Chapter Text
Shane kept his eyes down as he talked to the reporters, his voice even as he answered their questions about the tough loss the Metros had taken on home ice. He couldn't afford to look too rattled, trying to put up a strong, well-balanced front.
"Boston is a tough team," he conceded to the pushy reporter. "Normally we're a match for them, but it was a rough night out there. Passes weren't connecting, we let them take too many shots on goal, it was…" Shane trailed off, shaking his head. "It was an off night. We've got some things to work on in practice, but we mostly just need to move forward."
Shane knew better than to drag his feet in the locker room. Kept late for press, most of the guys had cleared out, which meant there was no excuse to keep Theriault waiting. If Shane made the man stay late, he knew it would be taken out on him. Or, more accurately, it would be taken out on his ass. Clean and dressed to go home, he only risked a moment to shoot a text to Rozanov.
Theriault is pissed about tonight. Wants to have a conversation. I'll be a little late getting to my apartment.
Lily: What? He is going to spank you? ;0
Shane winced at the response, trying not to hold it against Rozanov, knowing it was meant as a joke. It wasn't like Rozanov knew what went on in Montreal behind closed doors.
Sure, he knew about Shane's omega status, and they had hooked up a few times. Despite this, Shane did his best to keep Rozanov in the dark about how Montreal handled his omega status, which was humiliating, to say the least.
He glanced at the text again. His stomach twisted at the idea of Rozanov agreeing with the coaching team.
Shane made his way upstairs, not allowing himself time to hesitate outside of Theriault's office, raising his hand to knock.
"Come in," the alpha called.
Shane stepped inside, taking in the familiar office. It was a luxurious space, with thick carpet on the ground and dark wooden bookshelves lining the wall, stacked with books about hockey, various photos, and Theriault's accolades. One wall hung an array of spanking implements: a cane, a strap, the team paddles. Shane was well acquainted with all of them, though most players were. It wasn't uncommon for coaches to spank players who had taken unnecessary penalties or otherwise run afoul of team expectations. Most of the players could expect to take a dose of discipline at least once a season, regardless of their designation.
Currently, one of the nastier paddles was laid out on the desk. Wooden and thick, the paddle was almost as long as Shane's forearm, capable of covering a lot of skin and packing a punch. His bottom tingled looking at it, already anticipating the sting that would fade into a heavy thud.
He was surprised to find two men waiting for him in the office. He had expected Theriault. The man was still dressed in his coaching gear, sitting behind the wide, wooden desk. In his late fifties, Theriault sported salt and pepper hair and a worn visage that was prone to reddening when he has angry. He had the gruff, worn demeanor of a seasoned hockey coach, and his voice was harsh, on and off the ice.
The head coach had led the Metros through Shane's time with them, had been one of the decision-makers behind drafting Shane. He had also been pissed when Shane had presented as an omega. Privately, Shane thought at least some of his punishments were a way for Theriault to express his outrage over having mistakenly drafted an omega player, a way of letting Shane know he didn't belong in the alpha sport.
It bothered Shane, especially since it wasn't as though he lied about his designation. A late bloomer, he hadn't presented by the draft. Being such a dominant hockey player meant everyone assumed he was an alpha, Shane himself included.
He hadn't expected to present that very night, his first pre-heat creeping up on him while he was in the hotel gym with Ilya Rozanov. The memory made him shiver.
Regardless, Shane had been forced to tell the Metros coaching staff, knowing it would come out during his physicals. He remembered the humiliation of being pulled into meetings to discuss his new standing, the fear that his contract would be cancelled. If he hadn't been the number two pick, he was certain he would have lost his career. As it had been, the Metros needed a star. They couldn't have afforded to quibble over a player's designation, not when that player was their best shot at regaining their status as a winning franchise.
So, a plan had been hatched among the team executives. Shane Hollander would be sold as a beta, a perfectly acceptable designation. He would take chemical scent-blockers and heat suppressants, to ensure there was no reason for the public to believe he was an omega. The coaching staff would fulfill his omega needs for structure and discipline.
Theriault was a big believer in discipline.
Shane's eyes slid to the second man in the room, more surprised to see him there. George Bergstrom was a tall, broad alpha in his early forties, with dark hair and a full, neat beard. Bergstrom was a new addition to the coaching staff, and he had spent his career playing hockey in Toronto. At one point, years ago, Bergstrom had been one of the best centers in the league. Shane remembered collecting his hockey card as a preteen, though he would never have dreamed the man would some day witness his spankings.
