Rugger-Bugger

by Paulus the Woodgnome


I peered cautiously round the changing room door. Empty. The coast was clear. From the shower room beyond I could hear singing and the sound of laughter. There would be five minutes or so . . .

I slipped in, leaving the door slightly ajar so it wouldn't bang shut and alert the players. Their muddied kit was strewn, or neatly arranged, according to temperament (but mostly, it has to be admitted, strewn) across the benches, or hanging from the coat hooks. Like the golden fleece, what I was looking for was hanging there - somebody's discarded jockstrap, soaked with crotch sweat.

I grabbed it, held it to my nose. The rank, primal perfume of masculinity. Some people would have gagged. I got hard, smelling that musky manliness. Pheromones, they call it. It went straight to my own crotch, short-circuiting my brain. I buried my face in the stained cloth, thinking of how it had clung so intimately to one of those big, gorgeous men.

"What the fuck are you doing ?"

The voice from behind converted lust to blind panic in an instant. I bolted for the door but a strong arm, still in a striped rugby shirt, clamped round my neck, holding me fast.

"Oh no you don't," the voice said triumphantly and I looked up at the flushed, angry face of Martin Long, the club captain. Thirteen stone of solid English muscle, and me trapped by it in a painful headlock.

"Please, ow, let me go, I wasn't doing anything, I was just . . ."

"You were just what, Justin ?"

"I . . ."

"You were sniffing someone's used jock, weren't you ? Well, weren't you ?"

"No ! No, I wasn't, really, I was . . ." But I couldn't seem to think of an excuse, I felt paralysed like a rabbit in headlights.

He shook me.

"Say it !" he ordered, tightening his grip cruelly.

"I - yes, all right then." A flare of defiance. "Yes. Does that make you feel superior ? I admit it, I get turned on by, by . . ."

"By smelling guys' protectors. Anything else ? Pants ? Socks ?" he mocked.

"No. Yes. I mean, I don't know, I never . . ."

"My God." He released me suddenly from the headlock, slammed me against the wall. I stared at him, desperate, feeling sick and angry. Under certain circumstances it might have been fun to be manhandled by Martin. He was tall, about 6 foot 1, muscular, hairy, with cropped dark hair and green eyes that creased up at the corners when he laughed. He laughed a lot, usually. But the smile on his face now was the smile of a hunter who sees his prey is trapped, an eager, fierce expression.

"Can I go ?" I asked sullenly.

"Go ? Oh no, my lad, you don't get away that easily. We'll just call the lads out of the showers and see what they think of you nosing round their undies, shall we ?"

"NO ! Please, don't . . ." It wasn't just the fear of being beaten up. It was the thought of all those faces looking at me in utter contempt. "I promise I won't do it any more. I'll quit the job, you'll never see me again."

"You're a student at the local tech, aren't you ?" he asked, to my astonishment. I didn't even realise that the club captain knew I existed, much less that he knew what I did. But 'tech' ?

"University," I said aggrieved. "It's a university now. I'm in my second year. I just do the cleaning work here part time, to earn some cash."

"Excuse me, university. Studying what ?"

"Computer studies," I mumbled. I didn't understand the turn this conversation was taking at all, but as long as it kept away from telling out the others, that was fine with me. And they would be coming out of the showers soon. I had to get away.

"So. A pervy little anorak getting off on men's jocks. And you think I should just let you go, do you ?"

I looked at him. Something - anger, desperation, something - gave me the strength to answer.

"I feel what I feel," I said. "I know people like you think I'm disgusting or something to laugh at and beat up. But I've never hurt anyone, or taken anything from anyone, or forced myself on anyone. Can you say the same ?"

He came over and stood close - scarily close, right up against me. I could feel the heat of his body. I half-closed my eyes, waiting for his fist.

To my surprise he laughed.

"Well, so you have got some balls after all." A finger underneath my chin tilted my face, forcing me to look up into his eyes. This close his sheer animal presence was almost overwhelming.

"Little Justin," he said thoughtfully. "You're quite pretty, aren't you ? How many boyfriends have you had ?"

"I . . ." But I was saved from having to answer, because at that moment the lads started coming out of the showers, healthy muscular young bodies, all cheerily and unselfconsciously naked, and Martin stepped away from me and turned to them.

