I have just realised that I haven’t done a chatty blog for yonks. Stories always get more hits, and I have posted a few of those since l...
Sunday, 18 December 2011
Ten Days (M/M)
This story was inspired by conversations with a friend who, in illness, surfed the net for excitement. It led to discussions on CP and my storywriting. He admires my output without being enamoured by its content. But the discussions suggested the fantasy. Preamble
It would all be so different this time. That is what he said. This time we would not hold back. All barriers were down. All desires and wants would be explored. This time we would not get off the train until it reached some undefined station. He said this and, smiling, handed me my third cup of tea. We had been chatting, and drinking tea, for over an hour and as he settled in his large and comfortable chair he said this time the journey would be complete. He had been waiting a long time. He was right. We had been taking a ride into the unknown for a number of weeks and if the early explorations were both tentative and inhibited, they nevertheless contained a sensual power that surprised us both. We had our first meeting of our strange journey just after Christmas. From then on all our meetings contained new, indefinable, electricity. Everything that went before counted for nothing. Let me explain. We had met over fifteen years before but for most of those fifteen years we were just friends, drinking pals, social acquaintances. We stayed friends because I entertained him and he made me laugh. We drank in the same pubs, went to the same football matches, and shared many opinions. He didn’t understand my sexuality. Far too complex, old boy, was his opinion. He liked his sex straight, with women, whereas I liked mine gay and kinky. I confessed the first to him about two years after we first met; the second took another two of a friendly, if casual, relationship. The first didn’t faze at all. Always suspected in spite of your marital state was all he said. The second merely raised a small eyebrow. Having your bottom whacked sounds extremely painful. Much rather put the old donger in a warm and friendly place. And that was it. Until that Christmas.
We had just finished a pre Christmas dinner party. We being me and him and our respective wives. I hadn’t seen either of them for a while. He had a heart attack, just a mild one, early in the summer and after a short stay in hospital he and his wife went on a long convalescence. The dinner party was our first social before me and my wife repaid the invitation on Christmas day. None of us had any children and, all in our late thirties, were unlikely to. Regular get togethers were a regular part of our social lives. Until his heart attack. The usual routine was that the wives cooked the dinners and we chaps did the washing up while they caught up on all the female gossip. I usually washed, sinking my hands in warm soapy water was a mild fetish I always enjoyed, and he dried. It might help to give him a name so let’s call him Adrian. It isn’t his name but it will help the narrative. Adrian dried and it was just as he finished a particularly difficult pan that he made a surprising comment. At first I thought I had misheard him but when he repeated it I realised my ears weren’t deceiving me. Have been amusing myself looking at some spanking sites. That’s all he said but it was enough to start a flood of questions from me and, in doing so, I learnt an awful lot about how Adrian had been passing his free time since coming back home. Working part time gave him a lot of free time on his computer. That and a lack of interest in sexual coupling had developed a latent interest in the dark world of BDSM. He had explored dozens of sites depicting domination in all its infinite varieties. As we put away the pots he said, don’t tell the wives, but one day I must find a woman I can practise on. And he smiled.
I can’t say I gave that washing up conversation much thought over the next few days. We had been knocking back the wine, unwise for him, and he had often teased me in the past for my penchant for having my pants taken down. The only surprise was that he fancied doing something similar himself, albeit with a woman. And he was clearly bored with his general lot. I told him about a couple of sites that I went on from time to time and we left it at that. And then, about five days after Christmas he phoned me and started asking me all sorts of questions. His wife was clearly out but mine wasn’t so the exchanges were a little stilted. My wife understands my needs and doesn’t complain when I indulge them but I still felt inhibited. Whether it was because it was Adrian doing the probing or because I like the secrecy I don’t know but, suffice to say, my responses were monosyllabic and non committal. He wanted to know about various implements, what the difference was between SM and CP, and when I got it did it hurt. He asked me all these questions and many more and I could sense myself being turned on. When my wife went upstairs to get a book I said perhaps we should meet to discuss his new interests more fully. Over tea one morning. At his place. Alone.
