Taken At The Flood (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A hot new caning story by very special guest author JOELSTRAP.  This story is currently exclusive to The Canery!  All the characters are 18 or older. WARNING: ADULTS ONLY!

 

Taken At The Flood by Joelstrap

“Hey! What’s that?” demanded Dave as I started to pull on my jeans in the changing room.

“What?”

“That red mark on your bum.”

I twisted round and, sure enough, I could just see the edge of a slim red mark on my skin, protruding from under my briefs.

“Er, well, actually it’s a cane-welt,” I admitted as I hastily hauled my denims right up and began to buckle my belt.

“How the hell did you get a cane-welt?” Dave asked, wide-eyed.

“I got caned.”

“But….but…you couldn’t have.”

“I did. Bloody sore it was too.”

“I guess it would be,” replied Dave, “but who would cane you? Why?”

“Come on. Let’s go to the cafe and I’ll tell you.”

Sitting with coffee and biscuits in front of us, Dave looked me straight in the eyes.

“Okay, mate,” said Dave, “I’m listening. How in the name of all that’s hairy did you get your arse caned?”

I told him.

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

It all started the day after the flood. The river was still very high and, although it had retreated from the fields, brown waters were surging down at high speed, bearing a sprinkling of branches, trees, gates and other debris. I made my way a short distance downstream to a place where there was a slight indentation in the bank, causing water to swirl round as if in a pool on the edge of the main river. I watched the water for a while, glancing occasionally up towards the river-path above me. Except for an elderly man striding along, swinging his walking-stick, there was nobody else in sight.

I watched the cane, which was floating in circles in the relatively calm water of the tiny bay, and then took hold of the trunk of a small tree and reached out and lifted it from the water.

I’d heard of the cane of course. It had only been abolished the year before I started school; and I’d seen it in use in films and on TV. I ran a finger along its lissom length and then bent it into a smooth arc. I slashed it down hard and the air whined. I gave a low whistle as I registered its potential to hurt.

“Aye; you’d feel that if it was used hard across your behind, Paul,” said a voice.

I jumped, and whirled round to see the old guy whom I’d observed on the path above me. I recognised him as Mr. Chisholm who had lived a few doors away from me, in a neat bungalow, ever since he’d moved in a year or so ago. He was watching me closely.

“Yeh, I suppose I would,” I replied. “I wonder how it came to be in the river,” I mused aloud, trying to turn the conversation away from myself.

Mr. Chisholm shrugged.

“It’s surprising what can end up in a river when it’s in spate,” he said. “I used to use the cane when I was a teacher.”

I stared at him.

“You actually beat boys with a cane like this one? Did they….did they writhe a lot?”

“Some of them did,” he replied. “Some could take it well and didn’t move much. Others yelped a bit; and some took it in silence.”

“Wow! Did they get it on their bare bottom?” I asked.

He shook his head and said, “No. Always on their shorts or trousers. It still hurt plenty though.”

“Yeh. I wonder what it feels like,” I mused aloud as I arched the rod and then whipped it through the air. “Boy! I bet that would sting!”

“It certainly would,” Chisholm confirmed.

“I suppose I’m lucky I’ve got to eighteen and never been caned,” I admitted. “There wasn’t any cane when I was at school.”

“What are you planning to do with it?” he enquired.

“Just keep it. It’s a kind of interesting thing. A bit of history. When I saw it, I thought it’d be a curious thing to have, so I got it out of the water.”

“Taken at the flood, eh Paul? Well, I’m a believer in taking chances in life when they offer. Anyway, I’m going to continue with my walk. See and don’t fall in.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful,” I assured him.

As he made off down the river-path, I got out my camera and took several photographs of the turbulent waters; and then I picked up the cane and headed home. When I reached the houses on the edge of town, I felt a bit self-conscious about carrying the cane and so I slid it down inside the leg of my jeans, the handle hooked over my belt but hidden by my anorak. It made walking a little awkward and slowed me down a lot, but it avoided possibly embarrassing encounters with people who knew me. I didn’t want more curious questions.

Back home, I took the cane to my room and wondered about how many boys’ bottoms it had been used to beat; and inevitably I also found myself wondering again just what it felt like to have a cane used on you. I lay on my bed and gazed at it as I fantasised about being thrashed; and brought myself to a thunderous climax. After that, I placed it on top of a line of books on a shelf opposite my bed where I could see it as I played with myself.

