My Son Peter

Chapter 1: The burglary

In retrospect, I always like to say that my friend Wilfried is to blame for everything. The St. Bernard set me up with Peter and got us both into this. Of course, we are grateful to him for that today, but we had no idea at the time that it would turn out like this. But I want to start from the beginning and I want to introduce myself: I'm Werner Feldhoff, a 75 years old red fox from Germany, active in sports and still in good shape for my age. Of course, the latter is not of interest here. Please just rate my occasional digressions as the loquacity of an old fox or read over it.

I had just turned 50 at the time. My birthday was a lavish celebration, with many old friends, sports colleagues and of course Gisela, my wild bed companion and long-term girlfriend. People danced and laughed, teased me about my old age and drank way too much. At night I proved to Gisela, that wiry old rottweiler woman, that I didn't yet belong to the scrap heap and was all in all very happy with this party. Even when Wilfried reminded me the next day that I had drunkenly promised him to participate in one of his social projects. I had agreed to take one of his pups from the youth center he managed as an intern. His choice fell on Peter.

The pup was skilled and could certainly become a good locksmith or mechanic. However, his report card was horrible. He had already screwed up his high school diploma. Out of sheer laziness, as Wilfried put it. I decided to motivate him a bit and called him to my office on the last day of the internship. I explained to him that I would like to take him on as an apprentice if he had a good high school graduation. Without a graduation, however, I didn't see a chance for him to pass the exam. Peter, a rather small, skinny 15-year-old German shepherd dog in oversized clothes, slouched in his chair and took note of it. He said goodbye curtly, took his internship certificate and disappeared from my life. At least that's what I thought. 

"It's a pity about the pup," said Wilfried, when I told him about Peter's internship with me a few days later over a glass of red wine. "He's not stupid, on the contrary. He could if he wanted to, but he has no one to spur him on,” he tried to explain to me. "What about the parents?" I asked and Wilfried snorted: "The mother is no longer alive. Alcohol, drugs. She didn't turn thirty. The father is a little light in the red-light district. He has no interest in the pup. Peter has been living in the orphanage for three years and just messes things up. It seems impossible to get through to him." "Poor guy," I said thoughtfully, and a moment later I asked, "Did his father abuse him?" Wilfrid shook his head. "No not that. He completely ignored him." 

With that we changed the subject, but on the drive home I had to think about the little pup again. How could you have a child and just ignore it? My marriage had failed because I couldn't produce children. How much I would have liked to have had a boy or a girl! At home, I parked my car on the curb and not in the garage. The gate squeaked and needed fixing, so I didn't open it late at night since the charming lady who lived next door threw a wilting pot of geraniums at me. You should always give in to brute force, even if you were a multi-millionaire entrepreneur and had been in a relationship for years with a woman, compared to whom Lady Camilla was a real beauty. 

Well, in any case, the absence of the squeaky gate meant that no one heard me as I walked to my house. I immediately noticed that someone was in the house. A light rush of air came from somewhere. Someone had smashed a window and there was a suspicious rattling sound coming from my study. Another man might have waited for the police, but I've always been a fighter and had no intention to let me be robbed. 

So, I grabbed a golf club from the quiver by the front door and quietly stalked down the hall. I stopped in front of my study and peered in. There, a petite dog wearing a silly wool hat with peepholes over his head was trying to open my safe. In the glow of my desk lamp, he actually fiddled with my letter opener in the lock. It was already quite crooked at the front. I watched the scene for a while and almost felt sorry for the guy. He should be getting a pension for his stupidity, I thought.

Eventually, however, the anger and fear for my letter opener won and I decided to put an end to the frippery. So, I spoke to the master thief, "Can you please explain to me what you are doing here?" The thief spun around and glared at me. I could literally see through the hat that his mouth was hanging open. But then he came to life, brandishing the letter opener and yelling at me, "Go away, old fox! Go away!" "Huh?" I thought, lifting the golf club slightly. The thief seemed unsure, but fearlessly jumped out from behind my desk and threatened me with the bent office utensil.

