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The Coach's Paddle (poem)

by Eddie Knapps

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: 16 Mar 1997


("Three Boys Caressed Their Burning Buns")


Three boys caressed their burning buns,
their eyes were filled with tears,
there in the jammed gymnasium
alive with hoots and jeers.


Oh, they were cocky, proud young men,
the kind that can annoy
a MAN who sees them as they are--
mere snotty little boys.


And what, you ask, had these boys done
to earn such public shame,
guaranteed, within a trice,
to earn them schoolwide fame?


Their sin had been a childish one.
They left the locker room;
They snickered and then dropped their pants,
bent over, spread--and mooned!


The gym was filled with other boys
and girls at exercise,
who, staring at those hairy rears
could not believe their eyes.


But also watching was THE COACH,
a man of strict ideals.
Before those boys could raise their pants,
his whistle loudly squealed.


He strode across the crowded gym.
Those mooning boys turned white!
Their faces now, instead of glee,
revealed their terrible fright.


"You think it's cute to show your rumps
to everybody here?
Well, so do I," THE COACH then smiled,
"I want to make that clear.


Now STRIP!" The order thundered out,
"Down to your little drawers!
Keep on your shoes, and socks as well,
then get down on all fours!"


The boys all did as they were told.
What other choice was theirs?
They formed a line there on the floor,
their bottoms in the air.


"Now, we shall see just how intense
you find your little prank
when I, not you, reveal your rumps
which I intend to SPANK!


THE COACH approached the first in line
and gave his drawers a pull.
A furry, football playing rear
shone out then, spread and full.


There followed then the swimmer's tail,
the second boy's in line--
two soccer balls, those milky globes:
to whack them seemed a crime!


The naughty backside of the third
was then revealed to view--
a rumpus white, without a mark,
as were the other two.


"I'll be right back," THE COACH then said,
"Don't even move a hair,
so everybody has the chance
to point and laugh and stare!"


And it was then the giggles struck
the audience all 'round:
Wolf whistles and the sniggered jibe.
It was a terrible sound


To those three boys who knelt and showed
their fannies to the crowd--
cracks, anuses, and testicles,
their peters hanging down.


THE COACH came. In one meaty hand,
he held a straightback chair,
and in the other, something sure
to fry those bottoms bare!


The paddle glistened in the light.
Its face was full of holes
designed to raise dark blisters on
boys' dancing, squirming knolls.


"Now you, young man," THE COACH declaimed,
"are first to feel the wrath
of this thick, solid piece of wood
on your nude, naughty ass!"


He reached his fingers down and pinched
that football player's ear,
then guided him across his lap
to spank his furry rear.


Whack-WHACK! The paddle echoed loud
throughout the crowded gym.
The football player bleated out
his pained, embarrassed hymn:


"Ow! OW!" Whack! WHACK! "Oh, Coach! Please, no!"
The football player bawled.
Whack! WHACK! "Ow! NO!" And WHACK again!
The sobbing boy, appalled,


Kicked hard his legs. They pumped the air!
He could not comprehend
just how that paddle could so burn
his bratty boy's rear end.


THE COACH whaled on. The wiggling boy
would learn his public lesson:
The COACH had little sympathy
for smart boys' mooning sessions!


When finally that poor, crying boy
came off THE COACH'S knee,
his rump had put on quite a show
for all who cared to see.


Despite their hair, those buns now shone
as if a child of five's,
as if a swarm of angry wasps
had made that rear their hive.


"And now, for you," THE COACH reached down
and took the swimmer's wrist.
He hauled him firmly 'cross his lap,
the second on his list.


The paddle landed square and true.
The boy let out a squeal!
Ten, twenty times, then on and on!
The boy kicked up his heels


As blisters glowed an angry red
across that squirming can.
THE COACH spanked on, the portrait of
a strict and angry man.


That hairless rumpus bounced and bucked,
snapped shut and opened wide
to show that swimmer's puckerhole.
Imagine that boy's pride


In ruins, as he showed them all
his pink, most private spot,
between those buns, once milky white,
that now flared glowing hot.


THE COACH relented, finally.
The swimmer leapt to try
to rub the sting out of his tail.
He cried and cried and cried.


And so, one rear end still remained
its natural, snowy hue.
But that would not last very long,
as COACH said, "Now, for you!


You were, I think, the ringleader
among this bratty three,
so get your fanny over here!
Get up across my knee!


I'm going to spank you twice as hard
as I did the other two.
When I am done with you, young man,
I'll leave you black and blue!"


Before the paddle ever struck,
the boy began to sob.
Upon that helpless, teenage rear,
THE COACH would do a job!


Whack! WHACK! And with the sound began
his painful, bad boy penance.
And certainly, his mooning would
no longer prove a menace.


Whack! WHACK! "Ow, Coach! Oh, no! PLEASE NO!"
the frantic boy did sing.
WHACK! WHACK! "NO! WAA-AAAAHHHH!" All gathered saw
just how those swats must sting!


Despite his fur-cracked, manly rump
despite his full-sized tool,
that bucking, bawling teenager
looked like a perfect fool--


His bottom bounced and rocked and rolled,
his legs were kicking wild,
his crying was so uncontrolled,
he seemed the merest child.


Who knows who first began to laugh?
It started to one side,
then grew to such intensity
it seemed a rising tide.


THE COACH spanked even harder then,
his righteous anger fueled.
That boy would learn his lesson from
both pain and ridicule!


That blistered fanny shone and glowed
with shades of every hue--
Pink, red and scarlet, fushia too,
with spots of black and blue.


THE COACH, at last, let paddle drop
the boy's buns were reprieved,
but now, instead of milky moons,
what did that crowd perceive?


A teenage rear, so fiery that
it seemed to shoot out stars.
Its color not the moon's pale shade,
but that of crimson Mars.


That last boy danced and jumped and leapt,
his hands to his rump flew
to try rub the burn away.
Beside the other two--


Their pants still down, their rears aglow
before the laughing crowd.
All three, thoroughly humiliated,
continued bawling loud.


THE COACH expressed no sympathy
before those flaming breeches.
He was a man who'd done his job,
the kind of man who teaches


That boys, when acting up, must know
their rumps may pay a price
in pain and shame and infamy
that isn't very nice!


For those who watched, despite their mirth,
there was a lesson, too:
Best not to mess with COACH, because
he'd very likely do


Just what he did with these three boys
to anybody there--
A stinging SPANKING, long and hard,
upon their bottoms bare!


Three boys caressed their burning buns,
their eyes were filled with tears,
there in the jammed gymnasium
alive with hoots and jeers.



If you enjoyed it, make sure you check out all the other stories by this author too!

Show all the stories by Eddie Knapps
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