Aunt Beatriz Taught Me to Obey in Her Basement

I knocked on the oak door with my knuckles and waited. She had told me to come at that exact time, and I knew from experience that being even a minute late would only make things worse. I was nervous. This time I’d gotten myself into serious trouble, the kind you can’t fix with an apology in the hallway. I’d always been a troublesome guy, rebellious, incapable of weighing the consequences of anything, but little by little I had learned to rein myself in. And I owed all that change to one person: my aunt Beatriz.

Beatriz was a mature woman, close to sixty. I’m not going to dress it up: she wasn’t a magazine beauty. She was big, broad-hipped and heavy-bodied, with firm hands and a stare that weighed more than any hand. She walked without hurry, with that slow authority of someone who knows no one is going to dare rush her. What mattered about her, really, wasn’t her looks. It was her character. She didn’t tolerate disobedience, bad manners, or excuses. When something wasn’t to her liking, she used whatever method was necessary to impose her will. And she always, always got her way.

The door opened. She looked straight at me, with an anger I recognized at once. It had been months since I’d given her any reason, but this time I’d broken the streak in the worst possible way. A few days earlier, at the company’s project-closing party, I drank more than I should have with a couple of coworkers and we ended up mocking a new girl until we made her cry. Things got out of hand. Someone recorded it, it reached HR, and now I was facing a disciplinary action that could cost me my job. It was vile. Even now I still feel ashamed remembering it.

Beatriz had always been the only one who could correct me. I never truly respected my mother; my aunt, on the other hand, I obeyed without arguing, because she had already taught me in the past what it cost to cross her. Where my mother gave in, she brought order.

Without saying a word, she invited me in with a sharp gesture of her hand and closed the door behind me. I turned around and started apologizing. Naively, I thought it would do any good.

—I’m sorry, Aunt. I made a mistake last night. It won’t happen again —I said, though I didn’t entirely believe myself.

—I don’t want to hear a single word out of your mouth —she cut me off, in a low, hard voice that was more frightening than any shout—. This time you went too far. I told you not to drink. You get drunk and turn into someone despicable. Are you proud of humiliating that girl? Does that seem brave to you?

—I didn’t mean to… —I insisted, more out of fear of punishment than genuine remorse.

—I told you to shut up —she repeated—. Today you’re going to learn how to behave once and for all. I promise you that.

She told me to follow her. I knew perfectly well where we were going. We went down a long hallway and descended a wooden staircase that creaked under every step. At the end was the basement door. She opened it and let me go in first.

***

The first thing I saw was the trestle. A structure of solid wood, tall, with crossbars between the legs, halfway between a gym horse and a punishment bench. Hand-built, sturdy, made for one thing: to immobilize someone completely. I knew it. I had memories of it burned into my body.

Nervousness rose in my throat. I tried apologizing once more, my voice breaking. Beatriz paid me no mind and shut the basement door. The sound of the lock echoed against the stone walls.

—I’m only going to say this once. Bend over the trestle. Now —she ordered.

Reluctantly, I got myself in place. I laid my belly on the leather support, stretched my arms forward, and let my legs fall back, exactly as she wanted. I turned my head and saw her take a pair of long rubber gloves from the pocket of her dress, the kind used around the house. It was her habit. She never punished with bare hands; she always put on the gloves first, like a ritual.

—I should have done this a long time ago —she said while pulling the latex over her forearms. The rubber squeaked as it tightened, and that sound made my skin crawl—. I was too soft on you. Today that ends.

From the cabinet in the corner she took out a set of leather cuffs. I knew those too. She fastened them around my wrists and ankles one by one, cinched them against my skin, and closed each buckle. Then she secured each cuff to the wood with a small metal padlock and turned the key. There was no way to free myself now. The keys disappeared into her pocket, out of my reach.

I kicked a little, by instinct, knowing it was useless. I was pinned to the horse. Belly on the leather, hands strapped to the front legs, feet to the back.

—Let me go —I said, raising my voice without thinking—. Let me go right now.

—I warned you to keep your mouth shut —she replied, calm—. You’re going to learn how to stay quiet.

She went back to the cabinet and returned with a thick cloth gag and a roll of tape. She gripped my jaw, forced my mouth open, and stuffed the cloth in. Then she wrapped the tape around my head, over and over, until the gag was secure. I tried to speak, to beg, to protest; only a muffled murmur came out. I was left silent, gagged, humiliated.

