|by Mark Anatole|
Copyright on this story text belongs at all times to the original author only, whether stated explicitly in the text or not. The original date of posting to the MMSA was: 18 Jan 2010
I like to run bare-chested whenever the weather permits. Sure, a lot of guys run without their shirts in the dog days of July and August; but I run shirtless nearly every day from April to October. I know it's vain, but I'm in good physical shape and I like the way that other guys stare at me out of the corner of their eye. More than that, I like the manliness of running bare-chested, and I feel more in touch with nature than when I'm cocooned in layers of material. If you are one yourself, you'll know that there's a camaraderie among us bare-chested runners, and we nearly always acknowledge each other, as if there were a special bond between us.
I often saw Pete when I was out for my morning run along the river. I noticed him not only because he also ran bare-chested, but because he was startlingly handsome. His medium build was similar to mine, but his arm and thigh muscles were somewhat better defined; and although he must have been in his forties, his shoulders were broad, his waist thin and his abs were armor-plate hard. He kept his dark hair cut very short, and he was tanned. I noticed that, although he nearly always ran in company, it was with a series of different guys who themselves were invariably naked from the waist up. We must have kept a similar timetable, for quite often we would find ourselves waiting at the same spot to cross the busy highway that separates the city from the path along the river, and our mutual recognition had reached the point where we would exchange a few pleasantries, mainly about the weather or the state of the traffic. Although we'd figured out each other's name, we never really got talking for an extended time.
One day, I had a slightly longer exchange with Pete than usual. Although I had finished my run, I was blocked from crossing the highway to let a convoy of emergency vehicles go by. Pete and another guy whom I didn't recognize came up behind me, and at first we acknowledged each other with only a nod of the head.
“You live around here?” he asked, after a short pause.
“Yeah, just a couple of blocks away,” I replied. “How about you? I see you often – you must be a pretty keen runner.”
“It takes a lot of discipline,” he replied, “and there are plenty of mornings when my friend Ian here would rather stay in bed.” At this point, he nodded towards the guy who had been running with him and who, in contrast to Pete, was deeply occupied trying to recover from his recent exertions. My sympathies lay entirely with Ian, and said so.
“So how do you get Ian out of bed every morning?” I asked, more for want of something to say than out of any real curiosity.
“Oh, I have my own ways of exerting discipline,” replied Pete. Then, after a brief pause, he added: “In fact, I cane him if he's not up and ready by 6.30 each morning.” Pete said this so laconically that, at first, I wasn't sure if I'd heard him aright.
“You do what?” I asked, inanely.
“You heard. I cane him! In fact....” (he paused here, and put an arm around Ian's shoulder) “in fact, I cane him rather hard if he's not ready before me. Ian wants to get in good shape, and I can help him. I was in the marines once, and I'm a qualified fitness instructor. But he has to play by my rules!”
By this point, Ian's embarrassment at the revelation of the discipline to which he was subject had superseded the discomfort of his physical exertions. Ian was smaller in build than his companion, but he had a great physique. Whatever Pete's methods, his exercise regime certainly appeared to be working for Ian! Pete appeared not to notice Ian's discomfort and was instead looking me up and down with the undisguised interest of a professional horse-trader. This, by the way, was more than a little embarrassing, for my shorts had tented out with remarkable speed at the mention of Pete's caning regimen.
“I thought so!” he said. “That grabbed your interest! Anyway, if you'd like to kick your own exercise program up a few notches, you know where to come!”
Our conversation ended on that intriguing note, for the road was now clear and I needed to hurry to work. However, Pete's words resonated in my mind all day. While I was astonished to learn that he meted out corporal punishment to another guy, I was even more surprised that he'd boasted about it in front of his pupil; but most of all, I wondered what it would really be like to “kick my exercise program up a few notches” with Pete. Sure, I wanted to develop my muscles. Even more to the point, I was extremely turned on by the idea of physical discipline; but another part of me was quite unsure whether this would be as attractive in reality as in fantasy. It didn't take long to find out.....
When I ran into Pete the following Saturday, it was he who initiated the conversation.
“Have you thought about my offer the other day?” he asked.
Actually, I'd thought about nothing else in the intervening period, but didn't really want to say so. It would take considerable reserves of courage, and infinitely more humility than I normally have at my disposal, to sign up to an exercise regime that would make me the target of regular butt whippings. So our conversation was a game of cat-and-mouse, since I both yearned and feared to be sucked into something outside my control. However, Pete was persistent, and my yearnings were powerful; so, with a curious mixture of eagerness and reluctance, I agreed to go back to Pete's house there and then to talk things over.
It turned out that Pete lived in a fairly substantial townhouse, only a short distance from my own, more modest, apartment. We entered through a door beneath the walk-up stairs, and immediately came into a well-equipped gym that stretched the full length of the house. The blinds were drawn on the windows that looked onto the street, while at the back, a set of French windows led directly onto an inviting garden. The gym itself had every conceivable type of equipment – free weights, a shoulder press, a leg press – everything was here. Not only that, but there was ample space for stretching and aerobics. Amid all this equipment, however, there was one particular thing that immediately caught my eye. On the wall was a piece of furniture that looked remarkably like a gun-rack, except that, instead of guns, six wicked-looking canes were neatly stacked in ascending order of thickness. On the floor nearby was another unusual piece of furniture; and although I had never seen such a thing before, there was no doubt that this could be anything other than a punishment horse!
