Ben is Taught about Discipline

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“It’s Ben Davis, right? From Professor Bolt’s History class? I thought it was you.”

I turned at the sound of the voice behind me and was surprised to see Bill Hughes, a fellow student who I didn’t think was aware of my existence. I said hello back, expecting him to walk past me, and was surprised when he slowed to my pace and began to chat.

“You look like you’re enjoying the walk.”

“Yea, I couldn’t stand sitting at my desk for a minute longer, I had to get out. I’ve spent so little time in town since coming here that I don’t know it very well, so I thought it was time I looked around.”

Bill had caught up to me on the hill leading away from the English university that we attended. This was the Friday night of our third week of classes back in 1970 when I was nineteen years old; away from home for the first time, living in a college dorm in a small, ancient city, a shy boy, uncertain of my looks and unsure how to make friends.

A late teenaged growth-spurt a few months before had added a couple of inches to my height but left me rail thin in the process. I’d been told by my older sister that I had “a nice bum that the girls will like” but looking in the mirror, all I could see was a thin, gawky six-footer with brown hair and big ears staring back at me. Was there really someone out there who’d appreciate my sexy bum or like my wide shoulders and bright blue eyes?

That “someone” was the problem of course: since I was a homosexual virgin, with no interest in girls, and too frightened to approach boys. I’d had no sexual activity whatsoever in my life so far, other than using my own hand. I was nineteen physically and intellectually, cursed with the gawky looks of a sixteen-year old and the naïve virginity of a fourteen-year old!

Bill on the other hand, was a sexy, fully mature man, the same height as me but outweighing my scrawny self by a good thirty pounds. He had a big torso, well-muscled legs, arms and shoulders, with wiry black body hair poking out of his shirt at the neck and wrists.

He was in his mid-thirties, a decade and a half older than the rest of his fellow students, but age wasn’t the only difference; he had a completely different look about him that marked him out from all the other males in our class. This was the seventies, so they mostly had long hair, with mustaches or beards and wore t-shirts, jeans and sandals: my own hair was longish, though I hadn’t grown a beard. Unlike the rest of us, Bill’s dark wavy hair was cut short, he was clean-shaven and always came to class in a crisply laundered white shirt, black trousers and highly polished black boots.

Just looking at him made me feel scruffy, and I did a lot of looking! In our seminar class, with everyone sitting around in a circle, he and I always seemed to end up sitting on the opposite sides of the room. He caught me staring across at him a few times, causing me to instantly glance away in embarrassment. He seemed so confident, handsome and mature; unlike me, a quiet kid from a small town, with no experience of the world.

Earlier that same week, with the South of England enjoying an unusual and unexpected spell of late autumn sun and high temperatures, Bill had walked into class in his usual crisp white shirt and boots, but wearing a pair of dazzling white shorts that revealed a pair of tanned, heavily muscled legs.

That was all it needed to turn my vague attraction into a major crush! Here was exactly the kind of take-charge, mature man I mooned over on TV or in magazines and he was right here in my Approaches to Modern History class! But what was alarming was that he seemed to be deliberately trying to catch my eye every time I looked in his direction, making me blush and forcing me to spend the last two thirds of the seminar looking down at the floor.

Meanwhile, in order to get to know her students better and to encourage the silent ones in class (like me!) to speak up, our professor asked us to tell the class a little about ourselves. I mumbled out a few details about the school I’d attended and my home town, then lapsed back into embarrassed silence as Bill proceeded to tell the class about spending the previous decade working for the Colonial Police in what was now a newly independent country in southern Africa.

I was bedazzled. I was a shy gay boy who’d never travelled overseas or spent more than a few days away from his parents before starting University, while the object of my desire was not only sexy and handsome but was experienced and well-travelled.

Now, only two days later this seemingly perfect example of attractive heterosexuality was walking alongside me, asking a bunch of questions about me and about college life; and seeming to actually listen to my answers.

Despite being shy and quiet, I was fairly knowledgeable in what would now be called a nerdy sort of way, and all I needed was someone to pull me out of my shell. We started having a real conversation, and when he suggested we stop diyarbakır escort in for a drink at his favourite pub I jumped at the chance.