"Hi boss, come to congratulate us on our stunning victory ?" That was Jason, the muscular blond who played fly half.

"Stunning only in the amount of luck it took you to get it. They were running rings around you out there for half the match, especially with that last try. Good job a couple of you can kick straight. No, we'll be reviewing your performance another time, I was just looking for young Justin here to discuss his cleaning roster. Oh, and Jason ?"

"Yes ?"

"Don't leave this disgusting object on the floor. One of the rats might eat it and die of food poisoning, then we'd have the RSPCA round for cruelty to animals." He threw Jason's wadded up jock at him across the room, and turning, escorted me out to a burst of laughter.

"Thank you," I said.

"For what ?"

"For not telling them ?"

"Oh, I haven't decided about that. Some one needs to take you in hand, sort you out." He looked at me again, bit his lower lip a trifle uncertainly - I couldn't help thinking what a wide, sensual mouth it was - then said:

"Do you like this job ? Do you want to keep it ?"

"Yes. Oh, yes please."

"Well, I can't let this incident go completely." My heart sank again, then started to pound again as he added:

"No, I guess it'll have to be me who takes you in hand. Provided you agree to be punished by me for what you've done, as and when I think appropriate, then you can carry on here."

Punished ? What did that mean ? Wild thoughts started to flow through my head.

"Well ? Or do we go back in there and tell them all what you were up to ?"

"No. Please. I'll do whatever you say." But even as I said it I thought: Christ, we're both acting like this was a porn film or something. Despite the fear and shame there was an attraction, a sort of eerie firefly glow of sexuality that drifted and sparked in the air between us. I could feel it, and I was certain that he could too. But there was something else . . .

"What do you mean by punished ?" I asked. The quaver in my voice was part fear, part excitement.

"Oh, I think you know that," he said. I shook my head, refusing to meet his eyes.

"I'm not sure," I said, in a very small voice.

"A good hiding. That's what you need, isn't it Justin ? A big rough man to hold you down and spank you ?"

It was that word that did it. If he'd said anything else I might just have told him to stick his job. Or maybe not. I really don't know. But it was like he had the top of my head open and was reading my thoughts. My most secret thoughts, the shameful little fantasy that came in the night and disturbed my sleep. I felt everything sliding out of my control, my breath going short, my face crimson. I couldn't speak. I couldn't even think coherently. I tried to shake my head, no, but he grabbed my hair and pulled my head again, made me look at him, and laughed.

"Yes I thought so," he said. "Right, well I've got some admin to do now, and anyway, I need to have a word with the lads about their performance today, but I'll see you in my office at 8:30. OK ?"

I nodded.

"Good. Don't be late. Oh, and wear a jockstrap."

I gulped.

"I haven't . . ." and my voice failed completely. I swallowed and tried again. "I haven't, er, got one," I mumbled.

"Hah. Wait there." He pressed me against the corridor wall, gave me a 'don't you dare move' look, and disappeared in the direction of his office, to reappear a few moments later with something which he pressed into my hand. It was a white elasticated-cotton athletic protector. I stared at it dismayed. It looked very small.

"Don't worry, it's never been worn. Not that that should bother a guy who presses his face into worn ones. Now get, and be outside my office when I told you."

I got. I ran all the way home, locked myself in my room, jerked off furiously in a loveless, compulsive spasm and burst into tears. Then I tried on the protector, standing in front of the wardrobe mirror. I was right, it was small, the lower straps tight under my buttocks, my sex firmly cupped in the cotton. I got hard again, poking sideways out of the inadequate pouch. I promised myself that I wouldn't touch myself any more, lasted about, oh, ninety seconds before my hand absent-mindedly sneaked down and started playing. Damn ! I slapped myself once, as hard as I could, on the right buttock, watched the red mark blossom on the pale skin, and wondered what tonight would be like, whether I would disgrace myself. My stomach was doing flip-flops inside, fear and lust mixed. I hoped I wasn't going to be sick. I thought I might be. I pulled off the wretched jockstrap, threw myself down on the bed, and thought about never going back. Then I thought about the rent that was due next week, and the cost of a round in the Uni bar.

About 6 pm I had a bath, dried myself, put on the jockstrap. Then I put on my jeans over it. It felt funny, the rub of denim against my bare arse. Sort of exciting and slightly uncomfortable at the same time. I pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of sports socks. Then sat and watched the clock hands move like flies in treacle, while my stomach did a slow low-gravity orbit of the rest of my insides, turning over once in a while to keep things interesting.

