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Secret Longings: One Boy's Experience With American School Discipline
Secret Longings: One Boy's Experience With American School Discipline The sight of another boy's bared bottom receiving corporal punishment from an older male of authority could never fail to please my eye from a very early age; but I could not even begin to understand my fascination until puberty hit me around age 12. Then, pleasing the eye quickly dove-tailed with other important self-discoveries. In any case, when it was my turn to have other boys stare at my reddening derrière, well, that wasn't nearly so pleasant, at least not at first.
Where I lived and in my era, it seemed to be the general parental consensus that spanking, paddling or belt whipping a deserving young male just didn't seem complete, if not a small shame unless there were witnesses, other boys I mean, either older or younger in attendance to witness. Girls, by the way, were not allowed to watch us boys get punishments and vice versa.
In my first three elementary school years, ages six to nine, spankings were given by our principal, Mr. Richardson, bare hand to bare bottom over Mr. Richardson's knee in his office. The only boys to witness those spankings were other boys who were also getting spankings that afternoon.
My first mischief in school started in second grade after I had just turned eight. I was talking out of turn to another boy and generally not paying attention. My teacher, Ms. Morrison, sent me and the other boy I had been talking to in my class down to the principal's office and we joined three other boys from other classes that afternoon.
Mr. Richardson marshaled the five of us into his private office, closed the door and made us stand in a semi-circle in front of the chair he used for punishment. He sat down in the chair and pointing to the first boy, took him between his knees, gave him a brief lecture about his behavior and then the boy had to raise his arms and suffer Mr. Richardson taking down his trousers and underwear.
I had been both a witness to other boys' spankings in their homes as well as spanked in front of other boys my age at my home by my dad from about my kindergarten years and on up. I don't know why, but doing this in the principal's office at school rather than at home seemed to trigger my very first focused excitements. In any case, as the boy's bare bottom came into view, I felt a definite blush of my face and my heart started to pound. Mr. Richardson then laid the boy across his knees, the boy's body kind of suspended off the floor in an odd looking "w" shape, his buttocks pouched upwards at the peak of Mr. Richardson's big knee.
My eye didn't know where to focus at first, on the boy's helpless on-the-verge-of-tears facial expression or on the way his bared upturned bottom cheeks rested so innocently over the principal's lap. But it only took a few hard spanks for my eye to settle on his rapidly reddening cheeks as he quickly broke down and started to blubber and beg for the spanking to stop. I glanced at the other boys. All of them seemed nearly as entranced as I was. In any case, I watched two boys get their bottoms turned to a bright crimson before it was my turn.
I could never remember anything of the short lecture that Mr. Richardson gave me that first time, only his big hands lowering my clothing and baring my bottom and then him putting me over his knee. I do recall the weird sensation of how easily and naturally my hips and considerable bottom mounds seemed to jut upwards as if begging to be spanked!
Of course, then the painful spanks started to rain down. In those early years, I could blubber with the best of them, my poor cheeks burning and stinging, my mind swearing to never let it happen again. Somehow, those oaths never gained recollection, much less fulfillment.
Then, when I turned ten, we 4th grade boys boasted that we no longer were going to get "baby" spankings from Principal Richardson. We would now get "big boy" paddlings and we knew the procedure would be different for us older boys as well. 4th graders bared their own bottoms and laid themselves over the side of the principal's desk, not over his lap. It seemed like a young male rite of passage.
In fact, if a boy in my age group did not get a proper paddling over the principal's desk side by a few months into the new fall school year, he might be labeled as a "pansy" among some of us. I made sure I got my first paddling within a week; I wanted to be one of the first just to get away from any peer pressure. It was easy. Some boy hacked me off during recess while we were playing kick-ball and I just pushed him into the dirt. The recess teacher reported me to my classroom teacher and off I went to Principal Richardson's office at the appointed hour for older boys later that day.
There were four of us that afternoon and as it happened, we had all seen each other spanked over the principal's lap in earlier years, so it kind of felt like a smug little reunion of sorts. The principal brought the first boy forward and told him the procedure. No more helpless standing between the principal's knees to be disrobed, no Sir! I keenly watched as the smirking boy shucked down his own trousers and underwear to his ankles and then proudly lay his own body over the angle of the principal's desk side.
