♥ Site recommended story ♥
Concise spanking fiction by Rod Cayenne – strictly over 18s only!
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.
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…
Story © MMXIV by Rod Cayenne
All rights reserved.
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♥ Site recommended story ♥
Hot fiction by Rod Cayenne
I was eighteen at the time. I’d dropped out of school and straight into some warehouse work, which I really enjoyed. I was still living with my parents, as I was saving up with a view to renting a place with a friend. They were away on holiday, so I had promised to look after the place and keep the garden tidy. In fact, I was in the conservatory looking at the long grass as I played idly with my stiff penis that morning. I pulled my foreskin back and teased the glans with my fingertips.
I hadn’t expected to be scared shitless by a family friend, but that’s exactly what happened. My parents had asked Mr Atkinson to keep an eye on me while they were away. He had been a teacher at my school, but I was never in his class. My main contact with him had been at the after school Chess Club that he ran. I was a fair to middling player, but with his avuncular encouragement, I’d improved my game considerably. He had a bit of a reputation for strictness, but for being firm but fair. A few of my contemporaries had been slippered by him. Apparently, an appointment with his punishment plimsoll was not easily forgotten.
Anyway, that day he must have slipped into the garden, and catching me at it, he had banged on the glass of the conservatory. I nearly leapt out of my skin! I hurriedly shoved my stiff member back into my pants and went to let him in.
“Just what do you think you are doing, Justin?” he asked. Well, it was obvious what I’d been doing. I’d been masturbating. I thought in those days, the ’80s, that everyone accepted that it was a normal and healthy thing to be doing. Not Mr Atkinson, though! He was really pissed off with me. I’d never heard him shout so much, and he was shaking with rage.
“You dirty, dirty boy. If I’d caught you doing that at school, you’d have tasted my slipper or the head’s cane! Shouldn’t you be mowing the grass anyway?”
I nodded with embarrassment. How I wished my parents hadn’t encouraged him to pop around to make sure all was well. My parents! Suddenly, it dawned on me that he might tell them. I had to beg him not to.
“Yes, Rob and Dawn wouldn’t be best pleased would they? Such depravity! If you really can’t control your urges Justin, you should do it in private behind a locked door. Surely your father must have warned you about this sort of thing?”
“Actually, no. He was too embarrassed to ever talk to me about it.”
“That no excuse but it explains a lot. And I suppose he never smacked you?”
“No, not really. Neither did you, Sir.” It seemed like a good moment to use his old title.
“No indeed, but I rather wish I had done now. Would have sorted you out. Just what you needed.”
Rather foolishly, I nodded, adding, “It’s not too late.”
He looked at me strangely. For I had spoken an unspoken truth. At eighteen, I was very much still the schoolboy to his teacher figure. He shook his head. Then after a short silence, he shook it again. “Come with me!” he demanded.
I locked up, placing the keys in a pocket of my Wranglers and I followed him up the footpath, rather like an obedient dog. He lived up the far end of our road. On his own.
“In!” he ordered as we reached the threshold. His place was vaguely familiar, for it had a similar floor plan and feel to our family home.
“Sit down a minute,” he said, as he disappeared upstairs. I sat down on the grubby orange dralon sofa. I was sweating profusely, worried sick. He soon came downstairs, carrying a dirty white plimsoll and a crook-handled cane.
“Oh, not a smacking then?” I asked naively.
“I hardly think so, Justin. Your have earnt something a little harsher, I feel. Don’t you?”
“Well, couldn’t you just smack me on the bare? There’s no need for those barbaric things.”
“Don’t worry, Justin. Your punishment will be on your bare bottom. But I think a hard thrashing with this cane is what is warranted. The slipper’s not going to teach you to keep your penis in your jeans, is it?” he said, throwing the plimsoll down on the deep pile carpet.
“Oh, Mr Atkinson!”
“Jeans and underwear down please. Bend over this pouffe.”
Submissively I did as I was told. My arse seemed like it was on offer, raised provocatively on the brown leatherette. I felt quite exposed and almost giddy with fear, or was it excitement? At that particular moment I felt as if I was fulfilling some destiny. It was as if my arse had always been meant to be chastised by him.
With an almighty crack the first stroke landed. I’d never felt pain like it, and immediately cried out. He laughed at me, which made me feel about one foot tall.
“Just what you need, Justin. We’ll have to make it twelve if you don’t want me to tell your parents what you were up to.”
I groaned. A dozen seemed an awful lot. I wasn’t sure I could stand the pain. In fact, I was sure I couldn’t. Just then the second stroke cracked down. It was even worse than the first one. I could feel tears forming in my eyes. I didn’t want to cry, but this was going to be a difficult situation from which to emerge with any dignity intact.
The third swished down, and then another. And another. And another. Halfway! Halfway to hell, it seemed.
