Toughness, Part 3
After the time Mr. Patel strapped my bare back with a belt in his office, I thought about the experience whenever I faced a difficult situation at work. It was not just the pain that I remembered. I felt that Mr. Patel had taken an interest in me, that he was trying to help me perform better and advance in the organization. Wanting to show Mr. Patel that his trust in me was not misplaced, I reviewed the contracts I worked on carefully, took time to write my recommendations and, once I had made up my mind, forced myself to take a firm stand and not back down when challenged by co-workers. I felt I was becoming what Mr. Patel had called tough. But as the weeks passed, I noticed something strange happening to me. I could not escape a growing desire to receive another beating.
This meant I would have to take a note to Mr. Patel explaining that I had failed in some task at work. For a long time, I could think of nothing that would qualify as a failure and was on the verge of fabricating a transgression when I discovered a contract I thought was on the way to an important overseas client was held up in our legal department. I was able to fix this, but it was a close call and it gave me the excuse I needed to take a note to Mr. Patel. Early one Friday morning I went to his office, asked to speak with him, and passed the note to Mr. Patel. As he had done before, he told me to return to his office at six that evening.
For the rest of the day, I thought about what would happen when I went to Mr. Patel's office. I felt I was going to receive something I needed, something that would be good for me even though it would hurt. I had butterflies in my stomach when I knocked on Mr. Patel's door, but as soon as I saw him, I calmed down. Mr. Patel was sitting at his desk. He had removed his jacket and tie. Several buttons of his shirt were undone and he had rolled his sleeves, exposing his thick forearms. As I expected, Mr. Patel was smoking a cigar. His athletic body, the dark hair visible on his chest and arms, the steely gaze with which he greeted me all gave the impression of heady masculinity. I wanted to earn this man's respect. I wanted to be like this man.
As I stood in front of his desk, Mr. Patel picked up my note and read it again.
"This could have been serious. If that contract had been late, we might have lost their business. Attention to every detail is your responsibility. You are correct in believing you should be punished. Remove your shirt and place your belt on the desk."
I did as ordered. When Mr. Patel picked up my belt, he motioned me to the place where I had stood before. I crossed my arms on my chest and waited anxiously for the strapping to begin. The office was warm because the air conditioning was automatically turned down for the night. Mr. Patel continued to smoke his cigar for what seemed like a long time before he stood up and moved into position behind me. I could see his image reflected in the window glass. He snapped the belt and swung it through the air several times. I think he wanted to add to my discomfort by making me anticipate what was coming.
When the lashing finally began, it was fierce. He landed the belt in a precise area of my upper back and shoulders. I kept count of the strokes as the belt came down in the same places over and over. After twenty, when my back was becoming slightly numb to the pain, Mr. Patel paused and changed position. He delivered the next twenty backhanded, giving the impact of the belt a different intensity. I knew that Mr. Patel played tennis, and I wondered if this contributed to the strength of his arms and his skill in applying the belt to my back. Each stroke caused me to tense my body and gasp in pain. After the second twenty, I thought we were finished so I lowered my arms. That was a mistake.
"Get back in position," Mr. Patel said angrily. "I will tell you when we are finished."
Mr. Patel then delivered two more sets of ten strokes each. Even though my endorphin level must have been high, the pain was so searing I was unable to keep my body still. I started to hop up and down on my feet every time the belt struck. The only way I could keep my arms in place was by wedging my fingers into my armpits, which were damp with sweat. I wanted the beating to be over.
"Now we are finished," Mr. Patel finally said. He walked up to me and put his hand on my back. I flinched, even though his gesture was gentle.
"Your back is red and welted. You have been properly beaten. Go over to the desk and help yourself to a cigar."
I took a cigar out of the humidor on Mr. Patel's desk. After I lit the cigar, my breathing began to return to normal. I flexed my back muscles. My back felt tight, the same way it felt the first time Mr. Patel strapped me. Mr. Patel came over to the desk and handed me my belt. He picked up his cigar from an ashtray and went back to the couch, motioning me to join him. I threaded the belt in my trousers but did not put on my shirt before I joined him. I was still sweating and wanted to cool down first.
As we sat smoking, Mr. Patel began talking about some work related matters. He asked my opinion on several topics. I felt relaxed, the way I feel after a hard workout. I also enjoyed having the boss take an interest in my opinions. As we were talking, Mr. Patel commented that my cigar was burning unevenly. He told me to get the lighter from his desk.
"Let me show you how to correct that," he said when I returned to the couch. I was starting to enjoy smoking cigars, but Mr. Patel seemed determined to turn me into some kind of aficionado. He took my cigar and evened out the burn with the flame from the lighter. As I watched him, I realized Mr. Patel was correcting me in the same way he was correcting my cigar. Talk about work ended and for several minutes we smoked in silence. Then, Mr. Patel put his hand on my shoulder. He looked me in the eye as he spoke.
"Like my father, I could never beat my own sons. But I have no problem beating you. I enjoy beating you. It is something one man can do for another man. It brings them close to each other. This is how I became close to my grandfather. When he beat me, I believe he shared his strength and, yes, his love with me. I am sharing my strength with you. I make your beatings painful and am pleased that you endure them with fortitude."
I did not know how to reply to this, so I said nothing for a few moments. I could feel Mr. Patel's hand on my shoulder. I sat looking at him and smelling the cigar smoke that filled the air of the office. Then I said what I was feeling.
"Thank you, sir. It is strange, but for several weeks, I felt I needed a beating. It steadies me. I am grateful I can come to you for this. You are making me tougher, making me better at my work. It is important to me that I take your beatings like a man."
Mr. Patel smiled. He squeezed my shoulder hard and then stood up.
"Now it is time for you to get dressed and be on your way. Whenever you feel the need, bring me another note. You know that each beating will be more severe than the one before. Be prepared for this."
When I put on my shirt, my back was still tender to the touch of the cloth. It truly had been a proper beating. I shook Mr. Patel's hand and left his office feeling much calmer than I had when I entered an hour before. Also, my dick was hard. I didn't let it bother me. The next time I come with a note for Mr. Patel, in addition to the beating, I wondered what else might be in store for me.