Oddly enough, I was particularly annoyed by the damage to the opener, because I had gotten it from Gisela. By the way, by her standards it was a romantic gift, she's just a bit special, but I'll tell you about that another time. In any case, the damage to her Christmas gift upset me. I stepped up to the thief, grabbed the letter opener and twisted the lad's arm behind his back. After all, for what else is someone doing martial arts for 40 years?

The little thief gave a startled yelp. I was also startled. What was that thin arm? Was that a woman, a child or what? I pulled the mask off my prisoner's head and saw - Peter. I couldn't understand it at all. Why was he trying to steal from someone who wanted to give him an apprenticeship? How stupid could someone be? I couldn't think of anything and so I just held the wriggling pup in a headlock and thought about it. 

A burglary and physical assault, no matter how amateurish the whole thing had been carried out, was simply no small matter. A warning wasn't enough. I struggled with myself and finally decided to call the police. But Peter had other things in mind, "Don't call the police, old fox! I end up in jail this time!” Yes, Wilfried had already told me that. Peter was pretty close to going to jail. He had dozens of minor crimes: theft, fights, vandalism and so on. And now a burglary. That would put him in jail.

I loosened my grip and let him stand up while I asked, "Could you explain to me what this is about? Are you crazy?" "You didn't give me an apprenticeship!" he complained. "And that's why you want to slash me open with my letter opener? Anything else?” I countered directly, already picking up the phone. "No!" Peter yelped and said in astonishment, "You can't do that! You wanted to give me a chance!" "I thought I didn't give you any?" I replied and Peter made a helpless face.

After a few silent seconds, he seemed to have an idea and spoke, "Please Mr. Feldhoff, I'll make you an offer." "Well, and now he's suddenly not calling me old fox anymore," I thought and waited to see what Peter wanted to say. Was he going to mow my lawn or clean the pool for a year? I might even would have accepted it. What the pup finally proposed, however, almost took my breath away.

"I'll undress for you, Mr. Feldhoff. I'm young, you'll never get something like that again!" he explained to me, lowering his voice a bit and saying, "And I'll hold very still for you, Mr. Feldhoff. Honest, I'll do anything you want. And when you're satisfied with me, just let me go." I couldn't believe my ears. I would have loved to have slapped the little brat right away. I controlled myself with difficulty and accepted his offer, “Alright. Deal. You undress, hold still, do what I want and you can leave as soon as I'm satisfied with you."

He smiled, his handsome face showing a mixture of triumph and a touch of fear. "Just you wait, little puppy," I thought, wondering how to proceed. "Would you like me to take off my clothes right now?" he finally asked, to which I only briefly replied, "Please." He squirmed out of his jeans and hoodie in no time, then stood in front of me in his T-shirt, socks and silly, colorful boxer shorts. "The rest too?" he asked. "Of course." He put the last pieces down much more slowly and even took the time to fold them and place them on my desk chair.

Finally, he was finished and I looked at him carefully. He still almost had a child's body, was certainly not even 60 inches tall and very slim. He had the typical fur of a German Shepherd. Short tan fur on his arms and legs, which lightened towards the front, while his chest, stomach and crotch were white. He also had the black mask pattern on his face, the dot on each cheek and the classic black saddle on his back. However, the fur appeared to be slightly shorter than usual. Only his tail was definitely typical. 

He had no idea what was coming and I felt a little sorry, but his record of sins was long enough and if he didn't want to go to jail, he had to grit his teeth a bit now. "Come on," I said, took his arm and went down to the basement with him. I could tell the pup didn't like the basement. To cover his fear, he asked me questions, "Is your bedroom down there?" "No, of course not," I replied. "But then what's down there?" "The heating, the pool and the gym," I answered. "Oh, the pool?" he said, slightly pleased. Did he actually think I would go swimming with him? 

I didn't think twice about it and shortly thereafter dragged him into the gym without a word. Here I had all kinds of torture devices that I used on myself regularly. Everything was there, from the weight bench to the treadmill, wall bars and more. I drew him to an old-fashioned, brown leather pommel horse with wide wooden legs that I had bought when a sports club was closed. However, I had pimped it up a bit for my needs. It only served one purpose: To strap a delinquent lengthways onto it and prevent him from fidgeting. 

