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Chapter Text

“O–Ouch! Not so hard, pal!”

Phoenix did his best to ignore the flailing of the police officer over his lap, and raised his hand for another slap. Gumshoe’s muscular bottom was already colored a rosy pink from the continuous punishment.

“Sorry pal, I mean—Detective,” he corrected himself, “But Prosecutor Edgeworth gave very specific instructions on how to handle you in his absence. Any mishandling of evidence was to be punished like this.”

“But you’re not even–ooh!–from the prosecutor’s office! Yeoww!”

“W–well, that is true...” Phoenix stammered. It was a question he himself had raised. Why had Edgeworth left such peculiar instructions for him? Especially when they had to do with... disciplining his subordinate? And yet, Phoenix somehow found he didn’t mind the task. The curve of Gumshoe’s firm, reddened globes kept bouncing back appreciably with every smack, beckoning him to deliver another, and then another. And no one could say the ever-bumbling detective didn't deserve a spanking, either.

But Gumshoe had other ideas. “That’s it, pal! I’ve had enough of this!” He put on a manly show of defiance as he made to rise up. He was a lot bigger and stronger than the defense lawyer. If he didn’t want to be spanked, it wasn’t as if Phoenix could physically force him.

And yet...

“HOLD IT!”

Gumshoe froze, as if the very force of Phoenix’s shout had stopped him dead in his tracks.

“Er? B-but I’m a grown man, pal. Way too old to be... spanked like a little kid...” he wheedled.

Phoenix grit his teeth at such an obvious contradiction. There was only one thing to do.

“OBJECTION!”

“Uuhhh!??” Gumshoe fell back over Phoenix’s lap like his body had moved on its own. He arched his back out to best stick out his butt. Even Gumshoe seemed stunned by the turnaround. “H-huh? Now wait a min–!”

“TAKE THIS!”

“YEOOOWWWW!!” The detective howled as his beefy cheeks were once again subjected to a harsh series of claps, smacks, and slaps. He’d never have thought the wimpy-looking Phoenix could spank as hard as Prosecutor Edgeworth, or display the same take-charge attitude. But he was quickly learning that all lawyers, whether defense attorneys or prosecutors, had a serious disciplinarian streak—at least when it came to him and his bumbling, bouncing bottom.

Chapter Text

"Yowwww!! Not so hard, ya?!"

Captain Bickson merely smirked as he kept slapping away at the muscular, tanned ass cheeks squirming in his grip. Wakka's ass was a bright red by now, almost as red as his hair. But Bickson wasn't even close to being done.

"The terms of the bet was that the loser goes over the winner's lap a full minute for every point they lost by, right?"

"Oooh! Yeah, but... Owww!"

The captain of the Luca Goers smirked again at Wakka's reactions. Those smacks to his sitspots sure did make him wiggle and yelp. "And this game your Keeper was really snoozing. We beat you 20-0."

"Aahh! I know, but—Yowww, ouch!!"

"So we're not even halfway done yet!"

More hard slaps landed all along the firm globes of Wakka's behind. The red-haired man could only jerk and groan as he tried to take the punishment. Bickson had to wonder why his fellow captain kept challenging him in the first place. After all, the Luca Goers never lost a game of blitz. They were tournament champions, while the Besaid Aurochs were just a team of nobodies from the islands. Still, the Aurochs never backed down from trying their hardest in the arena, for all the good it did them. Likewise, Wakka never backed down from paying the stakes once the match was over and they were back in the locker room.

Bickson almost had to admire their resolve as 'the little team that could', even as he was having the time of his life beating their captain's bare butt until it was cherry red.

"Oooh! Nnnngh! Gyaahhhh!"

"Hey, if you really need a break I can always take you outside and finish this in front of the crowds. The game's been over for a bit now but I bet there's still plenty left in the stands who'd give a good cheer at seeing what the losing captain gets."

"Ohhhh man...!!" The tan islander could only groan at the thought and try to keep his perfect bottom raised to accept the burning whacks.

Chapter Text

“Allow me to show you the disciplinary techniques which have been passed down the Armstrong family line... FOR GENERATIONS!!!”

Darius grit his teeth as he struggled over Major Alex Louis Armstrong's lap. How did he keep winding up in these sorts of messes? He didn't even know what he'd said to Armstrong that'd set him off this time. Whatever it was, it'd just been an honest slip of the tongue. Not that it mattered now that he was sprawled across the strongest man in the Amestris military's lap, buck naked with his ass hitched up. Even transmuting into his chimera form hadn't been enough to fend off Major Armstrong's unwavering grip, or even to keep any of his clothes on.

"Hey, hold on! I don't want to see any—YOW!!" he yelped as his beefy left ass cheek caught the first swat. Yep, this was really happening.

"See? No no. It is far better to FEEL the strength of these exonerating blows! The effects of true chastisement—the Armstrong way!!" Armstrong said firmly, practically sparkling in his zeal. He'd whipped his uniform top off as well, no doubt for Darius to admire his physique and good form with which he beat his ass.

"Yaaargh!! Okay okay, I'm feeling 'em, I'm feeling 'em!" the gorilla man promised quickly, squirming his beefy backside as more blows landed. Ordinarily it'd take something as hard as a sledgehammer to register through Darius's thick hide, but the Strong Arm Alchemist was living up to his namesake and seemed to have no trouble imparting quite the sting with his bare hand alone. Darius's meaty cheeks clenched as they reddened and bounced around with every hit. He wondered what his partner Heinkel would say if he saw him in this position. Choke himself laughing, most likely. The chimera tried to hold in his cries for the sake of his pride, but his blood ran cold at the major's next words:

"Good! Then you'll have no problem with me showing you Phase 2 next!"