The paddle in the principal's fist didn't seem so intimidating either. It was really just a ping-pong paddle without the usual red or blue rubberized covering. Then, as my eye zeroed in on the boy's white bottom cheeks, the principal started to pop the boy with a series of rapid licks that quickly reminded him and all of us that no matter how grown-up we all thought we were, that little paddle quickly brought us all back to the reality of tears and even outright bawling!
My prideful countenance fell like a rock as my three compatriots before me all crumpled under that little paddle's fierce lesson-making and then, when it was my turn, I actually found myself pouting and wishing for the simple hand spanks of earlier years. I held out to the last moment that, just maybe, the other three boys were wimps. I gamely stepped forward, undid my own trousers and pushed them with my white briefs to my ankles. I bent over and discovered that Principal Richardson's cold wood desk top sure was a lot different than his lap.
I crossed my fingers that I could hold out versus that little paddle, but no luck. In fact, as just the first four or five pops stung my bared bum, I involuntarily burst out into a round of hard loud sobs that so embarrassed me, I cried even harder than the paddle's sting really called for! Some reunion, huh? I'll never forget that as we four sheepishly retreated from Mr. Richardson's office that afternoon rubbing our burning seats, one of the boys bitterly mumbled,
"I never want to have to do that again!" Back then, I couldn't have agreed more.
Some dads gave extra punishment to their sons later at home after reading and signing the required written report of school discipline received in those early days of elementary school, some didn't. Mine was of the opinion that I was likely to earn a spanking of some kind in one way or the other separate from school, so he didn't. He was right, I did. So did the other boys behave better than I did because their dads always doubled up with home punishment after each school discipline? I never thought so.
* * * * * * * * * *
That was just the beginning. In my time, eighth graders talked about their impending entrance into freshman ninth grade high school status as if it was both the pinnacle of their lives as well as a good time to maybe think about avoiding further corporal punishments. Yes, they had been painfully paddled with the junior high coach's appropriate sized oak wood implement during their two junior high years, but nothing compared to the longer, blistering hard bare bottomed punishment paddlings that were promised high school aged boys from the first day of their young freshman lives and clear to graduation as seniors.
I can well recall a birthday party I attended during my 7th grade junior high year of a fifteen year old neighbor boy, in my eyes a vaunted and envied high school freshman. After the party was well done, he regaled a small group of us younger junior high aged boys to the terrors of being on the receiving end of high school Coach Phil Britten's "giant" paddle.
We junior high boys were used to paddle swats in our P.E. classes, but only three to five bare bottom stingers. We thought that was a lot until this boy described his painful experience with bare bottom swats given with a paddle that he made sound like the size of a wall and at that, ten was the minimum number of licks for a boy in high school. Some boys he described got something closer to twenty licks!
By my 7th grade year, it seemed a minor crime among us to be caught crying after a school paddling; but in high school, we all conjectured it would be more like a social felony. The boy added much doubt to our perceptions, saying that if a high school aged boy got into really bad trouble, the coach would be sure to paddle him until he was really crying, begging like a little boy for it to stop or in any case, he would suffer black and blue marks that would last for a few days. Talk about terrorizing us all into soft mutterings. Was high school going to be a proud privilege or a harsh jail sentence?
But despite the anxieties attendant to moving from junior high status and into high school realms, nothing much could have ever matched moving from our pre-pubescent primary education years into our junior high school years, complete with new male rites of passage. There, we experienced the collision of hormone driven puberties with forced physical self-revelations that made earlier peer socialization events at home or even at summer camps seem like child's play.
The junior high coach's paddle looked huge to us and most assuredly a thing to try and avoid, but did we? No, not really. Was the new forced public nudity an unwanted distraction? Perhaps for most, but for me it was a revelation. I had discovered masturbation the summer before, using my fascination with my own and other boys' primary school punishment experiences as grist, now I had new cause and impetus as my eyes darted comparative glances around the locker room.
That first morning of stripping naked for P.E. class in a junior high gym locker room, shoving your civvies into a locker, dressing in proper uniform and then rushing out to not be late for class started it. Stripping naked a second time after class and taking showers together in a large tiled public shower room helped to expand my revelation. The capper had to be our first introduction to public bare ass paddlings after our showers. My fascinations seemed sealed for all time after that.
