Little Mr. Rumble by KrishnaKarnak

(Gusty / Rumble)

F/m, otk, hairbrush, corner, pajamas, non-consensual

 

(20/04/2016)

 

 

---

 

“No, you go wait in the bathroom! Rumble, I said go on! Draw your bath for me. Now, Thunder… Thunder! Thunderlane, you get back—”

 

Slam. He left through the front door, fuming in rage. Staring blankly at the fluttering curtain on the door window in defeat, his mother massaged her forehead for a few seconds. He had done this before; Thunderlane was a pretty melodramatic teenaged colt fast approaching stallionhood, and it's not the first time he stormed out of the house when things didn't go his way.

 

Rumble slumped off to the bathroom with his ears drooped and tail tucked close to his legs. Gusty Sunbeams breathed a good, heavy sigh, and walked into the kitchen. Leaning against the counter on her hind legs, she folded her forehooves and shook her orange creamsicle mane.

 

That had been a long fight. Brothers fought and her boys were no exception, but that was pretty crazy. Slowly, it dawned on her that she's going to have to deal with Rumble properly at bedtime, little that she wanted to. He started the fight when he threw Thunderlane’s book into the fireplace. How unlike him! The colt was mad at his big brother all day, since Thunderlane refused to take him camping with him.

 

Thunderlane responded to Rumble's declaration of war by sending Rumble's favourite toys, his green plastic guard pony collection, into the hell maw to join the book. When Gusty told him off for the petty revenge, explaining he’s old enough to know better and that he should have waited for her to speak with his baby brother, he snapped at her and marched out.

 

“Into the tub. Go on,” she instructed, finding Rumble standing by the filling bathtub and poking at the water.

 

She lifted him up and dropped him into the half filled bathtub with a splash. Rumble seemed to know he had gotten himself into trouble, but there was definitely a part of him that felt justified. That's something Gusty needed to address.

 

“Rumble?” she started, taking the soap and dropping it in the water. “We've got to have a chat.”

 

“Mmhmm…” he replied gloomily, picking up the bubble bath and emptying half the bottle onto his belly before shuffling under the pouring water. “It was Brother's fault, Mommy…”

 

“I think he should have said he'd take you, but that was his decision, Rumble!” she scolded, taking the bottle from him. “I was going to try to talk him into it, you know that?”

 

Rumble frowned, slumping into the water down to his chin.

 

“I didn't know…”

 

“But you DO know what you did wrong?” she pressed on, fishing out the soap and giving it to him.

 

“N-nothin’!” he groaned defiantly, flicking his tail in the water.

 

“It was not nothing, young colt!” Gusty said in a raised voice, causing Rumble's ears to snap back. She sank onto the floor to put him on the same eye level. “Tell me what you did wrong!”

 

“I…” Rumble huffed, looked into her eyes, and realised he was not winning. “I burned his book…”

 

“And yelled at him all day. And called him names, Rumble. Am I right?” she demanded, switching off the faucet.

 

“Y-yes, Mommy…” Rumble admittedly with an apologetic look, jutting out his bottom lip.

 

“You knew he was almost done that novel! You knew he had been reading all yesterday to try to finish!” Gusty continued bitterly, looking at him with cold sternness in her gaze. “How could you, Rumble? I would never have thought my baby boy could be so malicious!”

 

“I'm sorry, Mommy!” Rumble apologized, having the grace to look ashamed as he pulled down the wash cloth from the rack above the tub.

 

“I’m sorry, but ‘sorry’ isn't going to cut it.”

 

But he burned my t-toys!” Rumble argued, sounding close to tears, sitting in the water and glaring at the bubbles. “He called me things, too! H-he…”

 

“I’ll deal with your big brother when he gets home, but you're getting dealt with first,” Gusty explained, getting up from the bath side and looking down at him in disappointment.

 

“M-Mommy?” he asked cautiously, looking up at her with fear in his eyes.

 

“Nothing gives you the right to ruin his things, same as he has no right to ruin yours. Now, you wash up,” she told him firmly, turning and leaving the bathroom. At the door, she halted and turned to face him once more. “And at bedtime, you're going to get a spanking, Rumble.”

 

She whiled away Rumble's bath by tidying up the kitchen and putting her clean dishes away. As little as she wanted Rumble to spend a relaxing bathtime dreading getting his bottom smacked, she never let her colts face discipline out of nowhere. They always knew it was coming. Surely, the psychology of it was part of the punishment.