"Bergstrom is going to join us tonight," Theriault told Shane, resting his hands on the desk, loosely clasped. "He'll be taking over most of your discipline from here on out. We're in cup contention this year, and I don't want your discipline to suffer from my lack of focus."
Shane squirmed at the thought, wishing Theriault were less militant. He certainly wouldn't mind less discipline.
He only nodded wordlessly. Theriault lifted his eyebrows, expectant. Shane scrambled to please him, realizing Theriault probably wanted gratitude.
"Thank you, Coach Bergstrom," he said, the polite words drawing a pleased smile from the assistant coach. Shane's face burned with embarrassment, though he knew better than to make a fuss. Theriault always, always insisted on gratitude. On contrition. On penitence. Shane knew what demeanor was expected from him. Theriault expected Shane to be grateful for the opportunities he got to play with Montreal, grateful for every second of ice time, for the 'C' on his jersey. That meant Shane also had to be grateful for the discipline that, in Theriault's view, made those opportunities possible.
And Shane was grateful, truly. He loved hockey, wanted to play more than anything. He knew that omegas didn't often get the opportunities he had received, and Shane wanted to keep playing for a long time. Still, it was hard to perform that gratitude when no one else in the locker room had to, hard to be grateful for the harsh punishment that no one else was forced to submit to.
Theriault gestured to the front of the desk, and Shane went to stand there. He didn't take a seat, not having been told to. Besides, Theriault never had Shane sit down. He preferred to have Shane stand for his lecture, this uncomfortable accounting.
Bergstrom was still seated to the side of the desk, close enough for Shane to smell him. An alpha, he smelled of something musky and dark, something woody. It didn't soothe Shane, not when the paddle was sitting out on Theriault's desk, prominently displayed.
Theriault's eyes traveled over Shane, assessing him. "Four to one," he said, reminding him of the night's score, as if he could forget it. "Do you have anything to say for yourself, Hollander?"
Shane knew the correct answer to this. "No, sir. I take full responsibility for the team's performance."
This part, at least, was easy. Shane really did feel responsible for the Metro's pitiful showing. He had tried his best, the only player to score a goal, but he'd made his own share of mistakes that night. Besides, a good captain should have been able to rally his men, should have known what to say to keep them all focused.
"Good," Theriault said. "The whole team should be ashamed. Losing like that while at home, in front of our fans." Theriault scoffed. "You know what a privilege it is to be the Captain."
"Yes sir, I know."
"Your face off win percentage was down tonight. I lost count of how many missed shots you had."
The lecture continued from there, Theriault's words practiced and scolding, reminding Shane of every mistake he had made that night, of how the team had suffered with inadequate leadership. Through it all, Shane watched the paddle, trying to keep his face even as he anticipated the feel of it against his bottom. After several minutes, Theriault finally decided Shane was ready to be paddled.
"Now, drop your pants, and bend over the desk," Theriault ordered, picking up the paddle and standing, circling the desk to reach Shane.
Shane followed his command, stepping closer and pushing his sweats and boxers to his knees. He bent over until he could grip the other side of the desk, wrapping his fingers around the wooden edge. Even as tall as he was, it still required him to stretch, pulling his bottom taut for Theriault's punishment. He tried not to shiver in the cold room, feeling vulnerable with his unclothed bottom exposed to the two men.
Bergstrom stood, too, moving to get a better view of the proceedings.
"Now," Theriault began. "I am going to administer your discipline, and as I do I am going to talk through it for Bergstrom. Then, we're going to have Bergstrom practice."
Shane twisted, trying to process the words. "Wait," he said, trying to look behind him. "I'm getting two spankings?"
"Yes," Theriault answered, reaching out to run a rough hand over Shane's bottom, callouses catching the sensitive skin. "Bergstrom needs to practice so he can take over, and I've never seen an omega who didn't benefit from a double dose of discipline."
Shane chewed his lip, trying not to argue. He knew his complaints only made Theriault harsher. Instead, he pressed his cheek to the desk, wanting to get through with this quickly. He hoped Rozanov would meet him later, counting on the promise of something that would feel good.
"You're taking fifteen swats for your performance tonight, Hollander," Theriault told him, giving his bottom one last squeeze before stepping back. Shane didn't have time to think about how bruised that many swats would leave him before Theriault was speaking again. This time, though, his words were directed to Bergstrom.
