There Wasn’t Much Caning (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Erotic fiction by Rod Cayenne.  Originally published in two parts; now combined into one hot story.

 

Part 1:

“There wasn’t much caning when I was at school,” I said to Mr Pearce, my old housemaster. We had bumped into each other in town and had started talking about old times, like you do. He invited me to drop in later that day, which I duly did. We spoke about school, former pupils and staff, of rugby and cricket. He sat up as I mentioned caning.

“Ah, the cane. It’s surprising how many old boys want to talk about that.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Almost every visitor I have wants to talk about it and wants to know whether I still have a cane. Getting back to your original comment, no, there probably wasn’t much caning when you were at school. There was a little more just after you left, just prior to abolition. We had to keep trouble at bay, and be sure anarchy didn’t break out as soon as we lost the cane. Plus Mr Watts was a bit of a sadist, if you ask me.”

“I’d heard that. I was lucky I guess that Mr Spring was still head when I was at school.”

“Yes, you were lucky, or rather your bottom was,” he laughed out loudly. “So you never got the cane, Tom?”

“No, I was a good boy. Only ever got the slipper in P.E.”

“Aha, Mr Wilfred. A bit of a perv.” I was shocked when Mr Pearce referred to my old P.E. teacher that way. “He was very fond of boys’ bottoms.”

“Gosh yes, Sir,” I said shaking my head at the memories. “I had the slipper many times. Never the cane, though. I often wondered what it was like.”

“I didn’t use the cane much, as you probably noticed. I always had a couple hanging on hooks in my study though. Just as a tease, really. They were seldom used.”

“Yes, I remember,” I said. “I used to dread visiting your room because they were there!”

“I see. I’ll tell you what, I’ll go and fetch them. I still have them upstairs,” he revealed. Suddenly I felt my interest in the topic of the cane evaporate. Fear replaced it – did I really want to see those canes again?

“Here they are!” he said returning with the two crook-handled canes. He swished one of them around and then bent it into a semi-circle. “What do you think?” he asked.

“Well, they look a bit old and thin. A bit like you, Sir!”

“Cheeky!” he replied. Suddenly his expression grew fierce. “That’s the sort of cheek that would have got you a caning in the good old days. I’m a bit hurt.”

“Sorry, Sir,” I replied with a smirk. “Perhaps you should cane me?” I said flippantly. However, he took my words literally!

“Bend over this chair then, Tom!” he ordered. Somehow I couldn’t refuse.

CRACK!

The cane lashed down on my arse. I managed to keep quiet but it hurt like mad!

CRAACK!

A harder stroke made me gasp and panic.

CRAACK!

Another hard stroke and I was writhing. I wondered how many strokes I’d be getting and whether I should just get up and leave. Just then a strange thought entered my head – it hurt like hell but it sure was fun. Of a strange kind…

CRACK!

“OWWWW!” I cried out.

CRACK!

CRACK!

He told me to get up. I rubbed my bottom furiously.

“Well?” he asked me.

“Er, ooh, gosh that hurt, Sir!”

“Good lad, but was it satisfying?”

“Er well, yes, it certainly satisfied my curiosity, Sir. What a strange feeling…”

“You enjoyed it then. A lot of grown men do. How about another six on the bare?”

Before I could answer, I felt his cold hands unbuckling my belt, and soon my cords and briefs were around my ankles. He picked up the other cane and whipped it down on my naked arse again and again.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

The six strokes were over but he carried on with further hard strokes, clearly relishing the caning as much as me.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

“AAARGH!” I cried out.

“You are a tough boy!” he said to me as I pulled my trousers back up. We smiled at each other. We should have done this years ago. We arranged to meet again in a month.

 

Part 2:

 

“Hello Mr. Pearce.”

“Hello lad! Welcome back.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Come in to the front room. I’ll get you a towel so you can dry off. Filthy weather isn’t it?”

“Yes, I’ll say, Sir. Still, we mustn’t let it spoil things, must we?”

“No indeed lad. I expect you experienced worse on cross-country runs.”

“Oh yes, Sir! It always seemed to be raining and muddy. Mr. Wilfred’s slipper used to really sting through a pair of wet white shorts.”

“Of course. Those shorts didn’t leave much to the imagination when they were wet lad. They used to become almost transparent!”

“I know Sir, I know. The slipperings were bad enough but as Mr. Wilfred had a no underwear rule, he must have had a good look at our assets when we were bent over.”

“Yes, I remember him telling me as much. He and I became good friends, you know. He was a perv, but let’s be honest, so am I. You too, I believe.”

“Yes, maybe Sir. I think I could develop a taste for the cane.”

“That’s certainly possible lad. It’s a danger in a way. The cane can be addictive. Like a drug. It’s the pain-killing endorphins that cause the problem. Anyway, here’s a towel. You might as well strip off and put your clothes on the radiator. I take it you do want another caning?”

“Er, yes please, Sir. Only if it’s no trouble.”

“It’s no trouble my boy. It’ll be a pleasure. You know, your arse is quite, quite special. A beauty.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I get to see a few arses you know. Fat ones. Lardy ones. Lumpy ones. Dirty, unwashed ones. Eeeewww! Tattooed ones. Smelly ones. But every now and then, I get a real beauty like yours to play with. It makes it all worthwhile.”

“Thank you Sir. Would you like a feel of it now?”

“Yes, bend over and touch your toes for me lad.”

His hands were cold, just like before. They wandered all over my bottom. I was feeling a little dizzy in my bent over position. He shoved an unlubricated finger up my arsehole. It hurt a bit but it was also pleasurable as he gradually started to wiggle it about in my hot hole.

“Get up lad! It’s a nice arse alright, but you shouldn’t have let my finger in. You will be punished for that.”

“Yes, of course Sir. Sorry, Sir.”

“Plenty of time for that later. I think we’ll have a cuddle for a minute lad, come and sit here with me on the sofa.”

He put his arm around my naked shoulders. It felt nice. Like a dad. My dad never did that for me. He never took the trouble to chastise me either. My cock was rock hard by now.

“That’s a very nice penis you have there.”

He grabbed it and started to wank it roughly. His grip tightened and he increased the speed. Faster and faster he pumped. I tried to hold back my excitement but I couldn’t. I was stiff, stiffer than ever before. I was turned on, more than ever before. Suddenly my cock exploded with copious amounts of cum. It shot all over the place, over him and over his wanking hand.

“Dirty boy! That will be more punishment for you.”

He wiped the cum from his hand onto my hairy chest.

“A very dirty boy. With a very nice penis. And a bottom to match.”

He disappeared. I assumed he had gone to fetch the canes, but instead he returned holding a carpet beater.

“This hurts!” he said to me nonchalantly. “What does it do lad?”

“It hurts, Sir!”

“Get upstairs! I’ll deal with you there.”

He sat down on the bed, patting the carpet beater on his palm. I stood before him, naked but at least I no longer had an erection.

“Bend over lad. I’m going to beat you now for allowing a finger to probe you!”

“Yes Sir. Sorry Sir, it won’t happen again.”

“I only wish I could believe that.”

I was bent over waiting for the first stroke when instead I felt his finger push into my arsehole again!

“See what I mean! Absolutely incorrigble!” He laughed and withdrew his finger. The carpet beater lashed down. Ouch! It hurt. Not as badly as the burn of the cane, but still a painful reckoning. Again and again painful blows lit up my bare cheeks.

“How was that then boy?”

“Painful Sir!”

“Good! Now then, I was telling you about Mr. Wilfred. We became good friends and used to spank, slipper and cane each other.”

“No! Get away, I don’t believe you!”

“I wouldn’t advise calling me a liar boy!”

“No Sir, Sorry Sir! I was just a little surprised.”

“Anyways, that’s how I know about the wet shorts and how much a slippering hurt through them.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of white P.E. shorts. He held them up and twanged the elastic. “For you, boy!”

“Thank you, Sir.” I went to put them on.

“No, no, no!” he said impatiently. “Take them to the bathroom and make them wet!”

At first, I was horrified as I thought he meant me to piss on them, but then I realised that he wanted me to run them under the tap. I did so, cheating a little by using warm water. He would never know, after all. I wrung the shorts out a little and and then slipped them on over my naked, beaten cheeks. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. I looked my 25 years but I also looked like a naughty pupil. By the time I returned to the bedroom he had changed into shorts too. His were dry, of course. On a leather lanyard around his neck hung a shiny chrome whistle. This was going to be fun! He picked up a white and green gym shoe and waved it under my nose.

“You are a sinful little boy and I am going to beat that sin right out of you!”

He indicated that I should bend over on all fours on the bed. He waved the plimsoll at me again.

WHACK!

“Yeowwwww!” Shit, that hurt!

WHACK!WHACK!

WHACK!

He gave a toot on his whistle. My cock stood to attention.

WHACK!

WHACK!

WHACK!

The intensity of the slippering on my wet shorts was breathtaking. It was almost worse than the cane! Almost…

WHACK!

“AARGGH!”

He stopped and threw it down.

“Stay here for a minute boy. Don’t get up.”

A couple of minutes later he returned. He had changed into a headmaster’s outfit! Suit, shirt and tie, mortar board and gown!  He looked terrific. He headed over to the wardrobe and opened the doors. I could see his two canes hanging from the rail. He seemed to be deciding which one to use. He sighed a little, and rolled up his sleeves. He took out both canes and turned around giving me a wicked grin.

“Twelve with the senior cane, on your wet shorts.”

“Yes Sir!”

“For spunking all over the place.”

Yes, I thought to myself, that had been fun and rather wicked. I had loved the masterful way he had wiped cum on my chest.

SWISH-CRACK!

“AAARGH!” It hurt like the blazes!

SWISH-CRACK!

The wet shorts offered no protection from the bite of the senior cane.

SWISH-CRACK!

“AAAAAAARGH!”

The wet shorts were making the pain worse.

SWISH-CRACK!

Mr. Pearce could see redness behind the wet shorts.

SWISH-CRACK!SWISH-CRACK!SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!SWISH-CRACK!SWISH-CRACK!

“AARGH!”

SWISH-CRACK!

“Owww!”

It was all over, to my immense relief. What a wicked teacher Mr. Pearce had turned out to be.

“Drop the shorts boy!” he instructed. I duly let them fall off.

His ice cold hands were once again on my bottom. He took some lube from a drawer in the bedside cabinet. Soon he had another finger up me. We both got a lot of pleasure from this.

“Your shorts have made the bedding wet!”

“Oh gosh, I’m sorry.” I knew straight away that this would mean more of the cane. I thrust my naked arse submissively towards him.

“You’d better beat me again, Sir!”

“Not so fast!” he replied. “Put the shorts back on.”

I began to suspect that the wet shorts were a bit of a fetish of his. I tried to imagine how he and Mr Wilfred had played their games. Did they end up in bed together? My thoughts were soon disturbed by the SWISH-CRACK! of the crook-handled junior cane landing on my damp buttocks. I was in for eighteen strokes as punishment for making the bedding wet.

____________)

Story © 2012 by Rod Cayenne

Comments welcome

Delta Blow (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Repeat of this hot male caning fiction by Rod Cayenne.

Author’s note: with special thanks to Jim for some bright ideas!

The air was heavy with smoke, and not all of it from straight tobacco. The four lads were having a great time, the cans of lager slipping down their noisy throats to the accompaniment of roars of laughter. The four were enjoying a game of poker, using an explicit deck of cards.

“Your Dad wouldn’t like us doing this, would he?” Gavin observed.

“No he’s a bit of a prude. Not sure he’d know what to do with a naked woman, although I suppose he did father me!” joked host Bernie. “He’s just as religious as ever. A church warden and the way he hangs around the vicar gives me the creeps. He’s quite strict about booze and gambling. He’s OK with fags though as he still smokes a pipe himself.”

“My God, how the fuck does she get that in there?” asked Lance staring with disbelief at one of the cards on the table.

“The bitch is on heat!” roared Bernie.

“Must use a lot of lube!” replied Rickie. Gavin just smiled and belched.

“I heard all that!” barked Bernie’s father as he stormed into the room, having returned from business almost a whole day earlier than expected. “What the devil is going on here? Bernie, you know I forbid alcohol in the house. And gambling too! And these cards, let me see them now! Well, they are truly debauched, disgusting, and probably illegal! Urgh, I feel sick! Right, hand those cards over, I am confiscating them right now!”

“Dad, you can’t confiscate them! I’m not a schoolboy. I’m 24!”

“24 indeed! And with no job. And wasting your money on alcohol, cigarettes and this disgusting deck of cards. As I said, I am confiscating the cards. I will burn them, they look like something from the fires of Hades anyway. And as for treating you like a schoolboy, that’s a very good idea, son! It just so happens I found my old cane the other day. I’m sure you remember it? I am going to thrash you with it, right now!”

“Dad, I’m 24, too old for the cane! Give me a break!”

“Oh you’ll get a break alright! Stay here while I go and get the stick.”

It was just as well that Bernie’s father, Gilbert Preston, was so inexperienced in the ways of the modern world. Otherwise, he might have wondered what was in the fat cigarette lying on the table. The other three lads all got up, and were in the process of putting their coats on to beat a hasty retreat, when father returned with the cane.

“Oh my, it really is a cane!” exclaimed Rickie.

“It’s a real school one, knobbly and with the curved handle bit,” observed Lance.

“Yes it is, boys. And I would guess you’ve never seen one in action, am I right?” asked Mr Preston. The lads shook their heads, to a man, as it were. “Then I’d be obliged if you would stay as spectators. Feel free.”

“I couldn’t,” stated Lance.

“Me neither,” said Rickie.

“I’ll watch!” exclaimed Gavin. The thought of seeing his friend caned appealed to him enormously. In fact, the very notion was turning him on somewhat. In truth, he’d always had a bit of a gay crush on  Bernie’s father, Gilbert Preston. The tall, distinguished dominant man was just his type!

Bernie’s eyes were misting over. His head was spinning in slightly drunken confusion. How could he get out of this? Well, one thing was clear. He couldn’t! Mr Preston was slicing the cane through the air. It made an entrancing swishy, whipping sound. Visitor and eager witness Gavin felt his cock stiffen as he took it all in. This was going to be hot!

“I’m sorry Gavin. If the other two are unwilling to watch, you will have to go too.”

Suddenly, Rickie changed his mind, saying, “Bernie did lead us astray a bit, Mr Preston. Perhaps I’d better stay.” That just left Lance. The other two guests stared at him. He nodded in silence.

