Dr. Paul Lewis was on edge. It has been a trying day at his large downtown hospital in the Midwest. He’d had back-to-back surgeries, and, although his patients had encountered no serious complications, one his assistants, fresh from an Ivy League university, Carlos Galban, had annoyed him with his playful banter and, yes, hints of flirtatiousness. They were opposites—the serious, Nordic 33-year-old surgeon, blond and six feet tall, with a square jaw and the washboard abs he enjoyed showing off in his gay gym’s steamroom, and the third-generation Cuban from south Florida, who was smaller, almost elfin, with delicate wrists and long eyelashes.

Paul wasn’t exactly closeted but it annoyed him when female cashiers flirted with him in the cafeteria, and, yes, annoyed him even more when males, especially low-ranking males like nurses and med school students, dared do the same. And Carlos had once playfully tugged Paul’s stethoscope while they were in the men’s room, washing their hands, having urinated side-by-side—an occasion when Carlos was “all eyes.” So, in the OR, Paul had snapped twice at Carlos: “Could you act competent instead of comical? Just pretend.” And, “Are you awake, Galban? Or do we have two here under anesthesia?” Paul thought he’d detected tears in the boy’s dark, cruisy eyes.

So Paul, defying common sense and hospital policy, went sneaking out behind the loading dock in the back of the building and lit a cigarette. He smoked it hurriedly, half of it actually, before crushing it out and ducking back inside, hoping no one had seen him. He worked late in his office—paperwork, paperwork, always—that annoyed him further. He swore, kicked his wastebasket. He had to get more sleep; maybe he should masturbate before going to bed… Just before Eric, Paul’s male secretary left, he popped in. “Dr. Lewis, Mr. Bowen telephoned. He’d like to see you.”

“Really? Did he say about what?”

“He just said to come down to his office as soon as possible.”


Mr. Bowen was a vice-president of the hospital, high-powered but still relatively young, in his mid-forties, with a quarterback’s build, brown hair graying here and there, and just the beginning of a bald spot. He was clean-shaven, somewhat hawk-faced. Rumored to be an ex-Marine, he’d just gotten divorced and was being pursued by various women, the director of PR and another VP, but he seemed to successfully elude them. Paul seldom saw him, and, if the truth be told, this was good, because Paul had a slight crush on him that made the young surgeon uneasy. Paul considered him an ideal “dad” in the gay sense: strong, non-nonsense, but with a gruff reservoir of affection.

He reminded Paul of his college athletic coach, Mr. Dwight, a brusque man whose hairy bare buttocks Paul had admired in the shower or within the confines of his damp jockstrap. Just seeing Coach Dwight’s bare bottom made Paul’s own anus tighten, but nothing had happened between them but a playful slap the coach had given to the athlete’s backsides.

Mr. Bowen’s administrative assistant had left for the day, and the older man beckoned from behind his big mahogany desk, in front of the broad glass windows with their panorama of the lakes and parks and skyscrapers of the city. Mr. Bowen shrugged off his blue blazer and drew the curtains on the million-dollar view. He stepped into the center of the room.

“Tough day?” he asked. “Shut the door.”

No “please.” He acted miffed. Paul complained about the parking situation and said the chow mein in the cafeteria was likely cat. “Sorry, I’m a little on edge.”

“Being a physician has many dimensions,” Mr. Bowen said. “Bedside manner extends beyond the bedside. I had a complaint about you today, Paul, from one of our students. He said you humiliated him in front of his colleagues. In the OR.” He paused. “The complaint was from Carlos Galban. His father and I are old friends from medical school. From Johns Hopkins.”

Paul blushed, furious. He scoffed.

“And I saw you outside, on hospital grounds. Smoking a cigarette. Is that setting a good example?”

Paul held out his hands. “What can I say? I’m not perfect.”

Mr. Bowen pulled up a straight-backed chair and set it in the center of the Oriental rug. “Come here, Paul.”

The tone was a coach’s after a team’s blowing a game. “Yes, sir.” Paul approached Mr. Bowen.

The older man told him. “Take off your jacket.” Paul obeyed. “Take down your pants.”

“Excuse me?”

“Come here, Paul. Closer.”

Mr. Bowen undid Paul’s belt, unbuttoned his fly, pulled down his zipper. Paul’s balls contracted. Mr. Bowen pulled down Paul’s pants and briefs simultaneously. “I…” he muttered. He bent Paul, bare, over his knee. “Sir, I’m sorry. Really!”

