Tommy was up and dressed when he kissed me good morning. "I have to go to work, Steve. Take your time, and don't forget that the pub opens at midday, and I recommend you be gone by then. By the way, I moved your bike just down the lane, so Bill thinks you have already gone home."
"And my clothes?"
"Bugger, I forgot about them," Tommy declared with a minor panic in his eyes. "I will go and get them now before Bill gets up. Mine are on the grass, but yours are in the pub, so hopefully, they are where you left them."
"Thanks, mate. I appreciate it. I wouldn't want Bill to find me creeping naked to my motorbike, would I?"
"Probably not the best move you could make," and then, hesitating, Tommy looked at me. "Will I see you again?"
"Yes. Yes, definitely, but not with Bill. Just you and me, and I can even sneak in here if you want."
Tommy grinned, a flash of genuine warmth that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I'd like that," he declared, his voice firmer than before.
I lay back in the bed, the lingering warmth of Tommy beside me mixing with the cool morning air seeping through the caravan window.
After a short while, the caravan door creaked open. Tommy stood framed in the doorway, pale and empty-handed. His eyes darted nervously around the tiny space before landing on me. "They're gone," he whispered, his voice tight. "Your jeans, your shirt... boots. Everything. “I did find your ripped Y-fronts, though, but they’re not much use,” as he held them up.
Looking out of the windows, I could see that Bill... Bill was already up. He was standing by the bench where we... where he left us. Tommy swallowed hard, his knuckles white where he gripped the doorframe. "I suspect he thinks you're here."
Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through the lingering warmth of the caravan. I scrambled upright, the thin blanket pooling around my waist. "He can't find you here, Steve," Tommy hissed, his voice dropping to a terrified whisper. He took a step inside, pulling the door shut behind him.
"He can't. If he finds out... if he finds you..." His eyes, wide and frantic, darted towards the small window overlooking the beer garden, then back to me. "He'll thrash me senseless. Worse than last night. Much worse. He doesn't share what he thinks is his."
The implications slammed into me. Bill’s possessive fury, Tommy’s raw, bruised skin, and the casual way Bill commanded and punished. Finding me here, naked in Tommy’s bed, wouldn’t be seen as a harmless fling. It would be a betrayal. My mind raced. The caravan offered no hiding place. The flimsy door, the single window, Bill could be outside right now, listening, watching the gap in the hedge.
Tommy moved with sudden, jerky urgency. He yanked open the small cupboard above the stove, pulling out a faded rugby shirt and a pair of worn tracksuit bottoms. "Put these on. Quick!" He thrust them at me, his hands shaking. "They’re mine, but they’ll do. Boots... boots are a problem." He scanned the tiny floor space, despair creeping into his voice. "You can’t go out barefoot."
He dropped to his knees, frantically pulling open the small drawer beneath the bed again. "Come on, come on," he muttered, digging past neatly folded rags. Finally, his fingers closed on something heavy and rubbery. He pulled out a pair of mud-caked, knee-high black Wellington boots. "Spares!" he gasped, relief flooding his face. "For when the ditches flood. They’ll be miles too big, but they’ll protect your feet." He shoved them towards me. "Put them on. Now!"
I scrambled into the tracksuit bottoms, the elastic waistband loose around my hips. The rugby shirt fitted almost perfectly as I jammed my feet into the enormous wellies; they swallowed my calves whole, the rubber folding and buckling around my ankles. I stood there, in Tommy’s clothes, looking utterly ridiculous in certain respects, but my modesty was restored.
Tommy stared. His eyes widened, darting from the clothes to the cavernous boots. A strangled sound escaped his lips. Then, suddenly, a burst of genuine, startled laughter erupted from him. It was bright, unexpected, cutting through the thick fear in the caravan. "Steve," he gasped, clutching his stomach, tears springing to his eyes. "You look... You look so bloody funny!" as he dissolved into another fit of giggles, the sound pure and freeing amidst the tension.
The absurdity hit me, too. The sheer ridiculousness of the situation, naked moments ago, now in Tommy's cast-offs, preparing to flee a possessive pub owner like a thief. Tommy wiped his eyes, his expression hardening. "Right," he breathed, peering cautiously out the small window. "The coast is clear, for now. Go. Through the gap in the hedge behind the oak, then follow the ditch line towards the lane. Keep low. Your bike's tucked behind the big hawthorn bush, about fifty yards down."
"Thanks, Tommy, I will," hesitating for a moment to kiss him goodbye, I then left following his instructions, and sure enough, I found my motorbike and wasted no time escaping for home.