We got together about a week later. He was working from home on some financial plan and I took a day off work. I train people in software management and my time is fairly flexible. For some reason I did not tell my wife I was taking a day off and Adrian did not tell his that I was going round. In fifteen years we had only met as a foursome at their house and it might raise a few eye-brows. Or that is what I told myself. In truth I wanted to keep this new side of our relationship secret. At least for now. I must have been there about two hours and, over four cups of tea and a delicious cake his wife had made the previous weekend, we discussed endless aspects of each others sexuality. It became very clear to me that he was developing a yearning to be dominant in some sort of new relationship. The searching and surfing of internet websites had both kindled and fuelled the desire. And he was curious to know more and more about this special world. As I was the only person he knew who played in it he had to ask me. Besides I was a very good friend. So I told him about my desires and my needs. I told him I wasn’t into heavy slave things with torture and whips and that my fixation was very much on the schoolboy element and all its variations. And I also told him that in such situations I was very passive. The gay side of my nature truly flowered when the right man took my pants down to beat me. He wanted to know if it hurt, if it was important to hurt, and what did I feel, inside, when someone was standing over me with a strap or cane. When I asked him if he wanted to drop his pants so I could show him he just laughed and said definitely not. He didn’t want to feel it but he very much wanted to do it. He had seen so many naked bottoms being whacked on websites he couldn’t wait to try it out on real flesh. Just would never have the opportunity. He did not know any woman who would be interested and paying for it did not appeal. Perhaps it was the situation, perhaps it was confessional style of our tea drinking conversations, or perhaps it was because my juices were stirring. But whatever the reasons they combined for me to say to Adrian, platonic friend for over fifteen years, that perhaps he should start with me. I wasn’t a woman but I was willing and, in the abstract, he would at least get to experience the sensation of whacking a bare behind. Fifteen minutes and much discussion later we arranged to meet again the following week.
I really need to take stock before I go any further. I have rattled so much out on the new twists and turns of an old friendship, perplexing and exciting, that I am in danger of missing a few important points of reference. I am about to go into Fourth Day and I realise I haven’t even told you my name. What’s the point you say, Adrian is a false one, why should the one you give yourself being any better? Well you may be right but I am going to give myself one anyway. Neil. There, you have it now. And it is my real name whether you believe it or not. I am Neil and I have been married for fifteen years. I met Adrian at my wedding. He was a colleague of my wife. We hit it off instantly. I probably fancied him, may have even mused with the idea of him beating me until I realised he was totally straight. I can’t remember. But we get on very well. Have done for fifteen years. And we like each others wives and they like each other. All very civilised. I have never enquired into his sex life and, other than teasing me on liking my bottom spanked, Adrian has never enquired into mine. Surprisingly I have never had a problem in that area. I love my wife and loving someone means giving yourself. The gay beating thing is a separate compartment. That desire, the desire to be dominated and thrashed by a man is always there. Something to do with my childhood and schooldays. Nothing to do with loving your wife. But everything to do with why I told Adrian that if he wanted a bottom to beat perhaps he had better make it mine. Even though it was male.
I dressed very carefully for our first meeting in disciplinary roles. It was a beautiful early spring day and I decided to walk. A forty minute stroll to Adrian’s house attired in small white underpants and tight jeans gave me a sexual surge that induced headiness. I had dressed in such a manner and walked in such anticipation on many previous occasions but playing my very private role for this particular friend heightened all the senses. Usually the idea of corporal punishment games with someone I knew well in other circumstances was a complete turn off for me. But Adrian seemed different. And I can only assume that it was because, in my mind, he had subtly shifted from casual friend to potential chastiser. And in our final discussions before I left him the previous week I made it very clear that in whatever we did I would play the only role I knew.
