Mark Douglas shut off the belt sander and set aside his work for a moment. The afternoon was getting on, and he had been working steadily in his shop since noon. After stretching a moment, he picked up the paddle he was working on and held it to the light. It was turning out to be a good piece of work. Whether it would be put up for sale in one of the select shops Mark worked with or whether it would be good enough for his special on-line sales was yet to be determined. It was too early to make such a decision before the final hand sanding and lacquering were finished.
He was still debating whether to continue work on this piece or move on to a less detailed task when he was interrupted by the brass bell which hung outside the back door of his house. Mark looked out the window to see Caleb Wilson, the eleven-year-old son of one of his neighbors, standing anxiously by the door. The boy was shifting from foot to foot and looking around behind him. Clearly he did not wish to be seen at this doorway. Mark turned out all the lights in his shop before heading out into the hallway to the door, and the bell was rung again before he arrived.
He opened the door to admit the nervous boy, and, smiling wryly, told him that he had heard the bell the first time and that there was really no call for impatience. Caleb looked far from amused. In fact, he appeared almost sick as Mark led him into the large study at the other end of the hall and directed him to hang his coat on the hook. He took out a folded piece of paper and, looking shyly at the ground, jabbed the note out towards the man.
Mark sat as his desk and read through the note. There were a few comfortable chairs and a couch, but Caleb knew better than to sit. He looked anxiously at the boxes on the shelf, wondering exactly what was in store for him. Meanwhile Mark looked up over the note at the boy. He was a fairly good looking fellow and was developing some early muscle tone. The reddish tint to his dark hair had always made a strong impression on Mark. Mark tried not to smile too obviously.
He certainly lived in the ideal community for his little venture. Folks here were just traditional enough not to be put off by the business of a paddle maker, and times were generally tough enough that some were always willing to partner with him in the rather unique sales technique he had devised. He re-read the note. Caleb had shoved his little brother down and made him cry. His mother had declared that the offense was sufficiently severe to merit a trip to Mr. Douglas' house. Now, instead of being punished by his parents, Caleb had to endure a paddling from his neighbor, something he knew from experience would be most unpleasant.
The note was actually a form printed up by Mark. Mrs. Wilson had selected a severity level of six: not the highest, but high enough. After all, she explained, Caleb hadn't actually hit his brother. Most importantly, though, she had checked the box allowing Mark to paddle Caleb bare bottom if he so chose. Mark was fairly certain what he would decide.
He took out a form and handed it to Caleb. On the front side were a number of questions for the boy to answer. His name, his age, etc. Also: how many paddles had his parents purchased from Mr. Douglas, and how many were used on him. How often he been sent here for punishment before, etc. The lower half of the page was left blank. In this space Caleb was to describe in detail what he had done to deserve this paddling. Mark reminded him that he must be specific, and that he must not write anything intended as an excuse. He laughed as he reminded the boy of the consequences of getting it wrong. Once again, Caleb did not laugh.
While the boy was writing at the little table where Mark had directed him, the man sat at his desk and punched up his web site to double check the status of his current auctions. He currently had seven auctions active, about right, he thought, and two would finish tonight. Each of these paddles had been "field tested for quality control" in Mark's study on one of the local boys. This was Mark's stroke of genius. He had tried to promote his paddles online with little success, and had even tried auctioning a few off. He had quickly realized that his purchasers wanted to hear if the paddles had been used, and they wanted details. That had led to his brainstorm, the current website, on which all paddles had been tested in advance. The buyer was not only getting the paddle, but the whole story, including descriptions by Mark and the boy, pictures, and, his most recent innovation, a video. For all that and the chance to own the paddle, some buyers were prepared to put up astronomical sums.
The Wilson's were just one of the families who had sent their kids to Mark. Many were having a tough time making ends meet, and, for ten percent of the inflated sale price, they saw no reason not to let a neighbor deal out the punishment they would inevitably have administered themselves. This was Caleb's third time in the office. It was, though, the first visit on which Mrs. Wilson had checked the "bare" box, giving Mark that option for the paddling, but he had nevertheless seen Mark's bare bottom before. According to the agreement, the boys who came had to follow Mark's instructions implicitly or be subject to additional punishment from him. That really did make things flow more smoothly. Last time Caleb had written a half page justification of his actions and promptly found himself across Mr. Douglas' knees with his pants at his ankles. Mark had been so favorably impressed with the boy's cute, plump behind that he had smacked it for a good three minutes and reddened it nicely before getting the boy another form and making him start again.
This time Mark was sure Caleb would get the form right, and he was determined to see that cute butt this afternoon anyway. He could have used another big paddle for the website, but there was still one which would be active after tonight, and another could wait. Mark didn't like to use the biggest paddles bare, so he would use his longest thin paddle and take a shot at Caleb's pretty bare bottom. A severity level of six meant this would have to be a short paddling, but it would be worth it.
