New MMSA spank logo

Part 1

by Graham

Go to the contents page for this series.

Copyright on this story text belongs at all times to the original author only, whether stated explicitly in the text or not. The original date of posting to the MMSA was: 26 Feb 2008

A young, energetic, slightly overconfident, Mark Austin was newly promoted from police officer to police investigator in the City of Boston, Massachusetts. In 6 years with the police force after graduating from high school, he had proven himself to be an aggressive, hard-working, and resourceful young officer. His diligence and dedication had paid off with the announcement of his promotion.

Almost 6', Mark had a thick mane of dark, brown hair, heavy and thick, dark brown eyebrows and eyelashes, and dark blue eyes. Without body fat, his lean, hard, muscular body was in exceptional condition, with powerful hindquarters and a shapely jutting, curved, muscular rump. His outstanding conditioning was an asset he counted on in his work. His 160 lbs were trim and muscular; he was athletic, played basketball three times a week, ran, swam, and worked out.

There was a change to go with his advancement. When he began at 18, he had worked with a senior police officer, but for more than 2 years now he had worked on his own, alone, a single, sole warrior against crime, evil, corruption, and deceit. Now, however, he would be assigned as junior partner to a senior detective for at least 4 more years, or as long as the senior detective felt it was still needed.

Detective Paul Conrad was twice Mark's age – 48 – and a seasoned, savvy veteran of highest quality detective police work. He was a tremendous presence: a big spreading chest and shoulders, long muscled arms and legs, large, powerful hands. He had seen, and worked with, more than a half dozen partners over the years, including his own senior detective – James McMahon, who had retired 16 years ago. Detective McMahon had recently died, and Detective Conrad grieved inwardly for the loss of his friend, mentor, and former father figure.

Detective McMahon had been tough, crusty, brilliant, and no-nonsense throughout his career. Detective Conrad was a replica of McMahon – except his insight and success resulted from hard work, perspiration, and persistence, instead of the laser-like insights and perceptions that had characterized McMahon. Conrad made up for it not only in labour and tenacity, but also in an unrelenting, demanding requirement of commitment, consistency, and integrity. McMahon had been regarded and treated with universal respect, and so now was Conrad.

When he learned that the newest brat to be assigned to him was Investigator Mark Austin, Conrad had clinched his teeth and lips in his characteristic squinting scowl at things that displeased him. Still, he said nothing. He knew of Officer – now Investigator– Austin. The youth had a reputation for hard-charging, no-holds-barred police work, and for some impressive results. He also had a reputation for being a brash, hothead, who lost his cool way too easily and too often, and spoke and acted abruptly, out-of-turn, and without self-restraint and foresight.


Paul Conrad was fuming. This was the 4th time in less than 2 months that his new, junior partner, Mark Austin, had lost his self-control and composure, and blurt out rash, hostile, inflammatory statements that incensed the persons being interviewed, shutting down any further communication, and shutting off the flow of information that were seeking.

They were engaged in the investigation of an interstate conspiracy shipping stolen tractor trailer parts. They had contacted several witnesses who may have had key positions to acquire information – or possible involvement themselves – and arranged to meet them in remote locations for conversation. Each of the individuals they were going to interview was cagey and defensive in different ways.

They arranged to meet a potentially critical witness – a warehouse shipping clerk – at an old, abandoned warehouse. After a few minutes of verbal fencing, Mark had become impatient with the clerk's stalling tactics, leaned over and shouted in the man's face, threatening him with arrest and prosecution for obstruction of justice. The shipping clerk, who was not under arrest, panicked and bolted, leaving the two men standing there alone.

In self-consciousness of the now empty, aborted meeting, Mark exhaled a disgusted sigh into an engulfing vacuum of silence. "Can you believe that guy?! What an obvious, dirty slimeball! I can't believe that guy!" he exclaimed, turning to look at Detective Conrad. Paul's face was set in a cold, icy, almost steely anger. For a brief moment, the two men stood staring at each other. Mark could tell his senior partner was mad.

"I can't believe THIS guy!" Paul spoke flatly, poking Mark's chest.

"Whaddya mean?" Mark retorted defiantly.

Suddenly, he felt himself being lifted up by his tie, which was pulled up and away from him, tightening at his throat, and raising him up on his tiptoes. Paul had grasped his young partner's tie with his left hand, and with his right hand gripped the young man's chin and jaw, twisting and forcing his face to look into the arctic, pale-blue eyes of the senior Detective.

