Spanking

Erotic short. A young man takes punishment from his captain.

I did a random Twitter poll thread asking people to choose between two kinks. Spanking won over caning. Will be doing a short for each of the winners!

Short M/M story between a cis ship captain in the age of sail and a trans sailor. 3k. Contains open-handed over-the-knee spanking, a little crying, D/s, the obvious employer/employee power imbalance (with a past relationship discussed), some mild humiliation.

Warning for mildly dubious consent, just situational, and the implication of period-typical transphobia.

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The night watch had taken over when Coates walked down the narrow corridor and stood at the door to the captain’s quarters, and when he rapped his knuckles quietly against the heavy oak of the door, he half-expected Perry to answer it, to look at him haughtily in that way he did at everyone, but he didn’t.

The captain must already have sent him down, because he called crisply himself, “Come in.”

Coates swallowed hard, steeling himself, and then he put his hand on the door handle and pushed it open, stepping inside. The captain’s cabin was lit gently by an oil lamp hung directly over his desk.

Captain Warren didn’t look up from his paperwork in the first instance, the light of it glinting off of the frame and convex glass of his spectacles, his hand moving in smooth, easy movements over the paper. There was a heavy wind coming at them from the starboard side, and although they’d weighed anchor and sails both, it and the evening swell was enough to make the ship pitch gently from side to side.

Coates stared at the hypnotising shift of the paperweight on Captain Warren’s desk, sliding an inch one way and then the other, but never any further.

“Lock the door,” said Warren, and Coates did, turning the key in the lock, feeling his mouth dry as anything, and as he moved to stand before the captain’s desk, Warren said, “I’m about to take my spectacles off, Coates. See that I find your uniform in order when I do.”

Coates’ uniform was in order — he’d begged one of the midshipmen to see him over twice before he’d come, and although he’d looked at him very queerly, he’d done as he was asked and fixed Coates’ shirt and jacket in place.

When Warren put his glasses aside, Coates still had to repress a flinch as the captain stood to his feet and came out to examine him. His eyes were somewhat cold as they looked him over, and even having had young Guyett look him over first, Coates worried that there was still some stitch out of place, still some error he’d made.

“You know why you’re here?” asked Warren.

Coates swallowed again. “Yes, sir,” he whispered. “Third violation of my uniform, sir.”

“I’m going to beat you, Coates,” said Warren. “Did you know that?”

Coates opened his mouth. Closed it. Felt the colour rising slowly in his cheeks.

“No, sir,” said Coates.

He had found Captain Warren handsome when he’d walked into the mollyhouse — had been delighted when Warren had approached him, stroked his cheeks, complimented his boyish figure. He’d known what Coates was at a glance, it seemed to him — and it was only bad luck that meant Coates was serving him on a naval vessel not even two years later.

Warren was still handsome, but gone was the gentleness that had come in the mollyhouse, the easy flirtation, the good humour: Warren was a hard taskmaster and a stern leader, and just one of his looks was enough to wither a man, let alone when he said something steel-hard afterward.

“You’ll be punished as a boy,” said Warren.

Coates felt his jaw drop, and he forced it closed again when Warren’s cold stare froze by a further few degrees. There were tears burning at the corners of his eyes immediately, although he tried his best to force them down.

“Not before the mast,” said Warren immediately, but his tone didn’t soften. “I’m affording you special treatment, Coates — I don’t want to force you shirtless on deck.”

“You needn’t, sir,” whispered Coates. “There’s many of the men who’ve seen me undressed above the waist — they make fun, but they don’t suspect anything untoward in it. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t have you think me less of a sailor, sir.”

“I don’t,” said Warren. “I am told you work harder than any seaman on deck, that you haul more than your weight in rope and tackle, and that you perform your duties with skill, enthusiasm, and aplomb. If only you could perform them in uniform, perhaps we might see you on your way to promotion.”

Coates, for a moment, was silent, stunned. He didn’t know how to cope with it, didn’t know how to process it, even. “I have my manual, sir,” said Coates. “I’ve been studying it day and night.”

“See that you study the repair of your uniform with the same consummate focus, and perhaps we won’t have this trouble again.”

As he spoke, he pulled his chair out from the desk, and Coates listened to the smooth, quiet slide of its two legs against the rug pinned to the floor, and set it down. Coates stared at him, not quite understanding, as Warren sank into the seat, facing the room.

He was dressed only in shirtsleeves, and Coates wondered if he should be embarrassed as Warren leaned back in the seat, which had no arms to it, built like a dining chair.

He said crisply, “Jacket aside, Coates, belt unbuckled and breeches down.”

Coates stared, heart thumping in his chest, at Captain Warren’s lap. It was a nice lap, Coates well knew, having sat in it before, and although Warren was a thinner man than Coates himself by no small measure, built with lean muscle like a rabbit, there was something to be said for proportion. Coates was scarcely five feet and eight if one was generous and included his hair — Warren was six and four, brawny, broad.

