A Firm Hand in the Gym

The train ride from Leeds back to his old stomping grounds took just under two hours, and Alex spent most of it staring out the window at the grey Yorkshire drizzle, wondering why the hell he’d even bothered to RSVP. Nostalgia, maybe. Or curiosity. His first year at university had been a blur of lectures, library sessions, and the occasional regrettable hookup at the student union, but something kept tugging him back to this place. Not the school itself—the bland corridors and the smell of floor polish—but the people. The ones who’d shaped him in ways he still didn’t fully understand.

Mr Morris, for one.

The man had slippered him. Sixty hard, stinging whacks across his bare arse, bent over his own coffee table, after a chance encounter at the Fox and Hound pub that had somehow ended with Alex sobbing into a whiskey glass and confessing every half-arsed effort he’d ever made on the rugby pitch. And then, weirdly, it had worked. Alex had gone back to Leeds and actually applied himself. Shown up to seminars. Handed in essays on time. Even joined a casual touch rugby league. He’d wanted to tell Mr Morris that. Wanted to see the old bastard’s face when he admitted that maybe, just maybe, a sore arse and a stern talking-to had knocked something loose in his skull.

But when he walked into the alumni event, held in the school’s main hall with its vaulted ceiling and portraits of dead headmasters glaring down, there was no sign of Derek Morris.

Instead, there was punch.

Lethal stuff, bright pink and swimming with chunks of unidentified fruit, and Alex had already downed two cups before he spotted Jamie Chen and Priya Okonkwo from his old form group huddled near the buffet table. Hugs were exchanged. Gossip was traded. Jamie was doing medicine at Imperial. Priya was taking a gap year to “find herself” in Bali. Alex told them about Leeds, about the rugby, about the bookshop job he’d quit last summer, and they all laughed too loudly and refilled their cups and pretended the school hall didn’t still smell exactly like adolescence.

That was when a heavy hand landed on Alex’s shoulder.

“You must be one of Morris’s projects.”

Alex turned and found himself staring at a chest. A broad, solid chest wrapped in a navy tracksuit jacket with the school crest embroidered over the heart. He tilted his head up. And up. The man was a fucking mountain—six foot three at least, with a thick brown beard that crept up his cheekbones and a pair of shoulders that looked like they could bench-press a small car.

“Sorry?”

“Alex, right?” The man grinned, and it was the kind of grin that didn’t leave much room for argument. “Albert Edwards. I’ve taken over from Derek as head of sport. He mentioned you.”

Alex felt a strange flutter in his gut. “He did?”

“Said you had potential. Said you needed a bit of… encouragement, now and then.” Mr Edwards’s eyes glinted. “I’ve heard all about how Morris had to take you in hand.”

Alex’s face went hot. He took a gulp of punch to cover it. “That was—I mean, it was a one-off thing. I was in a weird place.”

“Sure.” Mr Edwards didn’t sound convinced. He folded his arms, the tracksuit fabric straining over his biceps. “Anyway, I was just telling some of the lads about the new gym facilities. Funded them myself. State of the art. You should have a look.”

Alex opened his mouth to politely decline, but somehow the words that came out were, “Yeah, alright.”

He didn’t remember agreeing to a tour. He didn’t remember walking away from Jamie and Priya, or crossing the courtyard, or pushing through the double doors into the sports complex. But suddenly there he was, standing on freshly varnished floorboards, breathing in the scent of new rubber mats and metal, while Mr Edwards gestured proudly at a row of gleaming treadmills.

“All top of the range. Heart rate monitors, incline settings, the works. And over here—”

Alex trailed after him, nodding in what he hoped were the right places. He wasn’t really listening. He was too busy noticing the way Mr Edwards moved—heavy and deliberate, like a man who knew exactly how much space he took up and wasn’t about to apologise for it.

They stopped in front of a gym horse.

It was an old-fashioned thing, all worn leather and wooden legs, looking slightly out of place among the sleek modern equipment. Mr Edwards rested a hand on it.

“Picked this out personally,” he said. “You know what these were originally designed for?”

“Gymnastics?” Alex guessed.

“Discipline.” Mr Edwards turned to face him, and there was that glint again, sharper now. “Back in the day, lads who stepped out of line got bent over one of these. Made it easier to, ah, drive the lesson home.”

Alex laughed, a nervous little sound that died in his throat when Mr Edwards didn’t join in.

