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: 21 Nov 2017
In the meanwhile, having gotten up early himself, Mr. Strauss ate breakfast, and sat drinking coffee. He could not help wondering why his young tenant bore the obvious signs and proof of having gotten a recent spanking.
Where did he get it? Who administered it to the skinny, young teacher? Mr. Strauss recognized an obviously spanked bottom when he saw one; and he knew Mark had not been back home recently, so it couldn’t have been made by his Father.
He was watching new on the television, still sipping coffee, when Mark walked in. The lanky, very lean young man poured himself a cup of coffee, an large bowl of cereal with milk, and joined his landlord at the same table.
They chatted briefly, noting the brisk, but sunny, late March day.
Mark, I’ve got a couple of questions about last night.
Yes, sir, Mark cautiously responded.
Well, you were late for supper last night, and,... when I helped you into your bed last night, I saw,... well, your bottom has signs, hand print marks, on it, the distinctive and telltale evidence of a spanking. Did something happen to you last night, son? Mr. Strauss inquired in a gentle, kindly manner.
Looking up into his landlord’s face, Mark gulped. On the spot, he lied.
Ah, um, ah, well, the, ah, reason I was, ah, late last night, um, was because I got stopped by a cop, ah, I mean a police officer, for speeding. It was in a dark, deserted area, he added.
When I told him I was a teacher at the high school, and was hurrying home to start my weekend after a long, hard week, he told me that was no excuse. He said I should set an example for the kids who are driving, and asked me what I would think or say, how I would feel, if I had an accident and hurt someone.
I know he was right, knew it then, but I was tired and irritable. When he told me he was going to write me a ticket, I snapped back at him and cursed.
Damn, can’t you give me something else, like a warning, instead of a ticket? I asked. That must
have offended him because he told me to wait, he was going to write the ticket. When he came back, he handed me the ticket, then told me to get out of my car.
I didn’t know what was happening, what to do; but I did as he said, opened the door, and got out of the car. He immediately grabbed me, spun me around to face the car, and pulled my hands and arms behind me, and cuffed me.
Hey, what’s going on?! Why’re you doing this?! I asked. Isn’t it bad enough you gave me a ticket?! That made him madder.
He slid me around to the front of the car, leaned me across the hood, and reached around and unbuckled
my belt, unzipped my zipper, and had my pants slide down my legs to the ground. Pulling me upward off the ground, he placed me over the hood, and pulled down my briefs.
The next thing I knew, he was smacking my butt and backs of my thighs with his gloved hand. It hurt, but I tried to suck it up, keep quiet, and take it. That was a mistake, I guess.
He told me, Oh, going to try to be the tough guy, are you? Well, we’ll see how tough you are when you start getting what you really deserve, what you really need.
He pulled his belt out from his uniform waist, doubled it over, and began lashing and slashing the belt all over my bottom. It was like biting swathes of fire.
I could not help it, ah, sir. I broke down and cried, begging him to stop, telling him I was sorry; but he kept on until I couldn’t talk any more, just sobbed and bawled hard.
Finally, he stopped and I couldn’t move except for heaving and quivering on the hood. He pulled me down off the hood, pulled my briefs back up over my butt, then my pants, zipped me up, uncuffed me, and shoved me down onto my burning butt in my car.
Go straight home and behave yourself, young man. No speeding, drive carefully. I’ll be watching you, he ordered.
Replacing his belt, he stood there watching me, crying, start up my car and drive away. He hurried to his cruiser and followed me for a long way.
Mr. Strauss sat silent, staring at me, considering the account I’d just related to him.
I see, Mark. Where was this exactly? he asked,
because I can’t think of a deserted area, away from traffic and public view, between here and the high school, he added.
The young teacher gulped again, realizing his embellishing his tale probably was his undoing.
Ah, I’m not sure, ah, don’t remember exactly, sir.
Well, let’s look at the ticket, Mark. It’ll have the date, time, and location on it, as well as the police officer’s identification number. Go get it and let’s have a look at it, he directed his young tenant.