And I did play that role. I was his boy from the moment I arrived until the moment I left. The tea and chats were a gentle precursor to what we both knew was to follow. The unspoken agreement of the previous week filled the air with exquisite expectation and, after the third tea, I was taken upstairs and told to lie on his bed. Adrian is nothing if not considerate and careful, and a bolster was laid on the bed for me to stretch myself over and, on his dresser, a large jar of some indefinable cream was covered by a thick leather strap. First the one and then the other he said. He may be a novice and he may be dealing with a bottom of the wrong gender for him but he was clearly going to enter into the spirit of the occasion. He positioned me in the manner of an expert, made me raise my jean covered bottom in the air, and picking up the strap gave me a few tentative whacks across the centre of my cheeks. I wished for it to be harder but said nothing. After a short pause he whacked me a few more times but, in spite of my signalled wiggling, still struck with little venom. He clearly did not realise that this slightly built friend could take it hard. Perhaps he would increase the action when he took my jeans down. As I thought this I suddenly had the disappointing feeling that maybe he would not go any further. That I would hate. In such situations I strongly desire to be free and having my pants taken down is an essential. I need not have worried. A few more whacks with his strap to my behind and the command came to lower my jeans. I still sensed his tentative approach and my pleasure was more in the revealing of my tight and white underpants than in the anticipation of his attentions. I was right not to expect too much because although the strokes stung more on my underpants they did not seem any harder, or less tentative, than the ones on my jeans. He gave me about two dozen, most at the same light intensity, and all my wiggling and arching did little to stir him to serious action. Pleasant as the whole thing was I was beginning to think it was a mistake. Adrian was my friend, he could not be anything else. And then he slowly removed my underpants. He placed his fingers in the waist elastic and gently pulled them down. Nice bum he said. Very boyish. I can see why you are popular. And your cheeks are so red. I didn’t respond. I was enjoying the sensation too much and when he placed his strap on them and whacked me again I enjoyed both the bare flesh contact and the fact that, at last, he was hitting me harder. Was it the sight of my bare bottom that had finally released something in Adrian? I like to think so. He had spent so many weeks surfing his computer and fuelling his imagination and now at last he had a willing bare backside to thrash. Alone, in his bedroom, a naked bottom was saying fulfil your fantasies and desires. Oh all right it was a man’s, a boy’s; it had that dangling appendage at the front. But you couldn’t see that and it was rounded and firm and smooth. And naked. And you could thrash and release your dreams. And Adrian did so. With a little help from me, wiggling the cheeks, arching the bum, and finally amplifying my previous silent requests for him to hit me hard, Adrian rained a fire in my behind that was joyous. When he stopped, exhausted, I knew I had been well and truly thrashed. He didn’t do anything else, or at least not much. He gently ran his fingers over my burning cheeks and he tentatively rubbed a little cream on them. But he did nothing else. And for a first session he was probably right not to. I dressed and returned downstairs in silence. I say very little after I have been thrashed and he did not seem inclined to talk either. Ten minutes later I left, promising to give him a ring or send him an e-mail. Confusion in me rained and it would take a week to sort it all out. I could not speak for him but when I left he was smiling.
I could not get that thrashing out of my mind for days. Had I really bared my backside for a friend I had known for years and allowed him to thrash it with a leather strap until it was as red as the purest beetroot. And after it was over, cheeks gently creamed, had I really allowed that same friend to both study the results of his work and see how he had stirred my sexuality. Semi-erect and dripping with fluid I had made sure that Adrian saw the effect he had on me. When he saw my genitals, when he saw my lower nakedness and the submissive look in my eyes Adrian knew that our previous fifteen years of friendship was over. From now on everything about us would be different. We met again about a month after that first session. We would have got together earlier but circumstances always conspired against it. But he phoned me, out of the blue, and said he had a free afternoon and could I get some time off. He didn’t say why but he didn’t need to. It was raining so I drove over and interrupted him cooking a tempting chicken casserole. We chatted in his kitchen while he finished all the preliminaries and then he said, matter of factly, shall we go upstairs and continue our interesting journey. I said I was ready if he was but, this time, could I change into some shorts first. He smiled and then said go and get ready and, after a pause, he said boy. With emphasis. It was so much better than the first time. I lay over the bolster as before and he whacked my behind with the strap. I could feel his growing confidence in the strokes. They were more accurate and with more force. He not only knew I could take it, wanted it, but he also was becoming aware that he could supply it. Adrian was becoming a natural top. After a couple of dozen whacks he took down my shorts, nice tight dark blue rugby ones, and proceeded to whack me even harder. And then he sprung an unexpected variation. He was wearing jeans and as he undid it I noticed the thick black belt around his waist. It must have been hidden by his top in the kitchen otherwise I am sure I would have noticed it before. I have a thing about belts. Either it was hidden or he had put it on while I was changing into my shorts. It did not matter, it was clear he was going to use it on me. And he did so. Thinner than the strap it stung like hell and when he pulled my underpants down and lashed it across my bare cheeks it stung even more. I both hated it and loved it. It was like my dad used to do it when I was ten. The more he thrashed the more I writhed and he didn’t stop until he had given me at least forty with it. And when he stopped he surprised me again. He told me to raise myself up so that I was just kneeling on the bed and to put my hands on my head. I did so and with my shorts and underpants at my knees he lifted my top and admired his handy work. I do not know how you can take it he said, your arse is crimson. But you clearly enjoyed it and so did I. And as he said it he rubbed my exposed burning cheeks with one hand and gently touched my, equally exposed, balls and cock with the other. I closed my eyes and wished.
