+++
title = "Satyr Story"
names = ["Anon"]
date = "2013-05-28 10:38:36"
tags = ["non thread"]
spankers = ["Mom"]
spankees = ["Male Satyr"]
posts = ["10925137"]
+++

Dark clouds hid the moon, the silent figure running through the orchards was nearly invisible, bright cherry red thighs underneath tan vest all seemed jet black in the darkness. Running wide around the homestead's porch light he skirted to the rear of the house. Powerful legs made a tall vertical leap easy, hands found easy purchase on the windowsill, well cut upper body from a decade of farm labor pulled his heavy, muscular body up and into the home without effort. Hooves hit the wooden boards with a muffled tap, bushy fetlock sprinkling dust from his evening run.

Into his bedroom he crept, slinking past the creaky floorboards in the hallway, carefully rolling his hooves from side to side with each step, taught muscles rippling like iron cords in his powerful thighs, looking goofy as all get out but staying silent as a prowling cat. Secretly well oiled hinges made no noise as he pushed his door open. With all the grace of a ballerina despite his incredible masculinity he made it to his bedside, carefully pulled the sheet back without so much as a whisper, and eased himself into his bed slowly enough as to hardly creak a single rusty bed spring.

Feeling confident, slick, and satisfied, he rolled over and slipped an arm underneath his pillow to cozy up.

Looking directly at his father.

“What!” The satyr nearly fell out of bed, having cried loud enough to wake nearly the entire homestead.

“Red Gala, what in the hay did I tell you about creepin' out late?” Big Mac, still as large and strong as ever, casually reclined in his son's bed, speaking cool and confident as though he weren't even angry. Composure came back to his son, who cried out again with indigence.

“Pa, I'm sixteen, I'm old enough to go out on my own if I want to!”

“That ain't what I told you, or what I asked you neither. What did I tell you?”

“Not to, Pa.”

“And what else?”

“That momma'd tan my hide if you caught me doing it again.”

“Yup.” Mac nodded his head out the doorway, toward his own bedroom. Rusty bedsprings cried out in relief as he picked himself up, casually trotting out of the room and trusting his son to follow. Knowing far better than to try anything foolish like running, Gala followed his well build father into his parent's bedroom, skulking with the usual astronomical amount of teenage frustration.

You were resting the bed the whole while, reading a book by lanternlight as you waited for your husband to catch your son sneaking out again. At best he was off drinking stolen cider with his friends and shooting arrows at things, at worst he was visiting a young lady by moonlight. Either way, it simply wouldn't do. Admittedly, he was pretty good at it, you hadn't head anything until his cry of surprise had nearly shocked you out of your own skin. 

Hooves clopped as the executioner led the condemned into your chamber, you turn the dial and raise the wick on your bedside oil lantern, flooding the room with bright light. Neither your men even so much as blink or squint, tough boys roughing it out until their pupils adjust.

“Did your father tell you I was going to tan your hide if I caught you running around at evil hours like that again?”

“Yes'm.”

“Well, get on over here then, night ain't getting any younger.”

You threw the sheet down, the rough cotton far from luxurious. Exactly how you liked it too, it led to an honest sleep and didn't keep you in bed long enough to grow lazy. Your extra long sleeping shirt was another baggy cotton scrap that you'd stitched together on a lark, as though any of the ponies you'd met cared about seeing your breasts after the initial 'Well why in the hay are her teats all the way up there' wore off. You tossed your powerful legs over the side of the bed, your homemade nightgown coming down only about mid thigh.

You could hardly blame it for coming short, you did have an awful lot of thigh. You'd certainly packed on plenty of weight when you were pregnant with Gala, that was back when Granny was around and she though it was a sin for a pregnant woman to ever get a chance to feel hungry. Fifteen for the baby, and another fifteen on your butt and thigh that decided to stick around. Mac appreciated it though, so you welcomed the new figure as well as you welcomed the little son of a gun that had stuck in on you. And goodness, what a little son of a gun he was. As soon as you taught the fellow how to walk he started raisin' hell, couldn't have made you prouder most days but on the occasions that called for it, it had to be done.