—That’s better —she said, grabbing my hair and lifting my face toward hers. The yank was brutal. A tear slipped out, more from surprise than pain—. I’m not going to hear one more excuse. You’re going to get the punishment you deserve, and you’re going to take it in silence.

***

—A hundred lashings for drinking and getting drunk —she listed, letting go of my hair—. And another hundred for what you did to that girl. Two hundred total. I don’t care if you cry. I’m not stopping. And it won’t be all at once: it’ll be over the course of the afternoon, round after round, each one harder than the last.

With her gloved hands she pulled my pants down to my ankles, then my underwear, in one sharp tug, without ceremony. I felt the cold basement air against my naked ass. From the cabinet she took a thick leather strap and wound it around her right hand. I heard the leather creak as it tightened against her palm.

She stood about a yard behind me. There was a long, calculated silence, and then the first lash cracked against the bare skin of my buttocks. The smack echoed off the stone walls and then came the burn, a dry fire that made my whole body tense. The second landed just as hard. The third was worse.

I lost count quickly, but she counted them one by one, in a low voice, unhurried. By the twentieth lash the skin on my ass burned as if I’d pressed my body against a stove, and every blow was more unbearable than the last because it landed on the mark left by the one before. I wanted to apologize for real, for the first time sincerely, but the gag wouldn’t let me form a single word. All I could do was endure.

And then, to my horror, I felt something I shouldn’t have felt. Each lash sent not only pain but a strange current down to my lower belly. My cock, pressed against the cold wood of the trestle, started hardening without permission. I couldn’t believe it. The more my ass burned, the more swollen I got between my legs. I tried to think about anything else. It was useless. By the thirtieth lash I was fully hard, trapped against the leather, impossible to hide in that position.

Beatriz noticed. How could she not. She stopped striking for a second, bent down to one side, and looked at me from below, eyes narrowed. She saw the swollen shaft poking out between my belly and the horse, wetting the leather at the tip.

—Look at that disgusting thing —she said, with calm contempt—. Your own beating’s getting you hard. You’re worse than I thought.

A muffled groan escaped through the cloth. Shame was boiling on my face. She straightened up, gave me two more lashes, drier, more precise, and went on counting as if nothing had happened.

—From today on you’re going to obey me in everything —she said, walking slowly around me, making me anticipate the next one—. You’re going to lose any desire to disobey. And this down here —she added, giving the rigid cock hanging between my thighs a small tap with the tip of her glove—, I’m going to tame that too.

The touch of cold latex against my burning cock tore a full-body spasm out of me. She laughed under her breath, pleased with the effect. She kept going.

She reached fifty and stopped. She grabbed my hair again, looked me in the eyes.

—You’ve had the first fifty. Now you’re going to rest and think about what you did. And about the filth that’s getting hard down there. When I come back, we continue. We’re not even halfway done. It’s going to be a very long afternoon.

And she left. She closed the door and left me alone, motionless, gagged, with the basement in half-light and my body throbbing to the rhythm of the pain. My cock, meanwhile, didn’t go down. It pulsed against the leather of the trestle, wetting it with a thread of fluid I couldn’t hold in. Beatriz was in no hurry. I wasn’t going anywhere.

***

She came back after quite a while and kept her word to the letter. Another fifty lashes, without a shred of mercy. When Beatriz promised something, she delivered. My skin was raw, my ass swollen, striped with thick red welts crossing one another. I’d taken a hundred, and there was still half left. My cock stayed hard, stubbornly hard, leaking pre-cum onto the leather. She left again and left me alone.

The waits grew longer and longer, and each one gave me more time to think. And I did think. I thought about the girl at the party, her face, how miserable I’d been. For the first time in a long time, I truly regretted it, not out of fear of punishment but for what I had done. Maybe that was exactly the point of the whole afternoon. And I also thought, with shame, about my own traitorous body, about the cock that wouldn’t go down, about the dirty pleasure mixed with pain.

When she reappeared, the basement was warmer. I saw her take off her dress and fold it over a chair; she stayed in a dark, fitted slip, comfortable for the task. Her big tits hung heavy beneath the fabric, and the width of her hips showed fully. She wasn’t a pretty woman, not at all, but there was something in the way she moved, in the confidence with which she planted herself, that made me feel even smaller than I already was. She slipped the long gloves back on, staring straight at me the whole time. The rubber squeak set my nerves on edge again.

