The City Road Itch

Carlos had been thinking about it for weeks. Maybe months, if he was being honest with himself. The itch started as a faint tingle, a flicker of something he'd catch in the back of his mind when Priya was riding him, her small hands pressing into his shoulders, her rhythm steady and loving. Good sex. Great sex, even. But something was missing. Something he couldn't quite name until three in the morning when he was scrolling through spanking forums on his phone, the glow lighting up his face in the dark of their Hackney flat.

He needed to be hit.

Not in a relationship way. Not from Priya, who was gentle and warm and perfect in every way that mattered. He needed it from strangers, in a setting where the whole point was the sting, the ache, the surrender. He'd been in London for two years now, halfway through his PhD in political theory at LSE, and he'd barely scratched the surface of what the city offered after dark. But the forums were clear: if you wanted to get spanked properly, you went to Boyz and Sirs in Old Street.

Saturday afternoon. Priya was at a conference in Brighton, wouldn't be back until Monday. Carlos stood in front of the bedroom mirror and assessed himself. He'd picked out his best sportswear — fitted white Nike shorts that clung to his thighs, a tank-top top that showed off the definition he'd maintained from his rugby days back in Buenos Aires. He'd played hooker for Club Pueyrredón, and the position had given him legs like tree trunks and, more importantly, a round, firm arse that the shorts made look obscene. He rubbed his stubble, took a breath, and headed out.

The entrance to Boyz and Sirs was unmarked, just a black door down a side street off City Road. Carlos almost walked past it twice before he found it. He knocked, and a slot opened.

"First time?"

Carlos blinked. "Is it that obvious?"

The doorman, a thick-necked bloke in a black polo, swung the door open. He was maybe fifty, with a shaved head and a clipboard. "You've got the look. Nervous but horny. Classic first-timer energy." He stamped Carlos's hand and took his twenty-quid entry. "Listen, mate — you've picked a good day. Special afternoon. Annual spanking competition."

"Competition?"

"Endurance game. Last man standing wins two hundred and fifty quid. Various implements, twenty swats per round. First two rounds on shorts, next two on briefs, then the rest bare. You keep going until you tap out." The doorman looked Carlos up and down with an appraising eye. "Last man standing gets the cash. But the first man to tap out—" he paused, letting the weight of it settle — "has to bend over the horse in the middle of the club, bare-arsed, for the remaining hour. House rules."

Carlos felt something tighten in his chest. "And if I don't want to do the competition?"

"Then you mingle, you chat, you find a Sir to take you over his knee. Standard afternoon." The doorman leaned against the doorframe. "But I'll say this — you look like you've got a decent arse on you. Rugby?"

"Hooker. Back home in Argentina."

"Thought so. That's competition-grade butt, mate. But I wouldn't recommend a newbie going for it. Some of these lads have been doing this for years. Their arses are basically leather."

Carlos chewed his lip. Two hundred and fifty quid. That was a week's groceries, a month of tube travel, half his phone bill. His stipend barely covered the flat share. And there was something else — the idea of not having to ask anyone for it. Not having to make small talk, not having to negotiate. Just bend over and take it. That was the fantasy, wasn't it? Being made to.

"Sign me up," he said.

The doorman raised an eyebrow. "Your funeral. Last door on the left, ask for Marcus. He'll brief you."

Carlos walked down a narrow corridor, the bass of something electronic vibrating through the walls. The main room opened up at the end — a dark, warehouse-style space with St Andrew's crosses along one wall, a row of spanking benches along another, and in the centre, a padded leather horse bolted to the floor. About thirty guys were scattered around, mostly older, mostly in leather or jeans. A few turned to look at him. He felt their eyes on his shorts and felt a flush of something — not quite embarrassment, not quite pride. Something in between that made his cock twitch.

Marcus was a barrel-chested man in his fifties with a grey goatee and a clipboard. He took Carlos's name, checked his ID, and pointed him to a bench where three other guys were already sitting. All older than Carlos — late thirties, forties, fifties. All more built for it, with the calm, settled look of men who'd been spanked plenty of times before. One of them, a stocky guy with a shaved head, nodded at Carlos.

"First competition?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"You've got the energy. Don't worry, mate. Just breathe through it."

The rules were simple. Marcus explained them once, clearly. Twenty swats per round. Different implement each round. Shorts for rounds one and two, briefs for three and four, bare from five onward. You tap the bench to quit. First to tap out takes the penalty on the horse. Last man standing takes the cash.

Carlos stripped down to his briefs when the time came, stuffing his compression top into a locker. The first round was a leather paddle — broad, flat, thuddy. The stocky guy went first, taking his twenty with barely a flinch. Carlos went second. The first swat knocked the air out of him. By the fifth, his eyes were watering. By the tenth, he was gripping the bench so hard his knuckles were white. But he made it through. Round one, done.

