Mr. One Fifty-Eight

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

You will probably enjoy this story much more if you have already read the series

Chris Donaldson

, as well as Chapters 1-2 of

Mr. One Fifty-Eight

. The characters' back stories are revealed there. All characters depicted in this story are over 18.

*****

They stood in the airless trailer, sweating: the beefy, muscular, clean-shaven man, and the slim, muscular, bearded boy. The small office was dimly lit by what little of the September sunshine could penetrate the cheap venetian blinds; the acrid scent of the boy's anxious armpits was rendered more prominent by his position - hands outstretched on the desk in front of him, eyes cast down. The desk had several sheets of a yellow legal pad laid carefully in a row under his hands, each with numbered sentences, in cursive: "1. I will not let my over-active libido lead me to risky behavior. 2. I will not let my over-active libido lead me to risky behavior . . .", and so on, up to 100. After the hundredth line, a new set began: "1. I will not use falsified government identification. 2. I will not use falsified government identification . . .", also up to 100. The fake ID in question lay on top of the yellow sheets, where the naughty boy could see it plainly - the main source of his discomfort.

The boy's right hand twitched slightly, still cramping. His pert, tight, small, but toned buttocks glowed pink in the fading light. He was naked from the legs up, his hairy chest and trim torso on display; his pants and briefs were nestled down at his ankles.

His disciplinarian contemplated the view. He was not done yet.

"Tell me again what I've punished you for, Christopher," the brown-haired security guard ordered.

The twenty-year-old boy had said it five or six times already, but he tried not to let any impatience or weariness show in his voice.

"You have made me write lines, given me a hand spanking for putting myself at risk by failing to obtain face pictures from Mason before I met him at the sex club, Sir, and strapped me with a belt for using a fake ID, Sir."

"And what remains, young man?"

"The rest of the punishment for using a fake ID, Sir."

"How many strokes have you received so far, Christopher?"

Chris knew this; he'd been forced to count them out loud. Any miscounting would result in the punishment being restarted from the beginning.

"120, Sir."

"And do you think that's enough, young man, for such a serious offense?"

Chris hated this question. He couldn't see his ass, but he could feel how sore and swollen it was, and guessed, correctly, that it was dark red and beginning to show some bruising. He knew he could probably withstand a bit more, especially because his butt was now getting numb, but was also very, very ready for it to be finished.

"No punishment is over until you say it is, Sir," Chris said resignedly.

"Correct. And I don't think we're quite done yet. On what date did you use the fake ID, young man?"

Chris thought back a few weeks - "August 23

rd

, Sir."

"And how many days is that from your twenty-first birthday?"

Chris thought hard. Math in his head was not a strong suit, especially when bent over and in pain.

"Er . . . 239, Sir."

Mr. Fitzsimmons consulted Chris' real driver's license, which he was holding, and entered some numbers into his phone's calculator. Thirty days hath September . . .

"Indeed, young man. And that is the total number of strokes you will receive with my belt."

"Yes, Sir," Chris replied, dejected. 119 more. That was also his old room number at Kroetzger, the dorm he had lived in last year with . . . never mind. The rules were harsh, but he knew Mr. Fitzsimmons was a man of honor. There had been no sudden rapid fire of strokes to make him lose his count; there would be no "stray" lashes on his testicles. No, the remaining 119 would be strict but fair. Like Mr. Fitzsimmons. Chris stared down at the lines he had written, knowing that for all the fun he had at the sex club, it could have ended very differently.

During their "discussion", Mr. Fitzsimmons had been very clear about what was Chris' fault, and what wasn't. That was the thing about the security guard - he didn't punish for anything that wasn't real or serious. Mr. Fitzsimmons was sex positive, and didn't object to Chris' visit to the club in principle, insofar as it meant he was servicing multiple men. Being true to his sub instincts was always permitted. Putting himself in danger or breaking the law was not. Chris shuddered as he remembered his first punishment at the security guard's hands, which was for indecent exposure - masturbating in his car. He had borne the marks of that hairbrush spanking for more than a week, and sitting had been genuinely uncomfortable that whole time. He knew he would again be seeking out seats with extra padding for a while.

