+++
title = "Good For What Ales Ya"
names = ["KrishnaKarnak"]
date = "2014-04-16 10:02:51"
tags = ["F/m", "M/m", "hairbrush", "leather belt", "otk", "non-consensual"]
spankers = ["Candy Mane"]
spankees = ["Score"]
posts = [""]
+++

Candy Mane entered the room quietly, holding the door open for her husband. Glancing up at the wall clock, the time showed 8:25 AM. That was late enough, she had decided. As Streamline moved in, she closed the door and looked ahead to the colt lying in a mangled mess of tangled fur, hair, and a sheet that looked like it had been wrangled.

“Get a bucket, Stream. We should have gotten that first,” she suggested, taking the hairbrush she had brought with her from her mouth.

He nodded and laid down the cloth sheath he had been holding upon Scorecard's dresser. The dresser was painted with a tribal style pattern, to reflect their son's tastes in decoration; as a fan of Zebrianthian history as much as sport statistics, paisley designs were plastered over the wallpaper and bed sheets, and several masks hung up on his wall.

As Streamline departed, Candy Mane approached the window and pulled back the blinds. The morning was bright, though overcast. Opting that semi-darkness was better, she let the blinds close again and turned to look at her sleeping son, leaning against the bookshelf on her hind legs, the fronts folded over the brush.

A minute later, Streamline returned, shut the door again, and deposited a blue and rinsed mop bucket at the foot of the bed. As their eyes met, Candy Mane nodded to him, intimating silently that it was time to begin what was going to be the whuppin' of a lifetime.

“Scorecard!” she spoke in a loud, sharp voice, moving to stand beside the bed. “Score! Get up!”

It was not easy. He rolled over, his messy and disheveled bright orange mane plastered all over his face. He had been drooling immensely. Candy reached down to jab at his belly, noticing two things as she did so: one, he seemed to be doing his 'morning exercises', which was sure to increase the humiliation factor, and the second thing was that he hasn't wet himself. This surprised her, as she narrowed her stern gaze against the feebly stirring, waking preteen... she had expected a total, pathetic mess. Candy Mane expected a mess of a colt so inadequately unable to control himself that his very state would match her intense disappointment.

“Scorecard!” her voice rose an extra octave and the magenta eyes he had inherited from his mother were suddenly staring back at her, slightly puffy and red. “Sit up, young stallion!” She practically spat the last word full of venom.

“Uh... uuugh…”

“You've got some explaining to do!”

“Mmmuh? M-Ma, stop shoutin', me ears are killin'! Sheesh…”

“SCORECARD!” she roared as he rolled over, yanking the sheets over his head. He practically jumped out of his golden brown fur, sheets falling limply against his legs as he sat up, panting. “Get your ass up. I'm DEAD SERIOUS!” she tapped the brush against his knee.

The moment his eyes laid upon the weapon, his befuddled, groggy expression sharped to sudden fear and apprehension. Slowly, his eyes panned up to met her furious gaze. She could see her own, disappointed eyes reflected as his widened.

“W-what? Why ya got that…” He immediately noticed his father. Candy looked sideways at him, too. Streamline was standing next to the dresser, frowning at his son. “What's w-wrong?” He was cowering under their combined death gazes. “I…” He coughed, leaning forward and wrapping his hooves around his belly. “Ugh!”

“There's a bucket right here,” Candy mumbled, bucking it lightly with her back right hoof. “I had a feeling you might need it after your moronic behavior last night!”

He looked as though he had no idea what she was talking about. However, the longer he was awake, now holding a hoof to his bloodshot eyes, the better he seemed to be grasping the situation.

“Oh... oooh…” He lowered the hoof, biting his lip as the memories came back to him. Now he was looking properly afraid. “Ma, I, uh... li-listen, I-I... can explain!”

“Don't,” she warned him in a dangerous hiss, “you dare try and talk your way out of this.”

As she said it, her thoughts reflected upon the scene of the night before. Scorecard had been out at his best friend's house with some other pals. Normally, a bunch of young teens closeted together without adult supervision would've caused objection, but Candy had trusted her son to be sensible while his friend's parents were out of town. This had been a mistake.

