The political intern

There are many ways to get ahead in politics, but I bet you didn’t realise one of them was to take a few bare-bottom spankings.

It happened to me one summer in the 1980s when I was an Intern for, well actually I don’t want to tell you his real name. If I did, you’d know who he was right away and go like “Wow! No way! He’s married with kids.” But, then again aren’t they all.

So, for now I’m going to call him Smith, and let’s leave it at that.

He is still in politics and if I told you the name it’d get onto Fox News and I don’t want to end us the guy who took all those spankings from Smith.

I was twenty-one years old and was about to go to graduate school when my father got me the internship. He’s pretty big in a really important business (again, no details, I don’t want you to guess who I am) and his company was (still is) a big donor to party funds. So, it was easy to get a place in his office. I had already set my sights on a career in politics and this was a fantastic opportunity to make the first big step.

I was a striking-looking boy in those days. My nickname was “choir boy.” It was because of my angelic cherubic looks, not because of my morals. When you looked like I did you had lots of opportunities to sin. I had no trouble finding a girl; they would come on to me all the time.

I had a lot of admirers among some of the boys too, if you know what I mean. They didn’t try anything on though. Except this one boy once. We were both a little drunk, I think. We were standing together talking when without warning he lent in towards me and tried to kiss me. I just lost it and punched his face in. I’m not particularly proud of it, but there you are. A man’s gotta do …

I played a little tennis. It’s a good way to make contacts among people like yourself who can do you favours. I also swam quite a bit. So I had a toned body, and so I am told, a great ass.

I had been working at Smith’s office for about three days before I actually met the great man. I was just a “gofer” – you know go for this; go for that – and spent my time running small errands for other people. I got pretty good at making coffee too. It was easier in those days when a cup of coffee was pretty much just a dark brown liquid, not the work of art it is now.

On the third day Smith came visiting. I can’t remember why, I guess it was just routine stop off to see the troops. There were a gang of people there, more than there usually were; I suppose they were sucking up to Smith to try to get recognised.

I didn’t have to try to get his attention. He found me. I was dressed like all the other guys; uniform mid-grey suit, white shirt, sober tie, but even like that, I stood out in a crowd.

Smith came over and introduced himself to me. As if I didn’t know who he was. I told him my name and we had an inconsequential chat. I could see eyes in the room staring at us. Envious of me, I thought, talking to the Great Man. Looking back, maybe some of them knew more than I did: Smith was moving in on this year’s Spring Chicken.

I was pleased to have been noticed, but didn’t think much about it until a few days later I was told I was being transferred to Smith’s private office. I was delighted. Now, I was on my way in politics.

Smith’s “private office” turned out to be much bigger than I thought. It wasn’t a cosy small group of people, who were always in the presence of the great man. There must have been at least forty workers there.

I got to do more interesting work, following up on queries from the public, helping research for speeches and so on. And, I did see a lot of Smith.

My life took a dramatic turn after I’d been in his private office for about a week. I was working on some research about job losses or something and I screwed it up. I was supposed to get the most recent stats, but the ones I delivered were a year out of date. Smith was pretty cross when he found out. The work had to be done again. Time had been wasted and Smith did not like timewasters.

So, it didn’t help when I arrived late at the office the next morning when we were trying to finish off a speech the Great Man had to deliver to autoworkers that afternoon.

Smith didn’t say anything but he growled. Honestly, he growled at me, like a big dog might do while it was weighing up its options about whether to attack you.

I kept out of the way for the rest of the day. Smith went off to make his speech, which was badly received. The Great Man is not a natural friend of the working man.

I was staying late at the office. I was trying to pick up this girl, and despite my cherubic looks, toned body and great ass, she was playing hard to get.

Smith was in the office with the blinds drawn, so I guessed he was working on something important and didn’t want to be disturbed. He called out to me to fetch him a coffee. I took it in, but just as I was approaching his desk my foot trod on something on the carpet (it turned out to be a stapler someone had dropped). I lost my balance a little and the coffee cup went flying from the saucer, landing among papers on his desk.

He exploded. I won’t tell you what he said, but if my mother heard me say such words she would call me “potty mouth.”

“You fool!” he roared. “Look what you’ve done!”

I mumbled an apology. It genuinely wasn’t my fault. Why had the stapler been left on the floor for anyone to fall over it? I was sorry for the damage, but I was even sorrier at the prospect that he would kick me out of the internship and my first break into politics would be over.

He tore me off a strip. He recalled the poor research statistics and my late arrival at the office.

Embarrassed, I stared at the carpet. Then he said it. “What you need young man is a darned good spanking.”

I looked up at him, expecting to see abroad grin across his face. But, no: he meant it. He really thought I needed my bottom spanked.

I didn’t know how to respond. I don’t think he wanted reply, because he carried on.

“A spanking will teach you a sense of responsibility. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been spanked in your life.”

