The Groom's Second Tradition

Pedro couldn't stop grinning. He was a married man now, standing in the small reception room of the registry office, holding a warm glass of prosecco and watching Natalie laugh with her friends across the room. She looked beautiful in her simple white dress, her dark hair pinned up with small flowers he'd picked from the garden that morning. That morning. He pushed the thought away. He wasn't going to think about this morning. He was done thinking about this morning.

Harry had trapped him in the bedroom of Josh’s flat just before the ceremony. Said it was a "traditional English send-off for a groom." Pedro had his doubts about how traditional it actually was, but Harry had been so insistent and so confident about the custom that Pedro, wearing only a pair of grey briefs, hadn't put up much of a fight. The spanking had stung. The buggering had stung more. And the feeling of Harry's load slowly dripping from him as he stood at the altar and said "I do" was not something he planned to dwell on. He was a married man now. New chapter. Clean slate.

He turned and nearly bumped into a broad chest.

"Pedro." Digby Maximillian extended a large hand, his grip firm and dry. He was a tall man, well over six feet, with a bulky frame that carried its extra weight with a kind of imposing confidence. His grey hair was swept back neatly, and his suit — charcoal, perfectly fitted — looked like it cost more than Pedro's monthly salary. "I thought we might finally have a proper conversation."

"Of course, Digby. Sir. Sorry — what do I call you?"

"Digby is fine." He guided Pedro by the elbow toward a quieter corner of the room, away from the music and the chatter. "I wanted to set out what I expect of you now that you're my son-in-law."

Pedro nodded, still smiling. He liked the sound of that. Son-in-law. It had a weight to it.

"First and foremost, you take care of Natalie. That's non-negotiable. You're the main breadwinner now. That means you succeed in your career at the bank. Harwick & Stein is a good firm. I expect you to climb."

"Absolutely," Pedro said. "I'm committed to that."

"Good." Digby took a sip of his whisky. "I should mention — I'm old friends with your former headmaster, Alistair."

Pedro's stomach dropped. He kept his smile in place but felt the warmth drain from his face. Alistair. The man who had first caned him, that strange evening at his boss George's house. The man who had set off this whole bizarre chain of events in Pedro's life.

"He speaks fondly of you," Digby continued, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. "Though he did feel there was more you could do to apply yourself to your studies. Even back then."

Pedro swallowed. "I — I did my best at school."

"Hmm." Digby looked at him with pale, steady eyes. "I would take a dim view of you slacking off at work, Pedro. A very dim view. I'll be keeping track of your progress via Alistair, who has remained in touch with your boss George."

The room suddenly felt too warm. Pedro wanted to sit down. The old boys' network — he'd thought it was just George and Alistair, two men who happened to know each other. But now Digby was woven into it too, this invisible web of older English men who all seemed to know each other, all seemed to share some unspoken understanding about how young men should be managed. What were the chances?

"I won't let you down," Pedro said quietly.

"See that you don't."

Digby clapped him on the shoulder and walked away to greet another guest, leaving Pedro standing with his prosecco, his heart hammering.

A few weeks later, Natalie bounced into the kitchen with her phone in her hand. "Mum's invited us for a week in the Cotswolds! She says the garden's looking wonderful and we haven't been to visit since — well, since ever, really. I've never brought anyone home."

Pedro had agreed, of course. He'd been curious about where Natalie grew up, and honestly, he wanted to make a good impression. He'd packed carefully — chinos, a few nice shirts, his good shoes. When their taxi turned onto a long gravel drive lined with ancient oaks, he sat up straighter.

"You grew up here?"

"It's just a house, Pedro."

It was not just a house. It was almost a stately home — a sprawling stone building with ivy climbing the front facade, tall windows catching the late afternoon light, and a garden that rolled out toward a patchwork of green fields. Old money. The kind of place that had been in the family for generations and didn't need to show off because it simply existed.

Digby met them at the door, shaking Pedro's hand with that same firm grip. "Good to see you, Pedro. You'll be in the east wing. Your room is prepared."

The first day passed pleasantly enough. Dinner was formal — proper courses, silver cutlery, wine that Digby selected from a cellar that Pedro suspected was older than he was. Natalie was relaxed and happy, catching up with her mother about local gossip and family friends. Pedro answered Digby's questions about the bank, about his prospects, about his ambitions. He felt he held his own.

The next afternoon, after a long lunch of cold roast beef and salad, Natalie and her mother gathered their handbags.

"We're off to Stow-on-the-Wold," Natalie said, kissing Pedro on the cheek. "Mum wants to show me some antique shop. We'll be a couple of hours."

"Enjoy," Pedro said.

He watched them go, the car crunching down the gravel drive, and then turned to find Digby standing in the hallway behind him.

"Pedro. A word. In the study."