Our coach would time our exercise or sports activities to be able to fit in any paddlings that needed to be accomplished after our showers and before we needed to move on to our next class periods. We would all have to emerge from the showers, towels around our waists or just holding them in front of our nakedness in nervous hands, gathered in a big circle around the boy or boys to be punished that class period.
I made sure to loosely wrap my towel around my small waist, deathly afraid that I would be caught reacting in a very predictable and humiliating way. I did this for weeks as boy after boy found many ways to screw-up and have to get bare bottom licks after showers in front of us all.
Then after school at home alone in my room, I would strip off my school clothes including my underwear and casually recline on my bed, head on my pillow. Over time, I learned the best way for me was to grasp my erection in one fist and then rub my erected nipples with a finger-tip of the other hand.
My mind would utilize and meld freshly acquired images and sounds; the swinging paddle's blur, the harsh crack of wood on tender flesh, an anguished grimace, forced grunt or helpless yelp and the inevitable pair of cupped hands gently cradling the boy's own red-roasted aftermath. My mouth would form into a final moaning O-shape as a rumbling climax ripped my tensed body followed closely by a fountain of creamy pleasure that spattered my tummy, chest and even lightly frosted clear up to my chin.
My first P.E. class paddling was as inevitable as it was pathetic. For all my caution, it was a simple but common error, improper P.E. kit, the lack of the required jockstrap supporter that bought me my first junior high locker room paddling. Coach never told us how many licks we would be suffering and I had all forty some minutes of class time to think about it. Talk about chagrinned; I got knowing-looks all class long and turned out to be the only boy who had erred that period.
We boys sometimes verbally teased and covertly physically taunted those boys with early condemnation to after shower discipline and open swagger from the guilty party was for fools. Such a boy daring a smirky attitude during class or too much macho countenance as you dropped your towel towards grabbing your ankles and your three modest pops could easily turn into five tortuous fiery licks that would force tears and helpless screams.
I opted to quietly absorb my peers' gleeful looks and covert tingling hand spanks during class that day and upon emerging from the showers stepped into the center of the circle of my staring peers with a humbled and worried expression. I didn't need to be told as Coach waited for me to drop my towel, turn my back to him, spread my feet and bend over to tightly grasp my ankles.
Coach sidled up next to me, said "three!" and I closed my eyes. Maybe it was only three, but by then, Coach was sick and tired of uniform errors. Even the first swat had me gasping for breath, making me wish for the good old days of Principal Richardson's ping-pong paddle. The other two licks forced a couple of pretty crisp yelps and assurance of watery eyes after I was allowed to stand back up and go through my own post-paddling touchy-feely.
That afternoon alone in my room, however, brought a constellation of new pleasures for my troubles. I shucked off my trousers and underwear and two still very pink but no longer pained bottom cheeks greeted my eyes in my floor length bedroom mirror, quickly followed by a very urgent need to spank the monkey.
I elected to stand there, rub my palm over and across my paddled rear and via an accidental stray finger-tip, discovered that my tight little boy hole had much to contribute to a wild orgasm that quickly had that mirror surface running with a huge spattering of my juices.
Shortly after, I would start to wonder if other boys masturbated themselves over thoughts of corporal punishments of their peers and much later did the thought of a boy's body, especially his non-red buttocks and equipment out front start to interest me. Until then, I would find fun ways to reproduce those first junior high sensations sans putting myself unnecessarily in harm's way at school.
* * * * * * * * * *
Summer camp between my 7th and 8th junior high grades contributed to my emerging erotic fascinations mostly because of Mark Britten. Mark was the eighteen year old son of high school physical education teacher and coach, Philip Britten, renowned for his skill at putting boys to tears from his legendary bare butt paddlings in the high school's gym department. In those days, senior high school boys served as camp counselors for us younger boys up at Lake Trillium.
I was in a cabin full of mischievous thirteen and fourteen year olds that session, all of us used to junior high school level punishments for poor behavior. Did summer camp mean we cooled our jets? No way. For that reason, Mark, our counselor, had the ability to use a junior high sized paddle that hung up inside the cabin on our bare butts for discipline. This was a first however for all of us, an older teen punishing us younger teens and it affected me much differently than getting punishment from my father or my junior high Coach.
Some of us were not that much smaller than Mark and besides the fact that he needed to shave at least once every two or three days, most of the time it seemed like he was just "one of the boys" and even acted like it. When a camper screwed up and he announced a paddling was needed, well, it was just like being in junior high, but even Mark didn't look entirely very adult when he paddled a camper and back then, I could sense the difference.