The second round was a strap. Heavier, more bite. Carlos grunted through each one, his arse blazing by the end, but he held. All four competitors were still in.

Rounds three and four — on briefs now — were a wooden hairbrush and a tawse. The tawse was the worst so far, a split leather strap that bit into both cheeks with a crack that echoed through the room. Carlos yelped on the fifteenth stroke and felt a ripple of laughter from the audience. But he didn't tap.

Round five, bare. The air on his exposed arse was a shock, and so was the first stroke of the riding crop — a sharp, biting line across the fullest part of his cheeks. He hissed through his teeth. Twenty strokes. He counted every one in Spanish under his breath, his lips moving silently. *Uno, dos, tres...*

Round six was a flogger. Thuddier, broader, almost a relief after the crop. Carlos took it, his arse now a deep, angry red. Sweat was dripping down his temples. All four of them were still in. The crowd had grown — maybe forty guys now, standing in a loose circle around the competition bench, drinks in hand, watching with the easy attention of men who knew what they were looking at.

Round seven. The cane.

Marcus held it up — a straight, thin, yellow rattan cane — and Carlos felt his stomach drop. He'd read about canes. He'd watched videos. Nothing prepared him for the sound: a thin, high whistle through the air, then a crack like a starter pistol. The pain was different from everything else — sharp, precise, a white line of fire that seemed to cut through to the bone.

Carlos took the first five. His legs were shaking. By the tenth, he was making sounds he didn't recognise — guttural, desperate, animal. The fifteenth stroke landed low, where cheek met thigh, and he screamed. The twentieth landed across the existing welts, and something in him broke. Not his body — his will. He tapped the bench. Once, twice, three times, his palm slapping the leather.

"I'm out," he gasped. "I'm out. Fuck. I'm done."

The crowd clapped politely. Someone handed him a towel. He stood up on unsteady legs, his arse throbbing with his heartbeat, and pulled his briefs up with wincing care. One hundred and forty strokes. He'd made it through seven rounds. It felt like nothing and everything at the same time.

He watched the rest from the sidelines, a pint of water in his hand, his backside too tender to sit on. The stocky guy tapped out in round nine. Another competitor went in round eleven. The last man standing was a tall, lanky bloke named Steve — early forties, skinny, with a face like a bored geography teacher — who took all twelve rounds without so much as a whimper. His arse was cross-hatched with welts and he didn't seem to notice. The crowd went wild. Two hundred and fifty quid, well earned.

Carlos was so caught up in watching the final rounds, so absorbed in the spectacle of Steve's impenetrable arse, that he completely forgot about the penalty.

He remembered when two burly barman walked over.

"Right, mate," the bigger one said. He had forearms like ham hocks and a nose that had been broken at least twice. "Time to pay up."

"Pay up? I paid my entry—"

"The penalty. You tapped first. House rules. One hour on the horse."

Carlos felt the blood drain from his face. "Right. Right, the horse. Okay. Do I keep my briefs on?"

The barman looked at him with something between pity and amusement. "No, mate. Bare-arsed. That's the rule."

Before Carlos could protest further, the two barmen had him by the arms. Not roughly, but firmly. The kind of grip that said *don't bother struggling*. They marched him to the centre of the room, to the leather horse that everyone could see, and one of them hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Carlos's briefs and yanked them down.

"Off," he said. "Completely off. You can pick them up at the end."

Carlos stepped out of them, his face burning, his cock shrivelled with nerves, and was bent forward over the horse. His chest pressed against the cool leather, his arms hanging over the far side, his arse — round, red, welted — pointing up and out for the entire club to see. The barmen took up positions on either side of him, hands on his lower back, keeping him in place.

For the first half hour, it wasn't as bad as he'd feared. Guys wandered over, inspected his stripes with the casual interest of men at a gallery, offered a few playful slaps that made him wince but nothing worse. One older guy in a leather vest traced a welt with his finger and said, "Nice colour on you, son. You took that cane well for a first-timer." Carlos muttered thanks into the leather. The barman refilled his water glass. Time crawled.

Then he spotted Harvey.

He noticed him the way you notice a shark in calm water — something about the way he moved, unhurried but deliberate, circling the horse in a slow orbit. Harvey was tall — six-one, rangy, dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit that looked like it cost more than Carlos's monthly rent. Silver hair, sharp jaw, maybe sixty. He had the look of a man who'd been in charge of rooms like this for decades.

Harvey stopped in front of Carlos and looked down at him with cool, grey eyes.

"Foolhardy," he said.

"Sorry?"