He turned out to have four “favourite pubs” and insisted on treating me to a pint of beer at each. Since I was drinking on an empty stomach, the beer soon had an effect and my conversation got more and more animated as a result. It was after work on a Friday night, so the pubs were packed and at the fourth one on his list the two of us were forced to squeeze onto what was really a single seat in the corner.

As we drank our pints, Bill’s body movements became more and more expansive; he spread his legs so wide that his knee constantly touched mine while his hand kept “accidentally” dropping down on my thigh for emphasis as he talked. Anyone watching us would have assume we were just a couple of straight buddies forced to sit close to each other in the overcrowded bar; but the close proximity to him drove me to distraction.

Uncomfortably aware of springing a hard-on, I tried to tell myself that he could have no idea of his effect on me and that all this careless touching was proof of that. After all, you could see confident straight men like him touching and grabbing each other all the time, just look at the hijinks in locker rooms after a game!

In a desperate attempt to get my mind off sex, I asked about his stint as a policeman in Africa. At first, he told a few funny stories about catching “normal” criminals, but then he started to talk about how “political” prisoners were subjected to corporal punishment; either caned for minor offences or flogged for more serious ones. The constables under his command usually handled the punishments, though he’d done it himself at times. When I naively asked if it was painful, he laughed and said yes, of course, that was the point.

He lowered his voice to a whisper to spell out the details about how the prisoners were handcuffed and shackled to keep them still during punishment sessions with their trousers pulled down, so they wouldn’t soak them with their own frightened piss. He grinned when I looked shocked and leant in close to whisper in my ear.

“Of course, since they were naked from the waist down, we could see if they got excited, if you know what I mean. It always surprised me how many did. A couple of them came while being flogged! That was a real shocker, but then people get excited at the strangest things, eh Ben?”

He looked at me with an odd smirk on his face as I nodded at him with what I hoped was a non-committal look, hoping he couldn’t tell how aroused I was. He went onto other topics and then surprised me by inviting me to have a look at the little row house that he’d rented for the school year, which was just around the corner. I breathed a sigh of relief; surely he wouldn’t invite someone he suspected of being a “pervert” into his home.

Five minutes later, sitting on his sofa, I glanced around his living room and caught sight of a pair of handcuffs sitting on his bookshelf. Seeing my startled look, he turned his head to see what I was staring at and laughed.

“Oh, those cuffs! When I left the force, one of my constables packed up everything in my office for shipment back to England, and those got included. It’s funny how many people are fascinated by them.”

Having lived my whole life in a small, quiet English town, I’d rarely even seen handcuffs, other than on American TV detective shows, and I’d certainly never been this close to a pair. I badly wanted to get up and handle them and could hardly believe my luck when he told me to go have a look. I made myself get up slowly, trying not to betray my eagerness.

There were not only the handcuffs but also a pair of leg shackles connected by a two-foot-long chain. I picked up the former and was immediately impressed by their weight and strength. As I stood there, trying to appear nonchalant, Bill shocked me by saying,

“Hey, try ’em on, you have to wear them to appreciate them properly. I’ll show you how they work.”

I daren’t look him in the face and couldn’t manage anything other than a quick nod and a strangled “OK,” as he locked them on my wrists in front of me. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to process the fact that one of my biggest teenage fantasies had come true; I’d been tied up by a sexy older man!

“See how heavy they feel? There’s no way to get out of them without the key. Quite an interesting feeling, eh?

“Yes, it feels weird all right.”

“Do you want me to leave them on for a minute or should I take them off?”

“No, no, that’s OK, you can leave them on if you like.”

“Well then, you should get the proper treatment. Sit down so I can get the shackles on you too. That’ll make you feel like a real bad boy.”

Once I was hobbled by the shackles around my ankles, he told me to stand up and walk about the room.

“You look good chained up like that. But be escort diyarbakır careful, I don’t want my model prisoner tripping himself up on the rug.”