And yet . . . he had broken the law by using the fake ID. And while he hadn't been caught, and certainly lots of other young men did exactly the same thing, he wasn't just any young man. He answered to Mr. Fitzsimmons. The security guard was one of the best listeners Chris had ever met, and he was so grateful to be able to unburden himself to the sympathetic older man, but evidently the price of that was a bare-bottom punishment when he misbehaved.

THWACK!! Without warning, the whipping recommenced.

"One Hundred Twenty-one!" Chris expelled the number with a violent exhale.

THWACK!!

"One Hundred Twenty-Two!"

THWACK!!

"One Hundred Twenty-Three!"

KER-THWACK!!

"One Hundred Twenty-Four!"

Mr. Fitzsimmons wasn't pulling any punches, and the count mounted steadily to the end. He was administering the punishment in groups of thirty, and switched sides after each group. He was not swinging to break the boy, but each painful lash drove the point home. He knew well how much a boy could take, and it was very important that Chris remember this lesson for a long time.

As he neared the end, Sean Fitzsimmons slowed the pace - in part to make each stroke slightly more bearable, and in part to prolong the agony for the culprit. He took a very dim view of miscreants who deliberately broke the law, and while he felt genuine liking and affection for Chris, he was also very concerned that the young man's poor decision-making could land him in serious trouble. And that was what they were there to prevent. He was flattered and gratified that Chris had opened up to him over the last couple of months - clearly, the boy really needed someone to talk to who was neither his father, nor a man he was having sex with, nor female. But Sean believed in old-fashioned discipline, and knew that Chris was wired in a particular way to respond to it and make positive changes going forward.

THWACK!!

"Two Hundred Ten!"

Finally, they had come to the last break. Chris was miserable, but he had to be honest - this was not as hard as the paddling he had taken at the fraternity, the one when he had earned the sobriquet of "Mr. One Fifty-Eight" for the number of swats he had taken. Anything wooden was always harder for Chris than leather, pretty much no matter what. This was excruciating, but the hardest part was over . . . any punishment with a large number of strokes was always worst between 40 and 80 percent of the total, somehow - that woeful middle meant enough gone by to be really feeling the pain accumulate, but not yet near enough to the punishment's conclusion to see the light at the end of the tunnel. It was better when you were close to the end. And now he was close.

Just twenty-nine more . . .

Mr. Fitzsimmons chose to make a very lasting impression by delivering the final set much more quickly than before - not so fast that Chris would lose count, but also not allowing the boy to delay the event by reciting slowly or pausing before numbers. The last twenty-nine strokes built to a crescendo of agony on the boy's bare bottom, and he screamed out the final few numbers.

Then it was done.

Corner time followed, as it had at the previous session, but Chris did not get hard, nor was he permitted to masturbate his small penis afterward. Instead, after ten minutes with his hands on his head, he was allowed to raise his pants, which he carefully pulled up over his purple backside. Then came the final chat. Sean moved the chair back in front of his desk, and motioned for Chris to sit, which the boy did gingerly.

"I sincerely hope you realize the seriousness of your misbehavior that led you to this sorry state, young man."

"Yes, Sir," Chris replied contritely.

"I don't enjoy having to do that to you, Christopher, but just like last time, what if it had been the police and not me who found out about it? And what if your friend Mark hadn't happened to be in the club that night, and hadn't found you so quickly? You made some very poor decisions, which I trust you will not repeat. I don't need to tell you what will happen if you do . . ."

"No, Sir!" Chris exclaimed fervently. "I won't do it again, I promise."

"If you go to that club again, I expect you to tell me first, and be able to demonstrate that you're taking appropriate precautions, like going with someone you already know. If Mark wants to take you, that's great. But don't go alone. If you're going to meet strangers for sex, you need to let someone know where you are. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Sir."

"As for the ID, I'm giving it back to you."

Chris looked up at the security guard, surprised.

"One of the most important parts about learning how to behave responsibly . . . like an adult . . . is the ability to make choices wisely, learn from your mistakes, and WITHSTAND TEMPTATION. If I remove the temptation from you, you won't learn nearly as much as you will by taking this false identification and either throwing it away yourself, leaving it in your room when you go out, or even keeping it in your wallet and choosing not to use it. Needless to say, I will know if you use it again . . ."

Chris looked worried.

