♥ Site recommended story ♥
Brand spanking new fiction by very special guest author JOELSTRAP. This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are 18 or older. WARNING: ADULTS ONLY!
A Cane To Treasure by Joelstrap
“Great! A treasure-hunt’s always good fun,” enthused Joe. “We can take my car.”
“Not if we want to complete it before midnight,” objected Dale.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that your old jalopy’s so slow it couldn’t pass a tractor towing a trailer-load of hay uphill,” retorted Dale scornfully.
“And your old banger couldn’t pass water!” snapped Joe angrily.
“Let’s toss for it,” suggested Dale; which they duly did and Joe won.
He stopped himself from making any further derogatory comments about his friend’s car, and the pair went off to get ready.
There were around thirty cars gathered just before two o’clock that Saturday afternoon at the parking-area beside the football-ground. The majority of the competitors were middle-aged or older and only about half a dozen were in their late teens or twenties. At eighteen, Joe and Dale were the youngest there. Dale looked round.
“We’ll lick this lot no bother,” he declared confidently. “Most of them are ancient; at least fifty.”
“They’ve got good cars though,” observed Joe.
“Yeh, but you’ve got to have sharp eyes and be able to move fast when it comes to finding things,” returned Dale. “Come on! Let’s get the information-sheet.”
The two boys duly signed in for the treasure-hunt and got a sheet of paper with the instructions. There was a route to follow and also several items to collect from wherever and whenever they could before they returned to the car-park. Joe was glancing down the list of things to be collected.
“Hmm. A banana; an oak-leaf; a Charles Dickens novel; a school-cane; an antimacassar; a……”
“Did you say a school-cane?” demanded Dale.
“Yeh. that’s what it says.”
“Where the hell are we supposed to get a bloody cane from?”
“A school?”
“Oh yeh! The cane was abolished twelve years ago, you dumbo.”
“You got a better idea?”
“Maybe you could give me a few strokes with a garden-cane and I could show them the marks on my bum.”
“How’s that gonna help? It’s an actual cane we need to get, not your caned arse!”
“All right, guys! Time to start,” called the organiser. “Remember, it’s not a race, so no speeding. You’ll get round the course in about an hour, if you don’t get lost, and will need some time to find your items. You’ve got until 4.30; that’s two and a half hours. Off you go.”
Joe and Dale leapt into Joe’s car and set off in the wake of a large family saloon which accelerated swiftly away from them.
“Ruddy show-offs,” grumbled Joe. “Just because they’ve got twice the horsepower we’ve got.”
“And ten times the money,” added Dale. “But we’ll show them yet.”
The combination of Joe’s driving and Dale’s skilled map-reading, along with his quick eyes when it came to spotting and counting telegraph-poles and Z-bend signs along some stretches of the road, meant that they completed the circle without needing to stop except once to collect an oak-leaf from a tree as they passed by. They overtook several of the cars of the older competitors, their occupants puzzling over maps or arguing about the number of poles by the roadside. Dale gave them all a cheery wave as they sailed by. He had a distinct impression that at least some of the answering hand-signals may have been less than polite.
“Okay,” said Joe, “now if we go to my house we can get some of the other things. What’s an antima-whatsit?”
Dale shook his head. “Dunno,” he admitted. “We’ll look up a dictionary at your place.”
While Joe rushed around gathering up a banana, a Dickens novel and a small flower-pot, Dale discovered what an antimacassar was.
“It’s one of these little cloth things you see on the back of armchairs and sofas. Seems in the old days when guys used to put macassar-oil on their hair, it left a mark on the back of the chairs; so the antimacassar was to protect them.”
“We haven’t got any of them,” said Joe, looking perplexed. “I don’t think dad’s Trugel leaves a mark.”
“It’s okay,” declared Dale. “My gran’s got them. We’ll go round there. I never knew that’s what they were called.”
“You sure she’ll let us borrow one?”
“Oh yeh. I just need to give her a big, sexy grin and she’ll do anything I want.”
Joe rolled his eyes and headed out to his car. Twenty minutes later they had an antimacassar and were sitting pondering the only item left to get: a school-cane.
“I don’t suppose your dad has a cane for beating you at home?” he asked Dale.
“Nuh. He just takes his belt to my arse. Bloody sore it is too. I told him I was too old for getting my tail leathered about a month ago; but he said that as long as I was living under his roof I’d take his discipline; and I wasn’t so perfect that I didn’t need a good tanning now and again. Flaming cheek! I bet some of these old sods with the expensive cars know a teacher who still has a cane, and can get their hands on one that way.”