I think Pete must have noticed that my eye was irresistibly drawn to the cane rack, for he wasted no time in walking me over to it.
“You need to know that my punishments are severe, but I'm not vicious!” he said, lifting one of the canes from the rack. “In fact, this is an auspicious day for your first visit, for Ian is due for a taste of the cane this very morning!”
To say that Ian was squirming was something of an understatement. It was clear that he had taken canings from Pete before, but presumably never in front of a stranger.
“I think it best that Ian himself explain what he's due, and why,” said Pete.
Ian eyes were downcast and his right hand was vigorously rubbing the back of his down-turned head. He was a picture of discomfort.
“Pete!” he hissed. “Not in front of a stranger, please!” he pleaded.
Pete went over and whispered something in Ian's ear. Ian remained silent for a couple of moments, his head bowed.
“OK,” he said, “here's the tally. I'm to get four for being late yesterday, three for not putting everything into this morning's run, and.... and I've just earned two more bare-assed, for not accepting my punishment as promptly as I should!”
I think my mouth must have fallen open at this point. I was speechless! I was going to see Ian thrashed! Not only that, but he was to take extra strokes for hesitating to let himself be beaten in front of me!
“Just two things, however!” said Pete, turning towards me. “You can stay and watch on two conditions! First, you need to have made up your mind to join our little exercise program! Second, there's no point in saying that you'll join the program until you know what a caning from me is really like. So the second condition is that you take a caning this very morning. Six of the best from one of my mid-size canes!”
My mind was in turmoil! I, too, was to take the first caning of my life that very morning! My mouth was dry, my stomach hollow, but my cock was straining massively against my running shorts.... I could stay and be flogged, or I could walk out the door as though nothing had happened! I immediately knew that, if I were to walk out the door, I would regret it my entire life.
The next few minutes moved so fast, it all seems like a bit of a blur. Ian's embarrassment quickly dissipated once it became clear that we were both to be caned. “Good for you!” he said, smiling broadly, “You won't regret it – much!” With that, he landed a hearty smack across the seat of my shorts.
“Right, Ian!” said Pete cheerfully. “That's nine altogether: seven over shorts, two on the bare! So bend over the horse!”
Ian shot a last, wry smile in my direction, and laid himself over the punishment horse. He was remarkably composed, and although he clearly didn't relish the idea of the thrashing he was about to receive, he clearly thought that he deserved it and was going to get it over with as quickly as possible.
The punishment horse was about three feet tall, and had the effect of forcing Ian into a perfectly inverted “V”, his butt marvelously exposed to the reach of the cane, the material of his flimsy shorts stretched taut across his muscular butt-cheeks. Pete now positioned himself to the side of the horse and tested the reach of the cane against Ian's inviting buttocks.
“Right Ian! You know the routine! Count 'em!” he ordered.
With that, he drew his arm back and whipped the cane down on Ian's helpless backside. I was astonished at the vicious whistling sound that the cane made as it passed through the air, and even more astonished at the resounding crack that reverberated as it made contact with Ian's unyielding buttock muscles. But Ian was obviously no stranger to either the sound or the sensation that must now be infusing his body, and with quiet composure he reported: “One, Sir!”
Pete's arm was already raised for the next stroke, which came almost immediately. Whistle! Crack! Two, Sir! Whistle! Crack! Three, Sir!
The rhythm was inexorable, and to me the lashes looked excruciating, but nothing interrupted Ian's composure. By the fourth stroke, he was sweating profusely and his voice was slightly broken as he counted the progress of his punishment. I felt slightly guilty that my own hard-on was at the expense of my new-found friend's discomfort!
Finally, the seventh stroke cracked against Ian's upturned butt, and he duly reported the event.
“Well done, man!” said Pete encouragingly. “Two more! Shorts off!”
The punishment horse was so effective at immobilizing Ian that he was unable to shimmy out of his shorts without help, so Pete tugged them down for him and tossed them to the side. My mouth went dry at the sight of this beautiful, muscular man, the luscious globes of rump slashed with seven livid welts, and I could only admire the manly composure with which he was taking his punishment.
Pete once again drew back his arm, once again the cane whistled viciously, but this time the crack was even more resounding as the rattan cut into Ian's already lacerated flesh.
“Agh!” There was a pause as Ian tried to catch his breath and report the number of the stroke. The welt from this stroke rose immediately, red and raw. After several seconds, he croaked “Eight, sir!” This was the cue for Pete once again to raise the cane. He seemed to put more effort than ever into his final stroke, and the resulting lash elicited an immediate roar from Ian. Finally, however, he regained his composure sufficiently to report the ninth stroke, and Pete invited him to stand up. I'm pretty sure his legs were shaking as he extracted himself from his punishment frame; but, to my astonishment, he was smiling through his grimaces, and he hugged Pete and thanked him for giving him his punishment. While Ian's cock was flaccid, I couldn't help noticing that Pete's shorts were betraying his obvious excitement. As for me, the realization that my own hide was next on the block had caused my cock to retreat from its previously proud erection!