Since he was laughing, I hoped that meant he was taking my willingness to be put in bondage as nothing more than me going along with the fun. I tried to act as it was perfectly normal to be walking around his living room in handcuffs and shackles!

It was far from normal of course, especially considering the two personalities involved in this scenario; a shy kid, ashamed of never having had any kind of sexual encounter and a confident, sexually aware, masterful older man. I sat down heavily on the couch while he went to pull out a small photo album from a drawer.

“I couldn’t help noticing how interested you were in my stories about punishing troublemakers. You’ll like these photos. A friend of mine took them and made me copies.”

I nervously opened the album with my cuffed hands and was excited to see pictures of what he’d been talking about back at the pub. They’d been taken from a distance, but clearly showed half-naked prisoners with wrists cuffed above their heads and uniformed men standing next to them holding sjambok whips.

This was all pre-internet, and so it was the first time I’d ever seen pictures like this. I looked through the albums as slowly as I could, trying to commit the images to memory. I didn’t dare look at him and was uncomfortably aware that I was blushing in my excitement. Unfortunately, my bladder chose this exact moment to remind me that I’d drunk four pints of beer that evening. I asked if I could use his bathroom and was surprised when he made no move to take the cuffs and shackles off.

He just grunted at me, “Upstairs, first door on the left.”

I was so excited about being in cuffs that I said nothing and carefully mounted the stairs by holding onto the bannister, pulling one shackled foot up at a time. But when I got to the bathroom and was standing in front of the toilet, not a single drop of piss would come out of my rock-hard nineteen-year old cock.

I waited and waited, paralysed with indecision, hoping it would soften enough to let the pee flow. But it was a vain hope and I was as hard as ever when the sound of Bill’s voice from the other side of the door startled me.

“What’s happening in there? You’ve been up here fifteen minutes already. Are you ill or being sick, or what?”

He didn’t wait for a reply before barreling through the door and looking shocked at the sight of my stiff cock.

“What the bloody hell is that?”

At that instant I devoutly wished the earth would swallow me up.

“You’re up here having a wank all this time, you stupid twerp, while I’m sitting downstairs waiting for you?”

I was embarrassed and ashamed, and there were tears in my eyes as I tried to choke out an apology.

“I’m sorry Bill, I had to pee something awful, but I can’t pee because my cock won’t go down. I really haven’t been wanking it, I didn’t know what to do.”

I fully expected him to tell me to leave his house and never talk to him again and was surprised when he just snorted with amusement. He left the room, leaving me rooted to the spot in embarrassment, and returned a minute later with a bag of frozen peas in his hand. He handed them over with a snigger and left without a word.

I was totally humiliated, but at least I had a way to get rid of my embarrassing erection. I pulled my trousers and underwear down and held the frozen package against my balls until my cock went limp; moments later a torrent of piss came surging out.

I hobbled downstairs in the shackles, blushing like crazy and unable to look him in the face. He still didn’t offer to take the cuffs or shackles off; just pointed me to the sofa. Humiliated and ashamed, I assumed our budding friendship was over before it even began, especially when I glanced over and saw his stern, disapproving look.

“Ben, I used to be a policeman, so I’m trained to smell out people who are hiding things or lying to me. At first I took you for a neat, quiet, well-behaved boy, not like all those scruffy hippies in our history class, but tonight confirmed what I’d already begun to suspect.

“I could see the other boys in class staring at the girls and trying to get their attention, but you didn’t take the slightest bit of notice. You were looking at the boys or glancing over at me at me when you thought I wasn’t looking.

“Listen son, I know the signs; when I caught up to you tonight you acted like a deer in the headlights and you’ve been like a love-struck girl ever since. After a few beers you were letting me touch you in ways no regular boy would stand for. When you snuggled up against me like a baby to its mother, I knew my instincts were right, I had a nancy boy on my hands.

“I might have just let you go home, but then you got all excited about discipline and punishment. You almost diyarbakır escort bayan fainted with excitement when I told you about flogging chained-up half-naked native boys! I wondered how easy it would be to get you into a pair of handcuffs; and lo and behold, bingo, you couldn’t wait. Then the pictures got you so randy that you had to run upstairs for a wank. Now, tell me I’m wrong about you being homosexual.”

