It was the perfect weekend getaway—a big, comfortable cabin, plenty of food and drink, and three other couples who shared the same kink-friendly dynamic as Logan and Tyler. These “Spanky Weekends” had become a tradition—a chance to relax, play, and, inevitably, get a few butts well-spanked.
By Saturday night, after hours of laughing and drinking by the fire, someone brought up poker.
Mark, one of the older, more experienced tops in the group, gave a sly smile. “How about we make this more interesting?” he said, swirling his bourbon. “We tops play. Winner takes bragging rights… but any time you knock someone out of the game, you get to spank their boy.”
That drew a round of cheers—though the bottoms shifted a little nervously on the couch. They all knew how these games could go.
Mark’s grin grew wider. “And when we get down to the final round? Winner chooses one boy—anyone they want—for a nice hard session.” He looked right at Tyler. “I’ve owed you a proper paddling for a while now, kiddo.”
Tyler’s stomach flipped. Mark wasn’t cruel, but his thick wooden paddle packed a hell of a wallop. Tyler cast a pleading glance at Logan, who squeezed his hand.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Logan murmured. “I’ll win.”
The game began. Logan, Mark, and the other two tops—Ryan, whose big meaty hands could leave a guy squirming for days, and Drew, infamous for wielding a belt like a pro—shuffled and dealt while the bottoms watched anxiously.
The first elimination came quick. Ryan knocked Drew out, and poor Nick was hauled over the arm of the couch for a brisk hand-spanking that had him yelping and squirming—Ryan’s heavy palms leaving a deep pink glow.
A few hands later, Mark knocked out Ryan—grinning as he ordered Jason, Ryan’s boy, to strip and bend over the table. Jason whimpered as Mark snapped his belt and delivered a sharp dozen stripes that had him gasping.
With Drew out of the game and no one to spank, Mark’s boy Eli offered—graciously, if a little nervously—to let Drew have a go at his backside so everyone would get to play. Drew’s belt soon left Eli with deep, crimson stripes that had him holding back tears. Tyler winced in sympathy, watching his friend squirm under the belt.
Tyler was shifting anxiously now. Logan was still in—but Mark’s pile of chips was growing.
Then came the final hand. The tension in the room was thick. Tyler’s heart pounded as Logan tried to bluff—but in the end, Mark laid down a full house.
“Damn,” Logan muttered under his breath. Tyler paled.
Mark leaned back with a satisfied grin. “Well, well. Looks like young Tyler here is mine for a bit.” He rose, fetched his thick wooden paddle, and patted it ominously. “Come along, boy.”
Logan squeezed Tyler’s hand one last time. “I’m sorry, love. I tried.”
Tyler swallowed hard and stepped forward. Mark positioned him against the back of a sturdy chair, instructing him to bend and grab the seat.
“You’ll take ten hard swats. And you’ll count them.”
CRACK!
The first swat echoed through the room—Tyler cried out, hips jerking. The sting was brutal.
“One, sir…”
CRACK!
“Two…”
By the fifth swat, tears welled in Tyler’s eyes. By the seventh, they spilled over. When Mark finally finished, Tyler was openly crying, cheeks flaming red.
Logan was on him in an instant, pulling him into his arms.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Logan whispered, rocking him gently. “I never should have lost. I didn’t want this for you.”
Tyler wiped his eyes and looked up at him, voice trembling but soft. “It’s okay… it’s okay. You tried. And honestly… it just made me realize how lucky I am to have you… to be your boy. You would never be that hard on me unless I truly needed it. I know how much you care for me.”
Logan kissed his temple, holding him close. “I do. And I’ve got you now. Let’s go.”
Without another word, Logan carried Tyler off to their room to soothe him properly, rubbing lotion into his sore cheeks, holding him close in the quiet afterward.
By the time Tyler emerged the next morning, Logan’s arm around his waist, the rest of the boys were already in the kitchen comparing bruises and soreness over coffee and breakfast.
Jason had stripped down to show the dark belt marks across his thighs. Nick stood with his hands on his hips, his backside still a deep rosy hue from Ryan’s heavy palms. Eli was stretched out on the couch, wincing every time he moved, still bearing the deep welts from Drew’s belt.
Tyler gave Eli a sympathetic look and rubbed his own backside. “I think you and I are in the running for worst off today…”
“Let’s see it,” Jason teased. “You know we have to compare.”
With a dramatic sigh, Tyler tugged down his pajama bottoms. The deep crimson color of his cheeks and the faint bruising left no doubt—Mark’s paddle had done its work.
“Damn,” Nick breathed. “Okay. You win.”
“You poor thing,” Eli said, wide-eyed. “We both got wrecked.”
Jason grinned. “At least we can say we survived!”
The boys turned it into a competition—comparing marks, teasing each other, claiming whose top had gone easiest or hardest on them.
Just then the tops strolled in—coffee cups in hand, grinning at the scene.
“Well, well,” Mark said, eyeing the group. “Looks like we’ve got some sore little boys this morning.”
Ryan smirked. “And some very colorful butts.”
Logan wrapped his arms around Tyler from behind and kissed his temple. “Guess we’ll all be hearing some cute little yelps whenever someone sits down today.”
“Oh, definitely,” Jason said with a mischievous grin. “And next game night? We’re rigging it so you tops end up taking the punishment for once!”
The room erupted with laughter—and the promise of even more fun next time.
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