The gorilla chimera suddenly yowled as he felt another, even stronger slap. This one had a heaping helping of Armstrong's alchemy mixed in, and Darius was sure it'd left a blazing hand print imprinted across both his brawny globes. As more swats rained down and the pain mounted, he tried to hold in his tears. They still had another ten minutes to go before they reached the next stop on their train ride through the Dublith countryside and passengers would be let into the compartment.

He just hoped Armstrong would be done by then.

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"You can't be serious, Hudson," Goliath said atop the castle rooftop, taken aback. "I am far too old to be—"

"—to be punished like a hatchling anymore, yes, yes," Hudson finished for him, having expected the argument. "And too wise and too strong as well, no doubt. But leaders still make mistakes, lad, and even you admitted yours tonight was a big one. A good dose of humility would do ye good, as a reminder that you're not perfect and still need to be put in your place from time to time."

There was a long pause as both men looked each other in the eye. "...You may be right," Goliath said finally, turning away. He thought back on the events of that night. He'd lead the entire clan into an ambush. It'd been a risky move against his better judgement, but he'd let himself be swayed by emotion. Perhaps a physical reminder would do him some good. But still, to be punished in the way Hudson described, it would be...

"Not to worry, Goliath. I've sent the trio away on patrol. There'll be no one to witness this to upset your authority. Well, except for Bronx, but I promise ye he won't talk." Hudson let out a soft chuckle, and the gargoyle dog let out a whine before rolling over to nap in a new position. The old gargoyle laid a hand on Goliath's powerful bicep. "For now, let's just say we're reliving the old days, back before I handed over the reins to you, young buck. Which was only a few short years ago, I should add!"

"Perhaps to you, but to the rest of the world over a thousand years have passed since then," Goliath reminded him with a half-smile.

"Pah, you know what I mean! Giving me lip like that, I ought to give ye extra."

Goliath snorted and shook his head. "I cannot believe I am agreeing to this, but... very well, old soldier. I see your point. Just for tonight, I shall submit and allow you to resume your role as mentor over me. Though I doubt you will be able to hurt me much." He took a moment to flex his muscles, unselfconsciously. His chest and arms rippled and bulged. "I am far stronger now than I was when you lead the clan."

"Oh? Is that so?" Hudson's old lips parted in a sly grin. "That sounds a bit like a challenge."

The large and muscular leader of the Manhattan Clan didn't answer, but simply drew his loincloth down and stepped out of it. His face flushed slightly at the exposure, but he kept his hands at his sides—just like the old days. Hudson seated himself on the edge of the castle battlements and gestured for Goliath to come forward. Feeling ridiculous, Goliath did so, then let himself be drawn across Hudson's lap and his muscular rear perched up in the air. He could see the teeming streets of New York City, shining brightly far below.

"Think of it what you will," Goliath said calmly. "But I still think this is a waste of—YEEARGH!" He suddenly roared in surprise.

Hudson looked down at him smugly, his clawed hand stinging slightly from the first mighty slap he'd bestowed on that fine bottom. But the expression on Goliath's face made it all worth it—utter astonishment at the white-hot clap of pain he'd taken. "Don't worry, lad. I'll show you this old dog still has a few tricks left that can make you squeal."

He whipped his palm down again. This time Goliath's roar was even louder as his opposite buttock got struck equally hard. Hudson couldn't suppress a chuckle as the big warrior started to squirm slightly after only two swats. But the punishment was only just getting started. He raised his hand again.

He'd wanted to do this again for years.

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"Every year you come after me on my birthday, Creed. Hunting me, my team, my loved ones. Well, it ends today."

"Oh? And what're you gonna do about it, runt?" Sabretooth taunted, even as his face was pushed harder into the dirt. He spat through his teeth. "We both know you ain't man enough to kill me. That Xavier's made you soft."

"Tch." There was a note of frustration in Wolverine's voice, followed by an angry, bristling growl. "You're right, Creed. I'm not gonna kill you."

"Heh! You see? You're weak, Logan. You're—"

"But I am gonna teach you a lesson."

There was a snikt of adamantium, and Sabretooth jerked as he suddenly felt a draft of air below the waist. The runt had cut a hole in his costume!

"Hey!" he snarled, "What're ya—"

Strong hands gripped the tear, and fully tore open the back of Sabretooth's pants.

"Let me tell you how it's gonna be from now on, Creed. Every year, starting with this one, I'm huntin' you down on your birthday." Slowly, Wolverine drew a match and then flicked it across Sabretooth's bare, hairy ass. It flared, and he used it to light his cigar. "See how you like it. And I'm gonna give ya exactly what you deserve."

"You don't have the balls to—!"

The first slap nailed his right ass cheek. Sabretooth snarled in outrage, which only encouraged Wolverine to deliver the next slap even harder.

"Aoww! Fuck!"

"Heh. Here's to a new yearly tradition, bub. This is one birthday spankin' that's gonna hurt you a lot more than it's gonna hurt me."

Chapter Text

As the holodeck assembled intricate patterns of light into the resemblance of a ritualized, torch-lit cavern, Commander Riker had to wonder what he'd gotten himself into.

"I'm of course honored by the request Worf, but I have to ask... why me?"

He watched his subordinate clench his jaw and shift in place. "With all due respect, sir, you are the most... masculine other male on the ship."

Riker wasn't sure whether the warm glow of pride he felt was warranted or not. Looking down at his chief tactical officer, he decided to err on 'not'.