“Shit! You’re brilliant, mate!” said Joe. “I do know where we could get one.”
Dale stared at him. “Well, come on; tell me!” he demanded.
“Remember old Snuffleneb, the history-master?”
“Yeh. Boys called him that because he was always sniffing like he had a permanent cold. Mr. Grainger; a right bastard! Gave me a hundred and fifty lines once for speaking in class. Talk about over the top. But he retired three years ago.”
“He lives in the next street to us and his house backs on to ours. I’ve climbed the fence between our back-gardens once or twice to get my football back,” said Joe.
“So what? You think we should go and ring his bell and ask if he still has his cane? He’d probably order us in, tell us to bend over and give us six of the best each!”
“No, you idiot! I was thinking maybe we could sneak in and snaffle it for a couple of hours.”
“Oh yeh? Suppose he caught us? He’d probably give us sixty of the cane, not six!”
“Would you quit worrying? I know there’s a key for the back door under that big flower-pot beside the greenhouse, because I’ve seen old Mrs Shilpit next door to him getting it so she can put a parcel in when the postman left it. You stay here. I’ll dash over and get the cane.”
“What if he’s at home? You’ll get the cane alright!”
“His car’s not in the driveway. He’s not at home.”
“Suppose you can’t find it?”
“I know where it is.”
“How do you know that?” enquired Dale curiously.
Joe looked slightly embarrassed.
“A few weeks ago my football went over the fence and actually went through the open window of his kitchen. So I had to knock at the door and he took me in and pulled open the door of the coat-cupboard in his hall; and he had his cane hanging on the rail, hidden by a big overcoat. He told me if my ball came on his property again, he’d cane me. So I know where it’s kept, okay?”
“Okay; but your arse is gonna be toast if…..”
Joe rolled his eyes, vaulted the fence, and ran swiftly to pick up the key before vanishing into the house while Dale watched uneasily. Barely three minutes later Joe re-emerged and was soon back in his own room with Dale, looking at the cane.
“Shit! I never held one of these bastards before,” gasped Dale. “See how pliant and springy it is? No wonder they say it used to hurt like the fires of hell.”
“Yeh; well never mind that now. We need to get back to the finish and see if we’ve won that treasure-hunt. Forty pounds is the first prize. Think what we could do with twenty quid each? Boy! we’d be bloody rich!”
Joe slid the cane down the leg of his jeans and the two boys made their way out to the car and back to the car-park by the football ground. Other cars were arriving and one or two were there already. Joe and Dale went up to the organisers’ table and handed over their answers to the questions and the small collection of items they’d had to gather.
“All correct, lads!” declared the man checking their answers. “Now, have you got all the things? Yup. Even the cane. We thought that would be a tough one.”
“No,” said a voice behind them, “not for this young delinquent, who purloined it from my house half an hour ago!”
Both boys spun round to look into the grim eyes of Snuffleneb.
“Oh,” said Joe.
“Ah,” said Dale.
“I thought you were out,” stammered Joe. “Your car wasn’t there.”
“And that makes it okay to enter my home and steal one of my possessions?”
“I just borrowed it! I was gonna return it.”
“As it happens,” said Snuffleneb, “A friend and I were doing the treasure-hunt and I’d stopped my car in the street and come into the house to fetch my cane, when I saw young Joe here scampering out through the back-door with it. Since I’d noticed him and his pal at the treasure-hunt, I drew the correct conclusion and here I am, without the requisite cane because it’s been stolen.”
Reluctantly Joe handed over the cane, giving Dale a helpless glance as he did so, and as the prospect of the forty pounds vanished like the morning mist. Snuffleneb took it and handed it, along with his other items and his answers, to the organiser. A minute or two later the organiser said, “Well done, sir. All questions correct. All the items are of course here, including the cane; but if anyone else has all the questions correct and all the items, we’ll have to put the names in a hat and draw for the winner of the forty pounds.”
Other contestants began to approach the table, and Snuffleneb and the two boys stepped back to wait. Joe approached the retired master diffidently.
“What…what are you planning to do about me borrowing your cane, sir?” he enquired.
“Theft is a serious matter. I should think the police need to be informed.”
“But, sir! I only borrowed it! You know me. You know I’m not a thief.”
“I’ll admit I always thought you weren’t; but perhaps I was wrong,” said Snuffleneb coldly.
One of the organisers approached them.