Don't get me wrong, I would never hit my Gisela, even if it might soften her up a bit. A few of my sporty buddies need a spanking once in a while and are always happy when they have to lie down on my trusty old leather horse. Apparently, the pup still thought I was a child molester. He was actually smiling at me, while slightly rubbing his sheath. When he noticed my shocked gaze, he turned around and spread his butt with one paw and lifted his tail. For that, I would have to give him a few extra hits. I instructed him, "Lie face down over the horse." He stepped closer to the pommel horse and looked at me questioningly. 

I helped him by simply picking him up and laying him face down on it with his legs dangling. If he stretched very hard, he could just barely reach the ground with his toes. After walking halfway around the horse, I grabbed his right arm and pulled it towards the adjustable leather cuff hanging from the horse's front leg. The cuff could be tightened just barely enough for this thin arm. What a little herring lay here on my trusty Fury! I've never had such a tiny one over the pommel horse before.

When I also strapped Peter's left arm, he protested weakly, "You don't have to tie me up, old fox. I told you I'd hold still." So, we were back to "old fox" - impudent brat! Nevertheless, I kept my patience and explained, “I want to make it easier for you. I think it's your first time. You can stay calm better that way. Now spread your legs." I could see that he didn't like it, but he obeyed and moved his legs a few inches to the side. I pushed his thighs further out and had to smile. He was simply too small for the horse and lost the ground under his feet even with his legs just slightly apart.

I considered lowering the pommel horse, but decided against it. After all, the pup was supposed to think about this night for a long time. It certainly helped if he was quite uncomfortable and felt as exposed and helpless as possible. So, I strapped his ankles wide apart to Fury's flared hind legs and tightened the ankle cuffs. With this, the legs were nice and straight and had to stay that way even when the pain came. I put a wide strap around his waist, which pressed his body onto the horse and would reliably prevent his butt from wobbling around. But more importantly, the strap also had an extra piece for his tail, which I pulled up over his back and tied it on the strap. I could see that he didn't like it, but he didn't complain.

Finally, I crawled under the horse again and tightened the handcuffs so much that the little pup had to lie very stretched out and could not move at all. I looked at him critically. Yes, he was lying well that way. Slightly tense, completely defenseless and easily accessible. I can't stand such fidgeting and therefore always tie my pupils up well if it's going to be more than just a few slaps. This time the effort would certainly be worth it.

Peter, on the other hand, was significantly less satisfied. He was panting frantically and I gently stroked his back to help him calm down a bit. I could feel his delicate spine clearly under my fingers and how thin the layer of fur, skin and soft untrained muscles was that covered his ribs. I've always found that the back isn't for beating, it's just for stroking, and his breathing, slowing under my big paws, confirmed me once again.

However, he immediately got cheeky again. "A little faster, old fox. I am getting cold!" I had to laugh. "You'll get warm, my little one. After the first dozen at the latest, you’ll get up to temperature!" "What dozen?" he asked confused. He didn't seem to me to be as smart as Wilfried thought he was. "Hits, my boy. With the cane. I will spank you. Or what did you think I do to you? Do you really think I'm a pup fucker?" 

A smarter boy than Peter would probably have kept his mouth shut, but not my young burglar. He lifted his head as far as he could in his awkward position and protested loudly, "You really think I would let you hit me? NO WAY! You are completely insane!" I stroked his back again, which was trembling with excitement and fear. "Do something about it," I said with a grin and went to my tool cabinet. 

Peter squirmed in the straps, which was as pointless as his attempts with the letter opener. "I won't allow that, you motherfucker!" I was just about to select a cane and looked at the little one then in amazement. Given his hopeless situation, he bit off a lot more than he could chew: Wanker, Whoremonger, Cocksucker and so on. The list of his insults was endless. I had never come across such a vocabulary in a 15-year-old and I decided not to put up with it.

So, first I took a solid black rubber gag from the cabinet and stepped towards the pommel horse with it. "Not like that, little fellow!" Peter understood surprisingly quickly this time, stopped the nagging and tightened his lips. He was really starting to get on my nerves. "Come on pup, don't make it so difficult for yourself," I grumbled annoyed and covered his nose until his mouth opened, pushed the gag with the breathing hole in and hooked it behind his head. With that, the cheeky pup lost all of his bravery pretty fast. Tears welled up in his brown eyes shortly after, and I hadn't even started spanking his backside yet.