It was about three weeks later that I was cycling along the road near my home. It had been raining and the surface was slippery. I mounted the pavement to avoid the traffic-lights at the junction and as I swung round the corner I veered wildly off course and through a gateway, and then ploughed my way to a halt in a bed of chrysanthemums. It was old Chisholm’s house and it was his flowers which I had seriously damaged as I careered to an ignominious halt. I stumbled out of the flower-bed, propped my bike against the house-wall and rang the door-bell.

“Paul! What on earth happened to you?” he exclaimed, seeing my dishevelled and muddy appearance.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Chisholm. I lost control of my bike and came straight through your gates and then across your flower-bed before I could stop. I’m afraid I’ve made rather a mess of it, but I’ll try to put it right. I’m really sorry.”

“You’d better come in and get yourself cleaned up,” he said. “You’re covered in mud.”

“Thanks,” I said as he ushered me into the bathroom and left me to tidy myself up.

When I emerged I found him drinking coffee at the kitchen-table. He offered me a mug which I gladly accepted.

“I had a look at the damage,” he said, “but I don’t understand how you came into my garden.”

I felt myself turning a little red in the face.

“Er, well, I think you’ve maybe guessed already that if I’d been on the road I wouldn’t have ended up in your garden.”

He raised one eyebrow.

“I was riding on the pavement to avoid the traffic-lights,” I confessed.

“Which is definitely not allowed,” observed Chisholm. “Is it, Paul?”

“No,” I conceded. “You won’t tell my dad, will you? He’d confiscate my bike for months. I may be at college, but I’ve got to stick to his rules as long as I’m living at home. I’ll tidy up your flower-bed and I’ll buy some new plants too.”

“The flower-bed can be put right easily enough and I’ve got plenty of chrysanthemums,” he said. “But riding on the pavement is dangerous and inconsiderate. There’s a corner after all; and you could have knocked someone down. I think you need to be taught a lesson so that you don’t behave so irresponsibly again. Your father does need to know about this, Paul.”

“Aw, please, Mr. Chisholm! Suppose I come in for the next three Saturdays and work in your garden for you?” I pleaded.

He took a slow drink from his coffee-mug, laid it down and looked me in the eyes.

“Have you still got that cane that you fished out of the river a few weeks back?”

“Er, yes. It’s lying on top of a bookshelf in my room. Why?”

“Maybe it’s time it was put back to use,” he said, watching me closely.

“Back to use? You mean as a cane? For beating someone? Me?”

He nodded slowly.

“You’re offering to cane me to punish me for riding on the pavement?” I asked, struggling to be absolutely clear.

“That’s right. Then the matter would be dealt with and I wouldn’t need to inform your father.”

I took a long swallow of my coffee.

“Would you do it now,” I asked, “if I go and fetch the cane?”

“If you’re sure that’s what you want, Paul.”

“Well, I’m not sure that I want it; but if I don’t want my dad to know, I guess it’s what I’m gonna get.”

“You understand that I’ll cane you properly, don’t you? You’ll feel it.”

“Yes, I know. There wouldn’t be much point if I didn’t.”

“Right. Off you go and bring the cane back here.”

I gulped down the last of my coffee and trotted up the road to my own home. With the cane once again hidden down the leg of my jeans, I returned more slowly to Chisholm’s house. He took the cane from me, bent it into a smooth arc and told me I would be getting six of the best. He then conducted me into a small study.

“Jeans and pants down, Paul,” he instructed brusquely.

“You…you’re going to cane my bare bottom?” I asked nervously.

“I want you to feel it.”

“I think I’d feel it through my jeans,” I said.

“You would; but not enough. Get them down, Paul. Now!”

Obediently I bared my behind, dropping jeans and pants to my ankles and keeping my back to him. I was semi-aroused and didn’t want him to see. He ordered me to bend over the leather-topped desk, grasping the far edge with both hands, and spreading my legs wide. I felt decidedly vulnerable, but my cock was still hardening. I flinched as he did a vicious practice-swing just behind me and the cane whistled through the air. A few seconds later I was aware of its cool length lying lightly across the centre of my buttocks. I tensed anxiously.

There was an expectant pause and then I’d barely registered the sound of the rod descending fast towards my rump when it landed with a fierce lash of fire which felt as if it was scything its way deep into my flesh. I drew in breath sharply and clenched my gluteal-muscles as I struggled with the sting. I’d expected it to hurt, but not as much as this. He was rapping the cane gently on my skin again, a little lower down, and I took a tighter grip of the edge of the desk as I readied myself. I heard the whine and then felt the lightning-streak of pain as the cane etched a second blazing welt across my seat. I squirmed as I fought the burn in my flesh, and blinked as I became aware of tears forming in my eyes.

