Aftermath - a Story of Discipline

by Sculder



DISCLAIMER: Just wanted to let ya' know that these guys don't belong to me. The gorgeous Fox Mulder and Walter Skinner belong to Chris Carter, at 1013 Productions, on the Fox Network. No infringement intended, of course. I'm not makin' a dime on this folks.

WARNING!!!! This is an NC-17 story, dealing with discipline. It contains explicit descriptions of discipline, along with some strong language. So if reading about someone getting their hide tanned is not your thang, please go some where else. I don't want anyone coming near me with paddle in hand, for writing this thing.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the first story that I have ever posted. I somehow found the balls to do it. Actually, I had help finding them. Much thanks to my Slash Slut sisters: Sinister, Pam and Barbara, for listening to my story during one of our weekends and giving me the encouragement I needed to actually want to post it. And another thanks to Sinister for her beta skills.



God, I hurt. I thought I was going to past out this time. I kind of wished I had, then I wouldn't have to experience the humiliation of my tears. God knows that each and every time that I've gone through this, I've tried disparately not to cry. I bite into my hand, my lip, grit my teeth, but still it's always inevitable. I believe it's what he wants anyway, my tears, my submission, my surrender. He doesn't seem to stop until he sees me sobbing pitifully. My tears are a sign that he's won, that he's broken me. I know this and this is the reason why I fight it. I'm suborn that way. It's a battle. It always is. Who can whole out the longest, him with the blows or me with the pain. Who am I kidding? For me it's a losing battle, I don't know why I even bother. Now, I'm not saying that I'm a wimp when it comes to pain. I've had my share of it over the years and I've held up quite well if I say so myself. I've been shot, punched, cut, slapped, kicked, choked, hit by a car, slammed into solid objects, had my finger broken, mauled by a gorilla, and I'm sure many other things that I want to forget. With all of this though, I can't remember shedding a single tear. Oh I've wanted to, that's for damned sure, but I was always able to prevent it, control it. Now, when it comes to the beatings, spankings, whippings, strappings or whatever you want to call it.......well that's something else all together.

The pain from a hard object impacting with full force, numerous times, on one's unprotected, naked backside, can not be described. There are no words that are accurate enough. Words like, burning, searing, aching, throbbing, stinging, biting and smarting, can all be used, but there are still more sensations that can't be described in words. Raw, mind numbing sensations that make you want to die. That's why blacking out would be welcomed, but I've never done it. Not once. The God's as usual have not been merciful to me, but that shouldn't come as a big surprise. They have never been merciful, so why should they start now. No, my fate is to endure this and I do. I don't die. Instead, I eventually, give up my pride, my resistance, my insolence and my self-respect.

At first, I find myself whimpering like a wounded animal. I don't even have the marginal comfort of movement. His massive arm holds me in place. Eventually my whimpering turns into wailing. I cry, beg, plead, then bargain for him to stop. I apologize for every bad thing that's ever happened since the beginning of time. Anything that I think might save my ass, literally, but of course none of it works, not with him. One thing I can say about Skinner is that he's merciless when it comes to disciplining me. I don't know if I'm the only one he does this to and I'm kinda' afraid to ask. I just know that with me, there is nothing that I can say that will stop him. The only thing are my tears, my uncontrollable wailing. Sobbing that comes from deep within your soul. The kind of sobbing that only a man can produce under extreme distress. And the tears don't come just because I know this will cause him to finally stop the torture, no, it comes because there is nothing left. No more control, no more defenses, no more stamina and no more resistance. It's all gone.

Now, this by no means says that as soon as I cry, he stops. Oh no. Basically, this just tells him that it's starting, my breaking. He can't stop right then, because he has to make it count. That's why after the sobbing, pleading and so forth, he continues. This is where the mercilessness comes in. By this time, I'm trembling, almost convulsing. My throat is sore and hoarse from all the screaming and trying not to scream that I'm doing. He continues to pound my ass, with whatever he's using at the time. Sometimes it's his hand, his belt, a paddle, wooden ruler, strap, which is different from a belt, and Lord knows where he got it from. The thing with Skinner and my discipline is that he never treats it like a big deal. I mean, he's never gone out of his way to buy the instrument of my pain. It's always been things that he all ready had, like his own belt, a table tennis paddle that he'd had since his youth and a wooden ruler, that he actually uses the way a ruler was intended to be used. Once I can even remember him using an extention cord that was lying around the apartment. I should remember that, cause it hurt like hell, my ass was nothing but red, stinging welts. Now, about the strap? That was different. Why would one have a strap just lying around? What is a strap used for, other than the obvious? I've thought about this. Either Skinner got it off his luggage or he's been shopping around and if it's the later, my ass is in big trouble.