The ride home was uneventful, the cool morning air whipping through Tommy’s clothes as I navigated the country lanes. The oversized wellies, however, made shifting gears clumsy, their rubber folds slapping against the footpegs with each movement. But the physical awkwardness was nothing compared to the turmoil inside as I vowed to help Tommy if I could.
I pushed open my front door, the familiar scent of toast and coffee washing over me. My parents sat at the kitchen table; Mum sipped tea, while Dad scanned the newspaper. They both looked up as I shuffled in, the ridiculous clothes and the massive wellies making each step a rubbery thud.
"What on earth has happened?" Mum asked.
So, I sat down as mum pushed a plate of toast towards me, her brow furrowed. Dad lowered his paper, peering at me over his reading glasses. "Steve, love... what in blazes are you wearing? And where are your own clothes?"
I took a deep breath, the scent of warm bread suddenly sharp and grounding. "It's... complicated," I started, my voice rough. I told them about the broken bike, the pub, and Bill. The words tumbled out: the coercion, the fear, the way Bill treated Tommy like property. I didn't sugarcoat the violence, the control, the raw vulnerability of Tommy sleeping in my arms after Bill had marked him.
Mum’s knuckles whitened around her teacup. Dad’s face grew stony, his jaw tightening as I described Tommy’s frantic panic that morning, the stolen clothes, the terrified flight in borrowed gear. "He’s trapped there, Dad, Mum, and I think I might be in love with him," I finished, my voice thick. "Bill owns him, controls everything, petrol, food, his caravan. He hurts him. Badly. And Tommy thinks he has nowhere else to go."
“What, from one night you think you might be in love with him?” Mum enquired.
“I feel something I haven’t felt before, Mum.”
Dad shook his head, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "If he’s in that much danger, Steve," he stated, his tone brooking no argument, "perhaps you should bring him here. To live with us. For a while. Get him safe."
Mum nodded firmly, her eyes fierce. "Yes. Bring him home, Steve. Today."
The offer hung in the air, solid and real. Hope, sharp and sudden, surged through me. Tommy deserved safety, warmth, and a place where no one owned him. With that offer burning bright in my chest, I knew what I had to do. I wouldn't wait.
I gulped down the toast and coffee, I changed into my own clothes, the familiar denim and cotton feeling like armour after Tommy’s baggy cast-offs. The borrowed rugby shirt and tracksuit bottoms, still smelling faintly of lemon polish and Tommy, I folded them carefully. The ridiculous wellies I stuffed into a carrier bag. I needed to return them, but I needed to see him and tell him my proposal. I would just have to wait for the working day to finish, that’s all I could do, my impatience seeping through the calmness my family provided.
I headed back to the pub early in the evening, the setting sun painting the sky in purples and oranges. This time, I hid my motorbike well off the lane, tucked deep into a farmer’s field entrance nearly a mile away, shrouded by dense hawthorn. The walk back felt longer, the crunch of gravel under my boots unnervingly loud in the quiet dusk.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I approached the familiar oak tree. The caravan was dark, the door locked. No sign of Tommy. Peering through the small window, I saw only neat emptiness. Where was he? Cleaning the pub? Already serving? Or had Bill kept him close? A knot of anxiety tightened in my gut. I couldn’t just wait. He needed to know about the lifeline waiting for him.
Decision made, I slipped around the back of the pub, avoiding the lit beer garden. The back door was propped open with a crate, likely for deliveries or air. Inside, the familiar scents of stale beer, fried food, and disinfectant hit me. I could hear the low murmur of early evening drinkers from the bar, accompanied by the clinking of glasses. Moving silently down the narrow corridor past the storeroom, I reached the door to the main bar area. Taking a steadying breath, I pushed it open just enough to peer through the crack.
And there, perched on a stool behind the bar, was Tommy. He was polishing a pint glass with slow, absent motions, his head bowed in a forlorn manner.
As I continued to peer through the door, I heard behind me, "I want to talk to you."
I turned to find Bill standing behind me. "Hi Bill," was all I said.
"Hi yourself, boy," his anger obvious. "I understand that you stayed last night, and you allowed him to trim you, and then apparently, he gave you the best blowjob of your life."
"I did, and yes, he did, and it was the best blowjob I have ever had. Perhaps you should stop beating him, and he might have a different approach with you, you know."
"My my, is this love I see before me? Have you come to save him, Steve?" Bill demanded with a hint of pure sarcasm.
"I have if you will let him leave. Will you let him leave?"
Bill leaned against the grimy corridor wall, arms crossed over his broad chest. His eyes, cold and assessing, scanned me from head to toe. A slow, unpleasant smile spread across his face. "Of course I'll let the useless prick leave," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "But there's a price to pay, though."