He wielded the cane a third time and it felt as if it landed right on top of the previous stroke. I squealed and writhed as a searing blast blazed a fiery furrow across my bottom.

“Are you feeling it, Paul?” enquired Chisholm.

“What do you think?” I retorted sarcastically.

The cane whipped viciously hard across my crease and I leapt upright, scrubbing desperately at the savaged flesh.

“That was for being insolent,” observed Chisholm. “Get back in position for number four.”

“But you’ve given me four,” I pleaded as I bent over again.

“I told you. That last one was a penalty-stroke for your insolence. It doesn’t count towards the six. Would you like to argue about it, Paul?” he enquired softly.

I got the message.

“No, sir,” I replied submissively.

“Good; and to return to my original question, are you feeling it, Paul?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You do understand that you’re going to feel it a lot more, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

He drove the cane in hard a couple of centimetres above the penalty-stroke and forced a yelp of agony from me as I twisted from the waist. Pain throbbed insistently in my behind and I failed to quite still the quiver in my gluteal-muscles. I struggled to tense myself in readiness for the next cut, but he was there before me and I uttered a desperate squeal as that tender area where bottom merged into legs absorbed another fire-blast of infernal heat. Panting with the effort to process the pain, aware that tears were trickling down my face, and making a supreme effort to steady my shuddering body, I tried to concentrate on the fact that this was the final stroke coming up. He slashed the cane viciously through the air so close to my behind that I felt as well as heard the sound of its passage. I flinched hard with fright.

Inside me, resolve hardened. Yes, it was a lot worse than I’d expected; but I’d taken all he’d given me and he wasn’t going to break me completely. Suddenly it seemed vital that I show that it wasn’t all a matter of something being done to me. I took a deep breath and purposefully pushed out my buttocks, inviting the last stroke. Chisholm accepted the invitation and as the cane sliced across several of the earlier welts, powerfully driven into my bottom at an angle, I closed my teeth on the desk’s edge and writhed in silent torment for several seconds until the raging inferno in my rump abated.

For a time there was silence and then Chisholm ruffled my hair.

“Well taken,” he remarked.

“Thank you,” I responded politely.

“Stand up, Paul.”

I did so slowly and faced him, scrubbing carefully at my buttocks. Determinedly, my penis began to harden again and to rise.

“What have you learned, Paul?”

“Not to ride on the pavement to avoid the traffic-lights.”

“And what will happen if I catch you doing that again?”

“You’ll cane me again?” I suggested, observing that my penis had passed the horizontal and was rising with increasing rapidity.

“And how do you think I will cane you, Paul?”

“Harder?”

“Exactly. Do you think you can remember that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Get your clothes back on.”

I hauled up my pants and jeans, wincing as the fabric rubbed my tender flesh, and then stood and waited. He handed me back my cane and sent me home. Walking slowly with the cane down the leg of my denims was no problem this time. I was walking slowly anyway to minimise the friction between my pants and my skin.

Back in my own room, I stripped, lay on my bed, and brought myself to the most earth-shattering climax I’d ever experienced. So intense was the orgasmic delight that for a few seconds the whole room whirled round and round and I thought that I was going to lose consciousness.

Over the next fortnight, I observed Chisholm’s movements with care. He was a man of habit and I came to know that he left his house to walk down for his morning-newspaper at 8.20 each day. The walk took seven minutes. He spent on average a couple of minutes in the shop and before 8.30 he was on his way back, usually reaching the corner with the traffic-lights at 8.34. I could have set my watch by him.

It was a Saturday and I mounted my bicycle at 8.33 and pedalled fast towards the junction. As I approached it, I swerved across and on to the pavement, whizzing round the corner and leaving the vehicles on the road stopped at the lights. I came face-to face with Chisholm as he walked smartly home with his paper. I screeched to a halt. Chisholm looked at me for several seconds.

“You know what this means, don’t you, Paul?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, looking at my feet.

“Go and get the cane and come to my house in half an hour’s time.”

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

“But,” said Dave, an expression of bafflement on his face, “why the hell did you ride your bike on the pavement at the very time you knew Chisholm would probably be there? You’d think you wanted to be………….”

He stopped and stared hard at me.

“You did, didn’t you?” he accused. “You fucking well wanted him to cane you again!”

I nodded.

“But why?”

