Of Butterflies and Cocks

Author:

It is hard to explain, standing in a cold corridor with your best friend, that sense of queasiness, almost nausea, butterflies in the stomach. Yet at the same time there is a very real pulse of blood filling one’s cock. Fear and pleasure, a paradox impossible to explain.

 You know the routine, the spacious study, you stand in front of the large wooden desk. There in front of you is the instrument of retribution, no way you can miss its length, its evil yellow colour with almost a patina from incalculable young men’s bottoms.

At the command you will present your own buttocks in simian prostration to its attentions. There will be 3 phases, the tap signalling anticipation, the sound as it strikes home towards its target, the strike preceding a searing, burning pain. Each phase both nearer the end and yet heightening the pain. You pray there is no streak of menace that will deliberately leave a cut too low or at the end a cut across its predecessors, re-inflaming each to new heights of torture. Please let me be dignified in my pain, to take it like a man.

There is no respite from the nausea, blood keeps slowly pulsing filling my cock in anticipation. Will I be first? If so will I recover enough to sate myself on my friends presented buttocks, or will I wallow in self pity in my pain. The butterflies or the cock.  Will my friend go first, to watch his tight clad bum or stand in dread of torture to follow.

Afterwards there will be a fire but as it dulls there will be a sense similar to eating chilli, leaving a addictive warm afterglow. With luck we will compare cuts and mutually sate the cock as the butterflies retreat.

I am broken from my reverie as a door opens, there is a command to enter. I glance at my mate. He has a look of resignation. In 3 minutes it will be over. I will be no wiser about the butterflies and the cock.