Mark’s face blanched pale, his eyes widened, and he paused, leaned back and sat up straight, hesitating. He knew he was confronted with his falsehood.
Could he pretend he’d misplaced or lost the ticket? That was unbelievable straight from his mouth.
Gasping in a deep breath, he stammered,
Ah, ah, Mr. Strauss, sir, ah, I, ah, ah, I’m embarrassed, and, um, sorry. I, um, just lied to you, ah, sir. Whuh-uht, ah, I just, ah, told you, ah, it’s not, um, true, ah, I made it up, ah, I’m sorry. His face was crestfallen.
Mr. Strauss continued staring into the sheepish eyes of the young man seated before him.
I really suspected that, Mark. It just didn’t fit with the facts, including the hand print marks on your butt,... plus I’ve never heard you curse. That’s not you, Mark. You’re always very respectful to everyone.
Why’d you lie, son? Why couldn’t you tell the truth? What is the truth, Mark?
The older, kindly landlord was interrogating the young teacher with a stern, unrelenting firmness. Mark panicked, realizing he would now have to reveal (at least in part) what he was trying to avoid.
Sitting still, the young man slumped slightly, head down, staring at the tabletop. He appeared to be near crying as his chin and mouth quavered; but he did not answer.
I asked you a question, Mr. Wickham. What would you expect, what would you do, if one of the youths in your classes ignored you, and refused to answer, when you asked him a question. I know, and so do you.
You know, young sir, you’ve gone way beyond violating the house rules, and it’s flagrant and deliberate
too, isn’t that so?!
Having a foreboding anticipation of where this all was headed, Mark answered,
Ye-es, sir, it is. I know, and, ah, I’m, ah, sorry, sir.
Well, be that as it may, lying is deadly serious misbehaviour, young man, and you need to be a lot sorrier. You definitely are going to be. You know that too, don’t you?
Mark stared hard at the older man. To Mr. Strauss it seemed he was debating or deciding within himself how he should respond. After an unusually long minute or so, he murmured softly his concession,
Stand up and come over here right now, Mark, the older landlord curtly ordered.
The young tenant hesitated slightly, momentarily, his younger man’s hands trembling visibly. Glancing over into the face of Mr. Strauss’ face, an unvoiced plea was obvious. It went unanswered.
Mark panicked, suddenly aware, and troubled by his young, male member growing hard, swelling, bulging, tilting upward like a mast against the front of his sweatpants.
I told you to stand up and come over to me, young Mr. Wickham, the icy, flat voice of Mr. Strauss propelled the young tenant into action. He slowly stood, his hands attempting to conceal the boner in the front of his sweatpants, and walked the few steps to confront his landlord.
Suddenly, young Mark Wickham felt his landlord gripping the waist band of his sweatpants, yanking them over his bum and down his thighs, past his knees, and down his shins to his ankles, and the floor. Before he could object, protest, or resist, his tight, blue briefs quickly followed.
Years of experience with his own sons taught Mr. Strauss that getting spanked bare not only increased the intensity and severity of the pain, but also the humbling submission to disciplinary authority. In the face of those, it was not uncommon for a young man’s todger to surge to an aroused erection.
Mr. Strauss noticed the young teacher, bare and open to view, but for his hands shielding his tenting woody. The landlord reached out, pulling the young tenant’s left arm and hand away from his stiff, raised bone.
The determined landlord pulled the nude, young man around and down over his knees. With his left arm holding the thin middle of the upended young man, Mr. Strauss moved and placed Mark in perfectly familiar position, slanted, across the older man’s lap.
Quickly falling forward, he kept his head low as he fell across his landlord’s lap, his legs spread apart as they were raised off the floor. Reaching out to place his flattened hands on the floor, he braced himself for what he knew was coming.
The younger man’s face and head were slight inches from the floor, his feet and legs raised off of it, his hands flat on the floor, to keep his face from striking it. He was positioned, ready for his boyishly thin, narrow, little bottom to feel the punishing smacks from his landlord.
Mark realized he had now made things a lot worse for himself by lying to this man who really showed a conscientious, caring concern for him. It was going to get worse, now, he knew.
