PALIN'S FIRST FLOGGING


@Copyright Maureen Lycaon, November 2000. This story may be 
distributed freely via electronic means, provided no money 
or other consideration is charged and that the story 
remains intact as posted, including these notes and the 
headers. You may also print out a hard copy for personal 
use. All other rights reserved under the Berne Convention.

My author's notes are *integral* to my stories. Use your 
head and READ them!

WARNINGS:  You know the drill -- all resemblance to persons 
living or dead is solely coincidental and unintentional; 
this is not a guide to real-life safe, sane and consensual 
BDSM, etc.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story portrays a relationship between 
an apprentice magician and his teacher, an older mage, in 
an approximately late medieval-early Renaissance setting. 
This does not mean the author condones teacher-student 
relationships in the real world today; this is a delightful 
fantasy, but fantasy is a poor guide for real life. In 
reality, such a great difference in power always leads to 
its being abused. But this is *my* fantasy, and Mazruar can 
be as incorruptible, wise and trustworthy as I want him to 
be.

You might notice a discrepancy with "Shamelessness", which 
supposedly happened during Palin's second year at Mazruar's 
hold. I have decided that two years is too short a time for 
Palin to be ready for such extreme acts as were portrayed 
in that story, so "Shamelessness" will be rewritten 
(eventually).

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I worship feedback. Send it all to: 
maureen_lcn@yahoo.com .

You can read more of my erotica at the Velan Archive at:
http://velar.ctrl-c.liu.se/vcl/Authors/Maureen/



PALIN'S FIRST FLOGGING

By Maureen Lycaon


   The bedchamber was large enough to be comfortable, but 
the small bed, chair, dresser and bookcase took up most of 
its space. A wall hook beside the bed bore a Third-Level 
mage's pale blue robe.
   The low wooden bookcase was stuffed with tomes. A few 
books had such titles as *History of the Kings of Jarivol* 
and *A Discourse Upon Hunting, by Dosgen the Elder*, but 
most of them were devoted to magic.
   Two other books lay on the bed. One, an introductory 
treatise on fire elementals, lay open on the quilt, face 
up.
   A wide window overlooked the gardens outside, letting in 
the light from the midday sun. The cheer it lent to the 
room was lost on its current occupant.
   The young man paced back and forth. Every now and then, 
he'd stop to look out the window, whose vista of walled 
herb gardens was lost on him at the moment; then he would 
resume pacing.
   He was exceedingly handsome, with long, flowing blond 
hair and a chiseled, flawlessly beautiful face, but his 
blue eyes were distant and clouded. He wore simple breeches 
and shirt, with one strange addition -- a narrow black 
velvet collar around his neck.
   Palin stopped pacing and sat down on the edge of the 
bed. He picked up the open book and tried once again to 
read it. When he found himself rereading the same sentence 
for the fifth time without remembering how it began, he 
gave up and set it down, then lay down on his back and 
folded his hands behind his head, staring up at the 
ceiling.
   He was angry, he realized, but mostly with himself.
   The morning's lesson had been going well enough until 
near the end, when Mazruar had ordered him to release the 
small fire spirit and clean up after it.
   Fire elementals of any kind could be dangerous if one 
did not follow the right procedures and remove every trace 
of their essence when the summoning was finished. He had 
been inexcusably careless; he'd tried to do it the lazy 
way, by simply commanding the remaining energy to dissipate 
as he was used to doing with air and water elementals, 
instead of directing them into the ground as he should have 
done.
   If the chamber had not been heavily shielded; if Mazruar 
had been, say, only Second or Third Level instead of the 
Thirteenth Level Adept he actually was; if he had not been 
there to step in and deal with the consequences of Palin's 
mistake -- one or both of them could have been seriously 
injured.
   The older wizard had not wasted time on shouting, 
sarcasm or the other indulgences of a lesser teacher.
   "You know what you did wrong, don't you?" he had asked 
Palin simply, his face impassive.
   Palin had nodded dumbly, then found his voice. "Yes, 
Honored Teacher."
   "Return to your quarters for now. This lesson is over."
   He had begun to protest -- exactly what, he did not know 
-- but then broke off in mid-word when he realized the 
foolishness of it. Fists clenched, he had turned away and 
stalked off to his room.
   Over the past candlemark, he had found himself blaming 
his error on everything but his own carelessness: on his 
weariness from the difficulty of the lesson, from the 
chores he'd been required to do with the common servants -- 
anything to distract him from the feeling of guilt that 
gnawed underneath his wounded pride.
   But as an apprentice mage, he had learned the need for 
complete honesty with himself, and that honesty would not 
let him take refuge in such excuses for long.
   *I failed him. I failed my mentor*.
   For a Third-Level mage, he had been unthinkably 
careless. He'd been taught the precautions and the correct 
procedures, he had been warned of what could happen to 
himself and to others if he neglected them, and still he'd 
been careless. He had risked not only his own life but also 
his teacher's.
   To top it off, when one of the servants -- a young woman 
named Geliz -- had entered his quarters to clean, he'd been 
violently rude, telling her to get out and leave him alone.
   That was something else Mazruar had impressed upon him: 
to respect the servants. In his father's house, servants 
were mere menials who could be flogged if they erred 
severely enough, and his father was quite firm on the need 
for his sons to distance themselves from the lower classes, 
to observe the rules of "propriety". When he had first 
entered Mazruar's hold, Palin had been bewildered by the 
older wizard's easy familiarity with his underlings, and by 
his demand that his apprentice treat them almost as equals.
   Nevertheless, he had been here long enough to know 
better.
   Palin sat up on the edge of the bed and sighed. There 
was no help for it -- he would have to go to his mentor and 
apologize. He owed it to him.


