Aunt MJ’s Farm – Day 1 — A Return to Childhood Discipline by discreetwritings

Aunt MJ’s Farm – Day 1 — A Return to Childhood Discipline by discreetwritings

Join us on Day 1 of Aunt MJ's Farm, where nostalgia meets a journey of self-discovery and childhood discipline. Dive into an adult tale that blends memories with an exploration of personal growth. Embrace your desires and uncover the secrets of the past with Discreet Writings.<br/>

This is part one of the five parts I’ve written so far.

Disclaimer: If you don’t care for fantasy incest, spanking, or lactation this story probably isn’t for you.

Aunt MJ’s Farm

The summer heat was wrapping around Taylor like a thick, sweaty blanket as he dragged his suitcase up the dusty path to Aunt MJ’s sprawling farmhouse. He was eighteen now, fresh out of high school and ready for a new chapter, but this summer was about reconnecting with roots before the college plunge. Roots that were deeply entangled with memories of raspberries picked under the sun and stern scoldings followed by warm, comforting embraces.

Aunt MJ greeted him at the door, a vision of strength wrapped in soft curves, her hair a wild mane of honey streaks framing her face kissed by years of sun. The sight brought back waves of nostalgia; those times she had held him close when fear or pain got too much, offering him solace in a way only she could.

Bella wasn’t far behind her mother, taller since he last saw her, carrying herself with an air that screamed she wasn’t just any farmer’s daughter. There was fire in her eyes that met Taylor’s with equal parts challenge and curiosity; they had grown alongside these fields into something unfamiliar yet enticing.

DAY 1 – A Return to Childhood Discipline

Days had settled into a steady rhythm for Taylor, with mornings spent feeding chickens and afternoons nurturing vegetable patches under a clear sky. He struggled with tasks he should have known by heart. It wasn’t solely the challenge of farm work. His attention often drifted to Bella, finding her more captivating than correctly handling hay bales. Their banter grew sharper as tension rippled between them, a teasing game that always teetered on crossing lines since childhood.

MJ noticed something amiss after one particularly shoddy job patching up fences left goats wandering where they shouldn’t be. She summoned Taylor to her room, evoking a feeling akin to judgment day. Her tone bringing back every moment spent nose to wall awaiting redemption through Auntie MJ’s hand.

“I know it’s been some time since you needed…correcting,” MJ started, her stern gaze searching Taylor’s youthful face. Taylor squirmed, his cheeks reddening with a mix of reluctance, lingering childhood fears, and a budding adult defiance.

“But I will not allow slack work, Taylor. Not on my farm,” she continued as he fidgeted under her gaze, his protest ready at his lips.

“But Aunt MJ, I’m an adult now. This isn’t how you should deal with me screwing up,” Taylor protested, attempting to assert himself against MJ’s maternal authority, which he knew was absolute. MJ simply shook her head.

MJ simply shook her head. “Being an adult means taking responsibility for your actions, and sometimes learning lessons the hard way.”

Before Taylor could further argue his case, MJ had swiftly grasped him by the arm and led him over to a sturdy wooden chair in the center of the room. His protests became muffled stammers as she unbuckled his belt with practiced ease, a gesture that conveyed that no matter what age he was now or what kind of man he believed himself to be, here in this house under her watchful eye he would always be subject to her rules.

His jeans were tugged down along with any pretense of adulthood he thought might protect him; she then hooked her fingers into the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down too, leaving Taylor stark naked and vulnerable under her steadfast gaze.

“Over my knee,” commanded MJ firmly, pointing down at her lap which now served as an altar for punishment and rebirth from boyish follies.

Positioned awkwardly over his aunt’s thighs, skin on skin, where control met surrender, Taylor felt every pounding heartbeat as shame mingled oddly with anticipation. And then it began: each spank was delivered methodically by MJ’s hand onto Taylor’s bare bottom which soon turned red with heat, not only from pain but from a complex cocktail of emotions flooding through him; embarrassment mixed seamlessly with an unexpected rush each time hand met flesh forcefully.

MJ kept up a steady rhythm ensuring each swat brought both sting and burn, a message imprinted onto tender skin reminding Taylor that his actions bore consequences. With gritted teeth and clenched fists resting on the floor, his toes pointed towards the ceiling beams. He silently accepted the situation, understanding deep down that this was both owed and perhaps even necessary.

The air filled with sounds that echoed far beyond those walls; the sharp slaps punctuating silence followed by heavy breaths drawn between clinched jawlines. His Aunt’s forceful discipline, meant to instill obedience, instead awakened an undercurrent of confusing feelings, a conflicting mix of shame and desire.

