A Hard Slippering for Nude Doug

My day off.

A Wednesday afternoon on a dull winter's day. A stark little upstairs spare room in a small nondescript house located in a characterless suburban cul-de-sac on the outskirts of the city. Only a few degrees above the outside temperature. Single light bulb hanging from a flex in the ceiling. No shade.

He was standing there with an old tatty white tennis shoe -- which he'd proudly informed me a moment before had been gifted to him by a strict P.E. teacher now retired - in his right hand gently and casually slapping the open palm of his left hand with the hard red plastic sole of it. It was an action calculated to intimidate me. And it worked. I felt scared.

But it could all have been an act because that was what I'd paid him for -- a hundred quid to punish me. Punish me without mercy. Punish me hard. And keep it professional. Uncomplicated. Ramification free.

I also felt sordid. Dirty. Ashamed: Living a lie. Deceiving my wife. Projecting an image of a regular decent and optimistic fair-minded guy to all that knew or had business with me - it was a betrayal. A dirty, stinking betrayal.

But it was time to get my just desserts, to be punished, deliciously ironically, for craving to be punished. To be hurt. To be humiliated. To finally fulfil and gratify my perverted desires - I couldn't help myself, the impulse was too strong, overpowering. And I could almost hear the Devil laughing manically in the background.

"Take all your clothes off, you pathetic little pervert," he commanded with a cockney sergeant-major kind of voice.

Pathetic. Little. Pervert

.

The man had clocked me. Knew my breed. And now there were two of us in this world who realised what I was.

He was wearing a dated purple tracksuit that would have been trendy in the seventies with wannabe work-out fanatics. Or sadistic games teachers. Average height. Powerful build. Graded sandy haired. Strong yet neat features. Cold blue eyes. Ruddy complexion. Clean shaven. About forty-five. And a countenance that projected,

Don't fuck with me

, which happens to be the only countenance in the world people really pay attention to.

I stripped off and dumped my clothes on the bare floorboards. When I was done, I just stood there with my hands by my side with my penis embarrassingly stiff as the proverbial broomstick.

"Now bend over and place the palms of your hand on the seat of the chair."

I did as he said with my rock-hard prick involuntary twitching with the potent cocktail of fear and thrill.

"Right, I am going to give you six

very

hard whacks, and you are going to take it whether you want to or not. Stay in position and try not to straighten up. Show me that you're

not

just another flake or fake.

Understand?

"

"Yes, sir." And wondered distractedly whether he challenged every one of his clients with 'flake or fake?'

I realized I was l trembling. Genuinely scared. The next few moments would be hell. Sheer

hell

.

I was looking down at my hands on the seat of the chair when he landed the first of the shocking blows on my bare left buttock with the sound of the impact briefly reverberating off the walls. The pain was unbelievable, sickening, and I could feel my face cheeks tingle momentarily as the blood temporarily drained from them.

"Get BACK into position!" he'd barked - I had straightened up.

He then delivered another five with about forty-five seconds between each one allowing no real time for the agony to subside.

There was no doubt that this man was a genuine sadist. And nasty.

At one point I thought of Jesus on the cross and the suffering he endured for all our sins. But I was no Jesus, rather I was the sinner.

I had seriously thought of giving up, straightening up, and walking away at one point, but he had anticipated that by hissing menacingly: "Better not be thinking of giving up, you...

wimp.

"

It was an awful experience and I had now bitterly regretted contacting him -- I vowed that this was the first and last time I would do something like that. I was an idiot and intoxicated with a sexual fantasy that had no counterpart in real life. As soon as I could I'd get away, I'd cancel my profile on the site and delete his number, get a new phone.

The last blow had exploded on my pounded and burning buttock and nearly caused me to collapse onto the floor in a cowering foetal heap. But I was stoic to the end.

I rose, turned round to him with lowered and watering eyes and said: "Thank you for punishing me very hard, sir. I deserved it."

"Yeah, well that's what you paid me for. Now, wank yourself off, and when you're done you can leave."

I felt it was just easier to obey, so with him watching intently I had begun to alternately rub my sensitive nipples with the fingers of my left hand whilst tugging on the top of my slightly wilted shaft. As I had done so I had I had visualised an image of me naked and bending over to be slippered by him, replaying the agony, the humiliation... and then I had folded up, feeling my face redden, as I had climaxed powerfully with my spunk jetting out and splattering onto the floorboards.

"Hmmm. Looks like you really needed that." He then handed me a tissue to wipe myself off with.