“Good! I knew you’d see sense!” said Mr Preston, clearing the table and rolling up his shirt sleeves purposefully. “Bernard Preston! Bend over the table! The scene of the crimes!”

Sheepishly, Bernie did as he was told. At least he was able to keep his sweatpants on! And they were reasonably thick, as were his rather old cotton briefs. So maybe the caning wouldn’t hurt too much?

“ARGH!” cried Bernie as the first cane stroke sunk in. It was bad, really bad. It was almost as if his father had been taking lessons in effective punishment techniques! The pain was really quite overwhelming and the alcohol just seemed to make things worse. In the past, when Bernie had been caned, he had been stone cold sober. This was worse, much worse! The cane sliced down again. Gavin was admiring the action. The cane seemed to be a blur as it cut through the air, almost like the flash of a kingfisher swooping on its prey. He admired Mr Gilbert’s hairy arms and stern manner. He was captivated by this vision of castigation.

“I hope you’re learning your lesson, Bernard! I will not have gambling in my house! Never, ever. Under no circumstances whatsoever!”

“Yes, Dad, sorry Dad,” Bernie sniffled as the third stroke was lined up by his father. It cracked down, and was accompanied by a loud squeal from its victim. Lance and Rickie were a little bit scared by the whole thing, while Gavin’s raging hard-on was straining against the zipper of his Levis.

A fourth stroke hit the lad and again a most unedifying squeal followed! In truth, Mr Preston was finding some comfort in his son’s discomfort. It was high time the lad was brought down a peg or two!

Gavin was enjoying every second of friend’s misfortune and punishment. The caning was so sexual, surely the others could see it? Or maybe not, maybe Gavin thought he was just a young pervert after all.

“No more Dad, please!” squealed Bernie as the fifth stroke hit him.

“Quiet Bernard! Next one coming.”

And come it did! Gavin almost came too! By now Bernie was in absolute agony.

“Right, Bernard! You asked me to give you a break?”

“Yes, Dad,” said Bernie through misty eyes and a swimmy head.

“Right you can have one minute break before the cane deals with the bringing of alcohol into my home!”

“Whaat? Oh Dad, you can’t be serious! I’ve had enough already! I’m sorry, I really am!”

“You will be really sorry by the time I’ve finished with you!”

The three witnesses shuffled uneasily.

“Alright lads? Happy to stay for round 2?” asked Mr Preston. He didn’t wait for an answer though. He tapped his son’s bottom gently with the cane, saying, “Right. Back over the table, Bernard. This time you can drop your trousers, too.”

“No, Dad! Please!”

Impatiently and roughly, Mr Preston tugged at his son’s sweatpants and pulled them down to his ankles. Pale grey briefs with a hint of skidmark were revealed. He raised the cane and sliced it down viciously.

“ARRGH!” Bernie squealed. His briefs offered little protection from the retribution of the cane. The knotty stick was a severe one that his father had acquired from an antique dealer acquaintance many years ago. It cut and bruised as a matter of course. It was far more severe than a standard school rattan, but the four lads were completely unaware of that as the cane had fallen from favour in all schools and in so many families. Such was progress, after all.

“These ones are for bringing the demon drink across my threshold. Never again!”

“Owww!”

Gavin was so excited he was worried he would cum in his pants. What exquisite torture was unfolding before his eyes! How he lusted after Mr Preston!

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! The ante was truly upped as a fast volley of cane strokes sliced into Bernie’s buttocks. By now he was crying quietly and in shame.

“Right! Another break then we will deal with these obscene picture playing cards!” Mr Preston picked up the deck and leafed through it. “Absolutely disgusting. Those poor women. Defiled for the base gratification of you lot!”

The three spectators were alarmed at being blamed for the cards. After all, they were Bernie’s property. Well, they had been until they’d been confiscated! Their collective unease deepened as Mr Preston sliced the cane through the air several times while staring at his audience.

“Right Bernard. Last six! For the sins of the flesh, it’s only appropriate to remove your underwear too.”

“Oh, Dad, please no! Not in front of the guys!”

“Hurry up, Bernard. I’m sure your friends have seen a bare bottom before! I’d pull them down, but those pants don’t look particularly clean to me.” The three spectators guffawed at this.

“They were clean on the other day,” said Bernie as he lowered them.

“Back in position. Bottom right out. I see I’ve made a few marks already.” That was the understatement of the year, for Bernie’s arse was covered in red, angry cane lines. It looked really sore and no doubt it really was sore!

How Bernie squealed and writhed as the final six strokes landed on his naked buttocks! The knobbly cane seemed to bounce with enthusiasm each time it landed. The new strokes just agitated the existing marks, producing a blurred and wide scarlet band right across his arse. But at last, it was over!

“Stay where you are Bernard!”

Mr Preston placed the cane down on the table next to his son. What a spectacle it had all been! As if to verify that, the old man suddenly produced a small Samsung smartphone from his shirt pocket, and snapped a couple of pictures with it.

“Right! Show’s over. I hope you have all learnt your lesson!”

Gavin cleared his throat, and said, “Yes, sorry Mr Preston. You are right to be annoyed with us. We should have discouraged Bernie. I feel terribly guilty, especially now that Bernie has been thrashed.”

“Well, he deserved it, didn’t he? Although that’s not to say you don’t. If you’re really feeling guilty, perhaps you should accept a caning too! It will purge your sin, I can assure you. Perhaps six of the best for you?” he suggested as he picked up the cane once again. Gavin nodded, much to the astonishment of Bernie, Lance and Rickie. Even more astonishingly, he took Bernie’s place at the table and promptly pulled down his own jeans and pants. Little did Mr Preston realise that this was a turn-on for the lad, who lusted after the old man and desperately wanted to be beaten by him. It was a strange thing to wish for, but then the world is full of sadists and masochists. Gavin definitely had a masochistic streak, and while the religious Mr Preston felt that he was doing the right and just thing, maybe there was sadism in the old man, too.

The first stroke landed on Gavin’s meaty arse. The sound it made was more rounded, richer and more satisfying than the multiple strokes awarded to Bernie’s scrawnier buttocks. Gavin gasped, but barely audibly. There was pain alright, but there was also satisfaction. Although Gavin’s erection had disappeared as soon as he bent over, his sexual excitement was just as present as it had been earlier. Rickie was scared, he couldn’t bear to look, so he gazed at his trainers.

The second stroke brought much the same almost quiet reaction. Gavin thrust his bottom out further, willing Mr Preston and his cane on, to maybe hit even harder! A third stroke brought another gasp, or was is a contented sigh? The lad was certainly benefiting from the beating, but perhaps not in the way Mr Preston had envisaged!

The next stroke was somewhat harder, and landed on almost the same spot as the third one. Intense heat and pain flooded Gavin’s senses, but again he was stimulated sexually, thrusting his striped arse out further for the benefit of his chastiser.

Mr Preston was finding this a more satisfying beating to administer. He liked the way the lad was taking his punishment, and the way the hairy buttocks seemed to will the cane on. Of course, there was also the novelty of dealing with a lad other than his own son. Well, not so much a lad as a young man! A 25-year-old, if Mr Preston recalled correctly.

Soon Gavin’s six strokes had been delivered. It had been a sound thrashing. Now it was Mr Preston’s turn to sigh with contentment. He really couldn’t help himself – he gently touched the hot backside and then delivered couple of hearty smacks to the raw flesh! “Two more, I think,” he announced suddenly before whipping the cane into the lad’s arse again. After that, the final stroke was even more intense and punishing.

Gavin rose slowly, pulling underpants and jeans back up. Although incredibly sore, the lad felt both fulfilled and cleansed. He had taken eight severe strokes in total. As he rubbed his bottom, he wondered idly whether Mr Preston would like a lodger! After all, the house was very large and was occupied just by Mr Preston and Bernie, who must have rattled around the place. So much better than his cold and lonely bedsit. And there would always be the opportunity for another sexy thrashing from the old man!

Just then, Mr Preston fished out his phone again. This time he started dialling. Being an older user, he hadn’t fully got to grips with how the phone and its options worked. Consequently, there was an irritatingly loud beep each time he pressed a key. He was ringing an old friend, Warren, who just happened to be Lance’s father.

“Hello Warren, Gilbert here. Not so bad thanks! How’s Jean? Yes. I remember. And the dogs? Of course! Anyway, bit of a problem here. Lance has been here with Bernie and friends. Playing a drunken game of pornographic cards. Absolute filth! Stomach-turning stuff, some of it. Anyway, I just caned Bernie. First time in three years, I think. Let me send you the picture! I think Lance should have the benefit of some of the same medicine. I’m happy to do it. Text me back if you agree. No, no, you’d better check the picture first, I was quite severe with Bernie. Text me! Bye!”

It was fair to say that Lance was shitting himself with fear. Well, not literally, of course! The lad looked distinctly worried. Mr Preston paced around the room, holding the cane in one hand and the phone in the other. Soon, there was the tell-tale buzz of an incoming text. Sure enough, Warren had agreed to everything, although Gilbert Preston was alarmed by his choice and unholy language of “Hit the bugger hard!” He showed the message to Lance, who was not impressed.

“If you think for one minute that you’re hitting me with that bloody cane, you’re very much mistaken! I’m 29 for Christ’s sake!”

“I’ll thank you not to blaspheme in my house, sonny!”

“I’m not your son, and I’m not a kid, I’m 29, like I told you!”

“29 and still living with Mummy and Daddy. No wonder you are acting like a big kid! Your daddy wants me to beat you and hard!”

“No way!”

“Be quiet, Lance! Get over the table and present yourself like Gavin did. Now, he took it like a real man!”

Those words cut Lance like a knife. For Gavin, they caused immense pride, and stiffened his resolve to broach his lodging idea, perhaps in a day or two, and when sober. Bernie was smirking at all this, while Rickie was getting distinctly worried, in a slightly dopey, drunken way.

There could only be one victor in the ensuing stand-off. It was Gilbert Preston, the Lord’s warrior and self-appointed chastiser! Slowly Lance eased himself into position over the table. He undid his leatherette belt and allowed his beige slacks to fall to the ground.

“Can I keep my pants on, Mr Preston? I really don’t like the idea of showing my everything to you all.”

“Certainly not! Stop mucking about. Here, I’ll pull them down. At least they look nice and clean!” They were white and starched and unbranded. And with a quick yank, they were down! Another fine male posterior was revealed, quite beautiful in its masculine glory. So much more fleshy than Bernie’s and not dissimilar to Gavin’s. Could it be that Mr Preston was beginning to be corrupted by these naked visions? Certainly not! God forbid! He spoke to Lance, “Yes, now I happen to think your father would be happier with eight strokes rather than six.”

Lance decided to remain quiet, although he was finding Mr Preston’s manner really grating and patronising. He was also very conscious of his bare bottom, revealed to the old man and his three friends. He looked over at Bernie, who was engaged in some heavy duty bottom rubbing. He was annoyed with his friend who had brought all this trouble on him. And he was worried what his father would say when he got home.

CRACK! The first stroke broke into Lance’s flesh. He couldn’t believe the pain and shot bolt upright!

“What are you doing, Lance? Get back down right away!”

“I don’t think I can take it, Mr Preston, I really don’t!”

“Nonsense! The other two did. And they are younger than you! You need toughening up! Bend over right now or I’ll ring your father and tell him what a coward you are being!”

That did the trick! Lance bent over submissively, thrusting his naked bottom towards Mr Preston. The old man decided to make the strokes as hard as possible in case it was not possible to deliver the full beating.

CRACK! A second stroke sliced into Lance’s rump. It was lower than the first stroke and even more painful.

“OWWW!” shouted Lance. “Please, please, no more! ARRGH!” he squealed again as a third stroke whipped him.

“Really, a most immature display!” observed Mr Preston, lining up a salvo of fast strokes, four, five, six!

“OH! OWWWCH!” Lance cried out. He really wasn’t taking this at all well. Gavin watched with fascination. His friend was being a wimp, but the action was turning Gavin on, all the same.

“Last two coming up, Lance. Try to take them with some dignity, please,” Mr Preston said, flexing the cane, and winking at Lance’s friends.

“ARRRRRGH!” Lance cried as the seventh stroke hit him, and then “SHIIIIT!” as the eighth and final stroke landed.

“GET UP! VERY POOR! Think yourself lucky I’m not giving you extras for swearing! Now, RICKIE!”

Poor Rickie was the only lad there not to have been beaten yet. He’d watched in silence as the cane had done its wicked work. He was scared. “Do I have to?” he asked, “I don’t want the lads at rugby to see my arse covered in marks!”

“Well, I can’t cane you and not leave marks, can I?”

“No, I suppose not, but can’t you let me off?”

“That’s not fair on the others, now is it? Well, perhaps I should call your father?” Mr Preston reached for his mobile again.

“No! No! That’s not necessary. I’ll take it, I’ll take it, although it will take some explaining in the changing room. And the showers.”

“Come, come, surely you rugby players have seen it all?”

“Well, I don’t know…” Rickie replied, moving towards the table. He lowered his trousers and boxer shorts, revealing a fine, muscled rugby player’s arse. Gavin was beside himself with lust. What an evening this was turning out to be!

With a swish-crack the cane landed right on target, delivering a strong blow with a wicked bite. The sting penetrated the whole of the lad’s arse. He grunted loudly with discomfort. “OWWWW!” he cried as the second stroke hit home. The third had much the same effect, with the burly rugger bugger taking his beating really badly. The fourth, fifth and sixth were like a bombing run on the field of flesh, scarring and burning all around. The lad was crying bitter tears and writhing. He clenched his arse cheeks together and unclenched them, in an attempt to ease the pain. But it was no good. Despite repeated clenching and unclenching, nothing was going to reduce the pain.

Mr Preston paused, as had become his style, after the sixth stroke. “Well, another disappointing performance! I hope you do better on the pitch, my lad. Come on, stick that bottom out for me!”

The raid on the arse continued, the seventh stroke cutting a diagonal, crossing previous damage and multiplying the pain. “OWW! I’ve had enough! PLEASE!” the lad cried in his distress.

Bernie’s father was having none of it. Rickie should have known from the previous beatings that any pleas for mercy would fall on deaf ears. The old man looked at Rickie with disdain, bordering on disgust. That lad had been a huge disappointment, and he launched the eighth stroke with all the force he could muster. The cane sliced down with venom. It seemed to spring back with extra life. It was done. Rickie cried out again, slumping to his knees, clutching his battered arse. Gavin was blushing with ill-disguised sexual excitement.