 

Gusty stopped by the clock. It was stylized like her cutie mark, which was a green silhouette of a windmill, only the third blade was unmarked by a short or long arrow on her clock. Thunderlane wasn’t going to be let back in the house until morning if he didn’t get his overdramatic butt back here soon. The last time, he actually took off to a friend’s house for the whole night. So it was possible he wouldn’t even get home.

 

“If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll march back here and apologize…” Gusty grumbled to herself.

 

She heard the water begin to drain from the tub. Returning to her youngest child, she found Rumble still sitting in the water, looking utterly devastated. His mane was sopping wet and he looked clean, so at least he did actually wash himself this time.

 

“Here,” his mother offered, taking a folded towel from the cabinet by the toilet and giving it to him. “So you don’t get my floor all wet. Then you go straight to your room and I’ll get you ready for bed.”

 

Rumble’s eyes widened. “But M-Mooom! C-can’t I s-stay up a little b-bit longer?”

 

The smallest pang of sympathy would buy him a very short respite, but it was pointless to delay something unpleasant.

 

“Do you want me to read to you?” Gusty asked, watching him towel his mane into a chaotic mess and dry off his limbs.

 

Rumble’s face grew a little red and he tapped his hooves together, the towel slipping from his croup to the floor. After a few seconds, he nodded. The mare walked over and picked the towel up, drying him off herself from wings to tail.

 

“Good. You toss that towel in the hamper and meet me in there,” she instructed, jerking her head toward his bedroom. She went back to the cabinet and retrieved a hefty wooden hairbrush with a round head and a short handle. “Don’t dawdle.”

 

The hairbrush... this was going to be the first time, she reminded herself. Rumble had only ever gotten the hoof before. She would need to decide on a number of smacks to give him, or at least a time limit, maybe.

 

In Rumble's bedroom, Gusty opened his dresser’s top drawer and extracted his sky-blue dropseat pajamas with the footies. She placed it on his bed beside the brush and picked a book off the shelf.

 

She mimed throwing it into a fireplace and laughing deviously at an invisible brother for a moment, before rolling her eyes wearily and laying it on the bed, too. Rumble appeared to be dragging his hooves. When he did finally arrive on the scene, his head was hung low to the floor.

 

“C’mon, darling, up you get,” Gusty said, trying to impose some cheerfulness into the proceedings.

 

She plopped her boy onto his mattress and unzipped his pajamas. Rumble looked momentarily hopeful before he spotted the buttoned dropseat on the back, his expression—and ears—drooping. Gusty figured he expected a tamer spanking over pajamas, but the poopflap eliminated such a dream. She helped him into it and zipped it up to his neck.

 

And then plopped him face down over her knees as she dropped into a seat on the bed. Rumble’s limbs immediately went into a panicked, mid-air tap dance as they wiggled about two feet from the floor, his wings flapping in protest, before Gusty grabbed one and began to preen it.

 

“Zimmer down,” Gusty said through a mouthful of feathers. “Momma gotta, Wumble.”

 

“Mooom, I… oh…” Rumble mumbled, relaxing cautiously, though obviously still in no desire to be in such a position.

 

Gusty took care to yank any bent feathers and to carefully arrange the others in neat rows, straightening them out best as she could. A few feathers fell to the floor, Rumble wincing and eeking prematurely, no doubt. He kicked out his hooves when a particularly stubborn one came loose and moaned with displeasure.

 

“I’ve already got one drama queen of a boy, Rums, I don’t need two,” Gusty sighed, examining her work. “I’ll read to you now, alright?”

 

Rumble nodded and she pulled him off her lap again, laying down with him and picking the book up. It was a long tale of pegasi in a fantasy world working together to use the magic of friendship to fight off a bunch of giants from breaking into their walled city. Rumble begged her to continue after a particularly exciting chapter, but she closed it and carried it over to the shelf.

 

The evening was winding down. Rumble was beginning to really get sleepy now; Gusty saw that his eyes were barely staying open, even though they looked anxious and fearful. He did have a long, exciting day, even with the fight, and baths always made him tired. Well, she figured, no use wasting anymore time.

 

Gusty picked up the hairbrush and stood in front of the bed. She told Rumble to flip over onto his belly. Because she had never used the hairbrush to spank her youngest colt before, he might incorrectly assume he was about to get his tail brushed. Well, in a manner of speaking…

 

She put the brush into her mouth for safe keeping when Rumble moved. Then she swooped down, hesitating briefly, but resolved to not waste any more time. She reached her hooves out to either button holding the butt flap closed and swiftly undid them. Rumble realized too late what was happening as she pulled the flap against his back and dock. She lifted it up and secured it to two more buttons on his back, just below the wing holes. Not only did this setup prevent the tail from getting in the way of a sleepy colt doing his business in the middle of the night, but it prevented a naughty colt’s tail from shielding his bare bottom.

