Newsgroups: alt._s_e_x_.spanking
X-Anonymously-To: alt._s_e_x_.spanking
Organization: Anonymous contact service
Date: Sun, 20 Nov 1994 14:36:25 UTC
Lines: 321


The public library may not seem like a very cruisy venue. Yet it was a great place to meet interesting young men with an intellectual bent, or at the very least, the commitment to complete a school assignment. Here the young men were themselves--void of the pretense of the cruise bar, and often drug and smoke free. Indeed, the library had provided a willing companion on more than one occasion.

When I tire of fiction, and have some time to spend while lying in wait for a bubble bottomed young man, I'll sometimes check the catalog and Reader's Guide for any new entries under the heading "Corporal Punishment." Often I am rewarded by an article debating the merits of school paddling in the American south, or the use of the cane in UK secondary schools. Naturally, I'm also well acquainted with novels containing scenarios describing CP scenes. Who would have dreamed that the public library could house tidbits to titillate a devotee of my proclivity?

Aha! A likely prospect! He looks about 19...killer buns in skin tight red shorts. A tank top. A handsome, well defined body. This is no nerd! Our eyes meet for a moment, and he looks away. He lugs his knapsack to a nearby table, and extracts a notebook, some pencils, and a pack of index cards bound by a pink elastic band. As he stands leaning over the table, I can see the outline of his briefs delineating two hemispheres of well developed glutei. The chain and lock protruding from the knapsack confirm my suspicion that he is a bicyclist. No wonder those buns are so well muscled!

He looks a bit flustered. Without stopping to organize his possessions, he heads for the Reader's Guide area, pencil and index cards in hand. As he walks away, I am forced to admire the creases at the base of each ass cheek that alternately form and disappear with each step. My heart beats faster as he glances briefly at me. I pretend not to notice him. I begin my search of the stacks near the Reader's Guide table, feigning earnest intent. My real objective is to catch a few glimpses of the Adonis at close range, without being observed. My peripheral vision serves me well. The young man is working in earnest, and doesn't notice me.

After what seems like hours, but is only about ten minutes, he gathers his cards and heads for the desk. The librarian hands him some reels of microfilm, and he disappears into a carrel housing a microfilm reader. _d_a_m_n_! No hope of watching him there! I note his place, sit down at a table, and begin to read. I maintain surveillance of my quarry with occasional glances. I can see his Reebok's under the carrel. Suddenly he rises, taking his reels of film to another carrel. I hear coins drop and motors whirr. He's making copies.

He returns to his spot at the table, photocopies in hand. He lays the copies down, throwing the bike chain on top lest they be blown away by a passerby, and heads for the card catalog. As he bends over the open drawer, writing furiously, he shifts his weight from one leg to other. I watch the dimples on the side of his bun cheek deepen, then disappear. Cards in hand, he heads for the stacks.

What! Can't be! I know that part of the library too well. Judgement thrown to the wind, I walk slowly past his spot at the table and glance at the photocopies. "Paddles Fly in Florida High. School Board to debate spanking policy." My heart is pounding. I hear footsteps approaching, and make a hasty retreat. Amazingly, I was not observed. He sits down, thumbing through some very familiar looking tomes. Apparently he's working on an assignment involving school spankings!

This is a first for me. A young man studying CP! An opportunity demanding a response. Yet my usual strategies might be ineffective here. Perhaps he's merely completing an assignment of no interest to him. He won't be sitting there forever. I've got to have a plan! Suddenly, he gets up, photocopy in hand, and heads for the men's room. I pretend not to notice. As he passes my table, he gives the surface a tap. Is it a nervous habit? A signal? I wait as long as I can, and follow him.

He's in a stall, and I can see his Reebok's under the door. I can also hear the rhythm of what can only be masturbation. Hearing my urinal flush, he breaks cadence. I leave the men's room, and moments later, he follows. I can see his erection. Those shorts leave nothing to the imagination! Spanking turns him on. He's going to be mine.

