Professor Paddle

z used drawing paddle hold (11)

“It is indeed regrettable that the university failed to make proper provisions for regular corporal punishment as a normal part of academic tuition, but Armstrong and Kitso in your case I can assure you a sound spanking with a stout wooden paddle is very much in order.”

The two miserable twenty-year-old students shifted their feet and stared down at their shoes like the two naughty twelve-year-old schoolboys they closely resembled.

The professor detailed their misdeeds, but neither of the young men listened too carefully, since they had already learned their fate.

They had been caught cheating on an essay. It was blatant and inexpert; they were as the students at the university called it, “bang to rights.” They had no excuses really. They were just idle students who spent too much time in the bar or on the sports field, or, as often as they could, chatting up girls.

They listened to the lecture with downcast eyes. They knew they’d done wrong, and deserved to be punished for it.

The professor was not too surprised by their behaviour; he had seen it all before. They were not the only students who had been to visit his study this term, all for more or less the same offence: slacking. And each one had hobbled away from the study with a throbbing backside.

He was so keen on the wood, his students called him Professor Paddle. They knew what price they would pay if they broke the rules or didn’t put enough effort into their studies: they only had themselves to blame.

The professor believed in the efficacy of corporal punishment: he always spanked students who were up before him. Experience told him that if he whacked their butts for their first offence, they rarely committed a second.

Now, it was the turn of Armstrong and Kitso: two very ordinary students, as far as the professor could tell. Neither would become a star academic and distinguish the university, but if they knuckled down and worked hard, they would graduate with good enough degrees and enjoy decent careers.

The professor’s sermons never lasted long. He told the embarrassed pair they were cheats and might never be trusted again. He said their parents would be ashamed of them if they heard of their behaviour. It was standard stuff; he had given similar homilies many times before.

Each boy stared at the faded rug beneath his feet, each uncertain whether they were expected to respond, so they did what generations of naughty schoolboys had done before them, they kept silent.

The lecture now over Professor Paddle got straight to the point. “Both of you stand facing that wall.” Miserably, the youngsters did as instructed. It was quite a large study, two walls were dominated by bookcases and a third accommodated a large Chesterfield-type couch. The fourth consisted of fake mahogany panelling.

The study was full of furniture and the professor had many choices when he positioned his naughty students for their punishment. Over the years he had them draped across an armchair, the Chesterfield and his over-large desk. But, he thought, he preferred one of the simple plastic chairs he had swiped from a seminar room and that he used for visitors.

It was one of these lightweight chairs that he picked up and placed in the centre of the room. In this position there would be ample space for a boy to bend over the chair and for the professor to swing his paddle into the proffered buttocks with maximum force.

“Armstrong. You first.” He was looking at Kitso when he said this and was surprised when it was the other boy who moved forward.

“Stand in front of the chair, boy.” Armstrong felt he was in a dream, he had never been spanked in his life and he could not entirely believe that his first taste of butt pain would come when he was twenty years old.

“I want you to take down your jeans and assume the position, hands on the seat of the chair. Keep facing the wall boy.” This last was addressed to Kitso who astonished by the professor’s command had turned to see the reaction of his friend.

Armstrong had not expected this. Paddled on the shorts! The pain of a whacking on the jeans would be bad enough, but surely the paddle thwacked across the thin cotton of his underwear would be unbearable.

Armstrong moved slowly across the room and around to the other side of the chair, facing away from the professor. He deliberately avoided thinking about what he was doing as his fingers undid the button of his jeans, then the zipper, and then slid them down altogether. They hung around his knees for a moment, before the force of gravity took them down to rest at his feet. That wasn’t so hard. He still had his boxers on. There was no shame in the professor seeing him in his boxers, he lied to himself.

Meanwhile, the professor rummaged in a desk drawer.  A big wooden paddle with air holes in it was in his hands in no time.

“Armstrong, bend yourself over the chair, lift up your shirt tail out of the way and keep your hands away from your bottom. If your hands move from the chair, I will start over.”

With those words, he drew back the paddle and whacked Armstrong’s rear end with it – hard! He winced, and gave out an audible gasp. The crack of the paddle echoed through the study. Again, the professor drew back and walloped his rear end. The underwear he was wearing didn’t give him much protection.