“I dunno. It hurts like hell, but it’s exciting; and when I get my rocks off afterwards, it’s out of this world. Honest, I never felt anything like it.”

“You’ll be going back for more?” enquired Dave.

“Yeh. I realised I’d got a great chance and you gotta take things at the flood. I’m not letting this chance slip away.”

“More carefully-timed bike rides on the pavement?”

“Er, no. We had a talk and agreed that to keep doing that was dangerous; so I’ve to go to him every Saturday morning for a maintenance-caning. Just to remind me to be a well-behaved and hard-working boy.”

“Shit! You’re weird; but you’re hell of a cute,” said Dave. “So how many welts have you actually got on that sexy arse of yours? Six?”

“Well, he actually gave me eight this time,” I admitted.

“When?” asked Dave.

“This morning.”

“Bloody hell! You must still be sore.”

“A bit tender,” I confessed, “but if a really sexy, spunky hunk was to lick the welts for me, I’m sure they’d soon feel much better.”

Dave’s eyes widened.

“You’re on,” he said eagerly. “I’ve always kinda liked the look of you and wondered if I could maybe get into your pants; but I never thought it would be this way.”

We finished our coffee and headed off towards Dave’s place, because he said his flatmate was away for the weekend. In his room we both stripped, and he caressed and kissed and licked my cane-welts until we were both so aroused that we couldn’t hold back any longer. Suddenly Dave took charge, slapped my bottom hard and told me to lie flat on my face, legs apart. I obeyed at once and he lay upon me, his breath hot and exciting on my neck, and took me hard and fast.

“Wow!” he panted as he lay, breathing hard, on my back, his nose nuzzling my ear, “that was awesome. You’re awesome.”

“So are you. You wanna do that to me every Saturday after I’ve had my caning from Chisholm?”

“Oh, yeh! Try and stop me,” he replied.

We rolled round to face each other and he worked expertly with his hands to bring me off before we lay and kissed intimately for a long time. In one of the interludes between bouts of kissing, Dave said, “Funny how chance works. If you hadn’t found that cane in the river and then skidded into old Chisholm’s garden and messed up his flower-bed, you’d never have got caned and discovered you wanted more; and then you wouldn’t have engineered that beating this morning and I’d never have seen the welts in the changing-room and we might never have got together.”

“Er, yeh.”

Dave looked at me for several seconds.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” he demanded.

I hesitated and he jumped in before I could reply.

“You deliberately messed up Chisholm’s garden, didn’t you?” he accused.

I grinned sheepishly and, “Yeh, I’m afraid I did,” I admitted. “So your theory about chance kinda falls down.”

“True; but it was still sheer chance finding a cane floating down on the flood-water.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Paul?”

I kissed him but he pushed me away and grabbed a handful of my hair, twisting my head to make me look him straight in the eyes. I looked back steadily and silently. With his other hand he grabbed my balls and squeezed firmly. I gasped. He raised his eyebrows and I was aware that the pressure of his hand on my testicles was slowly but steadily increasing.

“Okay. That wasn’t chance either. Please, let go of my balls!”

He released me and I caressed myself.

“That fucking hurt,” I said resentfully.

“So? Tell me!”

“I’d wanted to get a caning for ages. Don’t ask me why. I just did. I saw this cane in a little junk-shop in a back street a few weeks ago and bought it. I knew old Chisholm had been a teacher because when he moved in, I heard a friend of my dad’s saying that he’d actually taught him twenty years ago; and he said he’d caned him too, for playing truant one day. I thought maybe Chisholm might be my best chance of getting myself caned, but I had to make sure he knew I’d got a cane and had a certain interest in it; and then I had to create a situation where he had a chance to offer to cane me.

“He’s a guy of habit. He walks along the river at 1.30 every afternoon, as long as it’s not very bad weather. I waited until I saw him coming and then dropped the cane into a little pool where the river has gouged out a tiny bay in the bank. I was a bit economical with the truth when I was telling you about that part earlier,” I admitted. “I was pretty sure it would just whirl round and round there, because I’d tried with a stick a couple of times; but I attached a strong thread to it too, just in case. Then I let Chisholm see me pulling it from the water; and I’ve told you the rest.”

“You’re quite something when it comes to engineering what you want,” said Dave as he gazed admiringly at me. “I’m glad I noticed that cane-welt and we got together.”

“Yeh,” I admitted with a smile, “that was the hardest part of all. I had a hell of a job trying to get into positions where you’d notice.”

Dave stared at me for several seconds with uncomprehending eyes and then he burst out laughing.

