Man On The Mobility Scooter (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Concise spanking fiction by Rod Cayenne – strictly over 18s only!

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Mr “Reg” Reginald was a friendly but lonely old soul.  I first got to know him when I went dog walking at the local lake.  He was usually there with his faithful sheepdog Bess.  Unlike the rest of us dog walkers, however, Mr Reginald was confined to a mobility scooter.  Bess still got her walkies, despite this.  She was well-behaved and could be trusted not to run off as he motored along the footpath around the lake.

Reg’s scooter was one of those four-wheel affairs, with grey tyres, a black wire basket on the front and gleaming red metallic paint like a ‘Hot Wheels’ car from the late ’60s.  Sometimes he looked quite dapper and distinguished.  On other days, and cold days in particular, he looked his age, huddled in a beige Damart anorak and Cotton Traders cords.

“Look at this graffiti sprayed everywhere, even on this Police notice forbidding motorcycling.  Little sods!  When I was deputy head, I’d have whipped them into next week for less!”

Well, you know me.  I’m a CP enthusiast.  I couldn’t let his remark pass.  It was almost an invitation, after all.  And so it turned out to be.  After only a brief discussion, he had me rumbled.  We headed back to his retirement bungalow.

“I can’t walk far, that’s why I’ve got the scooter.  I’m alright at home, I can move around just fine.  I can still wield a punishment cane, laddie.”

The role play was starting.  He soon had me bending over his small dining table.

“We’d better have those trousers down, boy,” he commanded, “And those brief things, too.  Come on.  Hurry up!”  Soon my nether garments were dangling around my ankles.  I became aware of his cold, wandering hands.  He was an old pervert, no doubt.  He grabbed my tackle and played teasingly.  I was stiffening rapidly, and my embarrassment was near complete.  Surely this was no way for a retired deputy headmaster to behave?

When the cane fell, I was shocked.  For someone I’d been inclined to write off as possibly a bit feeble, he packed a mean punch.  The heat of that first stroke seared my naked cheeks alarmingly.  My erection was disappearing rapidly as a second stroke hit me hard.  Bess and my dog Glenda were looking in from the garden, through the french doors, seemingly undisturbed by the violence unfolding before them.

Stroke after stroke fell.  I was losing count.  He had a strong caning arm, for sure.  It whipped the swishy cane down time and time again.  I could feel ridges and welts forming on my poor naked arse.  I wondered if he’d ever stop.  He hit with real enthusiasm and lust.

Eventually, he dropped the cane and collapsed onto the settee.  He was breathing heavily.  I thought he was going to die from the exertion.  I thought I was going to die from the wounds he’d inflicted.  The usual warming, erotic glow of a sound caning seemed to be a bit delayed, as for a while it was just sheer agony and pain for me.

“Stay just where you are!” he ordered.  I was still bent over the table, my throbbing, striped and battered arse on display.  Suddenly I heard the tell-tale sound of a zip being undone.  He was getting his cock out, unless I was much mistaken!  I had to turn around to check.  He rebuked me immediately, but yes, he was masturbating at my misfortune!  It didn’t take long for the old sod to cum with a long, hearty moan.  He wiped his cock on a nearby doily, at the same time ordering me in to the corner, “Hands on head!”

We did it regularly after that.  He was the hardest caner I ever knew.  He could slice for England!  Where he got the power from, I’ll never know.

Only once in a while, he’d invite a friend over to join in our games.  Mr James Peterson was another retired teacher.  He liked to give and take.  He was also keen on mounting me, which Reg never did.  I felt very self-concious as this new friend’s cock thrust in to me, with determination and with Mr Reginald always as an appreciative masturbatory audience.  After a good shagging, I was always punished a little more for my sins.  Usually this meant more cane strokes.

Our little games finished in 2012 when Mr Reginald died.  I inherited his dog and cane and maintained my intimate friendship with Mr Peterson.  I still miss Reg though…

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Story © MMXIV by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved.

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