Black Hawk Young Offenders Institution
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: 08 Feb 2018
Black Hawk Young Offenders Institution
The black leather, padded top of the punishment bench was still warm, where the naked groin and stomach of the previous offender had pressed down. The broad leather straps which were being fastened very tightly around Damien Crowhurst’s wrists and ankles, were still damp with the perspiration absorbed from the succession of wrists and ankles of other inmates who had received their punishment for whatever mild offences they had committed.
Damien Crowhurst was no stranger to the padded leather cushioning on top of the dreaded punishment bench, over which it was guaranteed that every single young offender passing through the formidable, big, black wooden gates in the police van, would end up being tightly fastened on more than one occasion during their internment at the Black Hawk Young Offender’s Institution.
A number of buckets, half to three-quarters full of water, provided resting places for the range of canes and birches which would be used very effectively in the course of just one morning’s disciplinary session. And if an offender had been sentenced to a specific number of strokes of the birch by the presiding magistrate, then he would have been given priority treatment by being taken direct to the punishment cell immediately on arrival.
There, in the presence of two or three officers, and of the resident doctor, every sixteen or seventeen year old newly convicted offender would have been stripped naked, and cursorily examined by the doctor, who would inevitably and without hesitation have declared the youth to be fit for punishment. Then, without an undue hesitation, the new arrival would be unceremoniously hauled over the punishment bench, securely fastened with the leather straps, and one of the officers, whose shirt sleeves had been rolled up in readiness, would go through the ritual of selecting a well-soaked, bundle of birch fronds, tightly secured at one end to form a handle; vigorously flick the water off in a succession of swishing sprays; rest the wet fronds on the apex of the fastened youth’s bare buttocks; wait for the supervising officer to declare and confirm the number of strokes due to be administered, and would then forcefully slash the mass of thin, very pliable birch twigs across the trapped, fully exposed, bare buttocks, thereby initiating the offender into the harsh reality of several years reluctant residence in the Black Hawk Young Offenders’ Institution.
Such had been the very recent rude awakening which Damien Crowhurst had been given on his arrival at the remote, grim, and forbidding complex of securely fenced buildings which served as the place of reforming punishment, to which the big-chested, hard-faced, moustached, virginal spinster, Chairman of the Magistrate’s court had sentenced him to be taken, to serve his eighteen month sentence for shop-lifting and willful vandalism.
Now, less than six weeks into his sentence, with the memory of the painful birching he had been awarded, as an integral part of his sentence, still as raw as his bare buttocks had been for days afterwards, he was being secured once more over the all too familiar punishment bench, to receive a total of eighteen lashes with a thick, heavy length of very pliable leather, wielded by the very same officer who had administered the buttocks-blistering birching on that very first day.
While the officers tightened the leather restraints around his ankles, wrists and waist, vivid flash-backs of the fierce birching he had been given on his arrival, filled his mind. The nakedness of his buttocks seemed somehow to be accentuated by the icy cold air wafting over them, and by the realisation that, once again, so soon after that unforgettable, excruciatingly painful ordeal, those same buttocks, still tender and sore, were about to be lashed with vengeful force by the officer who made no secret of the sheer pleasure he derived from handing out official punishment.
Damien Crowhurst was best described as a tall, well-built, muscular Tough-Nut, made so by his ex-army father who prided himself on his totally insensitive, no-nonsense approach to discipline. The broad, thick leather belt which he always wore around his rather thick waist, was frequently and predictably whisked out of the waist-band loops through which it was threaded, to be folded exactly in half, in readiness to lash the bare buttocks of his wayward son, who resignedly lay face down on the single bed in his very small bed-room, with his bare backside raised up over pillows, to await the unforgiving, punitively embracing, biting sting of numerous lashes.
From the age of eleven, when his father had been demobbed after his many years as a regular soldier, and had suddenly appeared as a total stranger to claim his role as the Not to be questioned Head of the House, the broad leather belt had been rapidly whipped out of the retaining loops; folded, and held in the very strong right hand of the very heavily built former soldier, and swung to and fro threateningly until the naked schoolboy was lying full length on his bed, with his hands clutching the sides of the mattress, to ensure that they did not fly to the defence of his bare buttocks, once the belt launched into its savage attack of the two soft, bare mounds of adolescent flesh.
