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

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.

“Yeah,” Taylor replied curtly, trying not to show any reaction, to betray nothing about how her presence made beats skip in a heart already fluttery from earlier events.

“I heard quite a commotion,” Bella continued unabashedly. “You always were Auntie’s little troublemaker though I never thought I’d still hear you getting spanked at your age.”

Taylor set another nail with more force than necessary, the thud vibrating up his arm matching turbulence swirling deep inside where mortification mingled with something else; something undeniably darker yet enticing thanks to Bella’s insinuations.

Her laughter danced airily around him, a sound familiar yet transformed somehow by age and circumstance.

“Need help from your big cousin?” Bella flicked her hair over her shoulder in that nonchalant way she had—her tone laced with mischief as each word dripped like syrup, slow and taunting.

Taylor grunted in response, keeping his eyes locked on his work. “I’ve got it under control,” he said tersely, hoping his voice didn’t betray the uncomfortable shifting inside him.

But Bella wouldn’t be deterred easily. With each step closer towards Taylor, every sway of her hips in those cutoff shorts seemed deliberate—a silent siren call stirring things within he would rather leave undisturbed while under Aunt MJ’s watchful eye.

She picked up a stray piece of wire as if inspecting it curiously before giving Taylor a look that could only be described as impishly provocative. “Looks like you’ve got quite the… stamina for work.” Her eyes momentarily darting down past his waist only to meet his gaze again with feigned innocence twinkling there brightly with mischievousness.

Their banter, while reminiscent of their youth, was pulling at threads unwinding the familiar dynamic underlaid with currents that neither fully acknowledged nor pushed aside completely.

However, their playful exchange was cut short when MJ found them together; Taylor standing rigidly trying focus amidst distraction while Bella leaned much too close for mere innocent conversation.

MJ’s disappointment echoed through her stern tone, a clear indication that Bella’s antics had not gone unnoticed. “Seems like you’re craving some attention—disrupting Taylor’s work. Meet me in my room after you help him finish this fence,” MJ instructed firmly, signaling that the day’s lessons were far from over.

In the waning light, Bella assisted Taylor with reluctant hands and silence heavy between them. As they worked side by side, the playful tension that had been building between them now smothered under the impending certainty of consequences waiting in the quiet solitude of MJ’s bedroom. Taylor couldn’t resist taking advantage of the quiet to land a subtle jab at Bella’s expense. He leaned in slightly, his voice a low murmur meant only for her ears. “Remember Bella, what goes around comes around,” he teased with a hint of challenge in his tone.

Later, as twilight settled over the farmhouse like a soft blanket, soft murmurs and creaks could be heard from behind MJ’s closed door. Taylor found himself drawn there by an insatiable curiosity, creeping up to press an ear against the weathered wood.

“Undress,” came MJ’s voice from within, a command both stark and serene. There was rustling followed by Bella’s protests muted yet tinged with trepidation: “Momma, you can’t be serious! I’m too old for this!”

“The more you resist, Bella dear,” MJ replied evenly but with an underlying steel that brooked no argument. “The harsher your punishment will become. I’m ready to go as far as tying those wrists if necessary.”

Shivers ran down Taylor’s spine at these words; his mind suddenly awash with images he shouldn’t be entertaining, imagination painting scenes that had his heart drumming with a mix of guilt and desire. He envisioned Bella, defiant yet subdued, her wrists bound tightly by the same rope they used to secure the fence posts, rendering her completely at MJ’s mercy. In his mind’s eye, he saw Aunt MJ towering over Bella—her dominance unyielding as she prepared to deliver discipline.

The thought made him shift uncomfortably; guilt gnawed at him for conjuring up such an intimate scenario between his aunt and cousin.

Clothes fell to floorboards; soft thuds marking each piece discarded until nothing remained save vulnerability.

Taylor strained to hear every nuance, the sound of skin-on-skin contact resounded sharply across air once still, now vibrantly alive with tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Bella whimpered softly, almost rhythmically, discordant sounds mixed pain and pleasure.

Taylor’s heart throbbed in his ears; each beat an echo of the sounds from within MJ’s room—muffled spanks segued into comforting whispers. His curiosity was a living thing, an unruly creature that pressed him closer to the door as he strained for every word and breath shared between mother and daughter.

The atmosphere in MJ’s room shifted from one of discipline to nurturing as the ache of Bella’s spanking slowly ebbed away. “Come here, baby,” MJ’s voice coaxed gently—a velvet balm soothing over earlier sharpness. Despite the stern punishment, MJ’s heart was never far from compassion.

“There now, baby,” MJ murmured, her voice now soft and embracing as she cradled Bella against her bosom. “Let Momma take care of you.”

On the other side of the door, Taylor listened intently, each sound painting a vivid picture in his mind. He could hear the rustle of fabric shifting as MJ rearranged herself on the bed into a more comfortable position.