Adults, most that I ran into anyway, seemed far too removed in time from their own youthful fiery bare butt hells to remember what it was like or act like Mark did. In fact, Mark Britten had been known to still be paddled in high school and by his dad only weeks before his duties at summer camp that year.
I just somehow sensed that he might even be enjoying his disciplinary duties in the same way I enjoyed them. It was just the way his eyes sparkled, his tongued wagged to one side of his mouth or the way he chewed on his lower lip during his first punishments of us campers that gave me a clue.
Believe me, I kept my eye peeled for evidence, but it was not long before I would gather firsthand experience. Mark caught a cabin mate and I horse-playing in the showers one evening after camp fire and after marshaling us all back to our cabin, grabbed the paddle from the wall and his face just seemed to glow in general as he looked at both of us, then motioned for the other boy to take bare butt licks first. It would be just like with his dad after P.E. class showers, bare ass, bent over and grabbing your ankles.
I paid attention to Mark's slow patient movements, how he brandished the paddle and took his time rubbing it over the other boy's bare ass, Mark's eyes scanning up and down the boy's ass and legs. Adults never did that. Then I watched Mark's face as he swung the paddle back high and then swooping it in a downward arc, made the expected loud crack of wood on flesh. His lips formed a satisfied pucker and then he grinned widely as he kept the paddle pressed into the boy's stinging ass a second or two longer than I thought adult paddlers had.
Maybe it was just me, but when it was my turn, he seemed to rub that paddle over my bare rear forever, anyway for a substantially longer time than with the other boy and when he drew back the paddle, I thought he paused a little longer before he swung it down and kept the paddled pressed harder and longer into my stinging ass than the adults did. We each got three hard pops that evening and lots of verbal ribbing from our cabin mates, but it was later on after lights out that most caught my attention.
Bed covers up to my chin in bed that night, my buns were still tingling in a way that would have demanded at least one, if not two good masturbatory efforts alone at home. In any case, I was not going to sleep any time soon, that was for certain. I looked over; the other paddled boy was snoozing away. I sighed and then looked over at Mark's bed. Suddenly, he turned and looked at me through the small room's darkness and sat up. I sat up, everyone else was out cold.
Mark silently cocked his head to the door. I got plenty excited. You know the saying, "it takes one to know one?" I thought he had pegged me and me him. I followed him out the door, my rising hard cock starting to tent my shorts. It was pitch black outside and hard to see anything. He glanced down at my shorts,
"Get your ass behind that group of trees over there and don't take all night!" he whispered. I looked at his face, a bit too excited to really get a good look at his baggy bed shorts, but figured he knew what was going on. I nodded and took off!
As I went over and behind the trees to do my thing, I wished like hell he would have followed and joined me. Well, that kind of summer camp experience would have to wait for future years; Mark did not follow me that year. It did feel great to get full relief in the dark mountain outdoors, however, even if I was by myself.
Funny though, by the time I got back to the cabin, Mark was nowhere to be found, not even indoors as I returned to under my own bed covers. A few minutes later, he returned and after giving a sly grin in my direction, disappeared under his own bed covers. Had he found his own stand of trees to shoot a load? I wanted to think so, that was for sure.
Camp lasted only a week that year and no further opportunities for fresh discoveries occurred, but I sure did flog the ol' pony many times those later summer evenings back at home over the incident. Mark Britten disappeared into his life and I into mine after that summer camp session and I forgot about him as my junior high and early high school years passed quickly by.
* * * * * * * * * *
As time moved on, I had tried to forge a pact with myself to avoid corporal punishment during my last two senior high school years. It seemed more juvenile to me by then and though my interest in boys was still very alive, I was starting to want something more than just the stimulation of a paddle roasting my butt or seeing another boy's punished rear to get off alone or even with non-intimate circle jerks like in some past summer camp weeks. Needless to say, I had by then had my last spanking from my own father literal years before.
I was pretty successful for my junior year, but my resolve was threatened at the beginning fall semester of my senior year of high school by our P.E. coach's new assistant and teacher-in-training, none other than the coach's son, my old summer camp counselor, Mark Britten! He was 23 by then, all grown up and a miniature version of his father.
