As I pondered on my forthcoming torture, I heard the sound of Simon's motorbike coming up the drive. It stopped. His boots crunched on the gravel. The doorbell rang, and I opened the door quickly - perhaps too quickly.
"Waiting for it, are we?" he said, with a small smile, as soon as he had removed his helmet. (I was indeed "waiting for it", but did not say a word.) His naturally blonde hair tumbled down neatly onto his shoulders. He was clad in a one-piece black leather suit, and it fitted like a coat of gloss paint. His basket bulged. He was tall too, and altogether presented a dominant appearance.
"Turn round." I did so, and felt his large hands roaming the tight denim over my ass-cheeks. I keep myself in good shape, and my gluteal muscles filled those jeans almost to bursting. Even so, he proved that my backside wasn't quite solid, by kneading with his knuckles. However, this teasing was soon terminated.
"Get in there," he commanded, and gave a hint of forthcoming events with a sharp slap across my buttocks. I went in, and without being told, opened the cellar door and descended the steps. He followed me, carrying his little bag of "tools". It was something different on every visit, and my curiosity helped me to survive. The leather encasing his arms and thighs creaked as he walked.
We entered the cellar. I switched on the low lighting, and went over to the hi-fi. Albinoni's "Adagio" would fit the bill - reminiscent of the film "Rollerball".
He sat down. "OK, let's get started," he said, patting the tops of his thighs.
The dim light gleamed on the shiny black hide, accentuating the beautiful muscle around which it was tightly stretched. Without more ado, I went over to where he was sitting on a stool in the centre of the room, and draped my body over his legs. He pulled my arms behind my back, and held them there firmly. I was helpless. With his other hand he began to give me a light spanking. There was still the tough denim protecting my buttocks from his skilled hand - this was not meant to hurt, so much as to excite us both for what was to come.
Nevertheless the tattoo on my backside began to have a warming effect as it gradually increased in intensity. The muscles in his legs slightly moved from time to time, a small but significant reminder of the power in his gorgeous body which held me in its grip.
After a while the spanking stopped, and he let go of my arms. However, I knew better than to move before being commanded to do so. Again, I felt his palms moving over my ass, and his fists gently punching at the denim. Eventually, he told me to arise.
"Take off your belt." I unbuckled it, and slipped it out of the loops of my jeans. It was quite heavy, but old enough to be extremely flexible. I gave it to him. He flexed it, and gave it a couple of trial swishes through the air.
Another of his smiles.
"Now your jeans." I unzipped them, and - not without some difficulty - peeled them down my legs. Being of a tidy mind, I folded them neatly, and put them on a nearby shelf. The spanking, mild as it had been, had had its effect, and my _c_o_c_k_ was horizontal. I was naked now, and looking forward to the forthcoming events.
"Now get back over my knee." I did as ordered, and could hear Simon gently slapping my belt into his palm. I loved the feel of his leathers against my bare skin. Then he grabbed my arms and again held them in the small of my back. After a short pause ... whammm - the belt kissed my ass right across the centre. That did hurt a little, but I was used to this, and could take a good deal of it.
Indeed, I was proud of the way my ass could be punished; and I loved every second of it! The sting of the stroke soon disappeared, but was soon to be replaced by more. Simon was getting into the swing of things, and worked the belt right over my ass for several minutes. My buns were deliciously hot.
"OK, get up." I did.
"Sit." I sat gingerly, still naked, in one of the two leather armchairs; he had already gone to sit in the other, his arms behind his head, and his legs spread wide. The leather upholstery felt freezing cold against my skin, and took any remaining pain away.
We always begin this way. Had I not had an inkling of what was to come, I would probably have felt cold. As it was, I was quite warm - with the prospect of getting a lot warmer! The music filtered into the atmosphere, but there was now no other sound.