I went back to the cabinet and took my time choosing my tools. The middle cane was freshly watered, it would do fine. I also selected a multi-tailed strap whip. I still had to think about the rest. I showed Peter the instruments I was going to use for his punishment and explained to him the further procedure. After all, he should learn something. "Tonight, you shall learn a few things, my pup. Want to know what?"

He nodded his head in a surprisingly good manner. I briefly stroked the soft fur on his head and behind his ears as I explained, “Well, first of all, you don't break into other people's houses. Especially not if they would give you a chance. For that I'll give you two dozen hard strokes with the cane on your butt. That's very mild, you must realize that. After all, I could have sent you to jail!" I paused to give him a chance to agree, but his insight didn't go that far.

So, I continued, “And then you shall learn not to make immoral offers to a moral man. Especially if you don't know the man. I'm not a child molester. And even better, I'm not even gay! So, what should I use your bare little bottom for if not spanking?” A slight blush covered his face, but quickly disappeared when I told him the punishment for this offense, "For that, you'll get a dozen with the martinet on each thigh." He stared at the short leather strap whip, which I held in front of his nose to show him, and moaned anxiously into his gag. It sounded like a kitten meowing.

"But above all, you shall learn that you should never let someone tie you down you don't even know. At least not when you're as inexperienced as you are. Bloody hell, pup! Do you know what could have happened to you? If I were who you think I am, I might have ripped your ass up to your ears, given you God knows what diseases, or kept you here for the rest of your life. For this carelessness you get another twelve on the butt with the martinet." He was now shaking like a leaf and looked at me in panic with his big brown eyes.

I put my big, warm paw on his skinny, shivering back and explained, "You'd actually be done after that. But because you called me names, I will give you the spanking while you wear the gag. And because I'm sick of this theatre. As an additional penalty for this, I'll give you a dozen on the paw pads of each foot. That's really mean and hurts like hell. Nonetheless, I expect you to take it like a man. I'll explain what I'm asking of you when the time comes. But I hope you remember our deal? You won't leave until I'm satisfied with you!" I took my paw off his small back and grabbed the cane. He wailed into his gag and I decided not to start just yet. 

Lying tied up and waiting like this boosted the morale of the delinquents and gave them a chance to think. I went to make a phone call. I remembered my duty as a responsible citizen, called Wilfried and told him where his lost pup was. I explained to him what had happened and that I had decided against calling the police. Wilfried agreed, since I had opportunities that could not be used in the official educational system. "Don't overdo it," was all he said. In the basement Peter was now close to breaking and weeping silent crocodile tears. Leaving him alone in this awkward and helpless situation had increased his anxiety beyond measure, which I fully understood. Because if I had a heart attack or had taken the next plane to Mallorca, his ride on the pommel horse would have been infinitely long. 

I gave him an encouraging light slap on his small bottom, which he stuck out so wonderfully inviting thanks to the strap around his waist and enjoyed the softness of those tender buttocks for a moment. As well as most of his front, his butt was also covered in short white fur. With my right paw I rubbed over his soft butt and had to smile. My big paw was more than enough to completely cover one buttock. They were that small. I never had such a small ass on my trusty old horse before. I couldn't help it and also noticed the pink hole under the base of his tail. "At least he seems to clean himself well," I thought. After that, I announced, "Let's get started." 

To prepare him, I briefly touched his little buttocks with the cane. He huffed audibly and clenched his bottom. While grinning, I raised the cane over my shoulder and brought it down with a good amount of force. With an incomparably sharp smack, it landed across the middle on his bottom. Peter's butt cheeks bent as the cane landed on them, leaving a distinct line across his them. He gargled into the gag. He probably hadn't expected such a sharp pain. I gave him some time, while the mark under the short fur started turning in a fiery red and soon was clearly visible even though the white fur. 

A few seconds later I hit him again. He choked on a yelp and squirmed, which looked funny because he couldn't actually move at all. His unreasonable resistance however annoyed me somehow and so I threw three energetic strikes in quick succession on his twitching little bottom. He howled audibly despite the rubber ball in his mouth. "Good thing the gag has a breathing hole," I thought, watching his nose run. It looked like I would have to give my trusty old horse a good clean after this night. I let the cane land two times more down on his trembling butt cheeks and once on the base of his thighs. After all, he shouldn't get bored. 

