The London Handshake

Carlos had discovered the kink the way most people discover things in London — accidentally, late at night, on the internet, with one hand drifting below the desk. It was a spanking video, some British bloke in a school uniform going over a older man's knee, and Carlos had watched it three times before he realised he was rock hard each time. Not from the uniforms. Not from the roleplay. From the spanking itself. The sound, the flush on skin, the way the younger guy's legs kicked.

He'd come to London from Buenos Aires two years ago to start his PhD in political theory at LSE. He had a girlfriend — Priya, sweet, sharp, Sri Lankan, studying law — and she had no idea that her boyfriend spent his evenings toggling between Kant's *Critique of Pure Reason* and a spanking forum called RedArseUK.

Mostly he just chatted. He told himself it was curiosity. Research, almost. He'd exchange messages with blokes who described what they'd do to him, and he'd wank himself stupid reading them, then close the tab and feel faintly ridiculous. He never met anyone. He never took the plunge. Priya thought he was just a distracted academic, which was half true.

Then, on a Wednesday afternoon, a message appeared from a user called "spank-yourarse."

Carlos stared at the name. No subtlety there. No coded language or winking emoji. Just a direct, almost aggressive statement of intent. He liked it immediately.

He opened the message. It read: *"You've been chatting for months and never met anyone. Stop being a coward."*

Carlos should have been offended. Instead, his pulse kicked up a notch. He typed back: *"Bold opener. You don't know me."*

*"I know your type. All talk, no trousers down."*

They went back and forth. The man behind the account was called Harvey. Sixty-one, retired local councillor, owned a secondhand bookshop in Marylebone. Had been spanking men for thirty years. Described himself as strict and experienced. Carlos found this combination — bookshop owner and disciplinarian — oddly compelling. Like finding out your geography teacher was a dominatrix on weekends.

Over the next few days, the chat intensified. Harvey was sharp, dry, and increasingly impatient. He'd clearly done this dance before with guys who got off on the fantasy but baulked at the reality. On the fourth day, he sent a message that read: *"Let me guess — another time waster. You'll excuse me if I don't hold my breath."*

Carlos bristled. He was many things — horny, distracted, slightly confused — but he wasn't a coward. *"Absolutely not a time waster. I'll prove it to you."*

*"They all say that."*

*"I mean it. Name the time and place."*

Harvey didn't reply for an hour. Carlos refreshed the page eleven times. When the message finally came, it was measured and deliberate, like a man laying down cards one at a time.

*"I'd very much like to spank you, Carlos. I can tell you need it. But I only discipline experienced men. Guys who've been over a knee before and know what they're in for. You haven't. So this is where we part ways."*

Carlos felt a flush of anger crawl up his neck. It was bait, obviously. A challenge wrapped in a dismissal. He knew that. He still took it.

*"I can take as much as any of your 'experienced' guys. I'm not scared of an arse beating from someone old enough to collect a pension."*

He hit send before he could rethink. The reply came fast.

*"24 strokes of the cane, bare arsed. Minimum tariff for entry. After a hand spanking. That's my offer."*

*"Fine,"* Carlos typed.

*"Tomorrow. My shop. After closing. 6:15 sharp."*

Carlos agreed. Then, just as he was about to close the tab, one more message appeared.

*"One further condition. You will stay bent over the caning desk throughout and until I tell you that you may rise. This is non-negotiable. Not a game. Failure to comply will result in a buggering."*

Carlos read the word three times. His ears went hot. He typed: *"A what?"*

The reply was clinical. *"I will fuck you. That is the penalty for breaking position without permission."*

*"I'm straight,"* Carlos sent back, his fingers trembling slightly over the keys.

*"Then I wish you well. Enjoy the forum."*

Carlos sat in his small flat in New Cross, staring at the screen. Priya was in the library. The room was quiet. His cock was straining against his jeans, which infuriated him. He should close the tab. He should block this man and go back to his thesis. He should not, under any circumstances, agree to be caned by a stranger in a bookshop with the threat of anal sex as a penalty for breaking position.