Bella’s sniffles filled the quiet room as MJ guided her daughter’s head towards her now exposed breast with gentle insistence. “Come on darling, you need this… Just relax and let it out,” she cooed. There was a momentary stillness before he heard Bella latch on with subtle sips that soon grew stronger and rhythmic.

Taylor’s breath caught in his throat, the scene before him dredging up memories he’d long buried. He remembered vividly those rare times of vulnerability when Aunt MJ had offered him comfort at her breast. The deep rumbles of thunder that shook the house when he was seven, leaving him quaking until her calming presence and nourishing warmth had enveloped him.

Then there was the searing pain in his wrist at nine, bones fractured from a careless tumble out of the hayloft, pain that had been eased by the same maternal succor. And again, when he was thirteen, heartbroken over the loss of his childhood dog; it was MJ’s gentle embrace and soothing whispers that had helped dampen his grief as he suckled solemnly.

As a child, he had accepted Aunt MJ’s comfort without question, it was just another facet of her boundless care. But now, with years stretching between those distant days and this moment, doubt crept into his mind.

How could she possibly still be lactating after all these years? Nineteen years had passed since Bella came into the world; did she never cease to produce milk? Or had Aunt MJ found some farm secret to induce lactation solely for moments like these?

The mystery deepened the chasm within him, a jumble of childhood trust clashing against an adult’s skepticism and curiosity. It gnawed at him: the notion that something so nurturing might be shrouded in secrets he wasn’t privy to, an intimate bond that excluded him yet exercised an unfathomable hold over his senses.

MJ sighing brought him back to the present—a deep sound laden with relief—and there was tenderness infusing every word she whispered next: “Good girl… that’s right… just like when you were little.” “Yes, just like that… drink up,” encouraged MJ softly, words tender and tranquil restoring balance to the chaos brought from her corrective punishment.

Taylor felt like an intruder to this sacred ritual but found himself unable to move away. Through the barrier of wood between them, he remembered vividly, the comfort drawn from warm milk flowing freely from MJ’s large and plush breasts.

From inside came softly sweet sounds, murmurs nestled amongst suckling noises, echoing harmonious within the confines of Aunt MJ’s bedroom.

He visualized Bella nursing contentedly at MJ’s breast—each pull drawing forth both sustenance and solace while easing not just physical sting left behind, but also emotional turmoil stirred throughout shared ordeal prior…

The rhythmic suckling slowed; Bella’s breaths grew deep and even, a testament to the tranquility that had settled over her. MJ’s hand gently stroked her hair in a repetitive motion that was as soothing as the milk being drawn from her.

“That’s it,” MJ whispered, her voice barely audible through the door to Taylor. “Let it all go.”

After a few more minutes of peaceful silence punctuated only by faint gulps and soft coos of contentment emanating from within the room, there was a shift in energy—a signal that their private moment was drawing to an end. The soft sounds of Bella detaching, and MJ readjusting clothing indicated that reality was inevitably filtering back into the space they had temporarily held at bay.

Feeling like he had overstayed his time eavesdropping on such privacy, Taylor knew it was time to retreat before anyone became aware of his presence. He backed away slowly from the door, every nerve tingling with caution not to make a sound.

His feet moved almost instinctively; finding silent paths across well-trodden floorboards avoiding spots he knew would betray him with creaks or groans underfoot, a dance familiar enacted often during stealthy nocturnal quests for late-night kitchen raids but never under circumstances quite like this.

The sun had fully surrendered to the night by the time dinner was ready, casting long shadows through the cozy farm kitchen. Inside, MJ was the conductor of clanging pots and sizzling pans, her figure silhouetted against the stove light.

At the oak dinner table sat Taylor and Bella, each subtly shifting in their wooden chairs trying to find a position that didn’t press too harshly against their tender bottoms. A quiet understanding passed between them; a shared discomfort known only to those who had recently been at the receiving end of MJ’s stern hand.

“Can’t sit straight, cousin?” Taylor teased slyly across the table; his voice low so it wouldn’t carry to MJ busy with her culinary orchestrations. The quip danced between them with dangerous lightness after today’s events.

Bella shot a narrowed glare back at him while adjusting yet again. “Better watch it,” she retorted quietly, her voice laced with both warning and an involuntary wince. “Or you’ll be back over her knee before you even get dessert.”

Their banter might have continued had not MJ turned from her domain by the stove: “That will be enough from both of you,” she said firmly but without turning around, a clear signal that any more would push boundaries they were both keen on not crossing again today.

They fell silent then, the only sounds filling the kitchen were now those born out of culinary necessity rather than whispered jibes. Dinner was served shortly after, plates piled high as if to mirror mountains they had already climbed today in different ways.

