Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Spanked Straight

   I am nervous.  More than a little nervous.  Three weeks have passed
since the night Alex, Derek, and I botched the bash-and-grab at the
Shop-Mart convenience store.  Those bastards got away, but there I was -
dazed in the backseat of the car from the force of the crash, easy pickings
for the cops.  To be honest, I'm frightened.  I've never been in any
trouble with the law before and I don't know what's going to happen to me.

   I'm part of a new program, called "Corporal Dissuasion".  First-timers
like me are given the option (which I took on my public defender's advice)
to undergo the program in connection with a guilty plea.  Pleading not
guilty was out of the question - they caught me red-handed - and pleading
no contest would have meant jail time.  Of course, I'm in the dark here -
maybe jail time is better than whatever this is.  I guess maybe the
corporal dissuasion is some kind of mild form of torture - they've got me
sitting in a small room, it's dimly lit, and they've got me clad only in a
white thong.  It's just me sitting in a wooden desk chair in the entire
room.  I'm cold, uncomfortable, and definitely feeling humiliated.

   The door behind me opens.  I start to turn around, but a booming female
voice stops me: "Eyes forward!"

   I quickly comply.  Her tone is that of a woman not to be trifled with.
I'm shaking so bad I can barely sit in the chair.

   "Eric O'Malley Flanagan," she calls out, "Twenty-nine years old,
lifelong C-student, college dropout, receiving clerk at Anderson's sporting
goods, no priors ...  so basically, you and your dumb friends thought you
were going to make an easy score, right?  Shop-Mart's in the 'bad part of
town', so the cops will just pin it on blacks or Mexicans, right?"

   "They're not my friends ...  and I didn't think-"

   "I'm not interested in what you thought.  We're going to find those
little assholes and deal with them in time.  But you, smart guy ...  I'm
going to make sure you never even have a dream about committing a crime
again."

   "Yes ma'am," I say through a shaking voice.  I don't know what's keeping
me from totally losing it and weeping.

   "Let's see here ...  five foot two, one hundred twenty pounds ...  stand
up for me, Eric.  Don't turn around, just stand up."

   I stand up.  My legs and butt are cold, what with my sweat cooling my
skin.

   The woman laughs.  "Five-two one twenty my ass!  I was bigger than you
in fourth grade!  We've got two cops on the other side of the door just in
case, but I could send them home if I want.  You're not going to be any
trouble."

   "No ma'am, I won't."

   "Eric," the woman says, "I wasn't suggesting anything.  I know for a
fact you won't give me trouble.  You couldn't if you tried."

   What is she getting at?  I wonder.

   "Before we get started," she says, circling around into my field of
vision, "I just wanted you to get a good look at me.  Just so you can see
what's in store for you."

   I'm in shock - my legs buckle a little.  This woman is enormous.  She's
easily a foot taller than I am and built like an Olympic weightlifter,
although her curves are more exaggerated with large breasts and hips.  Her
legs are massive, her arms are incredibly thick though not toned, and atop
broad, round shoulders rests a beautiful, intense, unsmiling face topped by
raven hair.  Laguna-blue eyes are locked onto mine, piercing my brain.  She
must weigh 270 pounds - at a minimum.

   She chuckles.  "Pick up your jaw, Eric.  Haven't you ever seen a state
champion shot putter before?  Oh, I'm good at other things too -
weightlifting, submission holds, drawing - but as you can see, I'm designed
to toss lightweight objects around all over the place.  It was five years
ago when I won the state championship, but I think I can still remember the
basic idea."

   I'm stunned.  I don't know what to say.  A long moment passes before I
finally ask, "What ...  are you going to do to me?"

   The woman finally levels with me.  "Eric, Corporal Dissuasion is
designed for people like you.  When men like you get into prison, things
turn ugly fast.  You're so small and weak, you'll get passed around and
sodomized so often you either die from it or kill yourself from the intense
shame.  If you got murdered, you'd be lucky.  If you did somehow serve your
time and come out alive you'd be useless to society.  We have an interest
in reducing recidivism, in reducing prison homicides, and in making sure
that ex-inmates have a chance to actually contribute, to be a meaningful
member of the community.  Now, we have no sympathy for career criminals. 
If you were on your third conviction or more, we'd throw you to the lions.
You're different.  You aren't a criminal - you're an idiot who committed a
crime."

   As she says the last sentence, she comes to me, bends at the knees,
grabs the back of my legs, and stands straight up.  I'm dangling over her
huge shoulder in a fireman's carry.