“Morris told me about your session,” Mr Edwards said, his voice dropping. “Said he gave you sixty with the slipper. Said you took it well, but he wasn’t sure it stuck. Thought you might need regular motivation to keep you on track.”

“That’s—look, that was ages ago. I’m doing fine now. I’m at uni. I’m applying myself.”

“Are you?” Mr Edwards stepped closer. He was so much bigger than Alex, so solid, and his presence seemed to fill the entire gym. “Because I’ve got a nose for bullshit, Alex. And I can smell it on you.”

Alex should have walked away. Should have laughed it off, made some excuse, gone back to the punch and the small talk. But his feet wouldn’t move. His heart was hammering, and there was a strange, liquid warmth spreading through his belly, and when Mr Edwards said, “Bend over the horse,” Alex found himself turning around and gripping the worn leather with both hands.

“Good lad.”

The words sent a shiver down Alex’s spine. He heard Mr Edwards moving behind him, heard the soft rustle of fabric, and then—

“Since the first sixty didn’t do the trick, we’ll make it a hundred this time. All bare.”

“What? No, wait—”

But Mr Edwards’s hands were already on his waistband, yanking his trousers down to his ankles, then his briefs. The air hit Alex’s exposed arse, cool and clinical, and he felt his cheeks flush crimson.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious.” Mr Edwards’s voice was almost cheerful. “Morris was too soft on you. I’m not.”

The first smack landed without warning.

It was nothing like Alex remembered from Mr Morris’s flat. That had been firm but almost paternal, each stroke measured and followed by a pause. This was different. Mr Edwards swung hard and fast, his palm connecting with Alex’s bare flesh in a sharp, stinging crack that echoed off the gym walls.

“One.”

Alex gasped. The pain bloomed hot and immediate, radiating outward from the point of impact. Before he could even process it, the second smack landed on the other cheek.

“Two.”

“Fuck—Mr Edwards, I really don’t think—”

“You don’t need to think. That’s the whole point.”

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Mr Edwards settled into a rhythm, his hand rising and falling with mechanical precision. He wasn’t affectionate about it. He wasn’t gentle. He spanked Alex like he was breaking in a new piece of equipment, each stroke landing on a slightly different patch of skin until Alex’s entire arse was throbbing with heat.

By twenty, Alex was gripping the gym horse so hard his knuckles had gone white. By forty, his eyes were watering. By sixty—the number that had once seemed so monumental—he was making small, helpless noises in the back of his throat, his cock traitorously stiffening against the leather beneath him.

“There we go,” Mr Edwards murmured, pausing to squeeze one of Alex’s blazing cheeks. “Starting to remember what this is for, aren’t you?”

Alex couldn’t answer. His mind had gone hazy, floating somewhere above his body, and all he could focus on was the sting and the heat and the steady, relentless rhythm of Mr Edwards’s hand.

Seventy. Eighty. The sound had changed now, the smacks landing wetter, louder, because Alex’s skin was so hot and tender that each impact seemed to reverberate through his entire body. His cock was fully hard, leaking against the leather, and he was dimly aware that he should be embarrassed about that but he couldn’t muster the energy.

Ninety. Ninety-five. One hundred.

The final smack landed right on the crease where his arse met his thighs, the most sensitive spot, and Alex let out a ragged cry that was half-sob and half-something else entirely.

He slumped over the horse, panting, his legs trembling. His arse felt like it had been set on fire. He could feel the heat radiating off his skin in waves, and he knew without looking that he’d be marked for days.

Behind him, Mr Edwards laughed. It wasn’t a kind laugh.

“Not done yet,” he said.

Alex heard the rustle of tracksuit bottoms being pushed down. Heard the wet, obscene sound of a hand slicking over flesh. And then he felt something blunt and hot pressing against his hole, and his brain finally caught up with what was happening.

“Wait—what are you doing? We’ve only just met. I’m not—I’m straight.”

Mr Edwards didn’t pause. “You need the discipline, Alex. That’s what Morris said. That’s what I can see. You need someone to take you in hand.”

“But you can’t just—”

The head of Mr Edwards’s cock pushed past his rim, and Alex’s protest dissolved into a strangled gasp. He was slick with spit, but it wasn’t enough, and the stretch burned in a way that was entirely different from the spanking. Fuller. Deeper. More invasive.

“Fuck,” Alex breathed.

“That’s it. Take it.”

