Fr. Pat’s paddle

used-paddle-7

The Catholic University’s Disciplinary Committee was drawing to a close. It had been a short meeting. Only one case had been heard. The term was over and most students had dispersed to their towns and villages across the Province for the vacation.

Moses, a twenty-one-year-old Mass Communications student, was left behind; trapped. He had no money for bus fare to go home.

Then he had an idea. He took the newspapers that each day were donated to the university by local media houses and took them into the nearby settlement to sell. It was not a success. The people in the shanty town were too poor for newspapers and most could not read.

His action was discovered; a Disciplinary Committee held and an admission made. Now, Moses paced nervously in an adjourning room, waiting for sentence.

Fr. Michael, Vice-President Academic, and committee chair, squelched uncomfortably in his seat. Two of his bellies overhang the waist of his trousers. Sweat poured down his back. The overhead ceiling fans were useless against the heat and humidity.

He wiped his face with an enormous bandana and spoked. “Well colleagues, the punishment for such as this should be a fine.” He moved his enormous buttocks in his seat, failing to find comfort. No chair ever made could quite accommodate the Father.

Committee members nodded sagely. They were eager to be away. It was close to five o’clock. Soon the daily rains would come. They wanted to be back in their homes with their whisky bottles and satellite televisions.

“But,” Fr. Michael’s attempted smile was lost in his fleshy jowls. “There is no point. Since he has no money, he cannot pay a fine.” His words of wisdom were greeted with low hums and murmurs.

“So, colleagues, don’t you think this is a case for Fr. Pat?”

“Agreed.”

“Good idea.”

“Splendid.”

The sentence was fabricated as “reprimand” and five self-satisfied Catholics waddled from the room.

Twenty minutes later Moses stood eyes downcast before Fr. Pat in an empty classroom. He seemed to have an extreme fascination with the rough wooden slats beneath his feet.

“You know you must be punished, Moses,” Fr. Pat had taught in India for more than twenty years but had never lost his Irish brogue.

The student continued admiring the pattern the knots made in the wooden planks. He knew he had sinned, but he just wanted to get home to mother and father and his seven siblings.

“Well Moses?” Fr. Pat squeaked.

Disturbed from his thoughts, the boy lifted his head. His deep brown eyes had lost their natural sparkle. “Yes, Father,” he whispered.

Fr. Pat walked across the classroom. A series of cupboards ran along one wall. Moses’s eyes followed the tall priest’s progress, but darted away as the man stooped down to unlock a small door. He knew what was kept inside; every student at the university knew.

“Yes, this is the one,” Fr. Pat was talking to himself. He rummaged inside. There was five paddles of various sizes and weights; but he was after his favourite. Satisfied, he straightened up and gently kicked the door shut.

“Moses, please take the chair from behind my desk and place it in the centre of the room,” Fr. Pat waved the paddle in case the young man had not understood.

It was not a heavy chair, but Moses still had trouble moving it. His hands did not want to cooperate.

Fr. Pat held the wooden paddle in his right hand and gently tapped it into the palm of his left. It was slightly smaller than a DVD cover and about one centimetre thick. Its handle was wrapped in duct tape to facilitate a firm grip. Fr. Pat had made it himself more than thirty years previously. It had travelled all over the world with him as he performed God’s work in developing countries.

Corporal punishment had been officially banned in Catholic teaching institutions following a history of physical and sexual abuse; but few of the priests took much notice.

Fr. Pat rubbed the paddle across his palm, it was smooth to the touch and despite its small size, very heavy. In experienced hands it would pack a punch.

Moses gazed disconsolately at the priest, as if seeing him for the first time. Fr. Pat was typical of his Irish race. He stood over six-feet-four inches tall and was built like a shed. It was as if he were constructed of two oblongs; his head and his torso. His legs were thick like tree trunks and the muscles in his arms bulged. His face was ruddy. Unlike, most of his priest colleagues he had never allowed himself to run to flab.

As Fr. Pat was typical of his race, so was Moses. He was a clear foot shorter than his tormentor with a slender body and spindly legs. His head resembled a perfect circle topped by closely-cropped jet black hair. His smooth skin was naturally deeply tanned.