". . . because you will tell me," Sean smiled. Chris cracked a small, embarrassed grin.

"Because you are, at heart, a very good boy. We both know that. You just make some bad choices occasionally." Mr. Fitzsimmons returned the plastic card. "Now what do you have planned for the evening, young man?"

"I'm going to my dad's house for dinner, Sir."

"I see." Sean cast a sympathetic look at Chris. "Have you come out to him yet?"

"No, Sir." Chris looked anxious - would this mean another session with the belt?

"Never seems to be the right moment, huh?"

"Not really, Sir."

"Well - there probably won't be one, Christopher. You'll just have to brave it out one of these days. I can tell you, it's an amazing feeling of relief when you do - all of a sudden, it becomes someone else's problem and not yours anymore." Sean smiled again, encouragingly. "I'm not pressuring you to tell him tonight, just saying . . . waiting isn't going to make it any easier."

The security guard approached Chris, who stood up.

"Anyway, enough lectures. It's your business. Just know that I support you." Mr. Fitzsimmons stuck out his hand; Chris shook it.

"Thank you, Sir."

"No hard feelings?"

"No, Sir. I know I deserved it."

"That's my good boy. Have a good time at dinner, young man." Sean paused a moment, then added, "Your dad is trying, I think."

"Why, has he said anything about me, Sir?" Chris had discovered the first time he met Sean Fitzsimmons that the security guard knew his father, who was a general contractor, and working on the houses Sean was tasked with guarding.

"Not specifically," Sean replied honestly, "but he does mention you in passing every now and then. He's proud of you. My dad was a lot like him, I'm guessing. I'm glad you're meeting him for dinner."

"Yeah, last time for a while, probably. Fall quarter starts on Monday."

"Good boy." Mr. Fitzsimmons handed the punished boy his t-shirt. Chris put it on, and left the trailer.

"See you later, Mr. Fitzsimmons."

"Looking forward to it, Christopher. You're welcome here any time."

Chris walked through the empty lot to his jeep and got in, wincing as he sat down. Fuck, that had been a major fucking ass-whipping. He realized he was still holding the fake ID; he slipped it in his pocket instead of returning it to its secret compartment in his wallet. He'd have to think about what he was going to do with it.

The bearded boy drove the three blocks to his father's house, located in the exurbs of a big, sprawling city. Truth be told, he wasn't looking forward to the evening. It was bad enough trying to make conversation with his old man with whom he had next to nothing in common; doing it with a throbbing rear end was going to be even harder. That said, his ass had fared no worse than it had many times in the past - and probably better than the poor bastard he had met at the club, who had been the reason for part of Chris' punishment: Mason. What an asshole. Worse than an asshole, really, he was a deranged stalker. But man, had he got his.

Mark had forwarded some pics of Mason sent by Leo, the co-owner of the club where Chris had wound up on an unfortunate date with his former RA. The photos had not been pretty. After being rescued by Mark, Chris had told him and several other Doms, including Leo, how Mason had abused him that evening. They had hauled Mason off to be punished for putting his sub in real danger, and Chris had given the slender frat boy eight very hard whacks with a paddle before leaving him in the hands of Leo. Leo had personally promised to make Mason very sorry for endangering Chris' safety, and had threatened to whip and cane Mason; as Chris had made his way out of the club, he had heard the sound of a cat o' nine tails falling on Mason's back. The pictures showed that Leo had ultimately been quite restrained with the whip - the tall, lean 22-year-old boy's shoulders and upper back had been red in the photos, but with no real stripes like you'd see on a convict. The same could not be said for Mason's buttocks, however, which had looked terrible - very bruised and welted. You could see the word "sub" written on each of the erstwhile Dom's butt cheeks, the marker still visible through the bruising. So clearly Leo had not fucked around when it came to punishing the guy's ass. There had been another pic of Mason's front side; he looked like he was yelling through his gag, and there were nasty-looking clamps hanging from his nipples; in a fourth pic, the arrogant prick's dick and balls were being flattened by a large, square plastic clamp with screws. Chris had never had one of those used on him, and wasn't sure he was up for it, given how purple Mason's junk looked. Ouch.