   Mazruar was not in the library when he looked for him 
there. Instead, the older mage was in his beloved rose 
garden, wearing the same informal shirt and breeches that 
Palin did outside the work chamber, leaning back on the 
wrought iron and wood bench. The sweet scent of the roses 
was heavy in the warm summer air.
   Palin walked toward him.
   When he reached him, Mazruar's eyes were already open; 
he'd recognized his pupil's footsteps.
   The older mage's face only hinted at his true age: 
crows-feet gathered at the corners of his eyes while more 
prominent laugh lines curved around his mouth. Even his 
dark hair was still in the early stages of turning to 
silver. Like any truly accomplished wizard, he knew the 
secrets of prolonging life.
   Those gray eyes held no anger as he looked at his 
apprentice, but no encouragement either. His face was a 
mask. He spoke not a word, leaving it to Palin to begin.
   The apprentice stood before his mentor, feeling his 
embarassment and guilt.
   "I apologize, Honored Teacher," Palin said, keeping it 
formal. "I endangered your life with my carelessness. I am 
sorry."
   He felt his shoulders slumping, but he kept his gaze 
steady.
   Mazruar's eyes warmed, and he nodded; but after three 
years in his hold, Palin was familiar with his unspoken 
language. He sensed the reserve still in his manner, and 
knew he was waiting for something more.
   "Has Geliz spoken to you?" Palin asked.
   "Yes, she has."
   "I wish to apologize to her as well."
   Mazruar smiled then, and the emotionless mask dropped 
completely. His face showed the affection and tenderness 
Palin was so familiar with.
   The older wizard made a hand motion inviting Palin to 
sit on the bench beside him, an invitation he gratefully 
accepted.
   They gazed into each other's eyes for a moment, and then 
he found himself leaning into Mazruar's gentle arms, his 
head pillowed against the older wizard's shoulder.
    His arms tightened around his mentor and lover.
   *Gods, I'm so lucky to have him . . . to have someone 
who understands me . . .* The familiar lump welled in his 
throat at the thought.
   But guilt still fluttered in his belly.
   "I will convey your apology to Geliz," Mazruar murmured 
in his ear, warm breath tickling. "I told her to just avoid 
you for a while, because I knew you needed the time. How do 
you feel now? Let me look into your soul, beloved."
   Palin reluctantly drew away from him, so that they could 
gaze deeply into each other's eyes.
   It was nearly impossible to describe to anyone but a 
mage, this communion of souls, their selves meeting and 
mingling like two wide, slow-moving rivers flowing into one 
another. He could feel Mazruar's love; he knew the older 
Adept could feel his in return, and there was a sensation 
of his very soul being caressed as it was gently examined.
   Mazruar released him, still looking into his eyes. Then 
the older wizard's expression was unreadable again, holding 
neither anger nor sorrow.
   "I accept your apology, Palin," Mazruar said. "But that 
is not enough for you, I fear. I believe I must chastise 
you."
   Palin stared back at him, blinking, mind whirling with 
shock.
   "Chastise me? I -- did I offend that much?" The lump 
welled in his throat again as bewilderment and hurt and 
cold fear entered his heart.
   Blacksmiths and such were known to chastise their 
apprentices with whips or belts, and sometimes masters 
flogged erring servants. But Mazruar had never laid a hand 
on him to punish him. He had never dreamed that he might.
   Then the older mage's right hand came up, his fingertips 
brushing the black velvet collar around Palin's neck, his 
eyes warming again, filled with compassion.
   "No, not at all. Fear not -- I do not need to chastise 
my pupils. But I think that perhaps *you* require it."
   Palin stared at him, only half-comprehending.
   And then Mazruar added, "I think you need me to have 
that power over you -- as my slave."
   Comprehension finally flowed into his soul. The lump in 
his throat retreated as he sensed the rightness of his 
master's words.
   "Do you understand me? Will you submit?" Mazruar asked.
   He nodded, slowly. His guts still tensed in fear, but he 
knew he would accept.
   "Yes. And I will -- Master."
   His teacher smiled and rose from the bench, his every 
movement as regal as always. It was one of the things Palin 
loved about him: the way even his body exuded his 
authority, his power to command.
   It was easy to accept domination from such a man.
   "Come with me," the master wizard said, and Palin 
followed him out of the garden.


