Just Joe and the rhino whip (Part 2)
By Hornblower
Just Joe's appetite for sex became insatiable. After that first night when he let me take his virginity he just couldn't get enough of it. It was as if he was making up for all the years of missed opportunity before finally coming to terms with his orientation and surrendering himself to another man. We fucked four, and sometimes five times a day and I marvelled at his stamina---and mine. We fucked in the bedroom and on the couch. We fucked in the barn and out in the paddock with Just Joe stretched over the back wheel of the tractor. One day we packed a picnic lunch and hiked up to the top of the rocky outcrop behind the farm and we fucked on the hilltop, with the great vista of the Australian plains rolling out far below us. I began carrying a packet of condoms and a tube of lube around with me wherever I went because I never knew when I was going to stumble across Just Joe waiting to ambush me with his impish grin, those big dark eyes of his checking me out from under his long lashes, and a big bulge in his tight cut-off denims telling me that he was hard and ready to go again.
"Joe---we just did it. Not even an hour ago."
A beseeching look of little boy innocence. "Please, Mike. I need it."
For a 20-year-old Just Joe could contrive to make himself look incredibly young. It was his angelic choirboy looks and his mop of blond curls that had made me desire him from the moment he came jauntily up the path to my property, looking for work. That and his tight young body, his gorgeous butt with its two delectable cheeks of firm round flesh, and of course his chirpy personality. Maybe he was an out of work drifter but there was a pride in the way that he held himself. He looked you in the eye when he spoke to you and he had the confidence of a man who knew what he wanted. There was a refreshing honesty to his character that made him all the more desirable.
Mostly what Just Joe wanted was sex. He wanted my big cock, and he wanted as much of it as I could give him. It had been a painful introduction for him because I'm pretty well endowed--Just Joe reckons I'm mega hung--but once he had learnt to cope with the size of it there was no stopping him. I would fuck my jism into him, powering into him with my big cock, pounding and thrusting until every last drop was drained out of me and I would collapse across him, too exhausted to move. Then he would snuggle up to me, nuzzle his angelic face against me and cover me with tender kisses that, tired as I was, would instantly start to reawaken my passion. In no time I would be hard again and Just Joe would squeal with delight.
"Yeah! Fuck me again, Mr Bigcock!"
I had set free a beast of uncontrollable sensuality. Just Joe was a sex machine, and the more I gave him the more he wanted. But I had also unleashed a darker side to his sexuality that I didn't entirely understand. I had seen it in his desire to be tied to the bed the first night we fucked, and I had seen it when he found an old sjambok in the barn. It was a wicked implement, made from rhinoceros hide, that my old dad had brought home as a souvenir from a visit to South Africa though God knows why. The old man wouldn't have hurt a fly and he never lifted a hand to me when I was young, never mind a whip. Just Joe had been fascinated by the whip. His breathing had become heavy when he played with it, and I knew that he was aroused.
One evening I came back from a hard day's work in the upper paddock to find Just Joe at the computer.
"Look at this," he said. "It's all about whips. Did you know you can buy them on the internet? There's a bit here about the sjambok."
"Joe, there's a lot of things I'd buy off the internet," I said "but a whip sure as hell isn't one of them."
He ignored me, engrossed in what he was reading.
"Shit, listen to this. `The sjambok was used by the South African police to keep order during the apartheid era. This little beauty is capable of inflicting a severe punishment. Not for the faint-hearted. Applied to the bare buttocks the sjambok will cause extreme pain, extensive bruising, welts, and deep cuts. It can leave permanent scars. Ten strokes is the recommended maximum even for an experienced player,' "
"Nasty," I said. I wondered why I had kept the sjambok. My father was long since dead but the whip had hung forgotten on the barn door and it wasn't until Just Joe found it that I had remembered its existence, otherwise I would have thrown it out years before.
That night Just Joe came and sat on the end of my bed, knees pulled up to his chin, big brown eyes looking at me earnestly.
"Mike, can I ask you a serious question?"
"Of course you can."
"You won't rouse on me?"
"No. Why should I?"
Just Joe shrugged. "Dunno. You probably won't like it."
"It depends what you are going to ask me."
"I'm going to ask you to whip my bum with the sjambok."
"You're crazy."
