Welcome to Chicago


by Thomas Hobbes <Sebboh@hotmail.com>

"You've been in O'Hare before, B. B.?"

"Couple of times, Tom, but I had never been in the United Terminal. Just saw it on the tv commercials. It is something to experience."

"That it is. As far as I know O'Hare reclaimed its title as the world's busiest airport this year and there is not a terminal here that pushes more people through than United. Thanksgiving weekend is always the biggest of the year."

"That underground walking sidewalk with the multicolored neon was interesting. Hate to work there, though, with the Rhapsody in Blue theme repeating every minute all day and night."

"Bet you never thought we'd actually meet, did you B. B.?"

"No, to be honest."

"And all from posting a couple of stories in MMSA Stories. Well, we still have about an hour an a half before we get to my place. If you want to change your mind . . . "

"After coming halfway across the country? No."

"Good. Tell you what. You collect your luggage, then just wait inside door seven on the upper level and I'll get the van and pick you up there. Luggage claim is on the lower level. Just take the escalator up and then go to the last door in the United Terminal and watch for me. Blue mini-van. By the time I can get to the lot and back here should be plenty for you to be up there."

"OK. I go to the lower level, get my luggage, come back up, then wait by the last door."

"Right. See you in about twenty minutes."

B. B. watched Tom disappear into the crowd, looked up at the monitors to find which luggage crawler would have his flight's luggage, then took the escalator to the lower level. About now he was less than sure he really did want to go through with this. Cyber was one thing, this was something entirely different. And something he had never done before.

Tom felt some of the same misgivings as B. B. as he moved with the crowd toward the short term parking ramp across from the main terminal. Then again, it was not like this was spur of the moment. They had corresponded for nearly a year and this visit was three months in the making.

The buzzer went off shaking B. B. from his thoughts and he saw the endless snake of black canvas bags heading his way. He smiled to himself when he thought of some of the things he had packed inside that bag and would not like to have had it inspected, that's for sure. He yanked his suitcase off the snake, pulled the handle up, and pulled it toward the escalator. The mob on the upper level seemed to have grown just since his arrival and it was slow going till finally he got to the end of the building and saw the big glass double doors with the seven over the top.

Ten minutes passed before he saw the blue Aerostar roll up in front of the doors. The van's cargo door flew open and B. B. went out to put his suitcase, carry on, and suit bag in. Then he opened the front door to the van and had to pick the razor strop off the seat before he sat down.

"Look familiar to you, B. B.?" Tom asked.

"Uh . . yeah, I guess so, " B. B. replied hesitantly. He knew his face had flushed red and was happy to be sitting in the dark and looking ahead as Tom pulled out into the heavy stream of traffic.

"It ought to. That's the one I keep in the shed. The one you saw in the pictures I sent," Tom said. "Since you'll only be here a couple days, I figured why waste time? Once we get out of this mess and onto the toll way, you can find a can of neat's foot oil in the glove box. Give it a nice oiling on the way home."

"OK," B. B. replied. "Kind of difficult in the dark, though."

"Not at all. Just cover to the hole in the can with your thumb, turn it over and get the oil on your thumb, then start rubbing it into the leather."

Tom wove through the cars, vans, limos, and buses till finally they clear the main traffic circle and started heading into the city. He seemed to accelerate like a drag racer, then suddenly veered off onto a full circle clover leaf, then another full circle. Finally they were on a tollway headed for a toll booth at seventy miles an hour.

"What happens if you miss one of those off ramps, Tom?" B. B. asked. He opened the glove box and found the can of neat's foot oil, then laid the strop across his knees as he opened the can.

"Well, you miss the first one and you end up in the Loop–that's downtown if you did not know. You miss the second one and you go to Gary, Indiana. So I make it a practice not to miss them," Tom replied laughing. "I see you found the neat's foot oil. Well, at least you are off to a good start. You wouldn't want to make things any hotter for yourself than they are already, B. B. Your butt is going to get toasted, boy, when we get home."

"So I figured," B. B. replied as he started the slow process of working oil into the leather strop. "Then again, you might remember the deal, Tom. Tomorrow noon we switch. And payback really can be a bitch!" B. B. smiled to himself. "That willow tree is likely still doing just fine in your back yard, right?"

"It is. But I think for tonight and until tomorrow noon, maybe you might use "sir" just so you remember who is in charge tonight, B. B."

"Yes, sir," B. B. replied. And he thought to himself: come tomorrow noon and it will be 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir' the other way round. He was looking forward to the twenty-four hours starting the next noon till his return flight left O'Hare to carry him back home.

