice a gentle coo.
"It'll help with the pain in your throat."
Baruch nodded, glad that she was helping him drink since his arms felt like jelly after being bound to the coat rack for so long. He leaned back his head as her took a long drink of the cool, sweet orange juice, with his stepmom tilting it upward so it could slide down his throat.
Once the glass was empty, Wanjbli set it down on the kitchen counter and rinsed it off before placing it in the dishwasher. She knew that the citrus juice could leave a sticky residue if not cleaned right away. As she finished up in the kitchen, she noticed the tension in Baruch’s shoulders start to ease, and she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction. Wanjbli knew the pain was still there, but the sweetness of the orange juice and the gentle care she was showing him now would make the deal that much sweeter.
“ Wait here, honey, I’ll be right back,” his stepmother said before walking off to what was now hers and his father‘s bedroom. She got a green tube of Aloe Vera gel, that also showed the split pieces of cactus with the gel came from on the front of it, from her brown leather horse-hide purse. Wanjbli then walked out of the bedroom, back towards Baruch, who was still in the kitchen, took his hand in, brought him over to the black leather sofa where she been watching TV when this whole thing started, and she allowed him to think about her proposal.
She wordlessly patted her lap, and he wordlessly been over it.
“Good boy, I didn’t even have to tell you what to do!” the sadistic step-parent exclaimed. She opened up the tube, squeezed a generous amount of The gelatinous substance in her hand, rubbed both hands together, and then begin to massage the aloe vera into his cooked caboose.
Baruch felt the softness of the couch beneath him as Wanjibli’s hand caressed his bruised skin. The cool gel brought relief to his burning cheeks, and he couldn’t help but let out a sigh of pleasure. He was surprised by his own response, but the pain had been replaced with something that was almost soothing.
“Are you enjoying yourself baby?” the step mom asked her stepson in a teasing tone of voice and with a smirk on her face.
Baruch nodded slightly, his voice hoarse from his screams. "It feels so good, and my butt’s no longer throbbing," he croaked.
Wanjbili smiled knowingly and said, “Aloe Vera gel is fantastic for that. It’s great for anti-s
"Someone who cares enough to discipline you, to give you the attention you crave." Her words cut deeper than the spoon, striking a nerve that made him whimper with a mix of pain and understanding.
Baruch had always felt a void in his life, a void that his busy father had never been able to fill. Despite his dad’s good intentions and his success as a doctor, he had never been able to connect with his son on a personal level. The few moments of bonding they had shared had been forced and uncomfortable, leaving Baruch feeling more like a burden than a cherished part of the family. The 12-year-old had a feeling that his old man was not good with kids, and that this is the real reason he got babysitters and nannies, not his hectic career as a veterinarian.
Now, as the sting of the spoon continued to radiate through his bottom, he couldn’t help but feel a twisted sense of closeness to Wanjbili. Her sadistic yet oddly affectionate tone and the care she took in preparing for his punishment was something he had never experienced from his father. The attention was addictive, and despite the pain, he found himself craving more.
Baruch’s legs twisted and kicked with every smack of the spoon, his cries of protest turning into moans of pained pleasure. Wanjbili had a knack for pushing all the right buttons, and she knew it. She had five more minutes of this thrilling power play planned, and she intended to make them count. The spoon landed in rapid succession, alternating between cheeks and varying in intensity, keeping him guessing and on edge. His voice grew hoarser with each scream, until he could barely squeak out a sound. His legs were like jelly, his body exhausted from the exertion.
When she finally set the spoon down, she didn’t leave to get him another drink this time. Instead, she scooped him up and tossed him over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes, his legs kicking wildly in the air. He could feel the warmth of her breath on his back and the firm grip of her hand on his throbbing butt, rubbing it gently in a circular motion that somehow managed to both soothe and taunt the pain away. The sensation was confusing, and he found himself letting out a small sigh of pleasure despite his sore bottom.
Wanjbili walked confidently to the kitchen, her steps echoing in the quiet apartment. She placed him on his feet, still keeping a firm grip on his arm to keep him close. With her other hand, she opened the fridge door, revealing the brightly lit interior filled with various drinks and snacks. She reached in and pulled out a bottle of cranberry juice, her eyes never leaving his tear-stained face. She set him down and released his arm, only to immediately replace it with a warning glare.
"Now, Baruch, you've been a very good boy and I want to reward you," she said, her voice still carrying that hint of sweetness that had been present throughout the spanking.
"But if you so much as think about rubbing that cute little bottom of yours, the spanking will start all over again. Do you understand?"
