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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.
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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 or businesses, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Story © MMXVIII by Rod Cayenne. All rights reserved.
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