Tom pulled into one of about ten lanes at the toll plaza with four or five cars backed up in each. He took forty cents from the cup holder between them, then rolled the window down as they inched forward in the line.

"Got a hard on already, huh?" Tom said with a smile. "Good. Open your slacks and take it out, B. B. I want to see it while we have a little light here. Hustle!"

B. B. looked around at the faceless windows in the cars in the lines, unzipped his slacks, and, with a bit of difficulty, pulled his erection out.

"Very nice! I like big _c_o_c_k_s, boy. Give it a couple of strokes for me," Tom ordered.

They pulled up to the basket and Tom chucked in the coins, then waited for the light to go green and the warning arm to raise. He glanced over to see B. B., razor strop still across his knees, slowly stroking his _c_o_c_k_. A dew drop now graced the tip.

"That's probably enough. Don't want you coming already, B. B. You are in for a long night and had better save your energy."

"Yes, sir," B. B. replied. "May I put it away for now?"

"No. Just leave it out, thank you. And you can get back to oiling the strap. You do know that the more it is oiled the more pliant and softer it is so that actually is in your favor."

"Gee, thanks, sir!" B. B. replied with sarcasm dripping.

"Better watch the mouth, boy," Tom said. Then he reached over with one hand to take hold of B. B.'s _c_o_c_k_ and started to milk it.

"Oooh, no," B. B. muttered, and it was clear he was already near to coming.

B. B. felt Tom's fingers tighten on his _c_o_c_k_ till the feeling subsided.

"Now you may put it back in," Tom said.

B. B. tucked himself back into his slacks and felt the sticky wetness on the tip. Then he went back to the neat's foot oil and started in on the strap.

"This is going to be a trip down memory lane for both of us, B. B. Been a long time since your old man took your pants down for a lickin'."

"Sure has, sir. LONG time."

"Unfortunately it's dark so you will have to wait till tomorrow to get a good look at the shed, B. B. But you will get a good look at it, I promise. Tonight, though, you're going to get an introduction to that strop over the bench in my basement workshop."

"Sounds like that may be 'interesting', sir."

They were now clearly headed out of the city as farm fields replaced the ugly concrete cubes of corporate "campuses." Soon the land was so flat and open and dark you could see lights ten miles off.

"Kind of stretching it to say you live in the suburbs, isn't it?" B. B. asked.

"Probably. But we are only an hour from the Loop by the East West Tollway and a little over an hour from O'Hare."

"Well, this doesn't look suburban to me," B. B. insisted.

"You're right. It is rural. But I really like the small town atmosphere, the open space, the quiet, and, most of all, the privacy."

"This is the beginning of the great prairie all the way out to the Rockies?"

"That it is," Tom said. "And we are almost home."

They were now off the tollway on a blacktop two lane flying across the harvested fields of corn and soybeans. Suddenly a stop sign loomed. Then B. B. saw the little glow on the horizon.

"That glow on the horizon is home, boy. So you can put the oil away."

Minutes later Tom pulled into a driveway, the garage door opened silently to let them into the garage. The moment of truth had arrived for both. Tom looked at B. B., smiled, rolled his eyes, and B. B. reciprocated. Neither spoke for about thirty seconds.

"Your bedroom is on the far end of the first floor, B. B., right across from mine. Get your luggage and go to your room. You can hang up your clothes, then I want you to take the razor strop down to the basement and hang it on the whipping bench for later. You'll see a paddle laying on the bench. Bring the paddle up and meet me in your room," Tom said.

"Yes, sir," B. B. replied.

Tom unlocked the door from the garage into the house and disappeared. Lights came on as B. B. carried his luggage into the house, then down the long hallway to a bedroom on the end. He saw Tom in the opposite bedroom pulling the blinds and getting into his jeans and a tank top. B. B. opened his suitcases, unpacked into the empty dresser and closet. Then he took the razor strop and retraced his steps to the basement stairs just inside the door to the garage. In the basement he quickly found the large workshop and, in the middle of the shop, a heavy oak bench which was clearly for one purpose. On it was a thin maple paddle about eighteen inches long and two inches wide. In ornate English gothic letters Tom had engraved it with "B. B." B. B. put the razor strop on the hook in the side of the oak whipping bench, took the paddle, and returned to his room. There he found Tom waiting, seated on the corner of the bed. A little Gershwin filtered into the bedroom from a stereo playing somewhere.

"Come over here, boy," Tom said quietly.

B. B. stood there, the paddle in his hand and a lump in both his throat and his pants.

"Give me the paddle."