His lap, nonetheless, was the plushest part of him, but for the pillow of a belly that came with a man’s age, even a sailor’s.

“I’m going to be generous, Coates,” said Warren, “and believe you didn’t hear me.”

“Yes, Captain, apologies,” Coates said hurriedly, and unbuttoned his jacket. He hung it quickly, although his hands trembled slightly as he undid his belt and held it loosely in his hand. He looked at Warren cautiously.

“No, Coates,” said Warren. “There won’t be any need.”

Coates set the belt down, and he held up his trousers as he approached the captain from the left, and only hesitated a moment as he dropped trou and leaned slowly forward. Warren, impatient, grasped him by the hair and pulled him forward, dragged Coates over his spread knees with a hard grip, positioning him in place. Coates had worried at putting his weight in the captain’s lap like this, but his legs are more than wide enough to sustain him, and Coates puts his elbows against his leg, frightened to put his hands down against the floor.

“Grip the chair legs if you struggle to steady yourself,” advised Warren, and pulled hard at the back of his breeches, so that Coates could suddenly feel the warm air of the captain’s cabin on the backs of his thighs, and when Warren pushed up his chemise, on his arse and the lips of his cunt, as well. “I wonder what that shine could be from,” said Warren dryly, and slid two fingers over the opening of his cunt, the tough featherlight and gentle, though he had rough hands.

Coates liked the captain’s hands, and his cheeks were burning red by now. He was wet, had been wet ever since Captain Warren had looked at him at uniform inspection this morning and not actually made note of the ripped pocket Coates was trying to hide under his arm, but Coates had seen that he had noticed it, even before Warren had sent word that Coates should come to his office that evening.

“You will count the blows,” said Warren. “Forty of them. You will address me as sir or Captain — I expect one syllable will be easier for you.”

“Yes, sir,” said Coates, hearing the tremor in his own voice, and there was no further warning or discussion before the first blow hit.

Warren’s palm landed heavy and hard with an almighty clap against his right buttock, and the noise that was punched out of Coates’ throat was as reedy as it was involuntary, and he pressed his elbows hard against the captain’s leg, his eyes squeezing shut.

“One, sir,” he said breathlessly. The pain was hot and burning, but there was a pleasure in it too, and when the second blow came down, Coates groaned, “Two, sir.”

By the tenth, he felt as though his buttocks were burning so red and bright they would be fit to light the room even if Captain Warren’s lamp burned down, and there was a burning heat in more than his arse. His stomach felt tight, gut writ with tension, and the whole of him was warm and wet between his legs, his cock rubbing up against Warren’s thigh whenever his hand landed down, and he was open, cunt fat with blood and eager to be taken.

By the twentieth, the pain had on one level plateaued, and on another was leveling further with every strike, the skin burning so much it felt like it would surely peel, and yet there was such a pleasure in it that Coates almost felt he could cry. He was gripping at the chair legs now as he whimpered, “Twenty-two, sir.”

“I hope you recall that this is a punishment, Coates,” said Warren, landing a firm blow on the back of his thigh, just under the curve of his left cheek, and Coates yelped like a kicked dog, gritting his teeth and trying to swallow the sound back.

“Yes, sir, twenty-three, sir!”

“Cry too loudly, Coates, and everyone will be asking what’s the matter,” said Warren pleasantly, and his hand clapped down again in a sort of physical punctuation, pushing the air out of Coates’ lungs and making his cock jump like a sailor told to stand to attention. “You think the whole crew wouldn’t want a piece of this cunt of yours if they laid eyes on it, smelt the dew glistening on it?”

Coates shuddered. “Twenty-four, sir,” he said breathlessly.

“You’d take pleasure in that punishment as well, as I suppose,” said Warren, and brought his hand down on the other thigh, but Coates managed not to cry out this time.

“Twenty-five, sir,” he said.

“Are you humiliated, Coates?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will you pay close attention to your uniform in future?”

“Yes, sir, always, sir.”

“Good,” said Warren.

Coates, holding his breath, wondered if this meant that Warren was going to cut his punishment shirt, leave it at twenty-five whacks instead of forty: Warren dispensed him of this notion by delivering the hardest open-handed slap yet against the open lips of his cunt.

The sound of it was wet, and Coates almost howled, shoving his face into his own arm to keep the noise from rattling off the wood paneling of the walls: his whole body throbbed, and he felt himself clench on open air.

“Twenty-six, sir,” he whimpered.

“Good lad,” said Warren under his breath, almost so quietly that Coates couldn’t hear it, and for some reason, hearing Captain Warren praise him so subtly, and with such ease, made his eyes burn in conjunction with the burn in his cheeks and his buttocks, threatening to tip over with water.

The next slap came down, once again against his cunt, and Coates’ voice was thick when he said, “Twenty-seven, sir.”

