The Note by H-Bum
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The story is based on the three above drawings by the spanking artist H bum.
“Go get my belt, take off your underwear, pants, and come to the bathroom. Now." The voice cut through the kitchen like a knife—cold, firm, leaving no room for argument. Jake froze mid-step, one hand hovering over the cookie jar. He didn't need to turn around to know his mother was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, that look on her face. The one that meant he'd messed up again.
His throat tightened as he dropped the cookie back into the jar, the clink of glass loud in the silent kitchen. The note from school. It had to be. He'd shoved it to the bottom of his backpack yesterday, hoping—stupidly—she wouldn't find it. The walk down the hall to her bedroom felt like walking the plank, his socks sliding slightly on the hardwood. The belt hung coiled on her dresser, thick and worn smooth from use. His fingers trembled as he picked it up, the leather creaking softly.
Jake's breath hitched when he reached for his jeans button. The metal was cold against his fingertips, the denim stiff as he shoved it down over his hips. His underwear followed, sticking slightly to his skin where sweat had gathered. He left them pooled around his ankles, stepped out, and immediately hunched forward—instinct—as if that could hide anything. The air against his bare thighs felt like an accusation.
The bathroom smelled of lavender soap and steam. His mother lounged in the tub, one arm draped over the porcelain edge, her skin slick with water. She didn't bother covering herself—never did—just watched him with that half-smirk that made Jake's stomach clench.
The note lay on the black marble surroundong the tub, edges damp from the humidity. She plucked it up between two fingers, waving it like a flag of surrender he hadn't offered. "Thought you could hide this?" Her voice was silk wrapped around a blade. Jake's grip tightened on the belt, the leather warm now from his sweating palms. He stared at the tiles—brownish-orange, ugly as sin—counting the chips near the baseboard. Anything to avoid looking at her.
"Mathematics," she said, drawing the word out into three distinct syllables. "Your teacher says you stare out the window like a lovesick puppy." She flicked the note against the edge of the tub, the paper making a wet slap. Jake's toes curled against the cold tile. The computer—his salvation and damnation—flashed through his mind. Those bright screens with their instant answers, the way numbers rearranged themselves neatly while he zoned out to the hum of the fan. "You think I bought that machine so you could cheat your way through?" Her laugh was sharp, sudden. Water sloshed as she leaned forward. "Look at me when I'm lecturing you."
Jake forced his chin up. Her eyes were dark, pupils wide in the steamy light. fingers.
The belt coiled around her right hand with practiced ease, the buckle clicking softly against her palm as she tested its weight. Jake’s thighs twitched in anticipation, the air conditioning vent above blowing a sudden draft across his bare skin. She stepped to his left side without a word, the scent of lavender soap mixing with something sharper—maybe anticipation, maybe just the tang of his own sweat. Her arm raised high, elbow locked, the belt’s tip brushing the ceiling light for a fraction of a second before it came down with a crack that echoed off the marble countertops. Jake’s knees buckled as fire erupted across the lowest part of his thighs, right above the knee pit, a precise horizontal stripe that burned hotter than the steam still rising from the tub.
Three more lashes marched upward toward his sit spots—each one overlapping just slightly with the last—and Jake bit down on a groan, fingers digging into the stool’s padded edge. He knew this rhythm, this cruel arithmetic where she’d build the pain slow, letting each stripe settle before adding another layer. When the fourth lash landed exactly where thigh met buttock, his whole body jerked forward with a sharp gasp. "Jesus—!" The word slipped out before he could stop it, and the belt paused mid-air. His mother’s smirk widened as she traced the fresh welt with her free hand, her nails ghosting over the swollen skin just long enough for him to register the sting before she pulled away.
The next strike landed dead center on his sit spots and Jake's vision whited out for a second. His knees gave way completely, forcing him to catch himself on his palms against the stool as the pain radiated up his spine like electricity. He could feel the welt rising already, thicker and angrier than the others, the skin pulsing in time with his heartbeat. His mother continued, whipping him moving up his butt, just like she had done his thigh, creating new livid, red stripes. When her leather implement lasted very top of his butt cheeks, he couldn’t take anymore. He twisted halfway upright, clutching at his flaming backside with both hands.
"Mom, please?! It burned so much. I’m not asking you to stop. I’m just asking for a breather. Let me have a one minute break, please?!”