Sixth and Seventh Days
It was the Wednesday after Easter when we next got together and the ever surprising Adrian introduced another variation. This time I was to be blindfolded for the whole of the session. He told me this on the phone the weekend before. Yes he knew I was more into the schoolboy CP stuff than the darker S and M but experimentation was the name of the game. I was to report to him and go to his bedroom and strip to my underpants and vest. He would then enter and tie my hands behind my back and place a leather mask he had bought over my eyes. And then he would amuse himself. He would do whatever he wanted and would only stop if I used a safe word we had previously agreed on. I had no problem with his instructions. S and M was a separate world from my CP fantasies but, providing the two did not overlap, I could go along with it. And being dominated by Adrian, especially if he enjoyed himself, was a real turn on for me. When I put the phone down I was dripping with sweat and indulging in the pleasure that had swamped my loins. If the session did not exceed my expectations in certainly matched and exceeded anything that had gone before. In a short time Adrian had moved a long way from those first tentative strap strokes across my jeans. I did as I was told and knelt on his bed with my hands on my head. For some reason putting my hands on my head always enhanced my submissiveness. I was facing away from the door so when he entered after a few minutes I could not see him. He took my hands and put them around my back and tied them together with some material I later discovered was one of his old business ties. He then placed a thick, black, mask around my eyes and the simultaneous smell of leather and loss of vision stimulated my excitement. Not a word was said by either of us and all I could hear was the sound of his breathing and the gentle tinkling of piano music from a downstairs radio. For a few moments nothing happened and then I felt his cold hands on my waist as slowly, very slowly, he slipped down my underpants to just below where the buttock cheeks meet the upper thighs. In doing so he released an erection from me that he must have known was there. The next five minutes were sheer heaven as he explored every inch of my lower body and, for variety, intermingled it with lifting my vest and gently tweaking my nipples. Adrian may not be gay but he was giving a very good impression of someone who might be. Confusion mingled with desire as I drank in every exquisite sensation. And then he stopped again and in the stillness all I was conscious of was the blackened silence and the aching thrust of a penis desperate for release. And then the belt hit my buttocks. A savagely hard blow which made me gasp. It was the first disciplinary stroke of this particular session and the unexpected pain ran through my whole body. He waited a few seconds for me to absorb the glowing aftermath so essential to my sexuality and then he struck again, quickly followed by a third and fourth. All in all, in that kneeling position, he must have whacked my naked backside about thirty or forty times and, much as I was tempted, I never uttered the safe word. Eventually he stopped and I held my breath and clenched the burning cheeks, wondering what was going to happen next. Was anything going to happen next? I hoped so as I did not want this session to end. It didn’t. After a couple of minutes I felt the touch of his gentle and large hands, now warmed through his exertions, on my still tumescent cock and the full and heavy balls. Within seconds I was full rigid again and for what seemed an eternity he alternately stimulated my boyhood and touched and caressed my heavily reddened bottom. I almost fainted with the sensation, a sensation enhanced by the total blindness from the mask. Three weeks later we repeated this session with a couple of variations. That time he made me wear a pair of pale blue satin knickers of his wife’s and that time, after he had taken them down and done everything he had done before, he allowed me to come. For the first time on our journey he allowed me to explode our private passion. As I did so, released and spent, I cried.
