Mr. Mercer woke to the sound of the alarm clock's shrill beep, piercing the early morning silence. He groaned and swung his legs over the side of the bed, feeling the coolness of the floor beneath his bare feet. The curtains were drawn, allowing only a sliver of sunlight to peek through, painting the wall with a soft, golden glow. He rubbed his eyes and stumbled to the kitchen, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee guiding his bleary steps. The clock read 5:30 AM, his usual wake-up time.

He stepped out the back door into the crisp morning air, the dew-covered grass cold underfoot. The washing line swayed gently in the breeze, a row of colourful clothes dancing in the early light. But something was missing. His eyes scanned the line and his heart sank. Six pairs of his new Fruit of the Loom tighty whities were gone. "Damn it," he murmured, his hand tightening into a fist. Those were his favourite underwear, and now some thief dared to pluck them from his yard. He felt a surge of anger, and a sudden urge to track down the culprit.

Mrs. Mercer, Martha, noticing her husband's dishevelled state, poked her head out of the kitchen door. "What's the matter, dear?" she asked, her voice groggy with sleep.

"Someone took my underwear," he said, his voice tight. "Right off the line."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Your what?"

"My tighty whities," he clarified, gesturing towards the empty spots on the line. "Six pairs of them. Just vanished."

Martha looked at him with a mix of concern and confusion. "Well, that's... that's odd. Who would do such a thing?"

Mr. Mercer took a deep breath, his mind racing. "I'm not sure, but I plan on finding out." He turned and headed back inside, his thoughts already swirling with the beginnings of a plan.

The next day, Mr. Mercer bought six more pairs of the same underwear, placing them meticulously on the washing line. This time, he decided, he would not be caught off guard. He had an old camping chair set up by the window, a clear view of the line, and a mug of coffee to keep him company. He had a hunch the thief would return, drawn to the easy pickings like a moth to a flame. And when they did, he would be ready.

It was almost dark when he saw movement at the edge of the property, a shadow flitting through the tall grass that separated his yard from the farm behind. He tensed, his grip tightening on the armrests of the chair. The shadow grew closer, and he could make out the figure of a young man, stealthily approaching the washing line. Adrenaline surged through his veins as he recognized the silhouette: it was Steven, the quiet farmhand who had moved in a few months ago.

Steven's eyes widened as he spotted the new addition to the line. He glanced around, furtively, then, with the grace of a cat burglar, he reached out and plucked one of the pairs of tighty whities. Mr. Mercer couldn't believe it. He had seen enough; it was time to act. He pushed himself up from the chair, strode out the door, and marched towards the washing line, his shadow long and imposing in the moonlight.

The young man froze, his hand hovering in the air, the stolen underwear gripped tightly in his fist. He turned to face Mr. Mercer, his eyes wide with fear and surprise. The old man's steps were firm and deliberate, his face a mask of determination. "What do you think you're doing?" he bellowed, his voice echoing in the stillness of the night.

Steven took a step back, his eyes darting from side to side. "I, I didn't take anything," he stuttered, his voice shaking.

"Don't lie to me, boy," Mr. Mercer said, his voice low and dangerous. "Those are mine. And I want to know why you felt the need to take them."

The young man looked down at the ground, his shoulders slumping. "I, I don't know," he murmured. "I just... I liked how they looked on the line. I didn't mean to keep them. I just..."

Mr. Mercer felt his anger ebb, replaced by a mix of confusion and pity. "Steven," he said, his voice softer now. "You can't just take what isn't yours. That's not right."

Steven nodded, his eyes filling with tears. "I know," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I did it."

Mr. Mercer took a deep breath and stepped closer, his hand reaching out to take the underwear. "I won't call the police," he said. "But you need to understand the value of respecting other people's property. I do though need to understand why you took them but I'm guessing you like tighty whities."

Steven looked up, his cheeks reddening in the moon's glow. "They're just... I don't know. They're comfortable, and I can't afford new ones. I just wanted to try them, I guess." His voice was small, almost apologetic.