It was almost a week later that Gavin was able to proposition Gilbert Preston with his lodging offer. He was quite brazen about it when he added, “And I’d expect the cane to be used to keep this lodger in line, Sir.”

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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 businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

(___________

Story © MMXV by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved

___________)

Comments welcome – please use link at top of story

A Tale From The Toilet Seat (M/M)

Hot fiction by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2013

Maybe I shouldn’t have provoked him? It had been a good three years since he’d last caned me. Let’s see. Yes, I was just nineteen at the time. I’d been slacking at University and it had come to my father’s attention. Despite getting a full grant, I relied on my parents to help out financially as living in the city was really expensive.

It had been one of my ‘mates’ who’d told him. I never did find out which one shopped me, though there were a couple of prime suspects. I’d let slip to the gang that my father was a schoolteacher and a firm believer in the cane. They had obviously thought it was a laugh to grass me up. Still, it did buck up my ideas and I went on to achieve a respectable 2.1, better than some of the other gang members.

Well, here we were three years later. A dozen red raw cane stripes were decorating my bottom. They hurt me badly as I sat down on the toilet seat. I could have hovered, I suppose, but that would have been just too demeaning. The hot stripes throbbed on the cold, cold toilet seat.

I’d imagined fondly that my father would have thrown that beastly cane away, at least by the time I’d graduated. I was wrong! It had been hibernating in the extra-wide desk drawer it had always been kept in. He told me that he oiled it regularly with finest linseed oil. I thought that was a rather strange revelation, as I bent over the desk, lowering jeans and pants submissively. It was almost as if he’d been planning to use it in anger again. The beating when it came was hard, relentless and shaming.

So what had brought this on? Well, drink was to blame, no doubt about that. That and my own stupidity. I’d got up to use the bathroom at about 5 in the morning, and had left a Kleenex full of spunk on the side of the bath accidentally, instead of flushing it away. Fortunately, mother was on an overnight shift at the hospital, so the next person to use the bathroom was my father. Of course, he discovered my carelessness.

That fateful day he was ‘working from home’ in his study. He summoned me in and produced the offending item, which had pretty much dried out by then. He held it in a pair of tweezers as if it was infected, or some piece of police forensic evidence. He made me feel so ashamed.

“What on earth would have happened if your mother had found this?” he asked. “She might have thought I’d been jacking off in the bathroom when all along it was yours!”

It was a good point. I hadn’t left it on purpose, of course. In fact, I’d been so drunk while I was masturbating that I was surprised I’d been able to cum at all. Anyway, his face was red with anger, and mine was red with embarrassment.

“It’s time you got yourself a nice girlfriend and settled down, instead of playing with yourself like some teenager. Now then Vincent, what are you going to do to make it up to me?” Dad had asked. He wasn’t angling, I think. It was a kind of rhetorical question. I could tell that he was annoyed with me, as that was the only time he ever used my unabbreviated name.

Somewhat foolishly, and still hungover, I’d said to him, “It’s a shame you don’t have a cane any more. That would have cleared the air.” It must have been the association of his study with past canings that had made me blurt this out.

It was just at that time that he produced the old cane from its hiding place. My jaw dropped as he said, “What a good idea!”

My fate was sealed. It had been a long time. He swished the cane menacingly, but with a big grin on his face. Right then, I’d like to have slapped it, but I was the one in for a stinging caress. It was almost as if he was going to enjoy it! When I was a lad, he’d always carried out my beatings with the most grim of expressions. Now, there was a sickening grin, which was even more humiliating, strangely enough. It was as if he’d trapped me, but in truth my downfall was all my own fault.

The dozen strokes he dished out hurt like hell. It was the most savage beating I’d ever had from him. Maybe he’d decided to make it harder to cut through my hangover and make a real impression? Believe me, twelve vicious strokes was ample! However, as I sat on the white plastic toilet seat a little later, a not unpleasant glow spread around my buttocks. Perhaps it hadn’t been so bad after all? In fact, perhaps it had been a little bit pleasurable? My cock stirred and forced itself into my waiting hand. Yes, I told myself, it hadn’t been too bad, and it was a bit of a turn-on! As I wanked away, I promised myself I’d get another caning off him. If all else failed, I could always leave another Kleenex in the bathroom to secure some more discipline! My mind was racing, and I resolved to talk to him. I left it until the following day, just to be sure my feelings hadn’t been clouded by the hangover.

He was in his study, packing his briefcase. Obviously, that day he was going to be heading to his city office at some stage.

“Dad, we need to talk. Thank you for caning me yesterday. It was embarrassing and it really hurt me, but I deserved it for being so stupid and so, so thoughtless. I don’t want you to feel guilty or to worry that I’m too old for discipline. My friend Joe still gets it from his father and he’s twenty-five!” Of course, what my father didn’t know was that my friend was a figment of my imagination.

Dad didn’t seem to mind my suggestion at all, as that grin of his reappeared.

“I understand, son. At least, I think I do. So that gives me three years or so to knock you into shape, then?” he laughed.

I nodded. He leant back in his chair, opened a drawer and pulled something out.  He placed it on the tooled leather top of the desk. It wasn’t the cane though. It was a can of linseed oil.

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Story © 2013 by Rod Cayenne

Comments welcome – please use link at top of story

Sideboard Of Memories (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Brand spanking new fiction by your host, Rod Cayenne. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!

 

Sometimes I couldn’t work the old sod out. Dad said he was downsizing, for no particular reason.  Consequently he offered me some surplus furniture. Four oak dining chairs. A drop-leaf table which didn’t quite match them but was too good to refuse. A serviceable coffee table. The sideboard where he used to keep his cane along with all sorts of bric-a-brac. Being fairly broke at the time, I took the lot.

Of course, I could only fit the chairs and coffee table in my Mini. Even then I had to make two trips. For the big table and sideboard I had to call a local man with a van. His name was Sean and I’d used him before. He often brought a hired hand with him to move particularly bulky items, like the second-hand leather sofas he delivered for me a while back. He offered a discount if the customer was able to help move the items himself. So that was the option I went for this time.

Sean was hunky. A big muscled young man, always in fashionable long board shorts, today with just the merest hint of a Hawaiian pattern on them. His face always beamed a friendliness, though I did wonder about a scar on his forehead. I’d always got on well with him, and always gave him a big tip despite my precarious financial situation. I think he could sense my lustful feelings. He invariably crushed my hand when he shook it. That was actually quite often as we both frequented the local German discounter. He was always there with his leggy wife, but he always had time to stop for a chat, and to slap me on the back while crushing my hand!

Dad was out when Sean arrived in his grubby white unmarked van. I helped Sean load the table and sideboard. It wasn’t particularly easy task, as once again Sean had crushed my hand. I resolved to mention it when we set off, and indeed I did.

“Ha! Don’t be such a wimp, Jonathan!” he laughed at me. “You managed to move the stuff just fine, didn’t you? And those were bloody heavy items.”

“Yes, but my hand’s still throbbing!” I stated in my defence, “You know it’s a wonder your customers can assist with the removals after you’ve crushed their hands.”

“Nonsense, they all love it! They all love me.”

I sighed and reflected to myself that I was one of his customers who really did love him, for all his faults.  Yes, I loved him and I loved his sexy Irish accent. Anyway, he was off talking at a tangent, about music, James Brown and the power of the riff. He soon lost my attention as I dreamt about his muscles.

A near miss on the road woke me from my daydreaming, “You fuckin’ English git!” screamed Sean at the hapless female driver ahead of him. He was so annoyed that he tossed his mobile phone aside and actually started driving with both hands on the wheel. He soon calmed down, and was talking to me again. “So Jonathan! I can tell a lot about my customers from their handshakes,” he said cheerfully, “Characters and secrets are revealed. You I think are a little submissive, am I wrong?”

He was right, though I wasn’t going to admit it to him. I blushed and resolved to slash the value of the tip I was going to give him. Yes, I had to change the topic of conversation urgently. Fortunately another incident of road rage spared my modesty, and then we were at our destination, my grassy drive.

“Shit, this is muddy!” he complained as he backed the van up. “All this mud and shit is going to spoil my pristine paintwork. Needs a bit of TLC, your drive, I’d say.” With that he handed me the business card of a friend of his who specialised in tarmac work. He grabbed the handbrake roughly and the van skidded to a stop.

“Do you mind if I have a quick vape?” he asked, “The Mrs won’t let me smoke in the van and I’m gagging for one.”

Maybe she was the one who wore the trousers after all, I chuckled to myself while he puffed away. I looked at him as nebulous clouds of white aromatic smoke washed around his beefy physique.

Soon we were unloading the table. By this time, my hand was beginning to recover from the handshake from hell. The table was a big and bulky item but we managed to steer it into the front parlour. I opened the drop leaves out and placed my chairs around it. It looked good. I felt sure that Dad would be pleased with the set-up when he called round.

“Stop fannying around and give me a hand!” Sean shouted from the rear of the van. I ran out to help him, almost slipping on the mud as I did so. Maybe he did have a point about my drive! Gradually we eased the sideboard out of the van and then into the same room as the table. We pushed the sideboard up close to the rear wall.

“You know, there’s something rattling around in here,” said Sean, “I do hope I haven’t broken anything.”

“Yes I heard it too,” I said, “Maybe it is broken, because I’m pretty sure Dad and I emptied all the junk out of it.”

Sean opened the doors of the sideboard and then the drawers. In the big bottom drawer he found something, “Oh, it’s a cane!  Wow!  How long has it been since I’ve seen one of those?  Looks like a good one too.  Wow!  Just wow!”

“Oh gosh! That was my father’s. He used to use it too. Right up to my twenties,” I said as I rubbed my bottom to emphasise my point.

“I see. Well it looks like he decided you should have it again, you naughty boy! Fancy six of the best then?”

“No! Definitely not. Especially not from a brute like you!” I laughed.

“Mmmm. Maybe from a boyfriend then?” he teased.

“Leave it out!” I replied playfully.

“How about six of the best from me instead of me charging you for cleaning all the mud off me van?” Sean teased as he flexed the cane purposefully.

“No!” I asserted, but then I thought, it had been a long time, and a caning from Sean, well it might be madness, but it could be kind of exciting. I heard myself saying, “Well, OK, OK.  Just six and no charge for the mud now, promise?”

“Scout’s honour!” he laughed, which was a strange reply, but one I took to be a yes. “Looks like I was right about you.  Can we do it upstairs? This room’s a bit exposed.”

“Oh, I suppose, yes.” He was calling the shots and I was a bit confused. Perhaps my lust for him was clouding my judgement.

We made our way up the steep bare stairs and I led him to my bedroom. “My God! What an unholy shit tip!” he exclaimed. Well, my room was a bit untidy but I was unused to having guests up there.  “I haven’t finished yet. I think that the state of this room deserves some extra punishment, don’t you? Now, tell me, did Daddy bare your arse for you?”

“Yes, he insisted on it. Even in my twenties.”

“Hmmm.  I bet he did!  Now then, let’s have your arse in the air.  Jeans and pants down!”

“Bare?” I queried.

“Yes, of course.  It’s your family tradition, isn’t it?”

I wasn’t going to argue with Sean, at least not while he had the cane handy.  I dropped my jeans reluctantly, and tugged my briefs down, placing myself over a pillow on the bed to raise my bottom for the attention of the cane.

The first stroke wasn’t too bad.  Sean evidently hadn’t quite got to grips with the rod.  But he soon got the hang of it as he lashed strokes two and three down quite forcefully.  My poor bottom was on fire!  “Arrgh!” I cried as stroke number four cut across the earlier ones.  A fifth cracked down noisily, causing me untold agony.  He tapped the cane on my sore rump a few times, before raising the stick high and slashing it down in the sadistic climax of the sixth stroke.

“Owww!  No!” I cried.

He just laughed and swished the cane some more.

“Now there’s just the matter of this messy room.  I’ve seen tidier teenage dens!”

“Oh do leave it out, Sean!” I said, feeling angry, bruised and humiliated.

“That’s enough!” Sean reprimanded me.  “Six more for your cheek and slovenliness!”

I’d reckoned on just a couple more strokes, but it wasn’t to be.  His muscled arm whipped the cane down rapid-fire style, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve!  Waves of agony consumed me, I was so sore and defeated.  I fought back tears, only just successfully but I couldn’t help grunting and gasping as the fiery pain monopolised my attention.

Sean moved nearer, saying, “Right.  All done.  Let me have a look, now.  Phewee!  Needs a bit of TLC, your arse, I’d say.”

I was half-expecting him to hand me a business card of a friend who specialised in sore arses, but he didn’t. “Yes, you’re right there, it is a bit raw.  A bit sore.” I confessed.

“Of course, but never mind, I’ve got some hand cream in the van.  It should be good enough for your arse as well!  You stay there while I go and get it.”

He was soon back and massaging the white cream into the sore weals and ridges the harsh caning had left me with.  It was heaven and hell at the same time, soothing yet also stimulating fresh jabs of pain.  He was controlling me, alternating pleasure and pain as his beefy hands massaged the cream softly and then harshly.  Suddenly I felt the cream being worked into my crack and then into my arsehole.  That was an alltogether nicer feeling but I was surprised at the attention he was giving that area, as it had avoided the cane and so wasn’t sore at all.  But I was being young, foolish and naive.  Of course my hole wasn’t sore, it was being prepared for his thick meaty cock to enter me!  And he did.  He mounted me forcefully, pushing my legs high in the air like for the missionary position, and he was soon thrusting in and out rapidly.  This was going to be a quickie, of that I was sure, but I hadn’t reckoned on him forcing his tongue into my mouth as he began kissing me frantically.

“Play with me nipples, play with me nipples!” he urged.  I tweaked and teased them, then pinched them not too gently.  Evidently it did the trick as he gasped and came heavily.  He was laid on top of me, puffing for breath, sort of vaped-out I guess you could say.

“Shit that was good!  Wow!  Nice,”  Sean said.  I had to agree, silently.  A quiet minute later he whispered, “Anyway, I can see you again a fortnight Friday, say 8 in the evening.”

“But I don’t have any more items to move,” I protested.

“No, no, not for removals, silly!  It’s so I can cane and shag you again, Jonathan!”

“Oh, I see.”