This is it. I walk over to his table, pick up one of the books, and ask, "Are you finished with this?" He's shocked. "Uh, yes, I believe so." Perfect diction...this boy is quality! "I'm doing some research on corporal punishment," I offered. "But this library doesn't have much material on the topic. I found a lot more yesterday at the University library." "Really?" he responded. "I was going to go there, but they're closed for Spring break. And my paper is due the day we return." It was time to play my trump card. "If you like, I'll run you by my apartment and you can copy the material I have. I have a copier at home." He paused. "Gee, I don't know...I've got to get this paper finished..." I interrupted his staccato stream-of-consciousness discourse. "In a half hour you will have copies of everything I got at the University library, and then some." "OK," he said with hesitation. But I gotta be back here in an hour to pick up my bike before it gets dark."

His boyish charm was shining through the initial "strictly business" demeanor that marked the beginning of the conversation. He gathered his things, slung the backpack onto his shoulders, and turned to me for direction. "My apartment is two blocks away," I offered. "We can walk." The boy looked relieved. At least he wasn't getting into a car with a stranger.

Enroute he told me that he was a freshman at the university, that he was a little homesick, and that he had left this assignment until the last minute. I let him do most of the talking. It wasn't until we reached my building that he asked the obvious question, "How come you're interested in corporal punishment?" I told him that I did research and free-lance writing. He seemed satisfied with that, and we entered the apartment. I offered him a drink, but he refused, uneasy about the whole situation. I switched on my computer, pulled up some files, and started printing them out. While the printer was working, I opened a file cabinet, extracted a folder, and began making copies. After a few minutes the printer stopped, and I handed the sheaf of fanfold printout to the boy. "Here are some interesting statistics on corporal punishment at home and in school." He read the printout while I continued copying. I brought over the stack of papers, and placed my hand on his shoulder while explaining each piece. "Some of these are newspaper and magazine articles, while others are scholarly papers from professional journals," I explained. "Gee, this stuff is great! It covers just about everything!" His boyish enthusiasm was overwhelming.

I excused myself to visit the bathroom, and returned to find my guest busily perusing the photocopies, with a rock hard erection that was accentuated by the papers he placed on his lap to conceal it! "Now all I need is a typewriter," said the boy. "You can use my computer if you wish. I'll get your bike and drive you back to the dorm when you're finished." He felt safe...after all, I'd delivered what I promised, offered a plausible explanation for my own CP interests, and ostensibly solved his problem. "Uh, could I have that drink now," he asked. "Sure. What would you like?" "Uh, do you have any beer?" I poured the beer into a frosted glass from the freezer and handed it to him. "I'll get your bike," I said, grabbing the lanyard with the key and leaving. He said nothing.

When I returned, he was at the computer, and had helped himself to a second beer. "This is awesome! You did all the research, and the paper is writing itself! The computer checks the spelling and grammar. I hardly have to do anything." The beer had loosened him up a bit. "You know, when I was a kid my dad would spank me once in a while. I know most psychologists would disagree, but I think it did me a lot of good. After a spanking, all the tension of the situation cleared. And it motivated me. Dad demanded good grades, and if I ever got a C, or went down from an A to a B, I knew that I was going to get it. That sure didn't happen often. In fact, that's probably why I got my scholarship." He took a deep gulp of beer and paused. "Look at me now! Dad would sure have spanked me good if he knew I waited until the library closed to start writing a paper. 'Procrastination,' he'd lecture 'is the harbinger of apathy and failure.' Then he'd tell me that procrastination would hurt me more than anything else."

I listened intently. " 'Son, I want you to remember how much procrastination can hurt!' he'd say. Then he'd give me fifteen hard licks. There are fifteen letters in 'procrastination.' He'd spell it letter for each spank. Then he'd give me fifteen more and make me spell it out. After the spanking he'd give me a big bear hug and tell me he loved me and wanted me to be the best I could be." He suppressed a tear, and pretended to be wiping the sweat from his brow.

"Do you miss that?" I queried. "I guess I do. The last time Dad spanked me was about two years ago, when I was sixteen. It had been a long time since my last spanking, and I was pretty _c_o_c_k_y. My folks gave me a car for my 16th birthday, and I did a lot of partying. I brought home my first C in years, and Dad was livid. He ordered me into his study and announced that I was going to get a spanking. I protested, saying I was too old for a spanking. I sure wasn't going to get over his knee! To my surprise, he agreed. 'Yes, son, you are too old for the usual hand spanking.' I felt relieved for a moment, but knew he was up to something. He opened a desk drawer, and extracted an old fraternity paddle. 'This worked well in college on young men older than yourself. I'm sure it will do the trick for a fellow too old for an old-fashioned hand spanking.'

