When I joined the Probation Service, one of my first cases was Michael, a prime example of urban thug. Outwardly he was angelic, with blond hair, blue eyes, pale skin, a smooth face, a round and muscular body, and last but not least a really beautiful bum, pert and bulbous. I used to follow it with admiring eyes as he came round my desk and sat down with me for an informal chat.
Inside he was simply what he was, primitive. Needless to say, he had kept none of the conditions of his probation order, and when I saw him again I had to remonstrate.
"This won't do", I said, "I'll have to report it at your next case conference."
Thug he may be, but he certainly didn't want to end up inside.
"Don't do that, mister. You, you deal with it yourself. Smack my bum. I know what you want. All you yuppies are the same, gagging for it. It's you lot ought to be in the nick."
Almost right. I wasn't a yuppie, but the rest of it was spot on! I closed my eyes and pretended to consider, my lips pursed. Would it come back to haunt me? What the hell!
"Right", I said.
He stood up and I caught a hint of scented shower gel as he stood in front of me. I hesitatingly fumbled with his gleaming metal zip, then gently eased his blue cord jeans down to his ankles. His legs were like a stallion's. I cupped my hands under his tangas, one upon each cheek, and took the last barrier down. He only had a short tee-shirt on and he stood erect, proud. His pants were of the fancy variety, with images of dancing-girls on a light-blue background. I thought of these figures undulating with him as he swaggered down the High Street.
I motioned him over my knee. He bent somewhat awkwardly, and then he actually blushed.
"Mind my chopper", he said.
There he was, the most vicious, feared little hardman in the county, over my knees. I could hardly contain myself. I didn't quite know what to do with my left hand, so I stroked his face as it gazed down at the floor and opening his lips I gave him a finger to suck. He caressed it with his tongue. I laid my right hand on his bum, which was smooth and warm but rather soft to the touch. There were pale little hairs where my hand travelled steeply over the brow and down to the cleft between the cheeks and the upper thighs.
Smack! I came down on it sharply, but let my hand linger before repeating the blow. I could feel him stirring and the bottom quivered. I indulged myself and let rip a rain of hard slaps, and the cheeks wobbled like a pink blancmange.
"You realise I'm only doing this for your own good."
He said nothing out loud, but there was a sharp intake of breath. He muttered something then, but it was lost in puppy-like yelps as I set to again. I was ecstatic now. His bottom was jumping as I got my rhythm, and I treated the thug as I might do to a set of drums. The cheeks were red and hot to my bouncing hands, and they began to look raw in the middle of my target area. How long could I stretch it out? It was half an hour still to my next appointment. I decided there was not much point in reverting to chat, so I devoted that half-hour to tanning and bruising those beautiful, bulbous buttocks in all their succulent splendour.
I saw from the corner of my eye that it was nearly time. I was sweating with the exertion, and my clothing was damp where Michael's body had been pressed down on my reponsive thighs. I gave him a few more pats, then helped him to his feet. I watched and dried the finger of my left hand as he pulled up the dancing-girls and the jeans and then very, very slowly pulled up the zip.
"Same time next week?" he said.
"Right", I said.