Toughness, Part 4
Not long after my last punishment session with Mr. Patel, I noticed a change in the atmosphere at work. We all knew Mr. Patel had been involved in some nigh-level negotiations with another company about a merger. Now, although no one spoke directly about it, there was a sense that things were not going well. A day before a story appeared in the business pages of the newspaper, we were informed in a brief memo that the anticipated merger would not take place. I was curious about what had happened but did not expect to learn any more than what the public relations department released to the press. Then, unexpectedly, on a Friday morning in early August, Mr. Patel's assistant informed be that he wanted to see me before I left work for the day.
Mr. Patel smiled when I entered his office. Without inviting me to sit down, he told me he would like me to meet him at his house on Saturday afternoon to assist him for a couple of hours with a work-related matter. Was I free? I said my schedule was open and I would be happy to come to his house. He handed me a paper with his address on it and told me to be there at one o'clock. I asked if there was anything I should bring from the office and he said nothing.
"Wear whatever you wear on weekends," Mr. Patel said as I left his office. "My wife and children are at our summer place in Wisconsin, so there will be only the two of us."
His house was in one of the expensive suburbs north of Chicago. The houses were not visible from the street and were spaced far apart. A curved drive led to the front door. I rang the doorbell at exactly one o'clock. Mr. Patel answered and greeted me warmly with a handshake. He was jeans and a polo shirt. I usually wore jeans on weekends, but I thought chinos and a sport shirt would be more appropriate at the house of my boss.
"I expected you would be punctual and you did not disappoint me. Come in. Let me show you around before we go to work."
The rooms were spacious and decorated in a fashion I had only seen in magazines. Antique Persian rugs, which Mr. Patel told me his wife collected, were hanging on some of the walls. After our brief tour, Mr. Patel directed me toward a staircase leading to a lower level.
"My wife is responsible for this part of the house. Now I will show you my domain," he said as we descended the stairs. He led me to a room with wood-paneled walls and French doors opening on a landscaped terrace surrounding a swimming pool. The room struck me as a reflection of Mr. Patel's masculinity. Comfortable leather chairs, a bar, a big screen TV, and a walk-in humidor where I could see boxes of cigars on the shelves. I also noticed a desk, much like the one in his office, covered with papers.
"This is the only room in the house where I can smoke a cigar. My wife insisted I install an elaborate ventilation system that cost a small fortune. This is where I work when I bring business home, only here I do not have to wait until the employees have left the building before I light a cigar."
We exited through the French doors. Mr. Patel's estate, there was no other word for it, included a swimming pool, a tennis court, decks and outdoor seating areas, and a garage that could park several cars. This is where he led me.
We entered a room where there was a long workbench, a lot of landscape equipment, and tools, all neatly arranged on shelves. Since it was August, the garage was warm. I noticed Mr. Patel was no longer smiling. His face, with its strong features and dark, trimmed beard, had a serious look.
"This is where we will work," he said. "I have a special task for you. As you know, our merger with a rival company failed to occur. This cost my company a great deal of money. The merger was my idea and I persisted in it despite objections from our directors and others. This was a mistake on my part. Do you remember how I told you that when I was a boy and needed punishing, my father sent me with a note to my grandfather, who disciplined me? I want you to discipline me the way my grandfather once did. If you are not able to do what I ask, it will not be a problem."
I did not know what to say. I knew the beltings Mr. Patel had given me had improved my performance at work. They had created a bond between us that I felt with no one else. The toughness Mr. Patel said I needed to develop gave me the ability to handle this. I told him I would do what he asked.
"Good. I felt I could rely on you. We are doing this in the garage rather than my office because at this point, we are not boss and employee. We are just two men helping each other out."
Mr. Patel removed his shirt, drew his belt out of his jeans and laid it on the workbench. It was a thick, wide belt, the kind worn with jeans. I knew Mr. Patel was an athletic man who kept himself in good shape. Now that he was stripped to the waist, I saw that he was even more muscular than I imagined. Dark hair covered his chest and arms, and there was some hair on his back. Mr. Patel handed me the belt. He faced one of the shelving units and spread his arms to grasp shelves above his head.
