A Pint and a Slippering

The lock on the bookshop door gave a satisfying click as I turned the key. Another late shift done. My feet ached from standing on thin carpet for eight hours, and my eyes were tired from scanning barcodes and shelving paperbacks. But the air outside was sharp and cool, and it woke me up enough to realise I wasn't ready to go home yet. Not to an empty flat and a microwave meal.

I turned left instead of right, toward the King's Head. It wasn't my usual, but it was on the way, and I fancied a pint. Something about the evening — the way the streetlights buzzed and the smell of rain on tarmac — made me want to sit somewhere warm and pretend I had a social life.

The pub was half-full. A few old boys at the bar, a couple arguing quietly in the corner. I ordered a pint of bitter and found a stool near the window. That's when I spotted him.

You'd think a man in full rugby kit would be hard to miss, and you'd be right. But it still took me a second to place the broad shoulders and the square jaw under that scrum cap he'd pushed back on his head. Mr Morris. Derek Morris. Deputy head and PE teacher, still looking like he could bench-press a car at — what, fifty-something now? His thighs strained against muddy shorts, and his socks were pulled up tight, boots tossed under the table.

He caught me staring and raised his glass.

"Alex! Get over here."

I hesitated, then figured why not. I picked up my pint and crossed the room.

"Mr Morris. Been a while."

"Too long. Sit down." He kicked out a chair. "Let me get you another — that one looks almost dead."

"It's basically full, actually—"

"Nonsense." He was already at the bar, ordering. I sat down and tried to remember the last time I'd spoken to him properly. Fifth year, maybe? Before I'd dropped rugby to focus on exams. He'd been annoyed about that, I recalled. Annoyed in that tight-lipped way he had, where you could see the frustration sitting in his jaw like a clenched fist.

He came back with two pints and two whiskey chasers.

"Boilermaker," he said, pushing the shot toward me. "You're twenty now, right? You can handle it."

"Twenty in March, yeah." I took the whiskey because it felt rude not to. "What's with the kit? You coming from a match?"

"Training session. And a bloody disaster it was too." He took a long pull of his pint. "The team lost their cup semi-final this afternoon. Blowing leads, missing tackles — it was embarrassing. I made them run drills for an hour after the final whistle. Hence—" He gestured at his mud-caked legs. "Didn't have time to change before coming here to drown my sorrows."

"Rough."

"Rough doesn't cover it." He fixed me with that look — the one I remembered from school, the one that made you feel like you'd done something wrong even when you hadn't. "You know, Alex, I always thought you could have been decent at rugby. If you'd applied yourself."

Here we go. I took a sip of the boilermaker and felt the warmth spread through my chest. "I was alright."

"Alright isn't good enough. Alright is what you say about a chip butty. You had the build for it — tall, quick on your feet. But you lacked commitment. You followed the rules well enough, I'll give you that. Mostly." His eyes narrowed. "Mostly."

I knew what he was referring to. The smoking incident behind the bike sheds, final week of college. The headmaster had caned me for it — proper old-school punishment, the kind that was already being phased out everywhere else. I'd taken it stoically, not wanting to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. But Mr Morris had been there too, watching from the corridor. I remembered his expression: something between satisfaction and disappointment.

"That was one time," I said.

"One time is all it takes to show your true colours." He leaned back. "You had a mischievous streak, Alex. I could see it. You just kept it buried under that polite, quiet exterior. And it held you back. You coasted when you should have pushed."

I didn't know what to say to that. He wasn't wrong, exactly. I had coasted. Through rugby, through exams, through most things. It was kind of my brand.

The conversation drifted. He asked about the bookshop, about my gap year, about university in the autumn. I told him I was reading English at Leeds. He told me Leeds had a decent rugby team and I should try out. I said I'd think about it, knowing I wouldn't. The pints went down, then another round appeared — more whiskey this time, and I was starting to feel the edges of things go soft and warm.

"Look at the time," he said eventually, glancing at his watch. "Closing in ten."

I blinked at the clock above the bar. Ten-fifteen. Had I really been here two hours?

"Mr Morris, I should probably—"

"Come back to mine." He said it like it was already decided. "I've got a bottle of Jameson that needs finishing, and I'm still wound up about that match. Could do with blowing off some steam."

"I've got work in the morning—"

"It's quarter past ten. You'll be fine." He stood up, and the movement was so sudden I didn't have time to formulate a refusal. He grabbed my arm and pulled me off the stool. The cold hit me the second we stepped outside, sharp enough to cut through the whiskey haze.

"Actually," I said, stopping on the pavement, "I think I'd better head home. Early shift tomorrow."

He turned, and there was that look again. "Nonsense. It's just past ten. There's still time."