"Entering a competition with no experience. Foolhardy. You're what, twenty-five, twenty-six?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Twenty-eight. And you walked into a club you've never been to, entered an endurance competition against men who've been doing this longer than you've been alive, and you're surprised you lost?"

Carlos bristled. Something about the man's tone — patronising, clipped, English in a way that made Carlos feel like a schoolboy in a headmaster's office — got under his skin. "How do you know I've got no experience?"

"I can tell an experienced guy a mile off. You flinched on the paddle. Round one. I was watching from the bar."

"So what? I made it through seven rounds."

"Seven out of twelve. And now you're here." Harvey gestured at the horse, at Carlos's bare arse, at the whole ridiculous tableau. "Bent over in the middle of a club with your cheeks out. Lesson learned, I'd hope."

"I didn't need a lesson. I needed two hundred and fifty quid."

Harvey smiled. It was not a warm smile. "And instead you got a public display. I'd say that's rather the point."

The barmen, Carlos noticed, had relaxed their grip. They were watching Harvey the way subordinates watch a superior — deferential, almost relieved. Whatever Harvey was in this club, he was someone who didn't need to explain himself.

"You need bringing down a peg or two," Harvey said, and his voice had shifted. Lower. Quieter. The lecture was over. Harvey let the silence stretch, letting Carlos feel the weight of his own foolishness pressing down on him like a physical thing. Then he reached down, unhurried, and unbuckled his belt.

Carlos opened his mouth to respond, but before he could form words, he heard it — the clink of a belt buckle, the whisper of trousers dropping. He twisted his head around and saw Harvey behind him, suit jacket still on, trousers and pants around his ankles, his cock — thick, long, half-hard — jutting out from a nest of silver-grey hair.

"What the fuck—"

Harvey spat into his palm, wrapped it around his cock, and stroked himself to full hardness. He was big. Bigger than Carlos had expected from a slim man his age. Eight inches, maybe more, and thick enough that Carlos's throat tightened just looking at it.

"What the hell are you doing?" Carlos said, pushing himself up on his elbows.

"House rules," Harvey said calmly. "You stay in position for the remaining hour. I'm teaching you what that means."

"You can't just—"

"I can. And I am. Stay still."

Harvey stepped forward, one hand on the small of Carlos's back — the same spot the barmen had been holding — and pressed down. Not hard, but firm enough that Carlos felt the weight of it, the authority. The other hand guided his cock between Carlos's cheeks. The head pressed against his hole, wet with spit, and Carlos clenched instinctively.

"Relax," Harvey said. "Or this will be worse."

Carlos's mind was racing. He was bent over a horse in a London spanking club, bare-arsed, being mounted by a man he'd met five minutes ago. It was insane. It was the kind of thing that happened in stories, not in real life, not to PhD students from Buenos Aires who had a girlfriend in Brighton and a thesis due in six months.

Harvey pushed in. The spit was barely enough — a rough, burning stretch that made Carlos gasp and grip the sides of the horse. Harvey didn't stop. He slid in steadily, inch by inch, until Carlos could feel the man's hips against his arse, the full length of him buried inside.

"Fuck," Carlos hissed. "Fuck. You're not wearing a condom."

"No."

"You need to — at least put on a—"

"Punishment buggerings in England are always performed bare." Harvey said it the way someone might say *water is wet*. A fact. Not up for discussion.

A small crowd had gathered. Six, maybe eight guys, standing in a loose semicircle, watching with the same easy attention they'd given the competition. One of them nudged another and muttered something. Carlos couldn't hear what. His ears were ringing.

Harvey started to move. Slow at first — long, deliberate strokes that pulled almost all the way out before sliding back in. Then faster. He found a rhythm, his hands gripping Carlos's hips, his suit jacket brushing against Carlos's lower back with each thrust. The sound was obscene — skin on skin, the wet slap of spit and sweat, Carlos's breath hitching every time Harvey bottomed out.

It hurt. But underneath the hurt, somewhere Carlos didn't want to look too closely, there was something else. A fullness. A pressure against his prostate that sent jolts of something uncomfortably close to pleasure through his gut. His cock, which had been soft with nerves, was stirring against the leather of the horse.

"You're taking it better than I expected," Harvey said, almost conversationally, mid-thrust.

"Go to hell," Carlos muttered into the leather.

"Charming."

Harvey picked up the pace. The crowd had grown — maybe twelve guys now, some leaning against the wall, some standing right at the edge of the horse, close enough that Carlos could smell their cologne. One of them was stroking himself through his jeans. Carlos closed his eyes. He couldn't watch. He couldn't look at the faces of men watching him get fucked over a horse in the middle of a club.