He typed: *"Fine. I agree to your conditions."*

He closed the laptop and sat very still for a long time.

---

The bookshop was on a side street off Marylebone Lane. Carlos arrived at 6:12, three minutes early, which he told himself was punctuality and not eagerness. The shopfront was narrow, green-painted, with a hand-lettered sign that read *Harvey & Sons, Rare & Secondhand Books*. The "Sons" appeared to be aspirational, as there were none in evidence.

The door was unlocked. Carlos stepped inside. The smell hit him first — old paper, dust, wood polish, something faintly leathery. Shelves rose to the ceiling on every wall, crammed with volumes in no discernible order. A brass bell on the door tinkled behind him.

Harvey appeared from between two towering stacks of hardbacks. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with grey hair swept back and reading glasses perched on his nose. He wore a cardigan and corduroys. He looked like someone who'd argue with you about the Oxford comma and then cane you for disagreeing. Carlos found him unsettlingly magnetic.

"You're Carlos."

"Yes."

"Good. Come through."

No handshake. No small talk. Harvey led him past the counter, through a bead curtain, and into a back room that served as some kind of office and storage space. There was a heavy wooden desk, a filing cabinet, and what appeared to be a padded leather bench — waist height, bolted to the floor. Carlos stared at it.

"That's the caning desk," Harvey said, as casually as if he were pointing out a reading nook. "Strip. Everything off. Then get over my knee."

Carlos's mouth went dry. He'd imagined this moment a hundred times in his head, and the reality was both more terrifying and more exciting than the fantasy. He pulled off his t-shirt, kicked off his trainers, unbuttoned his jeans. His hands were shaking slightly. He folded his clothes and put them on a chair.

Harvey sat on a straight-backed wooden chair and patted his thigh. "Over."

Carlos draped himself across Harvey's lap. The fabric of Harvey's corduroys was rough against his bare skin. The floor was cold under his toes. He could feel Harvey's hand resting on his lower back — heavy, warm, deliberate.

"First time over a knee?" Harvey asked.

"Yes."

"Try to relax. It won't help, but it gives you something to do."

The first smack landed hard and flat across both cheeks. Carlos gasped. It was far harder than he'd imagined. Harvey's hand was broad and calloused, and he swung with a practiced, unhurried rhythm. Smack. Smack. Smack. Each one building heat on top of the last.

Carlos gritted his teeth. The pain was real — sharp, spreading — but underneath it was something else. Something that made his cock stir against Harvey's thigh. He felt mortified and electrified in equal measure.

Harvey worked methodically. He spanked every inch of Carlos's arse, alternating cheeks, varying the pace, occasionally pausing to rub the flushed skin before delivering a rapid volley that made Carlos buck and swear under his breath. Fifteen minutes felt like an hour. By the end, Carlos's arse was burning, his eyes were stinging, and his dick was fully hard, pressed awkwardly between his stomach and Harvey's leg.

"Good," Harvey said, sounding almost approving. "Now. Over the desk. Chest flat, legs straight, arse out."

Carlos stood on unsteady legs and moved to the caning desk. He bent over it, the leather padding cool against his chest. He gripped the edges. His arse throbbed.

He heard Harvey cross the room. A drawer opened. The swish of something thin through air.

"Twenty-four strokes. You will count them. You will stay down until I tell you that you may rise. We've discussed the consequences."

"Yes."

The first stroke was a line of fire. Carlos yelped before he could stop himself, then gasped out "One." The cane was thin, flexible, and Harvey wielded it with the precision of a man who'd done this a thousand times. Each stroke landed in a slightly different spot, building a crisscross of stinging lines across Carlos's already tender arse.