"I'm definitely not going," I said to myself as I walked out the door. But then what if he tells the guys at the club ? There are a couple of them there from my Uni. And if everyone at Uni knows I'll have to leave, I'll just have to. I couldn't bear them all looking at me and sniggering behind their hands. And all the time my feet were carrying me nearer and nearer to the rugby club, like I was on autopilot. When I got there I stopped and stood outside the main gates. I was panting as if I had been running and my heart was beating so violently that I actually wondered for a moment if I was going to have a heart attack or something.

There were lights on in the bar - some people were in there drinking, but most of the rest of the building, the offices and changing rooms, was in darkness. I tried to swallow with a mouth gone terribly dry. Best get it over with, I supposed. I walked up the driveway and into the building, then straight up the stairs to the corridor where Martin had his office. The corridor was in darkness, only lit by the glow of distant streetlamps through the window at the end. There was no sign of light under the club captain's door. Maybe it had all been a wind-up, and Martin had never intended to do anything. Of course, that was it - he would hardly risk doing something that was probably an assault if I chose to press charges. I felt relieved - yeah, it was definitely relief. Not disappointment, no, not really, even if it might feel a bit like that. It was just a sense of anticlimax, after being so, so keyed up.

The door opened and I jumped in fright. Martin stood looking at me in the warm glow of a lamp that had been pulled right down low so that its light was concentrated on his desk, leaving the rest of his cramped, stuffy little office almost dark. That had been why I hadn't noticed any light under the door. I could feel my heart racing again and tried to stop my legs from shaking.

He beckoned with his finger, silently: come here. I obeyed. He was wearing his striped team shirt and tight white rugby shorts. He put his hand on my shoulder.

"So, you came then. Good boy."

"You didn't leave me much choice," I said, pleased that my voice, at least, wasn't shaking, although it did come out sounding a bit more - bitter - than I had intended.

"Oh you always have a choice," he said softly, ushering me in and closing the door behind me.

I felt dizzy, panicked. The room was small, and rather warm - I thought I might be going to pass out.

"Turn around," he said. My God, he didn't waste any time, did he, it was starting already. But all he did was place two hands on my shoulders and begin to massage them.

"You're so tense - relax !"

"Relax ?" Mind you it felt good, those powerful, supple hands probing all the tense knotted muscles in my neck. I could feel a little of the fear fading, being replaced with something else - anticipation ? The strong, clever fingers found a particularly resistant knot and a flicker of pain gave way to the feeling you sometimes get from a long hot bath after a bad day. I made a little noise of pleasure. He laughed.

"There, that's more like it. I'm not going to murder you, you know. I'm not going to do anything to you you haven't agreed to."

"I . . ."

"Come on, I've been watching you, even before today, I've seen you watching the guys when you think no-one's looking. You're turned on by the idea of masculinity, aren't you ?"

"I . . ."

"Of dominance and submission ? That dark stuff down at the roots of male sexuality ? You find the idea of being held down and punished by a big strong man exciting, I know you do, I could see it in your eyes when I said it earlier. The idea of your vulnerable arse turned up, helpless, for my hand. Come on, admit it."

"I . . ." I couldn't bring myself to say it. He waited, eyes bright.

"I fantasise about being spanked sometimes," I muttered at last.

"There ! Now why was that so hard to say ?"

I stared at him amazed. "But it's so disgusting, so - queer ! I'm just a sick little pervert, you said it yourself."

"I said you were a pervert, not that you were sick. But you do have quite a problem there, I agree."

"So you are saying I'm sick," I said sullenly, but he laughed at me.

"No, not with the fetish thing. No, your problem is that you don't like yourself very much, do you ?"

I was silent. Suddenly he pulled me to him and slapped my backside, once, hard. It stung, even through the jeans.

"Do you ?"

"No," I admitted. I was skinny, bad at sports, brainy. Gay. You soon learn in school that there's nothing in that description anyone could like.

"Crazy. You're young, cute, smart. What's not to like ?"

Cute ? Was he blind ?

"You do know how beautiful you are, don't you ?"