Bill pushed off the wall, looming closer, the stale beer and sweat scent clinging to him. "A price you will pay. Right here. Right now, this evening, if you really want the ungrateful bastard."
"Of course, there’s a price. It wouldn’t be you if there weren’t. Okay, how much?" I demanded from Bill.
Bill's smile widened, predatory and cold. "Not money, boy. Not this time. I fancy my pound of flesh. That's my price."
Bill took another step, closing the distance until I could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the stale tobacco and beer on his breath. His gaze dropped deliberately to my crotch, then back up, holding mine with chilling intensity. "Tommy gave you a taste of heaven last night, didn't he? Seems only fair I get a taste too."
My stomach lurched. The corridor felt suddenly suffocatingly narrow. "Your pound of flesh? This evening?" I echoed, disbelief warring with a sickening sense of inevitability. Bill thrived on humiliation, on dominance. This was pure power play.
"What is your price, Bill? You want to fuck me roughly again?"
"No, boy. If you want him, you accept a thrashing on his behalf. 50 strokes of my paddle. You agree, then Tommy walks. Your choice."
The words hit me like a physical blow. A paddle? Bill's thick, wooden paddle hung behind the bar, a brutal instrument Tommy had described with terrified whispers. The thought of its sting biting into my bare skin sent a wave of cold dread washing over me, freezing the blood in my veins.
“Fifty strokes? That isn't punishment; it’s bloody torture, Bill,” I told him as my stomach clenched, nausea rising. Could I endure that? Could I stand there and take it? For Tommy?
"Agreed. When?" I declared to Bill.
"In that case, boy, after the pub closes. Now, go and tell Tommy the good news. It might cheer him up after the dreadful day he's had."
“Yeah, I’m sure you have given him a dreadful day as only you could do.”
I pushed open the bar door. Tommy looked up from polishing glasses, his eyes widening briefly before a hesitant, hopeful smile touched his lips. He glanced nervously towards the corridor where Bill stood watching before focusing back on me.
I slid onto a barstool directly in front of him, leaning close enough to whisper. "Tommy," I murmured, my voice low and urgent. "My parents... they know. About Bill. About everything. They want you safe. They’ve offered you a room. With us. For as long as you need."
"Wow, really?" Tommy asked, wondering if it was a sad joke.
"Really," I confirmed, keeping my voice low. "But Bill agreed to let you go... with a condition." Tommy's hopeful expression faltered, replaced by wary dread. "After closing, I take fifty strokes of his paddle, hanging there. For you. That's his price for your freedom."
Tommy's face drained of colour. The pint glass slipped from his fingers, shattering on the bar floor with a sharp, discordant crash. Beer and shards sprayed everywhere. "No!" he gasped, eyes wide with horror. "Steve, you can't! That paddle... he'll break you!" He grabbed my wrist, fingers trembling. "He hits hard. Fifty? You won't be able to walk! Your beautiful body will be ruined. You can’t."
I covered his hand with mine, squeezing gently. "I will be able to walk," I said, forcing conviction into my voice, though cold fear coiled in my gut. "Because I'll have you. And Tommy..." I hesitated, the words thick and unfamiliar, yet undeniable. "...I love you. I think."
The admission hung between us, raw and terrifyingly real. "And having you will be worth it," I tried to reassure him.
Tommy stared at me, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. He searched my face, looking for doubt, for hesitation. Finding only resolve, a choked sob escaped him. Then, with sudden, fierce tenderness, he leaned across the bar. His lips met mine, soft and desperate, tasting of beer foam and the salt of tears. "I love you, Steve," as he kissed me again, deeper this time, a promise sealed in the scent of hops and desperation. “No one has ever loved me until now, and you will do this for me.”
Understanding what he had just said, I had to respond. “Yes, I will, for you and for us. I will heal, I will recover, and we can be together.”
Bill’s voice sliced through the moment, cold and sharp. "Tommy! Clean that mess!" He gestured contemptuously at the shattered glass and spilt beer pooling on the floor. Tommy flinched, pulling back instantly. He scrambled for a cloth, his movements jerky, eyes darting fearfully between Bill and me. Bill’s gaze lingered on me, a cruel amusement twisting his lips. "Enjoying your last moments, boy?" he mocked. "Make yourself useful. Fetch me a pint."
The command hung heavily. I moved behind the bar. Tommy whispered, "Be careful", barely audible. My hands felt clumsy as I pulled the lever on the ale tap, filling a clean pint glass. The bitter scent of hops filled my nostrils. I slid the full pint across the bar towards Bill. He snatched it up without a word, not even a glance of acknowledgement. He drained half in one long gulp, foam clinging to his stubble. Then, with a final, predatory stare that promised pain, he turned on his heel and marched out through the back door, disappearing into the deepening twilight towards the shed in the beer garden.