"Right - let's get down to business," he said, breaking the spell. He got up, and still dressed in his leathers, he lay face down on the bench-type table at the side of the room. This was my cue to begin the polishing - which was why his clothing shone and creaked so effectively. I retrieved the polish and cloths from their storage place, and set to work on his back. It was like massage, really; and I could tell that he enjoyed it. I applied the liquid polish liberally, and then buffed it to a shine with a soft cloth. I began with his wide shoulders, working downwards towards the slim waist. At least it was an opportunity to be firm with him! My hands worked over his muscular buns, and his legs moved slightly apart. I marvelled at his physique, and the way the beautiful cow-hide moulded itself to his body.
Eventually I finished the backs of his long, long legs, and he rolled over. His front was more difficult, as he could see the expression on my face. Any hint of my enjoying myself would later be rewarded with a few extra stripes. I worked over his arms, chest and legs, leaving his impressive genital equipment until last. But even here, I rubbed firmly over his well-filled crotch, and his already half-hard _c_o_c_k_ began to stiffen inside its tight prison of leather. All the time he was smiling. It was difficult to decide whether this was due to the pleasure of the treatment he was receiving, or the anticipation of the alternative pleasure of handing out the sort of treatment he was about to give to me. I know from experience that he enjoys both, immensely. Nevertheless, he did gasp his enjoyment as his basket continued to stretch its hide covering as far as it could, in response to my determined massage of his _c_o_c_k_ and balls.
"OK - get up here," he ordered, swinging himself down from the bench. My further treatment, of a very different kind, was about to commence. I did as instructed, and lay prone on the smooth wooden surface that had been warmed by his body. He picked up a large pillow that was on the other side of the room. "Stick that under you." It had the desired effect of raising my ass. I waited.
Without warning, he brought down my own belt again across my backside, this time with all his considerable strength. I screamed. I always do, the first serious one. It always seems to sting more than ever before. He patiently waited a little, probably with one of his little smiles, for me to become accustomed to the pain. And then he started again. The belt sang through the air towards its sudden impact across the highest point of my ass. And this time he continued, about once every five seconds. But I didn't scream again. It only took him a minute or so to cover down to the crease of my buttocks - he never went towards my waist, for safety's sake.
Then he sat down. My backside was now burning. But I was into it now, addicted and intoxicated by the beating, and could hardly wait for the next course.
It came, soon enough. Getting up again, he reached into his bag and brought out a simple device which I hadn't seen before, made from three dog whips. They were each about four feet long, flexible enough to be coiled to fit into the bag, and bound together at the handles. Each thong tapered from the handle, which was about as thick as my thumb, to the end which was as thin as a shoelace. I have never been into politics - yet now I was about to taste a three-line whip. Oh, horror!
I could see that his face still wore that smile, as he idly walked back to me.
This time, he began much more lightly, almost stroking my ass-cheeks with the supple leather. Having accustomed myself to the delicious heat in my flesh, I willed him to put some more strength into his actions, although I didn't dare actually say anything. In any case, the whipping gradually increased in force and speed, and before long it was getting to be almost more than I could take.
Simon's breathing began to get faster too, and he grunted slightly with the effort of each stinging stroke of his arm. However, he knew just how far he could go, and never exceeded that limit. The three welts of each of those strokes were now merging into one as my buttocks and the tops of my thighs became a single mixed area of indescribable smarting pain and pleasure.
At this point he put down the whips, and picked up my belt again. After a short pause, he gave me another minute's worth of that. My skin felt as though it were on fire below my waist! Suddenly, he stopped. "Get over the chair." This was always the climax of his visit. I painfully got down from the bench, and walked across to one of the armchairs. With the slightest of hesitations, I bent almost double over the back. My _c_o_c_k_ rubbed against the leather - I already had a raging hard-on from the whipping. My head almost reached the seat.
Simon walked over to the wall. I glanced sideways from my bent-over position, and saw him pick up my favorite rattan cane. He turned back towards me, swishing the cane through the air. Then he ran at me, and ...
Thwack!
Thwack!!
Thwack!!!
Thwack!!!!
Thwack!!!!!
Thwaaaaacccccckkkkkk!