B. B. held the maple paddle out and Tom took it from him.

"Take your pants down, B. B. You're gonna get a good paddlin'." Tom's eyes locked on B. B.'s and he lightly smacked the wicked looking paddle on his own palm.

B. B. opened his belt, slipped out of his slacks, then folded them and hung them in the closet. Again he stood in front of Tom, now clad only in a pair of briefs with a wet spot marking where the tip of his large _c_o_c_k_ lay.

"I said take your pants down, boy. You get those briefs OFF. You'll take this paddling on your bared ass. Now move."

B. B. turned away from Tom, his face flushed red once again. He looked into the large mirror over the dresser opposite them and saw Tom watching as he pulled his briefs off to bare himself for the paddle.

"Turn round, boy. Let's see just how big and hard you are."

B. B. turned round and stood close by, right in front. Tom reached out and cupped his balls, then wrapped his hand around B. B.'s _c_o_c_k_ and gave it a couple tugs.

"Over my knee, B. B. The time has finally come. Now get across my knee."

B. B. lowered himself across Tom's knee like some twelve year old errant schoolboy. Tom set the paddle aside on the bed, braced one hand on the small of B. B.'s back, raised his hand, and cracked it hard on B. B.'s ass. B. B., feet on the floor and hands touching on the other side, bucked up in surprise at the sting of Tom's hand. Tom waited a couple of seconds, then whacked him again. And again. And again. And again. Slow steady cracks alternating on one cheek and then the other began to heat up B. B.'s ass . B. B. could soon not resist bucking into the little dance all boys do when taking a punishment. After a good sixty or seventy cracks, the volley stopped.

"I think that hurt my hand more than your ass, B. B," Tom said with a laugh.

"Doubt that, sir. Stung more than I would have thought."

"Nothing compared to the main course still to come, B. B. Been too long since you had you butt whipped, I think,." Tom said as he ran his hand over the now scarlet cheeks to feel the heat. "Well, I aim to remedy that. On your feet, boy."

B. B. righted himself and stood there, not sure what was next. He looked into the mirror and saw the whole picture: Tom sitting on the bed, himself naked from the waist with his butt dark red, the paddle waiting, his _c_o_c_k_ now hard again and dripping a bit.

"Kneel up on the bed. I want your knees well apart, your head down to the mattress, your back arched, your ass nice and tight and high for this paddling."

Tom picked up the maple paddle, stood up, and moved aside as B. B. took his place kneeling on the bed. Tom then turned up the lighting in the room and B. B. looked back between his legs to see his crimson ass in the mirror opposite the bed. Now he knew what the dresser was directly across from the bed. He saw Tom take his place behind and to the left.

"You keep those knees spread, boy. I want to see your balls hanging and swaying. You hear me?"

"Yes, sir," B. B. replied.

"And you keep your head down to the mattress and your hands out front. You understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

B. B. felt Tom's hand gently running down the backs of his thighs, then up between his legs. He gently felt the balls hanging heavily down, then reached under and started to stroke the hard _c_o_c_k_.

"No, sir. Please no. You keep that up and I will cum all over the bedspread."

"Very well, B. B. You go into the bath and get me a towel and put it on the bed just in case. I am not about to wash a bedspread because you can't control yourself during a punishment."

B. B. went into the bath between the two bedrooms and came back with a towel. He laid it out on the bed.

"Take the rest of your clothes off and assume the position again! I want you naked for this paddling."

B. B. took his shirt and tee shirt off, then knelt on the bed once again: head down, knees wide spread, ass high. He could not keep himself from looking back into the mirror to see himself in this position. The heat of the first spanking had his balls hanging very low. Then he saw Tom raise the paddle and closed his eyes just before it cracked down across his already warmed butt. As much as it stung, B. B. had taken plenty worse in his day. Then again, the "main course", as Tom put it, was still downstairs. Tom took his time and went fairly easy for the first half dozen licks with the paddle.

"You stay right where you are, boy!" Tom said as he left the room to answer an insistent ring on a telephone in kitchen. "We're not halfway through yet."

B. B. stayed in position while Tom finished his conversation on the phone. He fought the temptation to stroke his _c_o_c_k_ fearing he might come on the towel and there would be hell to pay. Several minutes later Tom returned and took up the paddle once more.

Craaaaaaaaaaaaack! The paddle was long enough to cover both cheeks and B. B. was feeling the heat. Still, Tom was holding back some and taking his time, lecturing B. B. as he paddled.

"Been a long time since you had your pants taken down for a paddling B. B.?" Tom asked. And underscored the question with a lick.

