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Relegation Penalty

Coach Paddlem announced that, as Randy Sommers has solely responsible for the College team’s championship loss, he would be assisting the amateur Kick-boxers with their practice sessions for the rest of the season!

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“Thanks For The Spanks” Art and Fiction by FunkyMonster

In the quiet town of Willowbrook, a peculiar tradition thrived behind the white picket fences and within the walls of the Turner family’s grand, ancestral home. Every year, as the autumn leaves painted the town in fiery hues, the extended family gathered for a Thanksgiving feast like no other. The patriarch, George Turner, a man whose stern demeanor was as constant as the tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway, had instilled in his sons a very specific way of expressing their gratitude. It was a tradition that had been passed down through generations, a bizarre yet cherished ritual that was as much a part of their holiday as the roast turkey and pumpkin pie.

The house buzzed with excitement as the extended family began to arrive. The aroma of roasting meats and baking bread filled the air, mingling with the laughter of children playing outside. The women of the family, dressed in their Sunday best, bustled about the kitchen, preparing the sumptuous feast that was the centerpiece of their celebration. The men, in their crisp shirts and tailored slacks, congregated in the living room, sharing stories and sipping on sweet apple cider, their faces alight with the warmth of camaraderie and anticipation of the evening’s peculiar entertainment.

The youngest son, Timmy, though 15, was already well-versed in the peculiar tradition. He watched his uncles with a mix of awe and trepidation, knowing that one day, he too would stand in their place. The older boys and men, their faces a spectrum of ages from teenage to middle-aged, chuckled and whispered among themselves, sharing memories of past Thanksgiving spankings. The atmosphere was light, yet charged with a palpable tension that only grew as the dinner plates were cleared and the desserts set out.

George, his eyes twinkling with both mischief and affection, called the sons to the center of the room. “Gentlemen,” he announced, “It’s time for our annual show of thanks.” The women and children gathered around, curious and excited, as the sons lined up before their fathers. The room fell silent, save for the crackling fireplace and the occasional giggle from a young cousin. The fathers, each one sterner than the last, took their places behind their boys, their large hands resting on the small of their backs.

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Reality Check – Illustrated Fiction bt Kinky Callum

Reality Check!

The room was dim, its corners swallowed by shadows that seemed to pulse with the faint hum of distant city traffic. A single lamp cast a sickly yellow glow over a cluttered desk, where half-empty bottles and crumpled papers lay scattered. The air was thick with smoke, curling lazily from the tip of a cigarette held between the fingers of a man half-hidden in the darkness. His face was barely discernible, features obscured by the haze and the deliberate angle of his body, but his presence was undeniable—coiled, watchful, dangerous.

On the screen before him, the flickering light from the monitor outlined the stern face of a bald man, muscles taut beneath his shirt, his jaw set in a hard line. He sat with a rigid posture, his eyes cold and unreadable, as if he had seen far too much to be impressed by anything anymore. The faint sound of a clock ticking somewhere in the room only served to heighten the tension between them.

The shadowy figure exhaled, the smoke drifting across his face as he tapped a few keys, sending a link through the encrypted channel. “Watch this,” he murmured, his voice thin and raspy, almost a growl.

The bald man glanced at his screen, his thick fingers moving with surprising speed as he opened the link. The video began to play—a montage of an influencer and Lust Island reality tv star named @AdamFitCoach, a young Englishman in his early twenties, his energy palpable through the screen. He was the picture of youthful arrogance, all lean abs and pecs, cocky grins. His deep Essex accent filled the room as he guided his audience through a series of exercises: squats, jumping jacks, weightlifting. His commentary was playful, teasing, with an undercurrent of self-assuredness that bordered on arrogance.

Adam was dressed in his usual outfit—snug gym shorts that clung to his muscular thighs and an oversized, meaty ass that seemed almost exaggerated beneath the fabric. His black spandex top stretched across his chest and arms, showcasing his lean physique, while blue football socks completed the look, a nod to his past as a semi-pro footballer. He moved with a fluid confidence, every gesture meant to flaunt, to entice.

The bald man watched the video in silence, his expression hardening with each passing second. When the video finally ended, he grunted, a deep, guttural sound that spoke of disapproval—or perhaps something else entirely. “He’s famous,” the bald man said, his Eastern European accent thick, each word deliberate. “Tall. Strong. It will cost extra.”

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