   He'd never been in this room before; the door had always 
been locked. He'd assumed it was a closet, but now 
discovered that he was wrong.
   It was small, with no windows and only the one door. The 
bare plaster walls had no frescoes or tapestries; the floor 
was lined in flaggings of some white stone. Two brass wall 
sconces bore fat pillar candles, which Mazruar lit with a 
simple cantrip. The only furniture was a simple wooden 
footstool, a chair and a beautifully carved oak cabinet 
against a wall that was as high as a man.
   Two heavy iron brackets were set into the heavy beams of 
the low ceiling. Another two were screwed into the stone of 
the floor.
   Hanging from each bracket was an iron chain, and each 
chain ended in an iron ring, dangling just out of arm's 
reach overhead.
   As Palin looked at them, feeling his stomach turning 
flip-flops, Mazruar closed the door behind him, then went 
to the cabinet and opened it. The apprentice could just 
glimpse an array of objects inside, but not for long enough 
to identify any of them -- except for the three or four 
whips, hanging from hooks. His heart seemed to jump into 
his throat at the sight.
   The master mage pulled out several buckled leather 
straps and returned to his apprentice, looking into his 
face. Those gray eyes were gentle, so gentle, and yet so 
adamant, the expression Palin knew so well, and he fought 
the urge to sink to his knees.
   "Take off your clothing, my slave. All of it."
   He had long since grown accustomed to stripping on 
command, but now his fingers were clumsy as he unlaced his 
shirt. He had to remind himself: *When nervous, slow down, 
concentrate*.
   He pulled off the shirt, slipped off his shoes and then 
his breeches. At Mazruar's direction, he laid them in a 
corner, folding them neatly as he had been taught.
   And then he stood naked before the teacher who was also 
his lover and master. His skin was prickling into 
goosebumps, his breathing ragged, anxious, as he looked 
back into Mazruar's eyes, but the thought of protesting or 
pleading never occurred to him.
   Mazruar smiled, satisfied with his obedience so far. 
Then he stepped forward, extending one hand, and Palin 
realized that he was wordlessly commanding him to give him 
his wrist. He complied, extending his arm.
   There were four straps. Each strap, Palin found, went 
around a wrist or an ankle, then buckled closed. Each one 
had a little iron ring firmly attached. The brown leather 
was as soft as kidskin, and yet so tough he suspected that 
he could not possibly tear it; he wondered what sort of 
leather it was.
   Mazruar got four pieces of sturdy rope from the dresser, 
returned to Palin, extended his hand again. Palin offered 
his right wrist, feeling that he could scarcely breath.
   *I can't believe this is happening,* he thought, but it 
wasn't horror that he felt. He tried to put the emotions 
into words to himself, but the only thing he could think of 
was that it felt like facing some ancient ordeal. Some 
trial that would change him forever, like the manhood rites 
the barbarian tribes were said to hold for their young men. 
A necessary pain that would lead to something good.
   Mazruar passed the end of one rope through the ring on 
the right cuff and knotted it tightly in a clove half 
hitch. He ministered to the strap on his other wrist in the 
same fashion.
   The ankle straps followed.
   Palin stood there, feeling a little silly with ropes 
dangling from each limb, while his master pulled over a 
small stool in front of him and then stepped up onto it.
   "Raise your right arm," Mazruar directed. When he did 
so, the older mage took the rope attached to his wrist and 
threaded its other end through the iron ring on the end of 
a ceiling chain, pulling it tight, forcing him to keep his 
arm up, and then tying it off.
   The other wrist was dealt with the same way, and then 
his ankles were spread wide apart and tied likewise to the 
floor shackles.
   Now he stood spread-eagled, barely able to move. He was 
far more comfortable in the leather straps than he would 
have been if he had been bound only with ropes, and there 