I had to go to Canada on business a couple of weeks after my last visit to Adrian and could not see him for a month or so. We sat in the corner of an anonymous out of town pub on the Saturday afternoon before I flew out and, quietly, discussed our experiences. Our wives had gone shopping together in London and I welcomed the chance for us to renew an old habit. Adrian suggested it and when he did so I realised we had never got together since Christmas other than at his house. And they were not meetings of equals. The pub was spacious and the few customers were mainly sitting around the bar. We could speak freely. Adrian started chatting about this rare opportunity to enjoy a real pint and asked me about the project I was undertaking in Canada. I gave him a few details but knew that neither of us really wanted to talk about that. And dwarfing everything we were likely to discuss was one question which had remained fixed in my mind since Easter. Particularly since my last visit to his house. Why had he done the things to me that he had? He had told me he wasn’t gay, that he wasn’t interested in men, and that he had never touched another man’s genitals until that first occasion when he had gently stroked mine. Using my bottom as a real live flesh substitute for what he really desired was one thing. I accepted that aspect of our relationship quite easily. But all else was perplexing. I could enjoy, I could submit and hope, but I could not understand. So I asked him to explain and he told me it was all about power, or was to him. His desire to dominate was increasing so rapidly it overrode all considerations of sexuality. And having a fully fledged, card carrying, submissive alone and willing in his house was a heady cocktail to his emotions. When he thrashed my bottom he knew, that for those few minutes, he was in total control and he wished to savour the moment. All else he did was as part of that control and power. My sex was irrelevant. He realised that on my second visit he said. He realised it when he took off his belt and thrashed my bare behind. After that there could be no turning back. I dwelt on our pub conversation on the flight over to Canada. We had to curtail our discussions when a young couple came and sat near us. To move would draw attention to us and would seem discourteous. And shortly afterwards we had to shop for the evening meal we and our wives were having at our place. It was a good evening and Adrian was in good form but it gave no opportunity for a continuation of our private talk. Not that there was much more to say. It made sense and had its own internal sexual logic. But it did raise a couple of points I wanted to discuss with Adrian when I next visited him. And that would be a few days after I got back. We did manage to arrange that while we doing our washing up duty. And next time dear boy, he said, I want you to bring a cane. I trust you have one.
It was clear when we spoke the day before I went over that we were going back to our beginnings, but beginnings with a difference. There were to be no blindfolds, no tying up, no satin knickers. No kneeling submissive already half undressed. We were going back to the schoolboy days with me in tight trousers or jeans covering a small pair of clean cotton underpants. Black or white. Whichever I preferred. The instructions were precise as was the reissued order to bring a cane of my own choosing. I would have never let Adrian cane me in the early days but his growing confidence with the strap and belt made this next step inevitable. He could hit hard and he could hit accurate. At least in his mind. And he wanted to put it into practice. An old friend had made me a present of one many years before. It was smooth and supple and long and lay at the bottom of my wardrobe. Rarely used for lack of opportunity. It sat disguised in a long tube and as I placed it in the boot of my car I dually feared and hoped that it would not remain there for long. Adrian was waiting at the door to greet me. It was a hot early summer’s day and he was attired in a pair of grey baggy shorts and a highly coloured and garish top. The smell of a barbecue burning some anonymous dish drifted along the side of his house. I relished the idea of the latter whilst instantly regretting the lost opportunity to don some shorts of my own. I became aware of my incongruous tight and thin grey cloth trousers and convinced myself that all of Adrian’s neighbours would see and in seeing suspect. I went in and he closed the door and giving me a big hug said I looked just like a naughty schoolboy. I blushed and, in another place, simultaneously stirred. He explained that his wife was in Doncaster on a one day seminar so would not be back until late and we had lots of time. Hence the barbecue. We would eat and drink, no alcohol for obvious reasons, and after the meal had gone down he would go to work on me with the implement he trusted I had brought with me.He had considered reversing the situation but decided it would be nicer, much nicer, if we both savoured the day. Three hours of delicious anticipation was how he put it. Three hours in which the danger of moods passing was how I saw it but I declined to say so. In such situations the best thing to do is switch off and rekindle the fire later on. In the interim I was stuck, on a hot summer’s day, in a pair of educational supply trousers. I did amplify this latter point and Adrian surprised me yet again. Take them off he said. You are wearing a sensible light top and besides I am not overlooked. And don’t worry you can put them back on before the fun starts. So I followed his suggestion and ten minutes later we were having a first cool drink with the schoolboy companion wearing only a light pale blue sweatshirt and, just revealed, a tight pair of leg hugging jet black trunks. I fervently prayed that seminars in Doncaster did not finish early. I enjoyed the barbecue. The food was good and the companionship even better. Adrian was on fine form and he made me laugh as in the old days. Except this wasn’t the old