Mr. Mercer's expression softened, but the sternness in his voice remained. "Steven, you can't just help yourself to someone else's things. That's not how it works. Did you ever stop to think how it might make me feel?"

The young man's eyes dropped to the ground again. "No, I guess not," he mumbled. "I just... I didn't think it was a big deal."

Mr. Mercer's eyes narrowed. "A big deal? That's my personal property you're talking about. Did you do anything else with the ones you took yesterday?"

Steven looked up, his expression a mix of guilt and embarrassment. "I, I washed them," he admitted. "And I wore one of the pairs."

Mr. Mercer's eyebrows shot up. "You what?"

"I washed them," Steven repeated, his voice barely audible. "And I wore one of the pairs yesterday."

Mr. Mercer's face contorted into a mix of disbelief and disgust. "You wore my underwear?" He couldn't help but feel violated. "What the hell did you do with the rest?" he demanded.

Steven looked at his feet, shuffling them in the grass. "I…I kept them in my room," he stammered. "I didn't know what to do with them."

Mr. Mercer felt his temper rising again. "You kept them? After you stole them?" He took a step closer, his voice growing louder. "What makes you think you can just take something that doesn't belong to you and get away with it?"

Steven looked up, his eyes pleading. "I said I'm sorry," he whispered. "Please, don't tell anyone."

Mr. Mercer stared at him, his mind racing. "I tell you what, keep them," his voice tight. "But you're going to pay for them one way or another and since you don’t want me to tell anyone, perhaps I should punish you like a child."

Steven's eyes widened in terror. "What do you mean?"

Mr. Mercer's jaw clenched; his decision made. "I mean exactly what I said. You're going to be punished for what you've done, and it'll be a lesson you won't soon forget."

Steven's eyes searched Mr. Mercer's face, looking for any hint of leniency, but found none. He swallowed hard, the reality of his situation setting in. "What are you going to do?" he asked, his voice trembling.

Mr. Mercer's expression was unyielding. "You're going to get a spanking," he said, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "It's a simple, old-fashioned way of teaching a lesson, and it seems to me that you need one."

Steven's face went pale. "You can't be serious," he protested, his voice shaking. "I'm not a kid, I’m twenty-two."

"No, you're not a kid," Mr. Mercer agreed, his voice firm. "But you're certainly acting like one. And when you act like a child, you get treated like one otherwise, I suggest we ask the police what they think."

Steven gulped; his eyes wide with fear. "No, please let’s keep this between us," he begged.

Mr. Mercer's eyes narrowed. "I tell you what, you're going to come back here tonight at 7 pm, wearing only one of those pairs of tighty whities you stole and be prepared to receive a proper spanking over a spanking bench I used to use on my boys."

Steven's heart raced as the gravity of the situation sank in. He nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. "Okay."

Steven stood there as Mr. Mercer turned and marched back into the house, his mind already racing with the details of the impending punishment. He found Martha in the kitchen, her eyes wide with curiosity. "I caught him," he said, his voice tight. "It's that boy from the farm. He's coming back tonight to face the music."

Her eyes widened. "Steven? The quiet one?"

Mr. Mercer nodded; his jaw clenched. "The very same. And as for his punishment," he said, his voice dropping to a murmur, "He has agreed a spanking is in order."

Martha's eyes widened in surprise. "A spanking? But he’s what twenty…twenty-one" she echoed.

Mr. Mercer nodded; his expression unyielding. "He’s twenty-two and frankly, it's the least he deserves," he said. "Stealing is a serious matter, and he needs to learn that actions have consequences and since he begged me not to inform the police, a spanking it is. Crime must not go unpunished."

Martha's eyes searched her husband's face, concern etched into her features. "But a spanking?" she asked again, her voice soft. "Aren't you overreacting?"