Mr. Strauss! Please, sir! Let me go! I’m sorry! I won’t do it again, ever! C’mon, sir! I’m 21, an adult, a teacher, sir! I know it was wrong! Please, nooooo! He protested the embarrassing and dreaded position back over his landlord’s lap.
The strong, but skinny, young man momentarily struggled to break free from his landlord’s hold; but the more he struggled, the more upsetting and disconcerting it was for him, realizing he was helpless, under the complete control of Mr. Strauss, unable to obtain release.
Mark felt his right arm pulled back and twisted up against his upper back, as he lay trapped hanging over his landlord’s knees. His legs were stretched so that his tiptoes could not touch the floor.
Mr. Strauss began wielding the hard wood brush across Mark’s buttocks. It stung like hell. Eventually, it made him open both hands, forming fists that repeatedly struck the floor, trying to endure the pain.
As Mr. Strauss began to spank away at his young tenant’s buttocks, 20, 40, 60, wallops were scattered and landed all over the young man’s bottom and backs of his thighs.
It was not, after all, the first time he’d submitted himself to a spanking from his landlord. Having endured a number of – too many – spankings from his landlord, Mark thought he was well-acquainted with the sessions of bare-bottomed discipline dispensed by Mr. Strauss.
Although he was no virgin to these stern, harsh spankings, the unceasing, unsparing smacks all over the sensitive flesh of his buns and thighs made his backside feel like it was ablaze. This upended, red, raw, bare-bottomed, Saturday morning licking was far worse.
Mr. Strauss continued to pound away at this very bad boy’s bottom. Before long, the young teacher’s face was contorted and screwed up in agony. His backside was glowing red and with heat, and he was yelling out in frustration, pain, and fear.
Foolishly, he reacted by gathering a futile, temporary bravado, fighting against what was happening to him. Mr. Strauss responded by intensifying the brush’s smacks on and on all over the skinny, young man’s narrow, well-marked mounds.
In incredibly quick time, the young tenant sped from moaning, groaning sounds, to squealing, shrieking, and soon howling and bawling. His skinny, naked, muscled legs jerked and kicked and flailed about as he bucked and bounced up and down on his landlord’s knees.
For his part, Mr. Strauss knew full well his young tenant was suffering and in dire distress, but that did not excuse the young man’s brazen, deliberate dishonesty. Mark’s begging and pleading fell on deaf ears, as his landlord continued spanking, laying on smack after smack of the brush into the upended, young man’s rump and upper legs.
At that moment his landlord had no compassion for the blatantly errant, young tenant. The circumstances of this licking were completely without excuse, so bad they surpassed violation of house rules. Indisputably, the young man deserved everything he got.
His backside and the top of his thighs were red and very raw, tears were streaming down his face as he bawled like a child of ten. He could do nothing but dangle there, resigned, jolting around on his landlord’s lap as each blazing whack sent him bouncing, rocking and twisting in unbearable pain, humiliation, and disgrace.
Martin Strauss continued to spank his young tenant’s naked bottom, even faster than before. Mark’s small, skinny, fin-shaped buttocks clenched and quivered under the rain of blows at each, successive, fiery slap.
Each biting smack singed another part of his upended, bare rump, and he writhed and bucked, trying to twist and wrench his bottom from the line of fire, which was impossible. As the spanking continued, Mark quickly realized his bare, battered bottom was an blazing inferno set on fire by his landlord.
It burned with an intense, mounting pain that tormented him, driving him mad. Every fresh smack of the brush tore gasps, then shrieks from him. All at once, he realized he was weeping hard, must have been for some time.
At that moment, Mark Wickham regretted with all his heart having every indulged in the fabrication of a false story. It was not worth the pain and humiliation.
He longed to turn back the clock, to have another chance, to tell the truth, to be anywhere in the world than in his present position, lying upside down bare across Martin Strauss’s knees, with that evil, menacing brush pounding away on his buttocks and thighs.