"Now, you listen, kiddo. I'm tired of you exploding and shooting your mouth off, like a fresh, wet-behind-the-ears investigator, just because you can't control your temper, or your thoughts – if you have any!"

Conflicting, colliding feelings flooded Mark: anger at Detective Conrad's authoritarian treatment; shock at discovering himself virtually at the mercy of this huge man; embarrassment to be called on the carpet and admonished; and a bit of anxiety and fear about what more this could lead to.

"Let me down, you colossal son-of-a-bitch!" Marked shouted defiantly in Paul Conrad's face, while reaching up to grasp the strong arm that was holding him elevated and stretched upwards.

The brawny, exasperated Detective took a dozen steps to his left, dragging the young Investigator along on his tiptoes, until they reached an old, wooden bench in the warehouse.

"I'll let you down. You'll get your wish," Paul Conrad uttered with bloodless flatness. Sitting down, he simultaneously lowered and hauled the astonished, young Investigator face down, across the Detective's lap. Paul released his hold on Mark's tie, and the young man dropped hard, sliding forward across Paul's legs, catching and bracing himself with his hands, to avoid hitting the cement floor face first.

Initially, Mark was confused about what was going on, but realizing himself to be in the classic, spanking position, he quickly sensed what was happening – and what was about to happen. He began struggling – scrambling and scuffling – all over Paul's lap, trying to dig in and get traction with only his tip toes scarcely touching the floor. The seat of his corduroy pants was tauter around his plump, muscled rump, and he was bucking it upward with flailing legs and arms, as he tried to get off and away from Paul Conrad. The mature, strong detective kept the battling young man upended and overturned on his lap, letting him expend his bursts of angry energy in fighting against his overturned restraint, while meeting the mounds repeatedly rising with hard, solid smacks.

After a number of seconds, something hard crashed down on his bottom. He gasped sharply, and tried to look back, spying Detective Paul Conrad with his hand raised in the air, his face stern and set, . . . and then the powerful, strong, older man smacked him again. With a powerful, left arm circled tightly around Mark's lower back and waist, Detective Conrad began dispatching fast, strong spanks to the ample seat of the corduroys of the younger man locked into his hold across his knees. Mark could not believe he was getting spanked.

The first, solid, hard, swats to the seat of his corduroys had surprised the overturned young man, by their force squarely against his plump, muscled mounds, and by reviving long-forgotten recollections of trips over his grandfather's knees as a boy. He had been raised by his grandparents when his parents died in a boating accident.

The next, several swats rattled the struggling young man more. Strangely, though so long ago, the smarting, warming swats reminded him of particular spankings he'd received in the past from his grandfather. The successive, series of swats began to register a cumulative uneasiness, then discomfort, then smarting that threatened to become painful.

The fast, hard, repetitive, smacking sensation of the older Detective's stony hand colliding with the ample rump of the younger investigator startled, stung, and upset Mark thoroughly. The gigantic, older detective pounded over and over again the upended, young man's small, muscled, but fleshy-curved rump – now an unobstructed target for the recurrent wallops.

Whooooooaaaaaaaaa! Mark was shocked and outraged! Who did this Herculean giant, albeit senior-ranking and vastly respected, think he was?! And just what did he think he was doing?! Mark could not believe what was happening – that he was being spanked, at his age, while across his senior partner's lap. He tried to fight back, to wriggle away, but Detective Conrad's left arm and hand held him down, in place, while the other hand kept spanking him.

He dashed his right arm and hand up to try to protect his bottom that was now beginning to register the rising discomfort to his brain. He then felt his right arm grabbed and held up against his back, as Paul Conrad released his clamp on Mark's waist, grabbing grabbed the young man's right hand and arm, jerking them up against the small of his back. This wresting of his arm against his back, created new pain that momentarily settled Mark down, while the spanking continued.

"You listen to me, young man," Paul Conrad's firm, admonishing voice sounded above the smacks. "Your life is going to change from this point on – or else. You will act properly – behave, pay attention, listen, obey, comply. If you don't – when you misbehave – you will be punished – end of story."

"What the . . . ow-ow! Ow! Heeeeeey!" Mark erupted. "Cut it out – ow! Right now! You can't do this! I'm too old for this! Hey, I'm 24! Stop it! Right now! Stop! Stop it!" Stopit! Stopit!" he stormed his orders at Detective Conrad. The young man across Detective Conrad's lap was outraged at getting his bottom spanked.