Baruch noddded frantically, his voice hoarse from the yelling. "Yes, ma'am," he croaked out, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and anticipation. Wanjibli smiled, pleased with his obedience, and turned around to place the cranberry juice on the counter. She opened one of the cabinets and pulled out a glass, setting it down with a clink. Her movements were deliberate and slow, almost taunting him to disobey. As she filled the glass with ice from the fridge is dispenser, then cranberry juice, she kept a close watch on him, her eyes flicking to his hands every few seconds.
He stared straight ahead, his body trembling, willing himself not to give in to the urge to ease his pain.
With trembling hands, he took the 8-ounce glass of cranberry juice she offered and drank it down in one gulp. The coolness of the liquid washed over his parched throat, briefly soothing the ache from his earlier cries. He handed the glass back to her, his eyes never leaving hers. Wanjbili's gaze was intense, filled with a mix of satisfaction and something else—a hunger for more. Seconds after the glass was out of his hand, he felt the urge to relieve himself again. He quickly retreated back to his room and entered the bathroom. Once he emptied his bladder and washed his hands, he took a deep breath and stepped out of the bathroom. His stepmom had followed him there so she had walked rather than run and was standing next to the bed with her hands on her hips.
"Time for phase three," she announced, picking up the large wood cutting board by its handle.
Baruch's eyes widened as he took in the sight of the formidable paddle. The reality of what was to come hit him like a ton of bricks, and his legs began to quiver. Wanjibli sensed his fear and took a step closer, her own excitement palpable in the air.
“Bend over the bed, Baruch," she instructed firmly.
“And remember our agreement—no trying to block my spanks with your hands or feet, or we start from the beginning."
Her stepson couldn’t do anything other than nod his head and obey.
Baruch bent over the bed, his face buried in the bedsheets as Wanjibli positioned the pillow under his waist, effectively lifting his bottom in the air for the most optimal target. He buried his face in the bed covers, bracing himself for the new level of pain she was about to inflict. The softness of the pillow did little to alleviate his anxiety, the cool fabric only serving as a reminder of the coldness of the deal he had made.
Wanjibli raised the brownish-orange cutting board high, her muscular arm flexing with the weight of the makeshift paddle. She took a deep breath, savoring the moment before she brought it down with a fierce swing. The impact was like nothing Baruch had ever felt before—a thunderous clap that seemed to echo through his entire body. He gasped, his eyes watering as the pain exploded across his buttocks. It was unlike the sting of her hand or the sharpness of the spoon; it was a deep, throbbing agony that seemed to resonate through his very core.
With each subsequent smack, she made sure to pull the swing back just enough to avoid breaking the skin, but hard enough to make him feel the full weight of the board. Baruch's squeals resemble a pig being slaughtered, and his body convulsed as though he were having a seizure with every blow. Yet, as she had instructed, he kept his hands out in front of him, gripping the bedsheets to keep from reaching back to protect his sore bottom.
Wanjibli's arm never faltered, delivering blow after blow with meticulous precision. She had done this so many times before that she had the timing down to a science—one swat per second and making sure to get the lowest and highest parts of his buttocks. The first fifty were the hardest, she knew, as his skin grew more sensitive with each smack. By the seventy-fifth hit, Baruch's cries had turned to muffled sobs, his body shaking uncontrollably. The sound of the wood connecting with his skin filled the room like a rhythmic symphony of punishment.
Wanjibli felt a thrill with every smack of the paddle, watching his flesh ripple and jiggle with the impact. Her heart raced in excitement as she continued her relentless assault, counting out the last twenty-five strokes.
"You're doing so well, Baruch," she praised, her voice filled with a mix of satisfaction and pride.
"Almost there."
One minute, 40 seconds, and 100 powerful spanks later, the Lakota Sioux stepmom stopped viciously beating her Assyrian stepson. Baruch's bottom was now a dark pink and almost purple color. He lay limply over the bed and the pillow, his body exhausted from the ordeal. His cries had faded into whimpers as he tried to process the pain that still throbbed through his lower half.
Wanjbili set the cutting board aside with a sigh of satisfaction, her hand stinging slightly from the exertion. She took a moment to appreciate the sight of his swollen cheeks, the clear imprint of the paddle standing out against the stark contrast of his pale skin. Then she went into the kitchen again, getting two lemon-mint mix drops out of a bag that was already open from the pantry, before speed walking back to his bedroom.
"Alright, Baruch, stand up," Wanjbli ordered gently, her voice a stark contrast to the harshness of the punishment she had just administered. Baruch slowly pushed himself up from the bed, his legs wobbly and his face a mess of tears and snot. He couldn't believe he had survived the brutal paddling, but somehow, he felt a strange sense of pride. His stepmother had promised him the world, and even though the cost was high, he had paid it.