The next hour crawled. Every clink of a glass, every murmured conversation from the dwindling customers felt amplified. Finally, the last two old-timers drained their pints, shuffled off their stools, and mumbled their goodnights.
Tommy locked the front door behind them with a decisive click that echoed in the sudden silence. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood for a moment, shoulders slumped. Then, taking a deep breath, he began methodically switching off lights, the neon signs flickering out, the overhead fluorescents plunging the main bar into shadow, leaving only the dim bulb above the sink area casting long, distorted shadows.
The back door slammed open. Bill filled the doorway, silhouetted against the twilight gloom of the beer garden as he strode into the bar, lifting the paddle from the wall where it hung, thick, dark wood, about eighteen inches long, its surface worn smooth by countless impacts.
His gaze swept the room, lingering on the spotless bar top, the stacked chairs, the locked till. Satisfied, he turned his full attention to me. The cold amusement was gone, replaced by a flat, predatory intensity. He tapped the paddle lightly against his palm. "It's time, boy, for you to buy your boyfriend with a pound of your flesh."
My throat tightened. The air tasted stale, thick with the ghosts of spilt beer and fried food. "This is the only way," I told myself, the words a desperate mantra echoing in my skull. "Take the pain. Take Tommy home," as I looked at the paddle, impossibly heavy, its purpose terrifyingly clear. “It’s the only way I told myself, and it will be a simple thing. I just have to endure.”
I forced my legs to move, following Bill as he turned and marched back out into the cooling evening air. Tommy trailed silently behind me, his breathing shallow and rapid, audible in the quiet.
The shed stood at the far end of the beer garden, a squat, weathered structure I’d barely noticed before. Bill unlatched the heavy padlock and swung the door open with a groan of rusty hinges. The smell inside hit me first: damp earth, old wood, and something sharper, like linseed oil. Bill flicked a switch, and a single, bare bulb dangling from the rafters cast a stark, unforgiving light.
My breath caught. Dominating the centre of the cramped space was a sturdy wooden bench. It wasn’t makeshift; it was purpose-built. Thick, dark timber formed a low, angled platform, its surface worn smooth. Leather straps, thick and heavy, were bolted securely at each corner, their buckles gleaming dully in the harsh light. A padded leather rest for the chest sat at the higher end, while lower down, two distinct depressions marked where knees would be forced apart. Tools of the trade hung neatly on the wall beside it: a selection of paddles, straps, and a wicked-looking cane.
"Just for you, Steve," Bill chuckled. "Only the best for you to experience, and Tommy, you get to watch this time, you lucky bastard."
Bill pointed the paddle towards the bench. "Strip, boy. Everything off. Then get yourself positioned properly. Chest down, knees in the slots. And spread those legs wide. I need a clear swing."
My fingers felt numb, clumsy as I unbuttoned my shirt, folding it slowly, deliberately, placing it on a clean patch of the dusty floor. My jeans followed, the denim rough against my skin as I peeled them off, folding them too. The cool air of the shed raised goosebumps on my bare skin. Finally, I stood in just my white Y-Fronts, the thin cotton feeling absurdly vulnerable. I hesitated, my hand hovering at the waistband.
"Steve, no!" Tommy's voice was a raw whisper, choked with panic. He stepped forward, placing himself between me and Bill, his thin frame trembling. "Bill, please... take me instead. Punish me. Not him. He doesn't deserve this!"
Bill's laugh was a short, brutal bark. He shoved Tommy hard, sending him stumbling back against the rough wooden wall of the shed. "This ain't your dance, Tommy," Bill snarled, his eyes never leaving mine. "This is between me and your Loverboy here. He wants to play the hero? He pays the hero's price. Now," he jabbed the paddle towards the bench again, "strip, boy. Or the deal's off, and Tommy stays."
Tommy's choked sob echoed in the small space. I met his terrified gaze, saw the silent plea, the crushing guilt. “For him,” I thought again, the mantra a lifeline. My fingers, cold and stiff, hooked into the waistband of my Y-Fronts. I pushed them down, stepped out, and placed them neatly on the folded pile of clothes. The air felt clammy against my bare skin. Avoiding Tommy's eyes, I turned towards the bench.
"No hard-on, boy?"
Bill's mocking voice followed me as I approached the bench. My cock hung soft and vulnerable between my thighs. The wood felt cold and rough against my bare chest as I lowered myself onto the padded leather rest. I positioned my knees into the carved depressions, the edges digging into my skin. The leather straps hung heavy and cold beside my wrists and ankles. Bill didn't move to buckle them yet.
