The hardest part was the waiting!
He had told me to stand in the corner with my hands at my sides and to think about my behavior for forty-five minutes before he would punish me. I was in this situation because I was accused of cheating on a test, even though I had done no such thing. The problem was that Tom, who sat next to me in the math class, had glanced at my paper for his answers and the two papers were thus exactly alike. Unfortunately, Tom was considered a better student than I was, and so I got the blame despite my attempts to protest my innocence.
It was bad enough to be standing for so long in the corner of the principal's office, but he made sure that I would have all my thoughts focused on my impending paddling by undoing my belt and pulling down my trousers and underpants so that my bottom would be exposed to view as I waited. He even tucked my shirttail up so that nothing might be hidden. It was not only embarrassing to be standing there like that, but I could feel every breeze in the room as it caressed my soon-to-be numbed posterior.
Mr. Martin, the principal, acted as if my strange predicament of having to face the corner half nude was the normal part of any day, and he sat at his desk grading papers or doing some other kind of paper work while the minutes ticked by much too slowly.
When there was a knock on the door, he didn't even think of my exposed situation but told the person knocking to enter. It was the English teacher, Miss Peterson, the prettiest teacher in school. She was coming to see him about some matter related to the school yearbook. She undoubtedly saw me as soon as she entered the room, but she discreetly said nothing about this to Mr. Martin and immediately began talking with him about her concern.
I, however, must have become quite red in the face because of her presence. How would I ever again be able to function normally in English class after this kind of exposure, knowing that she had seen me -- perhaps stared at me -- with my pants down and my flesh-colored buttocks fully on display? I only hoped she would leave quickly and that the forty-five minutes would soon be over so that the inevitable paddling would be finished and I could go home.
Miss Peterson did eventually leave, much to my relief. But no sooner had the door closed behind her than there was another knock and Mr. Smithers, the gym teacher entered. I have no idea why he came at that time because, as soon as he saw me standing there in the corner with my pants down around my ankles, he commented on the fact.
"I see you're about to give a naughty boy a spanking," he said to Mr. Martin with what seemed a note of amusement in his voice.
"Yes," Mr. Martin replied, "he was caught cheating in math class." I wanted to protest, since I wasn't the one who had been cheating, but by this time I realized it would do no good.
"This is the third time this year that he has been sent to my office," Mr. Martin continued. "I guess I have let him off too easy before." (This statement was really unfair. Two of the other times had been for coming late to school, something that happens to everyone at some time, and the third was because I had been caught wandering in the halls after I had been asked to get a locker key for Mr. Jones, the shop teacher -- certainly not any kind of punishable offense.)
"This time he not only cheated, but he lied about it," Mr. Martin told Mr. Smithers. (He was apparently referring to my defense that the cheater was Tom, not me. It was so unfair. Why couldn't he just tell Mr. Smithers to leave so that we could get the whole thing over with. Surely forty-five minutes were up by now. Did he have to review the whole matter in front of the gym teacher?)
"Some kids take a long time to grow up," Mr. Smithers put in. "How are you going to handle him?" (What a question! With my pants at the floor, it was obvious that the principal was going to lather my ass. I am sure that my face was becoming a volatile palette of crimson and pallid hues as I listened to the two men talking. Why the heck didn't Mr. Martin just get it over with and let me go?)
I guess I'm going to apply the paddle" the principal said "I still have the one I used in my fraternity days, and it has a real sting to it." (Thanks! That's just what I needed to hear. I was already suffering from profound embarrassment standing in the corner this way, and now he was talking about how much he was going to hurt me. Give me a break, and tell the Mr. Smithers to get out of here.}
"Yes, I guess a good paddling is what every boy needs now and then," Mr. Smithers replied. "I have had to do that to my own son when he got out of line. This kid's father probably has never punished him enough." (Little did he know. My father could really apply his belt in a way that made it difficult for me to sit down for days afterward. In fact I hoped he would never hear about this session in the principal's office because, if he did, he might decide that I needed more discipline when I got home.)