He twitched and wriggled, and his buttocks had nice slender welts that were gradually gaining more and more color under his short white fur. With a steady rhythm, I finished the first dozen. Then I leaned the cane against the horse, and went to the front, blowing the crying brat's nose first. I also tried to calm him down: "Don't worry Peter, it won't harm you permanently. It hurts, yes, but you deserve it. You can't get out of this anymore anyway. So, relax, stop fighting the straps and get through it." His gaze was a hazel pleading and he was sobbing and whining so much that it probably could've melt even the biggest iceberg. Still, he nodded when I asked him after a while, "Ready for the next 12?"

The second dozen he got in a double rhythm. Always two quick hits, then some time to breathe. Twice I hit the sensitive spot near the thighs, which he grunted and screamed into the gag. During the break that followed, I rubbed slightly over his warm butt. His short fur didn’t cover anything anymore. The red skin underneath was very much visible as well as the marks that the cane left on his small bottom. I could feel them. I also noticed that he had apparently come to terms with his fate. He had stopped squirming and nodded obediently when I asked him if I could start with the legs. I couldn't resist asking him if he was still cold. He turned his head away from me and I felt a little ashamed for asking it.

Regardless I took a very thorough look at his stretched right thigh. First, I felt his little leg to assess how much it could take. The short tan fur was cool and soft, in stark contrast to his now striped, glowing red rear end. While I stroked his thigh a little, I saw a few veins shimmered through the light, delicate skin. I liked what I saw and felt and decided to put extra effort into those beautiful legs. I am an artist with the whip and I like to hit with it in such a way that as much surface as possible has something of the treatment and a nice pattern is created at the same time. With his skinny legs, that wasn't particularly difficult, so I could concentrate on not hitting his little balls.

I quickly found that his skinny thigh was more sensitive than the muscle-bound legs of my fellow athletes, so I adjusted my technique accordingly. He yelped and worked wildly in the bonds every time I brought the strap whip down on them. If he hadn't been tied up so nicely, he probably would have kicked like crazy. But as it was, he had to accept the hits, which were firmly burned in at an even speed, almost motionless. He tearfully survived that part as well, as did the subsequent whipping of his left leg. However, he needed a longer crying break afterwards and I stroked his back again to help him calm down a little. The crying didn’t stop of course, but at least he seemed to be able to think again.

Then, slowly, firmly and carefully, I gave him the promised 12 lashes on his already throbbing, red butt, which he didn't like at all. After that I sat down on a bar stool next to him. I stroked him and blew his nose again. "Now it's getting serious, my little pup. It's time for the feet." He looked at me through teary eyes. He didn't seem to care anymore, but I didn't want to make it that easy for him, "Will you behave now? Can I take the gag out?" He nodded and willingly turned the back of his head towards me so I could undo the strap. Without a peep, he let me remove the gag and then laid his head down again very calmly.

"That's good, my pup," I praised him and then explained what I was asking of him. I would hit him on the paw pads of each foot with a not too heavy strap and he should hold out them to me for it. He should place them on a stool and remain still, unbound and without kicking or fidgeting too much. So completely voluntarily, so to speak. "If that doesn't work," I made it clear to him, "then I'll buckle up your legs again and spank your butt and thighs once more. After that we try it again with your feet until it works.” He looked at me rather horrified while sobbing and whining, but shortly afterwards stammered, "Yes, Mr. Feldhoff."

I took a few more minutes to pet him and then showed him the new utensils we would need. After that I detached his legs from the pommel horse and set the stool at the right height. "You get two hits on the respective paw pads, then we switch sides. Right foot, please." He promptly held out a foot to me. "The other right," I said. He hurried to put out his other foot. I wasn't expecting such eager cooperation. "Put it on the seat surface of the stool." He felt for the seat that would leave his foot in a convenient position and laid his right one up on it. 