Where he does it varies also. In the beginning it was just his office. He'd have me over the back of a chair, grabbing my ankles, or over his desk and during one humiliating situation, that I'd rather forget, across his knees. Later on, we moved to my apartment, where he had me across the bed, on my couch, over my coffee table and even over the dining room and kitchen table. He said that he preferred to do it at my apartment because it was more private there. No one to knock on the door, interrupting with some urgent something or other. It didn't matter much to me where he did it, the pain was the same where ever it happened. He never did it at his apartment though. I figured, he didn't want his neighbors being aware of anything. At my place, it didn't matter. I didn't really give a damn what anyone thought. So they hear me screaming. They've heard screaming and shouting from my apartment before and nobody came running to my rescue. So fuck 'em. If I've got someone beating the shit out of me in there, what business is it of theirs.

With all of the beatings, one thing remained constant. He always had me bare assed. It didn't matter where it was, my underwear and pants came down, sometimes came completely off. He usually left on my shirt, to give me some dignity, but on the occasions when I guess I really pissed him off, he made me remove all of my clothes. God I hated when it happened that way. I always felt like I could just die from the embarrassment. I wished I could. I guess you could say what's the point of having a thin layer of fabric between hard leather and your skin. I mean, God forbid there is anything to cushion the blows or subdue the pain. There is nothing and I mean nothing, like the feeling of hard whacks on bare skin. And where the whacks landed varied also. Usually, Skinner concentrated on both sides of my butt, the right, then the left, from just below my waist, to just above my thighs. The point where your butt meets your thighs. Jesus, this area is really sensitive. The stinging sensation is like someone was burning me with a lighted match. He'd continue on to the outer areas of my hips. He usually used the belt or strap to do a good job, but sometimes it didn't allow him to aim accurately. For accuracy, he used the ruler or paddle. The size and hardness of the wood made it easier for him to even out the bruises. Belts and straps leave welts, thin painful welts. Paddles distribute the bruises evenly, making a massive bright red area. Paddles and rulers go exactly where you want them to go.

Now, I thought making contact with the sensitive area just below my ass was excruciating, but I had no idea how wrong I was. During one of our sessions, while using the ruler, Skinner asked me to spread my legs apart. At first, I panicked thinking that he was going to apply the ruler directly to my balls. Then I felt his hand spreading my ass, at the crack. The next thing I feel is pain like I've never felt before in my life. He had taken the ruler and slapped it hard on the tender flesh between my cheeks. All through my screaming and fighting to escape, he moves the ruler along the length of my crevice. After thoroughly tenderizing both sides of that inner flesh, he goes to the insides of my upper thighs, next to where my cock and balls hang. He pushes them aside and proceeds to smack the extremely tender flesh there, numerous times, I might add. He doesn't stop until both sides have been addressed. There's no need to tell you the state I'm in after this. Sitting down was certainly not an option and walking was almost out of the question. Now whenever, I see that he's going to use the ruler or paddle on me, I know what I'm in for.

Now, with all that I've said about Skinner being unmerciful in beating me, I can't say that he's not a compassionate man. I've always known that he hates to do this to me. Whenever I look at him, he's wearing a mask of determination. No emotions are visible, just a stern, controlled expression. No evil smiles, no smirks, not even a look of rapture. He really hates this, but he knows that's it's something that he has to do, for my own good. As cliché as that sounds, it's the truth. He's saving me from myself with these little sessions of ours. You see, I could be very stubborn at times. Trying to keep myself from crying, during a beating, when I know it's inevitable, proves my point. This stubbornness is challenged by this kind of discipline. Skinner knows this and now I've come to know this too. As much as I hate it, I know I need it. It curbs my reckless, impulsive nature, that could get me and those around me killed. And you would think that I should hate him, but you'd be wrong. Sure, I'm planning his death as I'm trying to endure the pain, but afterwards, all I feel is relief and gratitude that the pain has finally come to an end. Instead of wanting to punch his lights out, I want kiss his feet. I feel closer to him during the aftermath of a beating. It's almost like he's my Lord and Master and I'm his humbled, submissive slave. I want him to know how sorry I am and that I won't do anything like that again. I would do anything that he said at that moment, to show him that I was penitent. Yeah, I would do that, because after the torment, I'd say or do anything so this won't happen again anytime soon.