Paul Conrad struck swiftly, fifteen more times.

"You think I can't, kiddo? Well, you just wait and see what you're going to get, young man."

Mark was irked at being called 'kiddo' and 'young man' by this hulk, not to mention being restrained upside down over the Detective's knees. He was even more incensed that this was happening to him, and this huge guy was paying no attention to what Mark said, and he couldn't seem to be able to do anything about it – to stop it.

His frustration grew, along with his discomfort and anxiety, as he felt the hard, powerful hand crashing down again and again on his upended, poised behind; but with his head and shoulders pushed down over the left leg on which he was dangling, he could not see or anticipate each time another smack crashed against the now-tautly stretched seat of his pants, intensifying the tempo, and also the temperature. He was squirming and wriggling, trying to get away – trying to get off his senior partner's knees – to run for all he was worth – but it was futile. Detective Paul Conrad was incredibly strong!

Besides, he was already feeling the transformation of discomfort to pain from the torrent of blows battering the turned over, stretched backside of his corduroys. He tried to remain stoic, to show this stronger, older, punishing man that this would not affect him; but it was too much, too fast, becoming too sharp and painful for him to stay quiet: he was jolted into stunned shock, anger, indignity, and discomfiture.

"Waaaa-aaaait aaaa-augh-ah-ah-minute! Arrghaaa-waaaaaaaait!" Mark gasped.

"Wait, nothing, kiddo!"

As Paul Conrad continued to spank the seat of his junior partner's tightly stretched corduroys, the young man started to become less demanding. The inverted young investigator's seat was heating up real fast and real hot! "Listen, . . . ah, Paul, come on! You made your point! Now, stop! Aaaaaa, please! Aaaaaaa, I'm 24! Ooooooo-aaaah-ah! Owwww! For-aaaaaah! crying out loud!" he complaint, turning and twisting in a futile attempt to escape the blows. "Ooooo-ow-aaaah-owow-aaaaa-man! I'm-aaaa-24-aaaaaa! Ow, ouch! You can't do this – ooooh! It's not right! Ooooooooooooo-aaaah-yoweeowowow! Owowowow! Come on! Thi-is-is-soooo-humiliating, uh, ow-ow-ow, it hurrrrtz! Ooooo-uh-puh-uh-leeeez-huh-uh-stop!"

"You really look more like a 24 year-old brat who needs his backside tanned to learn some lessons he should have learned a long time ago?" With that, Paul Conrad resumed the rapid-fire swats to the seat of his shorts.

"And we'll see who ends up crying out loud."

At this point, Mark's bottom was now really heating up and hurting. Involuntarily, he began kicking and bucking wildly, trying to avoid the blazing barrage. His sighs, grunts, and moans had turned to shouting yelps that were becoming louder and higher pitched.

Whewhaaaaaaaaaa! The 24 year-old, police investigator was being spanked and bouncing around on this strong guy's lap like a 10 year-old. His shoes were kicking and cycling in the air more than they hit the ground, and his butt was smouldering as Paul Conrad stoked the mounting inferno on his unprotected pants' seat.

Frantic, and squirming, he began yelping to beat the band. He desperately needed to find a way out of this, and get it stopped, before he could no longer hold on and hold back. Abandoning his pride, he began to beg, promise, and plead, acknowledging he was wrong, obviously endeavoring to get Detective Conrad to shorten this happening and let him go.

"Aaaaaa! Looook, Paul-uh-uh-aaaaah-uh, I mean, uh, Detective-uh-Con-uh-uh-raaaad! Oooo-uh-ouch-uh-ouch-aaaa-uh-I'm-uh-sorry! Oooo-uh-oooooo-uh-haugh-uh-owowow! I'm-uh-sorry! Aah-aah-aah-aah-aaaaah! I-uh-know-uh-now-uh-what-huh-you-uh-meeeean! Aaaaa-yaaa-ooooo-aaaa-yowow! Please! Please! Uh-uh-aaah! I've-uh-learned-uh-my-uh lessonnnn-aaaaaah! Ooooo-aaaa-uh-nooo-ah-Stop! Aiiaugh-uh-I'll-aaaa-uh-nuh-uh-ever-aaaaah! Yeeoweeyoweeyow-augh! Nahuh-everrrrr! Aaaaeeeyoww! d-do it again! Oooooooo-aaaah-owowow! Puh-leeeez! Uh-noooooo! Uh-uh-I promise! Oooooooo-aaaah! Puh-pleeez! I promise! I promise! Aaaa-uh-yaaaaah! I SAID-uh-aieeeyaaowowow! I said-uh-I-uh-promisssss! Ooooeeyoweeee-owowow! I saaaaid-uh-uh-nuh-uh-ev-uh-uh-errrrr! Puh-leeez! Augh-uh! I Promisssss . . . ooooo-uh-aaaa-oweeeyowowow!"

