This is a scenario I've had tumbling around in my head for at least the past several years, and I thought it might be fun to share. There are several possible role play explanations for why I might be doing it (or, more accurately, having it done to me) paying off a lost bet, celebrating a birthday or other occasion or accomplishment, or even, you know, just for the hell of it. And even though I'm often drawn to birthday fun-ishments and lost bet payoffs for role play, in this case, I'm less concerned with the "why" than with the "what." Or, to put it another way, I'm not sure I'd even need a "reason" to be doing it.

This isn't an attempt at good writing really just a casually written version of the way I'd describe it to someone if we were having an unguarded conversation, and I knew it was a safe space to talk about.

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I have this recurrent fantasy that a buddy of mine drives us out to someplace outdoors and remote/secluded/semi-private enough to keep us from getting caught. I've never really though about what he's wearing, but I'm wearing exactly what he told me: a dark gray polo shirt; a white t-shirt; some worn, snug, and faded jeans; a black leather belt; a pair of plaid boxers, and a jockstrap (maybe white, maybe gray, maybe olive green).

When we get there, he takes my glasses, puts them in a case, and puts the case into the glovebox, then tells me to take off my boots and socks and leave them in the truck.

He makes me bend over the lowered tailgate of the truck, paddles me on my jeans with an old frat paddle, and makes me count the licks out loud "One, sirTwo, sir" and so on and so forth until we get to twenty-five.

When he finishes, he tells me to stand up, looks at the front of my pants, and makes a comment about the fact that I obviously needed to be paddled. Then he tells me to walk out to the middle of the large patch of mud a few feet from the truck. Once I'm there, he tells me to get down on my knees and then to lie down and roll around in it. He tells me not to stop until he tells me. As I'm rolling in the mud, he pours a couple bottles or cans of warm beer all over me. He tells me to stand up. To take off my shirt and give it to him. He wads it into a ball and tosses it into the bed of the truck. He tells me to get back on my knees, and the process repeats as I roll in the mud, get doused in beer, and, piece by piece, take off my belt and my jeans, my t-shirt, my boxers, and eventually, my jockstrap. I roll naked in the mud as he pours more of the beers all over me.

He tells me to stand up, looks at my cock, and tells me it looks like I need another ass whipping.

He hands me a bar of soap, walks over to a nearby spigot, turns it on, and hoses me off as I soap myself down in front of him. He tells me to take all the time I need but not to even think about jacking off.

Once he's hosed the last of mud off of me, he tosses me a towel and tells me to dry off. After I do, he looks at me, says that he still doesn't think I'm quite naked enough, and tells me to put my hands behind my head. Then he uses an electric trimmer to shave my chest and my pubes before he writes BAD BOY across my chest with a black magic marker.

He tells me to bend back over the tailgate, whips my bare ass with a leather razor strop, and, just like before, makes me count the licks out loud "One, sirTwo, sir" and so on and so forth, increasing the intensity with each lick and reminding me that no one's going to hear me if I need or want to make some noise until we get to twenty-five.

He asks me if I want to jack off. He asks if I mind if he does, too. He already knows the answer to both.