He stopped. I could hear him swishing the cane through the air. He was enjoying this, I felt sure. What a bastard…
“You know, Justin, you have a very caneable backside! What a shame your father never took a stick to it. I could lend him one, I suppose.”
I choked with shock. Surely he was joking? My thoughts were interrupted by the seventh stroke, which demanded my full attention. Shit, it did. My poor fucking arse!
“Yes, Justin. He can borrow this very cane!”
“I thought you weren’t going to tell him?” I asked, in a panic.
“Shut up boy and take your medicine like a man,” he admonished. All the medicine in the world wouldn’t have convinced me that I wasn’t a very sick patient by that stage! My arse felt like it was being ripped apart as the eighth and ninth strokes landed painfully.
The tenth stroke wasn’t so bad, but I think he was playing games with me as the last two were incredibly intense, red-hot and sheer agony.
I started to recover my composure a little, though I remained bent over submissively. His hands were feeling my buttocks, and then he probed around my crack. It was a nice sensation. Chess Club was never like this.
Story © MMXIII by Rod Cayenne
All rights reserved.
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.
Commenting is encouraged.
Comments are here.
Erotic fiction by Rod Cayenne
“Kevin! Downstairs immediately!”
Carl Jacobson was a strict father, and he knew his 18-year-old son would jump as soon as he was summoned. The two lived alone, following the untimely divorce caused by the unfaithfulness of both parents. The modern terraced home backed on to a car park, maintained by the local district council. The car park was shielded from the road by brick walling interspersed by sturdy wooden fencing panels.
“In the living room, now! I’ve got a bone to pick with you. Come on. Get your sorry arse in gear!”
Kevin hurried down the stairs, passing his father. Glares were exchanged, and father landed a resounding slap on his son’s bottom as he passed. Kevin reasoned that his dad must have had a bad day at work.
“Kevin, I thought I’d told you not to take a short cut through the car park?”
“Yes, you did, Dad. But it’s hard to resist when the fencing has been vandalised. If I cut through rather than walking round the block, it saves a good couple of minutes. That’s the difference between catching the bus and missing it.”
“Don’t worry about that, son. I’ll be waking you up earlier in future! I told you not to cut through there as it only encourages the vandals who damage the fence every time the council repairs it.”
“Dad, it’s the will of the people. The council should take the fence down and let people cut through.”
“Rubbish! That wall and the fencing give us tenants a bit of privacy and shield us from the noise of the main road. Little kids are prevented from rushing into the busy road.”
“Yes, Dad. Whatever.”
“Don’t adopt that attitude with me, Kevin. I went to see my old teacher, Mr Grimworthy yesterday. You know, the old chap who lives on the other side of the road?”
“Oh him! The shrivelled oldie!”
“Respect, Kevin! Show some respect! Anyway, I was chatting to him the other day. He told me he’d seen you and Wayne vandalising the fencing, pulling down the uprights.”
“Yes! Oh indeed! I’m not happy, Kevin, I’m not happy at all. What are you going to do to make amends?”
“Shit Dad, I don’t know! I’m sorry!”
“I don’t like that shit word, Kevin! Although you are very much in it! You’re making me very annoyed. Very annoyed indeed! Very, very annoyed. Mr Grimworthy felt sorry for me, which must be a first! He never felt sorry for me when he was leathering and caning my arse at school!”
“No, Dad. This is all very embarrassing.”
“It’s more than embarrassing son. Mr Grimworthy had a suggestion as how to make things better, however.”
“Yes. The nice old chap has lent me one of his school canes. Possibly one that was used on me all those years ago, I suppose.”
Kevin was feeling a bit mellow after a full week at work, so the significance of what his father was saying was lost on him, to start with. However, Jacobson soon outlined his plans.
“I am going to cane you, Kevin. I’m going to cane you hard. On your bare bottom!”
“Dad, you can’t! It’s illegal!”
“Shut up, Kevin. You’re really for it. I’m going to beat you black and blue tonight.”
“No, Dad, you can’t. Please!”
“I can and I will. Now, I’ll do it later this evening, when I’ve had a chance to practice on some cushions. In the meantime, you can arrange a suitable time with Wayne for the pair of you to repair the fencing. At your own expense!”
“You’re not going to cane him then?” asked Kevin, resigned to his fate.
“No, I’m not. He’s not my problem and I don’t particularly like his folks.”
“Dad, it’s not fair!”
A couple of hours later, Kevin could hear the unmistakable sound of the cane in action. His father was whacking some cushions in the living room. The sound could be heard in Kevin’s bedroom as it was immediately above. His father was admiring the cane. What a wicked weapon it was! Yes, Mr Jacobson’s mind raced back to his school days and his many encounters with the rattan rod. It was even worse than Grimworthy’s old brown leather strap, which stung like mad, but didn’t mark and cut quite like the cane.
It was a sound Kevin had dreaded even more than the sound of the cane in action. It was the sound of his father calling him down, just like a naughty boy. And, just like a naughty schoolboy, he was going to get his bottom caned!
