A teenage boy is caught and punished

The bookstore was nearly empty, and probably about to
close. I was wandering idly through the stacks near
the front of the store, where the rare and expensive
books were kept in locked cases. First editions, with
crabbed signatures scrawled on the fragile pages. I
studied them through the glass, wondering why the same
books cost so much more here than in the paperback
umpteenth editions in the back.

I craned my neck, leaning on the lever that would open
the case if it weren’t locked. Unexpectedly, the latch
slipped, and my chin bumped against the glass door.

He was on me in the next second, seeming to tower over
me as he shouted, „What are you doing? It’s after 9
and we’ve been closed for ten minutes!” He held me by
the collar of my shirt, shoving me back against the
other bookcase. The back of my head cracked against
the shelf and his eyes bored into me.

„What’s a punk like you doing here with the first
editions anyhow?” He jiggled the broken latch, and
then slapped me. He patted down my pockets, reached
inside my jacket. „Didn’t you have time to take
anything, kid?”

I was too scared to speak.

Not finding any books with that cursory search, he
shoved me into a back room and locked the door behind
me. It was a workroom, full of broken and half-bound
books, with a long, high table of scarred wood running
down the middle of the room. There was knife on the
table, small but sharp. I had almost made up my mind
to take it and fight him when he returned.

„OK, punk, the store’s empty and the door’s locked, so
I have time to look for my merchandise and call the
police.”

I backed away from him slightly. „But I haven’t done
anything wrong! Really, sir, I wasn’t going to take
anything… I was just looking… I didn’t know the
store was closed…”

He stopped me with another slap. The edge of the table
bit into the small of my back, and I couldn’t retreat
anymore.

He unzipped my jacket. „I don’t believe you. The
police won’t believe you either.”

I let him take my jacket, then my sweater.

„They’re cracking down on shoplifters these days. You
should get at least a few weeks in Juvenile Hall.” His
tone was almost casual as he fished my wallet out of
my pocket, looked at my driver’s license.

„But you’re a bit too old for Juvie. That’s too bad.”
His hand was relaxed, he knew the back pockets of my
jeans were empty. „A kid like you could have a rough
time in prison, even for a weekend.”

I shivered, pressing back against the table, pleading
with him. „Please, sir, don’t turn me in. I didn’t
steal anything. You know I didn’t. And I never will.
Really. Please let me go.” I was almost in tears.

„Maybe I will let you go,” he finally said.

My heart leapt.

„But not yet.” He stepped away from me, opened a
closet that seemed full of tools. „Take off your jeans
and hand them over.”

I protested, not very coherently. He cut me off
impatiently. „I know you’re not hiding books in your
pockets. Just do as I say. You’re still getting off
easy, you know.” His eyes sparked dangerously in the
dim light.

I kicked off my sneakers, and gave him the jeans. The
eyes raked over me as I blushed and looked down,
noticing a hole in my sock.

He was very fast. He turned me around, lifting me by a
handful of cloth at the back of my T-shirt, forcing me
against the table. „Grab the other side of the table!
Hold on with both hands.”

I had to stretch across the table, my toes barely
touching the floor, my weight balanced painfully on
the bones of my hips. His hands were almost gentle as
he pulled down my underpants. I started to cry.

„Remember, Adrian, you’re getting off easy. I could
still call the police. In fact, if you let go of the
table, or if you scream, I think I will call the
police.”

He stroked my buttocks lightly.

„And they certainly wouldn’t believe your account of
this little interlude. Though it might amuse your
cellmates.” A slap, not very hard, but frightening.
„I’m sure they would find other ways of amusing
themselves with you.”

I was silent, biting my lips and clutching the wood.

I trembled on the edge of the table for a long moment.
I didn’t know what to be afraid of – rape, a beating,
maybe even a camera. My breathing was ragged. „Please,
sir? What are you going to do to me?” He was silent. I
couldn’t see him, but didn’t dare let go of the table
to look behind me.

Then the cane bit my flesh with a fierce heat. The
blows were fast and hard, so overwhelmingly painful I
could scarcely squirm under them. Sasha had caned me
before, after erotic spankings that left me giddy with
endorphins. This was different. It was punishment, and
a brutal dare not to scream. I bit back all but a
whimpering moan, tears already soaking into the wood.

My legs flailed helplessly, with no leverage as they
dangled from the edge of the table. I had lost count
of the blows, my whole bottom was on fire, I must be
bleeding already.

He paused a moment. Was he going to stop? Taking pity
on obvious suffering? The cane came down again,
striking deep along the curve at the top of my thighs.
I jerked against the table, biting my lip and tasting
my blood. He struck the same place, hard. The shriek
tore past my clenched teeth.

He stopped. His voice was teasing, almost gentle. „Too
bad about that scream. I did try to go easy on you.”

I heard the rustle of cloth, through my gasping sobs
and the pounding blood in my ears. His hands were
rough, forcing my buttocks apart. My feet left the
floor entirely.

Sasha has never been able to rape me convincingly. No
matter how rough the scene, no matter how intense the
role-playing – the recognition is too strong and the
implicit consent is too deep.