"Don't worry about the floor, I'll mop that when you're gone. I just thought I'd let you know that you've got quite feminine eyes... long eye lashes... I almost felt sorry for you,

almost

."

This was a different side to him I was seeing, and it confused me. I didn't really know what to say so I just said: "Thanks."

He took the tissue off me which was damp and smelled of my spunk before tossing it into a bin in the corner. I then hurriedly got dressed, in silence, and when I was done, I walked down the stairs, unlatched the front door, and exited onto the close, not daring to look back in a futile attempt to block out what had just happened. A denial.

I had only gone about fifty yards when a small group of rough looking youths had tauntingly shouted out at me: "We know where you've been... we know where you've been..."

I ignored them and picked up my pace, now more anxious to get to the stop and the bus which would take me into the centre where I could board my train for home.

There were only a handful of passengers on the bus, and I wondered if any of them could smell traces of sperm on me. Probably not. But I was a little paranoid. Of course, I could have driven but had I broken down or been involved in an accident, questions might have been asked as to why I was in that area -- less risky to use public transport and pay by cash.

The closer I got to home the more relaxed I became, as though I was becoming the individual I sought to be for public consumption, that the sordid encounter would gradually fade with time, was an aberration, an out of character one-off...

But a little voice in my head knew otherwise, that I'd crossed a Rubicon in my psyche, that what I'd subjected myself to was incredibly intense and arousing, and possibly dangerously addictive too -- I was conflicted.

Seriously

conflicted.

On the way back from the station I called in at the local Indian takeaway and picked up a

Chicken Dhansak

with

Pilau Rice

- I'd fancied one for a while and as Lesley, my wife, was up in Scotland for a couple of weeks catching up with her relatives and didn't like curries herself I thought I'd treat myself.

After I'd eaten, I'd washed up before settling down to a bottle of beer and slipping my favourite DVD on:

Pulp Fiction

. I enjoyed the film but the scene when

Marcellus Wallace

... well, you know the scene, it kind of made me uncomfortable...

And then I thought of Lesley blissfully unaware as to what I'd got up to that afternoon whilst she was probably chatting to her sister about how wonderful I was and how good life was with me, Doug, down south, and how happy I had made her. How content I'd made her, which was just an excuse for her putting on eight stone over a period of ten years.

I guess also she wasn't sharing with them all how she loved being held down whilst I shagged her up the arse whilst she frigged herself off, and I in turn never shared with her my depraved masochistic fantasies. God, it was a fucking mess. A charade. Still, she wouldn't be back for another ten days which gave enough time for my bruises to disappear.

That Wednesday evening I'd gone to bed and naked above the covers I'd first run my hands over my buttocks prior to masturbating about the events of the afternoon. I'd then fallen asleep quite quickly.

In the morning I'd woken refreshed, had showered, breakfasted, and then put on my suit for work. I'd also put on my smile and cheery demeanour façade too.

It had only taken me about thirty minutes to get to the office -- the Thursday morning traffic had been quite light for a change -- where I had been greeted by Mrs Sturgeon who had informed me that the new Area Manager was waiting to be introduced to me (I was the Depot Manager) in his predecessor's office.

Feeling confident and relaxed I'd knocked on the Area Manager's door...

"Enter," a voice boomed out.

Swinging open the door I saw the suited individual look up and appear as momentarily as startled as me...

Oh. My. Fucking. God

.

It was...

him

.

I felt my testicles tingle with the realisation that quite possibly my life as I knew it was over...

"It's Doug isn't it, and if you could just close the door behind you..."

In a trance, and everything kind of in slow motion I pushed the door closed.

"Take a seat please, Doug," he requested in that familiar voice of his and as cool as a cucumber.

I plonked myself down on the orange plastic seated chair, pulling it closer to his desk as if proximity would make him less frightening...

"So, Doug, I'd just thought I'd let you know that I secretly filmed everything,

everything

, that happened between us yesterday, and that if you don't perform as well at this job as I'm expecting I'm going to send

that

video to your wife, relatives, and close friends.

Understand?

Suddenly the office was spinning, and I shot out my hands to clutch hold of the desk before I collapsed.

I heard him laugh and say: "Only kidding," before he extended his hand for me to shake it adding: "I'm Mister Blaker, but you can call me John..."

Breathing rapidly all I could come out with was: "Nice to meet you...

again

... and so soon..."

"Well, it's certainly a small world, Doug, but do you know what, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship..."