A Spanking Boy for the President

A Spanking Boy for the President

"Silas Turner, the President is ready for you."

I sighed, and slowly rose from the blue cushioned chair outside the Oval Office. There was a small, distinguishable coffee stain smeared into the thin carpet I couldn't stop staring at. However, it was more disappointing those alleged Marilyn Monroe tunnels weren't used to export me inside President Chad Johnston's office than the West Wing staff not removing this blemish.

The aid- or whoever she was, clip-clopped out of the reception room in high heels with her iPad tucked under arm after delivering the message. She probably had a tasked filled day of meeting President Johnston's every whim and need. Soon, I would be on a specified list of servitude too, if this was truly what he needed.

A secret service agent opened the Oval Office door and motioned me inside. He was sharply dressed in a black tuxedo. I could feel the weighing and measuring presence of his eyes behind those heavily tinted spectacles. Why do they always wear those?

I sauntered forward, second guessing on whether or not to stuff my hands inside the blue jean pockets out of sheer nervousness. I wore nothing else but a thin black t-shirt that hugged my upper torso tightly.

It's not that I haven't been spanked by high government officials before... I have. But the President? I'm sure he had many reasons to need a spanking boy as leader of the free world. The level of stress had to be exponential, if he was truly trying to accomplish everything he claimed to be anyway. Which I doubted. High ranking public officials were far too often masters of political theater.

In the end, I decided on folding my arms in front of me before walking in.

Fresh gushes of air engulfed my entire body as soon as I stepped through the door. Other than the secret service agent who let me in, there were at least eight or ten others standing on the outskirts of the enormous room being kept at cool temperature.

It took little more than a few seconds to notice that one or two of the secret service agents had a bulge they were trying to cover up by stoically posing with hands interlocked in front of them.

They all knew why I was here.

"Mr. Turner, thank you for seeing me."

There he was, the famous frat boy President who likely received most of his votes by looks and charm alone. Although now entering his sixties, women still fawned over the exhibition of President Chad Johnston's bulky muscular form through an endless supply of thin button up shirts.

President Johnston crossed his fingers behind his head, and casually leaned back. The office chair mildly creaked. He surveyed me up and down with critical emerald eyes, releasing one hand from his interlock to scratch the side of his clean-shaven face. For the first time, I noticed his dark hair now had a salt and peppered flair.

"You can put your arms down now, son."

I quickly uncrossed and dropped both arms to my side before trying to apologize, but the words wouldn't form like they were supposed to.

"How old are you, anyway?"

"Twenty-one." I answered instantly.

He waited a moment, likely to see if I would finish with "sir". When I remained silent, he proceeded.

"And how long have you been doing this?"

His question mulled through my brain at the pace of a tractor during harvest when I lived at my parent's farm. How long have I been a 'spanking boy'?

Laws regarding sex work were literally changed right before President Johnston got into office, making what I did completely legal. Although most of the time there was nothing sexual in nature with what I provided, it did occur every now and then. Some dad would need to shoot a load after dishing out his grievance on my butt with an open hand. And if he paid for the premium selection I seldomly offered, it would happen. They would either spray over my two red sore globes while I bent over my home office desk, or had me sit in their lap and help them along until it happened.

The President however, only wanted a consultation.

"Since I was eighteen, sir." I refocused on the current matter at hand and answered his question, mentally punching myself for saying 'sir'.

President or not, he was still just a possible client, and that was it.

Johnston rested his right hand on the Resolute Desk and tapped his index finger, thumping it like a drum which seemed to echo throughout the chamber.

"The reason we proceeded with you signing the NDA before meeting me is because my trusted sources," his emerald eyes flickered toward one side of the room where secret service agents encamped us like unmovable statues, "informed me you were the most confidential in this matter given the cliental you've already... offered your service to."