The study was a room that smelled of leather and old paper. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined two walls. A heavy oak desk sat in front of a window that looked out over the garden. Two leather armchairs faced a fireplace that wasn't lit. Digby poured two brandies from a crystal decanter and handed one to Pedro.

"Sit."

Pedro sat in one of the armchairs. Digby remained standing, near the desk, one hand in his pocket.

"I'm getting concerned about your progress at Harwick & Stein."

Pedro blinked. "Concerned? George has been really positive about my work. He says I'm—"

"George is a kind man. Too kind, perhaps. Alistair tells me you're not applying yourself with the commitment the bank expects."

Pedro shook his head slightly. "I don't understand where that's coming from. My reviews have been good. I've hit every target this quarter."

"I warned you what would happen if you didn't heed my advice."

The mood shifted. It was subtle — a tightening of Digby's jaw, a stillness in his posture — but Pedro felt it like a change in air pressure. He set his brandy down.

"Digby, I promise you, I'm doing everything I can."

"Clearly, everything isn't enough." Digby walked to one of the cabinets along the far wall — a tall, dark wooden piece with brass handles — and opened it. He reached in and pulled out a cane. It was thin, flexible, dark wood, with a curved handle. Not dissimilar to the one George had.

Pedro's mouth went dry. He let out a nervous laugh. "What — what is that for?"

"This is not a laughing matter, Pedro." Digby's voice was low and entirely serious. "The only way you'll learn is if you take your discipline like a man."

"You're not seriously—"

"You are owed thirty-six strokes. Twelve on your khakis, twelve on your briefs, and twelve on the bare."

Pedro stared at him. The room was silent except for the ticking of a clock somewhere on a shelf. He thought about walking out. He thought about what he would say to Natalie. He thought about the fact that he was standing in his father-in-law's study, in a house that had been in the family for two hundred years, and that he had married into something much larger and stranger than he'd understood.

He thought about how Harry's load had dripped out of him at the altar, and how he'd smiled through his vows anyway.

"Thirty-six?" was all he said.

"Thirty-six. Bend over the desk."

Pedro stood. His legs felt unsteady. He walked to the desk and bent over it, the wood cool against his palms, the window in front of him showing the garden — roses, a stone path, green lawn. Somewhere outside, a bird was singing.

The first stroke came hard and fast. It cracked across his backside with a sound that filled the room, and Pedro gasped. It was harder than Alistair's had been. Digby was a bigger man, broader, with more weight behind his arm.

"Count them," Digby said.

"One."

The second stroke landed just below the first. Pedro gripped the edge of the desk. "Two."

By six, his eyes were watering. By twelve, his whole backside was throbbing through the thin fabric of his khakis. Digby didn't pause between sets. He simply said, "Trousers down."

Pedro fumbled with his belt, his fingers clumsy, and pushed his khakis down to his thighs. He bent back over. The air hit the backs of his legs.

The thirteenth stroke, on just his briefs, was sharper than the first twelve combined. The thin cotton did almost nothing. Pedro hissed through his teeth.

"Thirteen."

Digby was methodical. Each stroke was measured, deliberate, placed with precision. Pedro's body jerked with each one, his feet shifting on the carpet. At nineteen, he started to rise from the desk, his body moving instinctively to escape the pain. Digby's large hand pressed firmly between his shoulder blades and pushed him back down.

"Stay down."

Pedro stayed down.

By twenty-four, his briefs felt like they were on fire. His breathing was ragged. He could feel heat radiating from his skin.

"Briefs down."

Pedro pushed them down. His bare skin was exposed, and he felt a cool draft from the window. The garden outside looked impossibly peaceful.

The first bare stroke made him cry out. It was a sharp, clean line of pain that seemed to sing through his whole body. His hands gripped the desk so hard his knuckles went white.

"Twenty-five," he managed.

Digby continued. Each stroke was a precise, vicious line across Pedro's tight backside. His pale skin showed the marks — red welts crossing and overlapping. Pedro's eyes were wet now, his jaw clenched, his body trembling with the effort of staying still. At thirty, he rose again, and again Digby's hand pushed him down, firm and heavy.

"Thirty," Pedro said, his voice cracking.

The last six were the worst. Digby seemed to put extra weight behind them, or maybe Pedro's skin was just so sensitized that every stroke felt exponentially worse. At thirty-six, Pedro slumped over the desk, breathing hard, his ass burning, his eyes streaming.

He stood up slowly, wincing, and reached for his briefs.

"Stay down."

Pedro froze. He looked over his shoulder. Digby was unbuckling his belt.

"What are you doing?"

"Your punishment is not over."