I flushed. "Don't !" I said. "Hit me, if that's what you want to do, but don't mock me."

He shook his head. "You really are one screwed up kid. And I'm not going to hit you."

I looked up, surprised.

"Uh-uh. On the other hand, if you ask me to, I will give you the spanking of your life. But only if you ask me to." He grinned at me. He was so near, so big, so - in control. I felt my cock stir in the pouch of the jockstrap he had made me wear. The idea was unbearably exciting, in a scary sort of way. It sucked at me the way the edge of a cliff or a high building does. I wanted to close my eyes and step over the edge.

I shook my head. "I can't," I whispered.

"Why ?" Yes, why ? The edge beckoned, so close . . .

I turned my head away so I wouldn't have to meet his eyes. In case I saw there the scorn that I deserved.

"Please Martin," I said, paused, then stumbled on, "give me the spanking I deserve."

"You've gone a darker red than your hair," he observed lightly. Then, suddenly, in quite a different tone: "Understand, if I punish you, it will carry on until I decide you've had enough. You can choose to start it, but you can't choose to stop it. You'll be at my mercy completely."

The stiffness of my cock was almost painful.

I nodded. "I understand."

"And you still want this ?"

"Yes. Oh yes." I was too far gone for anything but honesty now. Over the edge, falling, and the ground coming up fast.

He smiled wolfishly.

"Very well then, young man. Come here."

He sat himself on the edge of his desk, pulled me up and over his big, muscley thighs and laid one heavy hand in the small of my back.

"Hmm," he said. Then

WHACK. His other hand came down on my bum. It wasn't quite the thrilling sensation of my fantasies. It hurt, dully, but not seriously. WHACK. Again, a bit harder. WHACK. He began to build up a rhythm, his hand coming down firmly across my backside, alternating sides. WHACK. WHACK. WHACK. A sort of hot ache began to build up in my bottom. Still his hand fell. WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK. Like a dull, thudding metronome. It was beginning to be a bit uncomfortable, actually. WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK. I could feel my bottom becoming quite warm under its denim covering. WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK, WHACK.

He stopped. "Get up," he said gently. I sighed, inwardly,as I obeyed. So much fantasising and worrying, and that was it. I had expected getting spanked to be a lot of things, but boring wasn't one of them. My erection had faded. Still, there was a nice sort of glow in my bum. Better than I had ever managed for myself. I turned towards the door.

"And where do you think you're going ?"

"Sorry, I thought you'd finished." It came out sounding a bit more - well, cocky - than I had intended.

"Finished ? I haven't even started," he said grimly. "That was just the pre-warm-up warm-up. Normally I'd start a lad in jeans off with a good whacking with a plimsoll to tenderise his arse a bit but I was going easy on you because it was your first time. That was obviously a mistake."

"I, er . . ." I was embarrassed and excited by his words at the same time. And scared again. Just a bit scared. How much was I going to have to take ?

"Bend over the desk," he said.

I laid myself over the solid wood of the desk, a little awkwardly.

"No, spread your legs wide apart," he said. "Wider !" There was a snap of command in that last that made me jump to obey.

"Now grab the far edge with your hands," he said. "Don't let go or you'll get extra." He rummaged in a drawer, came out with a grubby old plimsoll. It had once been white, but was now mostly a sort of grey, with the rubber semicircle across the toes kind of split and peeling away from the canvas. There were grass stains and what might have been blue paint on various parts of the upper too. Worst of all it was enormous. From where I craned my neck to see it looked like about size 15 if there is such a thing. He flexed the heavy rubber sole a couple of times and tapped it experimentally against his left hand.

"This is Buster," he said. "It used to belong to one of the prop forwards a few years back, Jim Pritchard, enormous guy. Huge feet," he added, unnecessarily. "He threw it out, thinking mistakenly that it was no more use. I rescued it and it's done some sterling service since." He stepped behind me, out of my line of view. My left leg trembled a little, but it was really just the awkward position, legs so widely parted. Honest.

BAM ! Something like a length of railway sleeper appeared to have collided with my backside. I yelped, more in surprise at first because the pain hadn't kicked in y- oh my God ! I was on fire. BAM ! Another resounding blow. BAM ! BAM ! Two more. "It hurts !" I wailed.

