Discipline and Love

Some guys never do figure out who they are or why:
not Dauane -- he's figured it all out.

I need to be told what to do. Control. Discipline. I don't have any. Where did the need come from? Damn if I know. I was a late child, an only child, a spoiled brat, actually. Mom and dad gave me everything. They loved me, maybe too much. Not that there weren't rules and punshiments growing up. But somehow it was never enough. Dad was an intellectual. Caught me matsurbating one morning. Didn't blow up. Explained. On and on and on, he explained. I think it would have been better if he had just ignored it or slapped me down and called me names.

In school the only teachers I paid attention to were the ones that almost all the other kids hated. The loud, bombastic, sarcastic, insistent you do it their way or else ones. That's why I loved basketball. Coach was a martinet. He told you when, how and who about everything in your life -- exercise, diet, haircut, clothes. And, sex. Coach Martin had a nose for the smell of cum. That's the only way I can explain it. He'd browbeat you for beating off, or fornicating, sapping your energy. Based on my own experience, and the other guys' reactions, it seemed he was on target every time. If anything, it seemed the lessor of the two evils for Coach was masturbation. Coach was death on females. When our star center showed up mid-season with this tiny signet ring on a gold chain around his neck Coach tore a hole in the roof. It sure was easy to understand why Coach never married. What woman in her right mind would have him?

The team bitched and moaned about Coach a lot. But he knew basketball. We won games. We won tornaments. My senior year we won the state championship. I'd been celibate, or whatever you call it when you don't do anything sexually, for two years at that point. Coach said don't do that, I didn't do that. Nothing stopped my body's growth and the hormones. Even Coach couldn't do that. When I had a wet dream I didn't remember the dream. I just wadded up the PJ bottoms, took a shower and scrubbed myself clean. The one time I woke late and rushed off after just wiping down with the soggy cotton of my PJs Coach went off on me for five minutes about the evils of self abuse. Now that was a nose. At least eight hours after the fact and he knew I had cum smeared on my belly.

Later I always wondered about Coach. Use to remember him stomping through the locker room, smacking butts, gruffly congratulating us on another win, quickly turning to what we didn't do right, chewing ass. Then I'd fantasize about what happened after we left; all except Coach and this kid without a face. This kid that had really screwed up. This kid that Coach would bend over the edge of the whirlpool and paddle with his bare hand. This kid that Coach would send into the showers to lick up the floor, Coach standing over him, shoving him back down with his foot when he tried to get up. This bare foot, shoving hard in the middle of a bare back.

Somehow they were both naked now. Coach was shouting at me about discipline, following the rules, doing what you are told. I was loving it, groveling on the floor, my ass burning, my cock aching, my balls tingling. Oh, yes, it always turned out the kid was me. Me, forced by that ugly, hairy, foul mouthed man to take the most degenerate of punishments. Like the night he had me crawl in the drained whirlpool with a bar of soap and lather up while he pissed on me. Or the night when everyone left their lockers open, their sweat stained uniforms, jocks, socks and towels crumpled at the bottom. That night he had me collecting every item, one item at a time, going from locker to the laundry baskets on my hands and knees. I wasn't allowed to use anything but my nose and my teeth to pick up and transport things. I was in heaven sniffing and slobbering and scurrying faster every time he got impatient and swung that ham hand down to blaze a palm print on my butt.

It all never really happened. And, Coach would have exploded smelling the cum that splattered all over every time I had one of those day dreams. In truth, I'm pretty sure Coach was asexual. But he was my first master. I think every guy I've hooked up with since has been under the cloud of comparison with Coach. Too pretty, dump him. Voice to refine, dump him. Can't cuss like a swabbie, dump him. Swings for my head not my ass, dump him. Hey, I want to be dominated and disciplined but not abused.

Except: Casey. I get a rush just remembering Casey. We didn't meet in the usual way. I'm not into the bar scene. Oh, when I'm desperate, I go there, do what is necessary and get the hell out as quickly as possible. I met Casey when our hands both reached for the same book at the local library. He growled at me to watch it and almost knocked me down as he shoved his way back down the aisle. A man who knew what he wanted and wasn't letting anyone get in his way. My kind of man. I trailed him out to the reading room. Sat in the chair next to him. He ignored me. Went home with him that afternoon.

Casey took me places I had never been before. I'd never let anyone tie me down. My prototype had been a verbal man. My imprinting dictated a need that didn't include bondage. But Casey was persuasive, self assured, sneering at me for my reluctance, calling me names, pushing all the right buttons. He tied me up, and then he raped me. I loved it. It was total submissiveness, total dominance, a new high that left me shivering and quaking for nearly an hour after he climaxed. And it scared me.