Mr. Mercer's gaze was unwavering. "It's not just about the underwear," he said, his voice firm. "It's about respect.” He took another sip of his now lukewarm coffee. "Besides," he added with a hint of grim satisfaction, "it'll be a story he'll remember every time he thinks about stealing from me again. Now, can you help me dig out the spanking bench? It's in the barn but hasn't been used since the boys left home and I want you to assist in his punishment. It will humiliate Steven even more knowing a woman is watching him being spanked like a child."

Martha nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation and followed her husband to the barn, her thoughts a jumble of disbelief that her husband was going to spank Steven and enjoying her expectations of seeing a young fit and healthy man being naked before her ready to receive his punishment.

The spanking bench, an antique relic from their parenting days, sat dusty and forgotten in the corner. Together, they dusted it off and set it up under the single, naked bulb that swung from the ceiling. The wood was cold and unyielding, the leather straps stiff through lack of use, a stark reminder of the lessons it had once imparted.

"Martha, where is the paddle? I have forgotten where I put it."

Martha looked around the barn, spotting the wooden paddle resting against a shelf. She picked it up, feeling the weight of it in her hand. "Here," she said, her voice hesitant.

Mr. Mercer took the paddle, testing its weight and flexibility with a firm grip. "Good," he said, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "Now, we will see if Steven turns up otherwise, I shall phone the police and discuss it with them."

The rest of the day dragged on for Steven, every tick of the clock a stark reminder of his impending punishment, his mind replaying the confrontation with Mr. Mercer on an endless loop and the realisation that he had to go through with it; otherwise, the police would be involved.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the farm in a soft, orange glow, Steven mustered up his courage and approached Mr. Mercer's property. His heart pounded in his chest, and he could feel the blood rushing to his face as he remembered the instructions, come to the barn wearing only a pair of stolen tighty whities. Steven felt better knowing he had changed into a fresh pair of tighty whities not quite knowing what was going to happen.

He stripped off his dusty work clothes, his hands shaking as he folded them neatly over the fence. The tighty whities clung to him like a second skin, the cool evening breeze a stark contrast to the heat of his embarrassment. He felt vulnerable, exposed. He had never been in trouble like this before, and the thought of facing Mr. Mercer's wrath was almost too much to bear as he arrived at the barn door and knocked.

Inside, Mr. Mercer and Martha were already waiting, their expressions unreadable in the dim light. The spanking bench loomed large, casting a long shadow across the floor. The paddle lay atop it, the leather straps reflecting the light with an eerie glow. Mr. Mercer heard the knock. "Come in Steven and I’m pleased you are on time," Mr. Mercer said, his voice cold.

As Steven stood there in his fresh tighty whities, Mr. Mercer gestured to the spanking bench with a grim nod. "Martha and I cleaned it especially for you," he said. "All you need to do is mount the bench and learn your lesson. Are you prepared to learn your lesson, Steven?"

Steven nodded his silent agreement as his eyes grew wide as Mr. Mercer outlined the terms of his punishment. "You're going to get one spank for each dollar it'll cost to replace those six pairs you stole," he said, his voice firm. "So, thirty strokes of my wooden paddle. That's the price you pay for your thievery. Martha will count the strokes and make sure you don’t move during your punishment; Martha will restrain your wrists with the leather straps. Do you accept your punishment?"

Steven's throat was dry, as he croaked out a "Yes." Martha though had identified that Steven was finding this arousing as she viewed an erection growing in the tighty whities. She tried to keep her gaze from the noticeable bulge, but it was a clear sign that the situation was affecting him in a way she hadn't anticipated and to her private delight, she spotted a damp patch growing in the front of the cotton fabric.

Mr. Mercer's eyes bored into him, ensuring that the gravity of the situation had sunk in. "Good," he said. "Now, bend over the bench."

Martha, her face flushed, stepped forward, as Steven mounted the bench leaving his legs touching for floor. She secured the leather restraints and nodded to her husband that Steven was ready.