Damien Crowhurst had very quickly learned not to blubber, whimper, plead, protest, beg, or remonstrate in any way. To do so, as initially had been the case, was to add to the fury with which the broad belt took its revenge. I won’t have a wimp as my son!, the ex-Sergeant Crowhurst would vehemently declare as he launched each lash from above shoulder height, with sufficient force to visibly indent the tender flesh of his son.
Even when the clusters of pubic hair heralded the coming of age of Damien’s genitalia, and similar tufts of short dark hair began to grace the cleft between his maturing buttocks confirming the rapid maturity of the boy who was no longer a boy, but a young man, the broad belt continued to rain down with ever increasing punitive fury on the buttocks which, as he progressed into his early teen-age years, and on into his mid teen-age years, became defiantly impervious to the stinging, smarting, welting legacy of the broad leather belt.
As a mere eleven or twelve year old, he had frequently succumbed to quietly sobbing as he continued to lie face down after his father had returned the belt to the trouser’s waist-band loops, and had left the room, slamming the door behind him. But as a maturing adolescent, the sobbing became a thing of the past. In its place there had developed the more consoling, pain-relieving, groin-churning, stomach-gripping sensation which corresponded with the growth of his prick, and with the compensatory pleasure it created when, with the bed-room door slammed shut, and the sound of his father clumping down the stairs, the hot, sticky column of erect muscle and flesh which seemed to have a mind of its own, hardened further and sent wave upon wave of exhilarating thrills though his entire naked body, in response to the gentle, sensuous stimulation by the fingers which had gripped the edges of the mattress throughout his punishment.
By the time Damien Crowhurst had reached the age of sixteen, the frequent unquestioned command from his father to: Get yerself upstairs, boy! Get stripped, and lie face down on the bed, before I come up!, was still obeyed...but with a deep, slowly burning resentment, and with a gradually over-whelming urge to rebel. Then, when his seventeenth birthday was marked, indelibly, by an extra special bare buttocks lashing for getting too big for yer boots, and thinking yer entitled to do what yer like, when yer like. even the compensatory thrill of a secretive wank off, while his bare black and blue buttocks raged like the fires of hell, could not hold back the surge of angry resentment and rebellion, the tall, muscular, physically developed, sexually mature young man told his father to Bugger off! and then, to the utter dismay of his brow-beaten mother, who had always tried, unsuccessfully, to stick up for him, Buggered off himself, setting off on the path which led to the forbidding gates of the Black Hawk Young Offenders Institution, and to his second visit to the punishment cell.
There, stark naked, being fastened by officers dressed in uniforms which accentuated their manliness, their authority and their potentially alarming, terrifying power and control over the offending inmates, Damien realised that he had effectively jumped out of the proverbial frying pan into the proverbial fire. Instead of a relatively soft mattress and pillows to cushion his naked body while being thrashed, he was being secured very tightly and uncomfortably over a much less forgiving surface, to receive a much less forgiving form of punishment.
And yet, the fire into which he had jumped, was in many ways a fire which was, and had been,burning in his belly and in his groin, and which was being fanned by his now fully-developed manhood. True, the birching he had received on arriving at the Black Hawk Young Offenders Institution, had been painful beyond anything he had ever experienced and imagined. The wet, soaked multiple fronds of the birch had sliced, bitten, chewed, and incised their vengeful wrath into his unprotected and unprotectable bare buttocks, skilfully aided and abetted by an officer whose sheer physicality exuded sexual arousal, stimulated to its highest peak by the gut-churning pleasure being derived from birching the well developed bare arse of a well developed seventeen year old offender.
That excited aroused pleasure had communicated itself to the tightly secured naked offender throughout the whole process during which he had been forcefully propelled by a rapid sequence of events – the sentencing; the hand-cuffing; the isolation in the police van; the induction on arrival behind the huge wooden gates; the intimacy of the fingers, hands and eyes which had examined his naked body; the verbal confirmation of the eighteen strokes of the birch; the short walk along the cold, stone-flagged passageway to the punishment cell, held firmly on either side by sexually alluring, uniformed officers, whose tight trousers glorified their strong, firm thighs and their equally firm buttocks; the initial, chilling sight of the punishment bench and of the well-soaked birch; the prick-stiffening thrill of being secured for punishment, and the realisation that his naked body was pressing down where countless other naked male bodies, mature or still maturing, had been forced to press down, to pay the penalty for their offences...great or small.
