I felt more than heard the door to my room open. I was still asleep, but not so deeply that I didn't react. I immediately rolled over onto my stomach, practically the only movement allowed by the ankle cuffs and short chains attaching me to the bottom of the bed. Seconds later, just as the light pierced my shut eyes, the bed clothes were ripped from my body, leaving me completely exposed. I shivered once and clenched my ass cheeks together just as the switch fell.
"Get it up!" There was neither malice nor anger in the terse command, merely an order, a directive. I had no choice but to comply, and pulled my body down toward the bottom of the bed, raising myself onto my knees. With my knees and my shoulders both on the mattress, my ass was hide and wide, and ready for what was to come.
"April 25. Count them!"
"One! Two! Three!," I began as the switch cut into my ass. "Seven! Eight! Nine!" and I was breathing hard, panting, with my arms flat on the bed, extended above my head. I could feel the familiar burning in my penis that indicated the urgent need to urinate. "Fifteen! Sixteen! Seventeen!" If only I could hold it a few strokes longer! How many were left? Just 9 more, no 8! Doing the math was too much of a distraction. With the sleep in my head, and counting the cuts "Twenty! Twenty-One!" I lost hold, and pissed up onto my chest and onto the mattress. Maybe he wouldn't notice, or forget to check. "Twenty-Four! "Twenty-Five!"
I fell heavily forward, onto the mattress, into the dampness. But he did not forget to check. He thrust his hand under my belly, against the sheet and moved it up and down. He withdrew the hand when he found the wet spot.
"All right Martin. You will not be eating breakfast this morning either. You know what is coming. Get up and shower and change your bed." As he spoke, he unlocked the cuffs on my ankles. And he was gone.
My ass was on fire. Red lines the width of a pencil crossed it at all angles. They were slightly wider and slightly redder on the right side than the left, because that is where he had stood to use the switch. He was not as skilled as others had been. Applied properly, the marks would not show which side the giver had stood on or and would fall in almost parallel lines, fanning out gently over the entire ass. But he was young, and would learn. God knows he gets enough practice!
I fingered the marks as I stood up and looked in the full-length mirror on the back of my door. They stung, burned, seemed to twitch under my fingertips and I loved it. I hurried to the shower.
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When I got to the kitchen for "breakfast" he was already at his place, eating an omelet and toast. Orange juice, coffee, and chunks of fresh cantaloupe completed what looked like a delicious meal. His plate was the only one on the table. On my place mat, between the knife and fork that I would not use, lay a maple paddle. It was 14" long, 3" wide with grooves cut into it the long way on one side.
"Ah, Martin! Good. Well, let's go, I don't want to be late!"
Without speaking, I undid my pants and pushed them down. I leaned over the back of the kitchen chair and put my hands flat on the seat.
"Are you ready, Martin?" He asked, flipping my coat tail and shirt tail up over my back to completely expose my ass. "You sure you don't have to pee? I don't want you to wet yourself again."
"No, Bobby, I am ready. I finished in the shower."
"Good. Well, let's see, it is still April 25. Count them!"
The pistol shot of the board landing against my already sore and savaged ass split the quiet of the room. "One!" These came slower. It took more time for him to pull back the board and let it slam against my backside. "Two!" And another pause "Three!"
"If only you would learn to hold your water, Martin, this wouldn't happen."
"Four!" and the pause "Five!"
"And then you might be able to actually sit at your desk! Oh well, as you wish. I only give you what we agreed I would give you for these transgressions."
"Ten!" and a pause "Eleven!" and a pause "Twelve!" Almost half done. How I hated the end of the month! Anything after the fifteenth was murder!
Finally it was over. But I did not move. To stand up before I was told to would result in 10 more, and I didn't want that.
"OK, up, old man, up and at 'em! See you later? Around lunch time?"
"Yes, at 11:45, right?" I gingerly tucked my shirt tails into my pants. I did not want to rub against the well-beaten welts from the switch. I hoped they were not "weeping" because stains on my underpants would get me another switching that night.
"Yep. I'll come by at lunch time. See you then." And he was out the door. I hurriedly put the breakfast stuff in the dishwasher and the refrigerator and drove to work. Everything was fine, once I got out of my car at school. My ass still burned as if my underpants were a griddle and my ass the steak, but that was not all so unusual.
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As principal of a high school, I am the one most of the students think of with fear. Not that most of them should: I have never abused a high school student, and haven't even met most of them, if by "met" you mean "talked with." But there was no reason for them to fear me. Indeed, I feared some of them!