“Yes, as well you might, my submissive friend,” he said as he picked up and flexed the wicked cane again.  He was still naked, and a final bead of cum dropped from his wilting penis.  “Now be a good lad and take care of this cane until next time.” He tossed the rattan rod down on the bed.

That old cane. That bloody old cane. That glorious old cane. Dad had obviously wanted me to have it. But why? And had he arranged my thrashing with Sean?  Maybe he had, just maybe.  Of one thing I was certain.  Sometimes I couldn’t work the old sod out.

_____________

D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are over 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or businesses, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

(_____________

Story © MMXVIII by Rod Cayenne.  All rights reserved.

__

Comments welcome, please use the link at the top of the story.

What’s Going On In There? (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥
A repeat of this hot caning fiction by special guest author 11plus – strictly over 18s only!

_________________

It had been quite a day at the Sixth Form.  All those sexy bodies had teased me into a lust-filled frenzy.  Now that I was home, I was turned on like never before.  Faster and faster, and ever more franticly, I wanked at my cock.  I grunted and groaned and sighed.  I was edging ever closer to a real corker of an orgasm.  I loved doing it there, sat on the pristine white toilet seat.  Suddenly, there was a loud rapping on the bathroom door.

“Hey!  What’s going on in there?  Gerald!  Hurry up, I need the bog!”

Shit!  It was my brother, Dan.  He was home early and I hadn’t heard him arriving.  Just a few years older than me, hunky and bearded, he had been tasked with looking after me while our dad was on tour overseas.

“Hurry up, hurry up!  I need to dump!” he shouted.

“OK, OK, just coming!” I replied, quickly composing myself, flushing the toilet, shoving my cock back into my trunks, pulling up my jeans, and zipping myself back into decency.  Only my belt remained undone, to save time.  “Sorry!” I said as I emerged from the smallest room.

“We’ll talk in a minute!  Right now, I’m busy!”

He barged me out of the way, slammed the door and locked it.  I could sense that he knew what I’d been doing in there.  No doubt my blushed facial features and slightly confused air would have confirmed it to him.  Still and all, at least I had warmed the seat for him, a tender mercy on a bitterly cold day like that day.

While he was busy, I laid on my bed.  I was worried that I had been rumbled.  I did up my belt, hoping against hope that I wouldn’t have to undo it again very soon.

A long while later he emerged, followed by the manly smell of at least one big log sent downstream.  The muscled hunk headed off for his bedroom, leaving me to wonder if there would be repercussions from my selfish occupancy of the bathroom.  I didn’t have to wonder for long though, as he soon appeared at my door with dad’s cane in his hand.

“Oh Dan!  Not the cane again!”

“Yes, the cane again,” he said sternly, rolling up his sleeves, exhibiting his finely muscled arms.  “You never learn, do you?  I’ve told you before about wanking in the bathroom.  It’s strictly verboten.  That’s why I put this bolt on your bedroom door, so you could do it in here in peace.”

“Yeah, I know.  I told you I’m really grateful for that.  Let me off please, I was just in the bathroom when the urge took me over.  Surely you remember what it’s like to be eighteen?  At least I warmed the seat for you.”

“And I’m going to return the favour by warming your seat for you!”

“Oh Dan!”

“I think, as you keep disobeying me, ten strokes would be appropriate.”

“Ten?  Ten?  No, you can’t!  Dad said never more than six strokes.”

“That was before you were eighteen.  I don’t think he’d object if he found out what you’d been doing in his bathroom.  In fact, maybe I’ll call him now.”

“No, no, don’t do that!  Please.  Please.  Alright, ten it is.  You can do it on the bare.”

“I know I can, so hurry up and get your pants down, and get over the bed!”

I scrambled onto the bed, and hitched my jeans and underwear down for him.  It was most undignified.  The icy blast of the cold winter air left me in no doubt that my bare bottom was being offered to him for suitable chastisement once again.

“Ten then, Gerald.  Try to keep the noise down.  Coming now.”

The first stroke is, in many ways, always the worst.  It’s always such a shock to the system.  My calm, only mildly excited state of mind was immediately jolted into a firestorm of hellish pain.  Shit, shit, shit!  I knew he would be admiring the cane’s signature red stripe, and probably my hairy arsehole, cock and balls too.  Such are the perils of having an older brother.  Yes, a brother some seven years older, and schooled in the use of the cane by my father.

The second stroke cut down on to my tender flesh.  The burn and sting spread rapidly, mating with the pain of the first stroke.  It was all I could do to keep from crying out.  Dan had asked me to keep the noise down, but I felt sure he would break me.  The most I’d ever had off Dad had been eight strokes, but my brother was promising me more.  I was hoping against hope that it was one promise he wouldn’t keep.

The third stroke whipped down viciously.  Indeed, it felt more like a whip than a cane to me, but that was probably my imagination running riot.  Anyway, running riot seemed to be what Dan was doing with that damned cane!  He slashed it down again and again.

The sixth stroke brought new misery.  It hurt really badly, but the worst thing about it was my awareness that this was where a normal caning would have finished.  I fidgeted nervously.  Dan placed his hand on my lower back, pushing me back into position gently.

“Just four more, brother.  You can take them.  You’re doing really well.”

He seemed to be trying to be nice to me, which was a fairly ridiculous notion, as he had the wicked cane to hand.  Anyway, I didn’t like him speaking to me like that at all.  In fact, I felt well and truly patronised.  The seventh stroke was a real killer, causing me to slump down on the bed with a loud howl of pain.  Right on cue, Dan cackled with undisguised delight.  What a bastard!

“Get back up!  I spoke too soon, didn’t I Gerald?”

“Sheesh, yes you did!  Do you have to do it so hard?”

Dan cackled again as he lashed the cane down again, saying, “There’s your answer!”

The bastard hurt me really badly and he knew it.  He cracked the final two strokes down much more quickly.  I wasn’t sure whether that was a mercy or sheer sadism.  My arse was criss-crossed with fire from the rattan cane.  I sobbed quietly and slumped down again.  I wanted him to go.  I hoped he wouldn’t say anything else, but of course, that was a hope in vain.

“That’s your lot.  Don’t do it again or it will be at least a dozen.  I expect you want to finish off now, don’t you?  This time, try to remember to bolt the door.”

I was so, so ashamed.  He could read me like a book.  Of course I would want to climax!  I had been so close before, but he had interrupted me.  I’d leave it a few minutes, though. My red raw arse was in serious need of some massage before I could move my attention round to the front.  That had been one hell of a caning, but I was now beginning to enjoy the afterglow as I laid tummy down on my single bed.

Later on as I masturbated, I forgot about my school friends and instead thought about my brother caning me.  I fantasised that he also kissed me long and hard.  I imagined my face becoming sore from prolonged contact with his bristly beard.  Then I imagined him caning me hard once again.  I pictured his muscled arms and the cane gripped tightly in his large right hand.  I wondered when he had last been caned.  I wondered whether he had enjoyed it.  I felt sure that he enjoyed caning me.  After all, it seemed to happen every week or so.  I wondered to myself why it seemed as if I enjoyed being caned.  Did I want more?  Did I want it harder?  My cock was rock hard and seemed thicker than ever before.  I was peaking and I came noisily.  Thick spurts of hot white cum splashed onto my chest and my bed.  Then I remembered that I hadn’t bolted the bedroom door!  Oh no!

___________)

D I S C L A I M E R

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

(___________

Story © MMXV by 11plus, used here by very kind permission

All rights reserved

___________)

Comments welcome, please use link at top of story

Charlie Alpha November Echo (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot fiction by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2016, and with special thanks to Jim for inspiration.  

Over-18s only.

It wasn’t easy being the rookie cop in the big concrete police station.  Jim kind of dreaded the others, and the rough horseplay he saw there in the locker room.  He buffed up the shine on his black police boots with the brown wooden brush, and sighed heavily.

“Here, let me have look, lad,” said Tom, one of the older bobbies, the duty Sergeant.  Jim passed him a boot to inspect.  “Hmm.  When all’s said and done, this is not very good.  Give it some elbow grease, lad.  This needs a lot more shine, a proper mirror-finish.  You can barely see the reflection of my beard in this one.”

His beard!  Oh yes, his beard.  His masculine, greying, sexy beard.  Jim had lusted after it and the man behind it ever since he first clapped his eyes on Tom.  The beard, the white starched shirt, the blue eyes, his thick leather belt and his bushy eyebrows.  The man was a total dream!

Tom pulled the rookie to one side and whispered in his ear, “You’re going to have to do a lot better than this.  Watch out for Charlie Alpha!”

Charlie Alfa?  Charlie Alfa?  He’d heard the name a few times.  Who was this bloke the others spoke about in hushed terms?  Before he had a chance to mull over it more, Tom the Sergeant was outlining the day’s schedule.

“We’re pulling a gang of teens in this afternoon.  They’ve been a right fucking nuisance to some good people so we’re going to put the frighteners on them.  Clap them in the cells for a few hours.  Probably not a job for you to get too involved in.  Then tonight we’re staking out a cottage.  The loos in the Jubilee Gardens.  I don’t really approve of such harassment any more.  I’m not, err you know, but the fact is that there are quite a few of us coppers who sometimes like a bit of variety, if you know what I mean.  In fact, I think you maybe one of us, am I right lad?  But the Chief Super is a bit old-fashioned in many ways and wants us to crack down, arrest and ruin some married men.  But I don’t think so somehow!  So we’ll go and watch the action and then conveniently forget to book anyone.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jim laughed, his tenseness relieved by the frank and friendly banter of the duty Sergeant.

As it happened, it did all go to plan, Jim, Tom and a colleague had a wonderful, voyeuristic time, no animals were hurt, and no arrests were made.  However, the Chief Superintendent was not amused.  He’d wanted a scalp or two, but nothing had been delivered.

Jim was to discover all about the Chief’s displeasure at his first quarterly performance review.  It started well, with gushing praise for much of his conduct.  There were problems though, outlined as the Chief to paced up and down his spacious office, “Persistent lateness and cocky attitude.  I was also disappointed with the stake-out at Jubilee Gardens.  I do hope Tom hasn’t corrupted you with his strange beliefs?”

“Err, no Sir.  We were just unlucky.  We had fella lined up for cuffing, and then he just disappeared into the night.”

“Is that so, is that so?  I am detecting a pattern here.  A good policeman let down by negligence, tardiness, complacency and too cock-sure for his own good.  What you need, my lad, is a good taste of my Charlie Alpha November Echo!” the older man smirked.

“Eh?” Jim asked stupidly.

“That’s ‘Eh Sir?’ or ‘Eh, Chief Superintendent?’ to you lad!  Where are your manners? Do I have to spell it out to you? Charlie Alpha November Echo! C…A…N…E.  The cane!  Six of the best, should do it.”

“But Sir!  You can’t do that!”

“Dereliction of duty, lateness, cocky attitude.  I can do it, lad, and I will do it.  I think we’ll make it eight strokes, in fact!  You’ve had the cane before?”

“Yes Sir.  My father…”

“Your father, eh?  Hmmmm.  Very good.  Perhaps I’ll call him later!”  With that, the Chief Superintendent sat down and reached under his desk.  He produced a cane which he laid on the desk top, right in front of Jim who proceeded to go pale.

“Aha!  Do I detect some familiarity with this?”

“Well, it’s very similar to my father’s.”

“Is that so?  I doubt he got his from the same place as mine!”

“How so, Sir?”

“I picked this beauty up in a raid of a brothel in the City.  You could say she’s a metropolitan model, but I’ve named her Charlie Alpha.”

In fact, it was a pretty standard school cane.  A pretty cane!  A punishment cane, with a perfectly-curved crook handle.  Just like the one Jim’s father had used to use.

“Alright then lad!  Stand up!  Over the back of the chair please.  No, no, you can keep your trousers on.  Unlike some round here, I am not a lover of naked male flesh.”

The Chief Superintendent was not a lover of male flesh indeed, but he was a sadist.  A semi-secret sadist.  How he enjoyed whipping his juniors with a rattan rod!  A rod he affectionately named Charlie Alpha!

Jim’s police trousers were stretched tightly as he bent over the back of the chair.  So tightly that the outline of his Y-fronts could be seen, offering a gratifying target for the Chief, as he flexed the cane purposefully.

The Chief didn’t hang about as he landed not one, not two but three fast strokes.  Jim hadn’t expected that, being used to his father’s more leisurely ways of punishment.   The heat and pain was immediate and intense.  Jim gasped, overwhelmed by his superior’s sadism.

The Chief paused, “I hope you can see that I mean business, young James!”

“Yes, Sir!” Jim replied dutifully.  He pushed his bottom out, ready for the next stroke.  It came with a loud crack, Jim feeling as if his trousers, underpants and the flesh beneath were being ripped to shreds.  A fifth stroke followed rapidly, causing a squeal from Jim.

“Quiet Constable!  Take your medicine like a man!”

The sixth and seventh strokes followed rapidly again, and despite the Chief’s direct command, Jim could not help yelping as each one landed on target.  The young constable was embarrassed at his weakness, yet consumed by overwhelming pain at the same time.  The last stroke landed accompanied by a loud “AAARGH!”

At least it was over, Jim consoled himself.  It had been quite a beating, so rapid and so painful.  He’d try to avoid the Chief and Charlie Alpha in future!

“You can get up now,” the Chief smirked.  “I hope you won’t need a reminder in the near future.  I expect only the very best from my PCs.  Otherwise they get the best of this!” he said throwing the whippy cane down on the desk.  “Off you go!”

Jim left silently, closing the door gently.  Outside the office, his hands flew to his meaty backside.  He clawed and kneaded at the flesh, desperately trying to ameliorate the intense, throbbing pain.  He loosened his belt by a couple of notches, but it didn’t seem to help any.  As he walked down the winding staircase, he caught Tom’s eye, for the sergeant was manning the reception desk.

“Ah.  A painful gait, I see.  I’d guess that your review ended with an introduction to Charlie Alpha.  Am I right?”

“Shit, yes, Tom!  Eight fuckin’ introductions!”

“Eight, ho ho, he must have been annoyed!  Most new recruits get four to six at most to start with.  Sounds like you hit the jackpot!”

“Jackpot!  I should be so lucky!  I guess that Sergeants are immune?”

“From Charlie Alpha?”

“Yes.”

“Of course lad, we’ve paid our dues.  Charlie’s reserved for kids like you.”