was no way he could hurt himself struggling, but he was 
helpless and exposed. He closed his eyes for a long moment, 
his heart racing, his belly muscles clenched with his 
emotions -- fear, embarassment, his need to submit, and 
others to which he could not put a name.
   There were footsteps behind him, and then the feeling of 
Mazruar's hand stroking his long hair and the back of his 
neck over the velvet collar, and of warm breath tickling 
his ear.
   "You need not fear," the older man said softly. "You 
will not be cut or scarred, no matter what; I am very 
skilled at this. I will not even draw blood. I have no 
intention of harming you."
   Mazruar's fingers were in his hair, pulling it back into 
a ponytail, binding it with what felt like a little thong 
or thin piece of string, baring his shoulders for the lash.
   Mazruar's hands stroked down his heaving sides. He 
shivered, felt the urge to whimper, but he clamped his jaw 
and did not make a sound.
   The older mage left him then to fetch the whip from the 
cabinet. When he returned, he stood before Palin and held 
it up for him to look at, his face still holding that 
familiar expression of mingled gentleness and insistence.
   Palin had thought the lash would be like the whips he 
had seen used on horses or on severely erring servants -- 
braided tough dark leather -- but it was not. This was a 
whip, to be sure, but it was made of something lighter: a 
pale tan leather, soft enough to be suppler than the whips 
he knew.
   His eyes screwed shut against his will; he felt he could 
scarcely bear to look at the instrument of his punishment. 
There was something almost unbearably intimate about being 
lashed with that special whip, and yet his fear eased a 
little more.
   Mazruar stepped behind him.
   "Let us begin," the older man's soft voice spoke.
   Palin had seen and heard whips being used before. But 
instead of the harsh rustle of tough leather moving through 
the air, there was only a whisper of sound. Then there was 
a blow on his back, across his right shoulder.
   He gasped, but it wasn't the streak of pure agony he'd 
been expecting. Oh, it stung, a line of heat on his skin; 
but he felt that he could endure it.
   He wasn't sure whether he was relieved or disappointed. 
Perhaps a bit of both.
   All this took place in the time between that first blow 
and the next, which was over his left shoulder this time.
   More lashes followed in slow, even succession.
   He quickly found it wasn't as easy to endure as he'd 
thought at first. Each stroke was not so bad in itself, but 
the pain built steadily as the flogging progressed. The 
cumulative effect heated up his skin until both his 
shoulders stung viciously and he was breathing hard.
   He found himself pulling at the ropes, fists, clenching, 
tensing involuntarily as he anticipated each stroke, 
tensing more at the pain when it fell, then relaxing for a 
few moments until the next lash. He tried to restrain 
himself at first, but Mazruar spoke.
   "No, Palin. Don't hold back. Feel your feelings. Give me 
your pain."
   He strove to obey, letting himself gasp, letting himself 
squirm.
   As the whipping went on and the fire across his 
shoulders grew still hotter, he no longer had to strive; he 
began gasping openly, shamelessly, and now he was actually 
writhing in his bonds with his eyes screwed shut.
   Self-restraint and pride vanished as the flogging 
continued, and yet it never occurred to him to beg Mazruar 
to stop. He couldn't explain what he was feeling now, and 
he would have trouble describing it to himself later; but 
even as he suffered, the suffering was giving him a sense 
of peace.
   Mazruar never varied the even pacing of his blows, but 
he gradually speeded up. He was, as he had said, greatly 
skilled: the lash struck only Palin's shoulders, never 
straying to his spine or into his ribs.
   The continual burning was now really painful, broken 
only by the fresh pain of each blow. Now he was unable to 
restrain a little whimper as each one fell. The ropes and 
chains creaked as he struggled, holding him safely.
   He was gritting his teeth now, his body damp with sweat, 
and the sweat stung the welts and moistened his hair even 