My mouth opened, but nothing came out. The boilermakers had made my thoughts slow and sticky, and he was already walking, trusting I'd follow. So I did. Down the high street, left past the off-licence, into the narrow side road where his flat sat above a charity shop. He unlocked the door and led me up a narrow staircase that smelled of laundry detergent and old leather.

The flat was sparse. A sofa, a TV, a bookshelf crammed with coaching manuals and biographies of Welsh rugby legends. His boots and shoes were piled by the door. He dropped onto the sofa and poured two generous whiskeys from a bottle on the coffee table.

"Sit."

I sat. The whiskey burned, but it was good — smooth and honeyed. He took a long drink and sighed.

"Right," he said. "Where were we?"

"You were saying I coasted. Never quite committed."

"Exactly." He pointed at me with the glass. "And you need to sort that out before university. Get yourself motivated. Stop coasting."

"Sure. I'll do my best."

He smiled — a thin, satisfied smile. "Glad you agree, Alex. I always felt that about you."

I nodded passively, still unsure where this was going. The whiskey was making everything feel slightly unreal, like the conversation was happening underwater.

He leaned forward. "You know what lads like you need? Lads who lack motivation?"

"What?"

"A slippering."

I stared at him. "A what?"

"A slippering. The plimsoll. Bare arse. It focuses the mind." He said it casually, like he was explaining a training drill. "I should have given you one when you were a senior. Would have done you the world of good. But I can help you out now. Get you sorted before Leeds."

I laughed — a nervous, stupid laugh. "You're joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

He looked dead serious. But that couldn't be right. This was just pub banter carried too far, the kind of thing older men said when they'd had too many. I took another sip of whiskey and waited for the punchline.

It didn't come. Instead, he stood up, reached into the pile of shoes by the door, and pulled out a white plimsoll — old, worn, the rubber sole darkened with age. He held it like a man who'd held one many times before.

"Bend over the sofa."

"Mr Morris, I think I should go." I stood up, patted my pockets. Empty. "Where's my phone?"

He smirked. "I've got it. For safekeeping. To make sure you follow through with the agreement."

"What agreement?"

"When I invited you over, I was explicit. I said I needed to blow off steam and help you with your motivation problem." His voice was calm, measured — the voice of a deputy head who'd handled a thousand difficult conversations. "So don't pretend you didn't know what was happening."

My brain was struggling to keep up. The whiskey, the late hour, the sheer strangeness of it — I felt like I was watching it happen to someone else. He guided me to the sofa with a firm hand on my shoulder, and before I fully registered what was happening, I was bent over the arm, staring at the worn carpet.

"Three sets of twenty," he said from behind me. "That should do the trick."

The first crack made me jump. The plimsoll came down hard on my arse, and the sound was louder than I expected — a flat, sharp report that filled the room. The second one landed before I'd processed the first. Then the third. My jeans absorbed some of it, but not enough. By ten, my cheeks were stinging. By fifteen, the heat was spreading down my thighs. By twenty, I was gripping the sofa cushion and breathing hard.

"Right," he said. "Trousers down."

"What?"

"You heard me. Drop them."

I should have said no. I should have stood up, demanded my phone, walked out. But my thoughts were thick and slow, and his voice had that same command it had always had — the voice that made you comply before you'd decided whether you wanted to. I fumbled with my belt, let my jeans drop to my ankles, and bent back over.

The second set was worse. The thin cotton of my briefs did almost nothing. Each stroke felt like a band of fire across my skin, and he wasn't holding back — if anything, he was hitting harder. I bit my lip and tried to stay quiet, the way I had with the headmaster's cane all those years ago. Stoic. Don't give them the satisfaction.

But the plimsoll was relentless. By the fifteenth stroke, I was making sounds I couldn't control — small, grunted gasps that escaped despite my best efforts. By twenty, my arse was throbbing so hard I could feel my own pulse in it.

"Good lad," he said. "Now the briefs."

"Mr Morris—"

"Down."

I pushed them down. The air was cool on my bare skin, and I felt a rush of shame so acute it made my face burn. I was bent over a sofa in my old PE teacher's flat with my arse out and glowing, and I still couldn't explain how I'd gotten here.

The third set was the worst. The plimsoll on bare skin was something else — sharp, intimate, each stroke leaving a distinct band of heat. I gripped the cushion and took it, trying to retreat somewhere inside my own head. But my body wouldn't let me. Each slap jolted me forward, made my breath hitch, made my skin burn hotter. Somewhere around the tenth stroke, I realised my cock was hard, pressed against the arm of the sofa. I didn't know what to do with that information, so I ignored it.

Twenty. He stopped. I stayed down, breathing hard, my arse on fire, trying to process what had just happened. The room was quiet except for my own ragged breath.