“Cheers, Tom.  I mean Sarge!  I’m off home now, think I’ll have a bath, see if that helps.”

Jim made his way home on the service bus.  His bottom ached and throbbed as it bounced around on the poorly-padded bus seat.  He felt every austerity pothole as the bus rattled and clattered down the neglected A-road.  Alighting at the stop, he nipped into the shelter to compose himself before he faced his parents.  He didn’t want to give the game away, so smartened himself up, tightening both his belt and tie to look his best.

As it happens his father was waiting to greet him at the door, “Hello son!  How was work today?”

“Oh hi, Dad.  Work?  Oh, you know, same old, same old!”

“That’s not what I heard!  The Chief Superintendent rang me.  He told me about your caning.  I didn’t know the Police went in for that sort of thing at all!”

“No, neither did I Dad!” said Jim rubbing his backside ruefully.

“Well now.  I approve.  Wholeheartedly.  He told me what a cocky fool you’ve been.  I’m not surprised.  We’ve noticed it at home too.  Far too frequently.  I’ve sent your mother out.”

That could mean only one thing to Jim.  ‘Sending his mother out’ was his father’s code for “I’m going to cane you!”

“Dad, you can’t mean…”

“I do indeed!  I bet you thought I’d got rid of the good old cane, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes, I’d rather hoped, as I’m 21 now…”

“Never too old for a caning while you’re under our roof!  You’ve brought shame on us, James!  I made the Chief Superintendent a solemn promise.  That I’d take care of your discipline between his quarterly reviews.”

“Dad, you can’t!  Besides, it’s quarterly review day today, hardly between reviews!”

“Don’t get clever with me!  I can see what your boss meant about your cockiness.  As long as you live under this roof, you are a boy as far as I’m concerned.  So before, I deal with you, you can have a shower and shave off that ridiculous, cocky moustache too.  You’re too young for it!  When it’s gone you can report to my study in your pyjamas!”

Jim was dismayed.  No moustache!  No dignity!  And a very, very sore arse.  And those pyjamas!  His mother insisted on them while he lived at home, although Jim would far rather sleep in the nude.  He’d have to ask for a room at the Section House, this was all much too much!

Father meanwhile was happy.  He’d take the lad down a peg or two, for sure.  He’d felt the urge to discipline his cocky young adult son for some time.  Rather stupidly, the lad had furnished him with just the right excuse!

Upstairs in his en-suite, Jim hacked away at his moustache with some disdain.  He’d grown to like it, feeling that it gave him the authoritarian air so appropriate for a police officer.  But now that contrived gravitas was gone.  He gazed at the fresh-faced 21-year-old in the mirror.  Why hadn’t he argued it out with his father?  It was a question that buzzed around his head time and time again as he massaged his sore arse cheeks under the warm water of the walk-in shower.

“I’m waiting!”  Jim’s father barked.  Jim duly dropped his pyjama trousers.  The old man lifted the tail of the pyjama top to inspect his son’s beaten bottom.  The Chief had done an excellent job, with eight crisp but haphazardly-placed weals clearly on display.

“Another eight then, I think.  Just to reinforce the displeasure of your mother and I!  Don’t let us down again, son.”

With that father landed the first purposeful stroke.  Jim had to gasp, for it cut across much of the Chief’s earlier handiwork.  And so it continued.  A second, harder stroke.  A yelp from the young man.  A third, leisurely delivered but excruciatingly painful.  A squeal from Jim.  A whippy fourth, a violent fifth.  A teasing sixth, a scorching seventh.  Cries and grunts.  A valedictory eighth.

Jim got up slowly, pulling up his pyjama bottoms ruefully.  He was holding back the tears, but had to speak, “Thank you father.”

“You’re welcome!  Anytime!”  He meant it too.  At last, with great pleasure, he had tamed his cocky son!

Come the next shift, Jim made his way into the police station cautiously, trying to walk as normally as his well-beaten bottom would allow.  It was just his luck to find his new friend Sergeant Tom on the reception desk.

“Hey, Jim lad!  Where’s your moustache gone?  My, you look so much younger without it.  Just like the  naughty boy you are.  Now, tell me, how’s your naughty bottom?”

“Don’t bloody ask!  My Dad gave me a thrashing too!  The Chief had rung him, so Dad decided to give me the same with his cane.”

“Wait!  Your Dad has a cane too?  Blimey, you’ve been unlucky!  How many did he give you?”

“Another eight!”

Tom whistled with disbelief, “Anyway, how about after the shift you come back to my place?  I’ll make you feel better.”

Tom did eventually comfort Jim, but only after giving him another caning too!

(__________

Story © MMXVI by Rod Cayenne

Photographs © by Rod Cayenne

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are over 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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 Comments welcome

Pick Your Own (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot, brand new fiction by special guest author JOELSTRAP.  This story is currently exclusive to The Canery!

 

“Look! That’s what the bugger did to me!”

Dane yanked down his shorts to reveal a pair of beautifully-formed buttocks, across which six neat red tramlines stood out against his lightly tanned skin, five in parallel and one cross-cutting most of the others. Zak looked.

“Shit! Did they hurt?”

“Well of course they bloody hurt, you moron! You don’t think he put welts like that on my arse by giving me a few gentle taps, do you?”

Zak, untroubled by his friend’s burst of temper, reached out his hand and felt his way over the cane-marks. Dane quivered but made no protest. His penis swelled and rose swiftly to the perpendicular.

“You liked it?” asked Zak, eyeing his mate’s arousal with some admiration. “That’s some boner you got there.”

“No, I didn’t like the bloody caning,” snapped Dane, “but I do like you stroking my bare arse.”

“Yeh? That’s what got you hard as a rock? What would happen if I licked your welts for you?” enquired Zak.

“You wanna do that?”

Zak made no reply, but dropped to his knees, placed a hand on each side of Dane’s waist, and proceeded to run the tip of his tongue along the highest welt on his mate’s bottom. Dane put his head back and moaned. Zak moved down to the next weal. Dane twisted his hips in ecstasy. Zak delivered a sharp slap to his friend’s bottom and Dane winced.

“Keep still,” ordered Zak.

“How can I….?”

Zak slapped him again.

“You gonna keep still?”

“Ow! Okay; just stop skelping me like that.”

Zak resumed his licking and Dane made a supreme effort to remain still while powerful waves of erotic pleasure swept through his body and his rigid cock strained for the sky. By the time Zak had licked the length of the sixth welt, Dane’s penis was oozing pre-cum and he was standing, eyes closed, panting gently, a red flush on his chest and a sheen of sweat on his skin.

“And it all began with raspberries, huh?” asked Zak.

“What? Yeh; but never mind that now. I’m on the edge here. Are you gonna bring me off or do I have to do it myself?”

“Patience, Dane,” said Zak, sliding a hand through between his pal’s legs from behind and pressing firmly on his perineum. “There? That help you to hold it for a bit?”

“But I don’t wanna hold it,” protested Dane. “I wanna cum like a fountain.”

“And you will; once you’ve told me how you got yourself caned.”

“Can’t I cum first and then tell you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I say so.”

Zak rose to his feet and slid his lithe body round Dane so that he stood facing him. The two young men were centimetres apart.

“Now tell me,” commanded Zak.

“How the hell can I tell you when you’re standing so close that I can smell your boy-scent and feel your boner through your shorts and want to cum so much I’m almost crying?” demanded Dane.

Zak looked deep into his eyes and took pity on him.

“Right, let’s lie down over there on the river-bank and then you tell me.”

Reluctantly Dane allowed himself to be led to the grassy bank and the two boys lay down side-by-side on their stomachs, their bare shoulders touching. They cradled their heads on their forearms and faced each other. Dane took a deep breath.

“I was hiking along,” he said.

*******************

____________)

Streamers of wispy white clouds streaked the summer sky, but made little impact on the temperature. Dane was hot, sticky, sweaty and thirsty. He’d finished the last of his water almost two hours before and felt a swift burst of hope as he spied the farm-buildings up ahead. Across a hedge to his right he could see a huge raspberry-field, rows of canes stretching in neat lines into the distance. As he approached the farm-gate, he saw a large sign which read: PYO Raspberries. Dane was baffled. He tried to work out what PYO might signify. Pink, Yellow and Orange? It seemed unlikely. As far as he knew, raspberries were red and always had been. Plenty Years Old? That appeared even less likely. He was fairly sure that raspberries should be fresh. Picked Young and Often? That just might make more sense; but surely you could only pick each raspberry once? Dane shook his head and turned in at the gateway.

As he approached the farm-building, a young man, perhaps in his late twenties, came round the corner and Dane stopped and looked for the sheer enjoyment of looking. Just short of six feet with a beautifully-proportioned body, broad of shoulder and slim of waist, the guy wore his animal-sexuality like a garment. His shorts were close-fitting around muscly thighs and revealed rather than concealed a pair of delicious buttocks. His t-shirt was designed to show off his musculature, and indeed it appeared to be struggling to contain him. His arms and legs and face were tanned deep brown by the sun and beneath a close-cropped cap of black hair a pair of dark-blue eyes sparkled in the noon sunshine. He noticed Dane and stopped.

“Can I help you?” he enquired politely.

“Er, I was wondering if I could fill my water-bottle?” asked Dane.

“Sure,” said the young guy cheerfully. “Come round here.”

He led Dane to a small room with a sink and invited him to make use of the tap. As he filled his bottle, Dane enquired about the PYO Raspberries sign.

“I was trying to work out what it meant,” he said and told the young man about his attempts at finding words to match the initial letters.

The young guy stared at him.

“You trying to make fun of me, mate?” he demanded.

“No, of course not. Plump Young Ordinary raspberries, maybe?” he hazarded hopefully.

“I should tan your plump, young arse, mate. Now fuck off and stop messing me about!”

“But I’m not……..”

He stopped as the young man had turned on his heel and stalked out. Dane paused to adjust things in his shorts, since the guy was even more erotically-appealing when angry, and Dane’s eighteen-year-old body responded eagerly and swiftly to a sexy male. He went outside and looked round the buildings and behind a shed came upon a large car-park. People were heading out into the raspberry-fields and some were returning to their cars, bearing bags and boxes of berries. Dane approached a middle-aged woman and enquired diffidently where she got her raspberries.

“I picked them, of course,” she said, looking uncertainly at him.

“Oh, I see,” said Dane, who still didn’t.

“If you want to pick your own,” she continued, “go and tell the man over in the office there.”

She pointed to an open door across the car-park and Dane thanked her before making for the office.

Bloody obvious when you know, thought Dane to himself. Pick Your Own Raspberries!

He decided that he’d like some rasps and got a basket from the office before making his way out among the raspberry-canes. The berries were plentiful, ripe, full and juicy, and even although quite a few went straight into his mouth, Dane soon had a good quantity gathered. It was hot in the midday sun, though, and so he sat down in the shade of the hedge at the side of the field and drank from his water-bottle and scoffed rather a lot of the rasps he’d picked. He then took a nap he hadn’t intended to take before picking up the remaining rasps and ambling slowly towards the gateway out of the farm.

“Oi! You!”

Dane turned.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

The speaker was the sexy young man whom Dane had so admired earlier.

“I’m going out to the road,” said Dane carefully, as if explaining things to a backward child, “and then I’ll be on my way back to my camp-site.”

“With those raspberries,” said the young man.

“Yes,” admitted Dane, puzzled as to what was upsetting the guy now.

“I suppose you do the same at a supermarket,” accused the young guy. “Pick things up and then walk out without paying?”

“Huh? Of course not! What’s your problem, mate?” demanded Dane, getting annoyed in his turn.

“My problem is that I don’t like nasty thieves,” stated the young man unequivocally.

“Thieves?”

“You’re stealing those raspberries,” he said.

“No, I’m not. Someone told me that PYO meant Pick Your Own; so I did.”

“I can see that. And you think we just grow whole fields of rasps so that people like you can come along and help themselves?”

“But your sign says to Pick Your Own,” protested Dane.

“But you’re supposed to pay for them, you fucking moron!” shouted the young man angrily.

Dane tried to get his head round this.

“I have to pick them myself but I still have to pay for them?” he enquired. “If I went to the supermarket I could just pay for them without having to do all the work first.”

“Are you trying to provoke me, mate?”

“No. I just don’t…..”

“Are you thick or something? Mother dropped you on your head when you were a baby? Sneak-thief came into your tent last night and stole both your brain-cells? Busy wanking yourself off so that you missed out when they handed out the common-sense?” enquired the young man sarcastically. “You get the rasps a lot more cheaply here than in the supermarket because you pick them yourself. But you still have to pay for them!” he shouted.

The penny dropped and a look of understanding spread across Dane’s face.

“Oh! I get it. Yeh, of course. I guess I’m being a bit stupid. How much for these then?”

He held up the basket. The young man snatched it from him and marched off to the office where he put it on a pair of scales.

“Two pounds forty,” he announced.

“But I’ve only got eighty-five pence,” said Dane in dismay. “I left my wallet with my mate back at the camp-site. He twisted his ankle and has to rest it for a couple of days. I guess I’ll have to just leave the berries then.”

“Have you been here for the last three hours, since that first time I saw you?” asked the young man.

“Yeh.”

“And this is all you’ve picked?”

“I ate some.”

“You must’ve eaten a hell of a lot!”

“I don’t think it was that much; but I was a bit hungry, because I haven’t had any lunch.”

“So that’s a lot of free rasps you’ve scoffed as well as trying to walk out with what’s here; and the basket,” added the young man. “You’re in trouble, mate.”

“What? But, here, no, I didn’t………”

“Come through here.”

The young man led Dane into a short passage and through to a courtyard off which was a stable. He took Dane in there.

“Right. I’m gonna give you a choice, chum. In fact, I’m gonna give you three choices; and you’ve gotta choose one of them. Okay?”

“Okay,” agreed Dane uncertainly. “What if I don’t want any of them?”

“Then I’ll make the choice for you.”

“Oh.”

“Choice one is that I call the police and report you for stealing.”

“You can’t! I wasn’t stealing! I got hold of the wrong end of the stick, that’s all. I’ve given back the rasps and the basket.”

“And all the ones you ate?”

“You want me to puke them out on the floor here for you?” demanded Dane angrily.

The young man ignored him.

“Choice two is that you pick rasps here for the next three hours for us as a way of paying off your debt.”

“Three hours! That’s bloody slave-labour! What are you paying? Eighty pence an hour?”