What she hasn't counted upon was her son to not come home on time. What Candy hadn't expected was to have to go out looking for him herself when he failed to return after four hours. Or that she would find him being lead home by his best friend, red faced and stumbling. An interrogation of the bright blue colt beside Scorecard revealed what had happened...not that it was necessary, as Scorecard had been weakly clutching a highly decorated and brightly coloured ornamental jug of Zebrianthian ale. Apparently one of the other colts had acquired it and thought their open-minded, sports fan pal would enjoy it.

She had managed to get Scorecard home without him spilling his guts all over the road. Barely able to control her own despair and heartbreak that her once baby boy had gotten himself beyond the definition of 'drunk off his ass', Candy helped him to the bathroom, pulling the bottle from his hooves. She washed the dried alcohol off his face before assisting him in getting ready for bed. Resisting the urge to smash the ale bottle against the wall, she placed the infringing item on his bedside table and dragged him into his bed.

She had spent the next hour crying in her own bed. Completely distraught, being comforted gently by her husband, unable to grasp why Scorecard would have done such a thing.

“No, Ma, please! I ain't never meant for... for…” he spluttered, bringing her back to reality.

“For what?” Candy demanded. “For me to find out?”

“No!” Scorecard said in a panic, shaking his head rapidly, tears already welling up in his eyes. “I di-didn't mean to gets so loaded! Ma, I swear! I didn't know!”

“SCORECARD, YOU'RE TWELVE!” Candy bellowed, jabbing the brush at him like a dire malediction. “YOU KNOW WHAT BOOZE DOES!” She marched over to the bedside table, clinking the implement against it. The yelling and the sharp noises were making him flinch. “IT SAYS 'ALE'! YOU CAN READ!”

He mouthed silently at her, his guilt depriving him of words. Before long, though, he found his voice again. “M-Ma... I'm sorry!”

“Scorecard,” Streamline started, speaking for the first time, “do you understand why your mother is even upset?” He shook his head wearily. “You are in a lot of trouble. You are no age to be drinking, but you are plenty old enough to know better!”

“I'm sorry!” he repeated, wiping his eyes as his emotions started to wheel into overdrive, “I'm really sorry!”

“You're about to be sorrier,” Candy promised him, sitting down on the side of the bed and laying the brush down beside her. “You should've known this was coming the moment that awful stuff touched your lips!”

“Mom!” He bypassed his 'Ma's and went straight for the vocabulary Candy had associated with pleading, though it was a different case with her youngest daughter. “Please, don't spank me! P-please!” Tears were already rolling silently down his blushing cheeks as she stretched out a hoof toward him, jerking it upward. “The hea-headache is enough! I won'ts do it again!” He grasped his stomach again, his messy mane flapping back and forth as he shook his head.

“The hangover will be the least of your worries, Score,” Streamline informed him, “and your head won't be the only thing aching when we're done here. Actually, I rather think a headache will help reinforce the lesson you're about to be taught. Stand up for your mother,” he continued, as Candy waited for her son to move. “And if you're going to be sick, the bucket is right there.”

“And don't think throwing up will get you out of this, Scorecard,” she warned him. “I'll just wait until you're settled down and keep going.” He continued sitting, eyes wide and fearful. “Your father told you to stand up, Scorecard!” He started to beg not to be punished again, but his mother's shout cut through his frantic words. “SCORECARD! You're in enough trouble as it is, so just give it a rest and get out of bed and take your spanking like a big boy!”

“M-Mom… please!” he whimpered, slowly pushing the covers down his legs and revealing the pajamas his mother had dressed him in when he was too inebriated to do it himself. His face looking like he was struggling not to break down completely. However, Candy stared straight into his eyes and he finally seemed to realize there was no escape. Slowly, he made it to his hooves and reared up, shaking, and placed his hooves against the waistband of his pants. “Not in f-front of P-Papa…”

Candy Mane leaned toward him, reached forward and pushed his hooves aside. Digging into the fabric at either side of his waist, she yanked them down to his knees. “He's your father, Scorecard, not some neighbour! So stop with this nonsense.”