Now, this brings us to the present. The aftermath of yet another beating. We're in my apartment. I'm completely naked, lying face down on my couch, with a pillow under my hips to raise them. A fine sheen of sweat covers my body. My head is resting on my folded arms and I'm sobbing, the kind where you can't catch your breath. I really hate when I do this, it makes me feel like a kid, even more so than being spanked. I don't have to mention that I did something really bad this time, at least something that he thought was really bad. He was so angry and he let me know it. The beating was particularly bad this time, but doesn't it always seem that way. He used both his belt and paddle on me. God do I hurt. I'm lying here feeling all the sensations of just having your ass thoroughly warmed and I do mean warmed. On a cold night, you could warm your hands nicely , from the heat emanating from my tortured buns. I'm experiencing all of those words that I said before that describes the pain. I want to bring my hands down to rub it, but I don't. I don't because I'm waiting for something better.

Not long afterwards, I hear him approach me. He usually doesn't wait very long, just long enough for me to regain some my composure. He waits for the wailing to once again become soft whimpering. He places a palm full of cool ointment lightly over one of my battered cheeks. I groan and feel myself tremble. I hear him making calm, soothing sounds near my ear. He begins to rub me in a gentle, circular motion. It makes me sigh. God it feels good. This is the compassion that I mentioned earlier. It happens each and every time without fail. I can look forward to it and I do. It's the only thing that gets me through it all. The thought that he will be there to comfort me afterwards. He stops a moment to apply more ointment to his hand and moves to my other cheek. Again I groan and tremble, lifting my ass slightly. This time he speaks.

"Shhh, Mulder, it'll be all right. The hurting will stop soon. It always does." He continued the gentle message and yes, the pain is subsiding. It will be awhile before I can sit comfortably, but I know the real pain is over, for now. Now, I'm the one feeling the rapture, the pure exhilaration when incredible pain diminishes. There is no other feeling like it. An orgasm is the closest thing, but that's still not quite accurate. I begin to experience new tears running down my face. These tears are not from pain, they are from the overwhelming emotions that the aftermath draws out of me. Now, both his hands are on each of my ass cheeks, moving slowly. I let out a quivering breath. It's almost erotic, but not quite. It just isn't. I know it and he knows it. It's never been about that for either of us and it never will be, at least if I have anything to do with it. You see, I don't enjoy pain. The thought of experiencing pain to summon sexual feelings is insane to me. And I know that Skinner isn't getting off on it, because he despises it too much.

I raise myself a little so that I can look back at him. He glances at me. He sees my tears, my swollen, red rimmed eyes. He knows that they're not from the pain now. His hands stop and I rise up further, to an almost sitting position, causing myself to wince and groan. He kneels down next to the couch, removing the pillow from under my hips and places a hand on my upper arm. His eyes are kind and gentle. I lift my hand, placing it on his shoulder, trying to support myself and relieve some of the pressure from my ass. I then bring both arms around his neck, placing my head on his shoulder. He then brings both of his arms around my body, pulling me closer to him. Nudging my head just under his chin, I cry again, telling him how sorry I am that he had to do this to me. I feel his hand rubbing my back, in a slow circular motion. I continue to sob and make false promises. At the time, I really mean them. I really do. I want to believe my words. Skinner knows that at this moment I mean it too. And that's all that counts, this moment in time. Being here with his arms around me, making me feel secure and safe. Giving me solace in my anguish. I can feel the hurt leaving me, the trembling stopping. I'm crying it all out, right here on this man's shoulder. He squeezes me tighter, silently telling me to let it all out. The pain is over. That it'll be okay, that he's here with me. And I can feel him. Once, my crying subsides a little, he moves, taking his arms from around me. No, not yet, please! It's too soon, I'll not ready. I cling to his neck tighter, almost strangling him as he was about to get up.