Without much delay I hit it, heard the high, ungagged scream of pain and watched in fascination how quickly the pup's leg extended and kicked. "Put it down again, Peter. Be a good pup," I said and he obeyed slowly after a few seconds. I couldn't and didn't want to ask more of him. "Slap" did it again as the leather hit his paw pads for the second time and, by accident, I hit the tips of the toes as well. He cried out in pain and winced madly.

"Left please." He cried loudly, but didn't beg. That too was better than expected and finally, trembling, he docilely maneuvered his left foot onto the stool. I gave him a really good bastinado: Left, left, right, right, left, left, right, right, and so on. Again and again, I said from time to time: "Be a good pup, Peter", or "Please kick a little less", and he really tried to obey me. Apparently, he took my threat to repeat the whole spanking very seriously.

I decided to acknowledge his good behavior. After eight strikes per foot, I sat down next to him again and let him off the rest of the punishment for good behavior, "You did it, pup. Not much is coming now.” He wasn't able to say thank you for the reduced sentence, and I didn't pressure him to do so. I undid the straps, slowly raised him up and held him by the shoulders until his circulation had calmed down and he stopped crying so much. After lifting him off my old leather horse, I set him on his feet. He yelped out loud and fell onto his knees. "Come," I said, just like an hour and a half earlier. Although, he had thought we were going to go swimming in the pool back then.

Instead of getting up and walking, he actually wanted to crawl after me. I stood in front of him and said, "Stand up, Peter. You are not a toddler anymore." The little pup was crying loudly again and whined, "It hurts..." "Yes, I know, Peter, but that's okay. It's supposed to hurt. Stand up." He really tried to obey me and needed some time. When he finally got on his feet again, he could only walk one step before falling down on his knees again. “Stand up or I give you a good reason to crawl.” The pup looked up at me and immediately knew what I meant. He tried it once more, but only fell again. He simply couldn’t do it and I realized that now. He was not one of my fellow athletes. 

I helped him up and supported him with one arm around his body. He still had to walk, but I prevented him from falling again. He hobbled up the stairs next to me. "Are you satisfied with me?" he asked almost inaudibly. He looked at me so fearfully that I had to smile mildly and said, "I want to see if you can obey now." I made him kneel on the small red carpet in front of the fireplace in my living room. "Stretch your arms straight out," I commanded and he promptly followed. However, I growled: "I said straight." He wanted to obey, I could tell that clearly, but he was pretty much at the end of his rope. 

Nevertheless, I put a long wooden pole on his wrists and ordered, "Hold it." He was shaking so badly that after just fifteen seconds the pole, which was 40 inches long, began to roll alarmingly. Tears welled up in fear as the wood fell. Punishing him for that would have been unnecessarily cruel, however. So, I sat down in front of him, repositioned the pole and supported his arms with my big paws. After a few minutes, I commanded, "Set down," and removed my paws. He turned the palms up, let the wooden pole roll in his open paws and laid it on the floor in front of me. I let him rest for a moment while mentioning, "You really are an electric eel. This exercise seems to be too difficult for you today."

After the resting, I had him put his paws behind his neck and kneel upright. This he could do. I sat down on the sofa from where I watched him and admired my work. His little butt and thighs were bright red and I'm sure they must've hurt a lot. He cried silently to himself and trembled all over. He was probably really getting cold by now, naked as he was. I released him. "Come to me," I ordered and he crawled over to me. That was more pleasant than walking and I ignored it. I pulled the pup onto the sofa and laid him comfortably face down on some pillows and my legs. I could feel the swollen welts as I gently squeezed his red butt cheeks and lightly rubbed my paw over it.

He was shaking like a leaf again, turned his head towards me and looked at me in fear. Peter was probably expecting the punishment for not standing up in the basement and crawling to the sofa, but of course that was not what I had in mind. He calmed down a little, when I promised him, it was over, "Nothing bad is coming anymore, my little one. You can relax." After covering him with a soft woolen blanket, I petted the poor pup and noticed pretty soon how he slowly calmed down. The crying stopped and he didn't look so desperate anymore. 

"Are you satisfied with me, Mr. Feldhoff?" he asked again and I answered with a nod, “Yes, Peter. I am satisfied. And when you're warmed up and dressed, I'll drive you home." He just nodded exhausted and fell asleep shortly afterwards. I carried the sleeping pup up to one of my guest rooms and kept him with me until morning.