He didn't have a lot of time to search. Stolen moments at work. He shouldn't be looking, really, but the communal computers on the fourth floor didn't require logging in for access.

The first good website made his mouth go dry. It was just words, small, simple things really: bare bottom, underpants, scolding.

Keywords seared into imagination.

The pictures were mostly women, at first. That was okay. He liked women. Bent over, or posed over someone's lap, clothing rucked up or down, whichever way it took to expose the soft, plump backside.

Handprints were nice. Or a dark spread of red that spoke to him of a long, hard spanking. More interesting were the stripes. He imagined their delivery was sharp. Crisp. Better still, there were pictures where the cane was caught mid-delivery, recipient flesh furrowed.

He bought a cane after that. He wanted to feel it. But there was no angle for him to strike the desired area correctly. He only knew, after minimum experiments, that taking it on mid-thigh hurt like a mother, and he wasn't doing that again any time soon.

Maybe he wasn't really cut out for it.

So to speak.

He could find pictures of men, but it was harder to find the right ones. Most made him slightly uncomfortable. He wasn't gay. He wasn't looking at them to get hard visually caressing another man, and he wasn't looking for dungeons, nipple torture, or--God forbid--hairy balls in a vice.

What he needed, he discovered, when he came across some fresh new keywords, was "naughty boy cornertime." Oh, that was a good mix.

After a dozen of those furtive five, ten minute searches, he found his first treasure.

It wasn't much, compared to most pornography. A man standing with his nose in a corner, the flap on his pajamas open to expose just a square of naked bottom. Skin a vulnerable looking pink, with a pair of darker stripes that he knew, without a doubt, had hurt like the devil. Half the picture was obscured by a woman's arm, cane in hand.

Oh yes, the mix of feminine in the foreground, the horizontal lines on the man's butt--he could imagine himself standing there, just after the cane's first bite, flesh quivering in the aftermath, that hard, hot kind of hurt. Dreading the second stroke yet to come.

That was the first time he risked his job, sending that picture to the printer.

Hands trembled with guilt, fear of being caught, as he smuggled the print into a folder. His mouth went dry when he thought of it, waiting for him to take it home.

That night, he cut a square opening in pajama bottoms--a clumsy, half assed job, at that. Cooler air on his flesh an unexpected detail. He stood in front of an air vent, just to let it chill him.

In the corner, he tacked the picture to the wall. Stood there imagining. Bottom flexing. Getting hard.