By stroke eight, Carlos was sweating. By twelve, his legs were shaking. By eighteen, he was gripping the desk so hard his knuckles were white, and he was making sounds he didn't recognise — guttural, involuntary noises that seemed to come from somewhere beneath language.

"Twenty."

"Twenty-one."

"Twenty-two."

"Twenty-three."

"Twenty-four."

The final stroke cracked down and Carlos let out a long, shuddering breath. It was over. His arse felt like it was on fire. Every nerve ending was screaming. And his cock was still hard, leaking against the leather pad.

He pushed himself up from the desk and reached back to grab his burning cheeks, rubbing them instinctively, desperate for relief.

The room went very quiet.

"What are you doing?" Harvey's voice had changed. It was lower, darker, stripped of its earlier businesslike neutrality.

"I — the cane — I needed to—"

"I told you to stay down until I gave you permission to rise."

Carlos half-laughed, still rubbing his arse. "Come on, mate. I took all twenty-four. I stayed down for every stroke. I just—"

"You stood up without permission. That was the rule. The one rule I was explicit about."

Carlos looked at Harvey properly for the first time since the caning had started. The man's expression had shifted. There was something cold and satisfied in his eyes, like a chess player watching a trap close.

"You're joking," Carlos said.

"I am not, as I explained, a man who jokes about discipline."

Carlos turned toward the chair where he'd left his clothes. It was empty. His t-shirt, jeans, boxers, trainers — all gone. He looked around wildly and spotted a storage cupboard against the far wall, its door shut, a brass key glinting in the lock.

"When did you—"

"While you were over my knee. I'm quite good at multitasking." Harvey pocketed the key. "Your phone is in there as well."

"Harvey. Come on. This is — you can't—"

"I can. I explained the terms. You agreed. In writing, as it happens. I keep screenshots."

Carlos felt the ground shift under him. His arse throbbed. His heart hammered. "I'm straight. I told you that. You can't—"

"You agreed to the condition. The condition was explicit. You broke position. The penalty was stated. If you'd like to discuss contract law, I should mention I served on the local council's legal committee for nine years."

Carlos stared at him. There was no crack in the facade. No hint of a bluff. Harvey stood between him and the cupboard, between him and his clothes, between him and the door.

"Please," Carlos said, and he hated the word in his mouth.

"Bend back over the desk."

Carlos didn't move. His mind was racing — should he fight? Run? He was naked in a locked bookshop in Marylebone with no phone and no clothes. He could scream, but Harvey probably owned the building and knew the neighbours.

"Bend over the desk, Carlos. Or this gets worse."

Carlos bent over the desk. The leather was warm from where he'd been lying before. His arse pulsed with heat. He heard Harvey move behind him. A drawer opened. The squelch of something being squeezed from a jar.

"I need you to use a condom," Carlos said, his voice tight. "I'm not — no way I'm taking some old—"

"Punishment buggerings are performed bare in this country. Always have been. It's tradition."

"That's not—"

"Carlos. Be quiet."

Carlos heard Harvey undo his belt. The zip. The rustle of fabric. Then a thick, Vaseline-slicked finger pressed against his hole. He flinched hard.

"Keep still."

The finger pushed in. Carlos groaned through clenched teeth. It burned, slightly, the Vaseline doing its job but the intrusion still foreign and shocking. Harvey worked the finger in and out, then added a second. Carlos's cock, absurdly, remained hard — pressed against the desk, twitching with each movement of Harvey's fingers.

"Please don't cum in me," Carlos said, almost whispering.

Harvey paused. "If you keep still and let me finish without fuss, I'll pull out. Agreed?"

"Agreed. Please. I'm straight, I have a girlfriend, I can't—"

"Then keep still and it'll be over faster than you think."

Harvey withdrew his fingers. Carlos felt the broad head of his cock press against his entrance. Then Harvey pushed in.

Carlos made a sound — not a scream, not a moan, something in between. The stretch was intense, the Vaseline easing the way but the girth still significant. Harvey was thick. Carlos felt every inch as it slid deeper, slowly, relentlessly, until Harvey's hips pressed flush against his sore, caned arse.