The large, senior Detective had expected this boy to be more stoical, longer, although he supposed it was understandable, considering Mark had probably not been spanked in a long, long, far-too-overdue time! The 24 year-old's babyish whining and kicking at first, and now writhing and begging and pleading, were undignified, to say the least; and Captain Paul Conrad was neither fooled, nor moved, by this frenzied, punished, young man's thrashing about or hastened vows. He simply paid this now howling as a 10 year-old, 24 year-old adult, no mind, and instead spanked his squirming bottom faster and harder!

"Okaaaay! Okaaaay! Okaaaaaaaaaaay! . . ."

The spanking continued. Detective Conrad showed no sign of tiring or slowing down – even after having delivered a solid trouncing to Mark for more than 15 minutes! In his hysteria combined with outrage, Mark's strength momentarily seemed to redouble. He fought furiously against the vice-like lock, and the machine-like licking in which he found himself caught and confined. Twisting and writhing, wriggling and bouncing, thrusting and bucking, kicking and flailing – call to no avail! It seemed to him that his spanking, senior partner had escalated the punishment to his rearend.

Paul Conrad continued to deliver stony, hard smack after stony, hard smack to the now-warm, ample bottom of this plainly enraged, but also conceding and coming-to-terms, Mark Austin, held securely confined, overturned on the strong, senior Detective's knees. With each swat to the heated seat of Mark's corduroys, Paul Conrad became more convinced that this was exactly what was needed, what had been missing, and would become readily applied as a future part of the brash, young man's life and learning.

No question about it, Detective McMahon well knew, nothing was as effective to turn around a misbehaving young man's hard-headed, willful, stubborn attitude and actions as the fact of receiving a good, hard spanking, and the prospect of getting more. Mark Austin was just embarking on finding this out – he was getting a damn, good spanking. And a good, sound, old-fashioned spanking wasn't going to kill this impudent, young man: it was going to bring him up short, finally get taken in hand, and turn him around.

Mark, meanwhile, was mortified, fussing and protesting, between yelps and hollering, like a prima donna with a voice steadily rising in pitch, belying his brash, uninhibited, over-confident, cocky man exterior. The young investigator was indeed learning fast, and first hand, the effectiveness of a good spanking. His orders and demands were gone, and he was now begging the man who was his senior partner to stop spanking his blazing bottom.

At that moment, something unexpected occurred to Mark's adult-ego, manhood, and pride. They collapsed, shattered and slipping away. He was an adult, damn it! A 24 year-old, a man – he knew he was – but at the same time, he was at the threshold of his humiliation point, feeling tears begin to gather in his eyes and feeling his resolve and determination melting.

After having been so many years ago, now being in this position once again rattled and shocked his emotions down to those of a 10 year-old. All at once, a sorry, remorseful, naughty, little boy buried way down deep within him, began surging forward, summoned by, surfacing as a result of, the downpour of spanks. The years falling away, he reverted, regressed, becoming that bad, punished, little boy again, now released from his self-assumed notion that he was really an adult – a man – exempt from being made to obey and from being disciplined when he didn't.

Crazy, incoherent talk reared up and asserted itself, loudly, wailfully, as began begging Detective Paul Conrad to stop this humiliating, blistering spanking. He suddenly heard himself making promises that no one – especially an arrogant, self-determined, strong-willed, bad boy like he was – could ever keep: to be good, to do better, to listen, always to do what Detective Conrad said, to follow the rules and never break them again – ever. He had to negotiate a stoppage to this!

Suddenly, Detective Conrad stopped. Mark was already so worn out from futile struggling and thrashing about, he didn't think he could force himself up and off his lap, to run for it. No matter, for Detective Conrad reached down and lifted the astonished young investigator up to stand on his feet in front of his older partner. Mark's face was deep red, his hair disarrayed, his neck veins bulging, his eyes glistening with tears, and he was breathing rapidly, as his hands and arms flew back to become glued to massage the discomfort on his rearend.