“All the results are in,” he said. “It seems that telegraph-pole down off the road caught out everyone except you, Mr Grainger, and our sharp-eyed youngsters here,” he said. “You’re the only ones who got all the questions correct; but of course whoever doesn’t have the cane, doesn’t have all the items and so,” he continued, giving the boys a sympathetic glance, “you are the winner, Mr Grainger.”
Snuffleneb smiled; a slow smile which crept across his face like the sun spreading across the landscape as a cloud disperses. Dale and Joe swallowed, and extended their hands to congratulate him, mustering as much sportsmanship as they could.
“Give us a moment,” Grainger said to the organiser, and took the boys aside.
“You pair want that forty pounds, don’t you?” he asked, and the two nodded.
“Right. You did bring the cane here, and so you had all the questions right and all the items, so I’ll give you back the cane so that you can claim the prize. But,” he continued, “you, Joe, will have to pay the penalty for entering my house illicitly and taking something without asking permission. I’m sure you can think what that penalty will be?”
“You’re going to cane me?”
“Very hard,” said Snuffleneb.
Joe gulped.
“If you don’t agree to accept a caning from me, then I keep the cane and I win the money. It’s your choice.”
“I should get caned too,” whispered Dale, but Joe shook his head energetically.
“No way! I was the one who took the blasted cane. Look! We want that cash and we’re gonna have it. I dunno what a caning feels like, but it can’t be that bad. I’m eighteen after all. If kids of twelve could take it in the old days, surely I can.”
He turned to Snuffleneb who was dabbing at the perpetual drip which hung from the end of his prominent nose.
“Okay, I know I was wrong to take the cane and I’ll take my punishment,” he said firmly.
Snuffleneb smiled and handed him the cane which he in turn handed to the organiser, who then announced Joe and Dale as the winners of the treasure-hunt.
“My house in half an hour, Joe,” said Snuffleneb as he strode towards his car, carrying his cane which he’d retrieved from the organiser.
“Yes, sir,” replied Joe dismally.
The two boys returned to Joe’s house and then Joe left Dale to wait in his bedroom while he went over to Snuffleneb’s home. He was admitted and taken to a small study at the rear of the house. On the desk lay the cane. Snuffleneb picked it up and showed it to Joe who eyed it warily.
“Think it will hurt?” he enquired in a conversational tone.
“I guess so,” Joe replied, “but since I’ve never been caned before, I don’t know.”
“You’ll soon know,” said Snuffleneb with a smile which Joe found alarming. “Jeans and pants down, boy!”
“What!?”
“Your jeans are the blue trouser-like items of clothing you’re wearing on the outside. Your pants are whatever you’re wearing underneath them,” elucidated Snuffleneb.
Joe raised his eyes briefly to the ceiling and, “Yes, sir. I meant that you can’t be going to cane me on my bare bottom.”
“Oh, I can; and I will. Now, get them down. The longer you make me wait, the more you’ll get.”
Joe stared disbelievingly for a moment and then slowly unbuckled his belt before pushing his denims down to his ankles. He put his hands on the waistband of his underpants and then hesitated.
“Down!” commanded Snuffleneb; and Joe complied with obvious reluctance, horrified to find that his penis was rising.
He placed both hands across his genitals and looked helplessly at Snuffleneb, who nodded at a chair.
“Over,” he said tersely. “Hands on the seat and keep them there.”
Joe obeyed, relieved that his erection was no longer visible; not least because it was now at full extent as he waited with an unexpected mixture of anxiety and excitement for the caning to commence. He felt the slim rod being laid across his bare buttocks, the few taps of the cane as Snuffleneb found his range, and then there was a long moment of expectancy as the cane was raised and brought down hard and accurately across the centre of Joe’s behind. A lash of fire seemed to whip fiercely in a slender line along his bottom and he gasped aloud, clenching his buttocks as he processed the sting. Barely had he readied himself when the cane slashed his rump again, slightly lower, delivering another blast of pain which elicited a grunt as his head came up and his lower body shuddered.
Snuffleneb did a practice-stroke and smiled to himself as Joe winced hard at the sound, his body tensing for the sting which didn’t come. A few seconds later it came with a searing burn which felt to Joe as if a red-hot wire was being ripped through his lower bottom. He uttered a squeal and his right hand flew round to scrub desperately at his flaming skin.
“I told you to keep your hands on the chair,” said Snuffleneb softly. “You’re getting that stroke again. You will do as you are told. Do you understand, boy?”
“Yes, sir,” gasped a horrified Joe.
Snuffleneb hit him with the cane again, the stroke cross-hatching two of the earlier ones and detonating a violent explosion of pain which had Joe writhing from the hips as he fought to keep his hands on the chair. Snuffleneb surveyed him, relishing the sight of the boy’s welt-marked buttocks, quivering body, and white-knuckle holding of the seat.
