It was not because he had been captured that Link crouched, naked, in the hot shadows of an abnormally large mail box, his bare bottom bursting through the rectangular hole that had been carved into it, the edge of which he used as a seat for his thighs. It was actually the culmination of his attempt at normalcy, an endeavor destined for distortion in one so destined for adventure, be that by Fate, or merely by his penchant for the patient accommodation of the strange requests of strange people.
This human sized mail box stood in a secluded alley, far enough from the mid-day bustle to remain undisturbed, of the Castle Town Square. For its size it appeared more like a wooden cabinet topped by a pyramid of red straw, the standard design of mail boxes in the area, sans the human buttocks poking from the receptacle. This buttocks cherished the massaging breeze for a few last moments, until finally the red-capped Postman rounded the corner; he was a lanky, though toned individual in a white singlet and running sandals, and the red mailbag on his back was deflated and empty. He had finished his route for the day.
The Postman retrieved a watch from his bag.
"Ngah!" This nasally yelp was his go-to exclamation for too wide a variety of emotions to list, but here it was satisfaction. Through his nose, as all his words were spoken, he continued.
"Let the seconds lose the rhythm of their march; to re-find their place they can count my steps, which are truer to schedule than time itself! Ngah!" He exclaimed with a fist in the air, and with a bobble of the white tent that had erected in the crotch of his singlet. But his pride turned to disgust as he remembered his apprentice in the box. He pressed a single, scolding index finger into Link's right cheek and held it there.
"But you, boy! In your last outing, by 100 monstrous seconds did your behind fall behind!" He retracted his finger and thrust it back again, though Link noted that the finger seemed to have somehow grown in size in that short interim.
"Like a hare married to the wind - that is what a Postman must be! How is it that such a young man can move so slowly? When you run, your golden locks stand firmly in place!"
The Postman smacked Link's cheek with a loud TSCHHH!
"You are not a Postman, but a Postbox! A postbox married to an ass, and so that is what I have made you! But do not worry." He massaged the pink splotch where he had slapped. "One way or another you shall learn. Speed is my essence. It is in my spit, my sweat, my blood, but a potion potenter even than these I will give you.." The Postman finished by retrieving a bottle of something from his bag, and when he unscrewed it, Link whiffed the distinctive oder of olive oil.
So began only one of the many punishments Link had incurred for falling short of the Postman's expectations, to which he had been beholden since accepting the apprenticeship under orders of the Hylian government. It was a time of peace and all vagabonds, however well they kept out of trouble, were politely, and firmly, encouraged to find steady employment. It was also something of a slap on the wrist following yet another accusation of vandalism, which was in reality a byproduct of the melee Link endured ridding a resident's home of a skulltulla infestation, a service the resident later decided had come at the cost of one too many broken pots and knick knacks that Link did not have the money to replace.
Thus Link found himself answering to The Postman, a man whose eyes of pure black did not seem to hide any deeper emotions, but rather reflected the single-mindedness of his devotion to postal efficiency. His chin was a perfect box, and his slender muscularity as precise as those depictions in anatomy texts which, for the sake of clarity, present the perfect man's body.
For his shifts he embarked and returned at the same second every single day, down to the smallest fraction, and if Link did not follow suit he was punished. The seconds Link arrived late were always translated into a percentage of rest that would be lost for that night.
As The Postman slept, Link was instructed to stand naked (The Postman felt that Link knew well enough how to be motionless, so at the very least he should shiver from the cold) at bedside for a number of hours and watch his master diligently, the reason being "Take pointers from my sleeping body; it is faster than yours when it is running! Ngah!" The Postman would exclaim before angrily sliding beneath his white covers.
Link quickly discovered that his master's quirks were not restricted to his conscious behaviors. Every night, at the exact same time, The Postman's penis erected beneath the sheets and ticked, like a metronome, back and forth for at least thirty minutes. The first time he saw this it took the sum of Link's strength to stifle a chuckle at the absurdity, that The Postman's cock, like a mini-version of the man himself, seemed to moonlight as a disciplined keeper and counter of the time. But the sight remained attractive to Link in nights after as well.
In truth, Link was even more physically adept than The Postman, and it was only out of compassion that he did not best the man's times, which he recorded and took pride in, every day. It was also out of respect for Hylian law that Link did not escape his sentence, that and a certain exhaustion with the hardships of adventuring - the hunting of food, the uncertainty of shelter, and all the rest. But it was not solely these reasons either.
