It was after three in the afternoon when I got up that day, having stayed up till past three at a friend's house the night before. He was a friend, not a client, and just laying in his arms or across his lap was enough, never mind that he had a mouth that could make a greek statue come. Nor that a spanking from him was more message than pain. Then, when I got home, about 4:30, I casually flipped on the TV and got caught by some old star Trek movie. The tight uniforms of the newer movies do more for me than those military jack boots of the early shows.
Any way, it was after three, and a long, hot, leisurely bath sounded like a wonderful thing. The weekend was coming, and I had been invited to a vacation in Myrtle Beach. A long-time friend had a time share there, and we were to take advantage of the unrented weekend by visiting free as "owners." He had invited a third guy I did not know, and I was looking forward to the new acquaintance, the surf, the sand and the _s_e_x_. Well, if there was enough _s_e_x_, you cold forget he surf and the sand.
I drew the bath, adjusted the turbulence and bubbles, set the temp at 104° and went to the kitchen for a big mug of coffee to sip as i soaked. As I stepped into the bath, the phone rang -- of course!-- but I ignored it. The machine picked it up and i listened for the message.
"Tom, this is Randy. Hey buddy, the weekend's off. They found someone to rent, so we would have to pay the going rate less my discount. Not worth it. So, we'll do it some other time. Give me a call and perhaps we three can get together Saturday night. See ya."
So, no Myrtle Beach. What the hell! I had my coffee, my tub, and all evening. Maybe I would go to a movie. Ah, the life of a Syberite!
At 6:30 the phone rang again, and I picked it up.
"I'm calling for Thompson?"
"Yes, Thompson speaking."
"Thompson, this is Albert Boyle. We met a few weeks back at the party in the Village. Do you remember?"
Yes I remembered! He was tall, about 6'2", and thin, almost too thin for so tall a man, but carefully arranged. I had met him at a Dominance & Discipline seminar in the villiage two weeks before. As I spoke, I flipped through my notebook and found the page with his name onit. He had worn white leather, very unusual. And he had a good deal of cash. I had given him my card and explained my servicees. There was a quote "I use discipline to relax, physical exertion with a strap." He must have said that, or something like it.
Yes, I remembered, and hoped this was a call for a hire. immediately, I became all professional:
"Two weeks, sir. On the 11th. You wore a white leather vest and carried a raw leather spanker. I gave you my card. Yes, sir, I remember. May I be of service?"
"Well, you do remember. Very impressive. Yes, you may be of service. I want you in my apartment, ready, in an hour. Can you make it?"
"Yes, sir. I will be there. Please instruct the doorman to let me in. I will have proper ID with me."
"Yes, I will." and I gave him the address. "Be ready for the strap."
"I will be ready, sir."
And that was all there was to it. An hour, all the way up town, and be ready for the strap. OK, I had to hurry. I called the livery, and had them send a small car and driver. I went back to the bathroom and prepared my ass. I liberally bathed it in peroxide, using a rough sponge and then a soft cloth. This would bleach the skin a little and any hair there, and make the blows of the strap seem the more red. I also used powdered rosin, like a dancer uses on the toes of her shoes, to toughen the skin, so bruising would be somewhat delayed. The white powder added tot he paleness too.
I chose white silk briefs, just a little too large, with blue bands on the waist and leg openings. There was no fly. These would look somewhat exotic, I hoped. And I put on a coffee colored, double breaseted suit with a deep forest green tie and white silk shirt. If he took the time to look, he would see that i took the time to dress. I took my wallet and removed everything but the ID: a sheriff's ID that gave an old address and had a picture less than a year old, and an out-of-state driver's license, witha slightly older picture. No use in carrying too much stuff in too obvious a place. I had my credit card in the lining of the suit coat if I needed it.
The door man asked for two forms of ID and was not impressed witht he Connecticut Driver's license. But he did take me up in the keay-driven elevator and let me off at Albert Boyle's floor. There was only one door in the short hallway. It was not locked. I hung my overcoat on the coat rack next to it, and went in.
Very nice. Minimally decorated. Mostly whites and beiges. In the foyer, there was a glass table, 4' across, with a very large glass vase full of white and yellow tulips, obviously fresh that day or the day before. Very nice.
The bed room was lavish. The bed, raised n a platform, was covered with an eiderdown comforter and fur throws that i assumed were llama skin. And there was no secret to Mr. Boyle's life. Pictures of men in bondage and under discipline covered one wall. Next to them, hung a paddle, a whip, a cat, and a strap. Only one of each, but each was a masterpiece. The strap was about 9" long, 4" wide and a quarter inch thick. It has a rose-wood handle, cut and polished to fit a particular grip. The leather was hardened, polished on one side and raw and "fussy" on the other.
The door opened and I saw Albert Boyle. He had a rip in the right leg of his suit. As I smiled and pushed the hair back out of my eyes, he shoved my right shoulder hard with his left palm, nearly setting me off balance. I staggered a step backwards, and looked at him quizzically.
"You don't need to smile. You need to get my strap from the wall in my room and get back out here," he said in a severe tone.
"OK," I thought, "no preliminaries!" and I went to get the strap.
"Move it! Now!" he barked and kicked me in the ass to move me along.
I returned a minute later with the strap. He was standing spraddled legged with his arms crossed across his chest. When I held out the strap, he took it in his right hand, grabbed my left wrist with his left hand, and pulled he forward and onto the table there in the center of the foyer. He held me with his left. I saw him raise his arm as high as he could, and making a grimace and frowning, he brought the leather strap down across my ass as hard as I hard as he possibly could. At the last moment, he snapped the strap back, hitting my ass with just the front oedge of the belt, and making a sound like a pistol shot in the empty apartment. I knew that that stroke alone would leave a blister, even through my pants.
