The strap, the cane and the gym.
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: 10 Feb 2018
It had been a few years since Dan’s first caning, bent over the horse in just his jockstrap trying to be brave as the cane cut into him.
He’d been again of course. Meeting Jim at the usual gym and begging him to take him back to the old garage before he did something really stupid. He’d been determined to take his punshment properly that time. He had bent over and grabbed the now familiar wooden legs on the far side of the leather top, placing himself right over in between the vaulting bars. He’d had to squeeze his body frame right in, his huge muscular torso bulging out the other side of the slim leather handles and raising his 25 year old backside just high enough for the cane to land in perfect postion. Unsurprisingly he’d failed to stay silent, ending up the usual wreck begging Jim to stop before the last stroke.
No excuse, this time Danny Boy, it’s twelve strokes and no messing.
Dan had replied, while really meaning
no sir, in fact no way at all sir, in fact just forget I ever asked sir,
but it was all too late by then. Jim had lined himself up and laid them on, with Dan, big muscular tattooed cock of the gym Dan, sobbing again as Jim shook his hand and told him he was always available just so long as Dan kept his jockstrap and needed the cane.
Dan had decided on several occasions since the last caning that he never wanted to see a jockstrap again Taz however had learned that one way to get Dan really scared was to make sure that the jock was on the top of his undies pile in the drawer.
Just in case you need it,
Dan knew he needed it alright, but he still got nervous everytime he saw it.
But the cane had done Dan good since our last encounter with him. He’d found a really decent job labouring with a building firm and never looked back. Well almost never. In the first week he’d very nearly told his boss to F off and stick his fucking bag of concrete right up is fucking arse. He was just about to verbalise such thoughts, when the image of himself jockstrap clad over the vautling horse with Jim, who’d offered Dan the break in the first place appeared in his mind and Dan reached very quickly into the back of his builder shorts to check he was still safe in a pair of tight stripey red and green boxers, at least for the time being.
But somehow Dan knew that his caning wasn’t just about being punished, he needed to know that if he messed up he had to face the consequences, but he also knew that getting a caning made him even more of a man. He still went to his old gym and still lifted the same weights but as he bent over for his rack pulls with his tight black gym shorts pulled right over his backside he could feel the welts of the cane marks biting into him and he laughed to himself. He knew he could take a caning and he knew that it bloody hurt.
How many more of his gym mates knew the pain of being kept in line? None he decided, only him, master of the high weight bench press, only he knew what it was like to bend over and feel the pain of a good caning.
However Dan’s gym over these couple of years or so had begun to become slightly more popular. One couple Dan had noticed had been coming quite regularly and he wasn’t sure what to make of them. They were probably Russian, not that Dan minded that especially, but it appeared to be a father and son team. The father was enormous, equally muscled as Dan but with a huge frame and a massive stomach which seemed not to be fat but just pure muscle no doubt accumulated through years of heavy or even championship lifting. On his arm his only tattoo was a large flame with the letter G in the middle. Dan didn’t know what it meant but it looked ominous. His gym gear consisted of a tiny black vest and almost swimming trunk shorts in dark red lycra chosen even Dan noticed to show how much of a man he was, and there was plenty of man for everyone to see, whether you wanted to or not, thought Dan.
The son, possibly 19, was completely the opposite. Tall and thin with a perfect six pack figure which he showed off by removing his shirt as often as he could, his smooth white skin with not a single body hair anywhere glistening in the mirror. Oddly his exercise shorts seemed to be equally swimwear in style but bright blue and nowehere near as tight. Nothing to see here thought Dan, thank goodness.
The problem with the pair wasn’t that Dan was jealous of the extreme lifting that was going on around him, but that the father seemed to be suggesting that everytime the son did something it just wasn’t good enough.
The boy took it all in his stride but Dan thought it wasn’t entirely helpful.
The father turned to Dan and said
My son, he want to be man, big man, but he not. Me too kind to him as boy, me not make him man.
Me now beat him to make him man, you come watch, show you how my son become man.
Dan was unsure what to make of this situation at all. In fact he was somewhat unnerved as to how the father knew, that Dan knew, that the son knew, that what they all knew, or kind of knew, was that getting a good thrashing somehow helped in the becoming a man thing.
Dan paused just long enough to find out that within only half an hour the Russian Dad, his son and Dan were in a large kitchen in an enormous detached house overlooking the sea in a part of town that Dan could only dream of living. It was full of every kind of gadget you could imagine with the black marble worktops shining in the bright light of the uplighters, downlighters and various spoltlights which lit up everywhere.
Right in the middle of the stone floor was a huge pine table, worn almost on every part of it with years of use and somewhat incongruous in the smart surroundings of the gleaming units around it.
I bring this table in here.
Old family table, my father beat me here, he beat my brother while I watched, he take the belt,
he beat me hard, I become a man.