A real English six of the best, quickly administered, that took me right to the threshold of what I could endure. Each stroke landed almost exactly over the previous one, too quickly for the pain to subside in each case.
After a pause, he replaced the cane, picked up his helmet, and without another word, he left. I heard the bike start, and he was gone. I slowly got up, picked up my jeans, and painfully pulled them over my still-smarting skin.
As always, I'd been given what I most desired; and, as always, there were no long-lasting after effects. He was certainly skilled; others might draw blood, or cause bruising that lasts for ages - not Simon. By the time he came back again, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps next week, my backside would look as if he'd never touched it.
The belt was returned to around my waist. I looked round the room before going back upstairs, and to my surprise, saw that Simon had left his dog-whips. I picked the gadget up, and saw that it was a really professionally-made job, perfectly balanced. I swished it once or twice through the air, and found myself getting hard again.
Then the silence was broken by the sound of a motorbike. The gravel crunched, and the doorbell rang. My still-hot buns tensed in anticipation. The rest of me trembled. It might be twice in one day!
I opened the door. There was Simon, this time accompanied by what appeared to be his double.
They both took their helmets off, and Simon said, "Hello again! It's time you met my brother Mark. You'll be delighted to know that he's just like me." I was indeed delighted; my ass reminded me what that might be like.
Mark was dressed just like Simon in brilliant skintight black leather...
I threw my Levis and a t-shirt into a rucksack, and quickly got into my leathers. The exquisite punishment of last week had been so expertly administered that all trace had now gone. I was looking forward to some more. I was excited; it was quite difficult to zip up the fly of my shiny black jeans!
Downstairs I went with the rucksack on my back, and into the garage. I wheeled out my motorbike, jumped astride it, and fired the engine. The bike roared beneath me, further fuelling my excitement. I glanced once again at the directions I had received, and set off.
About forty-five minutes later, I turned off the main road into what looked like a deserted farm. If what I should find hadn't been told to me in great detail, I might have been lost. But I had my instructions.
At the far end of the yard was a barn. I parked my bike on the concrete outside, and looked around. There wasn't a soul in sight. It really was just a deserted farm, with the only slight sound made by a few wisps of straw blowing around in the slight breeze.
Remembering that there was no time to waste, I entered the barn. As I anticipated, it was empty.
I dropped the rucksack off my back, and removed my leathers. (I was naked underneath - who needs underwear?) Just as I tugged on my Levis, the tightest pair I'd ever owned - they were truly ball-breaking - I heard a sound outside.
It was a sound I wasn't expecting - that of horses. For a moment, I thought that I was going to be discovered by the farm's owner, and I hastily tried to think up a plausible explanation for my presence.
To my relief, however, it was Simon and Mark who entered.
What gods they looked! Today, they had replaced their own motorbike leathers with the uniforms of the hunt: scarlet coats, with ultra-tight jodhpurs, with long, long shiny black boots. I thought, but to this day I don't actually know, that they must be twins. Disappointingly, they each only carried a riding crop.
"Good," said Simon, seeing me there. Mark didn't utter a word - he just smiled at me.
They both removed their coats and shirts. My excitement achingly strained in my jeans as I gazed at their amazingly fit bodies, now clad only below the waist.
For a minute or two, we just stood there, looking at each other. Then Mark and Simon glanced at each other, and walked towards me. Simon, who had so lovingly and expertly thrashed me on the last occasion, came to stand in front of me. He turned round, displaying to me his beautiful back, and sumptuous ass - easily seen, as his jodhpurs were a really close fit, and there was obviously no underwear. He lifted his arms to his shoulders, indicating that I should put my hands in his. I stepped up to him and did so. I daringly took the opportunity of rubbing my crotch against his buttocks. Immediately he grabbed my wrists with a vice-like grip, and bent almost double. He separated his feet to steady himself, and stood rock solid.
I was now lifted off the floor, with my naked chest resting on Simon's back, completely helpless. The skin contact between us had the effect of forcing my manhood to thrust against its denim prison even more strongly. Simon couldn't fail to notice the sensation.