Other needs of Link's had kept silent for the sake of focus during his forays in the wild, but in the safe shadows of The Postman's home, where Link for the first times in many months could sacrifice his alertness, those needs bloomed again. Against The Postman's predictions, Link felt not one moment of coldness in the nights. His battle-weary body had thinned its steely fibers back to boyishness, and observing the lunar glow of his pale, pillowed body, which was free again to be soft, Link felt a warm, milky desire filling his body from toe to head.
Every seam between his muscles, every crack and crease of his flesh glittered with steamy sweat, as though wetting itself for something. It seemed that in Link's ass there was a personal pond of carnal energy seeking some sort kinetic stimulant, and each night the image of The Postman's cock, like a red hot metal, dipped into and scalded that pond into steam. However, kindred to The Postman in his sense of duty, Link followed orders and stood still by the bedside, however hard it was to do so in his raging river of desire.
One night Link succumbed, though briefly, to a moment of fantasy. For but a moment he shut his eyes to imagine something, and the tender, sensual exhalation he emitted in that moment caught the ear of The Postman, who promptly awoke and saw that Link was erect himself.
"Ngah! So it is these kinds of thoughts that consume you in the night, not how it is that you may improve your performance! What with this girlish whimpering?"
Link only blushed and said nothing, the wide eyes of his babyface beaming, ashamed, toward the ground.
"There is one thing I like about you, boy, and that is your silent way. Right speech is the stride of knowledge and ability, the sprint of them when I speak on delivery! Your ignorance begets silence! Ngah! Before running your mouth, you shall learn to run your legs! Clear your head of these distractions, or I shall clear them for you!"
Link felt a certain guilt deliberately falling short of his goal once again the next day, for he saw that doing so genuinely pained The Postman, but the pent-up waves of his sexual frustration had not finished flooding out his principles. And it was this last failure of Link's that had driven The Postman to the creative punishment with which this story began, and with which it now resumes.
The cherry-tipped beam of The Postman's perfectly cylindrical erection had lasered a hole through his white singlet, and it held its horizontal salute with perfect stillness, without any gratuitous bobs or shakes. It was rigid and exact like the man it protruded from.
"Punishment in itself is base and vindictive; I intend to pair it with a lesson on precision, a skill I see in you, but which you use to improper effects..." the unfolding of the paper containing Link's time logs was heard "...Precise in your imprecision. By 100 perfect seconds were you last time late! And so by precisely 100 units shall your punishment be measured!"
The bottle of olive oil Link had scented clinked to the ground, and a moment later a mop of slippery fingers swirled mushedly on and into his asshole. They retracted and then slimed forward again, this time deeper; the shock of this caused Link to softly moan in a jittery way, as one does when freezing.
"Ngah! Again these girlish sighs! By these sounds did I select the nature of your 100 units of punishment, which you, sounding like a whore, shall receive in the posture of a whore!"
Glares of wet silver light danced in the acorn-brown meat of Link's asshole, but The Postman's sword of a gaze stabbed into the black bead of the literal entrance. His shaft was slender steel. His flawless coordination had, from Link's hole, tied an invisible rope to the red bullet of his cockhead, and all that was left was to yank and complete the connection.
The anticipation of the first thrust had coated Link's canal with the heightened sensitivity of an open wound; as though with a fly's vision he saw through the ten-thousand droplets of moisture in his tunnel, each of which tingled with electricity, and to each of which the resting air whispered a cool, tiny breeze. Tension and relaxation clasped tight together.
Quick as the whisk of a slash into a zero, The Postman's penis shot into Link's bottom with a sharp PAT! The postbox muffled both Link's warbled cry and the anguished tapping of his bare feet against the wooden walls. The Postman removed himself.
"Ngah! Cry if you must, boy. Here in this" he slapped Link's ass "are your carnal distractions. The thrusting of them out through your mouth, that is all I hear in your screams! Hold still for your lesson!"
The Postman's leathery fingers fell like nets on Link's convulsing cheeks and held them firm in place. His hips pulled back his cock like an arrow, and like the snap of a bowstring his pelvis shot forward into the bouncy rump again, and then again, so that a consistent PLUP! PLUP! PLUP! bounced off the stone walls.