Then I heard it. The rustle of fabric. I looked back over my shoulder and saw Mr Morris pushing his rugby shorts and briefs down. His cock was thick and half-hard, jutting out from a thatch of greying hair. He reached for a tin on the shelf — Vaseline — and scooped out a glob. He slicked it along his shaft, working himself to full hardness with a few efficient strokes.

"What are you doing?" My voice came out thin and unsteady.

He laughed — a short, hard sound. "I told you. You agreed to the motivation session. And a rude buggering is just what the doctor ordered."

"I didn't agree to—"

"You stayed. You bent over. You took the slippering." He stepped behind me, and I felt the blunt head of his cock press against my hole. "That's agreement enough."

He pushed in. It wasn't gentle. The Vaseline helped, but only barely — the stretch was sharp and immediate, and I gasped as he sank deep in one long, steady stroke. He held there for a moment, his hips pressed against my burning cheeks, and I felt his cock twitch inside me.

"Good," he said. "Take it."

He started to fuck me. Not like a lover — like a man doing a job. Functional, purposeful strokes that drove into me with the same steady rhythm he'd used with the plimsoll. Each thrust pushed me forward against the sofa, and my own cock — still hard, God help me — rubbed against the arm with every movement.

"Mr Morris—"

"Call me Derek."

"Derek, you're not wearing a condom."

"No."

"You're— are you serious?"

"Punishment buggerings are always done bare," he said, his voice flat and matter-of-fact. "That's the point of them."

I didn't know what to say. My brain was spinning — the pain in my arse, the stretch of his cock inside me, the bizarre normalcy of his tone, like he was explaining a maths problem. I gripped the cushion and took it, the way I'd taken the slippering. Stoic. Don't give them the satisfaction.

But it was hard to stay stoic when each thrust was hitting something deep inside me that sent sparks up my spine. My cock was leaking against the sofa, and I could feel my hole clenching around him involuntarily, squeezing his bare shaft each time he drove in.

He picked up the pace. His hands gripped my hips, fingers digging into the flesh just above where the plimsoll had left its marks. His breathing got heavier, rougher. I could feel him getting close — the way his cock swelled, the way his rhythm faltered, the way his grip tightened.

"Wait— Derek, you're not going to—"

He grunted and drove in deep, and I felt it. The hot pulse of his spunk flooding my insides, spurting against my walls in thick ropes. He held himself there, hips flush against me, and I felt every twitch of his cock as he emptied himself. It seemed to go on forever — wave after wave of heat filling me up.

Then he pulled out. Fast, unceremonious. I heard him pull up his shorts, heard the zip, felt a sharp slap on my arse that made me flinch.

"Good lad," he said.

I stayed bent over, my hole twitching, his spunk starting to leak down my thigh. My own cock was still hard, aching, untouched. I didn't know what to do.

"Why?" I finally managed. "Why bare? Why did you—"

He walked around the sofa and looked down at me with that thin smile. "Because that's what will give you the motivation you need at university. A reminder. Something to think about when you're tempted to coast."

He reached into his pocket and held out my phone.

"And if I hear you're falling behind at Leeds," he said, "I'll summon you back here in the holidays for further motivation. Clear?"

I took the phone. He tossed me my jeans and briefs. I pulled them on with shaking hands, wincing as the fabric pressed against my punished skin. He was already at the sink, washing his hands, completely unbothered.

I let myself out and walked home through the empty streets. The cold air hit my face and cleared some of the fog. My arse throbbed with every step. I could feel his spunk inside me — warm and slick, shifting as I walked. By the time I reached my flat, my brain was still trying to piece it all together. How did a quick pint at the pub end with me bent over a sofa, getting my arse slippered raw and then fucked bare by my old PE teacher? I could still feel the plimsoll's sting layered deep in the muscle, and every step squeezed another slick reminder of him out of me. My cock ached, half-hard and confused, and I couldn't tell if the buzzing in my head was leftover whiskey or the sheer wrongness of it all. I'd walked in for a drink and walked out with a load of spunk up my arse and a "motivation session" I never agreed to.

I showered. The hot water stung my arse like hell. I soaped myself up and, almost without thinking, wrapped a hand around my cock. It didn't take long. Thirty seconds, maybe less, and I came so hard my knees buckled, shooting against the tile wall while the water ran over my back. I stood there afterwards, breathing, the last traces of Derek Morris leaking out of me and swirling down the drain.

I dried off and sat on my bed. My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

*Good session tonight. Keep it up at Leeds. — D*

I stared at it for a long time. Then I saved the contact, pulled on a pair of loosest shorts I owned, and lay face-down on my bed. My arse was still burning. Inside and out.

I set an alarm for work, closed my eyes, and thought about the autumn. Leeds. A fresh start. Motivation, apparently, well and truly installed.

I couldn't decide whether to dread the holidays or look forward to them.