As they ate, the initial tension gave way to the day’s exhaustion and the savory comfort of MJ’s cooking. Bella and Taylor exchanged tentative glances over steaming plates, their previous competitive edge dulled by a shared soreness that made every movement deliberate.

“So, what’s on for tomorrow, Aunt MJ?” Taylor asked between bites, trying to sound casual as he sought to steer conversations towards safer territory.

“We’re going to start early, there’s a section of corn that needs picking if we’re going to get it to market on time,” MJ replied without missing a beat while serving herself. The clink of cutlery against dishes underscored her words with an air of normalcy despite the day’s earlier tensions.

Taylor groaned lightly at this news; picking corn was laborious at best. “Maybe if you hadn’t been so busy distracting me today,” he shot a playful yet pointed look at Bella, “we’d have had less work for tomorrow.”

Bella chuckled softly. “Just making sure you stay in shape—you seemed a bit sluggish out there on the fence line.” Her grin was cheeky, and Taylor responded with a mock scowl before they both laughed quietly, careful not to draw too much attention.

However, MJ did notice, the corners of her mouth twitched upward momentarily before she set down her fork with finality. “Taylor,” she chided lightly but firmly enough that his smile faded quickly away. “Seems like I need to find more ways for you to productively channel your energy after dinner… Starting with dish duty tonight.”

He opened his mouth as if about to protest but thought better of it under MJ’s expectant gaze, any further teasing clearly outstripped by the threat of punishment likely designed not just for cleanup but also introspection following such remarks.

Dinner continued with discussion around farm tasks and planning, a mix of mundane details, wrapping up the evening with each finishing off their plates; now becoming part of the pile of dishes for the one who pushed the boundaries just slightly too with his teasing.

Taylor approached the sink with a begrudging acceptance, rolling up his sleeves as water splashed against the sides of the basin. The sound of MJ and Bella retreating upstairs to bathe and ready themselves for bed left him alone with his thoughts and the chore at hand.

The monotony of scrubbing each dish was oddly meditative, allowing him time to reflect on the day’s tumultuous events, a mix of discipline, arousal, guilt, and a surprising inner turmoil that came from eavesdropping on an intimate mother-daughter moment.

Immersed in this inner dialogue, Taylor’s grip loosened just enough for a slick plate to slide from his fingers. It crashed into the counter before shattering against the hard kitchen floor. He cursed under his breath, the sharp clatter like an alarm bell breaking through the serene evening silence.

Rapidly scanning around for any sign that MJ or Bella heard, he hurriedly swept up large shards, his heartbeat loud in his ears, before wiping down to collect smaller fragments that littered around. His care was methodical if not slightly panicked; determined to leave no trace of this latest mishap.

Once he thought every piece was accounted for, Taylor bundled all evidence within a nest of paper towels before plunging it deep into the trash can beneath a few layers of earlier discards so it would go unnoticed. He missed one tiny shard though, a glinting sliver lying treacherously near where feet would tread come morning light.

Satisfied with his cover-up, or so he believed, he finished up with dishes silently, promising himself more caution moving forward, unaware of his small oversight.

After the last dish was placed to dry and the kitchen left in silent order, Taylor headed upstairs to the family’s shared bathroom, his mind still echoing with the day’s events. The stealthy disposal of broken plate pieces gave him no real relief as he closed the bathroom door behind him and turned on the shower.

Steam rose around him like a shroud as he stepped under the hot spray, water cascading over his body washing away grime but not memories—memories that now stirred a different kind of heat within. He couldn’t shake the thoughts, the interlaced sensations of pain and unexpected pleasure from MJ’s firm hand, nor could he dismiss the complex arousal when overhearing Bella’s submission to his aunt’s nurturing discipline.

His hand moved almost automatically down past his waist, fingers trailing lower until they wrapped around his growing erection. The images played vividly behind closed eyelids: Aunt MJ’s strong yet caring touch; Bella’s quiet whimpers dissolving into contented sighs against MJ’s breast…

He stroked himself slowly at first, savoring the taboo-fantasy fueled sensation, then with increasing urgency as he imagined what it would feel like entwined in such taboo intimacy, a wicked dance between forbidden desires and familial lines blurred by arousal.

As Taylor leaned against cool tiles, the only thing grounding him to reality, his movements became more frantic. Each pull mirrored rhythmic spankings endured earlier, each thrust chasing the elusive release he had found within the depths of his aunt’s spanking.

The climax built rapidly, thunderous waves crashing towards inevitable shore, coming closer, overwhelming, and finally breaking free, pleasure washing over him.

After the release in the shower that left his thoughts more tangled than untangled, Taylor dried off and stumbled to bed—exhaustion claiming him swiftly once his head touched the pillow. Sleep was a dark, silent abyss after the day’s trials, undisturbed until morning first light crept through his curtains.

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