He ran the flat of the paddle slowly down my spine. The wood was shockingly cold. "Spread wider, boy," he commanded, tapping the inside of my thigh with the paddle's edge. I shifted my knees apart until my arse was fully exposed, the cool air raising goosebumps. Behind me, Tommy made a small, wounded sound, surrendering to the event that remained outside his control.
"Such a beautiful arse you have, boy. I might take afterwards, if you don’t mind," was all Bill said as he started to secure me to the bench.
The thick leather straps bit into my wrists and ankles as Bill buckled them tight, the buckles clicking with finality. He tested each strap with a sharp tug, ensuring no give. The bench held me fast, chest pressed into the padded rest, knees forced wide apart in the depressions, my bare backside fully exposed to the cool air and Bill's gaze. Behind me, Tommy's ragged breathing was the only sound besides the rustle of Bill's movements.
"Fifty strokes it is, my boy, 50," Bill confirmed, and then my punishment started.
The first blow landed without warning. A sharp, explosive CRACK echoed in the shed, followed instantly by a wave of pure, white-hot agony that seared across my buttocks.
I gasped, my body jerking violently against the restraints, the leather straps biting into my skin. The pain was immense, a deep, bruising impact that stole my breath. Before I could even process it, the second strike landed lower, across the tender crease where buttocks meet the thighs.
A choked cry tore from my throat. Bill swung with brutal, methodical force, each stroke delivered with a grunt of effort. The paddle wasn't just wood; it felt like a slab of stone, heavy and unforgiving. Fire bloomed across my skin with every impact, the pain radiating deep into the muscle, building and layering.
My vision blurred with involuntary tears as we passed five strokes and then ten strokes. I squeezed my eyes shut, biting my lip hard to stifle the screams, tasting blood. The only sounds were the sickening THWACK of wood on flesh, Bill’s ragged breathing, and Tommy’s soft, desperate sobs from the corner.
With pain overwhelming me, I slipped into some sort of trance when I heard, "You sadistic cunt," followed by a clearly defined whack and next, Bill was on the floor next to me, and I felt my restraints being released. “You’re safe now, son.”
My father was pulling me off the bench with Tommy's help. Tommy's hands were trembling violently as he fumbled with the ankle strap buckle, his tear-streaked face inches from mine.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he choked out, the words barely audible over Bill's groans from the floor. I looked at my father, his face was granite, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek. He didn't speak, just worked with furious efficiency on the wrist restraints, his strong hands surprisingly gentle as he lifted me away from the torture bench. My legs buckled instantly; the agony in my buttocks and thighs was a white-hot inferno, as Tommy held me.
Dad turned to Bill on the floor, who was clutching his bleeding head where something had connected. "You fucking cunt," Dad snarled, the words thick with a rage I'd never heard before. He hauled Bill up by the collar of his shirt with terrifying strength, ignoring Bill's cry of protest. Bill, stunned and off-balance, stumbled forward. Dad manhandled him towards the bench, shoving him face-first onto the cold, blood-smeared wood where I'd just been strapped. Bill tried to twist away, but Dad slammed his palm down between Bill's shoulder blades, pinning him hard against the padded rest as he secured him using the restraints that had seen many a body fixed to receive punishment.
Then I realised, I'd forgotten to tell anyone present that Dad was an ex-sergeant major in the army. A fucking hard nut, as he would describe himself. Decades of discipline, battlefield command, and a zero-tolerance policy for bullies were etched into the rigid line of his shoulders.
“Bill was out of his league as Dad manhandled the prick with ease and years of experience dealing with, as he would say, “Fuckwits.”
He hefted the paddle, testing its weight like a familiar weapon. The cold, calculating focus in his eyes wasn't rage anymore; it was the terrifying calm of a professional about to administer justice. Bill twisted his head, saw Dad's expression, and the blood drained from his face. "Wait! You can't,” as Bill's protests choked off as my Dad looked at him.
"You fucking hurt my son, you pay. You fucking hurt his new boyfriend, you pay, being a fucking cunt, you pay. So, fuckwit, you ready to taste your own medicine?”
With a swift, practised movement, Dad drew a wicked-looking clasp knife from his pocket. The blade snapped open with a sharp, metallic click that echoed in the sudden silence. He didn't hesitate. Gripping the waistband of Bill’s filthy jeans, he sliced downwards with brutal efficiency, the razor-sharp steel tearing through denim and the cotton of Bill’s old underwear beneath.
The fabric parted like paper, exposing Bill’s hairy, muscular buttocks and the vulnerable cleft between them to the cold shed air. Bill let out a strangled cry of shock and humiliation, bucking wildly, protesting his innocence.