“Dad. I’m sorry for what I did. Can’t we sort this out like adults?”
“No we can’t! You are a petty teenage vandal, and I cannot think of anything more appropriate than a good thrashing. I wanted Mr Grimworthy to watch, but he’s not very mobile at the moment. So I’ve arranged to call him on the cordless phone. He can then listen to your beating on his speakerphone.”
Dad wasn’t listening. Instead he was dialling his old teacher. The former pupil and teacher had a jovial conversation for a minute or two, while Kevin shifted from foot to foot, biting his lip with barely suppressed aggression. Father laid the phone on the sofa, and fetched the crook-handled cane from its hiding place. Kevin had never seen a cane before. It looked fearsome. His father swished it through the air a few times before slamming it down on the sofa next to the phone. It made a wicked and frightening crack as it made impact. Jacobson picked up the phone to ask his old teacher whether he’d heard it OK. Indeed he had!
“Right then! Jeans and pants down, Kevin, and the bend over the arm of the sofa. Mr Grimworthy will then be able to hear everything!”
It dawned on Kevin that it might be best to suppress any yells or cries. But how easy would that be? He’d barely been spanked before, let alone thrashed! He thought about it some more. His bottom was now naked as instructed and sticking up in a most humiliating and submissive posture. The shame of it! Then suddenly, the cane whipped down, biting the teen flesh with a vengeance and leaving a distinctive red line. Kevin gasped and then groaned as the pain kicked in. A second stroke followed rapidly, then a third, then a fourth. Kevin couldn’t control himself! Each stroke was now accompanied by a loud exclamation of pain. Grimworthy was listening intently on the other end of the line, trousers and briefs lowered, and cock in hand!
“AAAARRRGH!” Kevin cried as a fifth stroke lashed him. Jacobson was now getting the hang of it all, and enjoying himself. In a frenzy, he lashed further strokes down viciously and relentlessly until a baker’s dozen had been delivered. By now, Kevin was sobbing uncontrollably. Father delivered one last stroke right on target, before throwing the cane down on the sofa, next to the phone. Old Mr Grimworthy’s penis was stiff and throbbing as he’d enjoyed listening to the action. Both Jacobson senior and junior were also experiencing erections. It had been a fulfilling evening for all involved!
“How did I do?” asked the father.
“Sounded just right,” said Grimworthy down the line, “You can keep that cane. He might need a reminder.”
“Indeed, he might. Am I still sending him round a week today for him to apologise in person and take a caning from you as well?”
“Yes. I’ve got plenty of canes. Send him round. You can come and watch if you like. I’ve found my faithful old leather strap too.”
“Oh I remember that only too well. Shall we say 7pm, next Friday.”
A few days later, the fence had been repaired by Kevin and Wayne. Kevin walked past the fencing, only to find it had been tagged by a graffiti artist. The word ‘CANE’ had been sprayed in bright orange! Was it a threat or a warning? Who had sprayed it? Surely it wasn’t Kevin’s father?
Story © MMXIII by Rod Cayenne
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♥ Site recommended story ♥
Hot explicit adult fiction by guest author Dave Stewart
It was in the local supermarket that I met Mr Hurd for the first time in many years. At school he had been my mathematics teacher and while we had never fallen out as such, I had felt the wrath of his tawse many, many times. He looked different now. Obviously older, as it was 25 years since I had left school, so I suppose he had to be in his late 60s while I was 41.
“Mr Hurd?” I enquired.
The tall, still authoritative figure eyed me up and down before answering, “Yes, and who are you?”
“David…David Welsh Sir,” and I smiled adding, “Mr Hurd.”
A few moments of thought and then he said, “Ah, Welshy my lad, yes how are you and what have you been doing with yourself?”
We chatted and he insisted that went into the coffee shop for a catch-up. We talked about life and what we had both done and he told me he had retired from teaching and moved down to the same village I now lived in.
I enquired what he did now and he replied that he, “Still sees some old boys now and again.”
Our chat ended and it was two weeks later that we again met in the same store and shared another coffee. Talk this time returned to school days, because in truth we had little else in common, and he made me blush by reminding me of the days he had me stand in front of him for a hand tawsing. “Yes my lad I don’t think the sixers ever did you any harm. Did they?”
Again I could not disagree as I my education had led me on to university, and I now held an accounting post that gave me a good lifestyle, although I was still single.
I found myself drawn to converse further about the tawsings and asked him, “Tell me, did you enjoy thrashing us boys?”
A laugh followed and he admitted to, “A certain amount of pleasure and satisfaction sorting some boys out!” He then startled me by adding, “And you Welshy. I remember giving you a few good tawsings and admiring how you took them. I often wondered since how you would have taken the cane, had it been in use in our part of Scotland.”