Mr Edwards didn’t wait. He didn’t ease in slowly or check if Alex was alright. He just grabbed Alex’s hips with both hands and drove forward, burying himself to the hilt in one long, merciless thrust.

Alex cried out. His fingers scrabbled against the leather of the gym horse, searching for purchase, and his whole body clenched around the thick intrusion. Mr Edwards was big. Bigger than anything Alex had ever had inside him—which, admittedly, wasn’t a long list, but still. The man filled him completely, stretching him open in a way that felt impossible.

And then he started to move.

It was a proper fucking, rough and relentless, each thrust driving Alex forward against the horse and then yanking him back onto Mr Edwards’s cock. The rhythm was punishing, matching the pace of the spanking, and Alex found himself moaning despite everything, his own erection trapped between his stomach and the leather, grinding with every impact.

“This is what you needed,” Mr Edwards grunted, his voice strained. “This is what Morris couldn’t give you. Proper discipline.”

Alex wanted to argue. He wanted to say that this wasn’t discipline, this was something else entirely, something raw and animal and terrifying. But the words wouldn’t come. All he could do was hang on and take it, his body rocking with the force of Mr Edwards’s thrusts, his arse clenching helplessly around the thick cock pounding into him.

It was then that Alex realised, with a cold jolt of clarity, that Mr Edwards wasn’t wearing a condom. He was bare. Fucking Alex bare in the school gym, his bare cock sliding in and out of Alex’s tight, punished hole, and there was nothing Alex could do about it.

“Wait—you’re not—you need to pull out—”

Mr Edwards laughed again, breathless and triumphant. “Not a chance.”

His pace increased, his hips slamming against Alex’s sore arse with wet, meaty slaps. Alex could feel him swelling, could feel the pulse of his cock growing more urgent, and he knew what was coming a split second before it happened.

Mr Edwards came with a roar.

The first pulse was hot and sudden, a thick jet of cum flooding Alex’s insides. Then the second, and the third, and Alex lost count after that—all he knew was the sensation of being filled, pumped full of another man’s seed, his arse milking Mr Edwards’s cock with involuntary spasms. It went on and on, pulse after pulse, until Alex felt slick and wet and utterly used.

Mr Edwards pulled out with a satisfied grunt. Alex stayed where he was, bent over the horse, his legs too weak to support him. He could feel the cum already starting to leak out of him, trickling down the inside of his thigh.

A hand slapped his arse one last time, right on the tenderest spot.

“Good session,” Mr Edwards said, and when Alex managed to turn his head, the man was already pulling up his tracksuit bottoms, smoothing down his jacket, looking for all the world like he’d just finished a brisk workout. “See yourself out when you’re ready.”

He strode out of the gym without looking back, a satisfied smirk plastered across his bearded face.

Alex lay there for a long moment, trying to piece together what the fuck had just happened. He’d come back to his old school for a reunion and some punch, and instead he’d been spanked raw and fucked bare by a man he’d met twenty minutes ago. A man who’d treated it like the most natural thing in the world.

Eventually, he pushed himself upright. His arse ached. His legs were shaky. He pulled up his briefs and trousers with trembling hands, wincing as the fabric dragged over his tender skin.

He made his way back to the main hall.

Jamie and Priya were exactly where he’d left them, now deep in conversation with a former geography teacher. They looked up when Alex approached.

“Where’d you disappear to?” Priya asked.

Alex grabbed another cup of punch from the table and took a long, fortifying gulp. He could feel Mr Edwards’s load seeping through his briefs, warm and wet against his sore cheeks. The smell of it—musky and unmistakable—was already starting to creep into the air around him.

“Just a tour of the new gym,” he said, and grinned. “Really impressive facilities.”

Jamie raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been gone ages.”

“Got caught up.”

He took another sip of punch and hoped to god his friends wouldn’t notice the way he was standing—slightly bow-legged, carefully distributing his weight—or the faint, telltale scent that clung to him like a second skin.

They didn’t.

Or if they did, they were too polite to mention it.

Alex stayed for another hour, laughing and chatting and pretending everything was normal, while Mr Edwards’s cum dried sticky on his thighs and his arse throbbed with the memory of a hundred smacks and a thorough, bareback fucking. And when he finally caught the train back to Leeds that evening, settling gingerly into his seat and staring out at the same grey drizzle, he found himself wondering—with a strange, reluctant thrill—whether he might come back for the next alumni event after all.