Store Discipline


by Graham

Hi! My name is Michael! How can I help you? read the button-sign on the tall, thin, young mans shirt. He stood behind the cash register at a checkout lane, where a line of people waited to make their purchases, on a late Sunday afternoon.

Come-on, folks. Lets hurry it up! the same young man impatiently chided the customers. Many of them were elderly, moving slowly. Their offense at the slender young cashiers brashness was evident.

Over at customer service, a large, elderly man asked to speak with the manager. Rod Sullivan, manager of the giant store, a tall man about 6'4", 240 lbs, came out to greet the elderly gentleman. Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you? he asked, echoing the pins on the employees.

You can take that mouthy, ill-humored young brat off the register over at no.11, he replied. In fact, if he worked for me, Id not only take him off the register, Id take him out to the woodshed and teach him some lessons about behaving. Hes rude, offensive, and insulting, and has an attitude that begs for some adjusting.

Rod looked startled to hear the complaints, but responded with assurance. Well, sir, I thank you for telling us. Sometimes we have to hear from our customers before we really know what a situation is. Believe me, though, Ill get to the bottom of this – right away.

You need to get to the bottom of that boy. Thatll straighten him up real quick.

Yes, sir. I understand. Thank you, sir. Rod repeatedly reassured the disgruntled customer.

Im telling you, if he were my employee -- or my son or grandson --, Id tame his britches real good, and youd see a big difference pronto. Get my drift?

I understand, sir, Rod reassured the irate customer. The customer shrugged his shoulders, then turned and walked angrily out.

Rod sought out Florence Mullholland, a long-time, reliable cashier in her 50's. Florence, please take over register 11, and send Michael to see me back in stock.

Sure thing, Mr. Sullivan, she replied. Rod walked away, down the long aisles, and back towards the swinging door the led to the stock warehouse. He sat down on a folding chair near the time clock to wait for the young register clerk.

Michael, youre off no. 11. Mr. Sullivan wants to see you back in stock. Florence informed the young man.

Rolling his eyes and sighing, Michael waited for Florence to bring a new cash drawer, before removing his own. He knew he should head directly to the stock warehouse to see Mr. Sullivan, but decided to count his drawer first. 20 minutes later, he finally finished, left the drawer at customer service. There he was once more reminded that Mr. Sullivan was expecting him in the stock warehouse. He made his way back, pushed open the door carefully, and walked squarely into the waiting store manager.

Oh, hi, Mr. Sullivan. he called.

Whereve you been, Michael? I told Florence to send you right back here. Didnt she do that?

Michael hesitated, knowing he had better not deny that and implicate Florence in his delay, because she would surely tell Mr. Sullivan differently. Ah, yes, sir. She did. I had to cash out my drawer.

You could have left it locked with Florence until we were done, Michael, and come right on back here. Thats what I intended for you to do. Thats what I expected you to do. Thats what you should have done, Michael. Mr. Sullivans voice was flat, repetitive, and icy.

Ah, . . . sorry, Michael mumbled.

Sorry is not an acceptable response, Michael. Try again, young man. Rod knew that Michael was a young man without a father, who lived with his mother, and was trying to help out and pay for a college education from the job at the store.

Michael felt the red warmth of embarrassment and self-consciousness flooding his face, neck, and ears, as it dawned on him that his boss was not very happy with him. Uh, Im sorry, Mr. Sullivan. I made a mistake. The last remark, however, was basically a flippant, throwaway excuse.

Youve made a number of mistakes, Michael; and none of them is insignificant. We cant have mistakes like these. Do you realize that?

Michael felt on the defensive. What mistakes, Mr. Sullivan?

Rod stared deeply and intently into the thin, young mans eyes. Did you speak rudely to people in the checkout line, Michael?

Not really. Ah, I was trying to get people moving along, -- thats all. They were so slow, he began to explain.

Did you tell some people that you needed to go home and study for a test tomorrow at the community college? And that you were tired and grumpy because you have to work tonight?

Not really, sir.

Standing up, Rod walked over to the lean young man, put his arm around his shoulders with his right hand on the back of his neck, and began guiding him down the rows of stock to the area where tires are stocked. When they were deeply back into the Southeast corner of the warehouse, having rounded two corners of tires, Mr. Sullivan came to a halt. Still controlling the youngster with his grip, the manager turned Michael around to face him, then let go as he sat down on a small wooden bench.

Looking up at the young register clerk, he spoke, Lets try it again, Michael. Did you tell people that you needed to go home and study for a test tomorrow at the community college? And that you were tired and grumpy because you have to work tonight?

Looking down at his feet, which he shifted as he stood before his manager, the young man replied. Ah, maybe something like that, . . . ah, sir.

Rod fired back: Michael, are you trying to get yourself fired? Do you want this job or not?

No. No, sir. I mean, yes, . . . yes, sir. I do want this job.

Well, youre headed towards losing it quick with the kind of snotty attitude and talk, and bratty behavior youve shown today. Do you hear me, kid? Im talking to you, and Im not talking lightly. Im not kidding. We cannot -- and I wont have -- this kind of behavior! Are you listening, young man?!