"Fifty strokes, I believe you suggested,” was the only thing my dad said.
The paddle whistled through the air, a dark blur against the bare bulb. It landed with a sickening, wet THWACK that echoed like a gunshot in the cramped shed. Bill’s entire body convulsed against the restraints, a guttural roar tearing from his throat. Dad didn’t pause.
He planted his feet wide, shoulders squared like he was facing down an enemy bunker, every ounce of his formidable weight and decades of coiled military fury channelled into the swing.
The second stroke landed lower, across the meaty swell just above Bill’s thighs. The sound was heavier this time, a brutal slap of wood on flesh that made Tommy flinch beside me, his grip tightening on my arm. Bill’s roar dissolved into a high-pitched scream.
Dad swung again. And again. Each stroke was delivered with terrifying precision, the paddle rising and falling in a relentless, punishing rhythm. It wasn’t just anger; it was righteous fury, cold and focused, poured into every impact. Bill’s pale buttocks bloomed an angry, mottled crimson, the skin splitting in places under the relentless assault, thin trickles of blood mingling with sweat on the worn wood. Bill’s screams became ragged sobs, interspersed with desperate curses that dissolved into incoherent babbling.
He thrashed wildly, but the thick leather straps held him fast, the bench groaning under his violent struggles. Dad’s face remained impassive, a mask of grim concentration, the only sign of his fury the white-knuckled grip on the paddle handle and the rigid set of his jaw. The shed stank of sweat, blood, fear, and the sharp tang of linseed oil from the paddle.
"Twenty," Dad counted, his voice flat and hard as flint. He paused, rolling his massive shoulders, the paddle resting lightly against Bill’s ravaged flesh. Bill whimpered, a broken, animal sound. Dad adjusted his stance slightly, bracing himself to resume as Tommy buried his face against my shoulder, trembling violently, unable to watch the systematic destruction of his tormentor as I stood, naked, in Tommy's arms, enjoying the retribution that Bill was experiencing in front of us.
Dad continued, stroke after stroke, the numbers a grim litany in the shed’s oppressive silence broken only by Bill’s choked sobs and the relentless THWACK of wood on meat. Sweat beaded on Dad’s brow, his breathing controlled, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t just punishing; he was erasing Bill’s power, one brutal impact at a time. Bill’s struggles ceased entirely by stroke thirty-five; he hung limply, his head lolling, only a low, continuous moan escaping his lips. The skin of his buttocks and upper thighs was a grotesque tapestry of deep purple bruises, split open in several places, weeping crimson.
Tommy clung to me as we heard, Forty-five. Bill didn’t even flinch anymore as Dad finally said, Fifty and then, throwing the paddle onto the ground, turned to Tommy and me. "Let's go home, boys"
"What about him, Dad?" I asked.
"Him fuck him. Leave him there. He will be found tomorrow, and I'm sure he's going to appreciate the night to think about what he's going to say to the person who finds him."
My father's voice was granite. He didn't spare another glance at the broken man strapped to the bench, bleeding and whimpering. He simply turned, his expression softening only slightly as he looked at Tommy and me. "Come on, lads. Home."
The journey back was a blur of pain and relief. Every bump in the road sent fresh waves of agony radiating from my battered backside. Tommy held me steady in the back seat, his arm tight around my waist, his face pressed against my shoulder. Dad drove in silence, the set of his jaw speaking volumes.
Mum was waiting at the door, her face pale but composed. "Oh, my boy," she breathed, her eyes instantly filling with tears as she took in my naked state. She’d prepared a steaming bath in the downstairs bathroom, the scent of lavender oil heavy in the air. Towels and a clean dressing gown were neatly folded nearby. "Get him in there, Tommy, love," she instructed gently, her voice thick with emotion. "I’ve got the spare room all made up for you, dear."
Dad, hanging his coat, snorted softly. "Marion", he said, a rare, almost imperceptible warmth softening his granite features as he looked at Tommy supporting me. "I figure these two will be sharing a bed moving forward."
Mum blinked, then a slow, understanding smile spread across her face. She nodded, pressing a quick kiss to my temple before bustling away, murmuring about fetching painkillers and cocoa.
Tommy guided me into the steamy bathroom, his touch infinitely gentle. The lavender scent was overwhelming, thick and sweet. He helped me lower myself into the hot water, inch by agonising inch. I hissed as the heat met the raw, bruised flesh, the sting stealing my breath.