Even as the nicotine-stained fingers of the uniformed officers pulled the leather restraints tighter and fastened them securely, the very close, almost intimate proximity of their manly thighs; the masculine scent of their very masculine bodies; their very noticeable interest in, and appreciation of the alluring maturity of the naked offender’s attributes, manifested in the smiles which spread across sexually appealing lips, and in the sparkle of brown or blue eyes; the indescribable thrill of being fastened tightly with leather straps; the inexplicable over-whelming willingness to surrender and submit to the domination of men who were about to deliver an arse-burning punishment with a reformatory leather strap – all this was so different to the uncouth, unfeeling, unsophisticated, unimaginative way in which his father used to leather his backside. The ritual surrounding the punishment of an inmate of the Black Hawk Younger Offenders Institution combined the sheer hell of the physical pain, with that very special reward which would be treasured, fostered and ultimately secretly, privately and silently celebrated, and explosively enjoyed, in the quiet darkness of a narrow bunk bed.
The cold, harsh voice of the supervising officer broke into the fantasy world into which the seventeen year old had unconsciously sought to escape from the reality of what was about to happen to him. The icy coldness of the punishment cell suddenly spread its chill over his naked body once more, and for a moment that chill became icier as the officer recited aloud the details of the offence for which the sentence of eighteen lashes with the reformatory strap had been very speedily awarded.
Perhaps this will teach you to show greater respect for those in authority over you, lad. You’ll
soon learn that in this establishment you obey every order, what ever that order might be, with immediate,
unquestioning obedience. continued the supervising officer.
Officer Wilson, commence the punishment!
The shuffle of heavy boots on the stone-flagged floor, signalled that Officer Wilson, whose uniform trousers fitted intimately around his rugby player’s buttocks and thighs, and whose eyes always seemed to be hungrily feasting on the naked body of any offender awaiting punishment, was positioning himself to deliver a buttocks-quaking succession of lashes with the thick, heavy length of very supple leather. An eerie silence accentuated the icy coldness of the punishment cell. Damien, fastened so tightly that he could barely move a muscle, sensed the intrusive gaze of the officers in the cell as they waited for Officer Wilson to deliver the first lash.
The leather strap landed with a thud, sinking into the crown of Damien’s naked buttocks, and evoking
from him an involuntary grunt of surprise. For a few seconds. while the narrow, heavy wad of thick leather
continued to embrace the offender’s seasoned buttocks, the seventeen year old was conscious of a dull,
heavy ache, which then suddenly inflamed into a searing burning sensation as soon as the leather strap
was lifted away.
The sound of the supervising officer’s cold, dispassionate voice declaring One! broke through the buzzing sound which had invaded Damien’s head, and before that verbal confirmation had fully registered itself, the narrow length of thick, heavy leather returned to embed itself in almost the same narrow band of burning flesh.
The impact of that second lash unleashed a concentrated wad of searing pain which became magnified as it mingled with the legacy of the first lash. The supervising officer’s dispassionate voice intoned the appropriate number, and Damien braced himself to determinedly fight back any vocal reaction which would give satisfaction to Officer Wilson, or to the supervising officer and his other comrades.
The thick, narrow length of leather continued its dutiful assault on the defiant bare buttocks. It systematically created an ever-widening red, purple-bluish coloured band which gradually spread to cover and discolour most of the seventeen year old’s slightly hairy, creamy-white buttocks. Hisses of rapidly sucked in air seethed through the offender’s clenched teeth, providing the only audible indication that the lashes were succeeding to some extent to deliver the intended very daunting painful, reformative punishment. But Damien’s father had done a very good job in unwittingly preparing his son for the punitive hardships of the particularly harsh penal system of the Black Hawk Young Offenders Institution.