Wide-eyed now, a look of terror was reflected on the young mans face. Ah, yes, sir, . . . ah, Im sorry. Its, ah, just that, ah, . . . Im kind of tired, and . . . ah, Ive got a lot of work for school tomorrow, and . . .

Thats no excuse, Michael! You plan your time better! You work harder when youre not here! Whatever you have to do, you get your butt in gear and do it. But when youre here, you give 100% of your time, interest, personality, and best efforts to this store, and to pleasing our customers. Make them happy! Understand! If it inconveniences you, so be it. You make the customers feel good, pleased with you. Got it?!

Yes, sir, ah, I really want -- I need -- this job. Its just that I really hate having to be here tonight because of all the work Ive got to . . .

Youre not getting it, Michael, Rod interrupted him, while reaching over and grabbing the tall, thin, young mans arm, and suddenly and firmly jerking him up, off his feet, over to Rod, and across Rods knees.

Michael was instantly stunned. He couldnt believe this was happening, and the position in which he found himself. Turning his head to look back up, over his right shoulder, he called out, Ah, Mr. Sullivan! What is this?! You cant . . .

SMACK! Before he could complete the sentence, Michael felt the smack of a wooden board against his big, bulbous butt. SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Like an unrelenting machine gun, the board bounced all over the seat of Michaels jeans and thighs stretched tight over his big bubble butt.

Rrrhhummmaaa! Uhlllah! Ummmphaaaa! Ouuuuaaaah! Nnnnrrghaaa! Uhllaaaah! Whuaaaahummmm! The long, thing boy was breathing hard and heavy in response to the pounding of his giant bottom.

Rod chose not to talk, but kept on pummeling Michaels behind over and over with the board.

Uh-uhmmmaaaghaa! Whoaaaughaa! Whoeruhllaaa! Wuaumpherral! Ughaa! Wuhlllah! Nnnnrrghaaa! Whuoooo-aaaahummmm-aaaummphaaa! The labored breathing became gasps, and he was squirming on his managers lap as the board repeatedly danced up and down his buttocks and thighs. Instinctively, he flung his right arm back to try to protect his bottom from the assault. Rod grabbed Michaels right arm, pulled it up backwards against his back, holding it there, and pinning the lean young man firmly in place across Rods knees. Then, he intensified the torrent of fiery swats against the thin clerks bottom.

N-n-noooo! No-no-no-no-no-no-no! burst forth from the overturned young man. He was furiously struggling now, only to be subdued again and again by the wrenched vice on his upturned arm. Still the board kept on heating and smoldering his behind, as he thrust up and outward, his legs kicking scissor-like and jack-knifed. He was plainly feeling the mounting fire and discomfort.

Suddenly, while still draped across his managers knees, Michael felt himself being turned over, facing upward. He tried to sit up, only to find himself forced backwards, down over Rods left leg by a powerful shove to his chest. He fell backwards, and the back of his head struck the cement floor. Owwww! he cried out. At the same time, he felt his belt unbuckled, his jeans unsnapped and unzipped, and Rods strong hand reach down between his legs, into his crotch, to grab the jeans and yank them down the young mans hips, over his rotund rearend, past his thighs and knees, to gather round his ankles at his shoes.

At once, he felt the cool air on his legs and stomach. He attempted to sit straight up and shout his protest. Instead, he found himself swiftly turned back over, face to the floor, bobbled up and down over his managers knees. His boxers, also stretched by his huge rump, were now poised for a renewed attack.

CRACKCRACKCRACKCRACKCRACK! CRACKCRACKCRACKCRACKCRACK! This time a round of swats from the board was firing against his thinly clad behind.

Aah! Aaah! Aaaaah! Stop! Ow! Ow! Ow-ow-ow! Aaaa! Ooooo! Aaaah-uh-nooo! Stop! Stop! Ow! Aaaah! Ow! Ow! Stop!

His calls evoked no response from his manager, who continued punishing the bad boys bottom furiously with that fiery stick.

Michael began fighting and thrashing around, even while he raised his right arm back up again to shield his behind. Once more, Rod grabbed the arm, pushing up Michaels shirt as he tightly pinned the overturned young mans arm up against his now-bare back. Then, reaching over to Michaels boxers, he tugged them roughly over the globular backside, then down thighs, past knees, to gather in the tangle at the young mans feet.

CRACKCRACKCRACKCRACKCRACK! CRACKCRACKCRACKCRACKCRACK! CRACKCRACKCRACKCRACKCRACK! CRACKCRACKCRACKCRACKCRACK!

Rod cranked up the force and speed of the whacks of the board flailing the reddened, bare bottom of the boy thrashing around as far as he could writhe and twist under Rods hold. The result was an immediate, convulsive explosion of screams, bouncing, kicking, bucking, and writhing.

Oooo-aaah-OW! STOP! Aaaaaeeeyow! Im sorry! Im sorry! Oooo-ah-yow! Uh! Stopit! Pleeeez! Illbegood! Illbegood! Oooo-aaa! Eeeeyow! I promise! Ill be-GOOD! Ooooo-aaaa-n-no-no-no-noaaah STOP! It HURTZ! Its hurting! Oooo-ah-pleeeez! Uh-uh! Gulp! Gasp! Uh! I said I promise! Pleeez! No-no-moooor! Oooo-aughuh-aaaah!