Boy was I surprised when I walked into the locker room's old double doors and there he was, all decked out in staff work gear like a miniature form of his father and new boss, Coach Philip Britten. My mind went into a bit of unexpected excitement at seeing him.
He looked up and though he was without doubt pre-prepared for my entrance by my name on his clipboard, he still gave me a strange little smirky smile as he handed me my locker assignment and said,
"Old times, huh?"
Old times? The only "old times" I could recall with Mark Britten was being whisked out the door of a summer camp cabin years before into the dead of night to beat off behind a stand of trees, hoping maybe he would follow, but didn't. All I could do was nod and walk to my new locker assignment feeling a strange sensation sweep over me, one that my proud senior countenance wanted to resist, but would I?
Over just a few days of time that early fall term, I even started to sense an unspoken competition develop between the two of us. It was like he was out to get me into a punishment situation in front of my senior classmates and I was out to deny him. Oh, he gained plenty of opportunities to paddle the other seventeen and eighteen year old boys in the class and I was keen to notice the tell-tale facial and body language expressions of his enjoyment, just like at our summer camp years before. But those other boys were not me.
The startling pinnacle of it, a turning point, occurred deep into the fall term, in early November that year. I think my efforts at remaining "virginal" in his eyes frustrated him to no end, but there was nothing he could do unless I cooperated. In those days, senior class physical education was the last period of the school day. His father was present that particular day, nothing unusual actually as he sometimes hung around as Mark did his coaching thing with us. But something was very different that day, Mark Britten looked outright pensive and very distracted.
After our showers, we all thought we were going to just get dressed and go home, no student had screwed up that P.E. class period. Then, at the last moment after showers, Mark's father announced that there was one "boy" who was going to get punished. We all froze in our tracks, looking at each other alarmed. Mark stepped forward, dressed in his teacher's polo shirt and coach's long winter trousers. He glanced at all of us briefly, but Mark especially looked a little longer at me, appearing very defeated.
"I screwed up big-time last night. I was out drinking alcohol and driving as well. Coach here, my dad, caught me," and his face fell to the floor as he paused, all of us standing there silently stunned.
After a moment, the room started to murmur all at once and I immediately knew that Mark was going to be punished in front of us, a horror of a lesson for somebody so obviously as prideful to be his father's assistant and our student teacher. I was not wrong. Coach had disappeared briefly to get his paddle, the same one Mark used on us seniors, just not yet on me.
Mark proceeded to disrobe to complete nudity right in front of us and then bent over, hands firmly gripping his ankles, the expression on his father's face looking determined to make a lesson of his son's bad error in front of us all. My eyes were riveted on Mark's bare buttocks and I could feel my cock start to stir as I held my shower towel in front of my nakedness.
Twenty hard bare bottom licks from his dad's paddle should have been the worst of Mark Britten's concerns that afternoon, but even the severe physical pain would not him spare any of the bitter embarrassment of his public humiliation in front of us younger boys. My ears happily filled with each loud crack and my eyes darted from Mark's reddening ass to his pained facial expressions.
His dad's arm swing seemed more brisk and determined than I had ever seen it in the past and I realized, maybe for the first time, that I felt sorry for a boy (or in this case a man) under Coach's harsh paddle swing. I wasn't sure at the time how wise it had been for Coach to paddle an adult in front of boys so removed from his son's age, save that the rich traditions of the school and our community seemed to indicate that no young adult who chose to screw up could count on a reprieve from parental punishment much less any privacy, no matter his age or station in life.
After the embarrassing display, Mark quickly dressed himself as we watched and then he sheepishly announced that he expected us all to be on time the next day for class as usual. Mark would not be excused to hide himself away from any of his duties and had to stand at the door as usual to make sure we all left the locker room.
We all went back to our lockers to dress. I managed to keep the temptation to arousal to minimal as I did so, promising myself a huge solo-party when I got home and then quickly prepared to leave the premises. I was the last boy out the doors that afternoon.
At first, I was going to just keep my head down, pass out of the doorway and not make eye contact with Mark; but at the last moment I stopped and looked up at him and our eyes did meet. If for days before his eyes had looked at me with some kind of competitive smirk or even a needful glare, they didn't any longer. Mark seemed reconciled to his fate and seemed to allow me to see some humility in the form of a quiet nod that seem to signal the end to our unspoken competition.