Scorecard was avoiding both of his parents' eyes, face averted and mouth screwed up. The shame of a twelve year old colt being stripped down for a trip over his mother's lap in front of his father was enough to keep any traces of morning wood invisible. She pulled him toward her and he stumbled a little with the pants tightly bound about his legs, making it easier to drape her son across her lap. Though he was a male pony, Scorecard was always on the runty side compared to his sisters. That, combined with his thin, well-toned body made him a very simple spank, even at this age. “I don't think I need to warn you about what happens to irresponsible little colts, but you ARE going to hate this, Score, and I never want you to touch anything remotely alcoholic until you are a full grown stallion!” Quickly pinning his tail to his pajama'd back, Candy Mane seized the hairbrush and brought it down like lightning across his left cheek, soliciting a cry of pain from her boy. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Ooow! Mom, yes! OW! OW!” She rained two more blows to the same spot, the spanking beginning in full swing. “I wo-won't aga-OOOW!”

Scorecard used the fullness of the strength in his limbs to push against his mother's lap and get to freedom. However, Candy leaned forward, putting the weight of her upper body against his croup, and kept him flattened. This was a lot easier physically than the only other time she ever had to discipline any of her children after the age of eleven: when her eldest, Creme Egg, had messed up babysitting her youngest, Babs Seed. That had been five years ago.

“I can't believe,” she snapped at him, crashing down again and again with the solid back of the heavy brush, “that you would do something so stupid, Score! Did you think somepony as small as you would miraculously not get drunk off it?!”

“N-n-nooo, I n-n-nevers, Mom! Mooom!” he wailed, displaying another thing that set Scorecard apart from his siblings: he always took spankings a lot worse than his sisters; he always broke fast.

As the very experienced disciplinarian rained the spanks down again and again, the brush leaving deep pink oval discolorations wherever it impacted, she recalled that Scorecard's low pain threshold generally meant that she never had to punish him as severely as his younger sister.

This morning, he was getting no mercy.

“I'm going to be having a word with the Vanderblitz family, as well! Your friend told me last night that the colt who gave you that ale belonged to the Vanderblitz family!” she told him, working her way up and down both cheeks in equal measure. “His parents are frequent customers of mine at the sweet shop, I’m pretty certain! Pegasi, right?”

“Mooom!” he bawled, voice muffled as he buried his face into the sheets. “D-don't let my f-friends knooow!”

She ignored this. “What I don't understand, Score…” she continued, the anger absent from her voice, but not from the fury of her right arm as the brush delivered a vicious flurry of stinging cracks to the centre of both cheeks, “is why you drank the damn thing! Why didn't you just put it on your shelf? You COLLECT zebra stuff!” Smack! Smack! She moved to his right flank and flaming soccer ball cutie mark, delivering several stinging blows there before crossing the span of his rump to the left one.

Scorecard pounded the bed, howling, and the wet sound of his sniffling implied a heavy volume of snot. Even now, it must be cascading down his snout, joining the salty tears running down his red face, all collecting into his wailing mouth. He writhed and squirmed, but Candy extended her arm further ahead and pulled him tighter against her body. She almost caught his kicking hooves with the brush and delivered a heavy WHACK to the offending leg's sitspot.

“MOOOMMY!” he bawled. “Pleeease!”

“Scorecard, if you think you're still young enough to believe 'Mommy' would work on me, do you think you're old enough to drink?” Whack! Whack! “You've got so much brains and so much going for you!” Whack! whack! “Booze and ale are for ponies without the blessings you have!” Scorecard howled, thrashing in his mother's lap as she continued with slow, deliberate, heavy, and accurate smacks to the upper thighs. “Ponies who need help and turn to a bottle for the solutions to problems they have! They aren't for well-off, healthy twelve year old colts!”

She finished with many more spanks to the cheeks proper, landing the last few hits long after he had broken totally. He rested limply against her lap, blazing rump clenched very tightly and quivering. Candy Mane gave him thirty seconds’ rest to catch his breath and steady himself. The way he had been shaking his shoulders meant he could have been close to vomiting, the vicious punishment to his butt and the headache possibly overtaking him. However, he relaxed, crying silently.

Candy's eyes rose up and she stared at her husband and gave a brief nod. She returned her gaze to her boy, once more tightening her grip over his back with her left arm. The right laid across his legs.