Pete replaced the cane on the rack with the careful precision of a medical orderly, and selected the one above it. “Mark, my boy! This can be your cane! It's brand new!” He went on to explain to my half-listening ears that, for health reasons, canes used against bare flesh should never be shared. I was only half-listening, for I was still taking in the idea that a cane should ever be designated as “mine”! It was also a moment before I took in the inference that I was to be naked for my first whipping!
Pete took his time testing the suppleness and length of the new instrument. Finally, he turned to me and put his arm around my shoulder.
“OK, Mark. I know you're feeling a bit conflicted about this – you both want it, and you don't. But you've been waiting for this for a long time, and finally you're man enough to go through with it. You're going to take six strokes on your bare ass this morning. I'm going to use a mid-weight cane. I'm not going to be vicious, but I'm not going to hold back either. It'll hurt like hell, believe me. But it's only six strokes, and I know that you can take it. So off with your shorts, and bend over!”
I looked at the exit door for a moment and finally, with deep misgivings, I pulled down my shorts and positioned myself over the horse. It was surprisingly difficult to get into position, for the punishment vault was tall enough to raise my feet slightly off the floor. It was comfortably padded, and the side that supported my legs was designed in such a way that a widening gap stretched from my crotch to my ankles, so that my cock and balls hung free and my ankles were a good meter apart. The side that supported my upper body was solid, and two vertical handles were comfortably positioned within reach of my hands. Most importantly, the device had the effect of positioning my buttocks in the most taut and vulnerable position it was possible to imagine for them.
“Right, Mark, you know what you have to do by now! You've just got to take six. Count 'em!”
I could feel the cool stem of the cane fondling my buttocks, as Pete measured the distance. As long as the cane remained there, I knew I was still OK. Its removal would be the signal that my ordeal was about to begin.
The contact between the cane and my buttocks is lost, and I feel a moment of panic on knowing that I am now irrevocably committed, that the hungry cane has been raised in preparation for the first stroke. I hear the cane slice through the air, instantly followed by a vicious crack as it makes contact with my ass. The pain takes a moment to register, but when it does, it consumes me! It is like nothing I have ever felt before. ... it is a thousand bee-stings.... it is a white-hot iron branded into my very buttocks! And yet.... and yet it is what I have needed all my life. It is fulfillment, it makes me complete, it makes me a man. Relief suffuses me, for even though tears are stinging my eyes, I already know that I have it in me to hold my ass in position for six of these strokes.
“One, sir!” I say, and I surprise myself at the confidence I hear in my own voice. The cane is raised again, and whistles back towards my protruding buttocks. I force myself to push out my ass to meet the incoming rod, and it makes contact just below the first stroke.
The third stroke is harder to bear, for I think it must have landed on top of the stripe made by a previous one. I'm sweating now, but I'm getting into the swing of things and waste no time in calling the stroke. I feel Pete's hand caress my upturned buttocks and linger over the rising welts.
“You're doing well, Mark!”
I feel another hand caress the back of my head and look up to find Ian kneeling in front of me, encouraging me. He's still naked, and his hard erection brushes lightly against my face.
“Keep going!” I croak, and no sooner do I speak than the wicked cane whistles back towards my vulnerable flesh. This one takes my breath away – Pete must have laid it on harder than before.
“Four, sir!” I whisper.
The slicing sound once again rends the air, I force my butt out to meet it, the branding-iron pain once again sears my buttocks and expels the air from my lungs. This is hard to take. But take it I will. I hesitate to call the count, for I know it will immediately trigger the next slice.
“Five, sir!” I finally venture. There is a slightly longer pause than on previous occasions.
“Last one, Mark!” says Pete, and immediately the cane whistles once again, slashes into my rump, and my world explodes in pain.
I feel broken. But I also feel elated. I've taken my punishment like a man, and though my buttocks are on fire, I feel more alive than ever before in my life.... I feel Pete's hands caress the weals on my buttocks, sense his fingers as they separate my two tender globes and his tongue as it gently probes my deepest recess. While Pete ministers to my rear end, at the other I reach out for Ian's beautiful cock, now more engorged than ever, and I take it hungrily into my mouth. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Pete fit a condom over his penis, and now I feel it pressing urgently against my hole. When he penetrates me, the first moment of discomfort is immediately overcome by the wave of pleasure that arches through me. As Pete thrusts deeper and deeper into me, I take Ian's rod further and further into my throat. Pete's pounding of my ass is relentless, I am close to sensory overload, and I start to sense my orgasm rising deep inside. The three of us cum within seconds of each other – I, in wave after wave of release that sends my semen spurting across the floor.
I am spent. I am exhausted. I have been caned. I have been fucked. But I am exhilarated, and hungry to know more of the new path that now opens before me!
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