"Oh, wow! Man, oh, wow! I can't believe you did that!" Mark blurted out, while rubbing his butt vigorously, bouncing up and down slightly. Still he had survived it, he thought, and he could now save enough face to get back to his car and leave.

"I didn't. We're not through," Paul Conrad replied, while reaching out, grasping the front of the young investigator's waist at his belt, pulling tugging him sharply and firmly toward himself. The sharp yank forward caught Mark by surprise, and he almost lost his balance and fell, grasping the strong, muscular shoulders of his partner before whom he was slightly draped to steady himself. In the same few seconds, Paul Conrad had unfastened Mark's belt, unsnapped and unzipped his corduroys, and pulled them open, apart, and down to fall at the young man's feet.

""Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey, what the . . .?! What're you dooooooingg?!" Mark roared, while finding himself simultaneously and swiftly toppled back, hanging across Detective Conrad's lap. "Noooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" he exclaimed.

Detective Conrad tipped his shocked, now-further-upset, young partner forward more, face downward, across his lap. Reaching down to the floor with his right hand, Paul Conrad seized a discarded, piece of board he had earlier spied lying at his feet, and with it returned to dispensing another torrent of spanks to the thin, cotton seat of this misbehaving, young investigator's boxers.

Mark shrieked some more, only higher and louder, as the smacks of the board in the hand of his older, bigger partner, ratcheted higher the intensity of the bombardment to his butt. Paul Conrad rained what seemed like an unending assault of spanks down on this suffering spanked youth's already smouldering behind!

Mark was beside himself with pain, misery, and indignity; but the pain and humiliation got worse. Pausing momentarily his rapid-fire blows to Mark's behind, Paul Conrad deliberately reached up, grabbed the waistband of the overturned, young man's boxers, snatching them down, over his angry, red bottom, past his thighs and knees, to join his corduroys that were gathered, tangled at his ankles.

"Aieeeaughuhaaa-uh-noooo-uh-uh-youuuu-uh-caaaaan't-uh-please! Noooooooo! Noooooooooooo! You can't take them down! Noooooooo! Not thaa-aaaaat! C'moooooon!" he screamed his protest, and struggled more!

Pushing the dangling young man's shirt up to his underarms, the powerful Detective grasped Mark's right arm and hand again, wrenched them up into Mark's lower back and waist with a vice-like clutch, slanting his head and arms farther over his left leg and towards the back of him. His legs were dangling off the ground. He was ready to burst into tears, to cry loudly, and to beg for his forgiveness.

That hard, unrelenting board exploded against his bottom, working every inch of his buttocks, thighs, inner buttocks and inner thighs, and sit-spots where his bottom curves down to reach his thighs! He looked ridiculous, this brash, young man now sprawled over his senior partner's knees with his deeply reddening bottom on display and his feet, limited in their movements by the corduroys and boxers tangled around his ankles, flying up in the air.

Through heaving sobs, the upended young investigator shuddered in the cooling evening air as he lay naked from his back to his ankles across his partner's knees. His flaming bottom was shifted higher, a target positioned ready for more harsh, battering strikes that teemed from this massive Detective's incredibly powerful, strong hand, wielding the board like a snapping paddle. He was squalling through weeping eyes and running nose, like a snot-nosed toddler getting a spanking.

Paul Conrad administered an extra emphatic spanking, beyond standard smacks – many fiery whacks all over the muscular bottom and lots of spanks to the tender thighs and the curved under buttocks that met the young man's thighs. Even though Mark was a lean, muscular, masculine, 24 year-old man, he was also still young and quite tender – especially since he hadn't been spanked in at least a dozen years.

His butt became harsh red, and hot to touch, he howled when that steel-like board came down punishing his cherry red rump and thighs. In Detective Conrad's secure grip, Mark jumped each time an additional smack blistered his behind more. "Ooooh! Please! Please, Paul, uh-augh-uh-ow-uh-I mean-uh-sirrrrr! Uh-noooo-uh-mooooore! I can't-uh-uh-caaaan't-uh-uh-taaaaake it-haughuh-aneeee-uh-uh-moooooor-oooooo-uh-uh-waaaaaa-uh-uh-pleeeeeez!" He yelled and wailed, heaving and shaking, coughing and gagging through his strangling sobs.