as the whipping continued. He was going to cry out, he was 
sure of it. Surely Mazruar would stop now -- surely -- but 
he did not --
   And at last, his shoulders feeling as if they were on 
fire, Palin cried out sharply, throwing his head back, the 
cry followed by an involuntary sob.
   Mazruar's voice sounded: "Yes, cry, Palin. Let yourself 
weep."
   Palin choked, hesitated at some last barrier of shame --
   The next blow fell, another white-hot streak of pain. 
Still he could not break that barrier -- whatever it was -- 
and two more blows landed. And then he let go, bursting 
into tears . . . and the flogging ceased.
   Perhaps he could have stopped his sobs, but he forced 
himself to continue weeping. It wasn't just that he wanted 
the whipping to stop; he desperately wanted to satisfy his 
master, not out of fear but out of love.
   Mazruar walked around to face him. The whip was dropped 
carelessly to the floor, an object of no further 
importance, as he stepped in close to draw Palin's head 
against his own shoulder so that he could weep there in 
comfort as his sweat-dampened hair was stroked.
   "It's all over," the older man said, his voice soothing. 
"It's finished."
   His tears didn't last long. His shoulders continued to 
burn and sting, but the pain had already dropped back well 
into the realm of the bearable. When the last sobs died 
away, Mazruar released him and stepped back, looking into 
his face, and nodded once.
   "Now, I am going to let you stay there for a little 
while," the master mage said. "Don't fear, I will stay here 
with you. You will find that the burning eases after a 
while; but for now, just feel it."
   The older man walked over to the chair and sat down on 
it. He watched silently as Palin recovered, still hanging 
in his bonds.
   Palin sucked in deep breaths, his eyes half-closed. His 
cheeks were still wet, and he wished he could wipe them. He 
rubbed his face against his arm.
   He became very aware that he was naked, exposed to his 
master's gaze. With that awareness came arousal, and his 
organ began to warm.
   Mazruar looked down at his groin, then back at his face, 
a smile forming on his lips. There was no mockery or 
contempt in that smile at all, only affection -- and a 
trace of amusement as he saw Palin's bewilderment.
   "One often becomes erect after a whipping," he 
explained. "Or," eyes twinkling, "sometimes even during. 
Don't be ashamed, beloved. You are beautiful when you are 
aroused."
   Palin closed his eyes, abandoning himself to the 
pleasant humiliation the words aroused in him, and felt his 
organ swell the harder.
   The fire slowly died in his shoulders as he hung there, 
dwindling down to the realm of the unimportant.
   He felt the first stirrings of pride. He had obeyed, and 
he hadn't disappointed his master.
   Mazruar stood up, then walked behind him again.
   Hands ran slowly down his flanks, feeling his flesh; his 
master softly kissed his neck, his welted shoulders, warm 
breath blowing on his skin. After the thong that bound his 
hair had been removed, Mazruar unbuckled each strap in 
turn, leaving them attached to the ropes.
   And then the older mage took him gently in his arms 
again. He found himself melting into that embrace, ignoring 
his still-stinging welts, the sweat drying on his bare 
skin. His nostrils were filled with the comforting smells 
of Mazruar's own sweat and natural masculine odor.
   "You did wonderfully, beloved," Mazruar said, stroking 
his hair, and he felt the pride swell in him. "You are 
well, then?"
   He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
   Only when he straightened up did his teacher and master 
release him, letting him stand by himself.
   "We will go to my bedroom now," Mazruar told him.
   Mazruar's bedroom? Not his own? Palin dared feel hope, 
but he said nothing. It was not his place, under the terms 
of the relationship they had with each other.
   He took a step toward his clothes, but the older wizard 
corrected him. "No, leave your clothing as well, Palin. I 
wish you to remain naked for now. And place your hands on 
the back of your neck."
   So he walked naked beside his fully clothed master down 