—Now your real punishment begins —she said—. Your skin is already sensitive, and that’s exactly when it’s going to hurt the most. No one is coming to save you. You can scream if you want. Ah, right: you can’t.

Before resuming the strap, she came up behind me and ran her gloved hand over my burning buttocks, slowly, pressing each welt with her fingers. I screamed into the gag. The cold rubber clung to the heat of living skin and multiplied the burn. Then she moved her hand down between my thighs, grabbed my hardened cock, and squeezed it in a closed fist, without any caress, like someone gripping a tool.

—Look at that —she murmured, almost disgusted, almost amused—. Rock hard, completely wet. You’re a pig. You’re going to cum like a dog before the day is over, I promise you. But first, more strap.

She let go suddenly, took a step back, and continued. The second half was different. No hurry, spacing out each blow, letting the burn from the last one settle before adding the next. Tears ran down my face without my being able to do anything about it, and I couldn’t move even an inch. The gag stayed tight, smothering every attempt at complaint. Each lash shook me to the core, and my cock bounced against the leather with every blow, leaking more. She didn’t stop until two hundred. I cried like I hadn’t cried since I was a child, in silence, defeated.

—You’re not so funny now —she said, adjusting a glove that had slipped down—. From today on you learn to respect me. If you do it again, it won’t be two hundred. It’ll be three hundred. Your choice. Next time I won’t be so merciful.

***

I thought she was going to let me go. I was wrong. She started preparing something I didn’t fully understand: next to the horse she set up a tall stand with a bag of warm liquid hanging from it, and from it a thick transparent silicone tube ran down. She took it in her gloved hand and came closer.

—See this? You’re getting an enema. It’s thick, it’s going to be hard, but it’ll go all the way in. I’m not stopping until it does. Now you’re really going to learn what discomfort is.

I felt the cold lubricant against my asshole, and then my aunt’s gloved finger opening me up without the slightest delicacy. One finger first, all the way in, twisting inside with the firmness of an old-school doctor. Then two. My whole body tensed. The gag swallowed a howl. She didn’t let up.

—Stay still —she said—. The more you resist, the worse it gets. Loosen your ass.

I couldn’t loosen anything. I was nailed to the horse, my ass raw, and now she was forcing her fingers in to the knuckles. She pulled her fingers out and fitted the thick tip of the tube in place. She pressed slowly but without pause. The ring of my ass gave way with a new burn, different from the strap, an internal, deep burn. The tube went in all the way.

She opened the valve. The warm liquid began to rise through the tube and fill me from the inside. At first I didn’t feel much. Then a strange heaviness, a pressure that kept growing, expanding through my guts. Beatriz watched the bag empty without haste, arms crossed, the gloves squeaking as she folded them.

—Endure —she said, when I started twisting against the leather—. It’s all going in. And you’re going to hold it until I say so.

My belly was swelling, hard, tense. Cramps started climbing through my abdomen. My cock, against all logic, stayed hard, pressed against the horse, throbbing with every beat. Each time a cramp hit me, everything clenched, and with the contraction came another wave of dirty pleasure, the kind that makes you disgusted to feel it. I clenched my teeth against the cloth, saliva ran from the corner of my mouth, my eyes closed on their own.

When the bag emptied, she shut the valve but didn’t remove the tube. She left it in, plugged in place. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and watched me writhe.

—Five minutes —she said—. Five minutes like this, holding it. Then we’ll see.

The five minutes were an eternity. Every second was a new wave. And while I suffered, she came closer, ran her hand over my back, over my burning ass, and from time to time she’d grab my cock again, squeezing it with her gloved palm, stroking it with calculated slowness. There was no tenderness in the gesture. It was another way of humiliating me.

—And you’re still hard —she murmured, her mouth near my ear—. With your gut about to burst and you’re still stiff as a beast. You’re a pig. Learn what you are.

She started jerking me slowly, brutally in rhythm, never changing the tempo. The rubber scraped, squeezed, tugged. I cried and moaned at the same time behind the cloth, with my belly full, my ass plugged, and my cock throbbing in her fist. When I could no longer take it and was about to come, she let go suddenly.

—Don’t even think about it —she said—. You’re not going to cum when you want. You’re going to cum when I allow it.

She yanked the tube out with a clean pull and dragged me, still tied to the moving rings of the horse that she herself had released, over to a large metal bucket she had prepared in the corner. She forced me to empty everything there, in front of her, with no privacy at all, gag still on and hands still bound to the leather. The humiliation was absolute. She watched impassively, the gloves squeaking.