"Get on with it, Mark," he said. "He's more than ready."
My jeans-clad buns were in about the best position possible for the punishment which I was sure was about to be delivered.
I'd never met Mark before last week's brief encounter at my front door. However, I knew from the last eighteen months that Simon was a rare expert at administering the very best corporal punishment of various kinds, all the time with regard to safety. I'd never been injured, or had any long-lasting effects, from our sessions together. I had every confidence that his brother would be similarly skilled.
I felt his hands on my buttocks, testing the tone of my muscles. He seemed pleased with what he found. He certainly should have been - I pride myself on my backside, and the amount of punishment that I can take.
Mark started spanking me with his hand. Or, possibly, both hands. As far as I could imagine (my position prevented me seeing what he was up to), he was standing behind both of us, landing one hand alternately on either cheek of my ass.
This was easy, and I began to be disappointed. The regular smack of his hand on my Levis didn't hurt at all. At least, to begin with, it didn't hurt. Simon showed every sign of being comfortable as my support, and did *not* show any sign of loosening his grip. Gradually, Mark's hands landed with more intensity on my ass, and I did begin to feel it. However, before it began to be really painful, he stopped, and just gently rubbed my ass again, seemingly to test the delicious warmth that he had produced.
Then he started again. This was more like it - his hand must have stung from the blows he was now inflicting on me. Again, very regular, about once every five seconds or so, on alternate cheeks. But this time, there was much more force behind his arm. The heat he wanted to generate began to manifest itself.
He kept this up for a while, and then again stopped. I felt what must have been the riding crop placed gently against my ass, about where the Levis pocket stitching points. (How thoughtful of Mr Strauss to Simon the backside of every wearer of his pants with a target point!)
The next I knew, the crop was lifted up, and whistled down to exactly the same line on my butt.
"Owwwwwww!"
Why is it that I cannot control my screams? No matter how well I have been warmed up, the first stroke of something well laid on always takes me by surprise.
I quickly regained my composure, and Mark was not treated to any more vocal expressions of pain. This wasn't for want of his trying. The crop sang through the air, and landed in almost exactly the same place on my ass every few seconds for a good couple of minutes. I was thankful for my jeans, even though they were so tight.
If Mark was aiming to get my backside red hot, it felt as if it would glow in the dark. Eventually, he stopped, and Simon stood up. I was thankful to get my feet back on the floor, though I was still held by Simon's grip, and I dared not attempt to move.
Then Mark stepped up behind me. I felt his rock-hard member through his stretched jodhpurs, against my ass. His arms came around, between Simon and me, and he undid my Levis. He peeled them down, and I stepped out of them.
I was now completely naked, at the mercy of these two young men. Simon lifted me up on his back again. The slight roughness of his jodhpurs was an incredible feeling as my _c_o_c_k_ was dragged over the tight fabric.
It didn't need much imagination on my part to know what was going to happen next. Mark quickly tested the heat of my ass with his hands again. Then, after a couple of almost playful spanks, he started again with the riding crop.
It was as though the famous Levis stitching had been tattooed on my buttocks. The rod of fire swished down to land in exactly the same place, time after time. I had to admire Mark's skill at this. It wasn't long before I began to writhe in real pain, and Mark obviously thought he had better bring this stage of the proceedings to a close. Before doing so, however, he gave me six stingers right in the crease, where the buttocks meet the thighs. They really got to me!
Simon let me down again after this, and he and Mark wandered off a few feet for a discussion. I knew better than to move at all, and just meekly stood there, naked. My backside blazed. Why do I enjoy these sessions? A couple of times they looked at me, and they both wore smiles. Mark, in particular, seemed to have enjoyed his exercise so far.
"Get in the middle of the barn," said Simon. Mark still hadn't uttered a single word to me.
The barn was large, and as I walked over to the centre, my two punishers left. I didn't think it would be for long, and indeed it was not. They re-entered, but this time on horseback. The horses were not saddled, and I was to find out soon that both brothers were excellent horsemen. They looked stunning in just their jodhpurs and boots, with flowing blonde hair. This time, however, they had substituted a long huntsman's whip for their riding crops.