"It's supposed to," he observed pleasantly. "It's going to hurt a lot more than that, I promise you." He proceeded to demonstrate that fact with a further series of blows, not quite as hard as the first couple but still really painful, even through my jeans. After 15 (believe me, I was counting) he paused. Please let it be over, I thought. Please let me get up. I was dying to rub my bum - it was so sore ! But I didn't dare let go of that far edge of the desk. He laid the enormous slipper down on the desk next to me, so close that I could smell the blend of rubber and sweaty feet that all plimsolls smell of after being worn for a while. I swear it was leering at me in the dim light.

"Well that's livened things up a little, hasn't it," he said. It wasn't a question. His hand ran gently over the taut denim stretched across my poor throbbing backside, stroking, following the curves. It helped, a bit. Not a lot. He squeezed my right cheek. Ow. THAT didn't help at all. Then he smacked me. Not very hard, really. But on top of that bloody slipper I felt it, all right. And again. And again. He began to spank lightly but firmly, taking his time, building up slowly in intensity. I was breathing heavily as the spanks re-ignited the fire that plimsoll had left in my behind.

At last: "OK, get up," he said. I obeyed, a little awkwardly. He looked at me, sleeves rolled up, the lamplight warm on his flushed face, turning the curling hairs on his legs and arms to bronze wire. He looked amazing. He smiled at me, and I blushed and lowered my head.

He went over to a locker in the corner of the room.

"One of the disadvantages of dealing with you in kit is that I don't have a . . . ah, here it is," he interjected, pulling out a thick, coiled belt in black leather ". . . belt to unbuckle and take to you. Luckily, there's always this." I couldn't take my eyes off it, coiled like some black cobra ready to strike, as he laid it on the desk next to the plimsoll. Then he reached into the locker again and drew out a wooden paddle about twelve inches long and three inches wide, and laid that on the desk too. Finally

"Oh no," I gasped.

The final object was something I had never seen in real life but recognised instantly: a school cane.

"Please, I can't take that," I said.

"As I told you beforehand, you'll take whatever I want you to take. So understand this: you are going to feel all of these things across your backside tonight. As often as I choose, and for as many strokes as I choose. You don't have any choice in the matter. All you have to do is submit and do what you're told. Do you understand ?"

I muttered something inaudible in the general direction of the ground.

"Justin, when I ask you a question I expect a clear answer."

"Yes," I said.

"No," he returned. "Not good enough, and not quick enough. Hop up on the desk and get on your hands and knees." He removed the implements and I scrambled up, got onto all fours. My arse was at just below the height of his chest.

He held up the paddle.

"Six with the paddle to teach you not to mumble, and another six to teach you to reply more politely. It's 'yes, sir', Justin, not 'yeah'."

"I never - er, yes, sir."

"Better. Not as good as it's going to be, though." He brought the paddle down on my backside. It hurt, a hard, unyielding sting different from, but just as unpleasant as, Buster's bruising flexibility. By five I was calling out. By nine I was calling out quite loud. And then came ten - ahh ! that hurt, eleven - fuck, my arse was going to be one huge blister, twelveahhhhhhh !

"Now, Justin, do you understand what is going to happen to you ?"

"Yes sir, I understand."

"Much better. Come here and let me rub that sore little bottom of yours." He pulled me to him, his knee flexed, and bent me round and over it, my arms clinging to his waist for balance, his left arm around my torso, holding me securely. His other hand explored my throbbing bum through the denim. It was the heat of his body against me that surprised me most. I had never been held by another person, so tenderly. Not since I was a little kid. Even my few fumbling experiences of sex had been distant, mechanical affairs: kneel here, bend here, take this, do this. No holding. No real closeness.

I felt strange, as if something inside me was breaking. My feelings moiled around, so strong that they made me afraid of myself, of him, of what he was waking in me. I wanted to scream "Stop" and at the same time I wanted him to go on doing this to me for ever. His hand slipped between my legs, gently massaged my balls, my prick. It stiffened again under his expert hands.

"Hmm," he murmured. "Yes, I think you're ready. Drop your jeans."

"Oh, no," I said feebly. It was not really a protest, because I had no hope that it would be heeded.

"I'm sorry ?" he said crisply.

"Yes sir," I replied. I told you, I might be na´ve but I'm not stupid.