“So that leaves the final choice,” continued the young man.

He walked over to a door at the far side of the stable and disappeared for a few moments before returning with something in his right hand. Dane stared in disbelief. What the young man was carrying was a school-cane. Dane had read about the corporal-punishment regime of earlier years, but his young bottom was untouched by cane or belt or even slipper. Not even a parental heavy hand had sullied his smooth buttocks with chastening intent.

“You….you wanna beat me with that?” Dane gasped incredulously.

“That’s the third choice,” the young man informed him. “I should say that if you don’t make a choice, I’ll go for option one and call the police.”

Dane’s mind was racing. He knew he didn’t want to be reported for theft. He really didn’t fancy three hours picking rasps in the hot sun and then still have the long trek back to the camp-site, starving and weary. He didn’t much like the idea of being beaten with a cane either; but there was a small part of him which was curious. He wondered what a cane actually felt like across a boy’s bottom. His penis was definitely interested in the idea; and of course the sexy young man who would beat him added an extra element to the affair.

“How many strokes would I get?”

“Six of the best used to be the traditional number, so I’ve heard.”

Dane nodded agreement. He was familiar with the expression and had read in older school stories about boys getting six of the best.

“So it’s like Pick Your Own punishment?” said Dane.

“You got it.”

Dane made up his mind.

“Okay. I’ll take the cane,” he said, wondering a little at himself all the same.

The young man suddenly sent the lithe rod whistling through the air with a sound which made Dane wince.

“Reckon you’ll feel that?” the young man asked with a hint of a smile.

Dane swallowed.

“I guess I will,” he said quietly. “So, can we just get on with it?”

“Sure. Drop your shorts and pants and bend over that hay-bale.”

“Drop my…..no! You can’t cane me on the bare!”

“Listen, mate, I’m not wasting my energy trying to get down to your arse through two layers of clothing. You’ll take it bare or I call the police.”

Dane scowled at him, but obediently dropped his clothing revealing a pair of neat, fully-rounded buttocks. The young man eyed them appreciatively.

“You got a brilliant arse on you,” he said unexpectedly.

“Er, thanks,” replied Dane, unsure how to respond to what sounded like an unlikely compliment.

“Bend over then; and stay in position until I tell you to get up. Got that?”

“Yeh, yeh, I got it.”

Dane bent over and presented his virgin behind for corporal punishment for the first time in its life. The young man flexed his limber cane and gave a few practice-strokes which made Dane flinch in anxious anticipation. A few seconds later and he felt the cool rod touching his bottom. The young man tapped the flesh a few times as if assessing where to land the first stroke. He slid a hand surreptitiously into his own shorts and rearranged his massive erection before he began the caning. He was already enjoying it and he hadn’t even begun to thrash those exquisite buttocks. Dane waited and felt the cane lifted away, heard the whine as it descended and the snap as it sliced cleanly and very hard into his waiting rump. A lash of fire seemed to score his behind and he gasped aloud as a fierce sting challenged his ability to maintain his position.

The young man examined the welt on the boy’s bottom and smiled happily. Bugger felt that more than he thought he would, he told himself. And he’s going to feel this one even more.

He swung the cane and brought it down again, whipping it smartly across Dane’s quivering rear just a few centimetres below the earlier cut. Dane uttered an outraged yelp of pain and gripped the edges of the bale tightly, forcing himself not to reach back and rub his flaming bottom. The line of fire pulsed with a steady, intense burning for several seconds before it began to ease. The young man licked his lips, rubbed the front of his shorts, and raised the cane once more. His aim was good and the third stroke landed neatly just a little lower and parallel to the first two. Dane bucked and snarled and sank his teeth into the straw-bale. The young man watched intently as Dane clenched and relaxed and then re-clenched his shuddering buttocks. The long, sun-browned legs were taut, the toes braced on the wooden floor of the stable, and a sheen of sweat glistened on Dane’s back in a shaft of dusty sunlight.

The young man did a practice-stroke and smiled to see Dane’s instinctive wince. No, not this time, mate, but next time you’ll get something to wince about!

He swung the cane and drove it hard into Dane’s waiting behind, delivering a brutal explosion of pain to the boy.

“Fuck!”

The expletive was forced violently from Dane as he fought desperately to maintain control of his body and stay down. There was a slight tremor in his bottom now, which he couldn’t quite control, and his rump was throbbing with bruising pain. Dane swallowed hard and tensed his body in readiness for the penultimate stroke. It came swiftly and viciously hard, full on his crease. A lightning-stroke of savage fire seemed to rip his bottom open, furrowing the flesh with searing heat. Dane squealed and his right hand flew round to scrub in desperation at his tortured skin.

The young man closed his eyes as his penis pulsed and he was aware of his pre-cum making a damp patch on the fabric of his shorts. He took a deep breath and lined up his cane with Dane’s bottom for the final time. The traditional method was to deliver the last stroke at an angle and to try to reignite the fires in earlier welts while excoriating the flesh with a new and excruciating sting. He eyed the target carefully, swung the cane and drove it in hard and accurately. The crack rang out across the stable, and like an echo came Dane’s agonised howl of pain. He writhed powerfully, his buttocks clenching and re-clenching, every body-muscle stretched to rigidity, as he fought the searing fires in his rear.

The young man’s self-control had gone and his tumid penis was spurting out copious quantities of potent spunk into the front of his shorts. He threw his head back and moaned in ecstasy. Dane, too busy wrestling with his own agony, didn’t even notice. Slowly the appalling fires grew less intense and his ragged breathing steadied. He waited for the command to get up. The young man admired the results of his efforts with the cane and decided that he was definitely good at this.

“Get up,” he ordered curtly.

Dane rose carefully to his feel and at once began to explore his buttocks with wondering fingers.

“Fuck!” he panted. “I’m all ridged!”

“Yup. I reckon I’ve done a good job. You won’t rub that sting out for a few hours; and you’ll have marks for the rest of the week. Think you’ve learnt your lesson?”

Dane, still caressing his throbbing bottom, eyed the young man carefully.

“Yes. I got the message.”

“Looks like you’re kind of enjoying it a bit now too, huh?” said the young man, giving a meaningful nod in the direction of Dan’s semi-erect cock.

Dane went red in the face.

“Well I bloody well didn’t enjoy it when you were beating me,” he complained. “You didn’t have to hit that hard!”

“Oh yes I did,” said the young man, “so that I could get the best orgasm out of thrashing you.”

Dane followed the young man’s eyes to the large, spreading wet patch at the front of his shorts.

“You got off on caning the shit outta me? That’s gross!”

“And you getting harder by the second now it’s over, and you can feel the welts I’ve put on that fantastic arse of yours, isn’t gross?”

“Well, yeh, okay, I guess caning is a bit of a turn on; but fuck, it hurts like hell and then some!”

“Get your self covered up,” ordered the young man and while Dane pulled up his pants and shorts, flinching as the fabric was drawn across his beaten flesh, he returned the cane to where he’d got it from.

“Okay, mate, debts all cleared,” said the young man. “And if you ever want your arse caned again, just come back and ask me. I’ll be delighted to oblige.”

“I bet you will! But I don’t think I’ll be coming back.”

*******************

____________)

“So that’s how you got a caned arse,” said Zak. “And you kinda liked it, huh?”

“Only after it was over. While he was beating me it was horrendous.”

“You won’t be going back for more then?”

“No, I don’t think so. Anyway, we’re only here for a few days and I sure don’t want to be caned again any time soon!”

“Maybe you’d rather be spanked?” suggested Zak.

“Spanked?”

“Yeh. I’ll put you across my knee and spank your bare bottom long and hard and then, when I’m ready, I’ll fuck the living daylights outta you. How’d you like that, Dane?”

“Yeh,” said Dane thoughtfully as he raised himself to accommodate his swiftly growing penis, “I think I might like that a lot. Now, are you gonna bring me off? I’ve told you how I got myself caned and you said I could cum after I’d told you.”

“Sure. You want me to spank you first, Dane?”

Dane considered.

“Maybe just a little bit? Carefully, you know. I’m kinda tender.”

Zak hoisted his mate across his lap and pulled down his clothing.

“Just hard enough to get the fires burning for you again, Dane,” he said softly.

He began to spank the red mounds steadily and methodically. Dane winced and squirmed a little, but made no protest. Soon the building heat was making him thrust forward with increasing eagerness against Zak’s thigh and before long the floodgates burst open and Zak was aware of spurt after spurt of Dane’s warm spunk streaming across his bare leg.

“So how did you feel about having to pick which choice you wanted, Dane?”

“That was okay. I knew what I didn’t want: being reported or having to slave in the sun for three hours. So I picked the cane. It hurt like hell, but it seems to have brought us closer together somehow. Yeh. It was the right choice. I’m a great believer in PYO punishment!”

___________)

Story © 2018 by Joelstrap, used here by very kind permission.  Please leave a comment by using the link at the top of the story.

Joelstrap’s excellent earlier stories for The Canery are available here.  Further great stories by Joelstrap may be found at this external link

Drop The Crop (M/M) r e p e a t

Erotic Fiction by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2011.

 

“Is this your crop?” I shouted at the passing rider.  He was rather handsome in a tweed jacket, cream jods and very shiny black boots.  His silk tie was gold and red and looked expensive.  I waved the crop at him.  It was a nice plaited black leather item.

“Yes, I do believe it is, thank you!”

“I found it over there near those bushes.  It looks a fearsome weapon.”

“Ha! It certainly is.  I don’t use it on the horses much, but my stable lad has felt it a few times!”

“Lucky boy!” I said somewhat incautiously.

He dismounted and shook my hand firmly and introduced himself as “Cyril Makepeace, those are my stables over there.  It’s a wicked crop, that one.  If you really envy my stable lad, I could give you a good whipping with it.  Ahem, as your reward for finding my crop.  If that’s not too kinky for you, lad?”

“No Sir, I’ve always wanted to try it, honestly Sir.”

“Good lad.  Then your wish will come true.  I also use a cane on my stable lad.  Would you like to try that as well?”

“Sounds a bit harsh Sir, but in for a penny, in for a pound,” I replied.

“What’s your name lad?”

“Jason Newman, Sir.”

“Very good lad, follow me.”

I was beginning to feel foolish.  I walked behind him as he led his horse to the stables.  Suddenly the horse had a big dump.  I felt even more embarrassed.  He put the horse in the stable block and we walked towards the house.

“Come on in lad.  Make yourself comfortable, while you can.  Scotch?”

“No thank you,” I declined.  He quickly knocked a glassful back.  Perhaps it was Dutch Courage?

“Right then lad!  You want a thrashing as a reward do you?”

“Yes please, Sir!  It’s something I’ve wanted for a long time.”

“Right lad.  And you wanted it bare arse I am guessing, too?”

“It’s the only way, Sir, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s certainly the best way.  It’s going to hurt, you do realise that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir.  But I do want to be properly rewarded”.

“Aha.  Over here then.  Bend over and I’ll take your trousers down for you.  And we’ll have these down too!”

I was feeling exposed.  The room was cold and so was my bottom.

“Oh, I’ve forgotten.  You wanted a taste of the cane too, didn’t you lad?”

“Yes please, Sir.”

“Well you stay right there while I go and fetch one from the bedroom.”

He soon returned, swishing the cane as he entered the room.  I turned around to look at him.  He looked so horny in his jods and boots and with a crook handled cane too, it was like all my fantasies had become real at that moment.

“Face the front, lad!  There’s no need to stare.  I think that’ll cost you extra strokes!”

“Yes Sir, sorry Sir.”

“Well we’ll start with a swift dozen from the crop you found.  I think you’ll find it quite rewarding!”

THWACK!  The crop lashed down.  I cried out.  That was a heavy stroke.

THWACK! THWACK!  Two strokes in quick succession.  My arse was on fire.

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!  Half way through and I was beginning to think I’d been rewarded enough.

THWACK! THWACK! “AAAARGH!” I screamed.

THWACK! THWACK!  I was regretting my bravado.

THWACK! THWACK!  Extra hard strokes had me close to tears.

“Very good, lad,” he complimented me.  He put the crop down and poured himself another stiff one.  “Very satisfactory.  Very rewarding.  Have you had the cane before, lad?”

“No Sir.  Is it worse than the crop?”

“Yes, I’d say so.  It stings and burns in a unique way.  I had it a lot at school.  Prep school and boarding.  And then when the horse thing came along, I got a taste for the riding crop, courtesy of my riding mistress.  She has a lot to answer for.  As do my old housemasters.  Anyway, as I said, the cane is worse.  Stick that bottom out for me, laddie!”

SWISH-CRACK!  The sound of the cane was thrilling, and the pain didn’t seem too bad for a second or so, but my, did it kick in!

SWISH-CRACK!  A second stroke.  Absolute agony, although I was proud not to cry out.

SWISH-CRACK! The third made me gasp.

SWISH-CRACK!  “AAARRRGGGHHH…………….”

SWISH-CRACK!  He was really getting into the swing of it.

SWISH-CRACK!  “YEOWWWCH!”  That was the worst one.

He dropped the cane to the floor.  I was expecting more.  He’d threatened extra strokes earlier.  They didn’t materialise.  I think the alcohol may have dulled him as he suddenly seemed mellow.

“Good boy.  Let me have a look.”  His hands wandered over my arse too.  They were quite cold, which was a relief as my arse was really hot after the caning.  “Why don’t you come over next Saturday, lad?  You could help my David muck out the stables and then have a thrashing as another reward.  You did enjoy it, didn’t you Jason, my boy?”

“Yes I did enjoy it, thank you, and I will come on Saturday.  What time Sir?”

“Oh, let’s make it early, you will need plenty of time for your reward.”

The following day, Cyril Makepeace was out on his favourite horse again.  He ‘accidentally on purpose’ dropped his crop again.  Horse and rider then cantered off a safe distance.  Makepeace raised his binoculars to see if anyone would pick the crop up.

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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 businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

_____________/

Story and picture © MMXI by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved

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Comments welcome

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Not A Bad Old Stick (M/M) r e p e a t

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot caning fiction by your host Rod Cayenne, repeated by popular request. Strictly over 18s only! 