“I ain't no baby, Ma.”

“Then don't cry like one, honey.”

You pat your thighs, all the command he needs. He lays down on your lap, the silliest sight of a nigh fully grown young man balancing on his mothers lap, abs flexing against his mother's firm thighs from a couple decades of hard farmwork herself. These thighs weren't just babyfat, a good portion on them was earned. Probably why you came to love them so much, they;d exploded the first time you spent just a few months tossing bushels where they belonged. They were perfect, pleasing to your amazing man and a good strong platform for the most difficult part of child rearing: the discipline.

You gathered his blond tail up in your left hand, wrapping it around twice and resting your hand on the small of his back, tugging firmly on his dock and keeping him from clenching his cheeks too hard to make it hurt less. He had his arm reaching out for the bedpost to steady himself, rugged, calloused hand crushing the wood, an indulged you'd allow this time. Your book, 'A Secret Orchard', was a fitting instrument at hand.

“Honey, I'll admit curiosity has always gotten the better of me, so if you tell your father and I what you've been up to I'll take a few licks off.” You feel your son's strong chest heave, he groans out a weak word.

“Nothin'.”

“Honeybun, how about this? You tell me, I'll just use my bare hand. You don't, I'll use my little book here. You don't, and I find out it's a mare you've been seeing for the only thing teens do at this hour, I'll have to cut a switch and leave some marks in your rear, y'hear?” His chest heaves again, an identical sigh escapes.

“Nothing but a nice walk, Momma.”

“Holdin' yer tongue may be noble at times, son, but fibbin' ain't never. Don't do it again.”

He heaves again, but before another lie can cross his lips you surprise him with the first whack of your hardcover book. He grunts out an 'ung', only from being caught off guard with the first stroke. As you raise your arm high for the second long arc you feel his entire strong body flex, he takes the following strokes silently, the dull 'whack' of the novel hitting his firm backside clapping in the night. His breathing is cool and steady, your son taking his licking like a champ. You're proud of him for being so stoic, you really are, the punishment breaks your heart. Your husband breaks you out of your trance, speaking to his son.

“Don't look at me like that now, son. You fancy yourself a grown stallion, do you? Well then you'll have to take your licks like one too. Life don't ever hold back, you hear? Neither can your parents if you want any hope of turning out straight.”

Your son clenches his butt, powerful core muscles from a childhood of farmer's walks dragging your own strong arm down his back, despite the pain of tugging on his sensitive tail. You finish tanning his backside with a few more whips of your book, turning him lose from your lap with a smarting bum and an equally hurt pride. You try to console the fellow, never having given him the old 'this hurts me worse' line, always explaining to him exactly why you felt he needed a few strokes of discipline.

“Son, this ain't just about our word being the law, you hear? Pay attention, look at me now, yer hooves ain't talking to you. Do you understand why this upset me and yer Pa so dearly? It don't do to have to running about at a dishonest hour, whether you be shootin' bows and nearly hurting someponies or drinking what has no business crossing your lips or, heaven forbid, sowing wild oats, you hear? You have a mare out there, you make an honest girl out of her first, that's the key here, listen? Can't have any foals while you're still a baby yourself, and believe me just because you an' yer daddy wear the same size horseshoe don't make you the same size stallion, all right?”

Gala, his backside as red underneath as the coat hiding it, whispered his final protest through grit teeth.

“Y'ain't gotta worry 'bout no foals, momma.”

He brushed past his father and shut their door louder than strictly necessary, sore backside screamin' even louder in his head than a slamming door. He crossed the hall, stepping heavy on the creaking board and threw himself into bed, loud springs calling out to his parents exactly where he was. Moon hung low in the sky, clearly visible from his window at this hour now that the clouds have parted. Falling asleep came hard, the rising sun peeking up on the other side of the house before he fell asleep for a scant couple hours before the day's labor began.

Sore rear end was the least of it, aching heart was what kept him wide awake.