I became quite brave at this point and said I no doubt would have handled the cane just as well as the tawse. Mr Hurd asked me how it felt to take a tawsing and we conversed openly about all things to do with beatings and school discipline.
“You should come and visit me some time, Welshy, and I will show you my memorabilia from those days. I kept some of my toys when they were banned.”
I said that I would like that, while wondering why and we arranged for me to visit him the following evening. I found myself thinking all night and then the following day about school discipline. I found myself unusually excited, touching my cock frequently then wanking furiously twice. I was indeed excited, fantasising about being tawsed again, which shocked me.
I visited Mr Hurd that evening and we chatted over some cheese and wine before he went to a drawer and handed me the same tawse he said he had taken to me all these years ago. It was a fearsome dark brown three tailed length of leather and I could see immediately why it had terrified us kids all these years ago. In fact Mr Hurd had a reputation for being a hard and ruthless tawser and six from him was the worst punishment in school.
My mind wandered back to Miss Beaton, my English teacher, a tall lady in her early 20s. I was in love with her, or so I thought, and I fantasised about being tawsed by her. That first time she rumbled me she appeared surprised but the second time she knew exactly what was on my mind. So she sent me to see Mr Hurd! Never again did I try it on with Miss Beaton. Strangely, just then Mr Hurd mentioned her as he poured more wine into my glass.
“Yes Welshy, you had a crush on that delightful lady and a fetish about her punishing you, I believe!”
I blushed and the memories came rushing back. We laughed and chatted further before I asked about his other memorabilia.
“Ah, that is in my study,” he stood up and I followed him automatically. We entered an upstairs room that was indeed full of memorabilia including a traditional cast frame school desk and a teacher’s one.
“I am a bit olde worlde about this room, Welshy, so when we are within it you should call me ‘Sir’, is that clear? Just like you did at school and in the supermarket when we renewed our acquaintance.”
“Eh? Yes, Yes Sir,” I responded.
Sir opened a cupboard and within were an array of canes and tawses. I couldn’t believe my eyes! I was invited to inspect them. As I did so, I heard rustling behind me, and then when Sir came into view he was wearing his old schoolteacher’s gown.
I am, and was, far from stupid and realised immediately that there was more to Sir than first met the eye. And a strange feeling swept over me as I stood holding the tawses and canes in turn.
“Are you impressed young Welshy?” Sir asked.
I turned around, holding a tawse, and answered truthfully, “Yes Sir, very.”
“Are you still as brave Lad?” asked Sir suddenly. I blushed deeply and lowered my head. “Perhaps not?” he teased.
“Your not meaning, well, meaning Sir that you expect me to take the tawse all these years later?”
Sir replied, “Come, we shall retire downstairs again and chat some more, Welshy.”
Downstairs Mr Hurd, or Sir, explained to me that he knew all those years ago what I was up to with Miss Beaton and wondered if I still held such fantasies. He added that many boys still did and then told me that he had a few old boys who visited him for some school discipline. He concluded by saying, “Perhaps I misjudged you Welshy…or was it that bulge in your shorts that misled me?”
That started a long conversation about those special boys and what they got up to. Sir told me how some boys took the tawse, some the cane and some did lines for him. Some did all three.
I asked Sir what he enjoyed most and he said that he got great pleasure returning to his schoolteacher role and providing the necessary discipline. He was still sat in his gown holding that wicked tawse when the conversation dried up suddenly. All I could say to him was that I was not sure about things.
He smiled rather benignly and said that he understood, and that I should go and think and if I decided it was for me then fine, and if not no more would be said.
As I left, feeling foolish and embarrassed, Sir gave me his phone number and said he hoped to speak soon.
I left knowing I had chickened out but could not get home soon enough to wank off. I decided that I needed to visit again. The following day I phoned Sir and left a message and eagerly awaited his call back. All I said in my message was “Sir it is Welshy and I think I would like to visit again, as discussed.”
The call back came that evening after 10pm and a very straight-talking Sir asked me what I wanted and made me say I wanted to experience the tawse again. Like at school. He also drew from me that I wanted to be caned as well.
“Very well young Welshy!” he retorted. “You will report to my study tomorrow evening at 7pm . When you do you will have written for me 100 lines, which I will inspect. I expect your handwriting to be neat. And no grammatical or spelling mistakes. The lines will be “I deserve to be tawsed and caned for my behaviour.”
The conversation ended and excitedly I got paper and pen and started to write. Now, lines was never my thing and soon the boredom overtook the excitement and it was an hour and a half later when I completed the hated lines. I hated them, just like I had at school.
The following evening I visited Sir at the agreed hour and he opened the door dressed in his gown, shirt, tie and suit trousers.
“Welshy good timekeeping, now come on in. Nervous?” he asked, and he smiled when I said I was very nervous.
He took me to the study and asked for my lines before telling me to wait outside his door until I was called. Stood there, it was school days all over again. Waiting to be punished! I felt that very worrying nervous stomach churning feeling almost all schoolboys have known.