If he could have, Mark would have loved to cover his face with both hands, to try to hide from his consciousness the agony of the moment, and stifle the wailing cries bursting to emerge from deep down inside.
He arched his back, shaking his quivering buttocks from side to side, feeling every muscle in his body contracting to reach the bursting point. Nevertheless, Mark remained hanging upside down over the older man’s lap, fighting the shafts of pain which were chewing up his buttocks, while struggling to control his laboured breathing
Especially hard strokes struck on the undercurved sit spots of the skinny, young teacher’s bare, narrow butt, causing shrieking wails from the heaving, young man. Each smiting smack on the tenant’s bare bottom drove the intense pain and shamed ignominy deeper into his inflamed, burning rearend, and his chastened, disgraced soul.
His scalded bum ached, throbbing like it was three times its normal size. Dark marks were clearly visible all over his cheeks and thighs, including the inner, tender, now angry, scorched flesh.
Not one, spankable inch of his backside was untouched, from the crown of his mounds, to the middle of his thighs. His bottom was now looking like the angry, raw, red-seared bottom of a naughty, misbehaving child.
The landlord looked at his handiwork on the very warm, dark red, throbbing rump and thighs of his tenant. This would be a painful, humbling reinforcement to his tenant of the rules and punishment for violating them, Mr. Strauss thought as the bawling, thin writhed while hanging across his landlord’s lap.
This particular setting, giving rise to the present, demeaning discipline, would unquestionably assure young, Mark Wickham that further spankings would be a necessary and inevitable part of his future living there, especially for misbehaviour as grave as lying.
Frantically, the desperate young man was entreating, hoping, and praying it would end. Through tears, gagging, choking cries and sobs, the sorry, young tenant begged, pleaded, apologized, promising over and over he had truly learned his lesson, would never lie again, would always be honest.
Only-aaa-please-uh-please, Mr. Strauss-huh-uh-stuh-op-thuh-uh-uh-spanggg-keeeeng!
The continuing strokes succeeded in creating a volume of pain across his backside, bursting forth tears from his eyes. All at once, he lost control, his legs kicked and flailed in desperation in response to the biting brush’s ravaging his backside.
Sobbing convulsively, shaken, broken, chastened, his bottom and back thighs fire-engine red and hot, he was crumpled, breathless, shocked and utterly defeated.
Mr. Strauss could see Mark was spent; he was quite literally a broken, beaten boy. Hearing the sobbing, young tenant gasping for air, seriously struggling to breathe amidst his wailing sobs, the landlord decided Mark had had enough.
After another dozen swats, Mr. Strauss stopped. Mark was drenched with perspiration and in agony with pain, as the landlord spanking him mere minutes earlier, now helped him stagger to his feet, standing and jumping unsteadily, nursing his injured buttocks and wounded pride.
Mr. Strauss set the brush down, looking up at the tear-streaked, red-faced young man frantically trying to rub away the agony in his blistered buttocks.
With damp eyes he looked imploringly at his Mr. Strauss and forced out his contrition with a strangled cries.
I’m-huh-sorry, uh-uh-I’m sorry, uh-uh-sorreeee, he emphasized with repetition.
Mr. Strauss knew all recently-spanked boys said the same thing, as they danced up and down wondering if the pain in their bottoms would ever ease. The test of their true penitence came with their future behaviour.
It was now up to Mark to show if he truly wanted to reform, and sought help to do so. If he did not attempt to reform; or if he needed help doing so, in either case Mr. Strauss was more than ready, willing, and able, with old, wooden brush, to assist young Mr. Wickham.
The young teacher was more than mortified with shocked pain and demeaning humiliation from having gotten a spanking once again. Beside that, he had created the circumstances that necessitated a spanking to produce blazing red, blistering marks on his flesh, and devastating, abasing consequences in his mind and soul.
His hands hovered around, clasping his singed, burning buttocks, as he stared, stomping, in abject remorse at his landlord, with tears streaking down his face, desperately trying to lessen the seemingly inextinguishable, fiery, painful anguish.
