One by one the other pegs were removed. By the end Dylan was left with a sore but throbbing erection. Falcon stroked it, not looking - his predatory eyes fixed on Dylan's. He grinned at the lad. The cock was freed and two strong hands reached round and grasped Dylan's buttocks pulling him against Falcon's own throbbing meat. The major writhed against him, dry-humping Dylan's cock. He kneading the buns, and fingered the hole that was dripping with three portions of cum. He soon had Dylan moaning, easily brought to the boil, putty in the dominance and surety of the man.

"Rewards come with obedience," said Falcon. "And there is no greater reward than your master's cock. Is that not so?"

"Yes! Yes, sir!" replied Dylan, squirming in his bondage, needy of his master, even though he'd been fucked by three other men.

"And do you want my cock? Should I fuck you now and let you come as I fire more spunk inside you?"

"Yes, sir! Please, sir!"

"But do you deserve it?"

"Wha..." said Dylan, suddenly thrown.

"Think!" insisted Falcon, his voice demanding.

"I, erm... I... I..."

"Have you disobeyed me in any way today?" snarled Falcon. "Answer truthfully!"

Horror struck. The truth had to be told. It was inconceivable that he offer up a lie. "I'm sorry, sir... but yes, I was late for my run. But..."

"But what!" yelled Falcon, moving away and grabbing Dylan by the chin to stare hard at his face. "You were told explicitly never to be late for a lesson. I personally told you that. Yet this morning you turned up two minutes late for a run. Why?"

"It was my fault, sir. I was running in the corridor."

"And that made you late?"

"Yes, sir."

"How?"

Dylan looked at Falcon with panic in his eyes. He flicked his glance sideways to where Master Gregor was standing, his face hard and threatening. He returned his look to Falcon. He feared Master Gregor, but knew what he must do.

"A master detained me. I was obliged to make amends for my misbehaviour."

"Which meant you enjoyed some sex, no doubt!" accused the major, the man knowing fine well having set it all up.

"Yes, sir."

"And by obeying him you disobeyed me. You should have explained. Did you make any attempt?"

"No, sir."

"So you ceded to his will rather than mine - the more pleasant option at the time to be sure."

"Yes, sir," said Dylan, tears welling, shame cutting deep.

"It will happen often," said Falcon, softening his tone. "You will be faced with a dilemma such as this morning. Incur a master's wrath, or risk incurring mine. In this case you chose the latter. You chose wrongly, and therefore you must be punished. Now remember your lesson as I teach you another - accept, submit, find a place in your mind to take comfort if you cannot fully embrace the pain."

The sentence given, the execution came swiftly. Falcon Hamilton moved away from Dylan. He picked up the crop that lay on the table and walked purposely behind the trembling bound slave. Without further ado, the heavy leather crop swiped bitterly down on the side of Dylan's left buttock, bouncing his cheek violently and causing Dylan first to suck in air and then to yell out a wail of deep agonised pain. A wide red mark appeared on his pale skin as he hung there, shuddering and shaking as the burning from the blow tore through his body and mind.

Fuck but it hurt! And fear somehow heightened the pain all the more. He was conditioned to being caned and spanked in various ways, but there had always been a limit to the amount of hurt inflicted, and the safeguard of security on hand. This felt different. This was a proper punishment, not a piece of stage managed fun - the major striking with brutal force, pushing Dylan right to the very edge of his endurance limit. Dylan screwed his eyes shut as he battled with the hurt. It didn't seem fair, but that didn't matter - nothing would be fair in this life he had chosen. Accept, submit, embrace the pain - that was the mantra, and fairness had no place, for only resentment could lurk in there.

Falcon struck him again, this time bringing the heavy crop down across the side of his other buttock, drawing from Dylan a long and trailing bellow of agonised suffering.

Nothing more immediately came. Dylan opened his eyes and saw the other masters standing there - Master Hans, and Master Gregor who had brought this about - a trap which Dylan had easily fallen into. And between them stood Lachlan, who had given him friendship and a wonderful night - the 'good cop' beside the 'bad cop' as rough justice was exacted - the man Dylan could trust, standing there gauging, ready to call a halt if it looked like the lad was failing.

Dylan wasn't prepared to fail - he could take a canning and find pleasure in that so he would somehow take this and embrace the hurt.

Behind him there was a hiss of leather cutting through the air and Dylan yelled again as the crop stung across the backs of his upper thighs, jerking his hips forward and causing his head to throw violently backwards as he howled like a wolf at the ceiling.

Another hard blow was delivered, this time across the mounds of both buttocks, drawing out another pained yell and jolting Dylan forward again under the wicked impact of the blow.

'Accept!' Dylan told himself as the pain snarled at his aching flesh. 'Submit to this master, who is your only true Master here.'

Dylan tried. He bit back the pleas for mercy that were clamouring to call out. He tried to embrace, but the hurt was too much. He couldn't embrace - he needed a place.

Another blow, another yell, the first bitter tears fell. In a blur, Dylan stared at the man standing before him, wearing leather trousers and bare from the waist up to show off his broad auburn haired chest. Dylan remembered how safe and comforted he'd felt resting his head on that wonderful chest. Was that a fitting place to go to in his mind, to find comfort in this time of suffering?

Perhaps! It was probably the place where many trainees before him had sought some mental refuge - to an illusion created by Lachlan on the night before their first punishment ordeal. But that's all it was - an illusion created as a job was done. So instead Dylan found sanctuary in something more real - a promise he'd made, and nights that were honest without pretences or agendas - nights that were voluntary and not part of a job.

'I won't let you down, Paddy,' he mentally promised.

Dylan gritted his teeth as he felt imaginary arms embrace him, as he smelt the musky aroma of a man who wasn't there, and was cooed by a lilting Irish voice in his head.

Falcon struck him again and again. The pain snarled and tore at his flesh, but Dylan refused to beg for mercy. If this was his punishment then he would take it in full. He would trust his master not to breech some unknown limit. He'd found the strength to endure. He absorbed the pain. He didn't embrace it, for that was a trick too far at present, but he found himself a comfortable place where he made it bearable to accept.

After the twelfth stroke, Dylan was limp, and tears were flowing from his eyes. Lachlan raised his hand, but the crop was already cast to the floor. Falcon knew when enough was enough, and more than anyone in that room, was a man who could be trusted. He walked to the front and lifted Dylan's head up.

"You have the potential to make someone a good slave!"

That was all he said.

It was more than enough. In his suffering, Dylan was at peace. He hadn't failed. He hadn't let Paddy down.