ARMY FRATERNITY
  by Antaeus
antaeus@aol.com

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.

"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.