 

That fateful morning, I scowled across the table, picking at my breakfast. “He’s not a bad old stick, after all,” my father said. I wasn’t so sure. OK, the guy was a family friend and had been for years, but I remembered him as a total tyrant in the classroom. In truth, he was always fairly kind to me as I was a teacher’s pet really, but several of my contemporaries had incurred the wrath of his plimsolls and canes. In consequence, I remained wary of him. “Anyway,” father continued, “He has invited you to stay for a fortnight at his new place in the National Park. It was such a generous offer that I accepted immediately, on your behalf.”

“Oh, thanks a bunch, Dad!”

“Well, I’m sorry Adam. I wasn’t aware of your reservations. He is a friend of the family, after all. I think he’s feeling a bit overwhelmed and lonely.”

“Well, that’s not my problem! Of course he’s feeling lonely, that’s because he’s not very likeable!”

“Adam, you’re going! I’m not having you wasting the whole summer here before you start at college. I told you, you should have got a summer job. Besides, your mother and I need some time together.”

“Oh so, that’s it! I’m being packed off so you can shag yourselves silly!”

“ADAM! HOW DARE YOU?” Dad banged his fist down on the table, and I stormed out.

So it was that a week or so later, I found myself being dropped off at Jim Masterson’s new abode, a charming chocolate box cottage down a leafy cul-de-sac right on the edge of the forest. He had done well for himself, I thought as I eyed the wisteria-draped walls.

He greeted me with a hearty handshake and a big grin. I felt reassured and almost instantly at home. The cottage was tiny inside, with the thick walls reducing the floor space significantly. He took me upstairs to the small bedroom that was to be mine for two weeks. It was in need of a lick of paint, and maybe some fresh curtains, but the bed was generous for a single, and seemed warm, dry and welcoming as I sat down on it to unpack my belongings.

However, my happy mood disappeared as soon as I started to hang my clothes in the oak wardrobe. For there, hanging on the dull metal hanging rail, was a school cane. I almost shat myself with fear! What was it doing there? It held out a bitter promise, and there I was stranded with it, a tyrannical teacher downstairs, and miles from civilisation!

That afternoon we went for a walk and ended up at a picnic place in a clearing within the National Park. We sat down and enjoyed a warm cuppa from a flask and a few biscuits.

“Adam, you seem tense. Is there a problem?” Jim asked, and placed his hand on my knee, fleetingly.

“Err, no. I don’t think so. No, I don’t think so.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Quite! Except…”

“Yes?”

“There’s a cane in my wardrobe! What’s it doing there? It’s not very welcoming is it?”

“Oh that! Yes. It is one of my old school canes.”

“Well, yes, obviously. Still, as I said, a strange welcome.”

“Well. Well, Adam. I was talking to your father and he said you’d been a bit surly and lippy lately. I can see what he was driving at, in a way. Anyway, it was his idea to put it there. Just to wind you up, really. I’m sorry.”

“To wind me up? Well, that’s certainly worked!”

“Hmm. You do seem a bit overwrought, my lad.”

“Well! I got through school without ever being caned by behaving myself.”

“Wait a minute! That’s quite an achievement, Adam. Really it is. Eighteen and never been thrashed, eh? That’s quite unusual even in these modern times. No wonder you’re upset at the prospect.”

“What prospect?” I asked with alarm.

“Well, not really a prospect. Your father thought you should offer to take a caning. He told me what you’d said, you know.”

“Oh!”

“Yes, frankly, I’m appalled. I expect better of my pupils. Really, I do.”

“I’m not one of your pupils any more.”

“Technically not. But I am dismayed. And your smartarse remarks aren’t helping any.”

“Perhaps I’d better go home?”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option. Your parents have plans.”

“Well then, what are my options, Sir?” I decided to call him Sir as it seemed appropriate at that moment.

“Well, as I see it there are two. You can stay with me and there will be a bit of an atmosphere. Or you can stay with me, take a caning, and the air will be cleared.”

“That’s not much of a choice, is it?” I said.

“Well, that’s the way I see it, Adam my lad. Do you have a different perspective?”

“No. Alright, you win. How many will I get?”

“Well six is traditional. It might be enough to do the trick, especially as this will be your first taste of the cane.”

“First and last!” I exclaimed, hardly able to believe what I was agreeing to. I was well and truly trapped, and by my own stupidity, really.

“Yes. Alright then, first and last. Unless you feel afterwards that the air still hasn’t been fully cleared!”

“Oh don’t worry about that, Sir. I’m really sorry for my behaviour already.”

“Well, I’m not going to let you off just because you’re feeling sorry for yourself. Believe me, you’ll be truly sorry after a caning.”

“I suppose I will,” I said, “Will it hurt terribly?”

“Yes, I’ll make sure it does. But don’t worry it won’t kill you and the residual soreness and marking will clear up after a few days.”

“A few days?”

“Yes. That’s just a guess, of course. I am guessing that your hide is soft, a few canings toughen a lad’s flesh, but that’s one advantage you don’t have.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, this is all sounding a bit morbid, but as I say it won’t kill you. It will toughen you up, which is just what you need.”

I wasn’t convinced, and I dragged my feet rather petulantly as we headed back to the cottage. I became more agitated as the place came back into view.

“We’ll do it now. Get it out of the way. It wouldn’t be fair to make you wait until bedtime, would it, my lad?”

I didn’t much care for the term bedtime, or being called a lad. I did feel like a kid. A scared and frightened little kid, just at that time. He marched me in through the back door.

“Alright, trousers and pants down!”

“What?”

“Yes! Sixth formers get it that way.”

“But I’m not a sixth former!”

“No, you’re not! But there it is. Just get them down while I go and fetch the cane.”

He soon reappeared, slicing the stick through the air.

“Good lad. Now bend over, hands on your knees. That’s it. Stick your bottom out for me.”

It was so degrading. Stick my bottom out indeed! Still, I couldn’t argue. I’d agreed to it, and how bad could it really be?

CRACK! The first stroke caught me unawares. The pain soon followed, it was excruciating! My flesh immediately felt as if it had been blowtorched! Shit, that was hot!

The second stroke followed rapidly and hurt my delicate teenage flesh badly. The pain mingled with that from the first stroke. I was struggling to retain my composure and my submissive position. My head was spinning, feeling dizzy. He stopped and sliced the cane through the air a few times before speaking.

“Not very nice, eh?”

“No, Sir!” I replied.

“Just what the doctor ordered! Long overdue! I should have taken you down a peg or two when you were my pupil. You wouldn’t have dared speak to your father like that!”

“No, Sir!” I replied again, thoroughly humiliated.

“And you wouldn’t have dared use obscene language,” he said, simultaneously slicing the cane down for a wicked third stroke. Boy, did that one hurt! It seared and throbbed and burnt.

“Can I get up for a minute, Sir? I feel a bit light-headed.”

Suddenly he was alarmed. He placed his hand on my forehead, checking my temperature. He sighed, and then spoke, “I hope you’re not playing for time, my lad. I’m not going to let you off, you know. Perhaps you’d better bend over one of these dining chairs?”

It was a good idea. I placed my hands flat on the seat of the wooden chair, and stuck my aching bottom out submissively.

“Just the job. Good stuff. Good lad. You’re taking this well.”

If that was a compliment, I was a bit surprised. I pushed my bottom out further awaiting a further stinging rattan caress. It came with a loud whipping sound and a wave of intense pain. I gasped and screwed up my face. This was hard to take. How ever did schoolboys manage to take it, I wondered?

A fifth stroke lashed down. I squealed and leapt up, rubbing my sore arse with my hands.

Mr Masterson tutted, “That’s not allowed you know! I suggest you get back into position straight away. Unless you want me to make it a round dozen?”

I’d never moved so fast in my life! I bent over, thrusting my naked cheeks provocatively at my tormentor. I wanted it over. I wanted it over and to be just the original six strokes.

“That’s better! Last one, then. Coming now!”

And it did come! And then some. Later on as I examined the damage, it was apparent that this last stroke had been aimed diagonally. It fucking hurt, that was for sure.

I stood up and hoisted my Y-fronts and trousers back into place. The material rubbed against my injured flesh. All the same, it was a not unpleasant sensation. I felt cleansed. I smiled at Mr Masterson and sighed, “Thank you, Sir. I needed that, didn’t I?”

“You certainly did lad, you certainly did. Has it done the trick?”

“Oh, I think so, thank you, Sir. I do feel I’ve paid my dues.”

“Good. Well, let me know if it hasn’t cleared the air and I’ll do it again for you.”

I thanked him sincerely, much to my amazement. Why would I ever ask for more? Even if I were to feel some residual guilt?

“Right then! You’d better return the cane to its home. We’ll know where to find it if it’s needed again then, won’t we?”

I took the cane from him. It felt light and innocuous. I walked up the narrow stairs acutely aware of the sore throbbing in the rear of my underpants. I hung the cane back on the rail in the wardrobe and stared at its lithe form. Unconsciously, I was rubbing my scorched bottom cheeks. That thing certainly packed a punch!

By the time I went downstairs, Mr Masterson was on the phone, evidently talking to my father.

“He took it like a man. Yes, that was good as I didn’t go easy on him. Just six. That’s usually enough, I find. Anyway, I’m going to do you another favour. No, no, I insist. At the end of the holiday, I’m going to send the lad home with a cane for you to use. Use it good and often! No, there’s nothing to it. You’ll soon get the hang of it. The cane does all the hard work. No, really, I know what I’m talking about. Regular reminders do a college lad no harm at all.”

The colour drained from my face. Shit, he was giving dad a cane to use on me! But I was 18 and bound for college! Shit! Much too old for the cane, surely? Then I reflected on my own stupidity, for how could I claim to be too old after what I’d just submitted to?

I got on really well with Jim, Mr Masterson, for the rest of the holiday. We didn’t talk about the cane much until the last evening I was there.

“Well young Adam, a memorable break for you, then?”

“Yes, thanks! It’s been a real tonic here in the forest. Thank you for having me. Although my bum’s not so sure!”

“Ah yes, your bum, as you like to call it. In the staff room we call that part of the anatomy your seat of learning! Have you learnt your lesson, Adam, or do you need a reminder before you go home?”

I really don’t know why, but I agreed to another caning! It just felt so right. I was making up for lost time in so many ways. It was another six of the best and that caning was just as hard as the first. I found it just as cleansing, and almost an enjoyable challenge. That night, I masturbated furiously as I wriggled my sore bottom against the bed sheets, imagining first Mr Masterson and then Dad caning me. Well, that was a sweet fantasy and the reality is a story for another day, don’t you think? As I fell asleep I was minded to think of the cane as an old friend of the family, and not a bad old stick after all.

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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 businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

(___________

Story and selfie picture © MMXV by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved

___________)

Comments welcome

The Crop Circle (M/M) repeat

Short erotic equestrian fiction by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2012.

My riding instructor cut a handsome figure in his tweed jacket, jods and shiny black Aigle boots.

“You seem to be a little too fond of the whip, my friend!” he admonished.  “Please cut down its use on the horses.  If you have a sadistic streak, you should take it out on the stable lads or lassies.  They are used to the riding crop and dressage whip on their haunches.”

“Really?” I laughed as I dismounted and tied the horse.  “Don’t tempt me.”

“Aha, another enthusiast, if I’m not mistaken.  I’m not shocked.  Your interest is quite common.  Are you really keen?  If so, I may be able to help.”

“Really?” I asked again.  I stared into his blue eyes.

“Yes, really.  There is a flogging group hereabouts.  Interested?”

“Yes, rather!  Tell me more please,” I added, more than intrigued.

“It’s called The Crop Circle.  Get it?”

“Oh, how very droll.  Sounds right up my street.”

“Well, don’t get too worked up about it just yet.  Let me tell you a bit more about it.”

“Thank you,” I added, trying to seem humble and at the same time trying to will away an erection from forming in my jodhpurs as I thought about beating stable lads and lasses.

“Alright then.  I’ll be honest with you.  It started off as a spin-off from an occult group.”

“Oh, wicked!” I said, somewhat childishly.

“Quite.  But then quite a few of us realised we were more interested in the floggings than the witchcraft.”

“I see.  I understand.”

“Of course, some of the traditions have followed on.  There is an initiation.  Which will be painful for you…”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.  I can handle that.”

“Don’t be so sure about that.  Most likely it’ll be be a birching.  With rods you’ve collected yourself from the sacred forest.”

I gulped a little.  It’s true I was less keen suddenly, although I was aware that I had a masochistic side too.  We went into the stables where he showed me the fine collection of crops and whips, which were prominently on display.  I picked a crop and admired its beautiful craftsmanship and leatherwork.  I placed it back with a shudder.

“I’ll get the Circle Master to contact you.  Of course, I cannot guarantee anything.  He is choosy.  There is the initiation and you have to prove yourself worthy.  There are dominant and submissive members of the group.  And of course, some who like a little of both sides of the coin.  Tell me frankly, where would you see yourself fitting in?”

“Well, to be honest, I do like a bit of variety in all things.”

“I see.  At least, I think I do.  You want some give and some take?”

“Yes. Yes, to be honest, that’s what I really want.”

“Good!  In that case I think a preliminary thrashing right now would be appropriate.”

“What?”

“Yes, just think of it as a pre-initiation.  After all, I could forget to mention your interest to the Circle Master.”

I don’t think I’d ever felt so trapped in my life before!

“Can I keep my jods on please?”

“No, no, no!  That won’t do at all!  It wouldn’t be a proper initiation if it wasn’t on the bare, would it?”

“But this is just the pre-initiation,” I tried to plead.

“Don’t split hairs and don’t try to be funny with me.  The stable hands get it bare, and they are a lot younger and less tough than you are.  Get your bottom bare now and get over the bale.  I’m going to beat you for excessive use of the whip.  Isn’t that fair?”

“Yes, I suppose so.  Although I didn’t mean any harm by my use of the whip.”

“Tell that to your mount!  But don’t worry, because I won’t mean any harm by my use of the whip on you.  To make it fair, I’ll use your own whip on you.  Give it to me please.”

I handed the crop over.  It was a cheap item, not as impressive as those in the display, and I was seriously doubting that it was that severe.  However, my opinion soon altered as it thrashed down on my naked haunches!

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

I gasped as lines of fire lit up my backside.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

It was humiliating.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

It was even worse that I was being beaten with my own crop.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

I resolved to go easy on the horses in future.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

The flames began to subside just a little as the crop was thrown down beside me.

“I think we’ll complete your schooling with a final half-dozen with the dressage whip!”

I wanted to say no, more than anything in the world.  But I was under the instructor’s spell, and the word just wouldn’t come out.  He pushed me further into the bale with his shiny boot.