After so many repeated impacts of Detective Conrad's hand smashing the board down on his rearend and thighs, young investigator Austin's priorities changed completely. Of course, he was overcome with utter humiliation; but as that stony hand came spanking down on his backside, Mark's sense of shame and disgrace were pushed far to the background of the mounting, demanding concern over the fiery torch that was setting his tail on fire. His whole world was now his thrashed, afflicted butt, and the unquenching, sizzling pain inflicted on it.

"Stop! Stop! Augh-uh-yow! Uh! You-uh-uh-were-uh-right! Aieeeyow! Stopit! Stopit! Stopit! Ooo-aa-yow! Stop Spanking! Stop-ah-spaa-augh! Keeeng-ghaaa! Oooo-ah-ow-ow-waaaaaa-uh-uh-uhn-uh-nooooo-uh-muh-muh-oooor-uh-spuh-uh-aaank-uh-eeengaugh-uh-uh-meeeeee! Uh-uh-uh-waaaaaaaa!" he cried. He was a captive, powerless mess in the jaws of this unceasing spanker who was was singeing him over and over.

The board's blazing spanks covered every inch of Mark's purple-red globes with white-hot fire. His muscular, hard rump was hurting, had a lot more coming, and before very long, the boy was reduced to a sweaty, weeping child being soundly punished like all bad boys need to be punished – with a good hard spanking. Detective Paul Conrad had reduced Investigator Mark Austin to a crying, blubbering, wailing, red-butt baby. Reluctantly and slowly at first, then relenting as his determined resolve slipped away, he gave in and cried while the older man spanked. His boyish bottom cheeks sizzled with spanking energy, his moons radiating a stinging burn that sent radiating waves of 'good boyishness intentions' to the brain of this soundly spanked, formerly snotty, impudent brat – but now thoroughly humbled and chastened, young investigator.

"Yeeeowowow-augh-uh-owow-uh-oooaaa-aigugh-uh-waaaaaa! Eeeyow-uh-ooo-uh! Noooaaa! Staa-op! Nnngh-uh-uh-waaaaa-augh-uh-puh-uh-leeeez! Ooo-uh-stopspaaaank-aughuh-uh-eeeenguh-uh-meeeee! Uh-uh-waaaaaaaa-huh-uh-pleeeez-uh-uh-I'llbegood! I'llbegood! I'llbegooood-uh-uh-waaaaa-uh-ev-uh-errrrr-uh-waaaaaa! Aieeyaughaaa-uh-waaaaaa-haugh-uh-uh-oooooo-uh-uh-uh-uh-waaaaaaa-uh-uh-gaaaaaain! Nnnngaughaaa-uh-augh-uh-uh-waaaaaaa! Rrrghaugh-uh-uh-ooooo-augh-huh-uh-uh-waaaaaaaaaaaa!"

Under the seemingly unceasing series of smacks, the boy's adult, masculine bravado was starting to break apart. At the moment when he realized that there was no way he was going to be able to bargain or talk his way out of this, the pain that was torching his backside and jolting his brain catapulted him, launching him over the edge. His eyes, wide with fright and shock, pain and shame, squinted tightly, and a flood of uninhibited tears poured forth, pushing through his eyes, gushing down in streams and dropping onto the floor. His mouth, gaping from the smarting, blistering smacks against his bottom and thighs, opened further agape.

His head and shoulders, intermittently arching backwards and upwards, froze upward and backward, into a tensed, steeled paralysis, and he screamed – almost a blood-curdling shriek really – with all the fear and anguish he could muster to screech – long and loud, and higher than a soprano. His hands and arms, feet and legs all flailed and extended simultaneously, then stiffened as if cement had set them in inaction.

He was numb, almost like an observer: he felt his former, conscious resolve crumble and slip away. Tears began gushing from his eyes, pouring out, and he crumbled into bawling, wailing sobs, revealing the scared, little brat underneath underneath the facade of bravado. It was the classic way a naughty boy reacted when taken in hand by a strong, older, masculine authority. Like most, young, spoiled brats, let go, without supervision and discipline, Mark's brash, feisty, naughty exterior was at best a thin layer, easily cracked by the strong, powerful, older, male hand of Detective Conrad. He knew he was defeated, vanquished by his powerful, senior partner, succumbing to the punishment and evoked outcome.