His mom just continued to smirk at her son, before putting her left foot on the stool and grabbing his waist with both her hands, including the one that still Had the belt coiled around it. She lifted Jake onto her leg, his penis and testicles resting on her left thigh. Then she grabbed his left wrist with her left hand. Pulling his right arm and hand behind her back with her right hand, Jake’s mother then raised the belt in the air again.
Jake’s backside flared as the belt struck him vertically, the tip of it landing on the edge of his buttocks near his thighs while the rest of it landed on the curve of his butt. The welt left behind was thin and precise, stinging like a papercut dipped in salt. His mother adjusted her grip, yanking his wrist tighter against her ribs as she swung again—same spot, same angle—layering the pain until his skin felt flayed open. Jake kicked his legs wildly, his heels brushing against his mother’s smooth calves as he tried in vain to escape his painful punishment.
The belt whistled through the air again, this time striking horizontally, right across the plumpest part of his cheeks. His mother’s breath hitched slightly as she watched the skin ripple under the impact, the pink turning to crimson in an instant. She didn’t pause—didn’t need to—her rhythm steady as a metronome, each lash meticulously placed to maximize the burn. Jake’s thighs trembled against hers, his toes curling and uncurling as he sucked in sharp breaths between clenched teeth.
Her smirk deepened when she spotted the first tear rolling down his flushed cheek. That was always the sweetest part—the moment his resolve cracked, when his bravado dissolved into helpless whimpers. She dug the fingernails of her belt hand into the sensitive flesh, just to remind him that she had complete control over his body, which his mother absolutely reveled in.
Rachel, that was his mother‘s name, considered her house to be her own private kingdom.
And Jake, her 14-year-old son, was her most prized possession—one she polished daily with discipline and devotion. Every inch of him belonged to her, especially when he misbehaved. His bare bottom was merely clay waiting for her skilled hands—or belt—to mold it back into proper shape. She ran her fingers possessively over the lattice of fresh welts now decorating his backside, admiring how the alternating horizontal and vertical stripes created a perfect grid of pain.
Rachel stood him up with a firm grip under his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Only a dozen more to go, sweetie," she cooed, her voice dripping with false sympathy as she tapped the belt against her palm. Jake's breath hitched at the words, his thighs already shaking as he bent back over the stool, gripping the edges until his knuckles turned white. The belt hissed through the air, landing with brutal precision—twelve strokes, each one perfectly horizontal, each one layering agony upon agony until his vision blurred with tears.
When it was finally over, Rachel didn't let him crumple to the floor. Instead, she hauled him up by his waist, ignoring his choked sob as she guided his arms around her neck like he was a toddler clinging after a nightmare. Her fingers carded through his sweaty hair, almost affectionate, while her other hand roamed possessively over his throbbing backside, kneading the swollen flesh as if to imprint the lesson deeper.
"There now," she murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple that felt more like a brand than comfort.
Jake shuddered as the mattress dipped under her weight, the scent of her lavender soap mixing with the iron tang of his own sweat. Her fingers traced idle circles on his welted skin—not soothing, just possessive—as she reached over to the nightstand. The drawer slid open with a whisper, revealing several cough drops.
She unwrapped one with her teeth and pressed it against his lips. "Open." When he hesitated, her nails dug into a fresh welt, making him gasp. The candy clacked against his teeth as she pushed it in, the menthol sharp enough to make his eyes water. "Good boy," she murmured, ruffling his hair again like he was a pet.
Outside, the streetlights flickered on, casting long shadows through the half-open blinds. Rachel stretched out beside him, her bare leg hooking possessively over his hip, pinning him in place. Her fingers trailed down his spine, pausing at the small of his back where the welts tapered off.
"Tomorrow," she said softly, "we’ll discuss your injections."
Jake’s breath hitched. The cough drop dissolved into bitterness on his tongue. He knew what "discuss" meant—the cold steel of the needle, the pinch as it breached skin, the way she’d massage the medicine in afterward like it was some twisted reward. Her nails scraped lightly over a welt, making him jerk. "And we’ll try that enema again," she added, almost cheerfully. "Your system clearly needs purging."
The AC hummed to life, blasting air across his feverish skin. Rachel’s leg tightened around him, her thigh pressing against his welted backside just hard enough to make him whimper. She sighed, content, as if his pain were a lullaby. Her fingers found the nape of his neck, twisting a lock of his hair around her finger—a silent claim.