He turned to his son,
I beat you too, now you become man.
The son knew that this had obviously become part of his gym routine to become a man and he had to accept it. The first time he had screamed and shouted and begged his father to stop, but this had only made it worse.
Take it, take it, stop the crying, hold the table, be a man.
You don’t stop crying, I don’t stop the belt.
The son had soon learned that beltings were just a way of gym life.
So Dan watched as the father, unchanged from his gym gear stood in his tight vest and shorts waited for his son to appear with the belt in his hand. Dan’s eyes opened wide as it arrived. It wasn’t an ordinary belt, it was a huge thick piece of leather double the weight of any practical trouser holding implement, in fact probably not a belt at all just a long strip of dark brown cow hide. It was very old looking and somewhat worn in many places, just like the table.
My, how you say..Dad ...Dad...
Dan added helpfully
The man repeated it several times before taking the brown leather strap from his son and waving it around menacingly.
He make it, Stalin he not approve, but Dad he was beat with belt, me beat with belt, now my son,
he learn to take it. The old country.
The son, also still in his gym shorts but his top long gone stood by the table and waited for the instruction.
The son took off his shorts, laid them on the floor and stood by the table in his tiny white briefs with the word Lonsdale embriodered in the waistband in black lettering.
The command was repeated, and the boy blushed bright red as he removed his underpants as well, standing very close to the table, completely naked with his hands clasped tightly around his manhood.
Bend over the table.
The boy did as he was told without a word, his thin muscular back bent right over the old varnised pine woodwork. His backside perfectly presented at the end of the table ready for the so called belt.
The father shouted.
The boy groaned.
The lad fell silent and grabbed the table.
The leather was lifted and fell right in the centre of the boys bottom with a loud crack and a bright red thick stripe appeared right across the middle. A perfect hit, thought Dan. The boy never moved not even to grip the woodwork. Dan was impressed.
The next two strokes fell in much the same way without a single flinch. By the fourth stroke the lad had begun to breathe a bit more quickly when he had received it but still little movement.
The sixth produced a quick exhale of breath but by the seventh and eighth the young man was beginning to feel the pressure. His hands gripped the top of the table with all the strength he could muster as the eighth blow fell.
By the ninth a small grunt had started which grew even louder with the tenth stroke.
The final and extra sentence of eleven brought a deep yell of pain but only just audible as his hands gripped the table.
Dan was absolutely amazed.
My boy he become man, yes?
Dan just nodded. The boy had become a man and Dan knew all about it.
The lad stood up and grabbed his pants as quickly as he could and put them on. Standing in the massive kitchen in just is Lonsdales he looked as proud as if he had won the olympic medal for weight lifting. His father stood over and rustled his blonde hair and slapped him once on his back.
The boy he done good
said Dan, feeling slightly stupid he was pretending to be Russian.
Now me prove now I am a man
said the father and handed Dan the worn piece of leather.
You come with me.
And so it takes little more explaining to imagine that the following week, straight after a gym session Vlad and Seb joined Dan in a garage with Jim.
Much to Dan’s annoyance, Vlad wasn’t at all bothered by the cane and despite his huge frame bent over the horse completely naked, his gym shorts and vest thrown aside in a gesture of defiance.
Jim gave him twelve of the best he could muster, which by the seventh stroke with not a single reaction from Vlad, he began to lay on as hard as he possibly could. Only the slightest grunt of recognition followed wheras the eighth and ninth were received in equal silence.
The tenth saw Jim pouring with sweat down his tight white T shirt as he tried in vain to gain any reaction at all with the tenth stroke. Nothing at all.
Vlad seemed almost to be smiling. Dan looked a bit crestfallen.
Jim limbered up, he knew this was it. Two more to go. With all the strength he could muster he ran from the far end of the garage to the horse with the cane held as high as he could and with every muscle in his right arm poised as tightly as he could. He brought the cane down so hard that the garage sounded as if a large incendry had just exploded in the vacinity of the vaulting horse.
Vlad suddenly roared loudly, with a huge deep bellow
and Jim flew back at him with the last and final stroke, just as ferocious as the first with every fibre twiching and Vlad bellowed again
Vlad stood and grabbed, just as his son had done, his tiny red shorts and vest and put them back on as quickly as possible.
Seb knew he had a time with the strap that was to come very shortly. He was proud of the fact that he could take it, completely naked just as his father had done with the cane.
Dan thought that in becoming a man, caning or strapping was by far the best way and that everyone, even Russians had their limits.
Vlad shook each of their hands in turn and winked at Seb.
Next week, gym only, no cane, no strap.
Seb looked relieved at his reprieve, but he knew also that one day very soon, he would be actually asking for the strap himself and bending over the kitchen table with the same fear and trepidation that every man knows when it’s time to take your punishment.