It did not take long. He could not last or hold out, as Detective Conrad's fiery whipping brought him to collapse. Weeping and sobbing unreservedly, he crumbled. There was no halting the shamed, humbled, little boy who emerged now – sobbing, begging, pleading, confessing, promising, in an astonishing, small boy's, high-pitched voice that no one would ever have imagined being heard from Mark Austin. He jumped and lurched with each blistering smack of the paddle-like board, inconsolably and uncontrollably wailing, squalling, screaming, before capitulating into senseless, convulsive sobs.

"Ah-uh-augh! aughaaa! Ooooo-aaaa-uh-yaugh! Stopit! Stopit! Oooo-aaa-owow! Grrrnghaaa! Haugh-augh-uh-uh! Oooooo-uh-uh-haughaaa-uh! Nooooo-uh-uh-puh-leeeeez! Aaw-uh-ooooeeeyowow-uh-waaaaaa-uh-huh-augh-uh-nnnghaaa-uh-augh-uh-huh-uh-nnnghaaa! Oooo-uh-ow-uh-oooo-uh-yaaannng-augh-uh-waaaaaa! Uh-uh-owee-oweeeee-haugh-uh-ow-uh-ow-oweeoweeeowow! Waaaaaaa-uh-ooooo-uh-uh-oooooo-hu-haugh-uh-uh-waaaaaaaa!"

The reverberating popping sounds only re-enforced that he was defeated, broken – down from the plane of a cocky, mouthy, 24 year-old, hothead, to a wailing, bad boy who was being hauled to the woodshed for his misbehaviour. He couldn't help it. His blazing bottom was afire under the blistering battery, the agony tormenting him to surrender – and he did. He jumped and squirmed, but mostly sobbed and heaved, choked and gasped, and kicked his feet, as he hung over Detective Paul Conrad's lap. Paul continued pummeling the upended behind of this brash, impertinent, impulsive young man, while his backside went from fire-engine red to a deep purple. By the end, the humbled young man was howling like a wolf and pleading for his senior partner to stop.

After a while, but how long he did not know, Mark realized that he was wailing and choking, while still dangling over Paul Conrad's knees. The young man's spanking was over, however. After a few minutes more, Paul Conrad allowed Mark off his lap, reaching over and pulling the young investigator roughly up off his lap like a rag doll.

Mark's face was drenched in tears, sweat, and mucous. With reddened eyes and disheveled hair, he immediately began jumping and stomping up and down involuntarily, as his hands, plastered on his throbbing, flaming rearend, massaged his sore backside. His legs were too quivering and faltering in the tangle of his corduroy pants and boxers to hold him up. He fell forward on his face, releasing his hands from his throbbing butt just in time to break his fall. His bottom felt like it was smoking against the cool night air, and he sobbed on, with his pride completely gone, crying unashamedly!

"You go stand over there, hands on your head, leave your pants at your feet, and face in the corner. Don't leave that corner, and don't look around or touch your behind. Just spend some time in that corner, contemplating your attitude and behaviour, lad," the senior Detective ordered. "If this doesn't change them noticeably, and right away, I will tan your behind like this every day if I have to – until it does!"

Humiliated, but still sobbing in posterior anguish, Mark shuffled over to the corner where his senior partner had directed, leaning his face into the corner to shut out the embarrassment of watching Detective Conrad. Still bawling softly, he let his astonished humiliation and excruciating pain unleash themselves in shaking sobs. How long he stood there, ashamed, afraid, and hurting, Mark did not know. He wanted to call out to the senior Detective to let him pull up his pants, get dressed, and leave the corner – but he did not.

Finally, Detective Conrad spoke. "Alright, lad. Pull up your pants, and tuck in your shirt. We're leaving now." Mark sighed audibly, while stooping down to pull up his boxers and corduroys, grimacing as they scraped his throbbing globes while being tugged upward. He tucked in his shirt, straightened his tie, but with hair still dissheveled, and reddened eyes and tear-streaked face, he silently followed his senior partner out of the warehouse building to the Detective's automobile.

Sitting down on the seat was so painful, Mark felt like he was about to start weeping all over again. The ride back to where he had left his car was unbroken silence. When they arrived at Mark's car, Paul waited while his young partner opened the door, and stiffly and awkwardly climbed out. Just before closing the door of Paul's car, Mark's attention was summoned by the Detective's voice. "Now, lad. You begin to behave yourself – now. What happened tonight is just between you and me, never should have been necessary, and can be avoided in the future – if you behave yourself."

"Ye-es, suhr!" Mark emphatically responded, as much to assure himself as to reassure his senior partner. Then he got into car, sat down with some gingerly care, and drove away.

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