“Get in here now Welshy!” bellowed the voice from within. I entered and was immediately lectured on my behaviour and lines. Spelling and writing issues were pointed out and I began to feel almost intimidated.
“Right then Welshy. Perhaps some hand warming will encourage better writing for your next set of lines!”
I noticed he had referred to my next set. I stood in front of Sir as he withdrew the familiar tawse from within his gown. Without being told to, I raised my hands, placing palm on palm, almost as if this was a normal thing to do. After some instruction as to height and posture, the tawse was raised and descended with a force that made me yell out and rub my hands furiously.
A smiling Sir simply said, “Change palms for me, Welsh.”
I took my six strokes, three on each palm, with a strange feeling of pained excitement. As soon as it was over I started to sport the most difficult of erections to hide. Sir noticed it. He smiled but said nothing.
Sir replaced the tawse in his gown as he took it off, placing it over the chair, and rolled his sleeves up. He then went to the cupboard and took his time selecting a cane. He swished and flexed several in the process, maybe for effect, before picking a wicked looking crook-handled, swishy cane.
“Now then Welsh. I want your trousers lowered and you bent over that desk.”
I did as instructed and felt grateful for the thin covering of my underpants. Standing behind me, Sir flexed the cane then spoke with authority, “So Welsh, your first taste of the cane. I expect you to remain over the desk. If you stand, utter profanities or reach behind I shall give that stroke again and add an extra penalty one. Boys at school took this in their stride, so I expect an adult lad like you to do the same. Do you understand?”
I very nervously spluttered out “Yes Sir” and inwardly wondered what it was that had encouraged me into this situation. I felt his hands on my backside and then, to my horror, the pants were dragged down. I felt the tentative tap of the cane on my bare flesh.
Suddenly, as I toyed with my own thoughts about what it would feel like, the first cane stroke whistled down. I shot up in response to the pain, bolt upright, and shouted “FUCK ME!”
Sir growled, “Perhaps later lad, but now we’ll start again and add another. YOU WILL LEARN TO BEHAVE IN MY CLASS!”
The second cut deep. I bit my lip and held on with stoic determination. The third stroke almost made me stand up again and the fourth was a real burner. The next two strokes made me hold on for grim death and it was all I could do not to do anything except grunt loudly.
I was keeping count and knew I had taken six. There were two more to come and I was determined not to incur more. I wondered to myself why I didn’t just stand up and say I wouldn’t take any more. Just then the next stroke whistled down followed swiftly by a burning final stroke. My eighth.
“Stand and turn around Welsh!” I was instructed. I was told to stand in the corner. I stood there contemplating what had just happened and soon my softened penis grew embarrassingly.
When Sir allowed me come out of the corner, I tried to use my hands to conceal my erection from him. I was mortified but Sir smiled. He came towards me. Without any resistance from me, he held my cock and slowly started to wank me. Despite or perhaps because of my burning hands and bottom, I soon exploded into the tissue he had handy. I was left to clean up and dress.
Arriving back downstairs we discussed openly what had happened and I declared that it was more painful than I had expected. However, I couldn’t deny that my rock hard cock betrayed my excitement.
“Any time you wish some more Welshy then all you need do is write me some lines, and then come and see me.”
It felt strange thanking the man responsible for my discomfort as I left and even stranger that as soon as I sat in the car I was planning my next tutorial.
I was about to undertake what might be termed “adult further education.”
Story © 2012 by David Stewart, used by kind permission
Erotica by Rod Cayenne
Their tongues had been loosened by a few bevvies. The inhibitions were gone. The guards were down. They were surfing the net together, looking at all sorts of things. Bronzed babes in bikinis, blondes and brunettes.
“You know, as I’ve got older, I’ve got kinkier and kinkier. I sometimes disgust myself.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, mate. Most men of our age are in the same boat. We’ve been perverted by the internet. Or maybe it’s our true selves revealing themselves. I’ve come to like rubber and leather myself.”
“Really? You’re very brave sharing that with me.”
“No mate, not brave. I really just don’t care, at my age.”
“OK. Maybe I should be just as honest with you. Take a look at this then. Wait just a minute while I call it up. That’s it. It’s a spanking website I run.”
“Gosh! You run that? It’s very professional-looking. Whoa! That’s well kinky mate. Let me make a note of the link.”
“It gets a lot of hits. Far more than my non-sexual aviation site.”
“Well, maybe that one doesn’t get many hits because it’s crap!”
“Looks cool, your spanking site. Do you get a lot of feedback? Any hookups?”
“Yes and yes. That’s what it’s all about really.”
“Yeah, I can’t complain. I get my rocks off with lots of spanking, and if I’m lucky a shag, too.”
“You could say that.”
“I just did. Tell me more.”
“OK, OK. I do it with men and women. Sometimes I dish it out, other times I cop it.”