My hand went to my waistbutton, fumbled with it for what seemed like the longest time as the stubborn thing refused to pop through the button hole, but at last I did it, and unzipped my fly, and the denim was falling, falling, in a navy waterfall around my calves. My prick was straining at the tight cotton pouch of the jock, but the air was cool on my sore arse.

"Mmm," he said. It sounded appreciative and a little flicker of pleasure went through me. Could he really think that I was cute ? No, it must just be lust. After all even I didn't think that the smell of male sweat was that great most of the time, like in a crowded bus or when the changing rooms reeked stalely of it while I scrubbed the mud from the floors. It was just that when I was turned on, the maleness of it seemed exciting. Sex was a sort of alchemy, changing the disgusting to the erotic.

"Well, are you going to step out of those jeans or just stand there all night with them around your ankles ?" asked Martin. I had to kick off my trainers, which was awkward - I should have taken them off first, I guess - before I could get the jeans off properly and stand there, in socks and jockstrap, and little white T-shirt, wondering what happened next.

"And your shirt and socks."

I took them off as slowly as I dared, curiously reluctant.

"Turn around and touch your toes," he said. "Let me have a good look at you."

I obeyed.

"Oh that looks very nice," he said. "We've made a good start there." He ran the tips of his fingers very lightly across the sensitive skin of my backside, which made me squirm a little. It was kind of ticklish and kind of something else, as if little electrical currents were flowing out of his fingers and giving me a sort of shivery thrill.

He urged me up, moved back to his desk and sat down. Before I knew what was happening I was lifted as if I weighed no more than a little child, upended and laid across his lap. My legs waved feebly in the air as his left arm pinned me firmly down.

"Now," he said. "We'll begin the evening's real business." His hand came down hard on my backside. It stung, much worse than through the jeans. So did the next smack, and the next. After about twenty I started to call out, helplessly, soft "ow's" that grew gradually louder as I lost count, abandoning myself to a world narrowed down to a circle of lamplight, the sound of a hand on flesh, the reek of sweat and male sexuality; to an ever growing pain. A momentary pause and the sound became a dull thwack and the pain reached new heights. He had picked up the paddle. And again. And again. Gods it stung, it stung so. Tears were welling helplessly in my eyes. And now his hand once more: almost gentle, tapping me, at first, then more firmly, and more firmly still, and I began to wiggle on his lap, trying to find a place where it hurt less, and there wasn't any.

"Get up," he said at last, and I kind of slid off his lap and stood there in front of him, my arse throbbing in time to my heartbeat, my face and eyes red and swollen. My erection had disappeared again as if it had never existed. He stood up, moving with the casual grace some big men have, and stepped behind me. My buttocks clenched in anticipation. I could sense the heat streaming from them like very bad sunburn. He kneeled down, and ran his hands very lightly over them, cupping them. Then he blew gently on the sore flesh and a shudder of pure sensuality ran through me. He did it again.

"Stop," I whispered, desperately, then wondered if he would punish me for it. Instead he kissed me, very gently, on the crown of each cheek. His lips were soft on the punished skin. My cock stirred.

I heard him get up.

"Bend over the desk again," he said. "Time you felt my belt."

He sounded so certain, so matter-of-fact, so in-control. In a sudden blood-bright rush of lust I found myself hard again. I was scared I wouldn't be able to take it and yet I wanted to take it. From him. For him. I bent myself over the desk, raised my bum as pertly as I could.

"Oh you . . ." he said. I thought it sounded almost like admiration.

The belt cracked down, unexpectedly. A different feel again. It had a curious pinching quality to it. It took only a few blows on my sore bottom to have me crying out again. After the eighth or ninth I rose from my punishment position, unable to help myself.

"Get back down," he growled.

"I ca-ant," I sobbed. "Please . . ."

"Then I'll damn well help you," he said grimly. He pushed me back down on the unyielding wood, then clambered up and kneeled astride me, one meaty thigh on either side of my torso, his feet either side of my head. He rested enough of his weight on me that I was securely pinned without being flattened.

"Now," he said. "We'll start those again."

"Oh noooo !" I tried to struggle but he simply sat on me a bit more firmly, his arse pushing me firmly down into the table. I might as well have tried to get out from under a mountain. The doubled belt came down from a new angle.

Eleven and twelve were particularly hard.

"I didn't know you knew language like that, Justin," he observed mildly. "You're full of hidden depths."