“Yes,” observed Snuffleneb quietly, “I think I’m starting to get through to you. That was the penalty stroke. Next one is number four.”
Even as he spoke, he wielded the cane again and inflicted a fresh stripe low on Joe’s rear. The boy yelped and bucked and twisted his body as he fought the pain. Snuffleneb stroked the throbbing bulge in the front of his trousers and rapped Joe’s bottom several times with his cane, savouring the way the youth flinched nervously each time. He raised the cane and hit him hard. Full on the crease the punitive rod landed, driven viciously deep into the sensitive flesh, and forcing a howl of agony from Joe. The chair rocked dangerously as he forced himself to keep his hands clamped firmly to the seat. Snuffleneb listened to his panting and watched with delight the repeated tensing and relaxing of his gluteal-muscles. He made Joe wait for the last one, observing him closely and enjoying the tension in the youngster’s body as he tried to ready himself for the pain to come. Snuffleneb aimed at a slight angle across two earlier welts and managed to raise Joe’s experience of pain substantially. A violent squirming, accompanied by a desperate squeal which tapered into noisy panting on Joe’s part, was so exciting for Snuffleneb that he had to fight the urge to lay into the boy’s behind again.
“Stand up, hands on your head and don’t touch your bottom,” ordered Snuffleneb, and Joe obeyed slowly, forcing himself to resist the desire to caress his battered rear.
Snuffleneb admired the taut buttocks and the series of fiery welts which he’d laid across them. He had missed using the cane so much in the twelve years since its abolition; but he was delighted to see that he hadn’t lost his skill.
“Turn round.”
Joe turned slowly and Snuffleneb observed that his penis was semi-hard and rising.
“You took that very well,” he said. “It was a tough caning for a boy who’s never been caned before. What did you think?”
“I never thought it would hurt as much as that,” Joe confessed. “The fire just seemed to blaze across my bum with every stroke; and when you hit me low down, oh hell! That was horrendous.”
“And yet you’re partly aroused and growing harder by the moment,” observed Snuffleneb, while Joe flushed bright red to the roots of his hair. “You can put your hands behind you now.”
“I don’t know why that’s happening,” Joe admitted, placing his hands carefully on his flaming rump. “It’s kind of embarrassing.”
“You’re not the only one to get hard,” said Snuffleneb mildly.
Joe stared and then glanced down and then back at the man’s face.
“You liked caning my arse?”
“Definitely. It’s a superb bottom for the cane; and you can take it. Of course I liked it; and I’d like to do it again before too long.”
“You mean if I do something wrong again?”
“No.”
Joe scrubbed at his bottom and looked at his feet for several long seconds as his penis reached maximum length. He glanced at Snuffleneb from beneath his brows.
“You want to beat me just for the hell of it?” he enquired tentatively.
“Only if you want to be beaten.”
Joe continued to explore the marks on his rear for almost a minute before he looked into Snuffleneb’s face.
“I think,” he said quietly, “that I might want that. I know it sounds a bit out there, but it was exciting even though it hurt so much; and I feel really good now, as you can see,” he ended, nodding at his towering erection.
“Right; let’s say ten o’clock on Saturday morning,” said Snuffleneb. “It won’t be a punishment-caning, so there will be a lot more strokes, and most of them won’t be as hard as today’s ones.”
“Most of them?”
“You’ll need a few real stingers,” said Snuffleneb. “I wouldn’t want to make it too easy for you.”
Joe’s penis strained for an extra millimetre of length.
“Is that friend of yours waiting in your house?”
Joe nodded.
“Then I think you might find that he can help you with that,” said Snuffleneb, pointing with his cane towards Joe’s massive boner. “Get your jeans and pants up and off you go.”
Joe complied and then eyed the cane for a few seconds.
“I thought,” he said slowly, “when I went on the treasure-hunt, that the treasure I’d find would be the prize-money. I never imagined it would be a ruddy cane that was going to lash my bare arse!”
“I always treasured my cane,” said Snuffleneb, with a smile. “It gave me so much pleasure; but treasures shared are treasures massively increased, and I think you are going to learn to treasure this cane as much as I do; but for a different reason!”
“I’ll see you on Saturday morning,” said Joe as he made for the door.
“And if you’re late you’ll get four very hard on the bare to start off,” threatened Snuffleneb. “Are you going to be late?”
Joe gave him an impudent grin.
“Yes, sir!” he said.
And he was.