Its going to hurt, Michael. That way youre going to remember this -- and be truly sorry when were done.

When were done?! How long is this agony going to go on?! When is it going to end? I cant take it! raced through the thoughts of the wriggling young man. He was struggling fiercely to try to keep from breaking down, bawling like a little boy, and losing what little pride he had left at the moment. Uhllaaaah! Ouuuaaaah! Nnnrrghaumpha!

After another round of more than 60 scorching swats, Michael was beside himself with pain and misery, pleading, begging, promising -- anything to get Rod to stop branding his bare bottom! Nooooo! Ow! Ow! Owowow! Oooo-aah! Pleeeez! Lemmego! Lemmego! I quit! Iquit! Iquit! Iquit! Nomore! Nomore! STOP! Pleeez! Nomoooor! Lemmeup! Uh! Im sorreeee! Illbegood! Illbegood! Illbegood! Illbegood! Argh! Haugh-uh! Uh-uh! Uh! Waughurrraghhh! Owee! OWEE! No-no-no-no-NOOO! Rrrrnghaaa-uh! Aww-augh-uh!

When the discipline from his manager neither stopped, nor lessened, Michael became wild with frenzied desperation, to make the painful shame and punishment end. He gathered all of the strength he could summon to try to battle free and off his managers lap. It failed, and his final thrust was a convulsive, backwards-stiffening arch that collapsed, dangling over Rods knees. Sobs and screams, shrieking, wailing, howling, burst forth, as the long, lean young man surrendered to his chastening, and released the tears he had fought to suppress. Awww-augh-uh-waaaaa! Uh-awaaaaa! He was bawling like a 10 year old, unable to suppress the cries that exploded from within him.

After that, it was simply a matter of Rod re-enforcing this lesson to an unforgettable conclusion with this brash, impudent young man. Each additional smack drove home the point, and drove the outstretched young man slightly farther over the lap of the spanking, store manager, ejecting another gagging shriek. Finally, Rod stopped. Michael lay heaving and shaking, sobbing and coughing, for several minutes. Amazingly, no one had come back to interrupt or witness the incident.

After another 8 minutes or so, Rod reached down under Michaels arms, and gently, but firmly, lifted him up, off the lap, and stood him on his feet. The boys face was streaked with tears, his eyes red, his hair disheveled, his hands clasping his blistered bottom, as he stomped in place, doubled over. Now, Michael, its 5:40. I want you to go over behind that stack of wooden crates until I tell you you can move and pull your pants back up. Keep you hands on your head until I tell you youre free to move!

Uh-uh-ooo-uh! Please, Mr. Sullivan. Not that too!

Instantly, Rod pulled the young man back over his knees and resumed spanking his bare behind with the same board.

NOOOO! OKAAAY! IWILL! IWILL! NOO-uh! Please STOP!

After 15 fiery, fast smacks of the board, Rod pulled Michael back up off his lap, as the young man leaped and jumped over behind the stack of crates. Rod stood out in front of the stack, to make sure no one came along and discovering the bare register clerk added to his embarrassment.

At 6:05, Rod turned back to the still-whimpering young man, standing bare from the waist down, with his hands on his head. Alright, Michael. Pull up your pants, go wash your face, and then get yourself back to register 11 for the rest of the shift. Any questions, young man?!

N-nooo-uh, sir, Michael stammered, gingerly stretching his boxers up over his enormous rearend, and then the rougher jeans. Rod walked him over to the employees mens room, where the young man rinsed his face with wet paper towels, combed his hair, squinted, and turning around, walked out into the store, over towards register 11. Florence was still filling in for him when he returned.

Oh, back again, Michael? Well, its all yours, youngster, she said, as she stared into his red eyes. The remaining 6 hours, he worked steadily, standing, moving stiffly, speaking softly, showing courtesy to the customers. Several times he thought he saw Florence and some of the other ladies peek around to stare at him. But each time he only blushed and quickly looked away towards the register.

At the end of the evening, as he was clocking out, Rod caught up with Michael. You go on home now, Michael, and get done what you have to do for school tomorrow. You can be a good employee, Michael, and thats what I want. But anytime I catch you getting out of line -- acting up again -- you can look forward to another discipline sessions like you got today. Understand me?

Michael cringed at the thought. Though glad to have his managers approval, the prospect of return trips to the warehouse, and across Rods lap, made him grimace. Yes, Mr. Sullivan. But it wont -- I mean, I wont -- believe me!

Lets hope so, but you best mark my words, young man, if you know whats best for you. Now go on home. Goodnight, Michael.

Michael blushed and said goodnight, as he walked out towards his truck. Sitting on he seat was brutal anguish until he got home. His mom was already sleeping, so he quietly went to his bedroom, pulled the pillow off his bed, and took it into the kitchen, along with his books. He placed the pillow on the seat of the chair, eased himself down, and began the late-night studying that would get him ready for the next days classes.


More stories by Graham