"Yeah, I know. I still want you to do it, but."
"Joe, I couldn't do that," I said. "The sjambok would cut your arse to shreds. It's a fucking lethal weapon."
"I need it, Mike." His tone was pleading.
"Why, for fuck's sake?"
"Because."
I reached out to embrace him but he pulled away.
"I'm dead set serious, Mike. I've got to get a whipping."
I could sense his determination and I realised there was no point arguing with him. Just Joe had a way of getting what he wanted and I knew that he would wear down my resistance until I agreed.
I sighed. "Joe, that's one hell of a thing you're asking. I don't want to hurt you, fuck it, I love you."
Just Joe laughed. "No you don't. You love fucking me." He was right of course and we both knew it. For all his youthful innocence, he was wise enough to know the difference between love and lust. I was a fool to think that my feelings for him were anything more than a carnal desire for his lithe young body, so why shouldn't I hurt him if that's what he wanted?
"Why don't you think about it?" I said. "Today's Monday. If you still want it on Saturday I'll do it for you."
He moved up the bed and hugged me, kissing me on the lips.
"How many are you going to give me?" His eyes were bright, and I could tell that he was excited.
"How many what?"
"How many strokes, of course. What do you think a guy my age should be able to take?"
"Fuck it, Joe, I don't know. Maybe six?"
"Six!" Just Joe was contemptuous. "That would be a kid's punishment. What should a man take?"
"Joe, you saw what it said on the web. Ten strokes with a sjambok would be an extreme punishment. You don't want that."
"You don't know what I want," Just Joe said. He was breathing heavily, very turned on by the thought of getting his gorgeous little arse flogged.
"That's one hell of a lot of pain you're asking for," I said. "Have you any idea how much it's going to hurt? A whipping isn't like getting your bum smacked. It's serious pain."
"Yeah, serious pain---you'll have to tie me up. Put me in leather straps so I can't move." He was getting himself more and more turned on and I decided to play along, surprised to discover that this talk about whipping was making me horny. I visualised Joe's young body suspended naked from a beam in the barn, legs spread wide, and his firm round buttocks trembling in anticipation of the torment to come.
"You're going to have to learn what real discipline is all about," I said firmly. "And you better get it into your head that you are going to be very severely punished."
A shudder ran through his body and I pulled him closer to me, nuzzling his ear.
"You're really going to get it," I whispered. "You're going to get whipped like a man. You're going to be tied to a beam and flogged until you scream for mercy."
"Yeah, Mike. Yeah!" He was clinging tightly to me. "You're going to hang me from the beam and whip me. You're going to make me take it like a man."
I ran my hand over his smooth buttocks, feeling their firmness as he pushed back hard against me. We were panting, hot and ready for action, and I found his hole with my probing fingers.
"Fuck me, Mike," he whispered. "Fuck me up the arse."
I pulled his legs up over my shoulders and guided my cock into him, sliding it in hard all the way. He let out a small yelp but fucking my massive length was no longer the painful experience it had been for him when I took his virginity and he quickly settled himself to my rhythm, lifting himself to meet my thrusts, using his muscle to clamp the base of my cock and pull me into him. We were like wild beasts, our desire fuelled by the talk of the whip and the suffering that Joe would be forced to endure, and we surrendered ourselves totally to an uncontrolled frenzy of lust and passion.
I used all the power of my muscular hips to ram my cock into him and still he wanted more, screaming at me to fuck him harder until we climaxed together in an explosive starburst of release that left us both too exhausted to move.
As the week went by Just Joe became more preoccupied with his anticipation of the ordeal that lay ahead of him. I could see fear in his dark brown eyes but I knew that he was determined to go through with it. He prepared the barn, fixing two pulleys to the overhead beam, he used the old horse leathers to make wrist and ankle straps that would be used to restrain him when the time came for his whipping, and he spent an entire evening oiling the sjambok until the leather was supple and shiny.
Then at last it was Saturday. The day of the flogging. The day when Just Joe would learn to endure the unendurable.
I kept him occupied with tasks around the farm all day to take his mind off it but he was inattentive and he almost crashed the tractor.
"Joe," I yelled at him. "Get off that tractor and come here. You're going to get whipped for that."
He came and stood in front of me, looking down at his feet. It was the first time since I had known him that he hadn't looked me in the face.