Lieutenant Worf was fully naked and bent over at the waist, the entirety of his vaunted Klingon brawn on display. It wasn't Commander Riker's first time seeing a naked Klingon—he'd once served aboard a Klingon Bird-of-Prey for a short time, and still had nightmares about the locker rooms—but it was certainly his first time seeing Worf in such a state of undress.

He couldn't help but be impressed as he looked him over. Worf had a true warrior’s body, muscular and strong, no doubt borne from hundreds of hours logged in close-quarter combat simulations. His ass especially looked formidable; round, dark-skinned, and dense with muscle. It was upturned and facing him, bathed in the warm glow of torch light. And from what Riker could glimpse dangling between his legs, well—if he were the type to compare, Worf's heavy manhood might nearly put his own to shame.

He wasn't there to admire though. He sighed as he hefted the heavy paddle in his hand.

"Didn't you already undergo a ritual of pain like this once? I seem to recall something about Geordi, O'Brien, and Data all poking you with pain sticks..."

"My Rite of Ascension, yes. That was to complete my journey as a warrior. This is the Rite of Sa'hut 'oy," Worf pronounced the Klingon word flawlessly. "It is a test of my will and resolve. Completely different."

Riker nodded, deciding not to comment on how Klingons had multiple rituals that all seemed to revolve around inflicting pain on each other. A masochistic species if he'd ever encountered one.

"And you really need me to, er...?"

"Please, Commander." As he watched, Worf's beefy buttocks gave a slight clench of discomfiture before relaxing again. "It is not an... easy request for me to make."

Riker sighed. He knew how difficult it was for Klingons to willingly appear vulnerable in front of others, especially other males. And right now, Worf looked about as vulnerable as a male could get without any extra toys involved. He hefted the paddle again. "Alright, how many swats do I give you?"

Worf shifted and braced himself. "As many as you deem necessary. In this ritual, you are taking the honorary role of an elder brother in the House of Mogh. You must strike me without mercy until I am in tears and begging for the pain to end. Do NOT stop under any other circumstances. It must go on until I break completely. Only then may I begin my sacred journey to the next level."

Commander Riker bit his lip. From the sounds of it, they'd be there all day. And what exactly would the next level be? Whips? Chains? Hopefully Troi would understand his late arrival to their dinner date.

But seeing nothing else for it, he drew the paddle back and let fly with the first lick. It landed with a hard THWACK! across Worf's meaty rear, as well as a sizzle of energy. Worf gave a deep grunt, and Riker could see the knuckles on his knees whiten as he braced himself for the next one. Similar to a Klingon pain stick, the ritual paddle delivered a jolt of agony straight to the central nervous system of whoever was spanked by it. That was in addition to the standard, every day sting of a good smack, of course. Riker was just glad he wasn't the one on the receiving end.

“How was that?”

“Good, but you must go harder, Commander. Treat me as a whelp who has fled the field of battle. Or perhaps…” Worf considered, “a recalcitrant cadet who refuses to follow your commands.”

Well, a few images did spring to Riker’s mind at that. He raised the paddle again, and this time really let Worf have it.

THWAAACK!!

“Argh!” He watched his tactical officer’s buttocks tighten and clench under the burn. Already the flesh was turning red under the punishment.

“B-better! Now truly put your fury into it. Teach me a lesson I will never forget!”

Riker shook his head. It was clear Lieutenant Worf would not be satisfied until he could no longer sit at his console. Not that tactical had a chair assigned to it anyway. But if that was what was required, then that’s what Riker would do.

THWAAAAAAAAAAACK!!

And Worf howled as his ass was turned a dark, meaty red, which it would remain for the next several weeks.

Just one of the many prices he gladly paid for his warrior’s honor.

Chapter Text

"It's time to teach you a lesson, Skeletor, that you'll never forget."

Skeletor grunted as he was thrown over He-Man's hardened, muscular thighs, his backside in the air. His eyes widened as he felt the hero undo his loincloth with practiced precision before casting it aside. That left his blue-skinned bottom decidedly bare as He-Man raised his calloused palm over it.

"Wh-what are you—" he said, right before the first swat fell.

SMACK!

"AAOOOOOWWWWW!!" he shrieked as he got his first ever spanking. His backside was pelted with blows from the mighty hero, all as he kicked and twisted. He’d never been punished for anything in his life, but He-Man spanked him with a ready assuredness, the same as he did everything else. Each spank burned with blasted righteousness. Skeletor couldn't stand it.

"Stop! You cannot do this to me!" he protested, squirming for all he was worth. "Stop! Stop! STOOOOOOP!"

But He-Man ignored him as he would an obstinate child. "Sorry Skeletor, but if anyone deserves this, you do," he said in that cursedly wholesome, reverberating voice of his. He continued to discipline him with crisp, solid blows until every inch of Skeletor's muscular blue bottom was a blazing red, and the villain howled for mercy.

Beast Man and Trap Jaw found him perhaps an hour later, sniffling and still nude below the waist.

"Boss, boss! We came as soon as we could! We—uhhhh..." Their jaws dropped as they caught sight of their master's butt. The cheeks were as red as ripe tomatoes.

Skeletor sneered at them both, hands on his hips. "Hmph, about time you two showed up. Now get to rubbing! IMMEDIATELY!!"

For days after, Skeletor couldn't get the spanking out of his mind. The feel of He-Man's hard, unrelenting palm landing on his bare skin. The burning of the discipline. The way he'd bucked and yowled and thrashed, all as He-Man had lectured him—lectured him!—like a naughty boy.

It consumed him. It'd been humiliating. It'd been... exciting.

