Footy Fail with consequences

I refuse to concede that the boy is a complete loss. Though the chances he’ll make the grade are plummeting by the week. From the sidelines I’ve counted three dropped passes, two botched field goals and a disastrously fumbled scrum, barely thirty minutes into the match. Indeed it was the scrum that gave the game away. Even from a distance it was clear his eyes were more focused on the balls of the lad in front than the ball in play. While I understand the fixation, it’s my job as coach to make sure the boy can seize the opportunities afforded by his talent. To call Fitzgerald a boy is a misnomer. A gruelling training regime and intense matches every week are culminating in an exquisitely athletic physique, and it does seem this young man could transcend from good to great as his 20s further progress, if only he could sharpen his concentration. It’s focus the boy needs, and I know just the remedy for that.The game is a catastrophic loss. As I stroll into the change rooms he emerges from the showers with an easy confidence, the towel around him barely concealing a meaty bulge. “Fitzgerald. I’ll see you in my office at 4”, I bark at him without blinking. He tries to hold my gaze but recollection flashes in them and he looks away. “Yes, sir”, he replies. I spot a subtle jump of his cock through the threadbare towel as I walk away. It’s already 4:10 as I sip the last of my tea in the fading light of the conservatory. The wait will give him time to reflect and allow his anticipation to build. He has visited my office for prior infractions of tardiness and a foul mouth, for which he has felt the heat of the paddle, and the sting of my strap. But today requires a heftier approach, something I’m sure he will be ruminating upon right now. His heart will be in his throat.I round the corner to my office and spot him sitting in the chair outside, fidgeting nervously. His gaze has a touch a touch of terror as it meets mine and neither utters a word until I unlock the door and amble in. “Come”, I command as he springs to his feet and follows me in, “Close the door behind you”. The old chair creaks as I lean back in it. Fitzgerald stands before me, his muscled chest betraying his cool demeanour with shallow breaths. “And what do you call today’s performance, boy?” I demand in an even tone. “I can do better sir”, he says with panic rising. “And how do you propose this improvement should come about?”, my eyebrows raised. The boy stares blankly. “I suppose you’ll thrash me again sir” “Correct Fitzgerald. Today is not your lucky day, you will learn to focus. You’ll be caned six of the best with a senior cane. You will take them without crying out or jumping about. Is that clear boy?” “Yes sir”, he says with resignation. “If you cry out or fidget you will receive another, understood?” “Yes sir”. The bulge in the front of his tight football shorts has grown again, leaving his manhood quite clearly visible down the right side of the seam in front, the tip almost peeking out the bottom of his shorts, where his golden brown hair sprouts thick at the top of his thighs.“Assume the position”, I tell him, rising and making my way to the cupboard, where I choose the thickest and longest of the canes. This one is known as the dragon, and it’s not used often. It is a fearsome implement. As I turn back to the boy, he is removing his shorts, his cock bouncing as it springs from him underwear. A look of resignation comes over him as he bends across the desk. With his legs spread apart like that it’s easy to see his cock, quite obviously on the way to a full erection, pressed up against the side of the oak desk, its smooth head beginning to peak out from his foreskin. I eye the target, a bubble butt, firm and lightly fuzzed with golden hair, I swing the dragon in the air, making a deep whooshing sound, causing his cock to pulse once more. “Count them off boy”. “Yes sir” I raise the dragon high in the air as he braces, without breathing. The swift movement through the air makes a tremendous whoosh, then a ferocious crack right in the centre of his buttocks. The young man takes in a gasp of air and flexes every muscle tight. He has felt that keenly. “One sir”, he utters slowly, after a pause. I lay on the second stripe ever more fiercely, landing just above the first. Again Fitzgerald flexes every muscle and breathes through the searing burn. “Two sir”, he strains. Whoosh, crack. The third lands hard and low, just above the line marking the top of his leg muscles, and this is too much for him. He lets go of a fearsome yowl, lifting a leg as he twists and writhes. “Three sir”. “What did I tell you about crying out and jumping about, boy? This is where you must apply focus. You must push through. You will get another”. His head hangs low in resignation. The fourth lands hard across the two first strokes, whose angry red welts are already beginning to rise. He takes a gasp of air but does not cry out. “Four sir”, he exhales loudly. Again a terrible whoosh and crack. “Five, sir” he yells, this time with a hint of defiance. I leave it a moment to soak in. I know well the searing heat intensifies with a few seconds and I can see he is resisting the urge to writhe about or reach back to rub his searing behind. As his breathing settles I swing back and land the dragon upon his meaty buttocks hard again. He sucks in air between clenched teeth and tenses every muscle. “Six sir”. The veins in his arms bulge and his face brightens red. I can see him holding back the tears that are welling in his eyes. Upon the seventh he utters a growl, deep and low, but neither cries out nor fidgets. “Seven sir”. “Well taken boy. Now stand with your hands upon your head”, I order the lad. As he slowly rises and places his hands upon his head, it’s clear his cock is now at full mast, a bead of precum gathering into a drip, his manhood protruding proudly forward. “No boy have you learned a thing or two about focus?” I enquire. “Yes sir, thank you sir. Like I never imaged”, he concedes. “Splendid. Now get dressed and let’s see that focus on the field next week”.

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