What else would he do? How far would he go? How far would I let him go? How far did I want him to go? That last question I didn't even want to consider after giving in a quickly as I did, and loving his abuse like I did.

Casey was a rude and crude sort of guy. And yet to look at him you'd figure him for a shy nurd that was happiest hunched over his computer keyboard. He was five eleven and chunky with a big round face that seemed always to be looking at the world in amazement. Actually that wide eyed look was because the shit hardly ever wore his glasses. And the freaky clothes? Well that was because Casey was also a cheap bastard. Everything he owened came from the Salvation Army or the Hospital Guild's Thrift Shop -- except the fixtures and fun toys in his little black back room. It was his attitude and foul mouth that gave him away. Well not actually gave him away. They just let you know he sure as hell wasn't what he appeared to be.

Casey was one of those guys with a hot meat radar build into his soul. He could instantly spot submissives and guys like me who didn't know they wanted his abuse. And he loved to double us up. I mean he'd found a perfect aphrodisiac for someone like me. He'd shacle me spread eagle on the wall to watch him with some other guy. Or force march me into that room with some guy already hanging there. Either way the forced voyeur would have his head in a hood that held it steady looking right where Casey was going to perform. The spotlight was always on his victim for the night. If you were the treat for the evening he made sure you knew you had an audience. If you were the captive audience he made sure you watched. Like he could sense if you tried to avert your eyes or closed them. Those hands would reach out and give you a love tap with his first and only verbal caution. After that, if he caught you not playing your part, whatever the torture you hated was what you got. Weights stretching your balls to your knees? Tit camps that made you bite through your gag? Hard strokes with an authentic cat-o-nine-tails? Whatever it was, you didn't get to play with Casey until he had identified for himself, and for you, just what repulsed you that you would keep coming back to get.

I remember the first time he trussed me up on that wall. I was immobile and in the dark. Sensory depravation tactics I assumed. The door creaked open after I had nearly reached a state of panic. In stode Casey leading this tall lanky balck dude with a choke collar around his neck. His hands were already bound behind his back, chain gang shackles on his ankles. Casey was bad mouthing him, using the vilest cracker language. Casey strapped that buck over a padded saw horse and beat those plump black melons until they were blistered. His 'friend' never uttered a sound. Not a whisper. Casey made sure I understood my part, right from the start. He'd already explained and so there was no fist time tap. His fingers left a red welt under my ear when he caught me with my eyes rolled up, studying the ceiling. So, I watched.

That was the worst torture of all. All I could do in my position was watch. I twisted and tried somehow, anyhow, to stimulate myself watching Casey and that stud. I was dying to masturbate. I moaned and groaned trying to convey to Casey my plea for him to just once touch me, stroke me, turn loose the fire. He grinned at me and just keep on, fucking that black ass, slow sensual, deliberately teasing us both. What made it worse was the noise. That dark skinned dude was into having his raw ass fucked. He went deep into his plantation fantasy and wailed away. Telling Massa John he'd be good. Begging Massa John to not do that any more. Twitching that black ass, giving a visual lie to all his protests. When his dark brown dick splattered his white jizz down on the black vinyl there was a roar that reverberated throughout the room.

Casey left that dude twitching and moaning, scooped up a handful of that Afro-American cum and smeared me with it. When his slick hand finally grasped my throbbing cock it only took three pulls and I was rocketing my own juices at Casey and the floor. He casually wiped off my aching legs and dimmed the lights. I could hear but not see. Then the door creaked open again and they left me alone. I swear the bastard left me there another three more hours.

Scrubbing me down and pampering my sore muscles in his sauna tub Casey told me about our visitor. He was the Assistant Chief of our fair city's Vice Squad. He'd run Casey in five years ago as part of a raid on what is now Swingers, then called Woody's; place always was a hot and heavy leather bar. Casey's radar worked and saved his ass that night. He'd been playing mean ol' Massa John at least once a month ever since.

In his way Casey loved me. We shared a lot those last four years. I was shattered the day he died. He had a massive coronary and keeled over at his desk. There wasn't any family, damn few friends. There were just three of us at the funeral: me, the Assistant Cheif of Vice and the pretty boy former pro quarterback that was the Tribune's Sports Editor. Casey left me the house and a private letter. In it he advised me to find a new master and turn over the keys to the house and my heart. I'm still searching. Any applicants out there??