He glanced around his throne room. Trap Jaw and Beast Man were there, still avoiding eye contact with him. They’d been doing that ever since returning to Snake Mountain. Instead they busied themselves plotting out their next insidious scheme.

Not that any plan they came up with would have a hope of succeeding. Skeletor kept them around for a reason, and it wasn't their brains. It was because they were large, brutish men who did what he told them. He briefly considered ordering them to spank him, to see if that would sate his newly kindled desires. But no, they would bungle that job like they did everything else. He needed a real man to do it. He needed a... He-Man.

Sighing, he trained his finger on them instead. Trap Jaw was bent over their drawing board, plotting out routes and battle lines. Leisurely, Skeletor shot out a laser, zapping his minion right in the middle of his presented backside.

"YEARGH!" Trap Jaw howled in surprise, jumping up and clutching his muscled rear.

"Huh? What happened?" Beast Man asked, "Why'd ya—YEOOWWW!" His own laser caught him directly in the center of his meaty rump. It was aimed so well Skeletor suspected he'd seared his minion’s butthole.

Now that he had their attention, he stood. "Enough with these foolish games! I need a real scheme to conquer Eternia! Come up with one by midnight, or that'll be just the START of the butt-roasting I give you two!"

"Y-yes Skeletor!"

"W-we will!"

They stumbled over each other as they fled his presence. It was almost amusing, watching them fan at the little smoke trails coming from their butts. Skeletor settled back on his throne with a malevolent chuckle.

That should put the fear of god back in them. Every so often Skeletor gave them a reminder he was the real power they served, the future ruler of the planet. They rightfully worshiped him. Even if, deep down inside, what he really longed for was...

Skeletor hissed and squirmed on his throne, then plotted out how he might goad He-Man to give him another spanking.

Chapter Text

“Ryu... can you forgive me?”

The naked young man looked at him in question. He’d regressed to the form of a dragon for almost ten years, and had only just been brought back. He was naked as a newborn in the home of his childhood, the Dauna Mine. The large warrior Garr stood before him–his bodyguard, his protector... his assassin traitor. Yet, also the man who’d evidently spent years searching for him. Garr was a mighty guardian, a tournament champion who wielded a massive spear in battle. Only, now he was setting his spear down and he was... undoing the wrappings that covered his lower body.

“I’ve killed so many of your people. So many... dragons. I thought that was my purpose, but...” Garr shook his head angrily, self-recrimination momentarily overcoming his reptilian features. “Please... I know what I’ve done can never be undone. But I ask only for the chance to make up for my sins.”

Understanding seemed to crystallize in Ryu’s eyes. He watched as Garr finished undressing–rendering him as naked as his charge–then he wordlessly extended a knee for the larger warrior to fold himself over. Garr did so with a grunt, letting his wings awkwardly drape forward so as not to get in the way, and lay there completely open and exposed.

Ryu allowed his eyes to travel over the Garr's body. He'd never seen the proud guardian undressed before. He had a brawny physique, as expected. Garr's bare buttocks especially were beefy and muscular, upturned in acceptance of whatever punishment Ryu wished to inflict on them. He felt them shiver slightly, then give a reflexive clench as he ran his hand over the scales.

When the dragon-blooded man raised his palm, it wasn't to satisfy his vengeance. It was only to help his older companion. If punishment would in part ease the large warrior’s conscience, then...

SMACK!

“Nngh!”

Garr grunted as the first spank impacted on his muscular hide, and Ryu set him on his first painful steps towards redemption.

Chapter Text

"Give me a break, Phil. It was an accident! And anyway, the city will recover in no time."

"Yeah, no thanks to you, kid. Now drop the toga. You got this coming."

Hercules rolled his eyes. Without responding further, he drew the toga up over his head and then tossed it to the side. That revealed the entirety of his body, fully naked, and with strapping muscles built up from endless hours of training at Phil's own hands. He eyed the lightning-insignia'd paddle the satyr was already tapping impatiently against his palm.

Geez, let the Wild Mares of Diomedes rampage through Thrace one time...

"Come on, Phil," he tried again, "I'm way too old for this kind of punishment. It was one thing while I was a hero-in-training, but I'm a full fledged hero now!"

"Nothin' doing, kid. And you're getting a good couple hundred extra for trying ta talk your way outta this. Now bend over and stick it out."

The demi-god sighed. With a huff, he got down on his hands and knees and arched out his back like he'd done so many times before. He felt the smooth, well-polished wood of the paddle rub up against his bottom almost immediately.

"No such thing as too old in the hero business, kid. This is how real heroes get made. One good whack at a time!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Okay..."

"Hey, is that attitude I'm still hearin'? What do all the greats have in common, kid? Odysseus, Perseus, Theseus, even Achilles?"

Hercules rolled his eyes. "You trained them all. And they all got paddled by you, every step of the way."

"Damn right. None of those shmucks woulda made anything of themselves without ol' lightning bolt here to keep 'em motivated and on the straight an' narrow." Phil spat into both palms and rubbed them together. Then the short satyr lined his paddle up with the juicy, muscular bare ass of his favorite hero trainee. "And you're no different. Now count 'em out. You've got at least 200 licks coming..."

Chapter Text

"Goddammit." Gangplank swore as a spray of water shot all over his burgers and wieners, making them pop and sizzle on the grill. He tried to save 'em—flipping, wiping, and the like—but it was a lost cause. They came out burned on one side, soggy on the other. A real mess.

He grimaced as he closed the grill top.

"GRAVES!" he shouted. "I told ye what'd happen if ye fucked up my cooking again!"