In his head The Postman counted.
Link's white cheeks shook from circles to ovals and back again, as though a hard stick were wiggling between two shiny boiled eggs. Trains of parentheses rippled through the creamy flesh with each PLUP! Link's groans sharpened to girlish shrieks. But The Postman did not stop pounding, and so Link fell forward into the post box, away from the punishing penis just as it reached the twentieth thrust, fluttering out moans like whispers into a flute. The Postman banged and kicked on the walls.
"Ngah! Did I drop my authority somewhere inside you? Return yourself, and keep quiet, or one hundred fresh strikes you will have before you, rather than eighty!"
After some seconds, Link's smooth curves rose up like twin moons and gave themselves once more to the outside. The Postman massaged Link's slobbering asshole with newly oiled fingers.
"Ngmmmm, this mouth of yours I like. It is austere in its muteness; it bears its suffering with dignity! From it let your other mouth take pointers, boy!"
The Postman reattached his grip and resumed with a quicker paced PLUHPLUHPLUHPLUH! as of a carpenter hurriedly hammering nails. He watched by the hole's entrance to count each flash of his crimson tip, for he wanted every thrust to be full-length, and to jam with full force against the furthest walls of Link's canal. Meanwhile, Link bit into his thumb and clenched his every muscle to avoid making any more noises. Internally, he found stamina in a sense of atonement for having frustrated The Postman to the point of such an extreme and strange measure.
"Ngah, Ngah, Ngah!" went The Postman as the cum slowly magma'd up through his cock. He stopped to lube the hole again. The brown ring had lost its symmetry; it sagged like one of those craggy, screaming holes that form in tree-bark.
"Here in your hole, the seed of my diligence and athleticism will grow to replace your indolence! I do this only to better you as a man!"
He had thrust up to the number seventy in a sprint; he felt his semen simmering mid-shaft.
"Nguuuuugh..." he heaved his hips like a cannonball into the next thrust and it blasted Link's flesh with a loud BWOP!, so hard that the wavy undulations of flesh briefly flashed like the image of hair across Link's bald buttocks. BWOP! BWOP! BWOP! The Postman went until his balls hurled out from the singlet where they'd been trapped, and started to append each thrust with a secondary slap. BWOP!tup! BWOP!tup! BWOP!tup!
"Ngaaah! I feel you clench with me gratitude! Is your hole ready for my potion, boy!?"
A defeated mumble with the vaguest outline of a yes sounded from the box. Not merely as punishment, but as repayment for your tightness, for this hole of yours that I did not know I needed, I will give this to you. This thought passed through The Postman's mind, but he thought it counter his greater purpose to speak it out loud.
"Ngaah!... Then think ... HNNNgnnot ...to sever from me again!"
The Postman revved again into the rhythm of PLUHPLUHPLUHPLUH! for the final ten thrusts; he felt an energy like a small sun gather into his crotch, and when this sun exploded into a thunderbolt with the final PLAP! he howled a loud "NGAAAH!" as endless vials of semen, each as thick as his cock itself, boiled up through his shaft and surged into what nooks and crannies they could find in the tight spaces. Although the energy shot from his shaft, desire compelled his cock continuously forward into Link, as though his entire body and its strength was the propelling fire of his rocketing member. Then suddenly, in an instant, the cyclone of fire and lightning was snuffed.
The heat of his orgasm cooled as he stood there inside of his apprentice. It seemed that snow detached and slowly fell from his bones each time he trembled and exhaled a deep breath. Link's own shock and panic at the situation settled into a calm satisfaction; he felt his own erection, which he had until then not even noticed, softening. He felt that his hole was raw and sagging like a tube of drenched paper.
The Postman pulled away and observed gooey white petals of cum dripping down from Link's yawning, gnarled orifice. His point had been made.
Link then heard a jingling of keys.
"Hearing my corrections and rebukes, you made no progress; through your ears is no route to your brain. Perhaps you may absorb my habits through there! Either make no more mistakes, or keep clean and ready, for you will eat any further penalties from behind as well! Ngah!"
The Postman inserted the key to unlock his makeshift postbox prison into Link's asshole.
"Your clothes are around the corner. Return in time for your nightwatch, boy. Ngah!" And Link heard the pattering of his master's (perhaps dear master's, some part of him wanted to say) sandals fade into the distance.