“You cheeky, manipulative bugger! I’ll…..I’ll….”

“What? Spank me?”

“Now there’s an idea,” he said softly; and before I could do anything about it, he had turned me over his lap, bare bottom exposed to his hand.

“Hey! Not now! I’m still sore after this morning’s caning!” I protested.

“But you need it now and I wanna do it now,” he retorted. “Like you said yourself: you gotta take things at the flood.”

There and then, he spanked me hard. It was fantastic!

___________)

Story ©MMXX 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

The Man Behind The Cane (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A first repeat of this hot homoerotic fiction by Rod Cayenne…

WARNING ADULTS ONLY

Ah yes, the man behind the cane. What makes him tick? Why is he so driven? Why the cane in particular? Well now, he’s obsessed with my discipline, and it’s not as if I’m a bad young guy. Generally. You’d think I was too old for it at the ripe old age of 22, wouldn’t you? But, oh no! He’s quite adamant. I need keeping in line, and I need to be reminded of that regularly. It seems that these days, that’s at least once or twice a fortnight or so.

My Uncle George has taken me under his wing. I live in his town house, just a few minutes from the temptations of the city centre. He’s very strict, and I am forbidden more than an hour on the internet every day, and there’s no alcohol or chewing gum allowed in the house. And under no circumstances am I allowed to come home smelling of cigarettes or cigar smoke.

Uncle cuts a sleek, dapper figure, often dressed in shiny-buttoned blazer and chinos. His thinning mousey hair is Brylcreemed in a traditional parting, and one of many colourful, nay flamboyant silk cravats usually adorns his neck. Even if you didn’t know his background, there was definitely a nautical air to him.

We got on well at first, and I was happy to put up with his rules. The rent was reasonable, and the house was clean, warm and welcoming. But as I gradually began to rebel, I soon learnt that there was a distinctly cold and less welcoming part of the house. It was his study cum office, a rather old-fashioned room. There were bookcases lined with heavy and worthy tomes, while other shelves were graced by a veritable flotilla of model ships, and the walls were decorated with ancient maps and charts. There was an old oaken desk, and expensive, plush olive green leather buttoned seating. He would lean back in the swivel chair behind his desk lecturing me about my faults and oversights. I grew tired of this routine, gazing at my feet or ceiling until my frequent dressing-downs had finished. Then, one day, three years ago, he kind of lost it with me!

“Look at me when I’m talking to you James! I’ve had enough of your evasiveness!”

“Sorry, Uncle,” I replied, slightly worried that he was going to blow his top completely, “Very sorry!”

“Bringing vile pornography into my house is beyond the pale, young man!”

“I know. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, Uncle! I promise you.”

“It had better not! I know you lads like this sort of explicit filth, but it’s not what I expect to find lying around in my bathroom!”

“Sorry, Uncle. I should have remembered to take it with me when I’d finished in there.”

“Yes, no doubt about that. What if a visitor had found it? Yes, indeed you should have removed it. But I imagine your hangover didn’t help your memory or your judgement, did it?”

“No, Uncle. I must cut down on the drinking.”

“Indeed, you must!”

“Sorry.”

“Instead, I was left to find this filth defiling my bathroom. I hope you weren’t masturbating in there in the poop deck as it were?”

“Oh no, Uncle. Just flicking through it, my headache was too bad for anything else.”

“I’m not sure that I believe you!”

“Believe me, Uncle, please. I am sorry.”

“You’ve said you’re sorry so many times James, that I’m almost inclined to believe you.”

“Thank you, Uncle.”

“But I don’t! Listen to me lad! Such depravity! When I was on the ships, this sort of selfish behaviour would have resulted in a sound caning from one of the senior crew!”

“Really, Uncle? Ha, that’s barbaric!”

“Not so much, really my boy. I soon learnt to behave myself. A crew is only as strong as the weakest link you know.”

“I suppose so.”

“No suppose so about it, my boy! A jolly hard thrashing or two from the ship’s Chief Engineer soon sorted me out.”

“Gosh, I bet.”

“And it just so happens that I have two ship’s canes here!”

“Oh.”

With that, Uncle George placed two supple looking rattan rods on the gold inlaid and finely tooled leather desktop. One cane had a crook handle, the other was basically straight, though one end was slightly bent, perhaps through wear.

“There, they don’t look so barbaric, do they?”

“No, Uncle. But gosh, they must have hurt back in the day, though.”

