Whipping from a Workman
Greg had done some masonry repair work at my house four years ago and now he was back for another job, this one pretty small. I remembered him as an outgoing guy who enjoyed humorous banter. He made fun of me for worrying too much, but he did it in such a good-natured way I couldn't help but like him. He was one of those men it is easy to flirt with; he definitely liked getting attention from anyone. Greg had a working man's body--big arms shoulders and chest. He had a fine head of wavy hair, a mustache, and a face I would describe as craggy. He wasn't exactly handsome, but I enjoyed looking at him. As he worked, Greg, wearing a t-shirt and jeans, frequently bent over at the waist, exposing his lower back and butt crack. This caught my eye as being both funny and sexy.
Greg told me this was his last job for the day. Even though it was September, the temperature in the late afternoon was almost eighty degrees. I had been planning to take advantage of the warm weather and smoke a cigar outside. When Greg saw the box of cigars on my porch, he asked if I liked to smoke them. I told him I did and invited him to join me in one if he was inclined. He readily agreed.
After we lit our cigars, I went in the house and got us both a double shot of good Scotch. Because I hate the smell of cigar smoke on my clothes, I pulled off my t-shirt before I sat down. Greg smiled when I told him why I did this. I know he thinks I am too fastidious, but within a few minutes, saying he might as well get comfortable, he stripped off his own sweaty shirt. I am in decent shape, but my build is on the lean side, and I envy men with beefy bodies. Greg definitely had a beefy body. I got the idea Greg was matching me move for move, first agreeing to a cigar and then baring his chest. I decided to see how far I could take this.
When conversation about work and the weather lagged, Greg abruptly asked me what I liked to do besides smoke cigars. By this point, the Scotch has lessened my inhibitions a bit. I had a feeling Greg was the kind of guy you could not shock, so I went for it. I told him that when I was a young man I developed a taste for receiving a belt leathering that had stayed with me over the years. Greg seemed amused by this, but he didn't say anything, so I let the subject go.
We smoked our cigars in silence until Greg said he needed to take a piss. I directed him to the bathroom inside the house. When he returned, Greg stood by my chair and slowly unbuckled his belt in front of me. He told me he thought he could accommodate my taste for beltings if I was serious about what I said. This took me by surprise, but I was not going to let the opportunity pass. I invited him to follow me to the basement, where no one would hear any loud noise we made. We took our cigars with us.
In the basement, I had nailed a three-foot board to the exposed ceiling joists. When I grabbed this board, my arms were raised and extended outward, making my back a good target for a belt. I demonstrated this for Greg, but he said he wanted to start on my butt and ordered me to drop my pants and shorts and bend over the workbench. Although I was a little fearful, because we had not talked about limits, I obeyed. Greg kept his cigar in his mouth, stood back, and laid into me with his belt. He gave me a solid butt whipping. Near the end, I was gasping in pain each time the belt connected with my butt cheeks. Greg laughed when he put the belt down, saying he guessed I really was serious about my "little perversion." I pulled up my pants and grabbed my cigar from the ashtray. We both smoked for a bit, Greg sitting in an old chair, me standing and rubbing my sore behind.
Eventually Greg asked if I had had enough, or did I want more. I told him I would like to feel his belt on my back. Whatever you want, he said, and ordered me into position. Again keeping his cigar between his teeth, Greg began to lash my upper back. I was relieved he knew enough to stay away from my lower torso. It was another solid leathering, painful enough to satisfy my need to feel the real thing. This time I counted the strokes, punctuating each number with the word "Sir." After twenty strokes, Greg said he thought that would do for now. I was holding on to the board above my head so tightly I could see my knuckles were white when I lowered my arms. You are tougher than I thought, Greg told me. We were both sweating and the basement was filled with cigar smoke. I got two work rags and tossed one go Greg so we could wipe ourselves down. I suggested we finish our cigars on the porch. Climbing the basement stairs, I flexed my back muscles so I could feel the tightness in my back that comes after a good whipping.
When I asked Greg why he agreed to indulge my "perversion," he told me growing up he had received many whippings from his father, so many he wondered if his father enjoyed beating him. He saw this as a chance to see what it was like to be on other end of the belt and maybe to get a little revenge for what he suffered at his father's hand. Before Greg left, I complimented him on his masonry work--and on the leathering he gave me. Greg flashed his sardonic smile. Your interest in belts is catching, he said. We should do this again some time. You provide the Scotch and the stogies. I'll bring the belt.