"Hah! What're you talking about, old man?" the oversized frat boy replied, for that was what he looked like at the moment—sunglasses, towel over one shoulder, wet board shorts that clung to him like a second skin, headphones over his ears, a damn tribal tattoo on his arm... not to mention that oversized squirt gun he was so flagrantly pumping.

Not that Gangplank could talk exactly, with his open Hawaiian shirt that displayed his own burly chest along with his flowery lei necklace, but it was the principle of the thing. Graves was hot stuff and flaunting it. Well, he was about to be even hotter.

Gangplank caught him by the ear. "Ye're coming with me, ye bilge rat."

"Ow! Hey, what're ya—Ah!" Graves tried to fight him off, but was no match for the patented ear twist. He went along whether he wanted to or not. The other pool partiers noticed the man being dragged along more like a naughty kid than the vaunted outlaw he was and exchanged looks. They had no idea yet.

Gangplank sat down on the edge of the pool, his own sandalled feet dipping into the water. "Got anything to say for yerself?"

"It was Twisted Fate," Graves growled out immediately. "He—"

"He's got a little pea-shooter," Gangplank interrupted. "You're the one with the big gun."

"Yeah, but—"

That was it. Gangplank reached over, grabbed Graves, and summarily threw him over his lap. The rugged man gave a gasp as he fell into place, backside in the air. Those wet board shorts clung tantalizingly to his beefy butt cheeks, but they didn't last long before Gangplank peeled 'em right down to his knees. "WHOA!" Graves gaped. He had a muscular, hairy ass, and it was a decidedly pale one next to his tanned legs and back. Guess he wasn't the type to sunbathe in the nude.

"What the hell, ya damn pirate! Let me up before I—YEARGHH!"

Gangplank had cut him off with the first hard smack, right to the base of his ass. Now that left a mark. The sound of it rang over the entire poolside, and everybody and their mother looked over. They were about to learn what happened to those who messed with Gangplank the Grill King.

"Sorry matey, but like I told ye before... You mess with my grilled buns, I'm gonna grill yours!"

Chapter Text

Fred grimaced as he settled himself over his best friend's lap.

From above, he heard the familiar chuckle. "Seems like you find yourself here more and more often, huh Fred?"

"Yeah yeah, just get it over with, Barney," he snapped.

It was true though. He'd been over Barney's knee twice just in the last month. Now he was back again, thanks to another one of his hare-brained schemes. He'd planned to—well, the details didn't really matter anymore. Suffice to say it hadn't worked out. Now Wilma wouldn't let him back in the house until he'd taken some discipline, and Mr. Slate wouldn't let him back to work at the Bedrock Rock Quarry until likewise. He'd be showing both of them his red butt later. It'd be almost embarrassing, if it wasn't something he'd done so often already.

Maybe that was something he should ponder while receiving his just desserts.

He felt Barney pat his broad rump with that easy familiarity only years of friendship could bring, then dish out the first swat. Fred winced. Barney had strong, calloused hands from his work at the quarry. He wasn't the hardest spanker in Bedrock by a mile (that honor belonged to either Fred's spooky neighbor Frank Frankenstone—the less said of which the better—or Sergeant Boulder at the local police department; Fred had felt both their palms before and judged it to be a toss-up) but he got the job done. Barney got into a nice, easy rhythm, laying down smack after smack and letting the burn build up slowly. In many ways Barney could be called lazy, but not when it came to giving a spanking. In those cases he never minded taking his time and making sure the job got done good and properly.

"Ya know, Fred," he said conversationally, "If you want my advice—"

"I don't," Fred snapped.

Barney chuckled. "Well you're not exactly in a position to refuse. Now as I was saying, if you want my advice—"

"Yee-OUCH!" Fred yelped as he received a hard wallop just as he'd been about to protest again.

"—you'll take it easy for awhile. You've got most of Bedrock annoyed with ya these days because you keep coming up with these get-rich-quick plans, and they keep blowin' up in your face. I've been involved in my share of 'em too, and while I don't mind bending over to take my licks with ya when I've got 'em coming, it's still all a bit juvenile, huh?"

Fred grunted as his backside received another swat. He couldn't exactly argue that last point in the position he was in. "Maybe you're right, Barney," he admitted. "Maybe I should—nngh—settle down a little. I'm a grown man with a—aahhh!—beautiful wife and daughter. It is a bit—nngh!—humiliating to still get punished like this."

His best friend nodded sagely. "That's right, Fred. And you know what's even more humiliating?"

"What?"

"To get punished like this!"

In a flash he pulled Fred's orange and black-spotted fur tunic off. It was easy to do, especially since all Bedrock men wore basically identical outfits. That left Fred in nothing but his buff and brawny birthday suit, his pinkened cheeks mooning the cave-house's ceiling.

"Now hey, c'mon Barney! You don't gotta do it on the bare!" Fred shouted.

"Sorry Fred." Barney tossed his tunic in a corner. "I promised Wilma after last time that all the rest of your spankings would be given like this. Hey, one more reason to keep out of trouble, huh?"

His contrite advice could have almost sounded genuine, if it hadn't been accompanied by that trademark chuckle.

Barney swung down good and hard again, and this time Fred couldn't keep from letting out a loud yelp from the sting. He started to kick his bare feet as his best pal laid into him. Slap after slap met Fred's round, hefty cheeks as the man bucked, wiggled and squirmed. Barney just wrapped a friendly arm around his waist and kept going. He never minded helping Fred out at times like this, even if Fred didn't enjoy it very much.