“Suck on these, they’ll make your throat feel better,” the Lakota Sioux lady said, holding out her hand for him to take the two cough drops. He took both of them unwrapped both them, and then one at a time took them in his mouth and sucked on them until they dissolved. The menthol worked wonders on his aching esophagus and tracheal tube. once both drops had dissolved, she took his hand and led him back over to the bed, gently bending him over the pillow again. Wanjbli then spent the next three minutes blowing cool air onto his broiled buttocks.
“Does that feel good, baby?” she asked him in a gentle, motherly voice that was at odds with the harshness of her earlier tone. He nodded and said, “Yes mommy,” the coolness of the air providing a stark relief to the searing heat of his skin.
Once she felt that his skin was sufficiently cooled, Wanjbili announced, “Alright, my sweet, the grand finale is about to begin!” With that, she picked him up and slung him over her shoulder again, his legs dangling as she carried him into kitchen. She bent down with him still on her shoulder and opened the cabinet under the sink, taking out a roll of gray duct tape. Then Wanjbli brought Baruch into the living room.
Baruch felt a sense of dread as his stepmother walked towards the coat rack. He knew that the horizontal silver board with the silver hooks was not just for hanging coats, but also a part of her disciplinary tool kit. His legs were trembling, and he could feel his heart racing as she positioned him in front of the rack. Wanjibli gently took him off her shoulder, her strength surprising him despite her age. She then completely removed his underwear and pants, leaving him stark naked from the waist down. He was already feeling vulnerable, but the anticipation of what was to come was almost unbearable.
With a smirk, Wanjibli sat both his legs on top of her broad shoulders, his feet barely reaching her chin. The way she manhandled him made him feel small and powerless, yet strangely aroused by her dominance. She tore a length of duct tape with a snap and instructed him to place his wrists on the hooks. Despite his fear, he obeyed, feeling the cold metal press against his skin as he did so. She taped his wrists to the hooks, securing him in place, leaving his bare bottom fully exposed and at her mercy. He knew that this was just the beginning of his punishment, and he couldn't help but clench his eyes shut, bracing himself for the next part.
Wanjibli stepped back to admire her handiwork, then said, “I’ll be right back cutie pie!” and sauntered off towards his bedroom with a predatory grace. And she remembers she was carrying her rattlesnake skin belt in her right hand. The holes in the belt were facing toward his buttcheeks, since his stepmom knew they would reduce air resistance and the size of the belt, increasing its speed and delivering a much sharper sting. He knew what was coming, his heart thumping rapidly at the thought of it. The anticipation was almost worse than the pain itself, a delicious agony that had his stomach in knots.
When she returned, she had a glint in her eye that spoke of something sinister. "Ready, Baruch?" she asked, her voice like silk. He nodded, his throat too tight to speak. She stepped closer to him, standing directly behind him, and he felt the coldness of the belt as it lightly touched his bruised skin. She took a moment to appreciate the tension in his body, the way he was holding his breath, waiting for the first strike.
Then she swung the belt with a fierce snap, delivering the first front hand lash. The pain was searing, like a miniature sun had just been placed on his buttocks. He yelped and jerked forward, but the duct tape held him firmly in place. She waited for his body to settle before delivering the backhand lash, which felt even worse, the belt biting into his skin with the force of her swing. This was going to be worse than the paddling, he realized with a sinking feeling in his gut.
Wanjbili continued her rhythmic assault, alternating between the front hand and backhand lashes. Each time the belt met his flesh, it left a trail of fire in its wake. The sound of the leather cutting through the air was punctuated by his cries and the slap of leather against skin. She was methodical in her delivery, ensuring that each blow landed with maximum impact.
Baruch's body began to dance in response to the pain, his legs kicking and his torso wriggling, but the tape held firm, keeping him in position for the onslaught. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his back, and his face was a mask of agony. Yet, there was something else there too—a strange, twisted sense of exhilaration. He had never felt so alive, so utterly in the moment, as he did now, at the mercy of his stepmother's whip-like belt.
After the first 100 lashes, 50 with her front hand and 50 with her back hand, Wanjbili stepped around to the left side of the rack, her eyes never leaving his flaming bottom.
"You're doing such a good job, Baruch," she cooed, her sadistic pleasure evident in her tone.
"But we're not done yet, my little Assyrian prince."
Wanjibli's voice was like a whip crack in the quiet room, bringing Baruch back to reality as she delivered another 50 backhand and 50 front hand lashes, alternating with the same rhythm she had established earlier. Each strike of the belt was a new level of torment, the pain searing through his body like a wildfire out of control. Despite his desperate attempts to stay still, his legs thrashed and his body arched with each hit, the only thing keeping him in place was the cruel embrace of the duct tape around his wrists. His cries grew louder, filling the room with the raw, primal sounds of his suffering.