I went home and finding supine privacy on my bed top, I slowly moved my trousers and underwear down towards my knees and grasped my usual erection, ready for action; but my mind was actually ambivalent of what to use for stimulation. It would have been dirt-simple to use a bright and fresh image of the proud Mark Britten getting his bared young adult buttocks blasted in front of me and the other high school seniors he was supposedly role modeling for good behavior; but it was that last humble look he gave me at the locker room doorway that somehow changed my mind.
Instead of focusing on Mark's reality, I pictured something quite the opposite, the very thing that I had been so successful at avoiding up till then. I even mused that I actually might even have a crack at actually making it happen, but if so, with a singular purpose. I used the image of my new fantasy just then and had a spectacular result, but my thoughts of it would continue to bother that night's sleep and occupy my mind into the next school days to come.
In fact, it wasn't until nearly two weeks later, that I knew that I wanted to put into motion my very simple plan and then actually had the nerve to carry it out. I'll never forget the exhilaration, the sheer feeling of the freedom of actually choosing to try and make something like this happen.
I dressed down as usual for P.E. class and jogged into the gymnasium, ready for the mandatory uniform inspection. Yes, after four long years of inspections, all senior high school boys still got checked for P.E. uniform including using a jockstrap. So, guess what I had not worn, on purpose mind you, just to see how it would affect student-teacher Mark Britten?
Mark went from boy to boy and I made sure I was the last one in the last row that morning. When he got to me, he almost just checked me off his clipboard list without even looking; I had been so perfect up to that point. When he saw that I wasn't wearing the required jockstrap, he looked up at me, pulled out my gym shorts elastic just to make sure, then actually allowed the elastic to snap back, in and of itself, something really unusual for him.
He seemed calm and unaffected at first, simply saying, "improper uniform, paddle licks after showers," and then just walked away from me, but at the last moment, turned his head just a tad so that I could see his left eye glancing back at me, the corner of his mouth dimpled and a little upturned. I didn't smile or betray any look back to him, but wondered if that look meant that that he knew exactly what was going on. The price would be steep for me to find out and maybe I wouldn't, but I ready to find out.
It wasn't so much the ten hard bare ass licks in front of classmates after showers that afternoon that I paid attention to. Oh yes, they hurt like a fiery hell; but I paid attention more to how Mark gave them to me. For my money, it was a repeat of the slow and patient ritual that he had used way back in summer camp, as if he was getting extra enjoyment by giving me the business; but how would I know if and when it might lead to something else as I really wanted and suspected he did as well?
I went home that day and hit my bed as usual on my back, but with a newly found stimulus to masturbation that got used twice in a row, just to burn off the combination of excitement, tension and sting I still felt from Mark's paddling. I went further in my mind this time; however, into an area I seldom strayed, but could no longer hold back. It was so easy now, picturing myself on my knees in front of him perhaps with an offering of some kind of personal service, but had no idea if, where and when that could ever happen with him.
* * * * * * * * * *
Well, some things are just meant to be. In this case, four days later over the following weekend my father announced that we were going to dinner at the Britten residence, not something entirely unheard of. My dad was on the graduation committee for my senior year, Coach Britten; Mark's dad was the chairman. This was supposed to be just a casual beginning of planning between them that did not yet involve the seniors, but I was invited nonetheless.
Mark would be there, he was living in a newly built upstairs guestroom over their huge separate garage while he was assistant teaching at the high school. The thing was perfect for a bachelor with tons of privacy. We had dinner together, Mark sitting across me at the table while I tried to determine between casual conversations if his silent glance at me after his discovery of my lack of jockstrap and extra verve during my punishment had any meaning from earlier in the week. I seemed to see nothing and planned to just give up. Then, after dinner that night, Mark invited me up to his apartment, just the two of us.
Frankly, it felt incredibly exciting to go with him alone and I gamely tried to avoid assuming too much over the invitation and especially that he was technically a teacher and I his student, his conduct alone with me might be a strong inhibiting factor. When we got up there I was astonished, the place was a veritable shrine to his prior collegiate experiences.
He had obviously been a fraternity brother, very involved too; there was frat-house memorabilia everywhere including five different paddles hanging up on the walls, one of them looking exceptionally worn. I stared at that one quite a long few moments.