"OOOH, OKAY BARNEY! I'VE—AAAAHHH—LEARNED MY LESSON NOW! I'LL BE GOOD, OKAY? YEEEEE-OOOWWWWW!!"

"I know you will, Fred," Barney chuckled. "At least 'til you can sit again."

When he'd finally judged his pal to be back on the path to good character, Barney got out his secret weapon. He rubbed it on Fred's swollen bottom, making sure he could tell what it was.

Fred's eyes grew wide as he looked over his shoulder and saw Barney holding a pre-historic flatfish (scientific name: Amphistium Paradoxum to be precise) by the tail, the same kind they sometimes used on each other in initiation ceremonies in the Loyal Order of Water Buffaloes. The short, spiky texture of its scales made it even more effective as a paddle than the usual wooden kind.

"Aw, no Barney! You don't haveta use that on me, you've spanked me enough!" Fred quailed.

"Just five good licks, okay pal? Then we'll call it square," Barney soothed him. He raised the paddle high over his head. Fred winced and prepared himself.

Right before getting planted face-first into Fred Flintstone's round, hairy ass, the Amphistium fish looked directly at the camera. "Eh," it said, "it's a living."

Chapter Text

The dwarf appraised the two of them, father and son. His weathered face split into an ugly grin.

"Well now," he said, "Need another favor from your old pal Brok, do ya? Nidavellir. Now that's quite a journey."

Kratos scowled. He did not ask how the dwarf already knew of their destination. "Name your price," he only said.

The smith mulled. He scratched at an armpit, then put away the tongs he'd been forging with. "Alright," he said after another moment. "To start, send the boy away."

"Huh?" said Atreus. "Why?"

"Boy."

"But father—"

"Go."

Pouting, Atreus went. He took the head of Mimir with him, and the heavy temple doors boomed shut behind them.

Kratos faced the blacksmith. They'd never been friends, but they had aided each other in the past. That relationship had, however, always been strictly on a transactional basis. It was how both men preferred things. They always knew where the other stood.

"Name your price," he repeated. "Whichever of your enemies need slaying, whichever items need recovering, or tasks accomplished. Simply say, so we can go and get on with it."

For Kratos, that was an exceptionally long statement.

But Brok simply rubbed his chin. "Too bad," he drawled, "This week I don't have any tasks that need doin', or enemies that need slayin'.

Kratos rolled his eyes. "Money then. How much?"

"To be honest fella, business with you has already made me richer than I've been in some time. Nah, I don't need money either." Brok just kept rubbing his chin, kept grinning.

"Then what DO you want!" Kratos exploded. His knuckles cracked as he clenched them. It was a hint at the rage that had once defined him, which he now had to work to keep so tightly controlled. But even he had limits.

Brok wasn't taken aback though. He just kept his head tilted back, appraising.

"Alright," he finally said. "I've thought of somethin'." He spat in his palms, twice, then rubbed them together. "Turn around, drop the loincloth, and bend over the forge."

"Eh? But—What do you—" If there was anything that could dispel Kratos's rage, it was shock. The spartan spluttered. But his face quickly grew heated once more as he turned the command over in his mind and considered it from all angles.

"Hah! Oh don't worry, I'm not gonna do anything indecent to ya," Brok said, reading his thoughts, "Though I hear you Greeks go in for that sort of thing. No, what I have in mind is something you're more likely to actually agree to."

The dwarf returned to his work bench and rooted around underneath. When his hand emerged, it held the handle of a flat wooden object, all inlaid with silver-blue runes. He tapped it against his palm. "Catchin' my drift?"

Kratos stared at him. "You cannot be serious," he said. "You wish to... punish me."

"Well didn't you get formal all of a sudden! I wanna beat your ass," Brok said flatly. "Same way your daddy did when you were a boy. Though, in your case, maybe he didn't. That might explain a few things about ya." He waved the paddle around in front of him. The air seemed to shimmer and crackle at its passage. "Just finished forgin' it, and I need somebody to test it out on. Bad timing you walked in when you did."

Kratos frowned, somehow doubting such a coincidence. "Then, if I submit myself... you will give us the passage rune to Nidavellir?"

Brok's face split again. "Sure. Hell, you can move in for all I care. I hardly ever spend any time there. But if you really want it... you gotta drop that cute lil loincloth first."

The spartan seethed. The very idea of what the dwarf proposed was repugnant. He had personally killed men for lesser insults. But as he worked his jaw, contemplating whether to wreak destruction on Brok's forge in retaliation for the suggestion, another thought occurred to him:

Mimir.

Even the God of Knowledge himself did not know the passage rune to the dwarven homeland. Only the dwarves did. And on Midgard, dwarves were rare indeed. If he didn't conscript Brok's help they might never reach their destination in time. And that would spell disaster, not only for the Nine Realms, but for Atreus as well.

"...My loincloth," he finally said, darkly. "I am not wearing anything... beneath."

"Well gosh," Brok said in mock-concern. "I was gonna let you preserve yer modesty, all dainty-like. But now I guess I got no choice but to take the flat of my hand to your bare, white, naked ass first."

Scowling, Kratos slowly undid his belt. His loincloth hit the temple floor.

Chapter Text

"Prepare thyself, villain!" Thor thundered as he hurtled forward, pulled by the power of Mjolner.

"Imperius Rex!" Namor shouted, not to be outdone, as he flew at supersonic speed himself.

"Hulk SMASH!" the gamma giant roared as he leaped forward with both massive arms ready to slam down.

"Yeah... what they said, bub," Wolverine put in as he brought up the rear.