Just as he had gradually built up a combination of physical and mental resistance and resilience to the scarring pain of his father’s broad leather belt, slashing into his bare buttocks, so now, in the more terrifying, oppressive, hostile environment of a Young Offenders Institution, that same resilience, underpinned and strengthened by even stronger, more determined resistance, came to the seventeen year old’s aid. Damien gritted his teeth; clenched his fists; screwed his eye-lids tight, and silently talked himself through the ordeal, while Officer Wilson, faced with an abnormally, stubbornly defiant, stoical, and seemingly unbreakable teen-age hunk, raised the stakes by launching each successive lash of the thick, heavy leather strap with incremental levels of force, as well as with carefully calculated accuracy, to ensure that every one of the eighteen lashes to which the young offender had been sentenced, would leave more than its mark.
Thus it was, as the leather restraints were eventually unfastened, the offender with masses of red, purple, blue and black weals was allowed to ease himself away from the leather-covered punishment bench; straighten up; regain his balance, with hands hovering forlornly and helplessly around his raging buttocks, and wait for permission to leave the cell, to return to the relative privacy of the dormitory he shared with other offenders, there to cautiously pull on the coarse, ill-fitting, chafing offenders’ uniform, before resuming his daily duties.
The seventeen year old was not unaware of the way in which, with guarded admiration, the officers had watched him straightening up from the padded bench, and had uninhibitedly allowed their eyes to rove with overt approval over his entire naked anatomy, focusing particularly on his scarred buttocks, while he waited for the command to Dismiss. Officer Wilson was noticeably pleased with the results of his determined efforts to administer an effective punishment of the sort which would earn him a favourable report to the Governor. After all, promotion was hard to come by. So it was essential to not only make a lasting impression on each naked offender, but also to make an even greater one on the man who could promote or demote.
Murmurs of a complimentary and appreciative variety reached Damien’s ears as he slowly walked towards the cell’s door, which had now been opened to let in a blast of fresh, but still icy cold air.
Well done, Wilson.....damned good thrashing....fine arse...took it well...couldn’t have landed
them harder...maybe he’ll get the full twenty-four next time...there’s bound to be a next time....
Needless to say, there were plenty of Next times. The penal regime of the Black Hawk Young Offenders Institution made sure of that. In the course of the eighteen months Damien Crowhurst remained an inmate of that particular supposedly reformatory establishment, he found himself visiting the punishment cell on a regular basis...sometimes for punishment he had brought upon himself because of his defiant reluctance to submit completely to the unquestionable rule of authority. But more often than not, as a result of spurious charges brought against him by officers who clearly got quite a kick out of seeing this well-built, well-endowed offender who, having reached his eighteenth birthday, but could pass for a twenty-eight year old, Damien was regularly paraded down the stone-flagged passageway, to the icy cold punishment cell.
There, in the presence of officers who regarded him as the ideal victim on whom they could live out their sadistic fantasies, he was either held firmly over the punishment bench by several pairs of strong hands, or fastened with well-worn leather restraints, to revel in the sight of the masterful Officer Wilson wielding a variety of canes, leather straps and the occasional birch, across the young man’s enviably mature, well-formed bare buttocks.
It was not in the least bit surprising that, with only two days to go before his scheduled release from the institution, Damien found himself standing once more in front of the Governor’s desk on a charge which carried with it the certainty of an extended period of incarceration, unless the offender opted for the alternative of a visit to the punishment cell for a final dose of the birch. The fact that it was a trumped up charge, made little difference to the inevitable outcome. Any hope of a right of appeal by the young offender was wishful thinking, and the over-whelming desire to be able to walk out through the big wooden gates in two days time, free from any further injustice, was far greater than the fear of any form of corporal punishment the Governor could sentence him to.
Damien Crowhurst pleaded: Guilty, Sir!, and sentence was duly passed.
Damien’s punishment was scheduled for seven o-clock that evening, to allow those officers going off duty to join with the night duty officers in witnessing the final official punishment of the tall, well-built offender, who was now no longer a boy or a youth, but an eighteen year old young man, and whose frequently punished buttocks reflected his impressive maturity for a young man of his age.
Stripped naked, with the inevitable leather restraints already fastened around his wrists and ankles, Damien was paraded along the corridor which led to the punishment room, held firmly by an officer on either side. The eyes of officers who had elected to stay on duty to witness this special event, soaked up the magnetism of the offender’s enviable, mature physique – his broad, manly chest, with its swirls of black hair; his firmly muscled thighs, with their liberal spatterings of short dark hair; the unmissable fullness of his majestically proud manhood, protruding defiantly from the thick cluster of black pubic hair, and the hint of a dismissive, derisive smile at the corners of his full lips.