days. This was another step on our journey of discovery and, dressed in only light top and clinging underpants, I was conscious that before too long a new variation on an old scene would be played out. And it could not come soon enough for me. The odd allusion to what would happen later in the day filled me with longing. A nice bum, he said at one point when I was bending over to retrieve a glass, I am so privileged to have seen it in all its glory. And later in the day, in his kitchen when we were washing up he patted it and said I can’t wait to land your cane on that. If we hadn’t gone through the past few weeks I would swear he was winding me up as it was a bit like the old days when he used to tease me about my particular predilection. But this was no wind up, this was for real. And twenty minutes after we put the last cleaned plate away I put the thin grey trousers back on and went upstairs to await his presence. This was it I thought. No going back now. He was going to cane me and, as I dressed, he had gone to my car to collect the weapon of choice. He would find it thin and supple and that it could cause much pain, I imagined him holding it in his hands, feeling its weight, assessing its possibilities and musing on the marks it would leave. No reddened bottom this time. This time there would be livid angry weals. Or at least there would be if he hit me as hard as he had with the belt. And if he didn’t he and I both knew I would be disappointed. I had no need to worry. Adrian was becoming a master of the craft of discipline. He entered the bedroom and turning me round, made me touch my toes. The bedroom was large enough for me to bend over and, more importantly, for him to get a good swing. He lifted my top and pulled on the waist of my trousers. As the cloth pulled into the crease of my buttocks I was conscious of those teachers of old creating a second skin on the boyish behind of insubordinate youth. And then he laid the cane across the trousered seat and, after a gentle tap, hit me with some force. It stung like hell and it took all my resistance not to rise. I had forgotten how much the cane stung and hurt, even through trousers, even when done fairly lightly. And in spite of the pain I knew that Adrian had not struck me with the force applied with the belt to my naked behind. He was not stupid. This was to be a gradual build up. He gave me five more, evenly spaced, and then told me to take off both the trousers and the underpants. I was surprised at this but realised that he must have thought that a dozen was enough and he wanted the second six on my bare behind. I did as he said and then bent back over, my bare backside in the air. He lifted the top again even though he didn’t need to. I always wore a size that never totally covered my cheeks. I had played this game before. Nice weals he said, I can see all six. And then he placed the cane again and delivered the first of the second six. I remained bent over and absorbed both the force and sting of this and the five which followed. All across my naked behind. The burn in my buttocks was uncomfortable but bearable and was made even more so when he told me to stand up and place my hands on my head. For the next five minutes, and I closed my eyes to savour more intensely the moment, he caressed both the cheeks and delicately fingered the weals. If I was disappointed that he did nothing else I was fired by his finishing comment as he rubbed in a cold and soothing cream and, completing the action, gently smacked my bum. Next time, dear boy, it’s back to the masks and everything else. But we shall definitely use this cane. And saying this he left me to get dressed. I had been given only twelve strokes but I had received the promise of so much more.
I had to keep my bottom well covered for the next few days. As understanding as my wife was she got upset if she saw me with a seriously marked behind. And it was marked, I had not been caned for a couple of years and Adrian had not held back once he got into his stride. There were only twelve but most of them were clearly visible and it was over a week before they cleared up. Not like school days when even a couple of strokes over trousers could leave a twelve year old boy marked in purple lines for anything up to a month. I suppose, looking back, I was a little deflated by this latest session. Our earlier get togethers had been rich in intensity, a snatched two hours in the middle of the day. The latest experience had been a long gentle and relaxing day with merely ten minutes of scholastic pain. And nothing else. I put it down to the fact that Adrian was, literally, feeling his way with the cane and was unsure how to continue a scene which had clear schoolboy connotations. I could not believe that he had regretted our earlier explorations. Besides he had an acute antenna and masturbating schoolboys did not have the essence of truth. I told myself that was why he did nothing else. But his imagination was fired and the late delivered promise excited me. He phoned me in early August, just before our respective and separate holidays, and said how did I fancy a get together before we went our separate ways. Both our wives were out at different evening meetings and we could chat freely. He told me that he wanted to do the blindfold and binding again. And this time he wanted me completely naked from the start. And he would use the cane as well as other implements. And this time I would not be disappointed. As he said the last bit he laughed. He knew what I had wanted last time and, naked and caned, he was willing to fulfil that need. He didn’t say that but his laugh did. I made it clear that I was eager and ready. We made a date for the following Wednesday and on the afternoon I put on my tightest and sexiest gear. I needn’t have bothered I suppose because I know I was going to be stripped before any action took place. But it made me feel good. At least it did until, ten minutes before I was due to leave, his wife phoned me to tell me that Adrian had suffered another heart attack.