"I'm sorry, Mike."
"Sorry isn't enough," I said. "You were stupid and careless and you could have had an accident. You'd better go to the barn and take your clothes off. I will come and deal with you when I'm ready."
I left him for a couple of hours, alone with his fear, and went to prepare myself. I had a leisurely shower and when I was dry took a bottle of baby oil which I rubbed liberally over my hard upper body until it glistened. I dressed in a pair of very tight black lycra boxers that hugged my arse and fitted tightly around my big thighs, a pair of riding boots and a wide leather belt which I buckled around my waist. I checked myself in the mirror and was satisfied that I looked suitably intimidating.
It was dark by the time I got to the barn. Just Joe had lit a couple of hurricane lamps which cast a dim, flickering light and he was standing there naked in their glow, looking pale and nervous.
"It's time for your whipping," I said. "Are you ready for it?"
Just Joe bit his lip and nodded. "Yes, Sir."
"I have been thinking about what to give you," I went on. "Ten strokes of the sjambok is a very severe punishment. A lot of adult men would find that too much for them."
"I can take it," Just Joe said defiantly. "I'm not a boy."
I knew that he had psyched himself up for ten but I was about to destroy his self-confidence, to teach him the first cruel lesson of punishment, that however bad you think it is going to be the reality is far, far worse.
"I know you're not a boy," I said. "That's why I had made up my mind to give you ten until that little incident with the tractor this afternoon. Now you're going to get fifteen strokes, and I expect you to take them like a man."
"Fifteen!"
"You heard me. Fifteen. Now get me the sjambok."
Just Joe fetched it from its hook behind the barn door and handed it to me tentatively.
"Get me the restraints." He fetched the leather wrist and ankle straps, standing passively as I buckled him into them. Next I fed two lengths of rope through the pulleys on the beam and tied them to the buckles of his wrist restraints. I positioned him under the beam then pulled on the left hand rope until his arm was raised up and he was forced to stand on tiptoe. I tied the rope off to a post then repeated the process with the right hand rope. Just Joe was spreadeagled, arms stretched wide apart, feet barely touching the floor. I fixed ropes to his ankle restraints and tied them to the support posts on either side so that his legs were spread wide and his firm white butt was forced outwards towards me.
The scene was making me extremely horny. Despite his apprehension and the humiliation of his situation, Just Joe was still incredibly attractive with his lithe brown body and his mop of blond curls. He was trembling and the gorgeous white mounds of his arse were covered in goose pimples. His buttocks had the chiselled perfection of a Michelangelo statue and whipping them was going to be like whipping a priceless work of art. But he wanted it. He wanted to prove something and to do that he would have to endure the outer limits of pain, and maybe the scars that went with it.
"Sir...?"
"What is it?"
"Can I have something to bite on?"
I found a short length of rubber hose which I put into his mouth and he clamped his teeth on it gratefully. He was one hell of a tough kid, and he was determined not to cry.
It was time to begin. I stepped well back, measuring the length of the sjambok against his arse. The whip was about three feet long with an ebony handle and it tapered from a three-quarter inch diameter at its widest point down to about a quarter inch. I stood about two feet away from Just Joe so that the end of the whip would do its work. It would land on both buttocks at once, ensuring that his pain would be intensified.
"One!" I said and swung the whip high above my shoulder, slashing it down on to his arse with all my strength. His body jerked forward, stretching his restraints, and a livid weal appeared instantly on his white flesh.
He didn't make a sound, biting hard on the length of hose to exercise his control.
I waited until I was sure that he was feeling the full impact of the pain and then I let him have the next one.
"Two!" I said and the whip bit into his arse, leaving a cruel red mark just below the first. Again his body jerked violently against his restraints and again, he endured it without a sound.
"Three!" I put more force into this one, and I was rewarded with a grunt as the whip slashed into him.
"Four!" Another grunt, stifled by the rubber gag.
"Five!" His body was struggling to get away from the cruel blows, pulling against the ropes that suspended him from the beam. He let out a low moan, and I could sense his agony.
"Take it like a man," I snapped and brought the whip down harder for Number Six. He groaned again, louder, but kept biting on the rubber hose.