“So let me get this right. You’re a bisexual masochist cum sadist?”
“Well I hate labels but that just about sums it up.”
“Wow! Well cool. So you fuck with men too?”
“Oh yeah. It’s good.”
“You wouldn’t have said that a few years ago.”
“Yeah, I know. But we’re all more broad-minded these days, aren’t we?”
“Yes, I guess so. Alright! Let me throw caution to the wind. I’ve got a rubber spanking paddle and a leather strap. Do you want to try them?”
“Of course, to get the real benefit, you need to feel them on your bared arse.”
“Yes, I thought you might say that. Well, I don’t know. Maybe. Go on then, but it must be our secret!”
“We’ve always been good at secrets, mate.”
“Too true. Where do you want me then?”
“Upstairs. In the bedroom.”
“OK. But no fucking, OK?”
“Don’t worry mate. The strap and paddle will fuck you enough!”
“I just know I’m going to regret this.”
And he did, as he got a dozen whacks of the rubber paddle. It burnt like hell. He rubbed his sore, sore arse. Even so, there was a nice warm glow and it had been exciting.
“How was that then?”
“Shit, it was hard. Oww! Did you have to do it so hard, mate?”
“Well, you wouldn’t have thanked me if I’d just tapped you.”
“No I suppose not.”
“Now, are you ready for another dozen? With the leather?”
“Oh shit, I’d forgotten about that. Can I see it first please?”
“Yep. Here it is. Finest English saddlery, look at the beautiful stitching, and just smell the leather.”
“Mmmmm, it does smell very nice. Very sexy! I’ll have to get one myself. OK, a dozen. Make them hard ones, too.”
Somewhat surprised by his friend’s request, nonetheless he lashed the leather down hard. It made a beautiful noise and a gorgeous red imprint on the hairy cheeks before him.
“Arrrgh!” his friend cried, truly startled. As the leathering progressed, his victim gradually realised that the leather was not quite as punishing as the rubber paddle. It was still pretty bad though. With a final crack of the leather, it was all over.
“Whew! You really put me through my paces there mate. I quite enjoyed it though, in a funny kind of way!”
“Aha! We’ll make a spanko of you yet!”
“Oh I don’t know. I think I’ve had enough, anyway. Have you got a cane, by the way?”
“Yes, a cane. Like at school. A school cane.”
His friend laughed, “Yes of course. I’ve got a whole wardrobe full. Come and see.”
Well, the wardrobe wasn’t quite full of canes, but there were a lot there. Maybe a dozen or so. Carefully, a prime example was chosen.
“Do you want to try it then? I should warn you it can be a bit overwhelming!”
“Yes, I’d better, as I’ve really asked for it haven’t I?”
“Yes you have. I don’t know that you could stand a dozen of this on top of what you’ve had already, though. Maybe just six of the best?”
“Yes, I’ve always wondered what it was like. I was much too much of a goody at school to ever find out.”
“Really? You were lucky, then. I got it a lot. OK, bend over the bed again. Try and keep still, it won’t be easy for you, but do try.”
“Sure will. It can’t be that bad, can it?”
Only a cane virgin would come up with a naive question like that. Sure enough, by the third stroke, our victim had leapt up, clutching his sore arse with both of his hands as the fire of the cane’s caress hit home.
“Holy shit man! That fucking hurts.”
“I did warn you, mate. Now, that’s enough of that language. One penalty stroke for swearing and another for leaping up. You must learn to behave!”
Suddenly his mate sounded just like an evil old teacher. Slowly, the submissive posture was resumed. The hairy, firm arse wiggled a little as the next stroke was lined up.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Three rapid, burning strokes followed.
“Stay down! Two penalty strokes to come!”
“Oh mate! Wow! That thing’s a real beast. And you’ve got a whole wardrobe full of them!”
“Ha, yes. That was by no means the worst of them! That was a medium strength. Nice. Nice crook handle, too. One of my favourites. Here, you hold it for a minute.”
His mate duly held the cane in his hands. He’d half expected it to be red hot. But, it wasn’t. In more ways than one, it was a cool item. He flexed the cane and admired its lithe beauty. He gazed at his mate, too. He listened intently.
“OK now. You did well there, mate. So no fuck, as requested. But how about a quick wank or two? Then I can write the whole story up for my website.”
“Sounds great. Maybe we can do this regularly, mate?”
“Of course we can. We’re mates aren’t we?”
Story © 2012 by Rod Cayenne
Erotic fiction by your host, Rod Cayenne
1. WELL BEFORE THE HAPPY DAY
“Gerald, may I have a quiet word?”
“Yes, of course, wedding nerves?”
“No, it’s not that. I’m quite relaxed about that, as is Judith. I’ll try to be a good husband and make you a proud father-in-law. It’s about that early wedding present. The cane you’ve given her. What’s that all about?”