 

“Mommy!” Rumble squeaked, flipping onto his butt and moving away from her. “I’m sorry, really! Leave my flap close—” His frightened mind seemed to be going into overdrive when he saw she was still holding the hairbrush in her mouth. Rumble’s tired eyes flew open, as wide as tea saucers. “NOT THE HAIRBRUSH, MOMMY!”

 

Gusty nodded solemnly and sat back down, twisting around to look expectantly at her son. Taking the hairbrush out with her right hoof, she extended the left back to him.

 

“You’re old enough for this, Rumble. Now, come on; you don’t want to make this worse, sweetheart.”

 

Rumble’s eyes were already filling with tears. He blinked them away, looking terrified as he gazed into his mother’s face.

 

“P-please, Mommy! I’m s-sorry!” he choked out as he sniffled. “I’m really s-s-sorry!”

 

“NOW, Rumble,” Gusty said with a bite of impatience. “Face this like a big boy, c’mon. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can brush that messy mane out.”

 

The prospect did not win him over. However, when she made to lean back and grab him forcefully, he gulped, snorted back a wet drip of snot that was dangerously close to falling off his snout, and shuffled forward inch by inch. She made him crawl off the bed and go around to her right side and helped pull him over properly. Gusty could feel Rumble’s body shaking.

 

“You did wrong, Rumble,” she reminded him, rubbing his back gently with her left hoof. “But this will be over soon, I promise. Your brother will forgive you in time, I’m sure, and you know your slate is clean when this is good and toasty,” she assured him, patting the middle of his cheeks with the brush and making his limbs curl.

 

“M-Mommy!” he sobbed, covering his head with his front hooves.

 

Gusty Sunbeams readjusted him slightly, angling his upper body to be more on the bed and allowing his back hooves the freedom to flail about without catching the bedsheet or the bedside table. She rubbed his right cheek with the back of the heavy brush, feeling anxious herself, now. Moving to the left, she repeated in her head the number she had decided earlier that day for Rumble’s first hairbrush spanking.

 

‘40.’

 

Part of her really, really didn’t want to do this. Rumble’s spankings were few and far between and this was going to be a lot worse for him, but his behaviour was really disgusting that day. She raised both of them to be respectful of each other’s possessions, and he had thrown her teachings out of the window.

 

Gusty brought the brush up and took aim. Both cheeks were flexing in fearful anticipation, framed by the blue fabric all around them, of no protection whatsoever. Finally, she delivered swat number one. Rumble jumped as the brush smacked across his left cheek. It would be all downhill from here for him.

 

“Ooowiiieee!”

 

She swung again. With this position, all she would need to do is wrap her left hoof snugly across his back and he’d be able to flail around as much as he wanted, unable to prevent the crack, crack, crack of the punishment as he cried his little heart out beneath the ministrations of that heavy round brush, with its head big enough to easily cover most of either cheek.

 

However, he was keeping himself impressively composed. He whined out on the second and third spanks, his dock twitching and back hooves rubbing together. Gusty moved from the left cheek to the right, a light tint of pink appearing there by the time smack four crashed down.

 

“Ooow! Ooowwwiiieee! Ow! Mommy! OW!” Rumble hissed through gritted teeth, his back rigid and head elevated.

 

She was impressed at his stoicism. Rumble, despite his fears and protests, seemed determine to take it as good as he could. However, once the number of swats started reaching the teens, his bare gray cheeks lightening with colour, his voice started to crack whenever he cried out.

 

“A-aaah! OUCH! Aaa-haaah!”

 

She was spanking a bit harder now that his tush was good and warmed up. They were spaced out enough to not completely overwhelm him, though she intended the last ten to be a good flurry. Rumble’s head dipped low onto his forehooves and he buried his face into them. His tail waved uselessly by his side and his wings flexed under her hoof. When the fifteenth swat clapped against the lower portion of his left cheek, Rumble let out his first real sob and never recovered.

 

Each smack made him moan and eek and whine and squeak louder and louder. His breathing was ragged and he was no longer rigid. Rumble writhed beneath her grip and his back hoofsies kicked out with each and every whack of that brush.

 

“OOOWWW-AAAHHH! MOOO-OOOMMYYY!” he bawled out, his forehooves scrunching the bedsheets between them.

 

Gusty looked over and saw his fetlocks were already peppered with dark tear stains and runoff from his snout. His wails continued and he started kicking wildly, no longer in beat with each deflation of his butt cheeks under that awful hairbrush. After another ten spanks, Rumble howled and blubbered, thrashing against her as he fought for release. There was an angry red band across the middle of his fanny, where she had focused on the centre.