So far I had laid the strokes in neat parallel lines, each a millimetre or two below the other. I laid the next three strokes diagonally across the red weals and if the pain of the first six had been intense, the thrashing of his body told me that these strokes were much, much more painful. At least one of the strokes had cut the skin, and a trickle of blood ran down the back of his thighs. He had taken nine but there were still six to go, and I didn't intend to spare him.
"Ten!" I put my full weight behind it and the whip cut deeply into his buttocks, drawing more blood. He screamed, but the noise was choked by the gag.
I let him rest after that and he hung there suspended in his restraints, panting from the pain he had endured.
"That's ten," I said. "That's a man's punishment. Now let's see what you can really take."
He shook his head and his eyes dark pleaded for me to stop. But he had taken this much, and I knew that he wouldn't forgive me if I let him off now.
I gave him a five minute respite then it was time to start again.
"Brace up. You're going to feel some real pain now."
"Eleven!" I let him have it with my full strength, swinging my body and arching the whip down from high above my shoulder. It slashed into his tender flesh with a noise like the crack of a pistol shot. Again his scream was stifled by the rubber gag but the thrashing of his body told me how much it had hurt.
His buttocks were badly cut now and I had to wipe the blood away before I could continue.
"Twelve!" It was the cruellest blow yet.
"Thirteen!" The groaning stopped abruptly and I realised that he had passed out, his body hanging limply in its restraints. I waited until he came round.
His eyes were wide and staring, vacant, like someone on drugs. He was lost in a dungeon of pain and I doubted if he knew any longer where he was, or what was happening to him. He spat out the length of hose that he had used to stop himself from crying out.
I hesitated, not sure if he could take any more. His young body was bruised, battered and bleeding. He had endured an incredible amount of torture that would leave him scarred for life.
And then I saw his cock. It was hard up against his rippled belly, its shiny head distended.
"Do it, Mike" he croaked.
"Fourteen!" I said and slashed the whip into him.
He screamed out. But it wasn't pain. It was triumph.
"Again!"
"Fifteen!"
He let out a deep primal roar and his handsome young face showed not pain but ecstasy.
"YES!" he shouted and his hard cock shot great spurts of semen onto his chest and his belly, and then he slumped forward limply against his bonds and I knew that he had passed out again.
I let him down gently and untied him. His buttocks were a mass of criss-crossing cuts and angry weals from the savagery of the whipping that I had given him. He was in a cold sweat, and I realised that I would have to get him back to the house as quickly as possible to get him warm. He was still barely conscious and I half dragged and half carried him.
I bathed his arse in warm water and antiseptic, and then found a balm to rub into the cuts and after a while he began to compose himself. I wrapped him in a blanket and sat him in front of the kitchen stove with a can of beer while I made dinner. He managed a small smile, not quite his trademark impish grin but enough to let me know that he was ok.
"Thanks, Mike," he said, fixing his big dark eyes on mine.
The whipping was never mentioned again, though I won't pretend I didn't enjoy it. I did, and I thought of it often when we fucked, picturing his tight young body suspended from the beam, thrashing in torment as the whip bit into his tender flesh.
Spring stretched into summer but we didn't notice. Just Joe and I immersed ourselves totally in the joy of lust, our lovemaking as intense as it had ever been, with just the scars on his buttocks to serve as a reminder of the ordeal he had insisted that I put him through.
And then one night he came into my room, perching on the end of the bed in his familiar pose with his knees drawn up to his chin.
"Got to go tomorrow, Mike," he said and I felt a terrible wrenching deep down in my gut. I wanted to plead with him to stay but I knew that it would be pointless. If he had made up his mind to go, then go he would.
That night our lovemaking achieved new heights of passion. We fucked with an intensity that was almost superhuman, once, twice, three times, each one better than the last, and we were still going when the kookaburras screeched their pre-dawn cacophony.
Later I watched as he set off down the path to the main road, his few possessions in the swag slung across his shoulder.
"Joe!"
He stopped and looked back.
"You're a real man," I said and he waved, flashing me his dazzling smile. It was the tribute he wanted. The tribute that he had earned on that cruel night in the barn. He turned and went on his jaunty way, head held high. Just Joe had come to terms with his sexuality. He had endured the unendurable, with the scars on his arse to prove it, and now he was ready for the world.
Copyright Hornblower 2002