“Oh that! Well, it’s just in case, really. I don’t approve of hitting women, but I am a great believer in males needing a touch of discipline.”
“But I’m twenty-nine!”
“Yes, and Judith is a good deal older and more responsible than you are, son. I just thought it might help. Just in case there are problems.”
“Help? Problems? It sounds pretty barbaric to me!”
“Oh I don’t think so Jason, my boy. You see, I have experience of these matters. Two successful marriages, and a successful teaching career. I hope Judith will never need to use that cane.”
“Well I’m not happy about it.”
“Take my tip, Jason, just be loyal, hard-working and honest. Judith won’t need to use the cane then.”
2. A LITTLE NEARER THE HAPPY DAY
“Hello Gerald, I hope you don’t mind me dropping in unexpectedly.”
“Not at all, Jason. The door’s always open, you are family now, or will be soon. What brings you here? Missing Judith while she’s on her course?”
“Oh, it’s nothing really.”
“You’ve come here about nothing?”
“No, no. It’s that cane thing again. I’m worried.”
“Nothing to worry about, Jason. Just be sure to behave yourself. Come and sit down. Let’s talk.”
“What’s worrying me is, it’s going to hurt.”
“Well, I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of Judith if she does decide to use it. I need to know how bad it is. I wondered if you could demonstrate?”
“Eh? Let me see if I’ve got this right? You want to sample the cane? And you want me to give it to you?”
“Er, no. I don’t really want it. But, maybe you should. I want this marriage to work, even in the bad times.”
“Well, I don’t know. This is a most unusual request.”
“Well, you caused it Gerald, by giving Judith that damned cane!”
“Hmmm. We do seem to have an attitude problem, Jason. Perhaps a taste of the cane would be appropriate.”
“Not so keen now, then?”
“I’m not keen at all, it just seems like a good idea. Oh, and I don’t want Judith to know, please.”
“Tut, tut! Secrets, too! Alright, alright. I can see your point of view is reasonable enough. Let’s do it, and keep it our little in-laws secret!”
“Thanks, Dad, er Gerald I mean.”
“You probably won’t feel like thanking me afterwards!”
“No, maybe not, how’s this going to work then?”
“Well, let’s see then. I think six of the best to get rid of any residual attitude problem.”
“Yes, a good round number. You can keep your trousers on. Not that Judith may be that kind if it comes to it.”
“We’ll do it in my study room. You can bend over the desk. Upstairs now, please.” The two men climbed the stairs. Jason went first, which gave Gerald a good chance to survey the bottom he was about to cane. It was a peach!
“Yes, that’s it. Over the desk!” Gerald instructed as he wandered over to the brass umbrella stand in the corner and selected a crook-handled cane. He sliced it through the air a few times. Jason flinched each time the cane swished. Gerald was minded to offer his future son-in-law the opportunity to back out, but then he decided not to. After all, in some ways he was looking forward to demonstrating just who was the boss. He looked at the rump offered submissively before him. It was a very tempting target. Best get stuck in!
Jason leapt up clutching at his sore arse. This was murder!
“JASON, JUST YOU GET BACK DOWN THIS INSTANT!” boomed Gerald. He was minded to award a penalty stroke but decided to see how the next stroke was received.
SWISH-CRACK! “Yeeeowwww!” At least he stayed down this time.
SWISH-CRACK! “Arrrghhh!” What a noisy boy he was! Hardly like a twenty-nine-year-old…
The prescribed six strokes had been delivered. Gerald returned the cane to the umbrella stand, giving a hearty laugh as he did so. “So how was the picnic?” he asked Jason who was still bent over the desk. “You can get up now.”
“Thanks, and yes, that was no picnic!”
“Now, let me see the marks.
You didn’t take it very well, Jason, I’m afraid. In fact, it was a pretty poor performance. Leaping up and all that noise!”
“Sorry Gerald. I was surprised how bad it was.”
“Good, that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Now you know what to expect from Judith if you mess her about. And it goes to show I was right about your immaturity. Any trouble, and you’ll have me and my cane to reckon with as well. Is that clear?”
“Er yes, of course!” What an alarming development for Jason…
“Now if my calculations are right, there’s six weeks until the wedding. I suggest I give you another caning one month from today, so that’s the 12th of September. That will give your bottom time to be cleared up in time for the honeymoon. It’ll do you good and you need the experience.”
“Gosh no, are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Believe me, I know what some men need and you are definitely in that category.” Already, Gerald was thinking in terms of twelve strokes for the next session. He was proud of Jason in a way. The lad’s peachy arse was just made for the whippiest of canes. He mused to himself that some more, perhaps monthly thrashings might be required, even after the wedding. Maybe not?
3. AFTER THE HONEYMOON
Judith stared at the mess in the kitchen. The living room was no better. Her new husband was turning into a bit of a slob, if she wasn’t much mistaken. He was sat on the sofa eating crisps and watching rugby on the TV. It was now or never!