The priest sat in the chair and spread his legs wide, creating a platform that would soon welcome Moses’s body.

“Stand there Moses,” Fr. Pat coughed the words. All saliva had drained from his mouth. The twenty-one-year-old student shuffled a couple of steps so that he stood directly in front of the priest.

“Now take off your Tee-shirt, please.” Like all male students at the university, Moses wore only a Tee-shirt and shorts. His feet were bare.

Moses closed his eyes. This could not be happening to him.

But it was.

“Quickly, please Moses.”

The student gripped the neck of the shirt and tugged it over his head. His chest and stomach were smooth and hairless, except for a tiny tuft above the left nipple.

Fr. Pat shivered, despite the heat and humidity in the room. He nodded towards a desk and Moses dropped the shirt.

The priest ran his tongue around his mouth and across cracked lips. “Please take down your shorts, Moses.”

The khaki chino shorts fitted comfortably low across the hips. Once the button at the waistband had been released, they slipped easily down his thighs but snagged at the knees. Without thinking, Moses opened his legs and the shorts fell to his feet.

Moses looked over Fr. Pat’s shoulder to a map of India on the classroom wall. He had never before studied it in such detail. Fr. Pat moved his knees a little closer together and shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. Moses’s blue-and-white-checked Boxer shorts hung loosely.

“Now please lower your underwear, Moses.”

Moses traced the line of the border between India and Pakistan on the map while hitching his thumbs into the waistband of his Boxers and with the merest flick of the wrist sent them south to join the chino shorts. His hands shot forward to cover his genitals from view.

There was a pregnant pause while Fr. Pat once more adjusted his position on the chair. Moses was now engrossed with the topography of Kashmir.

“Step out of those shorts, please Moses,” Fr. Pat wheezed.

Without looking down, the student raised one foot and then the other before kicking his clothes a metre or so away.

“Now, Moses, I want you to put yourself across my lap.”

It was not a surprising command. Moses had expected such from the second the Disciplinary Committee had instructed him to report to Fr. Pat. It was expected, but he still could not quite believe it. Here he was a twenty-one-year-old man being told to strip off all his clothes and bend over the knee of this massive man to submit to a bare-bottom spanking with a wooden paddle.

Fr. Pat swallowed hard. “Please don’t make this difficult, Moses. Please do as you are asked.”

No student in his long career as an educator had refused to take a spanking from Fr. Pat. The priest had no idea what he would do if one ever did. He need not have worried, he had the power and authority of the Catholic Church on his side. Which young man would dare go up against that?

Moses turned his attention from the map and contemplated the man seated before him. His huge thighs were spread once more, instructing him to fall forward and offer his rear end for chastisement.

“Please Moses, it is important that you are submissive. Offer yourself for discipline. Atone and God will forgive.”

The student took a small step forward, placed both palms on the priest’s right thigh and gently lowered himself over. Fr. Pat was so huge and Moses so small that the student dangled. His hands could not quite reach the floor in front and his feet hovered in the air. His torso was almost completely accommodated by the priest’s thighs.

“Move forward slightly Moses, so that your head is closer to the ground and your bottom is higher.”

The student’s naked genitals brushed against the priest’s trousers as he manoeuvred into position.

Satisfied, Fr. Pat held the paddle in his right hand. He wasn’t quite ready to start the assault on Moses’s naked buttocks. With his left hand, the priest caressed the smooth mid-brown skin at the young man’s shoulders. He felt the muscles tighten as he stroked the student’s spine up and down.

Then, he changed the paddle from the right hand to the left. He patted and preened first the left and then the right buttock cheek. The priest’s hand was the size of a shovel and easily accommodated a whole cheek in its palm. Despite Moses’s slenderness Fr. Pat felt a lot of “give” in the globes. With his fingertips he pressed into the flesh searching for the most padded areas.