   "Before we get down to the punitive phase, I'm going to walk around a
bit," she says, walking in a slow orbit around the chair.  "I want you to
know exactly how helpless you are, Eric.  Here I am, a twenty-two year old
girl from the suburbs, criminal justice major - I graduate this December -
and I can handle you like you're a child.  If I wanted to, I could kill you
with my bare hands.  Of course, I won't.  I'm a nice, law-abiding person
who's here to make sure you do the same.  Now," she says, coming to a stop,
adjusting me in her arms to look me in the eye, "there are sociopaths,
crazy, violent, evil men in prison.  Many of them are even bigger and
stronger than I am.  They come from broken homes, from abusive parents. 
They've seen death and blood and suffering.  If they got a hold of you in
prison, what would they do to you?"

   I'm crying.  I can't help it.  I'm in the firm grasp and control of a
woman vastly stronger than I, and she's telling me there are men stronger
than her that would violate me in unspeakable ways.  I'm sobbing.  I want
to go home.  I wish I had never even thought of doing the bash-and-grab.

   After a few moments, the woman sits down and sits me down in her lap. 
"You see, Eric?  You need this.  I need to teach you that you can't choose
a life of crime and survive."

   "Oh, I know now.  You have taught me.  Thank you.  Thank you so much!" I
start to embrace her, but she pushes me away.

   "I can tell you understand, but this is the punitive phase.  Five swats
on your behind, Eric.  You have to have them - that's the program."

   I'm shocked.  This can't be happening!  "No!  How can this be?  You've
already counseled me!  You just said I understood!"

   "Eric, it's part of the program.  Where it's been tried, studies show
that the physical punishment reinforces the lesson.  Now lie still," she
says calmly, laying me across her lap on my stomach.  I try to get up, but
she traps my legs between hers while grabbing my arms.  I can't move.

   "Eric, I'm sorry - I know you're contrite, but you have to do this.  Now
we can do this the easy way, where you lie still and cooperate ...  or we
can do this the fun way." I can hear the smile in her voice.  "Keep in
mind, it's only fun for me."

   I hang my head in despair.  There's no way out of this and all I can do
is make it worse.  "What do I have to do?"

   "I'm going to let go of your arms.  When I do, I'm also going to lift up
my left thigh.  Place your arms underneath where my leg goes."

   I do so.  My heart is racing and I feel a little queasy.  The woman
steadies me with her left hand on the right side of my ribcage.  Her right
hand is resting on my butt, seemingly covering all of it.

   "Good.  With every swat, I'm going to ask you a question.  Answer it
honestly and speak clearly.  If I don't understand you, it's an extra swat.
Let me assure you - you'll want to be as clear as possible."

   Oh my God.

   "Are you ready?"

   I wait several seconds before finally replying.  "Y-yes ma'am."

   SMACK!

   Tears flood my eyes, my face is flush.  My butt is on fire.

   "Will you ever commit a crime again, Eric Flanagan?"

   "NO!!" I scream, hoping I was heard clearly.

   "No, what?"

   "NO MA'AM!!" I cry out harshly.

   "Watch your tone, Eric."

   SMACK!!

   I want to die.  My teeth are starting to hurt from gritting them.  Tears
are streaming down my face and onto her leg.  The pain is excruciating. 
I'm angry - angry at myself for committing a stupid crime, angry at the
woman for humiliating me, for inflicting pain, angry at myself that I have
no way of stopping her or even slowing her down.  I'm angry at genetics for
making me tiny and stupid.

   "Why will you not ever commit a crime again, Eric Flanagan?"

   "Because," I say through an increasingly sobbing voice, "the
consequences are too much for me to deal with."

   "Try not to cry, Eric.  I almost had trouble with some of the words you
said."

   SMACK!!

   I can't control myself - the pain is too great.  I'm screaming into her
thigh, I'm convulsing to the extent that I am able to move, I'm starting to
cramp in this position, and my face is hot.  Thankfully, the woman pauses a
bit after the swat before asking another question.

   "Why else will you not ever again commit a crime, Eric Flanagan?"

   "I-I-I just ...  I know that c-crime is, is costly and it hurts people
...  Oh God, please ...  people get killed ...  I don't know, i-it's
wrong!"

   I'm scared.  What if she didn't understand it?  I said it too quick and
I'm sobbing.

   SMACK!!

   "Aaaagh!  Aaaaaaaaaagh!  No!  No more!!  Please!  Aaaaaaaagh!"

   SMACK!!!

   With that smack, the woman let me loose.  Wracked with pain, I
instinctively embraced her around the neck.  The woman, thankfully, allowed
it this time, and stood up.  I screamed into her shoulder.  She held me
snugly, rocking me and patting my back.

   "Eric, we're done for today.  That was it.  We're done.  You did good.
Now next time, I'm going to insist you answer a question after all five
swats, OK?"

   I nodded, still sobbing.  This is unbearable.  I have to do this next
Friday.  And the following Friday.  And the one after that.
   I don't know how I'm going to do it.