“Jason, come here. What’s the meaning of this mess? Get me the cane, it’s under our bed!”
“Oh Judith, I’m sorry, let me tidy up.”
She scowled at him and ordered, “The cane! Now!”
Sheepishly, he went upstairs and retrieved the cane from its hiding place. He gulped as he realised the moment he had been dreading had arrived. At least Gerald’s canings had prepared him. He knew what to expect. Or did he?
“Right! Give me that cane now! I’m going to give you a bloody good whipping. I’m not putting up with this any longer. Have you had the cane before?” She whipped the cane through the air.
“Er yes, a while back. Twice. On my trousers.”
“Well those jeans are coming off, I can tell you. And your boxers! You can keep your rugby shirt and socks on. I rather like them!”
He was relieved that she liked those, perhaps this was just going to be a sexy sort of game? She made him bend over a little coffee table in front of the TV. He was on all fours with his arse sticking out nicely.
“How many?” He couldn’t help but ask.
“Bah! How many will it take to make me happy? Maybe ten or twenty!”
“Twenty? That’s a hell of a lot.”
“No, it’s not. Yes, we’ll make it twenty. Prepare yourself!”
Soon the air was full of the sound of the cane swishing down on the peachy buttocks. It landed with a resounding and satisfying thwack each time. Judith was enjoying it enormously, and chuckling out loud! Jason wasn’t enjoying it one bit, but at least the strokes were not quite as beastly as those given by Gerald.
“My naughty, naughty husband! Don’t mess with me! Stick your bottom out for the second ten!”
Just then her mobile rang. Should she answer it? Yes, she should. It was her dad on the line. He must have a psychic link!
“I’m just using the cane for the first time. It’s the best wedding present we could have had. Yes, bare bottom! The place was a real pig sty.”
Jason blushed. Oh, the embarrassment!
“Twenty I think. You think it should be twenty-four? Yes, more traditional, I suppose. But no, I’m going to stick at twenty. No, he won’t be doing it again in a hurry. I’m halfway through. Yes, lovely red lines. He’s making a lot of fuss. How’s mum? Yes, we’ll come over for tea later. Bye. Love you!”
SWISH-CRACK! The eleventh stroke hit with a vengeance. Jason cried out. Judith flexed the cane.
SWISH-CRACK! The twelfth was even harder. Was it her dad’s influence?
SWISH-CRACK! He gasped.
SWISH-CRACK! He said he was sorry.
SWISH-CRACK! She laughed.
SWISH-CRACK! He said he was sorry again. He certainly was!
SWISH-CRACK! She was thinking about her dad.
SWISH-CRACK! The wedding present was terrific.
SWISH-CRACK! He was close to sobbing now.
SWISH-CRACK! His cock was stiffening.
“All done. Go and get into bed, I’ll be up in a minute!”
Story © 2012 by Rod Cayenne
Picture © 2011 by Jonathan, used by very kind permission
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Erotic fiction by Rod Cayenne
“He really whipped you hard this time, didn’t he?” she remarked as she ran her fingers over the fresh ridges on my bottom. “I’m glad, because you deserved it!” Then she slapped me.
Oh yes! This was my wife indeed. Despite our happy marriage, her distaste for thrashing me had increased lately. In frustration, she agreed that I could satisfy my urges elsewhere. I think she had a female in mind when she mentioned the idea to me. I immediately knew it would be hard to secure the services of a female, other than a professional at a large fee. No, it dawned on me that I could get what I needed from a male, for free, for certain.
The internet has confirmed what I had long suspected. All men are perverts! And the sort of pervert who would be happy to cane my bottom would be easy to track down. An older man would be an easy find, I figured. In the event, I bumped into my old art teacher, Mr Morden. He was a strict man when I was at school, famous for his taste in cravats and canes!
It wasn’t hard to manipulate our conversation to old punishments, and modern pleasures! He still had a cane, but it hadn’t had any use since his retirement. He hadn’t lost his touch, as we both discovered in our first, tentative session. Subsequent occasions had been more satisfactory, with me baring my bottom for the stick. It became a regular fortnightly meeting. Usually it was a Friday evening, which let my bottom recover before the ravages of a Monday morning at the office.
Fortunately, Mr Morden wasn’t interested in any sexual activity (although I suspect he usually relieved himself soon after I departed). This meant I could hotfoot it back to the loving arms of my wife and give her the satisfaction of feeling my ridged and hot bottom as soon as I got home. On a good day, we’d shag like mad. On a bad day, she would make me bend over for a session with her strap-on cock! Boy, that could be a rough ride after a good caning! Ouch! I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that beastly thing…
We renewed our vows in church recently. It seemed only natural to invite Mr Morden to the ceremony. He looked very smart in a pale cream suit and paisley cravat. I’m sure that he winked at me as I walked by with my wife on my arm.
story © 2012 by Rod Cayenne