Army Fraternity

My first real encounter with corporal punishment, beyond relatively light swats from my parents, was in college in my fraternity. The hell week hazing I went through was pretty old-fashioned. My pledge brothers and I had spent most of the time in our brief's getting swatted with paddles that we had had to make ourselves. The worst part was the ritual of kissing and thanking the damn thing each time a brother used it on you prior to returning it to it's wall hook in the main dining room. I didn't enjoy the paddling, but you just grinned and bore it if you wanted to get in. I did enjoy, however, dishing it out to the new pledges in the years following. After graduation, I forgot about the whole thing in the busy activity that a new Army Second Lieutenant stationed in Europe encounters daily in his job--that is until one of my troops reintroduced me to the pleasures of giving discipline.

I say with some pride that my men really liked me and considered me a good leader. My style was more consensual management than dictatorial, and the guys in my platoon appreciated it. I generally found that a good lecture with some barracks restriction often served better than an Article 15 in many situations. One morning my Platoon Sergeant asked if I would dress down one of the men who had been insubordinate to him. I agreed and soon had the offending Private at attention in front of my desk. I was surprised because the kid was one of my best people and, wanting to honestly find out why he had done what he did, I told him to stand at ease and tell me his story.

"I can't do that, SIR!", he said. I asked why not, and he replied, "I've done wrong, SIR!. I need to be punished, SIR!".

This behavior took me off-guard, so I told him I really didn't understand what he was getting at.

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"I think that you should discipline me with your paddle, SIR!"

Now I was surprised! The men all knew about the paddle, which hung proudly on the wall behind my desk, with it's faded greek letters attesting to the extensive duty it had once seen. When asked about it, I had never hesitated to explain what it was used for in the complex social structure of a college fraternity. Now this guy wanted me to use it on him.

I told him that it really wasn't appropriate that I paddle him and if he wanted a punishment that I could find a more conventional one for him.

Without another word he undid his belt and dropped his fatigue pants to the floor. He then pushed his briefs down to his ankles and leaned over the desk with his hands on the edge and his face in mine. "PLEASE, SIR!", he begged.

I stood and looked down at him. He was bent over, bare-ass, head up, defiantly insisting on a paddling. Something came over me and I swung around and lifted my paddle off it's hook on the wall.

"All right, Mister!", I barked, slipping quickly into the scene, "You'll take ten and you'll thank me for each one.".

"Yes, SIR!", he yelled.

I confess, the wood felt good in my hands. It had been a long time and I swung it back and forth in the air just to revive the old feel of it. It isn't one of those "ceremonial" or "souvenir" jobs that you see in the college bookstore made from cheap plywood. I made this baby myself, from a rough slab of walnut that the pledgemaster gave me the first day of rush. I remember his instructions as he passed out photocopies of the shape that the wood pieces he had given each of us was to assume.

"Boys", he had said, "you have exactly one week to whip (he chuckled) these boards into shape and put the proud letters of our house onto their shiny, polished surfaces--and they will be shiny and polished, won't they?".

We had yelled a rousing, YESSIR, as we wondered how those rough planks could possibly come to resemble the polished boards we had seen hanging in the dining hall. Nevertheless, I cut, carved and sanded until I had a two and a half foot long, half inch thick solid walnut weapon of punishment. My ass had been the first to feel it's sting.

I took batter's position behind the private. He was in good shape. Smooth, bubble-butt, well defined thighs. There is something indescribably beautiful about a 20 year old, well-built man. I pushed his olive drab T-shirt up until it bunched under his arms and noticed a well defined set of abdominals framing a flat, smooth stomach underneath. Then I pulled back and swung, catching his buttocks square and generating a dull slapping sound. He grunted and lifted slightly, then yelled, "One, SIR!". I could have sworn there was a note of satisfaction in his voice.

By five he was sweating and his ass was bright red. As I swung back for number six, he cried out, "Please, SIR, I think I've had enough.".

I saw that he was crying, but he didn't move from his position over the desk and he hadn't made any sounds other than short grunts. After the third swat, his counts had clearly been said through clenched teeth. It was clear that he had never been beaten like this, and I'm sure he regretted pulling his briefs down--a paddle like mine on a bare-ass is an experience one would not soon forget. I also noticed that he had a huge erection, he was getting off on it! Now he had had his fun and no doubt wanted to run off to the billets and beat off. Well, I had a surprise for him.

"No, boy", I answered, "I don't think so. You wanted this, but you really didn't know what you were getting. Now you're going to see it to it's end."

My last five swings were my best. After he barely squeaked out, "Ten, Sir!", he shuddered and came all over the front of my desk. He then fell forward to his knees, clearly exhausted.

I grabbed as much as I could of his short, soaking wet hair and pushed his head down towards the modesty panel of the desk. "Clean it!", I ordered, pushing his face into the dripping gobs of cum, "the floor, too". He seemed to snap out of his partial faint and eagerly licked the desk and floor clean. He then pulled his pants up and gave his T-shirt a military tuck. Assuming a position of attention, he asked, with a short sniff, "Will that be all, SIR?".

"No, Private", I replied, bemused, "just one more thing." "KISS IT!", I commanded as I held the board out. With an exaggerated flourish he bent over and kissed it, a broad, satisfied smile, on his face. "Now you can go". He responded with a snappy salute and a sincere "Thank you, SIR!", and left.

I disciplined him twice more before he rotated back to the states. He was a model troop, but would, after a period of time, commit some small infraction that would bring him into my office and ultimately across my desk. I had never realized that the old paddle would see duty again as soon and as satisfyingly as it had.

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