Caleb finished the form and brought it to Mark, who slipped his arm around the boy's waist as he read. He told him it looked about right, and then he patted his bottom affectionately. Giving the boy a little pinch, he suggested that he go out an use the restroom before they proceeded. Once the boy was out of the room, Mark switched on the automated camera system. Small camera's around the room clicked on, all coordinated by the computer. They would record Caleb's face and butt from several angles which Mark could edit and compile later. These would also provide the still photos of the boy's face for promotional material on the website.
Next Mark took a box from the shelf and unwrapped the paddle he had selected. It was exactly two feet long and two inches across, but only a quarter inch thick. The handle tapered out to be a bit thicker for a comfortable grip. Mark took a practice swing and set the paddle down on the table. It was the first thing Caleb looked for when he reentered the office.
The boy wasn't too worried until Mr. Douglas told him to pull down his pants. He protested that the paddle was too big for a bare paddling, but the man simply assured him that there would only be a few swats. Those swats, though, he assured with a grin, would be pretty good stingers. Caleb thought, not for the first time, that the worst part about being punished here wasn't the pain or even the embarrassment, but the obvious pleasure Mr. Douglas got at his expense. Sighing, he unbuttoned his jeans. With a bit more prompting he pulled down his briefs as well, then slid both all the way to his ankles. In this hobbled condition he had to stumble across the floor to the chair Mr. Douglas indicated.
Mark was beginning to get truly excited. The boy's bottom was every bit as cute as he had remembered. He made him bend down and grab the rungs of the chair so that his head would be low, then ordered him to straiten his legs. Of course no boy ever got that right, and Mark always had to grab the waist and pull up to get the angle he wanted. When he was done adjusting the boy and pushing his shirt out of the way, he gently patted him on his bottom while giving the usual instructions: legs strait, bottom up, and above all, don't let go. He punctuated this by giving the boy a good squeeze
After retrieving the paddle from the table, Mark got himself set to comfortably swing. He rested the paddle on the bare bottom to get his range, rubbing back and forth for a moment. Once or twice he pulled the paddle away and watched the boy tense, then tapped him and rubbed again. He loved to increase the suspense.
Finally he drew the paddle back until his arm was strait back, then cracked the little boy with all his might. Caleb instantly bucked forward and gasped for breath. This hurt much worse than his earlier paddlings, and for a moment he couldn't even find the breath to cry. He was ready when the second swat fell, and he emitted an anguished shriek.
Mark looked down with satisfaction at the red swath he was cutting across the boy's milky white butt. This would make a great video, and he and the Wilson's should make good money off of this, but the truth was, he would have paid good money to have the fun he was having just now. After the third swat Caleb was begging him to lighten up a bit, but he made it a policy to always swat harder as he went along. He paused after four, the paddle resting on the pleading boy's burning rump, deciding whether to add a fifth. Caleb was trembling head to toe with pain. In the end, Mark couldn't help himself, and he added not only a fifth but also a sixth.
Finally Mark set down the paddle and stood the boy up, leading him to a corner where he could stand with his blazing butt on display for the camera. Another camera caught his tears, so Mark always left boys there until they finished crying. He sat in his most comfortable armchair and waited. When the last sniffles ended, Mark called Caleb over too him. Again the boy stumbled over his pants. Mark reached out and drew the little guy into his arms, reaching around to caress the still naked bottom. For a few moments he caressed and hugged, even kissed the boy. He knew this would make an excellent ending for the video. At the same time, he knew the boys hated it, and sometimes he could goad them into rebelling and have the chance to tack on another spanking. Apparently Caleb had had enough, and he quietly submitted to the unwanted affection.
After restoring the boy's pants to their proper position, Mark directed him back to the table and flipped over the form. Here was an entire page on which the boy could write a detailed description of his paddling, again under the threat of further smacks. Mark sat at the desk and wrote his own account. Both accounts would go to the buyer, along with the video Mark would edit the next day. Excerpts from the descriptions along with pictures of Caleb and the paddle would go on the web site the next week when Mark started up the auction.
Mark read through Caleb's description carefully before allowing him to go. It had some great lines: this really would be a money maker. He also wrote a note to Mrs. Wilson. He was short on "field-tested" small paddles for the auction, and was ready to give fifteen percent if some reason could be found to send Caleb's little brother up. He hugged Caleb one more time, then gave him two sharp swats as he headed out the door. He laughed once more at the way the boy winced.
Back in his office, Mark checked over the status of the active auctions. Prices looked good on the two scheduled to finish that evening. The final flourish of bids would be fun to track. He still had an hour to go until quitting time, when he would open up a nice bottle of Merlot and wait for the results online. Perhaps he should get back to his sanding, or maybe just tidy up the shop a little. Just then, he was interrupted by the ringing of the brass bell. He jumped up to look out the window, and their was little Corey Wilson. The Wilsons must have been desperate to find an excuse to send their seven-year-old up so quickly. Mark wondered if his bottom could possibly be any cuter than his brother's. He would know soon enough, he thought, as he headed into the hallway once more.