The boy was in the bushes, hidden from both the house and the road. Five minutes ago he saw an elderly grey man he knew to be the Dean of the Humanities Faculty leave. He had been told he lived alone and as far as he knew the house was empty. Now would be his chance.
It was late afternoon and still warm. The Dean had left a window of an upstairs room open. A drainpipe was conveniently adjacent. The boy was far from an athlete but he should be able to shin up it and get into the house. It should take him only a minute. He could be in and out inside another two or three. If he found what he was looking for. Now, was the time for action.
He checked over his shoulder, the road was clear. It was no more than a driveway really. It connected to a main thoroughfare with the university. Checking once more that the coast was clear he dashed across the immaculately-kept lawn. His heart raced faster than his body. In a moment he sized up the drain. He was a heavy boy, but a couple of tugs on the pipe confirmed it would take his weight. He had a good idea how to do this. Back in the day he had learned how to climb ropes. The Boy Scouts would not be amused to discover they had been teaching House Breaking 101.
It was more difficult than he thought. The pipe was narrow and connected close to the brick wall, there wasn’t much to grip on to. He made it to the top, a little breathless. With his head he pushed the window open further and on his stomach he wriggled through it, landing on his head. He was unhurt and quickly climbed to his feet. It took seconds for him to see the room was a bedroom. The bed was a bare mattress. The dressing table was empty. It must be an unused guestroom. He wanted the Dean’s bedroom.
His heart pounding from the exertion of the climb and excitement he crept towards the door. He put his ear to it and listened carefully. He had been told the Dean lived alone, but who knew he might have a houseguest. All was silent. Not even a cat stirred. Gingerly he opened the door and walking on the tips of his toes like some cartoon burglar he moved down the passageway. The door to the adjoining room was ajar. He peaked through the crack. Bingo! This bedroom was obviously lived-in. Two recently-ironed dress shirts hung on the door of the wardrobe. Using his shoulder (he suddenly remembered he mustn’t leave fingerprints) he edged the door open further. Now, his heart rate rising and sweat soaking his brow, he moved smoothly into the room; his destination a chest of drawers. Within seconds he had the first one open. Inside was his prey. He smiled broadly and reached in.
Then, he was out of the room and heading down the stairs clutching in his hand a pair of the Dean’s boxer shorts. His grin was wide, he was consumed with self-satisfaction. A pair of the Dean’s boxer shorts, purloined from his house was worth sixty points. He had won the freshman’s scavenger hunt for certain.
The scavenger hunt took place each autumn at the beginning of the academic year. New boys at the university got points for collecting various objects on a list. One year a guy stole a campus bus. This year top points went to the kid who got the shorts. He padded down the stairs, he had no wish to topple out of the window head first. He was almost whistling so great was the joy at his achievement. He was across the hallway reaching for the door handle when without his help the door opened. Standing there, with two brown bags in his arms was the Dean of the Humanities Faculty.
He was a large man in a crumpled grey suit. His shirt was formal but he wore no tie. Despite the mildness of the day a scarf hung at his neck. His fleshy face frowned, his unkempt moustache bristled. He glared at the boy standing in front of him. The Dean’s eyes looked him up and down. There was nothing unusual about the boy; he wore jeans and a checked shirt like (it seemed) everyone else his age. The Dean’s eyes shone when he saw his boxer shorts in the boys hand.
He moved into the house, quietly closing the door behind him. The boy blushed to his roots. Instinct told him to run for it but he could see the Dean blocked his path to freedom. His jaw dropped, then his mouth opened and closed but no words came out. He felt his face burn with embarrassment.
At last the Dean spoke. “A burglar I see. Breaking and entering.” He put the bags of groceries on the floor at his feet and reached into his pocket. “I should call the campus police.”
“No!” he boy wailed and waved his arms as if the try to impede the Dean’s movement. The Dean kept the phone in his pocket. The boy was too distressed to see the twinkle in the old man’s eye. “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?” he demanded ferociously.
The boy blustered, “I’m Mike McManus. A student. A fresher.”
“Show me your ID,” the Dean’s eyes narrowed and he frowned. He made great play at examining the plastic card. He held it up against Mike’s face to compare the photograph with the real thing. Satisfied the boy was who he claimed to be he handed it back.
“The scavenger hunt,” Mike’s explanation was brusquely cut short by the Dean. He knew all about scavenger hunts and boxer shorts. He had been a member of faculty for more than thirty years, he had seen it all before.
“Get in there,” he ordered and pointed to a door at the far end of the hallway. When the boy stood rooted to the spot the Dean gripped him by the left year and half pulling the boy along the highly-polished floor he directed him forcefully into his study. He let go of the ear and Mike stood sheepishly rubbing it while examining his own feet.
“I know all about the scavenger hunt,” the Dean confirmed. “I also know that breaking and entering is a crime. You will go to court. Maybe even do time in juvie. At the very least you will be expelled from the university.” It came out like a rehearsed speech. In a few words the Dean had summed up Mike’s predicament. A silly freshman’s prank had dire consequences. The Dean watched as Mike’s jaw wobbled. Any second now and he would be in a flood of tears.
“I know the scavenger hunt is a tradition. I am all in favour of the college traditions,” he said in a firm but not unfriendly voice. “You boys have your traditions and I too have mine.” Mike looked up from the floor, his puzzlement now etched on his face. He saw the Dean walk to an old battered desk. He bent forward and opened a drawer. When he stood again he had an aged wooden paddle in his fist. Mike stared open-eyed. He knew about paddles, of course, but he had never before seen one.