The bare buttocks, which were destined to be scarred once again in the name of something called Justice, moved with pride atop Damien’s strong legs, and as he entered the punishment, his eyes met those of Officer Wilson, whose muscled, hairy, bare arms were enhanced by the rolled up sleeves of his white uniform shirt. The all-too-familiar, black leather, padded punishment bench awaited the full pressure of the offenders naked groin and torso, and from one of the buckets of water placed at one side of the room, two bound handles of carefully selected and very recently constructed three-cane birches protruded very prominently.
You are sentenced to twelve strokes of the Reformatory Birch, on the bare! The cold, hard, rasping tone of the Governor’s voice rebounded in Damien’s head, as the reality of the potential severity of his punishment suddenly hit him, and made him flinch involuntarily.
Pairs of strong hands began to man-handle him, pulling him towards the punishment bench; forcing him over it; pulling his legs wider apart; fastening his already manacled limbs to the stout wooden legs; unnecessarily fingering, handling, surreptitiously fondling his bare buttocks, as well as the inner sides of his naked thighs, and the thickness of his proud erection. Trussed up like a chicken about to be slaughtered, Damien managed to raise his head to look directly once more at Officer Wilson, whose eyes gleamed in delighted anticipation of the much envied role he was about to fulfill.
A broad smile lit up the officer’s lips as, watched by Damien and by those officers who had managed to squeeze into the punishment cell, he strode purposely towards the bucket containing the prepared birches, extracted one; swished it vigorously to shake off the excess drops of water, and walked around to take up his position behind the naked offender.
The ends of the three cold, wet canes rested briefly on the crown of Damien’s seasoned buttocks, sending a quick, sharp sensation of anxiety rushing through him. He reached out with his fingers to try and grip the punishment bench’s wooden leg, and as an ominous silence descended on the cell, he waited tensely along with everyone else for the first stroke to initiate his final punishment.
Judicial punishment is always intended to be severe. Sometimes, if an offender’s crime merits it, the punishment can be extra severe, but within the small confines of the punishment cell, set within the wider confines of The Black Hawk Young Offenders Institution, any judicial punishment administered by means of a three-cane birch was guaranteed to reach the absolute peak of severity...particularly when the three-cane birch was in the strong right hand of Officer Wilson.
Twelve strokes, sir? chirped the highly motivated officer, seeking confirmation from the Supervising
Indeed, Officer Wilson, came the firm reply.
Twelve of the very best! Commence the punishment,
A momentary flash of Hell in all its demonic fury blocked out all awareness of where he was, and what or who was around him, as the three soaked canes emblazed their punitive rage into and across the apex of Damien’s bare buttocks, stunning his mind, and paralysing his reflex actions with streaks of pain which gleefully united together and consolidated their joint mission to create a deeply penetrating and consuming mass of excruciating agony.
The cell spun around in one direction. The punishment bench spun around in the other direction. Through the muzzy haze which was clouding his head, Damien vaguely heard the vocal confirmation of that first stroke, and the haze continued to dull his senses as the three-cane birch sliced across his bar buttocks a second time, and added more fuel to the fire which had already been well and truly ignited.
Hell hath no fury... But that is about a woman’s scorn; a distorted version of words penned by a rather obscure poet by the name of William Congreve. Who ever this guy Congreve was, he can’t have experienced the fury of a fucking three cane birch being sliced across a fella’s bare arse, like mine, by someone like Officer Wilson!
Damien’s blurred mind, grasping at anything to divert attention away from the searing, burning, crippling, arse-numbing pain which was being beaten into him, frantically searched for any distraction, and escape from the reality of the punishment being inflicted on him. But there was no escape. The three canes continued their assault with increasing confidence and determination to teach him the mother of all lessons.
Not even the usual, compensatory thrill and excitement of being fastened over the punishment bench, totally naked, fully aroused, and with the groin-churning after-glow to look forward to, could mask the oppressive punitive pain which was devouring his entire backside and upper thighs.
If this was justice for a trumped up offence... then God help those who, within the confines of the Black Hawk Young Offenders Institution, were actually guilty of a really serious crime!