Carlos felt the rhythm stutter, the thrusts turning urgent and shallow. Harvey’s fingers pressed bruises into his hips, and Carlos’s stomach dropped as he registered the swelling pressure, the final deep drive that pinned him to the horse. He twisted his head, voice cracking. “Pull out — pull out, don’t—”

Harvey didn’t answer. Just grunted, low and dismissive, and kept grinding forward.

"Take it," Harvey said, and came.

It was functional. Efficient. Like watching someone make a deposit at a bank — no drama, no performance, just a man emptying himself into a convenient vessel. Carlos felt the warmth flood inside him, felt Harvey's cock pulse three, four, five times, and then the man pulled out with a wet sound that made Carlos's face burn.

Harvey stepped back, tucked himself into his trousers, buttoned up, adjusted his jacket. In thirty seconds he looked exactly as he had before — immaculate, composed, like he'd just stepped out of a meeting. Carlos, by contrast, was a wreck. Face down on the horse, arse red and welted, Harvey's spunk already starting to leak out of his hole and drip down his inner thigh.

Then Harvey reached underneath him.

"What—"

Harvey's hand closed around Carlos's cock. It was half-hard, confused, caught between arousal and humiliation. Harvey spat into his other palm, wrapped it around the shaft, and started stroking. Firm, quick, practised. The grip was tight enough to make Carlos's hips buck.

"Stop — what are you—"

"You've earned this," Harvey said. "Be quiet."

It took maybe two minutes. Carlos didn't want to orgasm. He didn't want to give this man the satisfaction. But Harvey's hand was relentless — that slick, rough pace, thumb circling the head on every upstroke — and his body betrayed him. He felt it building in his balls, that tightening, that point of no return, and then he was spurting onto the leather of the horse, his arse clenching around nothing, his whole body shuddering.

"Good lad," Harvey said, and let go.

Carlos slumped forward, totally spent. His cock was softening, his arse was throbbing, Harvey's spunk was cooling on his thigh, and he had just spunked in front of a dozen strangers. He felt hollowed out. Emptied. Like someone had taken a spoon and scraped him clean.

Then Harvey picked up a cane.

It was lying near the horse — one of the competition canes, thin and yellow. Harvey swished it through the air once, testing it, and the sound made Carlos's stomach clench.

"No. Come on. I've had enough."

"Twenty-four strokes," Harvey said, positioning himself to Carlos's left. "Final sting. Consider it the punctuation mark on the afternoon."

The first stroke landed across the centre of both cheeks, on top of the existing welts, and Carlos screamed. It was worse than the competition — everything was worse now. His arse was raw, his body was spent, the endorphins that had carried him through the competition had been replaced by the heavy, sluggish aftermath of orgasm. Every nerve was exposed. Every stroke was a fresh line of fire on top of fire on top of fire.

Carlos counted. He didn't mean to, but his brain needed something to hold onto. *Uno, dos, tres...* By twelve, he was crying. Not dramatic, heaving sobs — just tears running down his face, silent, almost matter-of-fact. By eighteen, his legs were trembling so badly that one of the barmen had to hold them. By twenty-four, he was done. Completely, utterly done.

Harvey set the cane down. He straightened his tie, ran a hand through his silver hair, and looked at Carlos with something that might have been satisfaction. Or respect. Or both.

"Lesson learned, I think," he said. He reached into his jacket and produced a business card, which he tucked under Carlos's hand on the horse. "When you want to do this properly — and you will — call me."

Then he walked out.

Carlos stayed on the horse for the remaining few minutes, barely conscious, his face wet, his arse a landscape of welts and stripes, his thigh sticky with drying spunk. The barmen eventually helped him up, handed him his briefs, and pointed him toward the showers.

At the door, the doorman stopped him.

"Here, mate." He pressed a twenty-pound note into Carlos's hand. "Good sport. Hope to see you back."

Carlos looked at the note. Then at the doorman. Then at the business card he was still clutching in his other hand.

He went home, showered for forty minutes, and lay face-down on his bed in the dark. His arse throbbed with every heartbeat. He could still feel Harvey inside him — the stretch, the fullness, the warmth. He should be furious. He should be disgusted. He should throw the business card in the bin.

He picked up his phone and typed a message to the number on the card.

*Next time, I want to last all twelve rounds.*

Harvey replied in under a minute. *We'll work up to it. Thursday. 8pm. Don't be late.*

Carlos put his phone down, pressed his face into the pillow, and smiled. His arse was killing him. He had Harvey's spunk still inside him, probably. He had a twenty-pound note in his wallet and a business card on his nightstand. Priya would be home on Monday, and she'd never know anything about this.

He was absolutely, categorically, going back on Thursday.