Tommy knelt beside the tub, his eyes wide with concern. "Too hot?" he whispered. I shook my head, gritting my teeth. "Just... stingy." He dipped a flannel into the water, wringing it out carefully before beginning to sponge my back, my shoulders, avoiding the worst of the damage. His movements were reverent, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed unmarked skin. He didn't speak, just focused on the task, his presence a quiet anchor in the haze of pain. He rinsed the flannel again, gently dabbing at my face, wiping away the dried tears and grime from the shed.
"After this," Tommy started, "You're going to bed and I'm going to hold you all night because I love you."
I smiled at him. "I love you too. And I'm never letting you go after this event. I think the price was worth it, but I’m not sure Bill will be feeling the same way.”
“Fuck’im,” was all Tommy said in response to my declaration of love.
The bath was agony and bliss. The hot water finally eased the deep ache in my muscles, though the surface of my skin felt raw and hypersensitive. Tommy helped me out, towelled me dry with infinite care, avoiding the dark, mottled bruises blooming across my buttocks and thighs.
Back in the bedroom, Mum appeared with strong painkillers and a mug of cocoa, her eyes lingering on my injuries with a mix of fury and profound sadness before she kissed my forehead and left us.
Dressed in soft pyjama bottoms Tommy had found, worn loose to avoid pressure, I shuffled painfully to my double bed. Tommy slid in beside me, his body a warm, protective curve against my back, his arm draped gently over my waist. Exhaustion, pain, and the deep thrum of safety, the painkillers and cocoa, pulled me under almost instantly.
I slept well that night in the arms of my boyfriend, but I woke to the sound of Dad talking to someone at the front door. Low, urgent voices filtered up the stairs. Dad’s familiar gravel, steady and controlled, and another man’s voice, deeper, official-sounding, clipped. My heart lurched. The police? Tommy stirred beside me, his eyes wide and fearful in the grey light of dawn filtering through the curtains. He’d heard it too. We lay frozen, straining to listen.
Tommy squeezed my hand as we heard to front door close. "Stay here," I whispered, easing myself out of bed.
Every movement sent sharp reminders of the paddle’s work flaring across my backside, but the deep, grinding ache had lessened overnight. I pulled up the loose pyjama bottoms and padded silently down the stairs, wincing at each step to find Mum and Dad in the kitchen looking pleased with themselves.
Dad was pouring tea, his expression happy but calm. Mum buttered toast, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips. They both looked up as I shuffled in. "Who was at the door, Dad?" I asked, leaning heavily against the doorframe.
He set the teapot down. "Sergeant Collins," he replied, his voice steady, almost casual. "Returning your clothes." He gestured towards a familiar bundle on the kitchen chair: my shirt, jeans, and Y-Fronts all neatly folded as I had left them. "Seems he found Bill this morning. An alarm was raised when Bill didn't open the pub for a delivery."
Dad picked up his mug, took a slow sip. "Collins found him exactly as we left him. Strapped to that bench." He met my eyes directly. "Seems Bill was... indisposed. Couldn't talk much. But Collins is no fool. He found your Y-Fronts neatly piled on top, your name tag still stitched inside the waistband from your school days."
A flicker of grim satisfaction crossed Dad's face. "Collins figured someone had discovered Bill beating you and took... umbrage. Severe umbrage, by all accounts, was deciding that Bill needed a taste of his own medicine. A lot of it."
"And?" I asked.
Dad took a sip of tea before continuing. "Colins suggested to Bill it would be wise if it was officially recorded as the worst case of self-flagellation the Police had ever seen, and no further action would be pursued."
"And?" begging for more information.
"Bill agreed very quickly, and apparently, he appeared a reformed and contrite character today."
Relief hit me like a physical blow, washing away the last dregs of fear. Without another word, I turned and stumbled back upstairs, ignoring the sharp protest from my bruised muscles. The bedroom door was slightly ajar. Tommy sat bolt upright in bed, the duvet clutched to his chest, his face pale and etched with terror. He’d heard every word.
"It's over," I breathed, the words thick with emotion. "You're free. Truly free."
I crossed the room in three strides, ignoring the twinges, and jumped onto the bed, landing on his stomach. His eyes, wide and searching, met mine, filled with disbelief and a desperate, fragile hope. "Bill agreed. The Police... It's done. He can't touch you ever again."
The fear in Tommy’s eyes shattered, replaced by a flood of pure, unadulterated relief. A sob escaped him, raw and ragged. Before he could speak, I leaned down and kissed him. Not the hesitant, stolen kisses we’d shared before, but with a lover’s deep, consuming passion.
It was a kiss born of relief, triumph, and the fierce, protective love that had driven me back to that pub. My lips claimed his, urgent and tender, pouring everything I felt into that connection. The pain endured, the fear overcome, the overwhelming joy of his freedom. Tommy gasped against my mouth, his initial surprise melting into fervent response.