"Well," said Mr. Martin, "I telephoned his father to let him know that he was being punished here in my office, so the man realizes that we are taking care of the matter, even if he doesn't ever do so. (Help! The principal had just made sure that I would be getting some more "discipline" when I get home. How much worse could things become. Wasn't it time to get the whole thing over with. Let's hurry it up, Mr. Martin, please.}
"They don't seem to really learn unless their bottoms become as red as a fire hydrant," said Mr. Smithers. "After a good spanking at home, it's interesting to watch them in gym class changing into their trunks because everyone else can then see the remaining redness, which is rather embarrassing to them, I'm sure. Of course, sometimes a paddle doesn't even do the job well enough." (What, in heavens name, was he trying to do? Have me killed?)
"This fraternity paddle always does the job pretty well," Mr. Martin told him. "I've seen it turn the toughest jocks into whimpering babies. See, its made of pine and has just the right thickness to produce quite a whollop. Believe me, some kids really yell for mercy when this lands on their bottoms." (Was he trying to scare me with this kind of talk, or was he trying to impress Mr. Smithers? Whatever the case, I was beginning to involuntarily shake a little.)
Then I suddenly became aware of the fact that my _s_e_x_ual organ was becoming stiff. Although neither of the men could see this since my back was turned to them, I knew that the moment I had to turn around to get into position for the punishment they would notice it. At the same time I couldn't use my hands to cover the front of myself because that would make the situation obvious. Try as I might to think the organ back into its natural soft state, it only became harder and harder. Now, instead of hoping that the forty-five minutes would soon be up I began to pray that time would drag on until my stiffness returned to normal. How could I ever stand the embarrassment of having Mr. Martin, and possibly also Mr. Smithers, see me in this condition. What, I wondered, was I going to do?
"Well, I guess I better go and let you get on with it," Mr. Smithers finally said.
"Stay, if you want to." Mr. Martin was being accommodating. However Mr. Smithers said he had some important things to do and shut the door behind him as he departed.
"I guess the forty-five minutes are up," Mr. Martin said to me. "Come over in front of my desk, bend over and grab onto your ankles."
At that point, whether it was because of my fear or because the gods of nature intervened, my organ quickly returned to its normal flabby stance, half hidden by the hair between my legs. I turned and walked over to the front of his desk. As I did so I glanced at the mean-looking fraternity paddle lying on top of it. I could see that it was somewhat worn from use, but was still thick enough to be quite serviceable. It was made of wood, about twelve inches long, and three inches wide with six dime-sized holes arranged in rows along each side. Somehow I had to endure the effect of it, since I could see no way to escape. I bent over and grabbed my ankles, a stance that put my naked rump high into the air.
"Don't let go of your ankles," Mr. Martin said, "or it will be much worse for you."
I said nothing, and only tightened my grip around them.
I could sense his raising of the paddle to get it into position although my eyes only had a vision of the floor and my own ankles as well as his feet behind me. Then the wood met its mark. The sudden pain was excruciating. I think I even grunted, or perhaps squeaked, though I was trying my best to keep quiet. It was going to be hard to keep my grip on my ankles so I held on tighter. Later I discovered that my fingers had left bruises on my legs from my strong grip.
The second slice of the paddle hurt even more than the first and my eyes were beginning to water up. I was also finding it much harder to keep from making any noise indicating pain. I heard myself letting out a bit of a groan. Since Mr. Martin had not indicated how many times he was going to strike me, I had no idea how long I could hold up without screaming.
The third stroke was the worst. I moaned, all composure now gone. I no longer cared that I was half undressed or standing in such an awkward position. I just wanted to get out of there. But I held onto my ankles and waited for the next blow, now sobbing without shame. The blows now came with methodical rhythm, each timed so that the sting of the previous impact had not quite had time to melt into a warming glow, so a sort of crescendo of half-itching, half-stinging sensation built up in my bottom. I begin to shift a little with each blow, trying to find a more comfortable position, but his paddle found its mark every time.
I continued to sob and sometimes scream as Mr. Martin applied the paddle. I have no idea how many more times because my ass was now so sore I could think of nothing else. Finally, he stopped and told me to pull up my trousers, and said he hoped I had learned my lesson.
I was still sobbing and so choked up that I couldn't answer and just reached down to grab my underpants and pull them up. These were followed by my trousers.
Then, as I calmed somewhat, Mr. Martin told me that my father would be taking me home and that he was outside waiting for me in his car. I said nothing but just left the office and headed for the front door. My father was there alright.
As I opened the door to climb in, I saw his leather razor strop lying on the seat, strategically placed so that I couldn't miss seeing it. We headed home in silence.