"Can I take this?" I thought.
"Raise your arms above your head." This was Mark's voice; his commanding tone sounded, if anything, more dominant than Simon's.
As always, I did as I was told, and joined my hands above my head.
They then began to ride round me at a slow trot, lashing me with their whips. The skill of their art would have given me great cause for admiration, if I hadn't had the smarting sting of each stroke to distract my attention. Each whiplash hit my hip, and then wrapped a little around my body, so that the tip attacked either cheek of my ass in turn.
It was certainly expertly done. After I got the rhythm of what they were doing, I began to move my body to try to anticipate the sting of each stroke. They were ahead of me, however, and adjusted their aim accordingly.
I looked them full in the face as they passed in front of me, defying them to do their worst. Perhaps they did increase the force a little, but they were careful to preserve my skin intact. I suppose they didn't want to ruin their toyboy!
I remember thinking to myself that they must have practiced this, to have got it down to such a fine art. Who did they practice on? Perhaps each other? The smiles were certainly on their faces, so they must have been enjoying themselves. And anyone could see from even a cursory glance at their crotches, that they were *obviously* having a good time - their jodhpurs were straining at the front.
My ass was again on fire, but they carried on. For the first time in ages, I began to wonder if I could take everything they were giving me. I needn't have worried - not on that score, anyway.
Just as I reached my pain threshold, my rigid _c_o_c_k_ suddenly swelled, and I shot my load right in front of them. Mark laughed out loud, and they both stopped and dismounted.
They tethered the horses at the side of the barn, and walked over to me. I was still standing, naked, with my hands together above my head. Their hands explored the temperature of my burning ass. They seemed satisfied.
"You can drop your arms, now," said Simon. I did so, thankfully, as they were beginning to ache. He went outside, and came back with a couple of cans of beer. My two tormentors then sat on a bale of hay, and drank slowly - all the while staring at me, smiling, and enjoying my discomfort.
After a short break, they came up to me again. Simon stood facing me with his legs apart, and smiling yet again, took hold of my head and put it between his legs. His thighs closed around my neck. He rested his hands on my bare back for a moment, and I nearly unbalanced. I grabbed Simon's legs to steady myself. He wasn't having that, and took my arms up behind my back and held them firmly.
Not for the first time that day, I felt Mark's hands on my ass. They rubbed a little, and then gave me a few playful smacks. This was nothing serious, I thought.
There was then a pause, and Mark wandered off. He came back, and showed me what he had brought - a smooth hardwood paddle. "Oh dear," I thought. Although my buns were cooling off, I wasn't sure that I could take much more.
My opinion would have had no consequence, anyway. The paddle landed soon enough across my ass with a "Cracckkk" sound that echoed around. The suddenness of the pain took me by surprise. I didn't call out, but a reflex made me attempt to stand up, and my head jumped between Simon's legs. He didn't budge, of course; but to prevent a reoccurrence he tensed his thighs, so that my neck was squeezed a little. This had the desired effect of holding me firmly in place, and Mark carried on beating my ass with the paddle.
My discomfort must have been evident, after not very long. Simon's arousal was certainly evident to me - I could feel it on the back of my neck!
Suddenly, the beating stopped. Simon released me, and he and Mark walked over to their horses. If I had sat down on a bale of hay, I would have started a fire. Perhaps fortunately, I had no desire to sit down just yet.
My two tormentors put on their coats, and jumped on their mounts. As they left the barn, Simon shouted,
"Well done. I'll ring you in a week."
That was the first praise I'd ever had from him. I walked around the barn for a few minutes, reflecting on my experience, and allowing my tender buns to cool sufficiently for my ride home. I was secretly pleased with myself; I think I had endured rather more this time, than on previous occasions.
Eventually I pulled on my leathers, gently easing them over my ass. My expectations of Mark's prowess, based on my experience of Simon, had been fully justified. It might be *more* than a week, before I was ready for another visit.