"My heart was beating real fast, and, uh, I know it sounds crazy but I was getting kind of excited. I mean, at sixteen everything gets you excited, doesn't it?" He did not wait for my answer to what was obviously a rhetorical question. "Well, he made me grab my knees and laid into my ass with that paddle. I don't know what they do in those fraternities, but fifteen licks with that thing hurt more than anything I'd ever experienced. And then he made me spell out fifteen more. It was the strangest experience I ever had. I was crying from the pain, yet I was so turned on I had to jerk off in my room right after I left Dad's study.. I think Dad could tell it turned me on, because he never spanked me again."

He took another sip of beer, paused, and sighed. "If I get any C's this semester, I'll lose my scholarship." This was utopia! There was only one thing to do. "You know, young man, I think your father was right. You need discipline to make you realize your potential. And since we are both 'experts' in this area after all this research, the solution seems quite obvious." I stood up, walked over to the closet, and removed my fraternity paddle from the nail that suspended it by a short leather thong. "Procrastination," I intoned, "is the harbinger of apathy and failure." The boy looked puzzled, but his erection was unmistakable, despite the beer. It was now or never. "Get over here and grab your knees," I ordered. Sheepishly he arose from the computer terminal and approached the center of the room.

Saying nothing, he assumed the classic stance--legs apart, hands on knees. I paused at the sight before me. This was beauty--a gorgeous young man--and he was mine! My eyes gazed upon those beautiful buns, awaiting the sting of my paddle. I lightly touched the paddle to his ass, eliciting a slight bounce. He adjusted his position slightly, conferring tacit permission for what was about to follow. These few moments seemed like hours to both of us. It was time. I knew my script.

"Son, I want you to remember how much procrastination can hurt." I wasn't going to wait long enough to afford him the opportunity to reconsider. The first lick fell a fraction of a second after I'd finished the sentence.
















The boy had let out a few quiet whimpers, but maintained position. I could hear some sniffling, suggesting crying. Three things were certain:

1. This wasn't his first paddling.

2. It hurt like hell.

3. He felt he needed, wanted, and deserved it.

It was my show--my call. For a fleeting moment I considered terminating the paddling, letting him up, and giving him the traditional bear hug. But the fact that he maintained position indicated that it was time for phase two. "I'm ready, sir," he suddenly intoned, while pulling down those red shorts. He remained bent over throughout the process, altering his position the minimum required to effect the baring of his buttocks. This part of the ritual had not been described in his earlier reminiscence!

Those now crimson buns were waiting for more. I paused briefly to admire my handiwork--parallel paddle marks blending into a nice amorphous red glow. There is much to be said for pride in workmanship. I wiped my brow, and landed the first swat of the second set.


"P" said the boy, his voice strong.


"R" he almost shouted, as if in defiance.


"O" he said, matter-of-factly. I wound up for more impact.


"C" he whimpered. I was getting through.






He paused to swallow. "S"


"T" he called out, trying to suppress his tears.








"T" he almost whispered, through his tears.


"I" he sobbed.


"Please!" he begged. Then, with resignation, "O"


The paddle landed for the last time that night. He was breathing hard, almost panting. He remained in position, and after a moment composed himself enough to utter "N."

He got up, and I laid the paddle aside. My intent brown eyes met his tear-filled blue ones. Uncontrollably, we wrapped our arms around one another for the longest and warmest bear hug I ever had. My hands worked their way to his glowing bottom, and though I touched it ever so gently, he flinched slightly. "Lie on your stomach," I suggested, leading him to my bed. I slipped his shorts off, and began gently working some cooling lotion into his burning buns. He cooed in contentment. The tears had abated.

"I don't think I'm going to be able to ride my bike for a while," he said. "Do you think I could stay here and work on my paper until school starts?" he asked. "Of course, son," I replied. "I want you to be the best that you can be."