Harvey started to fuck him. Slow, deep strokes. Each one pushed Carlos against the desk, his cock sliding against the leather. The pain and the pleasure were tangled so tightly Carlos couldn't separate them. His hole burned. His arse throbbed from the cane. His cock ached. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, something was building that he'd never felt before — a pressure, a fullness, a sensation radiating outward from his prostate that made his breath come in short, jagged gasps.

"Still," Harvey reminded him, his voice steady. "Stay still."

Carlos gripped the desk and tried. Harvey's pace was controlled, almost maddeningly even. In, out, in, out. The wet sound of Vaseline and skin. The creak of the desk. Carlos's own breathing, ragged and loud.

Minutes passed. Five. Seven. Ten. Carlos's whole body was trembling. The pressure in his groin was building toward something he didn't want to name. He was going to cum. He was going to cum from being fucked by a sixty-one-year-old bookshop owner in the back room of a shop in Marylebone, and the thought was so humiliating and so unbearably hot that he almost couldn't stand it.

Then Harvey's pace changed. It quickened. His breathing grew heavier. His grip on Carlos's hips tightened.

"You said you'd pull out," Carlos said, panic rising.

Harvey didn't answer. His thrusts became shorter, harder, more urgent. Carlos felt the man's cock swell inside him, felt the rhythm break, and then Harvey let out a low, guttural groan and pushed in deep and held still.

Carlos felt it. The pulse. The warmth. Harvey cumming inside him, his cock twitching, shooting thick ropes of cum deep into Carlos's arse. It seemed to go on for a long time. When it finally stopped, Harvey stayed buried for a moment, breathing heavily, then pulled out with a wet sound.

Carlos stayed bent over the desk, frozen. His hole throbbed. He could feel the cum inside him — warm, slick, wrong. His own cock was still hard, desperate, unfulfilled. His ego was in pieces on the floor.

Harvey tucked himself away, fastened his belt, and crossed to the cupboard. He unlocked it, pulled out Carlos's clothes, and set them on the chair.

"Get dressed and leave."

"Can I at least—"

"No. No cleaning up. You'll go home as you are. Consider it part of the lesson."

Carlos dressed with shaking hands. His jeans chafed against his raw, caned arse. He could feel Harvey's cum leaking from his hole, dampening his boxers. He didn't look at Harvey as he walked through the shop and out the front door.

---

The Tube ride home was forty minutes. Carlos stood the whole way because sitting was impossible. He leaned against the door of the Northern Line train, feeling the cum seep out of him with every jolt of the carriage, his bruised hole throbbing under his jeans, his mind completely blank.

He got off at New Cross and walked home in the dark. His arse ached. His boxers were a mess. His ego was wrecked. And his cock, the traitorous bastard, was still half-hard.

When he got to his flat, he showered for a long time. He soaped himself twice. He inspected the welts on his arse in the bathroom mirror — crisscrossed, vivid, beautiful in a way that made his stomach flip. He touched one and winced and got hard again.

He stood in the shower with the water running over him and wanked, furiously, thinking about everything that had happened. The cane. The desk. Harvey's cock. The feeling of cum inside him. He came so hard he had to put a hand on the tile wall to stop himself falling.

He dried off, got into bed, and stared at the ceiling. Priya would be back tomorrow. He'd have to sit across from her at breakfast and pretend nothing had happened. He'd have to hide the marks. He'd have to act normal.

His phone buzzed. A message from "spank-yourarse."

*"Same time next week? I think we've established you're not a time waster."*

Carlos stared at the message for a very long time. His arse throbbed. His hole ached. His cock twitched.

He typed: *"I'll need to bring a change of underwear this time."*

He hit send, plugged in his phone, and turned off the light. His arse was killing him. He grinned at the ceiling in the dark.