Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Drop Your Drawers M/F

© Guyspencer 2010

Drop Your Drawers

“Drop your Drawers”; the parole agent ordered. 

From prior experience, I knew he meant the word in the plural so I pushed my pants and panties down to my ankles in one motion. 

That was a mistake.

“I want them off” he clarified. 

Now I had a mess.  I was standing in the middle of his office with my pants and panties tangled up in my shoes.  He smiled thinly at my discomfort.  I tried pulling the pants past my shoes, but it was no use.  Finally I squatted to untie and pull off my shoes.  Then, balancing on one leg at a time, I finally divested myself of pants and panties; giving him a lewd show in the process.  How often does the twerp pull that little trick?    

Looking me in the eye, he pulled a nasty-looking hairbrush from a drawer and dramatically plopped it on the desk.  I was really in for it.

>>>>>>>>>>> 

I live in an island nation with laws that are quite different from yours.  Our laws are designed to be pragmatic and economical.  They have to be.  We’re a civilized country, but poor.  Of necessity, our prison system is nearly self-sustaining. It’s intended to cheaply convert us convicts into law-abiding, productive citizens; even if it hurts.

Most of the prison guards are actually parolees.  Men paroles guard the lady’s prison while female cons guard the men’s prison.  Actual penitentiary time is usually brief, with prisoners quickly transferring from the pen to work barracks, then eventually being assigned to “outside” paying jobs, and then hopefully paroled out to rented rooms to live under supervision.  That’s my situation now.

We won’t dwell on my crime; but I was lucky to only get two years.  I spent two months in the pen.  It was hell!  Fortunately, if you follow the rules perfectly, you only get one spanking a day.  You don’t want to know what happens to rule-breakers! 

Our climate is mild, so they don’t waste money on prison uniforms, making it more convenient for them to spank us.  Needless to say, I was delighted to finally be transferred to the work barracks.  I got real clothes and fewer spankings.

I worked in the prison kitchen for six months before they assigned me to an “outside” job working in a restaurant.  They took my paycheck, putting some aside for eventual room rent.  So now I rent a room, work that job, and try to stay out of trouble; albeit not always successfully.           

Today’s trouble started when I met a friendly Brit here on holiday.  He seemed happy to spend his money on me, and I was happy to let him.  All went well until I skipped work to share his last day on the island.  My employer reported me for breaking parole, so now I’m bare bottomed in the parole office…again.

>>>>>>>>>>> 

The parole agent’s prurient interest was made clear when he stood.  His erection was straining his zipper!  The twerp didn’t even bother to hide it.  Regardless of his dirty thoughts, my body (bottom excepted) was safe.  My parole agent was on parole himself, therefore not totally trusted.  The surveillance camera assured I would get a spanking, but nothing else.       

Even knowing the fate of my bottom, resistance was unthinkable.  The twerp needed only push a button to summon help, and then I would be taken down to the basement where an a-frame and prison strap awaited.  Nope!  I must take my medicine from this twerp.  After all, I DID violate my parole.

The parole agent dragged his chair to the middle of his dingy little office, grabbed the hairbrush, sat down, and crooked a finger.  Unwillingly, I moved to his front, my exposed sex inches from his face.  By now, my anger and defiance had dissolved into a puddle of fear.  Feeling sad, tiny and vulnerable, I put myself across the waiting lap. 

I know you’re interested in such things, but it’s really hard to describe my spanking.  I was there, but I didn’t get to see it.  For sure, that hairbrush flattened my butt cheeks and raised interesting waves in the flesh each time it fell.  I’m told that the brush leaves a white outline that almost immediately changes to livid red as blood rushes back into the impact point.  Doubtless, my bottom was a study in motion after the first few spanks.  As my torso bounced from the impacting brush, I could feel my groin grind against a hardness in the center of the agent’s lap.  To my shame, I found myself wishing that the agent, just this once, would molest my sinfully damp sex…just a little.  

Doubtless, folks viewing that video signal got a helluva show.  My legs kicked and splayed with lusty abandon.  They couldn’t miss seeing my most intimate bodily orifices.  Is it a color camera?  Do they have wide-screen TV?

And the noise!  Oh gosh the noise!  That hairbrush walloping my bottom sounded like gunfire, but after a few seconds I was drowning it out.  I screamed, begged, wailed.  Naturally, he ignored it all.  The spanking continued until the agent was sure that I had learned my lesson.  I guess I got off lightly; he could have tossed me back into jail.

Then it was over.  With surprising gentleness the parole agent helped me up.  Despite myself I wanted a hug, but the camera ensured that wouldn’t happen.  The agent moved behind his desk to watch me dance and rub my bright-red ass.  Finally, I reversed my earlier strip-tease to dress.

Later, I walked stiffly out the front of the parole office.  My rented room and my job were still waiting for me.  Honestly, I have no hard feelings against that parole agent.  He’s just another con doing his assigned job. 

Hopefully, I learned my lesson this time.  If not, my little countries’ penal system will reach out to find some economical, if painful, way to make me learn.      

© Guyspencer 2010

 

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