The punishment continued relentlessly. The three canes continued to land with unrestrained fury. The tips of the soaked canes began to split. Thin slivers of soaked cane flew through the air, landing on the uniforms of the on-looking, off-duty officers. Vulgar, ugly, raw, red, purple ridges criss-crossed each other over the entire curved surface of the offender’s quivering mounds, whose fingers had given up any attempt to hold on to the wooden legs of his temporary prison.
The chillingly dispassionate, monotonous voice of the supervising officer continued to intone the appropriate number of the stroke which had just been delivered, and that number slowly registered in Damien’s blurred, confused mind, as the fresh allocation of vicious pain joined forces with the residual agony which was alienating his backside from the rest of his body.
He began to think it would never end. Mentally, Damien resigned himself to an interminable sentence, and for the first time in his eighteen months as an inmate of Black Hawk, he was willing, ready, poised on the very edge to admit defeat and plead for mercy.
But the punishment did come to an end.
In fact, it had come to an end more than a minute before the seventeen year dared to believe that the twelfth and final stroke had been embedded into the seething mass of pain which was racking his backside, and which had brought tears very close to over-flowing and running down his cheeks.
But that would have been a disgrace with which he could not have coped.
Pairs of hands roughly released him; gripped his bare arms and hauled him up onto his feet, holding him him firmly until he had regained his balance. Through watery eyes Damien saw two or three converging outlines of Officer Wilson, whose lips were still widened in a smile of delighted satisfaction. Murmured comments of commendation, admiration, satisfaction, and down-right vulgar appreciation seeped through the buzzing, haziness in his ears, and on auto-pilot he turned to slowly stagger his way towards the open door, and into the long, icy cold passageway which led back to his dormitory, and to the obligatory, humiliating but strangely morale boosting ogling of his severely punished backside, which, by the time he reached the dormitory, would be complimented at the front by his proudly projecting manhood, ready to fire on all cylinders.
...Midlands police have arrested three youths who were seen running away from the smashed remains of a car they had stolen. The youths, believed to be aged around sixteen or seventeen, will appear before magistrates tomorrow, and will possibly face a custodial sentence. And now for the weather....
Damien Crowhurst reached out to turn off the clock radio, and snuggled back under the bed clothes to move his arm around his young lover.
Custodial sentence, my arse! he muttered, as he pressed his naked body against the back of
his naked lover, reaching around with his hand to grip and fondle the younger man’s awakening prick.
Might just as well send them to a bloody holiday camp, given the kind of detention centres they
have now for young criminals like them.
Oh Damien, sighed forty-five year old Cliff Dennington, twisting around to cuddle his fifty
six year old lover.
I know just how bitter it must make you when you hear about teenagers like them
getting just a slap on the wrist for crimes which were far worse than anything for which you were put
into custody and treated so harshly.
The two naked lovers clung to each other, letting their hands and fingers caress, fondle, stimulate, and bringing their lips together in a gentle kiss.
Cliff’s hands moved lovingly over and around Damien’s bare buttocks, caressing them tenderly, and sliding down to let his fingers probe the base of the already fully erect column of masculinity, which he knew would very soon be sliding into him, and thrusting itself to the point of an erotic explosion.
I know you had one hell of a time during those eighteen months, Damien, and the details of some
of those punishments you received are just totally mind-boggling.
Mmm! You can say that again, lover boy! A damned sight more severe than any of the spankings I
give you, when you misbehave, you sexy little sod!
Yeah, I know, murmured Cliff moving his fingers to ruffle through the swirls of dark, greying
hair on his older, masterful lover’s broad chest, and to tease the very prominent nipples which protruded
so proudly and invitingly.
I know that the spankings you give me are always well-deserved, and are
never sadistically harsh...because I know you love me as much as I love you!
That’s true lad. In fact it is truer than you probably realise, ’cos until met you, and until
I came to know the real you, and we discovered just how much we enjoyed being together, I had never known
what it was like to be loved...really loved, for who I am and for what I am!