And Thanos of Titan stood before the oncoming heroes, the majority of them with enough strength to level a building. Any other villain might have quailed at such an arrival. But against that incredible gathering of power, Thanos simply... smiled.

"You seek to fight me?" He raised his gauntleted left hand. "You'll soon find you cannot even keep from bawling under my might."

"No! The Gauntlet! Stop him, before he—"

They represented the strongest heroes Earth had to offer. Yet with nothing but a mere SNAP of the Mad Titan's fingers their entire situation shifted.

It was that cursed reality gem. In an instant, from one heartbeat to the next, Namor found his world turned upside down. Rather than flying at Thanos, he was suddenly held upright before him with his trunks pulled down to his winged ankles. Searing pain flashed through him as his bare buttocks were repeatedly struck by a conjured... paddle. It was too much to process at first, the king turned slave, and Namor gasped as a hard whack met him across both well-muscled cheeks at once. "AH!"

Beside him he could see the mutant outlaw/hero known as Wolverine writhing under his own paddling. The fast-tempoed spanks were enough to make his incredibly hairy rear redden and dance as he fruitlessly slashed at the air with his claws. "Argh!" he shouted as his berserker rage quickly turned to shock. "You gotta be flamin' KIDDING me!"

But it was no joke. On Namor's other side he saw the mighty God of Thunder in identical plight. Thor's pants had been ripped down to his knees, and the bare cheeks of his backside was contorting under a flurry of blows that could pain even a god. "Oof! You knave! Cease this depravity! Ah!" he demanded through gritted teeth. In response, the cracks against his beefy bottom only grew harder and he began to truly holler in agony. His hammer was nowhere in sight.

Even the largest and strongest of them all, the Incredible Hulk, had had his purple pants exploded off him and he was being held naked in mid-air. He howled as his big, muscular green ass bounced under countless paddle swats. "Aoww!" he shouted in pain and confusion. "Hulk... SPANKED!?"

Hulk spanked indeed. They were all spanked. And the most demeaning part was they knew it'd taken only a mere fraction of the Mad Titan's power to do it. If he wished he could simply erase the lot of them from existence with a thought. Instead he was toying with them—no, humiliating them. Just to show how far beneath him they truly were.

Namor gasped as another harsh crack met his tightly muscled bottom. Next to him, Wolverine cursed and snarled and twisted. Thor and Hulk both bellowed in tandem as they received hard thwacks across their rears at the same time. They were being treated like nothing so much as a group of unruly children who'd foolishly picked a fight with daddy.

And it wasn't just them, either. The sadistic gleam in Thanos's eyes told them that much. With dawning horror they each realized the truth.

Outside that battle, fully half the population of the universe was being spanked right alongside them...

Chapter Text

"Ouch! S-stop it!"

Krillin could hardly believe it. Not only had Perfect Cell created a number of small-bodied minions—so-called "Cell Jr's"—but they were nearly as strong as the android himself. Not only that, but they used some truly underhanded fighting techniques.

It was bad enough one had grabbed hold of him during their aerial dogfight. But why had it also... shoved Krillin's pants and underwear down to his knees?

The hapless Z Fighter got his answer as he was pinned across its lap in mid-air, butt naked and wiggling. Next thing he knew the artificial lifeform raised its hand, then started slapping his buns like they were going out of style!

"Owww! Ow ow ow owww!"

Krillin yelped and squawked in shock at the fight's turn. It wasn't his first time being spanked, sure, but he'd at least never gotten one in the middle of a fight! The rest of the Z Fighters looked at him askance, but otherwise kept zooming all around him, occupied with their own battles. Krillin could only wiggle in humiliation in the midst of it all as the Cell Jr spanked him good. Despite his best efforts his butt soon got red and throbbing, and it was all he could do to keep from yowling.

But at least, he soon realized, he wasn't the only one.

"Gah! S-stop!"

Owing to the spanking's proven effectiveness, the other Cell Jrs apparently wanted to get in on the fun too. From out of the corner of his eye, Krillin saw a pair of orange gi pants sail towards the ground. He looked and was greeted with the sight of Yamcha's bare ass, bent over just like his was. The Cell Jr who'd grabbed him cackled with unrestrained glee and raised its hand.

"Yoww! Quit it!"

Another cry rang out, this time from Tien. The bald-headed monk was gritting his teeth as he too was bent over, his smooth, muscular buttocks in a perfect position to be slapped.

And slapped they were.

"Aaaruurrggh!"

Even Goku, the strongest fighter among them, wasn't immune. He was saving his energy for the final conflict. He didn't have any to spare against Cell's minions, or even to keep his own pants up. His muscular buttocks bounced out, and the saiyan warrior kicked and squirmed under a painful punishment as two of the devilish Cell Jr's spanked him at once. "Owwwww!"

Krillin could hardly believe his eyes, even as tears threatened to blind them. In mere minutes nearly every Z Fighter—supposedly the strongest fighters on the planet—had been subdued and locked in place for... for good, hard spankings!

"Argh! Get your filthy hands off me!"

His pulse throbbing, Krillin turned his head.

There Vegeta, Prince of the Saiyans, had been cornered by three of the diminutive creatures. He launched his strongest attacks at them, but they met them with their own energy blasts without a flinch. Moments later they forced him over a knee despite his splutterings, then ripped a hole right in the seat of his spandex body-suit. Vegeta's ass was toned, dimpled, without an ounce of fat on the prideful cheeks. When his spanking started it felt like the death knell for their whole team.

If even the arrogant, egotistical Vegeta could be punished like a brat, could any of them escape?