"Yes, sir!" B. B. replied. He fought the urge to rise up off the bed and grab for his now scalded backside.

"And you say when you were a boy your daddy used to take the razor strop to you now and again?" Another hard crack with the paddle.

"YES, sir!" B. B. wondered how long he could stay down. "But that was a long time ago, sir."

"Seems he trained you well, though. You can take a whipping like a man." Once again the maple paddle cracked hard across his now nearly deep scarlet butt. Then another lick and another.

"Thank you sir," B. B. replied. "But I'm way out of practice, sir. Don't know as I can take much more!"

Two measured licks greeted B. B.'s admission.

"I understand," Tom answered. "But the only way to get you 'in shape' is for you to stretch and reach a bit. You are going to take six more licks, boy. Count them out and stay down and you're home free. You rise up and we start over."

Tom gently tapped the paddle on B. B.'s scorched butt, then took it back and whacked it home.

"One!" B. B. shouted as he rocked back and forth grabbing the bedspread and twisting it in his hands.

Once more the paddle cracked home, this time lower.

"Two, sir!" B. B. now felt himself going into the wave of sting and enjoying it and knew he would have no trouble taking the last four.

"Reach back and cover your balls, B. B. Pull them out of harm's way."

B. B. reached back with one hand and cupped his sack. Tom cracked the paddle across the still white thighs just below his butt.

"Three, sir!"

"Four!

Two hard licks on each. Then it was over.

"Five, sir!"

"Six!! Thank you, sir!"

Suddenly B. B. remembered the bench in the basement and the razor strop and wondered if that was still on the agenda. If it was, he really wanted to call things off about now. Then again . . . ..

"You are a man, that's for sure, B. B. Take a look in the mirror at your ass. Geez. You really took a paddling."

B. B. rose up and looked back into the dresser mirror to see the results of twenty-five licks with that maple paddle.

"I think we'll wait till tomorrow morning to finish this, B. B. I have some yard work for us to do and I really wanted to take you out behind the shed for that lesson with the razor strop."

"Thank you, sir. Don't know as my butt could take much more tonight," B. B. replied.

"Still," Tom said, "I do want you to know how it feels to be put across the bench down in the workshop so let's go. Take the paddle back down and bend across the whipping bench. I'll be down shortly."

B. B. took the maple paddle from Tom and headed down the basement. Once there he put the paddle on a hook on the tool board and bent across the whipping bench. The razor strop hung there just waiting for Tom's arrival. Shaped like a saddle trestle, the oak bench was actually pretty comforatable and had a thick pad over it for his stomach and chest. B. B. reached under the trestle and snuck a couple of stokes on his _c_o_c_k_ till he nearly came. Then he heard Tom's footsteps on the stairs and grabbed the horizontal bar near the floor.

"Looks like you it 'fits' pretty well, B. B."

"Comfortable and sturdy, that's for sure," B. B. replied. He was naked and bent over the oak bench feet on the floor, legs splayed open, hands tight on the bar near the floor beneath his head.

"Since I've decided to finish your punishment tomorrow morning, I thought I would put some creme on that paddled ass, B. B.," Tom said with a smile. He opened the tube of Ben Gay, took some on his fingers and began to rub it into the already stinging hot skin.

"Aaaaaaaaah . . . nooooo . . . sir!" was all B. B. could manage when he felt the heat increase.

Tom continued to rub the analgesic into B. B.'s butt cheeks and then moved down to the thighs. B. B. remained bent across the whipping bench writhing and dancing with his knuckles white on the bar as he fought not to let go and leap up.

"One last touch, B. B. Reach back and spread your cheeks for me. We need to touch up inside the crack, boy."

Reluctantly B. B. reach back and pulled his ass cheeks open for Tom to reveal his pucker. Tom squeezed a glob of Ben Gay onto his index finger and proceeded to gently rub it into the crack from top to bottom till B. B. was ready scream and cum at the same time. Then, just short of B. B. cumming he quit.

"Enough, B. B. Stand up!"

B. B. happily got off the bench, then stood on the concrete dancing from one foot to the other from the heat in his backside and, especially, in his crack. Tom took some aloe hand lotion into his hand, then took a yard stick off the tool board and laid it on the floor at B. B.'s feet.

"Tomorrow we'll finish this. Out behind the shed. But right now, let's see how far you can shoot. Hands at your sides and keep them there!" Tom ordered quietly. Then he took hold of B. B.'s dripping erection with a handful of lotion and started to stroke.

When that first spurt shot out B. B. was not only thinking of the morning, he was thinking of tomorrow noon when the tables would be turned.


More stories byThomas Hobbes