A long, deep silence filled the bed-room of the modest, end-terrace house in which Damien Crowhurst and Clifford Dennington had lived together for the past ten years. This was a moment when it wasn’t necessary to speak. Words were unnecessary and inadequate. Only the inter-action of their naked bodies could fully express, demonstrate, confirm and re-affirm the depth of love which bound the two men together, in a relationship in which they could be themselves and freely, uninhibitedly, trustingly, and lovingly indulge in those intimate, personal, private activities which stimulated and strengthened their love for each other.
D’you ever wonder what happened to some of those officers at The Black Hawk? murmured Cliff
quietly, as he ran his fore-finger down the middle of Damien’s chest.
I was thinking about what you
said about that officer who always seemed to be the one who handed out your punishment...
Wilson, d’you mean?. Officer Wilson, the sexy, sadistic sod, who always looked at me as if he
wanted to fuck me, after beating the shit out me? What brings him to mind?
Well...um..I was just thinking, replied Cliff hesitantly.
I just wondered if Officer Wilson
had ever...well you know...taken advantage of you...perhaps dragging you down into one of the cells, and
having it off with you...’cos, from what you’ve told me about the way he used to look at you and the way
he clearly enjoyed caning you or birching you, he probably....
He probably may have wanted to, interrupted Damien rather sharply.
Sadistic sod as he was,
there’s no doubt about it. He was a sexy, sadistic sod. But he never tried it on with me, even if, as
was rumoured, he may well have done with some of the younger lads who could be easily bullied into doing
anything he wanted them to do, if it meant they didn’t get thrashed as often or as hard as I was.
But you did tell me that you often got turned on by officers like him, persisted
Damien cautiously, continuing to stimulate his dominant partner by fondling and caressing those very responsive
parts of the older man’s naked body.
That, dear boy, was more to do with the way their uniform trousers fitted around their their backsides
and thighs...NOT because I wanted to be shafted by any of them, because that would have been just to satisfy
their sadistic desires. Whereas with you, you handsome, sexy, submissive guy
it’s totally different. We make love to each other, in a way which is one hundred per cent mutually fulfilling. I would never allow any guy to ram his prick up me or up you just for his own self-centred satisfaction. You know that, don’t you Cliff?
Yes, of course I do...even though you frequently tan my bare arse before hand!
I tan your arse, lad, not only because you regularly ask for it by deliberately misbehaving, but
also because you bloody well enjoy it, and can’t get enough of it!
Does that mean....? grinned Cliff, deliberately squeezing one of his lover’s prominent nipples
Yes, you little sod! It definitely means that, as it is Saturday, I can take all the time I need
to spank your bare arse until it’s ready for my fully aroused, fully primed friend to pay you another
Strong rays of mid-morning sunshine were streaming in through the gap between the drawn curtains at the window. On a chair at the end of the bed....a wooden chair, with a strong wooden back...rested a large, smooth-soled gym shoe. Inside the ward-robe, tucked behind their shirts, trousers and jackets, hung a cane, and a light-weight leather belt. In the drawer of the bed-side table, hidden under freshly ironed handkerchiefs, was a pair of hand-cuffs, alongside tubes of cream and an almost empty pack of Durex condoms. On the rug alongside the double bed, from the previous night, lay an abandonned, used ultra-sensitive Durex wrapped in a tissue.
The distinctive scent of male cum filled the air as Damien slid out of his panting lover. The ruffled, crumpled bed-clothes were thrown back to reveal Clifford’s neat, firm, smooth buttocks, which still bore the distinctive traces of cane marks, even though the bright redness created by the gym shoe during the early Saturday morning’s exciting and arousing spanking session was still partially masking them.
The two mature lovers, fully replete after their strenuous physical manifestations of their love for each other, lay side by side, entwined in each other’s arms, reluctant to let each other go, but knowing that, even though it was a Saturday morning, there were still jobs to do.
I’ll let you be the first to go into the shower, lover boy, whispered Damien, fondling the
younger lover’s bare backside.
Then I can watch your sexy, caned arse waddling along at the top of
your handsome, sexy thighs as you walk across the room!
Is that an order, Sir? quipped Cliff, raising himself up on one arm to gaze down at his masterful
If you want it to be, lad! And I suggest you obey me immediately, unless you want me start all
over again with that gym shoe which is within very easy reach! Which is it to be? Obey or submit?
The caned and rosy red, waddling buttocks advancing towards the en-suite shower gave a clear , unambiguous reply.