Chris marveled that he himself had not broken Mason's skin with the paddle swats, but considered; as mad as he had been at Mason's terrible behavior over many months, which had culminated assaulting Chris at the sex club, he was only able to hit another person so hard. Chris had once practiced swinging a belt as hard as he could, hitting his bed - there was no way he could ever hit another human being that hard. Still, he had been gratified by Mason's anguished squeals. That guy was a real nut. Fortunately, Chris would never be a target again - he was sure Mason would leave him alone now. The frat boy would recover from the beating, but he wouldn't want to mess with Chris again - not now that the young sub had someone watching his back.

Well, a few people, actually . . . Leo, if Chris ever went to the club again; Mr. Fitzsimmons, in general; and . . . Mark. Chris blushed. He didn't know if he could call Mark his boyfriend, not yet, but they had gone out a few times, and Chris really enjoyed the older guy's company. Not that much older, really, he was only 27. Still, seven years can be a lot when you're 20.

Chris turned onto his father's street, parked in the driveway, and walked to the side door. He'd be better off putting thoughts of Mark out of his head for the next couple hours. The boy looked around - his dad was in the back, lighting the grill.

"Steak ok?" he said, not looking at Chris.

"Sure, that's great," Chris replied. "I'll just get myself some water."

Tom Donaldson looked up. "You know - there's beer in the fridge if you want one."

Chris stopped with his hand on the door, taken unawares. His father had never offered him alcohol before. And what a night to do it, he thought ruefully. And yet . . . a little buzz might take his mind off his bottom, and make the meal less stressful. And the strapping from Mr. Fitzsimmons had been for using a fake ID, not for drinking. Technically.

Chris decided not to dwell on whether the security guard would agree, and entered the house; he pulled a beer from the fridge door. Huh. He thought his dad only drank Bud, but all he saw were bottles of some microbrew. He opened one, hoping it was good. It was.

Maybe Mr. Fitzsimmons will punish me for this next, Chris thought, and his little dick started to engorge. You pervert, he thought, you just got your ass beat to a pulp and you're already thinking of the next time!

Chris chuckled to himself - it was always the same. He could never wait for his next spanking. Even after the hard ones, like the big one he had gotten at the fraternity from Justin . . .

You shouldn't think about him either, Chris told himself, but instinctively checked his phone as the image of the jock stud who had been his sophomore-year roommate flitted through his mind.

No new messages from the hot, brown-eyed, shaved-head frat boy.

Of course not, Chris said to himself, he's not going to text you anymore. Not after you blew him off three weeks ago.

Chris gulped his beer, remembering. The same night he had gone to the club, Justin had finally broken his weeks-long silence, and sent Chris a dozen texts, probably drunk off his ass. Chris had only seen them right before he had fallen asleep in Mark's bed, and had been too nervous to read them the next morning, as Mark had woken him up with a shoulder rub and a big load of cum for Chris' thirsty mouth. He had avoided his phone all through brunch at one of Mark's favorite cafes, not daring to look at it until he was alone in his jeep back by the dingy entrance to the sex club. He had driven away to make sure Mark knew he was headed safely home, but had pulled over at the first opportunity to read what Justin had typed with his thumbs.

The texts were disappointingly banal at first: "hey", "hey Chrissy", "where r u". They had gotten a little better at the end: "I need ur mouth", "why aren't u here", "my ass is ripe", "I want to whip your little butt"; the finale was an erect dick pic. Still, the jock had not sent either the apology or confession of great desire Chris had been hoping for - something along the lines of, "I realized this morning that I need you badly because I'm deeply in love with you". That would have been great. But it was not to be. The voicemail had contained nothing - just a hang up.

So Chris hadn't responded to Justin at all. At first, it was pique. He thought he would try and punish the jock for ignoring him most of the summer. But then Chris would be "acting like a girl" (although surely straight men did petty things, too?), and that was a no-no. By the next evening, Chris simply hadn't known what to say. He had botched an email the last time, and now he was gun shy. As each day passed, it had only seemed more awkward to respond, and so . . . he hadn't. Chris was too insecure to consider that Justin's own silence might have been produced by some of the same feelings; no, Chris was sure he had been soundly rejected, and that the last overture from his stud was only due to intoxication and horniness. He knew only too well how much sex and booze Justin needed.