The Dean slapped the blade of the paddle into his hand. It was a traditional school-type affair about fourteen inches long and four wide and half-inch thick at least. As is also traditional it had a series of holes drilled in it (to counter wind-resistance). The Dean did not speak, there was no reason to, Mike instinctively knew the old man’s intention. The student could not keep from staring at the wood. “He’s never going to spank me. I’m eighteen years old. This is two-thousand-and-nineteen. Things like that don’t happen anymore.” That is what he thought but all he could say aloud was, “B.. b… b …”
“So, Mr Michael McManus,” the Dean stretched his shoulders and swung the paddle through the air as he spoke, “What happens next is up to you. I can call the cops or I can deal with it myself.” He smacked the paddle into the palm of his hand so there was no doubt as to his meaning. “What’s it to be?”
A student confronted this way should call for a lawyer. The ensuing litigation might take years. He might have graduated by the time the case was decided. A bright student would do that. Mike must have been one sandwich short of a picnic; he didn’t get lawyered up. He muttered, almost inaudibly, “Your way.”
The Dean responded with a smile. “Smart choice,” he said and waved the paddle once more. “Right stand there.” He pointed to a space between his desk and the door. “Jeans and underwear down. Assume the position.” Mike went bright red and he began to protest.
“It’s entirely your choice,” the Dean put his hand in his pocket, making to search for his phone. Mike, now in a daze of confusion, blurted, “No, wait. Don’t.” His protest defeated and with severely trembling hands he reached for the waistband of his jeans.
“They always come round in the end,” the Dean told himself silently as he watched Mike fumble with the buttons on his fly. The boy seemed to be on auto-piolet, his eyes were glazed into a strange faraway look. Once he had the front open, the jeans slithered to his knees of their own accord. The Dean noticed with a wry smile Mike was wearing boxer shorts. “Those too,” the Dean barked. They went south to join the jeans.
“Assume the position.”
Mike was unsure what this meant exactly. Assume the position. It must mean: Bend over. Still in a dreamworld, he arched his back and placed his hands on his knees. The Dean stood behind him, paddle in his hand. “Emm,” he mused silently, “Much more padding on the hind quarters than the boy yesterday.” Of course Mike was not the first student to attempt to steal the Dean’s boxer shorts. Adam, a sweet boy, had also been caught red-handed. His luscious little bottom was hard and round. The term “Buns of steel” had been invented for boys like Adam. Mike’s backside was fleshy, almost flabby. He wasn’t quite fat but if he didn’t hold up on the burgers and beer pretty soon he would be joining the ranks of the obese, like so many of his fellow students.
The Dean placed the paddle against Mike’s left buttock and pressed it down. It sank and the flesh wobbled like jelly on a plate. The student’s shoulder flinched at the touch; he was preparing himself for the onslaught soon to start. The Dean was in no particular hurry. He tapped the paddle down; one, two, three, getting his aim. Then he lifted it and brought it down with maximum force. It hit the flesh with a dull thud that echoed around the small study. There was a pause of a second or three before the pain registered in Mike’s brain. His lips pursed and created a perfect “O” shape, then he hissed like an old steam engine. He wanted to jump to his feet and rub away at his scorched buttocks. He didn’t. Instinct kicked in. He knew to do so was against tradition. A guy took his paddling, come what may. He let his hands slip from his knees and he clutched his shins tightly waiting for the impact of the next swat.
It was a while coming. The Dean had been paddling the butts of students for the best part of twenty years, he was an expert at this. He knew that it took some seconds after the swat landed for the pain to connect. Then it took a few more for it to make its way through the boy’s body. It started at the cheeks and then usually travelled up and down the legs before sending messages to the brain about how much it hurt. The Dean allowed time for all that to happen before landing the next whack.
In no time at all every square inch of Mike’s buttocks glowed pink. The Dean admired his own handiwork awarding himself extra credit for the way the outline of the paddle was embossed again and again in the flesh. He especially liked the patterns the holes made.
For a boy virgin to corporal punishment, Mike took his paddling with great stoicism. The first swats hurt like hell and he winced, screwed up his face and gripped his shins for dear life. But soon his buttocks numbed and while each additional whack hurt they registered low down on the barometer of pain.
The Dean let up at eighteen. From where he was standing, Dean’s butt looked thoroughly toasted. It would hurt the boy when he sat on a hard surface for some time to come. The blisters would let up after a day or so but the bruises would be around for a week or more. It amused the Dean that it would curb the boy’s love life for a while.
“Up.” It was a clear command and Mike did not need telling twice. He straightened and hopped from one foot to another and stomped his feet, rather like a soldier on sentry duty. He hoped it would ease the pain. It didn’t; it never does. He retuned his shorts and jeans to their correct places and buttoned up. He stood awaiting further instructions unable to comprehend what had just happened. His head was dizzy, the study seemed to spin around him. He was so light-headed he feared he would giggle in the Dean’s face. No drug he had taken ever gave him this kind of high.
Seconds later he was gingerly walking across the lawn back to his dorm. He was glad his roommate was out. Had he known that at that moment he was secreted in the bushes outside the Dean’s house he would not have given him a word of warning. Mike lowered his jeans and underwear and pointed his butt at the mirror. It surprised him how sore and red it was. His dick jutted out towards the ceiling. He spat on the palm of his hand. It took no more than four tugs before he shot a load across the glass. With his jeans and pants at his ankles he waddled across the room to his nightstand and grabbed a handful of tissue. Once he had cleaned away the mess he found his phone and took a selfie.
Well, he thought, if he can’t get points for the Dean’s boxer shorts, the old man’s spanking should be worth something.
Picture credit: Kernled
Other stories you might like
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second