Whenever guys ask me if I have a good spanking story from when I was a kid, I always feel fortunate that I have at least one unforgettable experience I can share. I only got a few spankings from my parents--the last one when I was 11--so I've never had a lot of actual memories of getting spanked by them to think back on. But there was one time when I was paddled in my high school "fraternity" that I have often recounted, to myself subsequently in my own fantasies, and to any guy who wants to know if I have a good spanking story from my own youth. If it sounds familiar it's because I posted this story a couple of years ago on MMSA Stories site. For all you whose readership of the stories on MMSA Stories site doesn't extend back that far, I'll retell the story:
The high school I went to had two rival men's "service organizations," which were essentially fraternities. They each had their measure of insufferable elitism--no freaks and geeks need apply, that type of thing. I was a fairly popular, if quiet and unassuming, student scholar and athlete with an older brother who was a star football player, so I had no trouble being accepted into one of the "fraternities" in my junior year. A number of the guys were friends of mine, so my "initiation" was far easier than a lot of the others--I only had to DRAW a big-breasted Dolly Parton--my initiation partner had to simulate humping her. I later was elected to hold one of the leadership council positions in my senior year.
I chose the "fraternity" I did because I heard that the other one traditionally used a paddle--in how much fun I didn't know, and I didn't necessarily want to find out. Even though I didn't know I was gay at that age (16), I did know that spanking turned me on, and I was afraid that my "secret" would be found out. Mostly, to be honest, I was a wimp about the possiblity of taking a few swats.
So it was with great interest that I listened to the proposal, put before the leadership council when I was a senior, that we give our sergeant-at-arms a paddle like the other "fraternity" did. We had been having a lot of newer members, juniors and sophomores, not keeping their promises to appear at organization functions, and there seemed to be a consensus that we needed a way to enforce responsiblity. A couple of the guys on the coucil were enthusiastic about having a paddle made in the woodshop, and the idea of using it for various offenses passed without dissent. Our president Robert and a couple of his friends on the council drew up a list of offenses and the corresponding number of swats someone would get for each. Everyone agreed that the threat of getting paddled by our sergeant-at-arms was mostly a scare tactic to keep the newer members in line, but I was secretly looking forward to see the paddle they were going to make, and to see someone bent over getting hit with it!
Well, it wasn't long before I got my wish, but it wasn't all that exciting. The "frat" was full of cute guys--lots of jocks among them--but the few newer members that screwed up and got called before the sergeant-at-arms weren't all that good-looking. Plus the most I ever saw were two swats, and those weren't delivered with too much oomph. Things turned more promising half-way through the year, however, when we switched sergeants-at-arms. Kyle, the new sergeant-at-arms, was the starting quarterback on our football team. He had a couple opportunities to deliver a single swat, and I, along with a few of the other guys I'm sure, was taken aback by the gusto he put into his swing! Eventually we got to see a football player get three swats from Kyle, but it was a friend of Kyle's who he went easy on. I still got a little boner, though, and quickly had to distract myself from the "action" so it wouldn't grow too big.
In March of that year came a big round of service events that were supposedly the reason for the organization's existence, and Robert, our president, made a big point of warning everyone that failure to show up at the events they signed up for would be punishable by licks with the paddle. To this day I can't remember why I signed up to be at a park across town for a clean-up project that next Saturday morning, but when Robert informed me at our next meeting that I had been a no-show and presented me with my signature on the sign-up sheet, I knew I was in trouble. I immediately apologized and promised to be at the next Saturday clean-up, hoping Robert would let me slide. Much to my relief, he accepted my offer to work the following Saturday. Robert was a pretty serious guy, though, and I was not 100 percent sure that my absence at the clean-up project would not be mentioned at the next meeting of all the "frat" members.
Much to my dismay, it was. In fact, Robert announced right at the beginning of the meeting, in his report on the weekend's activities, that someone had been a no-show and therefore would be getting FIVE swats from Kyle. Before I had time to blush, much less argue, Robert had singled me out was ordering me to the front of the assembled group. I sat there kind of stunned, trying to think of something to laugh it off with, and finally started stammering something about working the following weekend. Robert cut me off with a speech to the group about not showing up when promised and the reason we instituted the paddle in the first place. I looked out around the room and heard no one coming to my defense. Finally I had to surrender myself to my fate, and I reluctantly approached the front of the room where Kyle was standing with the paddle.
At that point in time, I can't tell you what was going through my head. I knew Kyle was about to hit me with the paddle, but I had no idea how much it was going to hurt or whether it was going to hurt at all. I do remember that my head was hot and buzzing with humiliation as I was walking up to the front of the room. When I got there I was told to bend over and touch my toes, which was the way guys got paddled in our "frat." I couldn't quite touch my toes, so I just held on to my shins. In those few seconds that I was bent over and Kyle was moving into position behind me, all thoughts of shame left me, replaced by a trembling fear of what that paddle was going to feel like. I realized I was wearing Levi corduroy jeans, which I thought might be pretty good protection. The wooden paddle, however, was pretty long, with holes drilled in the middle of it. I braced myself.
Kyle laid that first swat into me, and I could not believe how much it hurt! I kind of jumped up and stumbled forward a little, and almost brought my hands off my shins, which would have been a serious no-no. It didn't feel anything like the spankings I remembered from my parents, who I now realize used a much smaller paddle on us kids. Aside from how much it stung, I remember the total silence of the guys in the room after that first swat. Usually they would be laughing or boisterous if a guy was getting paddled, but as a relatively shy guy who was friends with a lot of the guys in the room, I evidently wasn't someone the guys were enjoying seeing get paddled.
When I regained my balance, Kyle laid a second swat into me, right on top of where the first one hit. I tensed up every muscle in my body trying to stave off the pain I was feeling across my butt. No matter what I was not going to let on how much it hurt--that would have been a disaster for my 17-year-old self-image. Despite how embarrassing it was for me to be up in front of the whole group getting paddled, I had some small degree of dignity to maintain. I thought I could get through three more swats without flinching too much.
After Kyle blasted me a third time, however, I began to doubt whether I could make it. I had hoped he might lighten up a little after the first swat or two, but when that paddle exploded into my butt cheeks for the third time, it took every ounce of will power I had to keep my hands dug into my shins. The silence was broken by someone letting out an impressed "Whoa-ho-ho", which was followed by the sounds of murmuring assent. Fortunately Kyle took a few extra seconds before he delivered his next swat, and I was able to re-brace myself.
I needed those few extra seconds, because Kyle's fourth swing was completely off the mark, catching me hard across the back of my right upper thigh. The stinging sensation it caused was so extraordinary that it seemed to take me a few seconds to process it. Kyle, however, realizing he had missed his target, immediately delivered the fifth swat--a bullseye right across both cheeks. I remained bent over for a few seconds trying to absorb the pain and compose myself to face the group. Evidently I didn't do the greatest job, because my friends told me later that I was beet red in the face. I had never been so embarrassed in my life when I was walking back to my seat, but I was trying to act like it was no big deal. I even took my seat, trying to prove that my butt didn't hurt that much--but that was a big mistake, because it did. I had to sit there for the rest of the meeting with my butt killing me because I didn't want to get up.