"Now," Theriault said, setting the paddle down on the desk. "I always start by making sure he's properly presenting himself. This is always a problem with Hollander. You see how he arches his back up and tucks his bottom in to hide from the paddle?" Theriault made his point by tracing his fingers along Shane's spine, making him shudder.
"Yeah," Bergstrom agreed. "I see."
"You have to make sure he arches his bottom up," Theriault continued. "So his spine is to the desk." He pressed down on Shane's back, forcing him to arch into position. He felt indignant, listening to the criticism about how he took his spankings. Shane tried so hard to be good; after the debacle on the ice, this just felt like another failure.
"Then he's going to try and plant his feet too close together." Theriault's fingers ghosted over the back of Shane's thigh now, tapping at his inner thigh briefly. "You have to make him spread them to really present himself."
Shane followed the indirect order, spreading his legs until he felt the familiar burn in his thighs. He could feel the cool air along his crack, too aware of how thoroughly he was exposed. He tried not to imagine the other men's view of him.
"Come here," Theriault instructed. "Feel this. You'll know he's in the right position when you can feel how the muscles in his thighs stretch."
Shane swallowed a whimper as two sets of hands squeezed along his thighs, practically groping him. After a moment, both men pulled back. "If you're really not sure if he's presented well, all you have to do is step back," Theriault said. "This position should spread him enough so you can see his hole, yeah?"
"Yes," Bergstrom's voice came. "Yeah, it spreads him well."
"It's a good indicator, too," Theriault continued, reaching out to squeeze Shane's cheek. "Like I said, he's not good at presenting the whole time, though I admit he'll stay bent over without problems. But, when you spank him, you just have to keep an eye out for this." Theriault brought a finger to firmly tap Shane's hole. The contact made Shane want to curl up and hide, face impossibly hot. "If he starts hiding his hole from you, then that means he either isn't arching enough or he's shifted his feet, and you'll have to make him resume his position."
"What happens if he can't hold position?" Bergstrom asked.
"Hollander can hold it," Theriault assured him. "Just needs some reminders, and it doesn't really matter for the alpha and beta players. I don't bother with positioning them past bending over the desk, but omegas have to really present themselves for their discipline. If they're not arching up into the swats, then they aren't fully submitting to them. And we can't have that, can we, Hollander?" He punctuated the question with a single swat from his hand.
"No, sir," Shane answered quickly, humiliated and now focused on holding the position. He had always known Theriault forced him to arch his back and spread his thighs during spankings, but he had never heard the logic spelled out so plainly.
"That's right," Theriault answered, now coming to stand at Shane's side, his hip pressing into the desk. "Okay, Bergstrom, once he's in position, I always start by using my hand to warm him up. It's not technically a requirement, and it's another thing you don't have to bother with for the alphas and betas. But, since Hollander ends up getting discipline so frequently, it's good to warm him up before using the paddle. Prevents him from bruising too badly."
Theriault landed a few swats, building up a steady rhythm. It wasn't enough to hurt, not yet. "There isn't really a right and wrong way to do this. Don't use your full strength on the warm up, since you don't want to bruise him yet. You're just going to give him enough swats to cover him, until his bottom turns a good shade of pink."
Shane kept quiet, squeezing his eyes shut against the sound of Theriault casually discussing the best way to spank him. The room fell silent then, filled with nothing but the sound of Theriault's hand against Shane's skin, his attention stolen by the steadily rising heat in his ass and upper thighs.
Just when it had begun to sting, Theriault stopped, now rubbing his hand over Shane's bottom. "See, this is a good color. Means he's ready for the paddle."
Theriault picked up the paddle, and Shane struggled not to tense when he felt the heavy wood rest against his skin. The spread position was the only thing that kept him from clenching. Without warning, the paddle lifted away and then landed, sending a streak of searing pain across Shane's flesh.
"One," he counted, not needing to be told about this part of the routine. "Thank you, sir."
"Good," Theriault praised. "It's important you make him count. It keeps omegas focused on each part of the discipline."
Theriault lifted the paddle again, this time landing it a little lower, catching the section where Shane's ass met his thighs.
"Two. Thank you, sir."
Another stroke landed in the same spot, and Shane had to bite his lip to retain a whimper. Theriault was not holding back. "Three. Thank you, sir."
"It's important you get this part of his bottom well," Theriault instructed. "It's the part that touches the bench when he sits, so it's good for his focus."