Trunks and Piccolo were still fighting, but for how much longer was unclear. With the rest of the Z Fighters subdued, the remaining Cell Jrs were free to converge on them and wear them down through sheer attrition. Already, Trunks was growing distracted watching his father's ass flex, buck, and jerk under countless slaps. In the next instant, his own pants were ripped down too.

"Gah! Hey!"

Meanwhile, their only real hope stood in the square-patterned arena, staring Perfect Cell down. Son Gohan did his best to block out the sound of his friends and family being spanked and humiliated, knowing they were meant only to get to him. They were acting completely under Cell's will.

And from across the arena, Perfect Cell smirked.

Chapter Text

"Dude, do I have to?"

"Yes. Now get 'em off, unless you want me to burn 'em right off your butt."

Grunge frowned as he slowly peeled his tights down. Man, this sucked. Not only was he about to go over his teammate's knee buck-naked, there weren't even any chicks around to keep it from feeling gay.

Granted, it wasn't the first time for either him or Burnout in their respective positions. Back when Mister Lynch had first formed the team, the former I/O agent had had a heavy hand with everybody, always on their cases about learning to use their powers and focus on their teamwork. In the case of Grunge and Burnout, that heavy hand had been literal. They must've ridden his lap a hundred times each, butt cheeks squirming and bouncing, as he lectured them on all their various fuck-ups.

What made it even freakier though was that all happened before Mister Lynch even revealed he was secretly Burnout's dad!

But all that aside, to their surprise both young men found the constant spankings and lectures actually... helped. They were able to focus on their powers better, and the sense of accountability made them more aware their actions had consequences—at least, a little bit. So much so that, when the team eventually separated from Mister L, the two of them decided to keep the spankings up on their own.

Unfortunately, what that meant in practice was Grunge was mainly the one to go over Burnout's knee. The simple fact was he was way more impulsive and, well, 'naughty' than his straight-laced teammate. Not that Burnout didn't have his share of spankable moments. He just hid them better. Grunge gave a heavy sigh as he climbed over Burnout's lap once again.

"This is really uncool, dude..."

"Then stop screwing around. I don't exactly enjoy it from this end either."

Grunge pursed his lips, then sighed and gave a nod. Burnout had a point. But no matter how many times Grunge got punished, it was never any less embarrassing to be spanked by a teammate. Mister L had been one thing, but Burnout was his own age. They didn't have much choice though. They were the only two dudes on the team, and getting spanked by a girl would be way too kinky—they'd both agreed—to count as real punishment.

It was that vector of shared maleness that Grunge chose to utilize in order to argue his case. He knew it'd be pointless to protest his innocence, but maybe Burnout would go easy on him if he empathized with Grunge's plight? "Okay. But Bobby, c'mon man," he said as he got adjusted into position, bare ass hiked up. "This isn't that big a deal, right?"

"Not that big a deal?" Burnout spluttered. "Dude, you spied on Caitlin in the shower!"

"Heh, yeah, but I mean..." Grunge wiggled a little uncomfortably as he saw Burnout's hand lift up from the corner of his eye to take aim. "If you had a peephole into the girl's bathroom, wouldn't you use it?"

"What I'd do isn't the point." SMACK! Burnout's hand fell, good and hard, on Grunge's left ass cheek. He gave an in-drawn hiss of breath.

"Ouch! But c'mon dude. You know you would!"

"Whether I would or not doesn't really matter here, now does it?" Burnout said, rather icily. He raised his hand again. "Especially since you never told me about the peephole."

Oh. So that's how it is. Grunge blanched as he realized he may have made a tactical error—just as another hard smack met his butt. "Oww!" That was quickly followed up by nearly a dozen more that sent him bucking and bouncing. Okay, definitely an error. Burnout could spank surprisingly hard when he wanted, especially if he was annoyed. Maybe he'd inherited that from his dad.

"Oooh! Okay, okay, I screwed up!" Grunge admitted. "But it's Caitlin, dude. You know she'll forgive me!"

"Yeah, she will." Burnout took a break and lowered his palm, resting it on one of Grunge's warming buns. "Now let's talk about Sarah. I hear you were openly drooling over her by the pool again."

Grunge blanched. Had his teammates been making a list? "Well... she went skinny-dipping, bro!" Grunge puffed out his chest. "I'm a red-blooded American male, how could I not ogle that fine piece of boot-ay?"

"Granted. To be honest, I think everyone expects it from you by now. At least... until she asks you to stop. Which she did, repeatedly."

"Yeah, well uhh, you know..." Grunge deflated a bit as he couldn't exactly think of a defense for that. Burnout just sighed and raised his hand again.

SMACK! CRACK! WHACK!

"YEOOWW! Ooh, ooh ouch! That smarts, dude!"

"Good. Okay, last one is Roxy... Um." He paused to consider. "I was never quite clear on what you did to Roxy, actually. I just know she's pissed at you."

"Uhh, to be honest dude, I think she's mad at me because I didn't ogle her at the pool or peek on her in the shower."

Burnout rolled his eyes. "Wonderful. Well in any case, all three of them asked me to punish you, so that's exactly what I'm going to do."

"Well okay, okay." Grunge wiggled his reddened butt. "You've punished me, man. I've learned my lesson! Now we can let bygones be bygones, right?"

"Not quite yet. They did have one other condition."

"Huh?"

Burnout's gen-active powers activated. There was the familiar sound and feel of heated plasma around his body. Grunge turned his head in shock. To his surprise he saw Burnout had activated his powers, but only around his hand. The same hand that was now rising, slowly and purposely, over Grunge's bare, beefy, helplessly clenched ass.

Oh this was gonna suck.