—From now on you’re going to obey me completely —she said, looking down at me while I finished emptying myself—. And if not, you already know I know how to make you remember this afternoon. Do you feel like disobeying me again?

I shook my head as much as the gag allowed. No, I didn’t feel like it. I had learned the lesson.

***

She washed me herself with a bucket of warm water and a cloth, with not the slightest tenderness, the way you clean a tool. She put me back on the trestle, re-fixed me face down. I thought it was over. It wasn’t over.

She planted herself behind me again, and this time I felt her gloved hands parting my burning buttocks, opening them. The tip of a finger, already lubricated, entered my freshly emptied ass at once. Then two. Then three. She moved them inside methodically, unhurried, stretching me out.

—Your pride is going to end right here —she said, and it sounded like a sentence—. Your ass is for whatever I say. Today you’re going to learn that too.

I heard the scrape of the chair leather, the creak of something she took from the cabinet. When she came back, she pressed against the entrance of my ass the thick, blunt, warm tip of a rubber dildo attached to a harness she had strapped around her hips. I saw it out of the corner of my eye. It was thick, thicker than anything anyone had ever put in me, including myself. I tensed completely. The gag spared me the pleading.

—Loosen up —she said—. You know it’s worse if you resist.

She pushed. The ring, already punished by the enema, gave way with a white-hot burn. The head went in. I screamed into the cloth, a long, muffled scream. She didn’t stop. She pushed more, without roughness but without backing off, until the rubber cock went in all the way. She stayed inside, still, letting me feel the fullness.

—Shut up —she said, though I couldn’t do anything else—. Now I’m going to fuck you the way pigs like you get fucked. And you’re going to remember this every time you even think about disobeying me.

And she started moving. First slowly, pulling the cock halfway out and then burying it all the way back in. The rubber scraped, tugged, burned. Each thrust shook me over the horse, dragged my belly across the wet leather, pinned my own cock against the wood. I cried, moaned, drooled into the gag. She drove her gloved hand into my hip to keep me steady and shoved into me with all her strength. She was not a small woman. Each thrust was heavy, planted, impossible to contain.

—Feel me —she panted, never losing the rhythm, never losing control—. Feel your aunt inside you. You’re going to learn to behave, do you hear me? You’re going to learn to be quiet, to obey, to never humiliate another girl again. Because if you do, this will live in your ass forever.

She leaned over my back, still thrusting, and her hand went to the front. She grabbed my cock again, still hard, and started wanking me in time with her thrusts. In and out. Back and forth. Every shove in my ass jolted my whole body against her gloved fist. Every pull of her fist drove me back so she could spea me deeper. I couldn’t escape either direction. The rubber of her glove squeezed my cock, the rubber of her phallus opened my ass. The orgasm built from inside me, brutal, and this time I wasn’t going to be able to stop it.

She noticed.

—Now —she whispered, with that same calm disgust, almost with her own pleasure—. Now I’ll let you. Come. Come like a dog on the horse where I punished you. Let it stay burned into you.

I came. I came with a scream swallowed by the cloth, with my ass full, with my buttocks raw, with my aunt’s hand squeezing my cock. Semen shot out in thick ropes against the leather, against the wood, against my own belly. She didn’t slow down until my last spasm faded. Then, slowly, she pulled the rubber phallus out with one clean tug and left me emptied out, trembling, hanging from the leather cuffs.

—This is the last lesson —she said, removing the harness and setting it on the chair, calm, breathing only slightly hard—. The next time you ever think of behaving like an animal again, we start here. Straight away. No lashes first. Is that clear?

I nodded with whatever little head I had left. It was crystal clear.

***

When she finally unlocked me and took off the gag, I could barely stand. She helped me sit on the step, gave me water, and for the first time all afternoon, her voice lost its edge.

—I hope I don’t have to repeat this —she said simply—. But I will if I have to. And you know how I repeat it.

I can only say that I learned. I went back to work changed, more respectful, more measured, able to think before acting. Over time, of course, I stumbled again; people don’t change overnight, and they always return to the same stone. But that afternoon marked a before and after. And yes, there were other afternoons. Many.

Beatriz died some years ago. I never met anyone as strict as she was again, or as fair. Others tried to put me in line in their own ways, but none came close to understanding what she understood: that with me, soft words were useless, only absolute firmness worked. I owe her more than I ever knew how to say. And if you liked this, maybe one day I’ll tell you the rest.