He was right about that. The caliber of men with a vulnerably high social or political status wanting a spanking boy seemed to only get higher as time went by since I started my independent business at eighteen. And never once did I change my rates, regardless of any celebrity or famous athlete needing to place me over their knee. Even though my offer only extended to males, it didn't affect the number of applications filling up my inbox every day.

Sometimes, even the client's wives or girlfriends would fill out the applications for them because unresolved built-up tensions men often carried would intrude on their personal life.

I was very good at what I did, and sometimes my cockiness got the best of me.

"Well, to that sentiment... I would also say that not all of my clients were limp-wristed pacifists who held kittens from a rescue shelter to up-start their early political career." The unwarranted retort tumbled from my mouth before I could stop it, and I could see the data processing in the President's deep green eyes as he self-reflected. Eye brows raised in a flash of surprise, before furrowing down his handsome face.

Shit.

"Go ahead and take a seat over there." He gestured toward one of two fancy blue couches facing each other in the middle of the Oval Office.

"You never settled on whether you wanted the premium selection or not." Both arms shot up in surprise and defiance as my heart sank. Why was I so nervous?

He stood up to full stature behind the desk, all six foot seven of him. Jawlines were clenched, meaning I must have pinched a nerve.

"Fine," I sighed, spun around and walked over to the nearest couch.

Whether he chose to go through with this or not wouldn't affect my line of work anyway.

I ignored one of the secret service men who opened their mouth in awe as I plopped into the comfortable couch, then quickly shut it again before anyone would notice.

President Johnston slowly walked over to where I sat, with both hands inside the pockets of corduroy jeans embellishing the top of comfy Nike sneakers that only a dad would wear.

I was now mentally kicking myself for walking into the Oval Office in such a disrespectful manner.

"Son," he began, contemplating over words carefully before speaking them. "You have proven to be self-sufficiently smart in what I must admit is a much-needed market... and for that I am impressed."

There was obviously more, so I feigned patience as my annoyance swelled up like boiling hot water. Why did he always dress so casually, anyway? He was the President.

"But I have to wonder, do you plan on doing this forever?"

"Of course not." I snapped, looking up at President Johnston from staring down at the Oval Office's flawless blue carpet and not fixing my scowl.

"I'm saving up for college funds. Tuition in this country has gone through the roof."

Surprisingly, he responded with a chuckle which creased his handsome face. The President's demeanor standing over me was reminiscent to one of those hot football coaches from high school who also taught math or history.

"We are working on that, son. I do apologize for my 'dad part' coming out like this. But being frank, while we're on that subject..." the President walked over to the opposite couch and sat down facing me. He scratched his clean-shaven chin again, "I'm sure you've seen my teenage son acting up in the public eye from tabloids and whatever else is out there. The First Lady is adamantly against corporal punishment, which despite unpopular belief I'm actually a huge advocate of..."

Emitting a long sigh, he continued, "So there is definitely this reservoir of pent-up aggression and grievance as a father that needs to be released somehow."

"It does add merit in mentioning that the way you've conducted yourself ever since walking into this office with an air of superiority has been completely uncalled for. Are there any grievances towards me with how I'm representing this great country?"

I automatically rolled my eyes at the exposure of his fragile ego.

"No, it's just this process usually never takes this long. Men have their own reasons for needing to spank, there's no reason in wasting time explaining why."

"Stand up, young man. This attitude is ridiculous."

My heart sank a second time as I stood to my feet, as stoically as I could muster. "You still never chose if you wanted the premium selection or not."

"You have my word there will be fair compensation for what needs to happen now." The President motioned me forward with his right index finger.

I stood in front of him, heart nearly pounding out of my chest like a clobbering club. I was certain he and every secret service agent witnessing this event could hear it.

"I would say you don't deserve this, but your attitude-" he briskly unbuttoned my jeans and lowered them, revealing my superhero briefs. After a momentary pause from the abrupt intrusion, Johnston added decisively, "those are cute." Then pulled them down too by the firm pinch of both his index fingers and thumbs.