Her lips pressed against the highest welt first, right where his buttock curved into his lower back. The kiss lingered, ten seconds ticking by with agonizing slowness as her breath ghosted over the throbbing skin. She moved downward methodically, her mouth sealing over each stripe with deliberate, mocking tenderness. Jake shuddered when she reached the crease where thigh met cheek, her tongue darting out to trace the swollen ridge before she sucked lightly—just enough to make him squirm.
Rachel’s fingers spread him wider as she leaned in, her lips brushing the innermost curve of his left cheek. The kiss here was wetter, hotter, her exhale sending goosebumps across his skin right before her mouth closed over his anus. Jake gasped, his hips jerking involuntarily as she held the kiss for the full ten-count, her tongue circling the tight rim in slow, teasing strokes. She pulled back with a soft pop, grinning at the way his thighs trembled.
The lotion bottle made a wet, sucking sound as Rachel twisted the cap off, the scent of aloe and menthol flooding Jake’s nostrils before he even felt the first dab. Her fingers were cool against his burning skin—too cool, like dipping into a mountain stream after hours in the sun—and he flinched hard enough to knock her knee. “Hold still,” she murmured, but there was no real admonishment in it; she was too busy watching the way his welts gleamed under the overhead light, the skin pulled taut like overripe fruit. The first glob of lotion landed dead center on his sit spots, and Jake’s entire body tensed as the menthol bit into broken skin.
Rachel worked the cream in with slow, circular motions, her thumbs pressing just hard enough to make him whine. The lotion foamed slightly as it mixed with his sweat, turning pinkish where it seeped into the deepest welts. She hummed, low and satisfied, when Jake’s breathing hitched—that telltale sign the menthol had reached the nerve endings. “There we go,” she murmured, dragging a fingernail down the cleft of his buttocks just to watch him squirm. “Much better.”
Jake’s fingers twisted in the sheets, the fabric damp under his palms. He knew better than to beg now—she’d only prolong it—but his body betrayed him with every twitch and shudder. Rachel’s hands moved lower, kneading the tops of his thighs where the belt had bitten deepest, her fingers lingering at the crease where skin turned from pale to angry red. She paused there, applying pressure just shy of cruel, and Jake’s breath hitched in anticipation.
https://boyzbeingboyz.com/gallery144.php?page=2&layout=normal
https://boyzbeingboyz.com/gallery144.php?page=3&layout=normal
The story is based on the three above drawings by the spanking artist H bum.
“Go get my belt, take off your underwear, pants, and come to the bathroom. Now." The voice cut through the kitchen like a knife—cold, firm, leaving no room for argument. Jake froze mid-step, one hand hovering over the cookie jar. He didn't need to turn around to know his mother was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, that look on her face. The one that meant he'd messed up again.
His throat tightened as he dropped the cookie back into the jar, the clink of glass loud in the silent kitchen. The note from school. It had to be. He'd shoved it to the bottom of his backpack yesterday, hoping—stupidly—she wouldn't find it. The walk down the hall to her bedroom felt like walking the plank, his socks sliding slightly on the hardwood. The belt hung coiled on her dresser, thick and worn smooth from use. His fingers trembled as he picked it up, the leather creaking softly.
Jake's breath hitched when he reached for his jeans button. The metal was cold against his fingertips, the denim stiff as he shoved it down over his hips. His underwear followed, sticking slightly to his skin where sweat had gathered. He left them pooled around his ankles, stepped out, and immediately hunched forward—instinct—as if that could hide anything. The air against his bare thighs felt like an accusation.
The bathroom smelled of lavender soap and steam. His mother lounged in the tub, one arm draped over the porcelain edge, her skin slick with water. She didn't bother covering herself—never did—just watched him with that half-smirk that made Jake's stomach clench.
The note lay on the black marble surroundong the tub, edges damp from the humidity. She plucked it up between two fingers, waving it like a flag of surrender he hadn't offered. "Thought you could hide this?" Her voice was silk wrapped around a blade. Jake's grip tightened on the belt, the leather warm now from his sweating palms. He stared at the tiles—brownish-orange, ugly as sin—counting the chips near the baseboard. Anything to avoid looking at her.
"Mathematics," she said, drawing the word out into three distinct syllables. "Your teacher says you stare out the window like a lovesick puppy." She flicked the note against the edge of the tub, the paper making a wet slap. Jake's toes curled against the cold tile. The computer—his salvation and damnation—flashed through his mind. Those bright screens with their instant answers, the way numbers rearranged themselves neatly while he zoned out to the hum of the fan. "You think I bought that machine so you could cheat your way through?" Her laugh was sharp, sudden. Water sloshed as she leaned forward. "Look at me when I'm lecturing you."