He stared unflinchingly into my eyes and I meekly put my head down; there was no point in denying it.

“You’re right, sir, I know I’m that way, I’m not like most boys. I’m not interested in girls, I’ve never kissed one, never had a girlfriend. But I didn’t think anyone noticed.”

“Relax son, most people have no idea. You’re not effeminate and you don’t come across like a fag, though you should be more careful about staring at men with lust in your eyes.

“You know Ben, a few years back a young subordinate of mine got so plastered in the mess one night that I had to walk him back to his room. When we got there, he started crying and blurted out that he craved the same treatment that the native boys got. I’ve been disciplining needy young men ever since, and I can see that you want it too, don’t you?”

I nodded at him, excited in a way I’d never experienced before. I knew that if I didn’t grab this chance, I’d always regret it. I managed to stutter out the words.

“Yes sir, please sir.”

“That’s a good boy; go lie down on your stomach over the arm of the couch.”

My whole body was shaking as I dropped down, with my shackled feet on the floor behind me and my cuffed arms resting on the cushions in front of me. He stared at me for a couple of minutes, then went to get something out of a drawer and returned to stand directly behind me. He spoke quietly but deliberately.

“Did you ever misbehave at school and get sent to the Headmaster for a caning?

When I shook my head, unable to speak, he laughed and said,

“Of course not. You were one of those goody-goodies who never got into trouble, always obeyed the rules; never talked back to the teachers, never smoked in the boys’ bathroom, never cut the last lesson of the day. Right? Well you’re about to find out what you missed and what those naughty boys experienced.”

He put his foot on the chain between my ankles to stop me jiggling around and a moment later I felt the stroke of a cane across my backside. He gave me five more strokes before he let me up and took off the restraints. It had hurt, though maybe not as much as I feared, since he’d been hitting me through the layers of clothing. Once I was free, I stood rooted to the spot; uncertain, confused and very excited.

“That was just a sample. If you want a proper session, you’ll have to make up your mind about coming back. Think about it for the rest of the week and arrive sober on my doorstep at eight o’clock next Friday night. No pretence about being too drunk to know what’s going on; if you’re here it’s because you recognize who you are and what you need. Now, bugger off and I’ll see you in class.”

I walked along the quiet city streets on my way back up to the University, feeling my bum throbbing, telling myself not to go back. Why had I let him beat me and why on earth would I let him do it again, especially since he’d deliberately humiliated me and manipulated me into confessing my homosexuality? But of course, even while I posed myself the question, I knew nothing would stop me going back for more.

I’d got so excited and so randy that I couldn’t wait to get home before getting some relief. I snuck down an alleyway, hid behind a fence, pulled out my cock and had a wank right there in the dark. Fuck, what had happened to the quiet, law-abiding, innocent boy who’d arrived on campus only three weeks before? He was coming out of his repressed shell with a bang, that’s what!

I was a nervous wreck that week, constantly rewinding the events of that night in my mind while jerking off in my college room every night. Seeing him in seminar class only made me more frustrated, since he seemed to make a point of deliberately ignoring me!

On Friday evening I arrived on his doorstep at the dot of eight, to be greeted by him wearing his colonial police uniform of dazzling white shirt and shorts, white socks and polished black boots. The sight of him dressed that way got me so excited that I could hardly speak. I managed to blurt out a few words, but he cut me off, gruffly telling me to keep quiet as he cuffed and shackled me in the same way as the week before.

But instead of laying me over the couch, he led me upstairs to a tiny second floor bedroom at the back of the house. There were heavy curtains drawn across a tiny window to keep light out and noises in, and was otherwise sparsely furnished; just a bookshelf, an office chair and a small waist-height table he used as a study desk.

He pushed me up against the side of the table and forced me to lean over until my chest was resting on its surface and my cuffed wrists were hanging over the other side. He used a short length of rope to tie the chain between the cuffs to a hook in the floor below the desk, then took off the ankle shackles so he could remove my shoes, socks, trousers and underwear, then tied my ankles to the table legs.

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