"Get those pants down, Thompson, now!" he barked. It was going to be a rough assignment.
Before I could reply or comply, a second blow landed. I yelped at the force of the blow, said "yessir" all as one word, and started to fumble with his belt and zipper on my suit pants.
A second* , a third* , and a forth* blow, all as hard as the first, and delivered as quickly as he could, followed the first. I yelled out at each, and kept fumbling with his pants. It's good to put on a little show of confusion and pain, but there was no show here. I was really in a hurry to comply. He had delivered six before he saw my briefs.
"Underpants too, you pissant."He continued the barrage on my backside.
"Yes, sir, (yelp!) please sir, (yelp!) let me get ready (yelp!) sir (yelp!)"
"I told you to be ready. I assume you are, now shut up and take what I can dish out."
The beating was savage. He kept up the swats,* as hard* as he could* , fast* and furious* on my naked ass* . Most hit* on target*. But some missed* I couldn't keep* track the pain was* intense.* I couldn't even count* the blows! I was actually* loosing it, not* at all able to wait* for it to me* over and to live* through it. This was getting rea*l, and my erection* showed it! I couldn't* stop*, and came* on the table*, onto my suit coat* and shirt.*
AT that point, I gave up and abandoned my to the pain and sobbed loudly with each blow, yelling, "No!" or "Oh Sir!" or "No more, no more, please!"
He kept up the rhythm but was beginning to pant and to grunt with each blow. He switched hands, but he was tiring, and the blows were more erratic and not as hard. But mas ass, thighs and lower back were on fire, past fire, and i could feel the bruises coming.
Finally, he was tired. My suit pants had come off one of my legs with the kicking, but were caught around my ankle on the other foot. I had messed the table with come, and it was staining my suit coat. My face must have been red, swollen with crying, and contorted. And I was sobbing. Genuinely. This was not an act. I was sobbing from a beating. The first time in more than 15 years. My father had reduced me to this state wehn I was 19, and I hated him for it. Why did I so love this Albert Boyle for producing the same result?
"Ah! Thank you, Thompson. Stay there. I am going to take a shower, but I will be back. Stay there. Be ready."
"Yes sir," I gasped, and continued to sob.
He took more than half an hour for the shower, but I did not move. I was obedient. I was afraid not to be: not afraid of another beating, but afraid of displeasing Albert Boyle.
When he came back in the foyer, I was just calming down from my beating. I still gasped and sobbed at intervals, as a baby who was fallen asleep crying with sob by fits and turns in his sleep. The strap lay on the table next to me. My arms were stretched out across the table above his head and grasped the other edge of the glass table top. He put his hand on my neck.
"Get into the bed room and strip. Lay over the bottom corner of the bed, one leg on each side, spread wide and wait for me."
"Yes sir," I whispered, and hurried to comply.
He picked up my pants and underpants and tossed them into the bedroom after me. Then he picked them up again. The underpants he gathered in his hand, and whiped my face with . Then he pushed on my lips, and pushed them into my mouth. He kept pushing until they were entirely inside my mouth. I began to cry again.
He slipped my belt from my suit pants. I was laying on the bed as directed. He doubled the belt and began slowly to use it on my ass.
Unlike before, this beating was slow and methodical. Each strike was placed carefully to assault a spot not savaged by the strap. Each blow did it work. In about 40 swats, my ass was evenly on fire, with no one place any less painful than another. I was crying freely, but not sobbing, just crying and hoping this was the last blow, but simultaneously hoping it would never stop. It would be three, perhaps four days before I moved with any fluency or lack of pain.
"I'm going out now, Thompson," he said."You may shower or whatever. But be gone in two hours. May I call you again?"
Without moving at all (he hadn't told me I could) I said "Yes, sir, please sir. any time you need me."
I watched him walk over to the desk and open the top drawer and take out a tube of KY jelly. He spread a generous glob on his middle finger and shoved it slowly and sensuously up my ass. Then he took a money from my wallet on the bed and rolled it into a tight roll and pushed that up his ass as well.
"For you. A gift." He wiped his finger on my ass.
"That's not necessary, sir. I will bill you."
"That's not pay, Thompson. It's a gift." He picked up my belt and laid one across my ass with as much force ashe could muster. I screamed, not expecting it. "Do we understand each other, or do we need to discuss it?"
"No sir, yes sir, I mean, I understand sir. We need only discuss it if you think we need to."
"No Thompson, I haven't time. Be gone when I get back."
As he dressed I did not move. When he closed the outer door, I stood with some difficulty, and touched my ass. It was more painful than I had ever remembered it. I limped into the bathroom, and wet a towel. I tried to rub it on my ass, but it was too painfull. I bent and "expelled" the gift he had left me. Two $100 bills rolled into a tight tube and coated with ky jelly. I rinsed them off and dried them on a fresh towel.
I dressed, sponging the stain on my suit coat, and started to leave. I picked up all the towels and soiled clothing and made a neat pile of them in the cornr of the bathroom. As an after thought, I picked up Albert Boyle's underpants. They were monogrammed and bore a label that said "Made expressly for Albert Boyle." I put them in my pocket.
As I stepped out of the elevator, the doorman said "Mr. Knight, Mr. Boyle has left his limo here with instructions to take you whereever you wish."
"Thank you."
"The seats, sir, are most soft."
So, he knew. So what? "Yes, I am sure."
I gave the driver the address of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.