Now, we’ll go back to where we started out. I asked you what had happened that you ended up with marks of hand prints on your rearend last night? You know better now, Mark. I want the truth. Who did it, and why?
Uh, Steve, uh, Steve White, the-uh-uh-ssistant coach at the-uh-high school. He was-uh-here at Thanksgiving, and-u-uh-with us at O’Malley’s-huh-uh-on St. Patrick’s Day, Mark explained.
I know who he is. He’s a big guy, carried you out drunk and asleep, out of O’Malleys to my car. But why would that big, young coach spank a younger teacher at the high school? Mr. Strauss questioned incredulously.
Mark explained when he began working out at the school gym, after a while he saw Steve there too. When Mark added running to his routine, Steve, who’s also a runner, began running with him after working out.
While they were running one day, Steve said he was licensed in massage and rolfing therapy, and suggested it might be good for Mark. He was skeptical, but agreed to try it.
He was surprised to find it does tend to relax the muscles and joints and lessen tension on the body. He still had a hard time doing it, accepting being naked, lying there bare at a point during the session.
Steve kept telling Mark he was always fighting against, resisting, the therapy, the manipulations. Finally, on Friday, Mike must have exasperated him, exhausted his patience, because he told Mark he was tired of his resistance and opposing Steve’s efforts.
He-uh-dragged me down off the table, threw me-uh-uh-cross his legs, and uh-smuh-acked my bare butt-uh-over and over with uh-uh-brush! It hurt, uh-uh-lot!
Mark admitted he was humiliated and embarrassed; but when Steve put him back on the table, he laid there a lot more responsive, allowing and accepting him doing what he does in the sessions. Steve told him he was a lot better, and the session more successful.
Anyway, uh-that’s-uh-how I got the spank marks you saw, Mark explained.
The young teacher’s eyes were still filled with tears, and he kept lowering his head as he talked, obviously ashamed and penitent over having lied to his landlord, not to mention having gotten spanked again by him.
Okay, thank you for the truth. Now, young Mr. Wickham, go to your apartment and stay there for the rest of the day and tonight, the landlord ordered in a flat, matter-of-fact tone of voice, as if here giving instructions to a deliveryman.
Ooo-hoo-kaaay-uh-uh-I’m-uh-sorry, I’m sorry, Mr. Strauss. I am, I mean it, uh-uh, aaa,... uh-uh-thuh-ank you, sir. He squalled like a small, blubbering, spanked boy.
You give me your cell phone for today. You can have it back tomorrow. For now, though, you’re restricted to your apartment Mr. Strauss followed up with further orders.
He followed along, watching as young Mark Wickham, his hands clasping and cleaving to his sore, swollen, red-marked raw bottom, made his way, walking slowly, awkwardly, and in agony to his apartment.
Not only was he going to have trouble, and need to limit, sitting down for a good while; standing, bending, walking would also give the boy discomfort.
Once inside the apartment, Mark dived face down on to his bed, lying stretched out, rubbing his throbbing buttocks and upper thighs, still heaving and shaking as tears continued to trickle down his face.
Mr. Strauss looked around, finding the young tenant’s cell phone, and picking it up. After several minutes of weeping, Mark’s sobbing began to subside and he regained some composure.
Oh-aaa-uh-wow! Uh-uh-damn, uh, Mr.-Strauss! That wuh-uhz-uh-one-huh-uh-hell of a spanking!... Aaaa-waaa-uh-ow-ow! Waaa-uh-ow-uh-ow-ow-I’m-uh-suh-areee-uh-uh-ow-ow-uh-sirrr!
The flattened out, prone young man, with a angry red, raw, hot, glowing bottom, cried out as additional spanks reminded him to watch his language, evoking more tears of wounded shame.
Mark winced and flinched amidst his weeping as Martin Strauss pulled the sheet up over the boyish, beaten, sore bottom.
You’re here for the day and tonight, Mark. You come out for supper, but otherwise, you don’t go anywhere until tomorrow. Understand, young man?
Huh-uh-uh-yeh-es-uh-uh-sirrrrr! Mark wailed his assenting response, burying his face in his pillow.
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