He seemed interested that I was interested and plucked that older and obviously used paddle down from the wall. The black Greek lettering had been nearly worn off the surface,
"The good old days," he said and to fertile imagination, it was as if he wanted to refer both to his fraternity past, but also white-wash back over recent months, skipping way back to the heady memory of that summer camp evening between us of years before.
"Were they?" I replied without hesitation. I had no need to remind Mark of his humiliating locker room punishment, though it had really been the thing that had finally provoked my interest in this whole scene.
He glanced at me as if to confirm that we were indeed on the same page and then studied the paddle's worn surface,
"You didn't wear your jockstrap on purpose," bringing us right back to the present where I wanted to be as well. It was a statement, not a question. My chest tightened, but in a good way,
"You're right, I did," I replied tersely. Mark then effortlessly flipped the paddle end to end, the handle in his fist at the last,
"You'll like college, make sure you join a fraternity though."
"Why?" I asked, already knowing why.
He smirked, "If you were my fraternity little brother, you'd never sit comfortably."
I felt a familiar stirring in my trousers, the image of a somewhat younger "big brother" Mark Britten putting me through my painful paces in a college fraternity house.
"Did you?" I asked.
He sighed a little, then wryly smile, "No, not at first, not for awhile," and then he stood there, arms folded, the paddle's business surface facing me and hiding his groin.
"So, what was it like?" I asked.
"If you mean, did I get to do the some of the things I really wanted to do, it was good, very good sometimes."
This talking around the corner of the obvious was quickly becoming irritating to me,
"So, if you think I didn't wear my jock on purpose, what was the purpose?" I challenged him.
"You tell me, "he wisely replied. OK, it was time to stop beating around the bushes.
"I was trying to get your attention, just like in summer camp, remember?" I asked, proud of my rejoinder.
Mark smirked, "Yea, I remember, "and then he moved the paddle to the side. His trousers were tented in a way that left no doubt about his real feelings on the matter. I was already half-way there myself, but seeing his, my trousers joined his within ten more lustful heart beats.
He saw my arousal and glanced down at his own, then looked back at me, his face showing the strain of a potential and challenging decision. I knew what it was.
"I'm eighteen, I'm an adult," I said confidently.
"Technically, you're my student," he quickly replied. So, it was all out in the open lacking only the doing and I knew for sure I would have to be the aggressor, so I was. I unzipped my trousers, pushed them to my ankles and kicked them to the side followed by my briefs.
"I didn't say you could or should do that," he said then started to nervously chew on his lower lip, his eyes wagging back and forth between my waving flagpole and my bared buttocks. I didn't say a thing, bent over and grabbed my ankles and waited, but didn't wait long.
"Five hard ones," he said a bit breathlessly after he came up to my side and rubbed that big ol' frat paddle over my bare cheeks. I closed my eyes and the moment he smacked me with the first lick, my eyes flew open and started to water. Five of those stingers hurt like holy hell and softened my cock up, but that did not deter me. I stood there afterwards, my buns throbbing with pain, one hand rubbing over them gently, the other stroking my cock back to full hardness.
Mark set the paddle down and opened and lowered his trousers, kicking them with his white briefs away from his feet. His fist wrapped around his erection, "Lie down on your back right here on the floor," he said huskily and I did. He loomed right over me, straddling me at my knees and I looked up at his half naked sexy body and bare groin, both of us stroking and flogging our hard male members.
I went off first, helplessly shuddering as my body arched upwards and I shot my pent-up load up onto my own tummy and chest as he watched. Mark quickly kneeled and sat on my chest, pinning me down, my student teacher's dickhead barely an inch from my mouth!
"Open!" he commanded and I obeyed. I opened my mouth like a baby bird does to receive a meal. He stroked himself just twice more and then I received his offering, a big mouthful of his hot white jizm, mine to savor and swallow down my throat and I hungrily did. After that, he helped me to my feet, we got dressed and without further conversation we went back to the main house that evening.
* * * * * * * * * *
Though I had never done anything like I had with Mark that evening, I would seek to do it again and again as well as have other sexual experiences with Mark Britten guiding me and that is indeed what happened. We would meet at odd times in odd places until the end of my senior year of high school, nobody the wiser and me (us) all the more happier for it. Finally, all of my secret longings, my years of American school discipline had borne fruit, paid off as it were. So, would it continue and with him? Only time would tell, but I was betting that it would!
© Copyright PJ Franklin October 6, 2009
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Last updated: October 6, 2009