I couldn't answer him. I could hardly speak for the burning terrible pain in my backside.

"Quite a nice view from here," he observed meditatively. "Rather like a particularly fiery sunset."

I swore again.

"If you carry on using words like that," he said, a little less gently, "I'll punish you extra."

"S-sorry, sir," I gasped. No way was I going to risk extra, even if I had to bite my tongue in two.

"Better," he approved. He brought his cupped hand down, clop, on my bum. I kept as silent as I could. Smack ! The other cheek. I groaned a little.

"Much better." He reached down and began to massage my bottom cheeks in his powerful hands. Fire melted and ran through them, through me. I raised myself up a little into it, then relaxed, again and again, humping the table slowly as he took the raging flesh and kneaded it like dough. I didn't know any longer if I was in pain or in ecstasy.

Then he got up ("This desk is killing my knees," he said) and got back onto the floor, pulled me up.

"Get back up on the desk, all fours," he said. His voice sounded thick. The front of his shorts was massively tented.

Instead of obeying immediately I knelt down in front of him and reached a tentative hand to his waistband before looking my question silently up at him. He half closed his eyes.

"Very well," he said at last. "But you'll have to take the consequences."

I didn't know what that meant but it sent a little shiver down my spine. Rather a pleasurable shiver, really. I reached up, eased the front of his shorts over that massive bulge, slid them gently down legs like young trees. He stepped out of them as obediently as if he had been the submissive one.

He too was wearing a jockstrap, but it could scarcely contain his excitement; several thick inches of cock peeped from the top of it. I leant forward, inhaled the maleness of him, rested my cheek for a moment against the hollow of his thigh, kissed the shaft of his organ through the soft fabric that outlined it. His breath sighed faintly between his lips.

Then I got up, a little reluctantly, onto the desk, presented my bottom, and prepared to take my punishment.

"You are a bad, bad, boy," he said slowly. "But we know the way to deal with that." He reached out, pulled the jockstrap roughly off me, lifting each leg in turn to slip it off completely. I was finally completely naked. Funny how different, how vulnerable, that felt, even though the jock hadn't given my bum any protection.

"Spread your legs more," he ordered. One fingertip traced a circle around each cheek, into my crack, probed gently at my arsehole. My stiff cock bounced with each beat of my heart. A pearl of moisture appeared at its tip.

He picked up Buster from the desk again. I clenched everything in anticipation.

"Twelve with the slipper," he said. "Then a spanking because you were a naughty boy and took my shorts down. Then six with the cane."

Terror, lust. How was it possible for anyone to feel like this, to feel as much as this, and not burst ? The slipper would be bad enough, on the bare, after what I'd already taken. But then to be spanked and finally, ultimately, caned ? So why was I lowering my shoulders and pushing my sore little arse up into the air, as if begging for it ? Why was my cock still painfully hard ?

He rubbed the ridged rubber sole across my bottom gently.

WHAP ! I groaned aloud. WHAP ! It was worse than over my jeans, much worse. WHAP ! WHAP ! WHAP ! WHAP ! He paused for a moment. My eyes were wet. He rubbed his hand over the stinging marks. Then he began the next six. By eight I was calling out with each blow, strange harsh noises forced from my throat by the slipper's impact. I concentrated on each blow, on absorbing it, as if it were the only thing in the world. For me, right then and there, it was. UHH ! Twelve, was that twelve ? It had stopped, anyway. My backside throbbed leadenly. Once when I was a kid I got stung by a wasp. This was the same, that throbbing pain radiating out from its red-hot source.

"Get up," he said. "And get down." I obeyed, stiffly. It hurt to walk. It hurt to stand. I didn't dare imagine what it would be like to sit. And I still had that spanking and caning to come.

He sat down on the desk, hopping up and scooting well back so that the edge of the desk came just behind his knees. Then he pulled his rugby shirt off. His chest was beautiful, like a statue, no spare fat; each muscle moving distinct under the taut skin, the light furring of chest hair.

"Right, get up here and lay yourself across my lap," he directed. I draped myself across his rock-like thighs, my legs and torso supported by the desk on either side. I felt shaky, boneless. His hand stroked my back and the sore, sore mess of my bum.

"Getting a few marks there," he said. "We need to even that up. Ask me to spank you, Justin."