His hands, trembling slightly, slid from my back, down over the loose fabric of my pyjama bottoms. They slipped underneath the soft cotton, his cool fingers finding the heated, bruised skin of my bottom. He didn't recoil from the damage; instead, his touch was achingly gentle, tracing the swollen ridges and tender valleys left by the paddle, a silent apology and profound gratitude mingled in that careful exploration.
The touch shifted, becoming deliberate, seeking. His fingers trailed lower, grazing the sensitive skin where thigh met groin, brushing against the base of my cock. It stirred instantly, hardening against the soft cotton. Tommy hooked his thumbs into the waistband, easing the pyjama bottoms down just past my hips, exposing the swell of my bruised buttocks and the hard line of my erection straining upwards. The cool air hit my heated skin, a sharp contrast that only heightened the sensation.
Mum poked her head through the door and saw my bottom with his hands exploring the welts. "Don't sleep all day, boys," was all she said as she closed the bedroom door, providing the privacy we craved.
A soft gasp escaped Tommy’s lips, his breath warm against my neck. He rolled me gently onto my back, the mattress yielding beneath us. The loose pyjama bottoms slid further, pooling around my thighs, offering no barrier now. My cock sprang free, fully erect, flushed and aching against my stomach. Tommy’s gaze locked onto it, filled with a reverence that made my breath catch. He leaned down, his lips parting, and took me into his mouth with the same tender urgency he’d shown in the caravan. Warmth, wetness, suction, a familiar intimacy that flooded me with comfort and sharp, undeniable arousal. His tongue traced the sensitive ridge beneath the head, coaxing a low groan from my throat. He hollowed his cheeks, drawing me deeper, his fingers tracing feather-light patterns on my trembling inner thighs.
"Hopefully, you will enjoy this even more," he said as his mouth enveloped my manhood as only Tommy could do.
Tommy's mouth worked with a desperate tenderness, his tongue swirling and lips pressing in a rhythm that felt like absolution. Every flick and suck sent jolts of pleasure radiating through me, momentarily eclipsing the deep throb of my bruises. I tangled my fingers in his hair, not guiding, just anchoring myself as sensation built, a slow, delicious coil tightening low in my belly. His eyes, when they flicked up to meet mine, held a fierce devotion that stole my breath more than his skilful mouth.
He pulled back slightly, lips glistening, breath ragged. "I need to feel you," he whispered, voice thick. His hands trembled as he pushed my pyjamas completely off, then hastily shed his own orange pyjama bottoms. The sight of him, pale skin, lean frame, eyes wide with love and lingering fear, made my heart clench. He straddled my hips carefully, avoiding the worst of the bruising, his hard length pressing hot against my stomach. Reaching behind himself, he guided me, slick with his spit and my precum, to his entrance.
Tommy sank slowly, inch by exquisite inch, his face contorting in a gasp of pleasure-pain. The tight, welcoming heat enveloped me completely, a perfect, claiming pressure.
We moved together, a slow, deep grind at first, finding our rhythm. Each thrust drew a soft moan from him, echoed by my own ragged breaths. His hands braced on my chest, fingers digging slightly as he rode me, his gaze locked on mine. There was no urgency born of fear now, only the profound intimacy of connection, of safety finally won. The friction built, delicious and inevitable. I arched my hips, meeting his downward plunge, driving deeper. Tommy cried out, sharp and sweet, his body clenching around me as his own release spilt hot and wet between our stomachs. The sudden, intense tightening pushed me over the edge. Pleasure detonated, white-hot and blinding, flooding through every nerve as I pulsed inside him, my groan muffled against his shoulder.
We collapsed together, spent and trembling, limbs tangled. Tommy nestled his head against my collarbone, his breathing gradually slowing. Outside, the morning sounds began with birdsong, distant traffic, a world carrying on, blissfully unaware. Downstairs, the faint clatter of dishes and Mum’s low hum drifted up. Tommy traced a finger lightly over a particularly dark bruise on my hip. "Never letting you go either," he murmured, voice thick with sleep and contentment. The warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart against mine, and the quiet sounds of home wrapped around us like armour.
For the first time, the future felt wide open and entirely ours, but one question remained on Tommy’s lips. "Steve, why do you have a name tag in your Y-Fronts? You seriously have worn them to school?"
"Yep, and Mum got fed up with me losing Y-Fronts all the time. It's the first time, though, a policeman has returned them."
"Try not to make it a habit, lover. Your body is now mine, and no sharing Y-Fronts with anyone except me if you are happy to share."
At that, we laughed and snuggled under the duvet, falling in and out of sleep until mum shouted, "Brunch, boys."
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