the hall that led to the bedchamber, his organ still half-
lifted, forbidden to cover himself.
   Once, he remembered, he would have simply been unable to 
do that, would have been unable to endure the humiliation 
had they passed a servant. But then, in those days Mazruar 
would never have asked that of him. He still felt 
humiliation, and the knowledge that his welts and his 
swollen manhood would be clearly visible to anyone they 
passed added to it; but no longer was it frightening or 
even painful. He had been taught over and over that he had 
nothing to fear. Mazruar's servants were chosen for their 
discretion; no gossip about this would escape the walls of 
the hold. Nor would they think less of him.
   They encountered no one. The hall was empty just now, 
the servants elsewhere. His erection subsided.
   Mazruar led him into the sanctuary of the great 
bedchamber, a vast room dominated by the magnificent bed 
and its dark blue satin quilt.
   "Lie face down on the bed, my love," his master 
commanded, and he obeyed.
   Gods, but that soft quilt felt so wonderful under his 
chest and belly as he obeyed. It was almost sexual, that 
comfort after the pain of the flogging, and his every 
muscle seemed to melt with relief. He lay there quietly as 
Mazruar went to the cabinet, and considered his feelings.
   He felt easier in himself, he realized -- a relaxation 
that went beyond his soothed body into his very soul. He 
searched for the remorse, the anger, even the shame, and 
could not find them. They had been purged, distant 
frivolous memories of no importance. In their wake was a 
great stillness and peace.
   And, he understood, it was precisely *because* he had 
been "chastised".
   *He knows me so well. Better than I know myself . . .*
   Mazruar walked to the side of the bed, and Palin opened 
his eyes to look at him.
   The older man held the glass bottle of oil so that he 
could see it, just as he had the whip. There was so much 
affection and warmth in those eyes, so much love, and he 
couldn't help but smile before his eyelids drooped closed 
again.
   *Master*, he wanted to murmur, but he knew not to speak 
unless he was bidden.
   A hand stroked his hair again, long, slow, gentle 
strokes. The so-familiar voice crooned to him, "Rest easy, 
Palin . . . rest easy . . . I will soothe you now."
   Mazruar slowly climbed onto the bed with him, leaning 
over him, one knee on the quilt.
   Those gentle hands parted his sweaty hair with more soft 
stroking motions, spreading it out onto the quilt in order 
to bare his shoulders. His eyes opened again, briefly, as 
he felt the oil dribble onto his back, precisely between 
his shoulder blades onto his spine, cool but not cold.
   Then Mazruar's hands were tenderly spreading the oil to 
either side, over his shoulder blades, into the welts. He 
had thought the friction of those fingers would reawaken 
the burning, but it did not. Instead, the oil soothed his 
inflamed skin, calming the last remaining heat, replacing 
it with cool comfort.
   He smiled as a thought struck him, that it was a good 
thing the satin quilt and his velvet collar were magically 
treated so that they wouldn't be fouled.
   Those wonderfully knowing hands rubbed the oil into the 
skin of his shoulders and back, into that itchy place where 
the muscles parted over the ridge of the shoulder blade 
(and scratching there a little), even onto his spine where 
the lash had never touched. He found himself sighing with 
pleasure as his lover's hands moved over his flesh.
   At last the hands retreated. He lay there, limp, feeling 
as if every bone in his body had dissolved to mush.
   Mazruar patted his hip, straightened up, walked away to 
return the oil to its usual place in the dresser. Then he 
returned to the side of the bed and knelt down to look into 
Palin's eyes, his gaze searching.
   The master mage lifted one hand to him, the fingers 
stroking his cheek.
   "Do you understand?" his mentor softly asked again.
   Palin turned his head and kissed those fingers.
   "Yes, Master. I do," he said. "And I thank you."
   


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