“Of course you are. Now. I think you may be out of sorts because you’re ill, son. So I’m going to take your temperature. The old-fashioned way… I’m an old-fashioned dad.” Paul felt Mr. Bowen open his crack and rub cold lubricant into his anus, then he felt a cold glass thermometer slide deep into his rectum as Paul stared at the floor and his face burnt with embarrassment. “Sir…” He was whispering. “Please…”

Then someone rapped at the office door and Paul panicked.

“Yes?” Mr. Bowen asked, but this time his voice was friendly.

“It’s Carlos Galban, Mr. Bowen,” came the answer.

The voice nauseated Paul. He tightened his rectum around thermometer.

“Come right in,” Mr. Bowen said.

Mortified, Paul looked up and saw Carlos Galban staring directly at his bare bottom, at his crack with the thermometer sticking up from it. “Oh, excuse me,” Carlos said, but with a faint smile at the corners of his mouth.

"It’s all right, Carlos. We’re all men here. Although some doctors sometimes act like boys. And are treated like boys as a result. I thought Dr. Lewis might be sick today, he’s so out-of-sorts, so I’m taking his temperature to be sure he isn’t febrile. If his temperature is normal, there will be consequences for him. Have a seat, Carlos. I want you to watch.”

Easing into a comfortable leather chair and continuing to stare squarely at Paul, Carlos asked, “Consequences?”

“Yes, if Dr. Lewis has no fever, he’s going to receive a good, hard, bare-bottom spanking.”

Carlos nodded. “I see.”

"Yes, you will. You’ll have a perfect view.”

Mr. Bowen withdrew the thermometer, and, with a tissue, wiped the lubricant from Paul’s crack. “Perfectly normal,” he snapped. “You have no excuse for your bad behavior, young man… Carlos, open the top drawer of my desk. You’ll find an oak paddle there in the center compartment. Please get it and hand it to me.”

Paul would never forgive Carlos’s reply: “My pleasure.”

“Thank you, Carlos… Stick your bottom up for your spanking, Paul. Higher, hold it steady. I want to aim, and Carlos wants to watch.”

Smack, smack, smack, the blows came hard, on both sides of the bare bottom and on one side of the crack for an extended period of time, so that Paul squirmed and gasped and struggled and Mr. Bowen held him down by the nape and kept giving him his licking.

“Aach! Ow! Hey, please!”

Paul knew both men were staring at his bare bottom, staring at it to watch it turn red but also appraising it for its fullness, for the amount of the hair growing on the flanks and in the crack, and studying the depth of the crack and how far the crack opened during Paul’s fruitless effort to avoid his spanking. “Ow, ow, ow!” Paul fought tears and his belt buckle banged the floor and his feet kicked and one loafer and his pants fell off and his briefs tangled his legs together.

“You’re getting a bare-bottom spanking,” Mr. Bowen scolded. “Well-deserved. And it won’t be the last unless your behavior improves. Do you understand, Dr. Smarty-Pants-Down?”

Paul was panting, out of breath, barely able to talk. “Yes, yes, sir.”

“Some boys don’t listen through their ears. They listen through their cracks, I think. It takes a spanking to make my words sink in.” At last, Mr. Bowen told Carlos. “Carlos, you may return the paddle to the drawer.”

Paul tried to wiggle free, to begin to stand, but Mr. Bowen pushed him back down. “I’m not done yet. Not by a longshot. It’s bare-to-bare now. The bare hand on the bare bottom.” Over and over, on just the right side of his crack, Mr. Bowen spanked Paul’s bare bottom.

Paul began crying just as he heard Carlos break into muffled laughter. “Carlos,” Mr. Bowen said, “I have enough energy left in my arm for your bare bottom as well.”

“Yes, sir,” the young doctor said. “I know that, sir. I apologize, sir.”

“I’ve known your family and I know your father, and if I tell him, you’ll be in big trouble.”

As Paul sobbed, Mr. Bowen stood Paul up. “Feel his backsides, Carlos.” The other man did. “Yours will be just as warm if you breathe a word about this, Carlos.”

“Yes, sir… Paul, open the curtain a bit and stand bare in the window for one-minute. With your bottom facing outward. Carlos, leave.”

The winter cold penetrated the plate glass to almost soothe Paul’s swollen, throbbing bottom. After what seemed like forever, Mr. Bowen drew the curtains shut and told Paul, “You may go. And…?”

Paul tugged up his briefs and his pants, and shoved his shoe onto his foot. “Sir?” he choked. As if to heighten his humiliation, Paul had now developed a boner—which Mr. Bowen scornfully noted.

“Has your mood improved? Doctor?”

Paul nodded.

“Answer me, son.”

“Yes, Dad!”

“I trust the chow mein will taste better tomorrow.”




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