“Scorecard…” Candy's voice was sharp and clear as she straightened up. “I'm very, very disappointed in you... and you know this.”

“I k-know! I'm sorry, I'm re—” He hiccupped. “Really sorry! Mom, I'm s-s-sorry!” Scorecard whimpered.

“I know you're sorry, Scorecard… and we're nearly done,” she promised him.

It took Scorecard a few seconds to register this. “N-nearly? M-Mom…”

Candy Mane watched Streamline, who was already extracting something from the cloth sheath he had rested on top of the dresser. Doubling the long, holed russet belt, he wrapped it around his left hoof and crossed the room in a few strides. As he reached them, she pressed hard against the back of Scorecard's knees, locking his legs in place. Leaning back a little, she spoke again, her voice rising a little as Scorecard immediately started to panic.

“PAAAPAA, NOOO!” he begged, trying to throw his weight left or right, but Candy had him pinned completely. “NOOO, PLEASE! NO, NO, NO, NOT THE STRAAAP!”

“Scorecard, you're going to get a taste of what'll be waiting for you next time you earn yourself a spanking. Or, worse, if you ever stumble home drunk again!” Scorecard continued to protest, wiggling and fighting and trying to kick with everything he was worth.

With a meaningful look at her husband, Candy mouthed 'twelve' to him and he nodded his understanding. He draped it across the reddened cheeks. Scorecard was already crying again, absolutely consumed with fear.

“THE B-B-BRUSH WAS BAAADS ENOOOUGH!” he beseeched his parents, flicking his ears wildly and banging his front hooves against the bed, unable to move his tail or kick his legs.

“Mom's not going to take you over her knees forever, Scorecard. Your big sister got the exact same thing the night Babs Seed got lost. From now on, your father is going to take the belt to your bum if we think a hairbrushing is not going to cut it! Starting right now. And you're going to be getting a full belt spanking next time as a proper introduction!”

Streamline started. With his right hoof on Candy's shoulder to steady himself, he swung the strap down across both of Scorecard's cheeks in a hard slap, causing his son to yell in pain. Wasting no time, Streamline tossed the strap high and crashed down again. And again. He laced his colt over and over with the belt, painting thick, angry red stripes across Scorecard's rump at every angle. He howled and bawled, nearly screaming, but thanks to Candy's grip, Streamline was able to land every hit safely, precisely where his son was already very sensitive and tender. Half of them did their best to cover every inch of his butt cheeks with hard fury, while the last six deviated to the undercurves; two on each leg, and two harder ones across both.

The moment the last, echoing crack of the strap faded away, Streamline backed away from them both, closing his eyes and looking very uncomfortable. It struck Candy that spanking was still very difficult for him. Scorecard, meanwhile, was yelping like a wounded dog, heaving with deep, heavy sobs, squirming in discomfort as his mother slacked the pressure against his back and legs, though she did not allow him to reach his hooves back to caress his glowing, red bottom. While the seconds ticked by, she wanted the lingering blaze in those cheeks to send the lesson home.

“Sit up, Score,” she instructed him in a gentle voice, assisting him by lifting against his chest. As he sat up, he winced, his face looking completely wretched. It was nearly as red as his backside and had wet fur and snot everywhere, his already-bloodshot eyes now swollen. “We're done and we're going to put this behind us. Mom's sorry it had to be this way, but you should never had let your own common sense fail you so badly! You can earn my trust again by being the smart, headstrong colt I love.”

He nodded, wiping his eyes and sniffing loudly. She wrapped one arm around him and pulled him close, kissing his forehead. Letting him go again, she stood up and handed the brush to Streamline, who took it, the strap, and the sheath, and left the room.

“Ma, I'm sorry…” he mumbled, still looking embarrassed.

She smiled at him. “It's done. Now, go get cleaned up… a good breakfast will do you good, Score.” She turned to leave the room, pausing at the doorway. “At least… it always helped me get rid of my own hangovers when I a teenageer… and a stupid one, at that!”

On that note, she left the room, her thoughts on her own unpleasant experiences with alcohol and a parent’s firm correction.

END