It was impossible. I couldn't bear it. And yet I heard myself say:

"Please sir, give me what I deserve."

"What you deserve, eh ? Well, we'll see." He began to tap my bottom, quite lightly, all over, paying special attention to the sorest bits. It wasn't exactly like being spanked but it was terrible, like Chinese water torture. My breathing grew ragged. I thought at one point I might pass out. And then, quite suddenly, a slap. Not too hard, but a proper slap. I was so grateful for the change I almost sighed with relief. He began to spank me, not fiercely, but rhythmically, crown, top, sides, the bit where the bottom meets the thighs. Unhurriedly the spanking continued, growing harder and harder. I think I was growing numb, or awash with endorphins or something, because it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. I can take it, I realised. I can take pain. I'm not a complete wimp after all.

Odd, to feel proud of myself. Unfamiliar. Precious . . .

He stopped, leaned down to kiss my shoulder. I felt the hairs on his chest tickling my back.

"You know what comes next," he whispered in my ear.

I felt a curious reluctance to speak; not because of what I had to say, but simply because I didn't want the sound of my voice to break that moment. But he demanded it of me, and I wanted so much not to disappoint him, not now, not at the last.

"The cane," I breathed.

"The cane." His breath was warm on the back of my neck. "Are you scared ?"

"Yes."

"Good. You should be. It will hurt."

It will hurt but it will be hurt at his hands, his hands that have touched me in ways no-one else has touched me. Whatever else happens I've had this night. I'll always have it.

"I don't mind. If you want to."

He grabbed the back of my neck and shook me, very gently.

"What do you want, Justin ?"

"I want - I want to give you everything. I want to be yours, I want you to do anything you want to me." I almost howled the last.

"Oh Justin, my beautiful Justin. You're just perfect, you know that ?" He slapped my bottom, briskly. "All right, get up."

I unpeeled myself from him, our flesh damp with sweat where it had been pressed together. He got up and indicated that I should bend over the desk. I grabbed the far side again in a death grip.

The cold hard length of it tapped gently against my buttocks and I jumped.

Then there was a sudden swish-crack ! and a line of fire ignited across my backside.

Breath hissed between my clenched teeth.

Again that cool, methodical tap to find range and angle, and again swish-crack. Lower this time the fire cut and stung, slicing through the numbness with a bright knife of pain. And then twice in close succession, higher up my cheeks: swish-crack, swish-crack ! I couldn't help a small animal noise of pain. But I would bear it. I would !

"You're doing well," he said. A glow that had nothing to do with the glow in my backside suddenly lit in me. "Just two more, and it's all over." The cane tapped enquiringly at my backside. I clenched my bum.

SWISH-CRACK ! "Ahhhh." I couldn't help myself, it was a much harder stroke than the previous ones, and it had come close to one of the previous tracks.

"Just one more, now. Be a brave lad." I swallowed my tears, tried to relax the bruised and stinging muscles.

The wait seemed to last centuries. Then:

Swish-crack. The final cut - low on my bottom, where I would feel it for days when I sat down. But it was over, it was over. He threw the cane down on the desk almost disgustedly, picked me up from the desk and folded me in a hug that nearly crushed the life out of me.

"Brave lad," he said. "You took that amazingly well. Oh Justin, you're fabulous."

Tears welled in my eyes as he held me, taking me as much by surprise as him.

"What's the matter," he said anxiously, "did I hurt you too much ? Damn, I knew I shouldn't have give a novice the cane."

"No, no, it's not that," I sobbed. "I'm just all confused. No-one ever liked me before. No-one ever thought I was f-fabulous."

"Hey, hey, don't worry," he said, patting me gently between the shoulder blades. "Everything's going to be fine. And you are fabulous. I think you're good enough to eat." He nibbled at my earlobe and then, quite suddenly it seemed, we were kissing, very gently and tenderly.

At last I broke away. He looked at me, quizzically.

I slipped downwards, eased the jockstrap over that thick pole that had been butting against me.

"I think you might be good enough to eat as well," I said, grinning.

"Bad boy," he said, surveying his throbbing manhood with a certain complacent pride as it bobbed in front of my face. "Now look what you've done. Are you going to take the consequences ?"

"Yes. Oh yes," I said, leaning forward to do so.


Copyright © 2001

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