Jake forced his chin up. Her eyes were dark, pupils wide in the steamy light. fingers.
The belt coiled around her right hand with practiced ease, the buckle clicking softly against her palm as she tested its weight. Jake’s thighs twitched in anticipation, the air conditioning vent above blowing a sudden draft across his bare skin. She stepped to his left side without a word, the scent of lavender soap mixing with something sharper—maybe anticipation, maybe just the tang of his own sweat. Her arm raised high, elbow locked, the belt’s tip brushing the ceiling light for a fraction of a second before it came down with a crack that echoed off the marble countertops. Jake’s knees buckled as fire erupted across the lowest part of his thighs, right above the knee pit, a precise horizontal stripe that burned hotter than the steam still rising from the tub.
Three more lashes marched upward toward his sit spots—each one overlapping just slightly with the last—and Jake bit down on a groan, fingers digging into the stool’s padded edge. He knew this rhythm, this cruel arithmetic where she’d build the pain slow, letting each stripe settle before adding another layer. When the fourth lash landed exactly where thigh met buttock, his whole body jerked forward with a sharp gasp. "Jesus—!" The word slipped out before he could stop it, and the belt paused mid-air. His mother’s smirk widened as she traced the fresh welt with her free hand, her nails ghosting over the swollen skin just long enough for him to register the sting before she pulled away.
The next strike landed dead center on his sit spots and Jake's vision whited out for a second. His knees gave way completely, forcing him to catch himself on his palms against the stool as the pain radiated up his spine like electricity. He could feel the welt rising already, thicker and angrier than the others, the skin pulsing in time with his heartbeat. His mother continued, whipping him moving up his butt, just like she had done his thigh, creating new livid, red stripes. When her leather implement lasted very top of his butt cheeks, he couldn’t take anymore. He twisted halfway upright, clutching at his flaming backside with both hands.
"Mom, please?! It burned so much. I’m not asking you to stop. I’m just asking for a breather. Let me have a one minute break, please?!”
His mom just continued to smirk at her son, before putting her left foot on the stool and grabbing his waist with both her hands, including the one that still Had the belt coiled around it. She lifted Jake onto her leg, his penis and testicles resting on her left thigh. Then she grabbed his left wrist with her left hand. Pulling his right arm and hand behind her back with her right hand, Jake’s mother then raised the belt in the air again.
Jake’s backside flared as the belt struck him vertically, the tip of it landing on the edge of his buttocks near his thighs while the rest of it landed on the curve of his butt. The welt left behind was thin and precise, stinging like a papercut dipped in salt. His mother adjusted her grip, yanking his wrist tighter against her ribs as she swung again—same spot, same angle—layering the pain until his skin felt flayed open. Jake kicked his legs wildly, his heels brushing against his mother’s smooth calves as he tried in vain to escape his painful punishment.
The belt whistled through the air again, this time striking horizontally, right across the plumpest part of his cheeks. His mother’s breath hitched slightly as she watched the skin ripple under the impact, the pink turning to crimson in an instant. She didn’t pause—didn’t need to—her rhythm steady as a metronome, each lash meticulously placed to maximize the burn. Jake’s thighs trembled against hers, his toes curling and uncurling as he sucked in sharp breaths between clenched teeth.
Her smirk deepened when she spotted the first tear rolling down his flushed cheek. That was always the sweetest part—the moment his resolve cracked, when his bravado dissolved into helpless whimpers. She dug the fingernails of her belt hand into the sensitive flesh, just to remind him that she had complete control over his body, which his mother absolutely reveled in.
Rachel, that was his mother‘s name, considered her house to be her own private kingdom.
And Jake, her 14-year-old son, was her most prized possession—one she polished daily with discipline and devotion. Every inch of him belonged to her, especially when he misbehaved. His bare bottom was merely clay waiting for her skilled hands—or belt—to mold it back into proper shape. She ran her fingers possessively over the lattice of fresh welts now decorating his backside, admiring how the alternating horizontal and vertical stripes created a perfect grid of pain.