Then the professor struck the boy’s right buttock with as much force as he could muster, almost causing him to topple forward. Unable to see clearly through the tears in his eyes, Armstrong fought to stay in position as the pain seared into his bottom, determined not to cry out. Worse almost than the pain itself was the awful humiliation of having to submit to a spanking at his age like a naughty child.

Holding his position, he waited for the next swat, his buttocks clenching convulsively in anticipation.

For a moment the professor eyed the boy’s cotton-clad backside and then, taking careful aim with the paddle in his right hand, struck the left buttock cheek a resounding blow that dented the thin material deep into the soft, yielding flesh.

Armstrong wailed and kicked his feet, but was smart enough to remain in position. Bang! Bang! Bang! went the paddle, Armstrong rising to his tiptoes and groaning with each powerful swat.

The paddle was like a hot iron, scalding him with every touch. He felt tears racing down his cheeks, so hot they seemed to sear their own path through his skin, leaving permanent canals.

Armstrong was howling, but took his licks as bravely as he could. He stood panting as the professor put down the paddle.

“Up. Stand by the wall. Kitso, your turn,” the command was curt and intended to be obeyed. Both boys jumped to attention.

Armstrong was in some distress as he faced the wood panelling. Tears were flowing freely down his face. His rear end felt as if he had sat on a hamburger griddle and surely the flesh on his buttocks was as raw as hamburger meat.

Kitso turned away from the wall, ready to take his own licking, and was astonished to see the professor seated on the plastic chair. He was gripping a smaller paddle, one not much bigger than a hairbrush.

“Come here boy, don’t dawdle. Trousers down. Bend over my knee.” Kitso blanched: it was humiliating enough to have to assume the position to let this older man whack his arse, but being made to bend across his knee like a five-year-old was going too far. Kitso stood his ground unable to move.

“Doh!” the professor exhaled, and with that he dragged Kitso’s head by the ear and held him in front of him while he unfastened and pulled down the student’s beige trousers to below his knees.

When he’d pulled down the trousers, he grabbed Kitso’s wrist so tightly it actually hurt. In the same motion, he yanked him over his lap with more force than he imagined he had, so the boy fell neatly into place across his widely placed knees. Kitso had to stop himself from crashing into the floor with his hands. He tried to get up but the professor grabbed the back of his neck, forced the head down and raised his knee by propping his heel against the chair leg so that the boy’s bottom was raised vulnerably. Kitso had to grab hold of the professor’s ankle with one hand and put his other on the floor to balance himself.

He laid one hand firmly on the boy’s lower back to hold him still but the cheating student’s body was trembling.

Like an explosion the paddle struck his bottom with enough force to make him feel like his eyes popped out of his head. There was no hesitation, the paddle bounced off his butt and slammed back into him. By that second blow tears began to roll down his face. By the third or fourth he was begging him to stop and screaming each time he hit him.

At some point during the spanking, Kitso reached back to try and protect his buttocks from any more pain. That turned out to be a huge mistake. With his free hand, the professor pinned both his wrists behind his back and began beating his poor cheeks with vengeance. He was crying wildly, screaming and whining and begging him to stop. His legs were kicking around and he tried with everything he was worth to wiggle off of his lap, but he never could. The professor was way too strong.

Kitso didn’t know how long it took for the professor to get his lesson across, but when he realized he had stopped, he was choking and weeping as he dangled, pinned across his knee. He was so humiliated, he could only double over and look at the floor, while both his hands rushed to clasp and rub his ignited bottom, trying to make the throbbing pain stop. He bounced and danced around, mostly in the same place, as he wailed and rubbed his behind.

Kitso looked sheepishly at the master who had delivered such a harsh spanking. Totally indifferent and non-responsive, the professor directed him to pull up his trousers and move to stand beside the leather arm chair from which he normally conducted his tutorials. Armstrong was instructed to join him.

The professor had earlier delivered his sermon and saw no reason to repeat any of it now. He warned the boys of the consequences of a repeat offence and dismissed them. Trying to walk as normally as possible, and desperately resisting the temptation to grip their bottoms, they walked slowly to the door and out.

Picture credit: Endart

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

Other stories you might like

 

The Private Tutor: 1

A preacher teaches humility

Oh my papa

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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