There were so many things I had not yet discussed with Adrian. So many things we had not yet explored. How far could our journey of discovery go? How and when would it end? What other surprises did he have in store for me and, as he embraced his growing desire for dominance, how far along the road of discipline could I take him? And now we had lost the chance to fill in all these unspoken gaps, possibly forever. As he lay in that intensive care bed, this scare being much worse than the first, I feared we would never know. If he died then he would die with many things unspoken, unrealised, and I would be left with a private grief I could not share. In that bleak corridor of antiseptic anonymity I waited as a concerned friend. In my heart I waited as a secret partner in a journey of exquisite joy. It had taken me fifteen years to find him, fifteen years of rooted friendship which finally, and unexpectedly, flowered into a special understanding that only those who desire the same can understand. I could not bear to lose him and fearing I would I cried copiously. My wife sat by me and understood the tears. She would never understand why there were so many.
It was almost a year to the day from our first meeting, the day we discussed his needs and I offered my bottom as a substitute, when we got together again. He had been discharged from the hospital some weeks before and, looking him at him now, the corridor tears seem overdone. Adrian was in the picture of health and the doctors said that if he took care he would have many years before him. Oh, all right he would probably not see ninety but not many of us do and the operation they had performed on him should lessen the risk of another attack. Providing he did not smoke, or drink, or only have unexciting sex. Actually it was Adrian who had made the last comment and the doctors had laughed. But as he made it clear to me, unexciting sex was the farthest thing from his mind. He was going to live while he could. And that meant finally entering a world that had beckoned and fascinated for many months. His wife would be on a course in the spring, away for at least two weeks, and he would spend the time cultivating a number of internet contacts. I did not enquire on the details but it was clear that Adrian had decided that if he suddenly keeled over in the local supermarket he would do so in the full knowledge that he had experienced everything he desired. So where did this leave me? I had asked him this question when he amplified some of his thoughts on the phone the previous weekend. All he said was come over and see what I have to offer. So I did the following Thursday, three weeks after another Christmas, and listened as he told me that this time we would take down all the barriers and embark on the ultimate journey. This time there would be no holding back. He handed me a third cup of tea and settled down in his large armchair and flashed me a wicked smile. Fifteen minutes later I was standing, blindfolded and tied and naked, in his bedroom. He spent five minutes exploring my body, every inch, and another five minutes whacking my behind with the so familiar belt. He then took my hands and led me over the bolster on his bed and raised my bottom in the air. He then spent a further five minutes thrashing me with the same cane which had lashed into me on the day of our private summer barbecue. Thirty strokes poured into me and I felt every single one of them. And when he had finished he put his hand under my bending figure and started to manipulate my cock and balls with an urgency alien to his nature. As I rose to a fevered erection his other hand explored my raised and eager bottom and, as the fluid stirred inside me, I sensed the pressing of a hardness against my buttock crease. I instinctively spread my legs and willed the entry of a manhood I desperately desired. That manhood was to be denied but, in that exquisite moment, it did not matter. Adrian may only be entering me with a playful toy but he was entering me all the same. As the stiff unnatural prick thrust its false desire into my bottom I surged in uncontrollable urgency and the manipulative hand around my shaft did the rest. I ejaculated that which could not be denied and, simultaneously, devoured the unseen object of my deflowering. I was truly spent and, in my nakedness, I blessed the giver of all my sensations. Adrian did not move for a couple of minutes as I lay, prostrate and exhausted, on his bed. Then he gently kissed my bottom and left the room. I think it was his way of saying goodbye.
We never got together again, or at least not in that way. We remain friends and he and our wives eventually picked up our previous relationship. Five years have passed since his first heart attack and our first exciting and exploratory conversations. And four years since he last whacked me with a cane and told me he was on to pastures new. We never discuss it and I have no regrets. It was a wonderful year and, over the dinner table, I can still see the special light in his eyes when he asks me if I have had any good spankings lately. We all laugh; both the wives and Adrian and me, but his laughs and mine are a bit special.