Moses closed his eyes tight. He had no choice but to suffer the priest. Fr. Pat put his right arm across Moses’s back and held him tightly in position. He was ready for action. Six slaps hit squarely in the centre of the buttocks, hitting both cheeks equally. They weren’t vicious swipes, but Moses groaned quietly as each swat struck home. Then a harder six, and another. The student raised his head and flinched in pain with every blow. He could hardly catch his breath, it hurt so badly, but he shut his teeth and did not make a sound.

“Ah!” he gasped as just two more weighty blows from the small wooden paddle bounced off the underside of his left cheek. His bottom was on fire with the kind of smarting soreness that hurts and stings.

With just two or three seconds between each whack, the spanking quickly became a slow steady rhythmic rising and falling of the wood. Moses grimaced and screwed up his face each time the paddle contacted forcefully with the once-smooth bottom. Desperate to stop the attack on his bare bottom, Moses struggled to stretch his hand behind him. But, Fr. Pat was an expert, he had placed the young man so far forward that he could not reach back. He was completely at the mercy of his punisher; and no Christian mercy would be shown that evening.

The student’s body made involuntary movements with pain; his shoulders and head jerked high as each blow struck his bum. His dark brown eyes were watering, but he incanted silently, “I will not cry, I will not cry.” But, he knew he wasn’t going to hold out much longer.

As the whacking continued, Moses realised with shock that his rear end was aflame. It burned with a pain that bewildered him. Never before had he felt such pain. Every fresh smack of the paddle tore a gasp from him. The next dozen or so whacks were a little harder than those that went before. The pain was growing in his rear end and travelling down his legs. He struggled harder to break free, but the priest held him tighter around the body closer to his knees to make sure he wasn’t going anywhere.

Then, Moses’s resolve to take the spanking without fuss was broken. Tears poured down his twenty-one-year-old face and nothing he could do would stop them flowing. His body lay held tightly across the priest’s lap and he sobbed and sobbed as he pounded away. He howled and kicked begging the priest to stop hurting him.

“Keep still Moses.” Swat! Swat! Swat! “You’re getting what you deserve.”

Moses believed this. He did deserve it. He knew what Fr. Pat said was so. He pictured his mother at home; how ashamed she would be of him, a common thief. His family had been so proud when he was given a place at university; the only person in his village to have ever gone away. His family was poor – the whole village was – but they had all contributed with money or food to support him.

Now, it had come to this. He owed it to them. He must take his spanking and then pray very hard to God for forgiveness.

Another dozen on the left and twelve on the right. Smack, smack, smack. Then it was over. Fr. Pat rested the paddle on the centre of Moses’s naked back. The priest wheezed and wheezed; he couldn’t catch his breath. Blood was rushing through his arteries at such velocity he feared it might spurt out his ears. He gripped Moses’s body tightly, pressing the naked young man down into his own lap.

Moses’s body twisted and turned and kicked his legs; he looked like he was doing the crawl stroke at swimming. But, he could not escape. Gently, the priest rubbed his own calloused hand across the student’s buttocks. Every square centimetre of flesh had been ripped; blood had risen to the surface making Moses’s backside resemble raw hamburger meat. Both cheeks felt as if they were made of leather.

“Get up, Moses,” Fr. Pat released his grip and the student rolled off the priest’s lap onto the floor. The tears had stopped flowing but his cute smooth face was drenched. A rivulet of snot trickled beneath his nose. He paused for a moment then rose to his knees. In that position he hesitantly reached his hands behind him and with his thumbs gently explored the damage.

Fr. Pat was still seated but he rocked backward and forward desperately drawing air into his lungs. Moses could not bear to catch the priest’s eye. Uncertain what was expected of him now the spanking was over, he made a move to stand.

“No Moses,” Fr. Pat was drenched in sweat, his ruddy face now the colour of deep burgundy. He too couldn’t meet the student’s eye. He took the twenty-one-year-old by the right wrist and pulled him forward. He pressed Moses’s hand against his own tight crotch.

“If you finish me off Moses, I shall pay your bus fare home.”

 

Other stories you might like.

 

A preacher teaches humility

The vicar delivers

The Senior Tutor

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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