It was the summer after high school graduation. I had been working as an apprentice in one of the offices at my father's company for about three weeks. I really like it there; the dress code was very relaxed in the summer, so I could wear shorts and tank tops and sandals to work. The job wasn't particularly difficult, and the rest of the office staff seemed to like me, laughing at my jokes, always willing to help me if I had a question about company policy, and inviting me to join them for lunch every now and then. The one problem I had at work was the same one I've always had: the problem of punctuality, or rather, the lack thereof. It seemed like I was always running late, whether it was getting to work in the morning, returning from lunch and coffee breaks, or coming back from business errands in the building.
The office manager, Mr. Murphy, was fairly patient with this problem early on. He was youngish (probably about 25 or 26), and understood things like car trouble and traffic. The first few times I came rushing in, breathless and filled with excuses, he just encouraged me to give myself a little more time to get from point "A" to point "B", or suggested alternate routes to avoid areas of heavy traffic congestion. But as the summer progressed, his smiles grew fainter, his advice more brusque, and eventually he called me in for a reprimand.
He led me upstairs to the second floor and motioned me into a small conference room. Indicating a group of chairs, he sat down and gestured me to do the same. He laced his fingers behind his neck and leaned back comfortably. In his white tennis shorts and blue tee-shirt, he looked more like a very big kid than a boss, and I began to feel a little less nervous.
"Mark, you're very well liked in this office," he began, stretching his long, muscular legs. "You do good work...once you finally get here. But this problem with lateness has got to be dealt with." He waved me to silence as I began my umpteenth round of excuses. "The trouble is, you're not quite motivated enough; you lack self-disicipline."
He reached over to open a small cabinet, peering into it and rummaging around. He looked me dead in the eye as he pulled his hand out of the cabinet, grasping a solid oak board about two feet long, with a handle carved into it and several holes drilled through its blade. He laid it across his thighs--deeply tanned and thick with curly black hair--and said, "This is what I call my Motivator. Since you can't seem to motivate yourself, maybe the Motivator and I can help you out."
I was stunned. "You mean...you're going to....spank me?" I asked in an incredulous tone of voice.
"What's the matter, Mark?" he asked. "Haven't you ever been spanked before?"
My mind went back swiftly over the years of my childhood and adolescence, and I remembered dozens of encounters with a paddle, at home, at school, visiting my uncle...even once in Sunday School! I was no stranger to corporal punishment. But, I was out of high school, I was a grown up, I thought. Mr. Murphy seemed to read my mind.
"Of course, you're a little old for this kind of thing," he drawled. "But here are your choices: you can take the rest of the week off, without pay, to try to get yourself together, or I can paddle the tardiness out of you, right here...right now. What's it going to be?"
I thought of my dad, and how disappointed he'd be if I lost this job. I thought of the loss of wages...wages I really needed to help pay for college. When I looked at Mr. Murphy's powerful build and saw the stern glint in his eyes, I quailed; when I realized I was dressed in tight-fitting nylon running shorts, commando no less, and looked at that wicked paddle, my heart nearly stopped. But I knew what I had to do; I couldn't afford to take the easy way out.
"I guess I'll take the paddling, Mr. Murphy," I said in a low voice.
Without a word, he stood up, strode over to the door, closed it and locked it.
"Come here," he ordered, seating himself in a chair in the middle of the room. I walked slowly over to him, my heart pounding like a jackhammer, my breath rapid and shallow. I couldn't speak because my mouth was suddenly dry as dust. I watched him spread his legs slightly apart, unable to avoid seeing the generous bulge in the white cotton shorts. To my horror, I found myself becoming somewhat aroused by this handsome, strict man, and this unbelievable situation.
"Bend over," commanded Mr. Murphy, grasping my left shoulder and pulling me down. I could feel his coarse leg hair poking my tummy through my shirt, and the heat of his hand as he pressed it into the small of my back. With a jerk, he spread his legs even further apart, causing me to fall forward. He quickly pinned my legs down with his right leg, clamping down hard, like a wrestler. He grabbed my right hand and pinned it to my back, with my elbow bent, so I was now trapped and unable to move. I could sense the movement as he raised his arm high, gripping the paddle firmly...
Whack! Without any further warning, the first swat landed, right at the roundest part of my ass. I began wriggling furiously, but that only made Mr. Murphy tighten his grip. Then he drew back and struck again, even harder. I felt my eyes begin watering as I fought with all my strength to stay in control. Two or three more world-class swats blazed across my butt before I let out a yelp.
Mr. Murphy paused. "Is this getting through to you, Mark? Are you getting the message?"
"Ye-ye-yes s-s-ir," I stammered, my jaw clenched, on the brink of tears. I had never been paddled quite this hard before. "I'm sorry," I gulped. "I promise I'll be on time from now on."
"It's a little too late for promises, Mark," replied Mr. Murphy, and, with that, began bringing that paddle down on my burning ass over and over, each swat just a little harder than the one before, until I couldn't hold back the sobs any more. I was horrified by how loud the paddle whacks were, how loudly I was crying, and mortified with embarrasment. I didn't see how the whole building could keep from hearing what was going on. But soon, those concerns were forced into the background by the burning, stinging pain that was making my backside feel like I was sitting on a barbeque grill. I squirmed and struggled against those rock-hard thighs, alternately sobbing and yelling for him to please stop....
When the paddling was finally over, he released my legs and helped me stand up. My knees were buckling and my face was covered with tears and snot. I couldn't catch my breath, but breathed in shivering gasps. Mr. Murphy put the paddle down on the floor and took my shoulders in his big, hairy hands.
"Mark, I hope you've learned something today," he began. He drew me closer, pulled me into a big bear hug, and ruffled my hair. I threw my arms around his neck, still crying...unable to say what I felt, because though the stinging, red-hot pain in my fanny was still crawling like fire over my skin, and I still felt embarrased and humiliated, I felt like I had finally found a real friend, who cared enough to keep me in line.
And so I had...Mr. Murphy took me to the conference room often that summer. By Labor Day, I was a model employee...sort of.