I stood for announcements and the Pledge. I stood during our daily 3-minute staff meeting. I stood while talking to the teachers who "dropped by" during the first period. Then, at about 8:45, I eased myself into my chair. And sat quietly, not moving.
The heat and the sting penetrated deep into my body, and, try as I would to distract myself with reports, paperwork or phone calls, I could not make my raging erection go down. Second period passed, and I was still stiff. Third period passed, and I still felt the heat. So, off to the faculty men's room I went. It didn't take more than 10 minutes to stroked that pecker into perfection. I squirted my come into the toilet and went back to work.
Fifth period, 11:45, the bell rang. Within seconds the private door to the corridor opened, and my son, a junior, poked his head in.
"Hi, you got a minute?"
"Well, um, yes, I guess."
"Good. Tell Miss Madar you don't want to be disturbed."
"OK, I will." and I did. She understood. And there would be no calls or knocks at the door until I told Marily otherwise.
"Now, then," it was remarkable how his tone changed. It was the same tone he had used to say "Get it up!" that morning.
Once the door was locked and our privacy assured, Bobby was different boy. "Have you been good?"
"Um, yes, sir," I stammered. "Pretty good. I mean, I did not wet my pants."
"Stand up, hands on your head."
I stood in the middle of the room, feet apart shoulder width, and interlaced my fingers on the top of my head. Bobby grasped my belt and the waistband of my pants in one hand and roughly lowered the zipper on my pants with the other. He thrust his hand inside my pants, and felt the fabric of my briefs where they covered my _c_o_c_k_ and balls. I looked straight ahead, breathing shallowly and tightly. The last thing I wanted was to get an erection now. I stood very straight and still for the inspection.
"Nice and dry. Good. Good. Well, I guess you don't get a whipping then." He took his hand out of my pants and started to zip them up. I relaxed and dropped my shoulders a little.
"But wait. Just a second." His hand was back inside my pants. His fingers pushed past the y-front opening in the briefs and grasped my _c_o_c_k_ at its base. He milked it forward once, in a firm stroke, and touched the tip with the tip of his finger. He withdrew his hand and held the finger up for me to see. It held an unmistakable drop of semen, white and sticky. Looking straight in the eye, he extended his tongue and licked his finger tip, cleaning it of the droplet of come.
"When?"
"End of third period. But I couldn't help it. You know how it is with me and a beating!"
Bobby did not say a word. He undid my belt and slipped it from my pants. He shoved them and they fell to my ankles. He doubled the belt, holding the buckle and tip in his right hand. He walked around behind me, and stood on my left. He raised the belt to swing, and stopped. He walked around in front of me.
"Sir?"
"Be silent. Keep your hands on your head. How old are you now, Martin?
"Forty-Nine next month, sir."
"Forty-nine it is. One word, on sound, one move, and I will start over from 1.
He walked back into position, and lifted the belt. I tensed my ass for the first blow.
Bobby stopped, put the belt down, and turned on the radio, just a little louder than I would have to listen to it. He took a clothes-pin-type paper clip from my desk and walked around in front of me. He unbuttoned the bottom three buttons on my shirt. Behind me again, he used the paper clip to hold my shirt tail to my shirt collar. My ass, covered only by briefs, was completely available to the belt now. He walked back in front of me and spoke:
"I don't want to have to be careful not to make noise. Just you do."
Again, he moved to behind my left side. I could see from the corner of my eye the belt raised. I could feel the growing hardness in my groin. My hard on would be obvious long before the beating was over.
Bobby lowered the belt and walked in front of me again. He leaned forward and kissed me, tenderly, lovingly, square on the lips. Affection had never been a source of embarrassment between us. Then he let his left hand wander down over my chest and belly. He looped his finger up inside my briefs, just behind my balls and pulled the briefs down to my knees.
"I want this on your bare ass," he said between tightly held teeth.
He stood behind me on the right. He help the folded end of the belt in his left hand, back up behind his head, pulling it taunt with his right hand. Suddenly, with greater force than it would have had he just swung it, the belt leapt free of his left hand and landed on my right ass cheek. The pain was unbelievable. I nearly lurched forward. "That's one, he whispered." I will give them to you 10 at a time."
He alternated the blows. One high on the buttock, one low, almost on the thigh. One on the right, the next on the left. He never hit the same spot twice. But from the beatings I had already endured, it make little difference. By 20, I was biting my lip and fighting back tears. By thirty, I was sweating and moving my ass gently back and forth. By 40, it was all I could do to stand up at all. The last stroke came, and he dropped the belt and walked in front of me.