Rachel stood him up with a firm grip under his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Only a dozen more to go, sweetie," she cooed, her voice dripping with false sympathy as she tapped the belt against her palm. Jake's breath hitched at the words, his thighs already shaking as he bent back over the stool, gripping the edges until his knuckles turned white. The belt hissed through the air, landing with brutal precision—twelve strokes, each one perfectly horizontal, each one layering agony upon agony until his vision blurred with tears.
When it was finally over, Rachel didn't let him crumple to the floor. Instead, she hauled him up by his waist, ignoring his choked sob as she guided his arms around her neck like he was a toddler clinging after a nightmare. Her fingers carded through his sweaty hair, almost affectionate, while her other hand roamed possessively over his throbbing backside, kneading the swollen flesh as if to imprint the lesson deeper.
"There now," she murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple that felt more like a brand than comfort.
Jake shuddered as the mattress dipped under her weight, the scent of her lavender soap mixing with the iron tang of his own sweat. Her fingers traced idle circles on his welted skin—not soothing, just possessive—as she reached over to the nightstand. The drawer slid open with a whisper, revealing several cough drops.
She unwrapped one with her teeth and pressed it against his lips. "Open." When he hesitated, her nails dug into a fresh welt, making him gasp. The candy clacked against his teeth as she pushed it in, the menthol sharp enough to make his eyes water. "Good boy," she murmured, ruffling his hair again like he was a pet.
Outside, the streetlights flickered on, casting long shadows through the half-open blinds. Rachel stretched out beside him, her bare leg hooking possessively over his hip, pinning him in place. Her fingers trailed down his spine, pausing at the small of his back where the welts tapered off.
"Tomorrow," she said softly, "we’ll discuss your injections."
Jake’s breath hitched. The cough drop dissolved into bitterness on his tongue. He knew what "discuss" meant—the cold steel of the needle, the pinch as it breached skin, the way she’d massage the medicine in afterward like it was some twisted reward. Her nails scraped lightly over a welt, making him jerk. "And we’ll try that enema again," she added, almost cheerfully. "Your system clearly needs purging."
The AC hummed to life, blasting air across his feverish skin. Rachel’s leg tightened around him, her thigh pressing against his welted backside just hard enough to make him whimper. She sighed, content, as if his pain were a lullaby. Her fingers found the nape of his neck, twisting a lock of his hair around her finger—a silent claim.
Her lips pressed against the highest welt first, right where his buttock curved into his lower back. The kiss lingered, ten seconds ticking by with agonizing slowness as her breath ghosted over the throbbing skin. She moved downward methodically, her mouth sealing over each stripe with deliberate, mocking tenderness. Jake shuddered when she reached the crease where thigh met cheek, her tongue darting out to trace the swollen ridge before she sucked lightly—just enough to make him squirm.
Rachel’s fingers spread him wider as she leaned in, her lips brushing the innermost curve of his left cheek. The kiss here was wetter, hotter, her exhale sending goosebumps across his skin right before her mouth closed over his anus. Jake gasped, his hips jerking involuntarily as she held the kiss for the full ten-count, her tongue circling the tight rim in slow, teasing strokes. She pulled back with a soft pop, grinning at the way his thighs trembled.
The lotion bottle made a wet, sucking sound as Rachel twisted the cap off, the scent of aloe and menthol flooding Jake’s nostrils before he even felt the first dab. Her fingers were cool against his burning skin—too cool, like dipping into a mountain stream after hours in the sun—and he flinched hard enough to knock her knee. “Hold still,” she murmured, but there was no real admonishment in it; she was too busy watching the way his welts gleamed under the overhead light, the skin pulled taut like overripe fruit. The first glob of lotion landed dead center on his sit spots, and Jake’s entire body tensed as the menthol bit into broken skin.
Rachel worked the cream in with slow, circular motions, her thumbs pressing just hard enough to make him whine. The lotion foamed slightly as it mixed with his sweat, turning pinkish where it seeped into the deepest welts. She hummed, low and satisfied, when Jake’s breathing hitched—that telltale sign the menthol had reached the nerve endings. “There we go,” she murmured, dragging a fingernail down the cleft of his buttocks just to watch him squirm. “Much better.”
Jake’s fingers twisted in the sheets, the fabric damp under his palms. He knew better than to beg now—she’d only prolong it—but his body betrayed him with every twitch and shudder. Rachel’s hands moved lower, kneading the tops of his thighs where the belt had bitten deepest, her fingers lingering at the crease where skin turned from pale to angry red. She paused there, applying pressure just shy of cruel, and Jake’s breath hitched in anticipation.
31-35, M