On the thirtieth he was breathless and dizzy: by the thirty-fifth he was sobbing between blows, and Captain Warren was delivering each of them faster, louder. His hand was so wet with Coates that when he laid his hand on Coates’ lower back, soothing him like an anxious horse, his palm was wetter with Coates’ juices than Coates’ back was with sweat.

When his punishment was at an end and Coates had read out the final blow, Coates lay for a few minutes longer than perhaps was proper over Captain Warren’s lap, trying not to sob too openly. He could barely move, trembling all over, cunt throbbing, cock hard and pressed against Warren’s thigh, although he didn’t dare grind his hips.

Standing was difficult, trying to push himself up without daring to lay his hands on Captain Warren’s lap, and he was a little clumsy and awkward. When he stumbled, Captain Warren caught him by the plush, round curve of his hip, and instead of shoving him upright, he pulled Coates back into his lap.

Coates let out a reedy noise, but Warren gripped him tighter, spreading his legs with his right hand so that Coates was arranged and accessible. Coates’ arse burned in this position, sat in the captain’s lap, and he stared down at his slick-shiny thighs, his cock poking out from the curls between his legs, shirt ruched around his waist.

Warren’s other hand came up, sliding against the side of Coates’ neck, cupping his jaw. The movement was tender, gentle, and Coates leaned his cheek into it, head spinning.

Not since he was last on shore had a man touched him like this — he’d slept two abreast with some of the other sailors on cold nights, but he specifically avoided the ones he knew might want to play with another man’s cock, which was only fair, as he could well disappoint them, let alone surprise them.

“Is this special treatment, sir?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” said the captain softly, and pressed his nose against the back of Coates’ neck, inhaling, and his lips brushed against it through the fabric of his shirt as his other hand slid over Coates’ sweaty thigh, two fingers sliding easily inside him and thumb resting heavy against his cock. “You think I like all my sailors enough to have them on my knee?”

“I didn’t know you liked me,” said Coates, and Warren squeezed.

It made an incredible thrill run up his spine, the organ squeezed from within and without at once, two fingers pressing up against the roof of his cunt where the flesh was spongey and sensitive, and his thumb strummed over his cock as though he were plucking at a cello string.

“Sir, I will — I will finish, sir — ”

“Finish, then,” Warren said. “That’s rather the point, lad.”

He kissed the back of Coates’ neck again, kissed just behind his ear, and Coates whimpered. He was grinding his hips into Warren’s hand, even though every movement rubbed his sore, aching arse against Warren’s lap and left him burning — but he could feel the captain’s cock, fat and hard in his breeches, and he yearned to ask for it.

“Sir — ”

“Good lad, just like that,” said Captain Warren, and his voice was soft and gentle, the one Coates remembered from years ago. “Come on, let’s hear it.”

He was squeezing harder, his thumb dragging hard, and when Coates’ finish came it was a painfully pleasurable thing, made him bite down hard on his lip to keep from crying aloud, and Warren rocked him gently through it, hushing him softly.

He was breathing heavily, tears still stained on his cheeks, aware of his weight in Warren’s lap, aware of Warren’s strong body holding him in place, aware of the sweat on his skin and the burn in his arse.

“I hope you realise we can’t make a habit of this sort of thing,” said Warren in his ear.

“No, sir, I know better now, sir,” whispered Coates. “I shan’t have a trouble with my uniform again, sir, promise.”

“That’s really not what I meant.”

Warren was kissing him again: his mouth was warm even through Coates’ shirt, his nose pressing against Coates’ skin, and Coates wanted to stay in his lap forever, just like this — except perhaps with Warren’s cock in him instead of pressed against his arse.

“I could suck you,” he said. When Warren was quiet, he added, “Captain.”

Warren chuckled, delivered one last kiss to the back of his neck.

“I can’t afford to be soft with you,” he said. “With any of you — if I want to rise in the ranks myself, I must be seen to be stern, strong, and capable.”

“You can’t get yourself a promotion if you let me suck your cock?” asked Coates, aware that he sounded more bratty than convincing, and this made Warren laugh, a sweet and smoky sound that made Coates shiver. He wanted to hear it again — he wanted to always hear it. He supposed it was uncommanding for the captain to laugh on deck. “Isn’t it respect for rank if I suck your cock? You being captain and me only being an able seaman?”

“Read that in the by-laws, did you?”

“I could write it in the margins.”

“Don’t you dare,” murmured Warren, but Coates could hear the smile in his voice. “Very well. If you’re quick about it.”

“Doesn’t that depend on you more than me?”

“Want another ten?”

“No, sir,” said Coates hurriedly, trying to stifle his chuckle as he slid onto his knees on the rug, and put his hands on Warren’s knees. “I’ve dirtied these.”

“See you don’t dirty them further and keep everything in your mouth,” said Warren quietly, and Coates looked up at the slight curve of his lips, the sparkle in his eyes, and swallowed. “I do like you, Coates,” he said, apparently impulsively — he almost seemed surprised to have said it himself.

“Thank you, sir,” whispered Coates, and leaned eagerly forward as Warren undid his breeches.

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