Moving to his right side, Wanjibli began the next set of lashes, her eyes gleaming with a twisted delight as she took in the sight of his welted flesh. She delivered the strikes with the same precision and power, her hand never faltering. The leather belt sang through the air, a deadly serenade that painted a picture of pain on his young skin. His body jerked and bucked with each hit, his muscles straining against the unforgiving tape. The pain was so intense that it was all Baruch could do to keep his eyes open, to watch as his stepmother's arm swung back and forth, delivering the punishment that was both feared and, in a perverse way, desired.
Finally, after 300 lashes in total, she stopped. Baruch's buttocks were now a deep purple, a tapestry of stripe-shaped welts, the evidence of Wanjbli's mastery. The room was thick with the scent of leather and the metallic tang of pain. He was a picture of agony, his body limp and trembling, sweat glistening on his skin.
Wanjbli stepped back and surveyed her handiwork, her eyes gleaming with pride. She took a moment to appreciate the way his body responded to her, his youthful form stretched and bound to the rack, the perfect canvas for her discipline. She felt a thrill of power, knowing that she had complete control over him. After 30 seconds, she put her rattlesnake belt back, sliding it through the loops of her pants and buckling it, then she approached him, whispering into his ear, "Like Michael Jackson said, your butt is mine," she crooned.
Her heart raced as she took the scissors from the kitchen, the cold metal glinting in the light. She approached the coat rack and carefully cut the tape from his wrists, taking care not to touch his bruised skin. As he fell forward, she caught him in her strong arms, lifting him off the hooks like he weighed nothing. He was trembling and gasping for breath, his legs barely able to hold him up. She ignored his pained whimpers and gently placed him over her shoulder, feeling the warmth of his bare body against her. Wanjbli rubbed Baruch’s bare ass again as she walked toward the kitchen.
Once there, Wanjbli set her stepson down and opened the fridge and pulled out a fresh orange. Using her sharp nails, she peeled it with surprising dexterity, the scent of citrus filling the air. She squeezed it into a glass, the juice spurting out in a glorious cascade. With a practiced ease, she drained the last drops, leaving the orange shriveled and lifeless. The juice looked so refreshing, a stark contrast to the scene they had just endured. She set the glass on the counter, then grabbed the discarded fruit and tossed it into the trash with a flick of her wrist.
Turning to face Baruch, she brought the glass of freshly squeezed orange juice to his lips, her smile soft and nurturing.
"Here, sweetie, drink this," she said, her voice a gentle coo.
"It'll help with the pain in your throat."
Baruch nodded, glad that she was helping him drink since his arms felt like jelly after being bound to the coat rack for so long. He leaned back his head as her took a long drink of the cool, sweet orange juice, with his stepmom tilting it upward so it could slide down his throat.
Once the glass was empty, Wanjbli set it down on the kitchen counter and rinsed it off before placing it in the dishwasher. She knew that the citrus juice could leave a sticky residue if not cleaned right away. As she finished up in the kitchen, she noticed the tension in Baruch’s shoulders start to ease, and she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction. Wanjbli knew the pain was still there, but the sweetness of the orange juice and the gentle care she was showing him now would make the deal that much sweeter.
“ Wait here, honey, I’ll be right back,” his stepmother said before walking off to what was now hers and his father‘s bedroom. She got a green tube of Aloe Vera gel, that also showed the split pieces of cactus with the gel came from on the front of it, from her brown leather horse-hide purse. Wanjbli then walked out of the bedroom, back towards Baruch, who was still in the kitchen, took his hand in, brought him over to the black leather sofa where she been watching TV when this whole thing started, and she allowed him to think about her proposal.
She wordlessly patted her lap, and he wordlessly been over it.
“Good boy, I didn’t even have to tell you what to do!” the sadistic step-parent exclaimed. She opened up the tube, squeezed a generous amount of The gelatinous substance in her hand, rubbed both hands together, and then begin to massage the aloe vera into his cooked caboose.
Baruch felt the softness of the couch beneath him as Wanjibli’s hand caressed his bruised skin. The cool gel brought relief to his burning cheeks, and he couldn’t help but let out a sigh of pleasure. He was surprised by his own response, but the pain had been replaced with something that was almost soothing.
“Are you enjoying yourself baby?” the step mom asked her stepson in a teasing tone of voice and with a smirk on her face.
Baruch nodded slightly, his voice hoarse from his screams. "It feels so good, and my butt’s no longer throbbing," he croaked.
Wanjbili smiled knowingly and said, “Aloe Vera gel is fantastic for that. It’s great for anti-s
31-35, M