"You are in charge. Give me as many strokes as you determine suitable for my foolishness. But do not go easy on me."
I realized I was about to beat a man I admired and respected. I was determined not to disappoint him. I had never used a belt on anyone. I saw Mr. Patel's reflection in the window of his office when he belted me. He stood behind me and to one side, raising the belt well above his shoulder and swinging it in a wide arc to connect with my naked back. I did the same. Once you figure out how to keep the belt landing flat on his back, whipping a man comes naturally. It was harder to know how much force to put into the swing.
"Harder," Mr. Patel shouted. "Make me feel this or we will change positions and I will teach you how this should be done."
I put more force into my swing, trying to land the strokes on meaty part of his upper back. The area started to turn red. The muscles in his back, neck and arms tensed. Mr. Patel tightened his grip on the shelves and started to make guttural sounds when the belt landed. I was giving him what he wanted.
When I realized I had not kept count of the strokes from the beginning, I paused the beating. Mr. Patel lowered his arms.
"Stay in position," I barked. "I will decide when we are finished."
Mr. Patel again grasped the shelves. His swarthy skin glistened with a sheen of sweat. Confident he could take it, I laid on the final twenty as hard as I could swing the belt."
"The punishment is over. Now you can lower your arms." It was only after I said this that I realized I was dripping in sweat, my shirt clinging to my body. I was feeling the endorphin rush I get after hard exercise. When he turned around, I handed Mr. Patel his belt.
"You've had a workout, my boy," he said, pushing the belt through the pant loops. "That was well l done. Thank you. You have indeed learned to be tough." Then Mr. Patel smiled. "I wonder, did you enjoy beating your boss, maybe just a little." I must have looked embarrassed because he came over and put his hand on my shoulder.
"Just a small joke. The matter of the failed merger is now behind me. We have both worked up a good lather. It is a warm day. Let us enjoy a cigar together and cool off in the swimming pool."
Mr. Patel carried his shirt as we walked back to the house. Once we were out of the garage, I could see several welts on his reddened back. I did not enjoy whipping Mr. Patel, but I did enjoy doing the job to his satisfaction. Mr. Patel told me I would find trunks in the pool house and left me. It felt good to get out of my wet shirt. I was standing on the deck of the pool when he returned, wearing in a robe and swimming trunks. He was carrying two cigars and a bottle of Scotch. By now I had learned enough about cigars to know the ones he had chosen were very expensive.
"This is a special occasion," said Mr. Patel, as he passed me a cutter and lighter. He poured us each a finger of Scotch. We sat and smoked in silence for several minutes. I began to relax after the tension of the session in the garage. The cigar was very good.
"Let us cool off in the pool. I enjoy smoking in the water on a hot day."
The pool was not deep. The water came only to our waists. We moved to where there was an ashtray on the deck. I could feel the sun on my back. Both Mr. Patel and I rested our arms on the side of the pool as we smoked. He was very close to me. We spoke of work matters. Mr. Patel was more aware of the projects I worked on than I expected. This made me feel proud. At some point, I realized arms were touching. Neither of us moved away. This physical contact with a man whose powerful masculinity always attracted me caused me to get an erection. I was embarrassed, fearing Mr. Patel would notice the bulge in my trunks. He put his hand on my shoulder and turned me so we were facing each other.
"I can see you are aroused. Do not be embarrassed. If you look, you will see that I am as well. At first, I looked on you as a son. Then I started to feel a stronger attraction to you. Even though we might wish otherwise, I am afraid nothing can come of this. I am married, with a family and many responsibilities. You have a career ahead of you. As it is, we share a special bond. I have tried to guide you with a firm hand. And today I have asked you to return the favor. This is something I hope we can continue to do for each other whenever needed. A man is fortunate if he has a friend who will help him become a better man." Mr. Patel pulled me into an embrace and kissed me on the forehead.
Standing next to each other in the cool water, we took our time finishing our cigars, the smoke rising in clouds above our heads in the warm, humid air.