Pedro's heart pounded. He watched as Digby dropped his trousers and briefs in one efficient motion, pulling out a small tin of Vaseline from the desk drawer. Pedro almost laughed at the absurdity of it — why did English men of a certain generation always have Vaseline within arm's reach? — but the laugh died in his throat when he saw Digby's cock. It was thick, ruddy, and he was slicking it with practiced efficiency.

"Digby, what—"

"Bend over the desk, Pedro."

Pedro bent over. He didn't know why. Or rather, he did — he was married into this family now, this strange, formal, old-world family with its old-world ways, and somewhere in his gut he understood that resistance was not an option that had been offered to him.

Digby positioned himself behind him. There was no preamble, no gentleness. Pedro felt the blunt head of Digby's cock press against his hole, still slick with Vaseline, and then push in. Pedro gasped and gripped the desk. Digby was thicker than Harry, thicker than Alistair, and the Vaseline did only so much. His body stretched around the intrusion, and Pedro let out a long, shaky breath.

"This is for your own good," Digby said, his voice as calm and formal as if he were discussing quarterly earnings. "You will apply yourself. You will take care of my daughter. You will succeed."

He began to fuck. Functional, steady, without any affection or warmth. His large hands gripped Pedro's hips, his bulky frame pressing forward with each thrust. Pedro's cock — traitor that it was — was half-hard, pressed against the edge of the desk. The rhythm was relentless, mechanical, and Pedro could feel every inch of Digby inside him, the thickness, the slight curve, the way his body opened and adjusted around it.

"Fuck," Pedro whispered.

"Language," Digby said mildly, and thrust harder.

Pedro bit his lip. His ass was still burning from the cane, and each thrust sent a fresh wave of heat through the welts. The combination was overwhelming — pain and fullness and something else he didn't want to name. He could feel Digby's belly against his lower back, the scratch of his shirt, the cool metal of his belt buckle brushing Pedro's thigh.

It only lasted a few minutes. Digby's breathing changed — quicker, sharper — and his grip on Pedro's hips tightened. Then he pushed in deep and held, and Pedro felt it: the pulse, the warmth, the unmistakable sensation of Digby reaching his climax inside him. Raw, no barrier, just thick hot cum flooding his insides. Pedro's eyes widened and he let out a sound that was half groan, half gasp.

Digby pulled out with the same businesslike efficiency. Pedro heard him zip up, heard the clink of his belt buckle. He stayed bent over the desk, too shocked to move, feeling Digby's load already starting to shift inside him.

"Get dressed," Digby said, adjusting his tie in the reflection of the window. "Natalie and her mother will be home shortly."

And then he left the room. Pedro heard his footsteps recede down the hallway, steady and unhurried, as if he'd just finished a round of golf.

Pedro stood up slowly. His legs were shaking. He pulled up his briefs — wincing as the fabric pressed against the welts — and then his khakis. He could feel the wetness already, the slow trickle of Digby's cum against the cotton of his briefs. He took a breath, smoothed his hair, and walked to the hallway.

He'd barely reached the main living room when the front door opened and Natalie bustled in, bags in hand, cheeks pink from the afternoon air.

"Pedro! Come on, we're going to the pub. The Fox and Hound — it's a fifteen-minute walk across the fields. Mum says they do a brilliant ploughman's."

"Sure," Pedro said. "Let me just —"

"No, come now. Before it gets dark."

They walked across the fields together, Natalie chattering about the antique shop, about a mirror her mother had bought, about how nice it was to see Pedro getting on with her father. Pedro smiled and nodded and said all the right things. With every step, he felt it — a slow, warm leak from his hole, soaking into his briefs, a dampness that spread as they walked. His ass throbbed with every stride, the welts pressing against the fabric of his khakis.

At the pub, Natalie ordered two gin and tonics and a ploughman's lunch. Pedro sat carefully on the wooden bench, shifting his weight, trying to find a position that didn't press against the worst of the welts. He could feel it now — a distinct wetness, the unmistakable sensation of his father-in-law's cum slowly leaking out of him and into his underwear. He took a long drink of his gin and tonic.

"You okay?" Natalie asked. "You're a bit quiet."

"Just tired," Pedro said. "Your dad and I had a long talk."

"That's nice. He likes you, you know. He told Mum he thinks you've got potential."

Pedro nearly choked on his drink. "Did he."

"Mm-hmm. He said he's going to take a personal interest in your development."

Pedro stared at the ploughman's lunch — the cheese, the pickle, the crusty bread — and thought about the web he was caught in. George, Alistair, Harry, and now Digby. All connected, all watching, all ready to apply their particular brand of discipline when they felt he needed it. He was a married man now. A son-in-law. Part of a family with deep roots and old traditions and a study full of books and a cane in the cabinet and Vaseline in the desk drawer.

He shifted on the bench and felt another warm trickle.

"Actually," he said, reaching for his glass again, "I think your dad and I are going to get along just fine."

Natalie beamed. "I knew you would."