"Mr. President," my voice quavered. "I-"

President Johnston hauled me across his lap before I could blubber out my nearly formed apology.

"Your attitude is out of line, young man." He finished his statement and rested the palm of an open hand over my bare, upright bottom. His other arm wrapped around my chest in support, making it seem like he's done this sort of thing before. "What you have coming is very well warranted; wouldn't you agree?"

My head went light, and I felt the heat of his large calloused hand from bench presses and whatever else warming the center of my rear end. "Yes sir," I answered more shakily than I cared for.

He swatted. Not light, but not hard either.

"'Atta boy. We'll make a respectful young man out of you, yet."

He swatted again, this time with more skill. It stung.

Picking up momentum he swatted again, again, and again. His knee hoisting my upright turned bottom rose higher and lower while he continued smacking with his firm open hand, targeting different angles.

More than once, the President would strike in an upward swing, causing my poor bubbled rump to jiggle. In my experience, a lot of dads would do that just to enjoy the affect it had.

Stupid frat boy president.

The tears welled up, more than I expected them to. I grabbed onto the President's well-formed calf through his corduroy jeans as the burning sensation increased in my cheeks. Automatic defense mechanisms were starting to kick in, and soon he had to stop briefly to pin both arms behind the small of my back because I kept trying to cover up my rapidly warming up bottom.

After re-securing my upper torso more tightly with his other arm to where I couldn't squirm, he added, "Don't you dare start kicking or it will get a lot worse." Then continued his duty.

I tried not to kick. His arm wrapping me was iron tight, and I almost cried as he showed no indication of slowing down his smacks. There wasn't a time in my memory where I was spanked to this capacity before, especially by bare hand.

"Spread them." He suddenly slapped one of my inner thighs.

I yelped and obeyed, staying in position as best as I could with my pants and underwear now wrapping around my ankles.

Smack!

Smack!

Smack!

"Mr. President," I tried not to start blubbering. "Mr. President, I'm so sorry. I was disrespectful-"

"Stop talking," he cut me off sternly.

Smack!

Smack!

Smack!

Smack!

Smack!

"It's almost over, son."

Smack!

Smack!

Smack!

Smack!

"By the way, these walls are sound proof."

Smack!

Smack!

"You're allowed to cry, son."

Smack!

"Nobody outside this room will know..."

Smack!

Smack!

Smack!

"...you're getting what you have sorely needed..."

Smack!

Smack!

Smack!

"...for a very long time."

With that, the swats increased in tempo. And so, not only because of his permission to- but also from my surprise of the durability of President Johnston's dexterity, I slowly began to cry. Tears streamed down my face as I began howling from the agony.

As soon as I started wondering how much more I could physically handle, he suddenly stopped.

Using the arm he spanked me with, President Johnston flipped me around, scooped me up, and cradle carried me back over to the other couch I previously sat in.

I cried profusely into his chest, for some reason unable to stop.

"It's alright, son."

He sat back down, resting my poor, red sore butt over his lap and held my head over his shoulder. He rubbed the back of my tight black t-shirt which was now drenched in sweat from the duress of my spanking. It was the only particle of clothing that remained on, my jeans and underwear were still kicked down to my feet, immobilizing me from leaving even if I wanted to.

When I had calmed down, the President wrapped an arm around my shoulders and spoke calmly to my ear.

"Son, I'm going to help you out of your shoes and clothes. You're going to now get a spanking from every secret service agent in here who deems it necessary by your actions."

I pulled my head back from his shoulder and looked at President Chad Johnston in shock. His arm still supported my balance sitting over his one knee, but his chiseled jawlines were unmoved, emerald eyes unwavering. To reiterate his point, he used his other hand to turn my chin to the Oval Office's couch where I had just spent nearly insurmountable time bawling across the President's lap.

The secret service agent who had let me in earlier was now sitting there with a stern expression, wordlessly motioning me forward with his right index finger.