"Whoa, Mulder. Take it easy," he says, "I'm just moving to sit on the couch so you could lie on your stomach and get off of your backside."

I release him, so he could sit at the end of the couch. He helps me to turn over and lays my torso in his lap. I scoot down a little so I could wrap both my arms around his waist, resting my head against his chest. He puts his hand on my head, then begins to caress my hair. His other arm is resting lightly on my back, with his hand griping my shoulder. We stay like that for a while. I want it to be forever, I always do. I have my eyes closed, just feeling the sensation of being held. Held by a man who really cares about me. Cares enough to give me what I need, so I wouldn't get myself permanently injured or killed. After a while, I could feel the burning in my ass again. It's beginning to itch a little. I start to squirm, clenching my butt cheeks. With out a word, Skinner places his hand on my backside, gently moving his palm and fingers, relieving the itching immediately.

"Thanks," I say, tightening my arms around him. "It was itching."

"I know, skins healing. I didn't break the skin, but the welts were pretty raised." he said, still messaging me tenderly.

"Believe me, I could feel it." I groan a little, thanking God that his hands aren't hard and callused.

He takes his hand off of my ass and places it back on my shoulder, then resumes caressing my hair. "You okay now?" he asks.

He knows that when I'm able to make conversation, I must be feeling better. "Yeah, yeah, I am." I say, releasing my grasp around his waist, raising myself up. This causes him to take his arm from my back and his hand off my head. He leans back so I could get off his lap and kneel up on the couch.

There is always the time when we both know when it's over. No more caressing and no more cuddling. When we come back to the way it was before, the way we were before. Before the beating, before the pain. This time is always very awkward, for both of us. We have to come from a moment of genuine intimacy, to the harsh, official, reality of a boss and his subordinate. I suddenly am very naked and flustered. I move off the couch, grabbing my underwear and try to pull them up without causing myself too much pain. I glance at Skinner and I know that he's also feeling the awkwardness. He gets up from the couch and prepares himself to leave. He replaces his belt in his pants and puts the paddle back in his briefcase. I continue to dress, pulling on my sweats and a T-shirt. Skinner always makes sure that I have sweats to put on afterwards. I'm feeling less vulnerable, now that I'm dressed. I stand there watching him. He tries to avoid looking directly at me, although he knows that I'm looking at him. He always does this. He feels a little guilty, I know that. He finally stands, with his coat on, briefcase in hand ready to go. At this time, he looks at my tear stained face, then into my eyes. I return the look, seeing the sorrow that's there. I stay where I am, looking away momentarily. I let him feel what he needs to feel. My eyes meet his again and I try to make them smile. Then my lips form a slight smile. It's my turn to reassure, to tell him it's okay. And it is. It's always okay in the end.

He walks over to my front door, then turns to look at me. He gives me a weak smile then turns, placing his hand on the knob, twisting it and pulling the door open. Pausing for one instant, he opens the door wider and walks through without looking back, pulling the door shut behind him.

I'm still rooted to my spot, staring at the door, feeling a great sense of loss. I always feel more alone during this time, than at any other time in my life. This is when I wish I had someone here with me, perhaps a lover to hold me and stay the night. I have nothing now, just the pain. I don't even have my faithful companion, porn, because sitting on the couch right now would not be a good thing, neither would lying on it. I wrap my arms around my chest, in a conscience effort to give myself some comfort, but it doesn't work, it never does. I sigh, releasing my embrace and walk towards the bathroom. I'm going to take a nice cool shower. I always do. The cool water always soothes the burning in my ass, not to mention in my soul. After that, I'll go off to my actual bedroom, exhausted. Lying face down on my couch tonight would only bring a sleepless night and memories, if not nightmares. I usually never have nightmares after a beating, but there's always a first time. Tomorrow is Saturday thank God. He always makes sure that he disciplines me on a Friday or Saturday, so I'd have a day or two to recuperate. What a thoughtful man. How could I hate him? With that thought, I walk into the bathroom, continuing the routine of the aftermath.

THE END



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