That dressage whip was even worse! It cut and flailed and reduced me to tears.  It was agony.  Agony and ecstasy.  I loved it!

 

There were to be several more sessions over bales, fine leather saddles and in a bedroom back in the farmhouse once the weather got really cold.  But I didn’t hear from the Circle Master in all that time.  Had I been tricked, or was I just not worthy?  I didn’t want to press it with the instructor as our sessions were so intense and enjoyable.  No, I didn’t want to jeopardise the good thing we were sharing.

_____________)

Story © MMXII by Rod Cayenne

______________

D I S C L A I M E R

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

Photography © by Jonathan, R.I.P.

Comments please

Spanked Over The Butcher’s Apron (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A hot tale from your host, Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2016.  All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!

It was week four of my new job as one of the butcher’s boys.  It was going well.  I liked my uniform of white shirt, grey trousers and the traditional striped blue apron.  At least I didn’t have to wear a straw boater hat like my boss, Mr. Smith, always did.  I suspected he wore it to hide his rather generous bald patch. Anyway, a hat like that would cause havoc with my heavily-gelled spikey hair.  Another thing I liked was that now and then I got to ride the shop bike to deliver fresh cuts to customers all over the town.  What I didn’t like was dealing with difficult members of the public.

“Silly bitch!” I muttered as the troublesome customer left the premises.

“Joel!  Apart from that being not a good time for your runny nose to be dripping into the ground beef, that was the lady of the manor!  She expects to be treated with respect, and to be called Ma’am. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Mr. Smith, err Sir!”

“Sir, eh?  I like that, young Joel.  I like that a lot.  Come and see Sir in his office after work, will you?”

“Err, yes, Mr. Smith.  Sir!  But how come she doesn’t send one of the servants to pick up her supplies?”

“Servants!  Don’t make me laugh!  She does engage domestics but they never last long.  She’s too demanding.  Even for the East Europeans.  Anyways, she’s got a good eye for the best cuts, that one.  Likes to choose everything herself.  Now, on with your work please!  Get mincing!” he laughed heartily and slapped my arse playfully as he went down the back of the shop, and then upstairs to his office.

It was soon five o’clock, closing time, and my fellow assistant, Robbie, wished me luck as he left.  Disturbingly, he winked as he said it.  I watched as he made his way past my rusty Ford Fiesta to the bus stop.  He was quite a hunk, I thought to myself as I duly made my way up the creaking staircase to see the boss.

The less than hunky Mr Smith was sat in his tatty swivel chair facing the window when I entered.  He turned around slowly to look disdainfully at me.  I fidgeted as I gazed at his desk, trying to avoid eye contact in my usual shy way.

“Look at me, Joel!  That’s better.  My, what a handsome lad you are, to be sure.  Now, you’ve been here a month, haven’t you?”

“Yes, Mr. Smith, Sir!”

“Mmmm.  Now, on the whole you’re doing well.  Very well.  But I could do without you being cocky with the customers.  Especially the rich ones!  I can’t afford to lose even one customer.  They deserve your respect.  Times are hard, and there are rumours of a supermarket moving in.  That means every single customer is precious.  Our livelihoods, and your job, depend on treating them well.   Now, look at the window.  What does the gold lettering say?”

“Traditional Family Butchers, Sir.”

“Indeed.  Traditional.  Family.  Two of my favourite words, son.  Tradition.  Family values.  Respect.  Decency.  Tradition.”

“Err, yes.”

“Yes, and now I find your lack of respect for customers in general and for one of the town’s finest families absolutely appalling!  I suggest a traditional remedy!  A good, sound smacking!”

“Whaaat?  You’re joking?”

“Oh, I’m not.  Oh no.  Not the sort of thing I joke about, at all.  Oh no.  And if you don’t want me to show you the door, you’ll get over here over my lap this instant!”

He grabbed my arm and I gave way.  He hauled me over his lap, right over his blood-stained navy blue pinstripe apron.  Urgh!  He spanked me merrily over my thin grey trousers, it hurt like mad and then he made me drop my trousers.  Then he spanked my skimpy pants like his life depended on it, and then OMG!  He ordered me to remove my briefs.  I was going to get some more on the bare!  Slap after slap. He created merry hell.  The fires of merry hell.  At first it wasn’t so bad, but boy, did he have a thorough technique!  His hand felt tough and leathery as it crashed rapidly into my young flesh.  Every inch of my arse was deep burning red by the time he’d finished.  What was worse was that he was obviously enjoying it, chuckling away while admonishing me.  I think he had a boner, too.  Unless there was a penknife or something in his apron pocket.

After a final fast round of slaps, he finished and grunted.  His hands stayed in contact with my bare bottom, however.  He started rubbing it better, which was really nice for a while but then his fingers strayed towards my arsehole.  I flinched.

“Don’t be shy, young Joel.  I know all about you!  One of my friends told me he’d seen you down the gay sauna!”

“What gay sauna?  What is a gay sauna even?”

“Don’t give me that!  You know damn well the one I mean.  Down by the station, down the big town.”

“OK but no, no, he must be mistaken!”

“Don’t lie to me boy!  He told me about this tattoo!” he said as he lifted my shirt up further, revealing my wicked Chinese dragon ink.  He traced the design with his finger.  “Nice!” he said.

“Well, alright it was me.  One of my friends works there, handing out the towels and taking the cash.”

“Really?  A towel-folder, eh?  What’s his name?  Gideon?” he laughed, “I hear you’re a regular there, even wearing flip-flops like the old hands.  Be careful not to be too regular there or you might bump into someone else you know.  Me, for instance!”

“You!  But you’re married!”

“True, true.  But then so are a good half of the guys there!  And they are always on the lookout for young, fresh chicken.  Like you!  Still I’m sure I can rely on you to keep my secret, just as you can rely on me to keep yours.  Now be a good boy, get up and suck my cock for me!”

“What?!”

“Just do it, lad!  You know you want to.”

Well as a young tart, how could I refuse?  I unzipped his trousers, rummaged in his pants and found what I was looking for with no trouble!  I slurped away at his engorged meaty column and he sighed contentedly.  My tongue probed under his foreskin and teased around the piss slit.

“Good, good.  I shall expect you to swallow, my boy.”

“Yes boss, err Sir.  Of course.  It’s the only way!”

“Indeed.  Indeed.”

He grunted, sweated and moaned and then came suddenly, jets of hot spunk splattering inside my mouth.  It tasted great, really great.  No, I mean really, really great.  You’ve no idea.  I began to think I could develop a taste for old men’s sperm.

“Now, that’s better.  I’m pleased to see you can be a good boy.  But I’m warning you, any more nonsense and you’ll be feeling this!”  With that he slapped a brown leather spanking strap down on his desk, right before my eyes.

“Shit!” I exclaimed.

“More like shit hot!  Bespoke, made especially for me by my good saddler friend down the road.  You wouldn’t believe how much it hurts!  He’s bi too, by the way.  And a regular down the sauna.”

I wondered whether his saddler friend was the one who had tipped him off about my frequent trips to the sauna. In truth, I was becoming rather addicted to the anonymous casual sex on offer there.  I then wondered whether my colleague Robbie had felt Mr. Smith’s hand in anger, or even that leather strap?  I rather thought he had, as that would have explained the wink.  But I wondered if he’d ever sucked the boss’s cock?  I hoped not as I felt Mr. Smith had taken rather a shine to me, all of a sudden.  I had one final thought.  Maybe a pay rise could be on the cards?

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Story © MMXVI by Rod Cayenne

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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Comments welcome

The Vicar Was A Cunt (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Brand spanking new fiction by your host, Rod Cayenne. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly, strictly adults only!

The village had grown and grown, I guess you’d say. Some really old thatched cottages lined London Road, while a fair few council houses were added post-war, principally in an area know as The Paddocks. It was in one of those generously-sized new red brick homes that Mum and I lived. Father had run off with another woman soon after I was born, but fortunately our tenancy had already been secured.

Mother was quite religious and gradually fell under the spell of our shadowy vicar, Reverend Tony Swindenholme-Janes. The vicarage was adjacent to the imposing Gothic church of St. Bede. The vicar was a grey-haired, bespectacled old fellow. He’d started as a teacher, but the calling of the cloth caused a change in career later in life. Mother apparently let him know that I was aiming for a degree at the local Polytechnic, and such aspiration was quite a rarity among The Paddocks community.

The vicar and my mother had hatched a plan between them, or so I was led to believe. To get my A level grades, and to achieve my place on the degree course I would need some old-fashioned encouragement. I was to report to the vicar every month, on or about the first of the month. He would review my school-work and assess it. If he felt it wasn’t up to standard, then corporal punishment would be applied. I was appalled! They had the cane at school, but it was very rarely used and I had managed to escape it with ease.

The first time I went to see him was with my mum. He reviewed my school work, thumbing through my essays and noting my teachers’ comments. He then moved on to my most recent school report. He shook his head several times, tutting annoyingly and he whistled with disbelief at one point. It was a good act he put on, he really should have been on the stage! Of course the conclusion was inevitable. He and mum decided that more effort was needed, and that I was deliberately coasting. Punishment was inevitable. He pulled open a drawer and extracted a vicious-looking brown leather strap. He nodded to my mother who made herself scarce. In fact, she went home via the corner shop, gossiping to elderly proprietor Mr. Arnold about my failings and the solution she had found.

“Ten strokes of the strap, young Michael,” the vicar announced, “To help motivate you with your studies. This is a tariff I have agreed with your mother. You may keep your trousers on, but if we have to do this again, they will be coming down; right down. Is that clear?”

Shit, I didn’t fancy that at all. But I couldn’t argue. I was outvoted, and they were right, no doubt. I had been slacking, or coasting as he had called it. There was a real risk that I would not get the grades I needed.

The strap lashed down. I was bent over his desk in the study of the vicarage. The crack was phenomenal, and the pain on my left flank was a real shock. He whacked the next stroke down. It landed firmly on my right buttock, jolting me and making me gasp. Indeed, each and every one of those ten strokes caused me to gasp, yelp or cry out. It was such a humiliation. I was fighting back tears, with limited success, by the time the tenth and last whack crashed down. My arse was alight, I was beaten and in some kind of shock. How could a religious man be so cruel, I asked myself.

Later, back in my room at home, I nursed the tender teenage flesh of my bottom. I’d found some hand cream of mum’s and applied a generous layer all over the inflamed areas. It seemed to help that night, but I couldn’t repeat it as mother might not have approved of my nicking her cream to ameliorate the effects of the punishment she had initiated. I didn’t dare risk upsetting her or that damned vicar.

Later that same night, I had to masturbate myself off to sleep. It was the only way I could process the pain and the shame of the events of the day. I did manage to cum, and was duly relieved. I was careful not to spill my seed onto my striped pyjamas, as again I didn’t want to incur mum’s wrath, or that of the vicar, for masturbation was undoubtedly a sin back in those days. Fortunately, I had “borrowed” a few sheets of toilet roll to mop up my warm sperm. Come the morning I found I had to do it again. In fact, as it was a bank holiday weekend, there was an awful lot of wanking to be done!

I came to the conclusion that the vicar was a cunt. A total cunt, if you ask me. Which you probably weren’t going to do! I immediately hated his guts, but I wanted to keep Mum happy, and I did want to get to Polytechnic, so I suppose I couldn’t begrudge the extra motivation, however unpleasant it was. Unfortunately, the ante was soon upped. The proposal for monthly assessments was abandoned in favour of a fortnightly review. This was bad news as I always ended up being thrashed, meaning my bottom was sore, bruised and tender for most of the start of my eighteenth year. The trousers had started coming down, and then the underpants, and the strap was quickly replaced by the cane. He had learnt to cane hard and to cane well while he was a teacher, so he was a real expert. The cane on bare flesh was almost impossible to take. Somehow I managed it though. I wouldn’t say I built a tolerance for it, but I was reluctant to show him how much it hurt. I made a point of not telling mum about my thrashings, but I had a feeling the vicar did tell her about them, and in lurid detail. As far as I was concerned, I had to learn how to hide my feelings, and I had to learn how to study hard.

With time, I found a strange excitement in my canings. I still hated them, but made the best of a bad situation by mooning the vicar quite flagrantly as I prepared for a beating, and made a point of sticking my bottom out to meet the stick each time it prepared to lash me. After a caning I would rush home to masturbate, even if mum was around. It was a simple job to lock my bedroom door, drop my pants, feel the weals and pump my penis. Mum didn’t seem to notice the vast amounts of peach-coloured toilet tissue I was getting through!

It was the time he caned me in church, rather than in the vicarage, that upset me most. I’d failed to make the grades I needed! I would have to stay on at school until Christmas to do my re-sits! It didn’t seem right to bare my arse in the holy, sacred surroundings of St. Bede’s. Although in another way, it did. Perhaps it was like a holy penance? Anyway, that day I got a full twelve strokes on the bare, bent over a wooden pew. At first, I thought he’d lost count as six or eight was the usual tariff but then I realised the horrific truth as the rattan continued to bite and slice into my flesh. Perhaps doing it in the church brought out the worst of the sadist in him?

Anyway, it was my belief that the vicar got his rocks off beating me and a few other lads with misguided, over-trusting parents. Most paid him visits to atone for misbehaviour, but with me it was laziness and lack of motivation that resulted in literally dozens of canings, which continued even after I started my studies at Polytechnic. I couldn’t tell whether he had an erection hidden by his black robes and his paunch when he caned me, but I assume that he did. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? Yes, the vicar was a cunt, but I suppose in a funny way he did help me get where I wanted to be.

EPILOGUE

It was in 2002, some thirty years later, that I suddenly fancied going to see the “old cunt” again. I tracked him down to a bungalow in the village. At almost 80, he was delighted to hear from me, and as I skirted around the subject, he mentioned that he still had a couple of canes and his old leather motivator. I got to feel them used in anger again, on several occasions. OK, so he wasn’t as angry as when I was a teenager, or my bare arse was far more resilient than it used to be! Either way it hurt, but we were both bachelors and there was pleasure to be taken. My cock responded well every time I visited. I also used to suck the vicar’s penis for him. He seemed to like that. I even got to share his bed. Whatever would my dear old mum have made of all of that?

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are over 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Story © MMXVIII by Rod Cayenne.  All rights reserved.

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Comments welcome, please use the link at the top of the story