The spanking continued in this fashion, with Theriault pausing to give Bergstrom instruction on various parts of Shane's anatomy (apparently his thighs were especially sensitive). Theriault also took time to tell Bergstrom how much force to use (allegedly Shane required a lot) and what proper coverage looked like. Despite Shane's efforts to keep his bottom presented, Theriault had to remind him to arch his back, a command that was accompanied by a snide remark to Bergstrom about how the omega struggled.
Through it, Shane fought to keep his composure, refusing to cry. He could take it. He could take it. Still, his eyes were brimming with tears by the end of it, his breaths a little ragged.
Finally, Theriault gave the last swat, casually running a single hand across his welted rear, already bruising. "Hollander always finishes his discipline by thanking me and whatever implement I used."
Shane opened his eyes, seeing the wooden paddle had been thrust in front of his face. He knew what to do, chest burning in shame as he lifted his head to drop a kiss against the paddle that had just blistered him so thoroughly. "Thank you," he said, keeping his eyes on the implement.
"Good boy," Theriault said, finally issuing praise. "Now, show Bergstrom how you thank me."
Shane lifted himself from the desk, not looking at Bergstrom as he positioned himself in front of Theriault and sank to his knees. Shane knew this position well, eye to eye with Theriault's hard length, straining against the fabric of his pants. With shaking hands, he reached up to undo the button, unzipping Theriault's slacks and gently pulling out his cock.
Leaning forward, Shane kissed Theriault's cock, just as he had the paddle, then he took him in his mouth, beginning to bob up and down. Theriault was heavy, the taste of him almost sour. It made Shane think of Rozanov, of how different it felt to take the Russian in his mouth, how much better it was than this little performance. He tried to put it out of his mind, not wanting to equate his time with Rozanov with the punishment from his coach.
Theriault didn't last long, his fingers twisting in Shane's hair to hold him close, forcing him to swallow down his seed.
Shane felt a little shaky as he pulled away, saying the expected words as he put Theriault's cock away. "Thank you."
Theriault reached down, rubbing his thumb over Shane's mouth, catching a stray bit of saliva. He didn't say anything to Shane, instead turning his attention back to Bergstrom. "Now, do you feel ready to show me what you learned?"
"Absolutely," came Bergstrom's deep rumble, his hand catching Shane's waist as he stepped forward towards the desk.
"Bend over, Hollander," he issued the command.
Shane was quick to obey, despite the ache in his ass, the sour taste on his tongue. This time, he tried to present himself by arching his bottom up, self-conscious over Theriault's criticism. The movement drew a fond chuckle from Bergstrom, who didn't explain himself but reached out to push Shane deeper into position anyways.
Bergstrom groped Shane's bottom, squeezing hard into the existing bruises. "I don't think you're quite warm enough yet," he teased, sarcastic as he began to pepper Shane with swats.
Like Theriault, the swats from his hand weren't delivered too hard, not using his full strength. However, applied over Shane's freshly punished flesh, they felt like torture, drawing a few whimpers from him as he struggled to contain himself. Each swat reignited the earlier pain, and Bergstrom was committed to the full practice run, covering every inch of Shane's bottom and upper thighs.
"I think he's ready for the paddle, now?" Bergstom asked, checking with Theriault.
"Yes, that was great."
With that, Bergstrom landed the first hard stroke down the center of Shane's bottom, covering earlier bruises. This pulled a small cry from Shane, who forced himself to answer it with a "One. Thank you, sir."
The second stroke was harder to bear. The third was harder still. Each stroke deepened Shane's bruising, leaving his bottom a mess of paddle strokes and pain. It took every bit of his focus to continue counting, still struggling to hold onto his tears.
By the tenth stroke (which was really the twenty-fifth stroke, if one counted Theriault's), Shane couldn't keep his tears in, finally breaking down into small, quiet sobs, shaking as his knuckles went white from gripping the desk.
He felt humiliated, spread out and crying openly, thoroughly punished. He almost never cried in these sessions, so committed to taking them stoically. The tears didn't cause Bergstrom to slow down or lighten up, and Shane continued to count the last five heavy swats, not wanting to falter.
He felt limp by the end, mechanically going through the motions. Bergstrom made him kiss and thank the paddle. Then, he sank to his knees, bruised bottom on display as he used his mouth to thank Bergstrom's cock. Like Theriault, Bergstrom forced Shane to swallow. Unlike Theriault, he made sure to make a small comment. "I trust this will fix your face off percentages?"
Shane nodded, miserable. "Yes, sir."
Walking out of the office, Shane felt his phone buzz with a text message.
Lily: On way. Be there soon