 

“We’re almost done,” she cooed him, heart breaking as his cries continued to crash upon her ears. “Almost there...”

 

She increased the speed of the spanking, but kept the force fairly medium. Rumble screeched loudly she galloped towards thirty, tugging on his earsies and crying into the sheets. On the last leg of the spanking, she brought down the hairbrush without pause, one smack after another.

 

WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK!

 

“WAAA-AAAH-HAAA-AAAHHH! MOOO-OOO-OOOMMY! WAAAH!”

 

WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK!

 

And just like that, they were done. Her own hooves were shaking, too, as she laid the brush down beside her tail. Rumble’s backside was mostly red now, with patches of pink dotted here and there where she had not concentrated the hairbrush enough. But she didn’t care; his punishment was over, that was the main thing.

 

She let him continue to bawl and cough, rubbing his back through his pajamas, right between the wing joints. After a minute, she gently lifted him into a sitting position and wrapped her wings around him, squeezing him tight to her chest while carefully avoiding putting any pressure against his blazing bottom.

 

“You let it all out, Rums. There we go, that's it. It’s all over.”

 

Gusty rocked him in her hooves, stroking his messy mane and wiping his tear-streaked face, making him squint his bloodshot eyes. She knew he had learned his lesson now. However, she stood up and laid him carefully onto his hooves.

 

“Rumble, you go stand in the corner for a few minutes until you calm down, okay?” she told him, leading him over beside his desk.

 

“Y-y-yes, M-Mommy…” he mumbled without complaint.

 

She got him to stand up and lay his face onto his folded forehooves, up on his hind legs, and he cried with renewed vigour. The poor colt must have been exhausted. She told him not to move and stood back, watching him for a few seconds, his very chastised cheeks practically glowing with warmth as they quivered and flexed, on full display.

 

Gusty went to retrieve the brush and straightened out his bed covers. She was about to place it on the table to brush his mane and tail out when her ears perked up. The front door creaked. Rumble wiped his nose and turned his head toward the door to his bedroom.

 

“Rumble, eyes to the wall!” she commanded quickly.

 

With a frightened squeak, he snapped back into place and squeezed his cheeks together. Turning away from that maddeningly adorable sight, she swooped out of the room hastily on rapid wing beats and confronted her eldest son as he tried to sneak quietly into the house.

 

“O-oh, Mom!” Thunderlane coughed, closing the front door behind him and leaning against it. “Hi…”

 

“Where have you been?” Gusty demanded, jabbing the brush she didn’t even realize she was still holding at him. “And how dare you storm off like that!”

 

“But I…” he paused, looking at the brush. “Uh why do you have…”

 

Gusty looked at it too.

 

“Your baby brother just had a spanking,” she informed him, folding her forehooves and tapping the brush against her side. “Anything you feel you have to say on the matter?” she pressed him with a furrowed brow. “Anything to get off your chest?”

 

Thunderlane’s lip curled into a smug smile which he wiped off his face when he saw the electricity in his mother’s eyes.

 

“Well, that’s good, I guess… I mean, I totally didn’t want Rumble to get into trouble,” Thunderlane went on with a most convincing shrug, “but it serves the little scamp right, and—OW!”

 

Gusty grabbed him by the left ear and wrenched it tight.

 

“No apologies, huh? What about his toys, Thunder? What about YOUR attitude? The name calling and trying to intimidate your baby brother? Are you not the older one here?” she demanded, giving him a swat with the brush to get him flying down the hallway. “What about shouting at me and storming off? Rumble wasn't the only colt in very, VERY big trouble, young stallion! Only he’s paid his price already!”

 

“But, but…” he protested, face reddening with embarrassment. “Listen, Mom! You’re being—”

 

“Move, Thunderlane! Into that corner!” she snapped, herding him into his own bedroom. “You can hold the hairbrush you’ll be getting for your warm up for a bit. I just need to finish brushing out Rumble’s mane, first. You don’t mind waiting, do you?” she asked darkly.

 

“W-WHAT DO Y-YOU MEAN, ‘WARM-UP’?!” he protested, turning around.

 

“Don’t you talk or move!” Gusty pressed against his back and pushed his snout so far into the corner it was touching both walls.

 

She scolded him for another minute or so, insisting that he make peace with his brother in the morning after they had both paid penance for the day’s events. Promising him that woe betide him if he dared to move an inch, she returned to Rumble’s bedroom. It was time she put her youngest pony to bed at long last.

 

END