Actually, I had. My mother had taken her hairbrush to my behind once or twice. When I had overstepped the mark once too often, she would sigh with exasperation, pick up her brush, seat herself on the couch and drag me across her knee. I’d get a half a dozen swats on the seat of my shorts and I would go running to the hills, crying my eyes out.

Yes, I had been spanked before: but not since I was eight years old.

He didn’t wait for a reply from me.

“Well now’s the time to start.”

He crossed his office and closed the door.

“Bend over and grab your ankles.”

I was just about to make a joke, but stopped myself in time. He was deadly serious.

“Bend over, I said.”

In that moment I took a decision that may well have changed my life. I reckoned if I took this spanking, it would mean I could keep my internship at his office. But, it also meant I would have power over Smith. Sometime in the future I could blackmail him about this. I don’t mean extort money from him. I wasn’t interested in cash, my family had more than enough of that. No, I could threaten to use this against him unless I received favours from him. At that time I didn’t know what those might be, but I would have a lever.

I bent over and grabbed my ankles.

I was in the classic position for a paddling and I expected Smith to fetch a wood from his drawer or somewhere, but no. Instead, he lifted the tail of my jacket clear of my rear and smacked me with the palm of his hand.

Of course, with my pants and underwear on, I hardly felt a thing. After a couple of dozen smacks, Smith realised his hand was hurting much more than my ass.

“Doh! This is not good. Stand up.”

I did so, my face was bright red, not from embarrassment especially, but where the blood had rushed to my head while I was staring down at the carpet.

Smith took the chair from behind his desk and placed it in the centre of his office. It seemed my spanking was not yet over.

“Take off your jacket. Put it on my desk.”

I did as instructed, while he sat himself down on the chair.

“Stand there,” he snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot to his right.

“Pants down.”

I hesitated.

“Be quick about it,” a stern order.

Embarrassed as hell, I unbuckled my belt and let my pants fall to my knees. I was entering unknown territory.

“Shorts down too. All the way to your feet. Come on.”

This was the point of no return. I closed my eyes tight and flicked my underwear. When I was suitably prepared, Smith grabbed my left arm and pulled me across his lap, so that I had to stretch my arms in front of me to stop myself crashing into the floor. I pressed the palms of my hand flat in on the carpet to steady myself. My legs stuck out at an angle behind me and my toes just touched the floor. My bare ass was perfectly positioned high across his strong thighs for my spanking.

He pulled my shirt away from the target area and I could feel the palm of his hand gently explore my baby-smooth buttocks. He caressed the cheeks from the base of my spine across both firm globes to the creases where they meet the thighs.

Then he started spanking me. Yes, spanking me: a grown man of twenty-one.

The shock of the impact jolted me and I gasped as the incredibly hard slaps hit home. He had developed a technique that I was to experience many times that summer. He didn’t raise his arm high to bring his hand crashing down into my bottom with a slow rhythm. Rather, he raised his palm off my bottom, probably no more than a few inches, and then brought it down hard with rapid swats so there was no time to absorb the pain of one Smack!!! before another one followed through. They came with ferocious speed and effectiveness. I wasn’t counting but with this method he could probably deliver thirty or forty Smacks!!! per minute.

My ass went from warm to white hot in a couple of minutes as he pummelled away at my bottom. Smith was an expert spanker, he whacked all over both buttocks and the thighs. He went right round the circuit from the top of the left cheek, followed by the bottom of the right, over to the centre of them both, then to the thigh. You never knew where the next slap would land.

Pain built rapidly on pain. My ass was frying and I was yelping. Involuntarily I kicked out my legs and wriggled my body to left and right, rather like I was swimming a length in the pool. It was agony, but I knew the pain would be worth it.

Smith grabbed me tightly around the waist. He wasn’t letting me go anywhere. I tried to raise my hand behind me to protect my ass from the rapid hand spanks, but my body was so far forward and at an angle, that I couldn’t reach back.

Smith was silent throughout the entire spanking. He reserved his strength for the job in hand.

That first spanking must have gone on for at least five minutes. I was whipped. Until that day I would never have believed that so much agony could be inflicted just by a man’s hand on the ass.

I tried to control myself, but could not. I was gently sobbing as the pain increased to agony. I wanted this to stop, but no way was I going to beg him. Instinctively, I knew I must let him have his satisfaction. He would stop when he was ready and not before.

Eventually, he did stop. The spanking was over, but he kept tight hold of me across his lap. My eyes were moist with tears. My buttocks were blistered.

We were both breathing heavily when eventually he allowed me up on my feet. My ass was a blazing red hue. I looked sheepishly at the man who had delivered such a harsh spanking.

“Get dressed,” he commanded. I did so.

There was no further lecturing, only, “You’d better go home. Don’t be late for work tomorrow.”

So, that was the start of one of the most important periods of my life. That wasn’t the only spanking I got from Smith and until now, I’ve never told a living soul. But, it feels good to get it off my chest.

Maybe one day I’ll tell you some more.


Other stories you might like:

The junior salesman

Over the boss’s knee

Hotel duty manager


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


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