Then with trembling hands, Martha reached down and pulled the elastic waistband of his tighty whities underwear over his erect penis, exposing his bare bottom. The cool air hit him like a slap, and he felt a shiver run down his spine as she pulled his tighty whities off and dropped them on the dusty floor by his feet. Martha's eyes met his for a brief second, and he saw a flicker of something unreadable in them. He couldn't tell if it was pity or something else, but he quickly looked away, focusing on the wooden floorboards instead. In the meantime, Martha had returned to her chair to resume watching the events unfold.

Mr. Mercer picked up the paddle, feeling the weight of it in his hand. "Ready?" he asked, his voice devoid of any warmth.

Steven nodded, his breathing shallow and rapid. The first stroke came down hard, the sound of the wood connecting with flesh echoing through the barn like a gunshot. He yelped, the pain sharp and immediate. The second followed quickly, and then the third, each one more painful than the last. He bit down on his lip, determined not to cry out, not to give Mr. Mercer the satisfaction of seeing him break.

Martha's voice was tight as she began to count. "One. Two. Three." Each number brought another agonizing smack, and Steven's resolve began to waver. By the time she reached ten, tears were rolling down his cheeks, and his bottom was a fiery mass of pain. Martha also noted that Steven had lost his erection as the pain overwhelmed his senses. He couldn't help but tense up, the muscles in his legs quivering with the effort of holding still.

The next ten strokes came in rapid succession, each one harder than the last. The pain grew, a crescendo that threatened to consume him. He gritted his teeth, his eyes squeezed shut and focused on the rhythm of Martha's counting. It was all he could do to keep from begging for mercy.

As the twentieth stroke fell, he felt his resolve cracking. His bottom was on fire, and he was sure it would never be the same again. The thought of enduring another ten was unbearable, but he knew he had no choice. He took a deep, shuddering breath and steeled himself for the next onslaught.

The paddle continued its relentless assault, and with each stroke, the pain grew more intense. By the time Martha's count reached twenty-five, he was panting and sweating, his eyes swollen with freely flowing tears as he started to cry like a child. On the count of twenty-eight, Steven lost control of his bladder and started to wet himself, the gush of warm water running down his legs settling in the tighty whities that lay by his feet as his body moved with each stroke of the paddle.

Crying like a child, Mr. Mercer delivered the thirtieth and final stroke. The sound of the paddle meeting flesh was like a crack of thunder in the quiet night, and Steven let out a hoarse scream, to signify his complete humiliation.

The old man set the paddle down, his hand shaking slightly from the effort. He stepped back, his chest heaving with the exertion, and surveyed his work. Steven's bottom was a mottled mess of red and purple, and the young man was trembling, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he started to stop crying. "Martha, you can release him now and Steven, you can get up when you are ready," Mr. Mercer said, his voice devoid of emotion as he left the barn heading towards his house.

Steven's legs felt like jelly as he stumbled to his feet, his wrists stinging from where the straps had bitten into his skin. He stood there naked, wincing at the pain he was feeling. "I hope you've learned your lesson," Martha said, her voice firm. "Now, if you can, put these back on," as she handed him his wet tighty whities. He mumbled his thanks, his face burning with a mix of humiliation and pain. He held his tighty whities, not daring to look at her and then fled the barn, his feet crunching on the gravel as he ran naked back to the safety of his farm.

The walk home was agony, every step sending a fresh wave of pain shooting through his bottom. He could feel the imprint of the paddle's wooden slats on his skin, a constant reminder of his punishment. He knew that he would never forget the feel of Mr. Mercer's hand guiding the paddle, the sound of the wood cutting through the air, and the fiery sting as it connected with his bare flesh. The cold night air did nothing to soothe his burning skin, as he walked naked and humiliated back home.

Once back at the farmhouse, he rushed to his room and collapsed onto his bed, the soft mattress a stark contrast to the hard bench he had just been strapped to. He lay there, curled up on his stomach, the cool fabric of the bedspread providing a small measure of relief. The pain was intense, but it was the humiliation that truly stung. To have been caught, to have been punished in such a way, was something that would stick with him for a long time.