Amid this old-fashioned corrective session, as Taylor’s skin began to warm and redden from each precise strike of MJ’s hand, a peculiar tension built within him. Caught between the sting of her discipline and the softness of her thighs as her sundress had ridden up higher along her thighs, he felt an undeniable arousal building beneath his belly, a response that left him mortified.

The stark contrast between his naked vulnerability and her clothed form, the more a certain heat not born from spanking alone sparked within him. A shameful yet unstoppable erection grew, pressing desperately against the warmth and softness of Aunt MJ’s body.

His body betrayed his thoughts to MJ, whose keen senses did not miss the shift in weight or the increased tension in his frame. A pause hung heavily in the air filled only by their joint breathing as recognition dawned without need for spoken acknowledgment, the unsaid recognition of this new reaction that diverged sharply from the obedient acceptance of childhood discipline in years.

Taylor remained draped across his aunt’s lap, and the rhythm of the session resumed, each spank a reminder that she controlled this space between discipline and desire despite—or perhaps because of—the growing hardness pressed unmistakably against her lap serving only to deepen red hues spread across flustered cheeks both above…and below.

As he lay there, each pulsating throb beneath echoed a drumbeat of deeper awareness, an unmistaken sign that things had shifted irrevocably in the wake of MJ’s unyielding hand. This strange blend of respect and burgeoning desire danced on the edge where childhood ended and another realm began, a place neither fully understood but were inexorably stepping toward.

With one final slap ringing out to punctuate the end of their corrective session, MJ helped Taylor up right onto unsteady legs that betrayed recent discipline. “Stand,” she commanded him, as she pulled her sundress back down over her thighs, with an authority that laced her words with something heavy and compelling. Absorbing in the sight of his bare vulnerability, she continued subtly, “Turn around, slowly, let me admire my handy work.”

Taylor stood there, humiliation and something darker washing over him in waves as he hesitated. But ultimately, he couldn’t deny her order. As he rotated before her scrutinizing gaze, Taylor felt the intensity of her gaze increase; his arousal remained evident—a mix of youthful virility and taboo excitement.

MJ’s eyes were meticulous in their inspection, not just viewing the reddened skin but also noting silently, with an inner smile, the fullness between his thighs that signaled more than just physical maturity. A complex mix of pride and disquiet churned within her; internally praising what nature had bestowed upon him, a visual testament to his transition from boyhood and confliction on how this may shift the dynamic between them and challenge her role in guiding his discipline.

Then her hand brushed against his bottom, a touch far lighter than the spanks delivered minutes prior yet carrying weight that made him inhale sharply. The soft strokes over reddened cheeks held both care and inspection; fingers daring closer to sensitive areas, now trembling slightly—fingertips grazing flesh much like sparks teasing at dry tinder, ready to alight.

With each pass of MJ’s palm, Taylor found himself shifting subtly, caught between urges to pull away from or press into the contact that fueled equal parts shame and yearning woven.

“Good,” she finally said after what seemed like an eternity to Taylor (though only moments had passed), her tone denoting satisfaction on multiple levels—he had endured his punishment well, and perhaps even impressed in other ways, unintended as they were.

The silence hung thick before MJ then broke it with those definitive instructions once more: “Now go fix that fence properly.” She gestured towards the clothing strewn on the floor, an implied permission for him to regain some semblance of dignity through attire.

After pulling up his boxers and jeans, which felt oddly foreign against sensitized skin, he left her room and picked up tools to re-attempt the task which landed him in this new strange dynamic.

With every step towards the unkempt fence, Taylor felt the sting of his disciplined flesh protest under the fabric of his clothing. The heat from the sun above was nothing compared to the burning in his cheeks—not just those that bore MJ’s red handprints but also those on his face as he recalled her steely gaze and warm thighs.

Focus became key. Hammer in hand, nails between teeth, Taylor worked with a diligence born from a desire not to feel MJ’s punishing palm again. But there was more than just MJ’s threat fueling him, it was also about proving himself capable, grown beyond childhood memories that seemed all too close now after their recent interaction.

As he straightened posts and secured wire, sweat beaded on his brow, a physical testament to both labor and lingering embarrassment. That’s when he heard light footsteps against the dry ground and knew before turning who it would be—Bella.

“Fixing it right this time?” she teased, leaning against an unbroken stretch of fence just within earshot but well out of arm’s reach. She wore a knowing smirk that said without words she’d heard enough to guess at what had happened inside.