He did not say a word. He knelt and took my turgid _c_o_c_k_ in his hands. He had to pull it down to get it into his mouth. Within less than a minute, and without my touching him or it, I came into my son's mouth.
"Thank you, Bobbie, thank you. Oh God, thank you, son. For my beating. Thank you."
"Sure thing, Martin. I will see you again? before bed?"
"Yes, Bobby, at 10 PM sharp."
The bell rang. Lunch was over. I dropped my hands to my side and pulled up my pants as my son left the principal's office for his chemistry class. I turned off the radio, and poked my head out to let Miss Madar know I was now available for interruptions. I walked to the widow and decided to read the Superintendents Report standing in the sunlight that came through the sheer white curtains.
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I saw what was written above, what my dad had written about the day when I got home from the game that evening. I finished it that night before I went to bed. But I want to tell it "as it happened" sort of.
It was well past 10PM, and I knew that my dad would still be up, waiting, and I was sorry to have kept him waiting. He is a real bug on punctuality, and I guess I had become one too, in his influence.
As I walked in the kitchen door, I head the music playing in his room. A baroque piece, maybe Bach, with notes that danced and sparkled all over the room. I loved that type of music, and loved him for helping me appreciate it.
"Well, Son," he said as I came in. Nothing else, just that.
"Hello, Dad, yes, I know, I am late. I am sorry. I didn't want to make you wait."
"I guess it couldn't be helped?" he asked, standing up and putting down the book he was reading. He was wearing his silk robe and his dark blue satin pajama bottoms. His feet were bare, and I could see his bare chest through where the robe opened.
"No, it couldn't. But I still have no excuse."
"Well, shall we finish the day's exercises?'
"Yes, lets." As I said this, he turned his back to me. I put my books and my back pack down in the hallway, and when I turned back, I saw him straighten up from removing his pajama bottoms. With his back still turned to me, he slipped his robe from his shoulders, and let it fall to the floor. He walked the two steps to the front of the dresser and stood with his legs wide apart, and his left hand held in his right at the small of his back.
"Your ass is still quite sore?"
"Yes, Bobby. It is. You were most effective this morning, and I did take the paddle instead of breakfast. Then in my office, I don't think I have ever been so effectively chastised." I loved the way he talked. "Effective," "take the paddle," "chastised." These words and knowing what was yet to come made me hard.
"Well, still, it is an odd-numbered day. And you do have the third one coming."
"Yes, indeed, and tomorrow is an even-numbered day."
"Well, as for now, come here."
I took the chair from next to the bedside table and moved it to the middle of the room. I sat in it, my legs spread and waiting for his weight. He walked to my right side.
"So, you know this is for the best?"
"Yes, sir, I know and I want it."
"And what is it you want me to do?"
"I want you to spank my bottom sir, until you are sure I have learned my lesson."
"And why am I spanking you, Martin?"
"Because you love me, and you know I want it."
"It isn't that you deserve it?"
"No, sir, I want it."
"It isn't punishment?"
"No, sir, it is love."
"Then, Martin, let me love you."
He lay across my lap, careful to let his stiffening _c_o_c_k_ and low-hanging balls fall between my legs. He kept his knees and ankles together, and put his hands flat on the floor so that his ass was raised and centered over my lap. His weight pressed on my erection, and I was glad I had left my jock on after the game. Its tightness and sweatiness increased my horniness.
"I love that little ritual, you know."
"Yes, I know. I do to. It is so true, so very true."
I began to spank him, with large, heavy, strokes, raising my hand as high in the air as I could and letting it fall, a dead weight onto his still-red and in places, black-and-blue ass. I had really done a job with that belt.
He began at once to breathe deeply and to sigh with every stroke. I moved up one side and down the other, overlapping swats to completely redden and heat his bottom. Before I got half way down the second side, he was crying openly. As I started up the first side of the second time, he was sobbing and heaving. My father, the principal of the high school where I was a junior, the man whom I loved most in the world, and who loved me more than anyone, lay across my lap as I spanked him royally.
I continued, long and hard, until the action of my arm, the bouncing of his body on my lap and the love heaving in our chests made me come in my pants.
"Daddy, you're done. Get up." He stood, tearstained and sore assed. And smiled at me through the tears.
"I love you, Son."
"And I love you, Daddy."
We hugged and held each other tight. Then, after a long time, he pulled away and walked to his dresser. He took a pair of ankle cuffs and a 6-foot chain from the upper right and drawer and handed them to me.
"I'll see you in the morning, Bobby."
"Yes, sir. I will be ready for the switch."