“Yes they did. And they still can. Still plenty of life left in these beauties! Now, how about six of the best to make amends, James?”

My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe it! He was suggesting that he caned me! No way, was my immediate thought. But then almost as soon as that idea had gone, it was replaced by a bizarre fascination to find out what the cane was like. To see whether I could take it or not! I was also full of remorse for leaving the jizz mag in the bathroom. So it was that I soon found myself nodding silently and shamefully.

“That’s the spirit lad! Admirable! We’ll make a good crew member of you yet!”

Suddenly, I was worried again. Was this some strange re-enactment of his seafaring days I was indulging him with? Yes, it probably was.

The old seadog soon had me bending over the arm of one of the leather chairs in his study. My trousers were down to my knees, but he had allowed me to retain my modesty by still having my briefs on. He pushed me into position, and I dutifully stuck my bum out for him to do his worst. I soon felt the tap-tap of the cane as he lined it up against my blue underpants.

Crack! The cane lashed down on my arse for the very first time. The pain kicked in and it was overwhelming. I must have gasped or shouted or something. I can’t remember, but I was surprised at just how much I’d been hurt by the whippy stick fresh out of retirement!

Crack! A second punishing blow followed soon after. The intense heat and pain spread all over my bottom, merging with the blazing caress of the first stroke. I squealed. Oh boy! Did it ever hurt? And why on earth had I agreed to it?

“Learning your lesson, lad?” he suddenly asked as he swished the cane through the air a few times.

“Certainly Sir!” I replied, not knowing quite where the ‘Sir’ had suddenly come from.

Sir didn’t ease off as he laid the third stroke on. It was the worst yet, and despite myself I yelped. Then I heard him changing canes, I think. The fourth stroke landed in almost exactly the same place. It was sheer agony.

“ARRGH!”

“Quiet lad!” he exclaimed.

The fifth landed with an almighty crack, accompanied by a squeal from me. I couldn’t help myself, and was ashamed of the unmanly noise I’d let out.

“I said quiet!” he admonished. Again and again, he flexed and swished the cane through the air before it hit me one final time. This time I squealed again and then half choked as I was well and truly winded by the vicious stroke.

“Very well. That makes the full six. You can pull your trousers up now, young James.”

“Sorry Uncle, Sir. I didn’t take it very well did I?”

“No you didn’t! And all that noise was most undignified, I must say. Dear, dear. Well, I still remember my first time. I’m afraid I was much like you. Still, at least you stayed in position. And anyway, welcome aboard!” he said, shaking my hand earnestly, and at that very moment I decided that he was completely mad! Stark, staring mad! “We may yet make a fine crew member of you, lad!”

I wasn’t so sure, as beneath my trousers and pants my scarred and welted flesh throbbed and ached like never before. My eyes were moist and I rubbed the cheeks of my arse like mad. Nothing though would take away the intense stinging, burning pain! If this was a taste of crew life, I’d be applying for extended shore leave at the first opportunity!

Those two canes became regular features in my life. As I moved into my twenties, he upped the ante more than somewhat. Six stroke canings became rare, and eight, nine, ten and then twelve strokes became the norm. Somewhere along the line he had me bare my arse for some of the beatings. This he told me was a “proper Captain’s punishment” but I wasn’t convinced this wasn’t all stuff he’d made up as an excuse to beat me on the bare. I have been meaning to research it on the internet, but being allowed only an hour a day on there, I usually have more urgent things to look at! Perhaps I shouldn’t have agreed to the bare arse beatings, but I’ve found it best not to argue with the man behind the cane.

 

 

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Story © MMXV by Rod Cayenne

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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Diese Geschichte ist hier auf Deutsch.

 

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The Marketing Department (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot caning fiction by very special guest author Clifton Castigo.  All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly for adults only!

The Marketing Department by Clifton Castigo

John Higgins was concerned, he was looking at the sales figures for his business from his website and an online auction site and the figures indicated a steady decline. He manufactured and sold the finest punishment canes, paddles and spanking equipment that money could buy. He sold these via the internet across the globe and received excellent feedback from his buyers. It seemed, however, that either people were less kinky, or that they were going elsewhere to buy their canes. He somehow doubted that it was the former, so it had to be the latter.

He had started his business 15 years before whenever he himself had been asked by his master, who had since passed away, to buy a punishment cane for use on him. He had found it difficult to find on the newly fledgling internet and thus his business was born. If his business was to continue for another 15 years, he would have to do something, and fast.

He was not very proficient with technology and would need help, the problem would be finding someone to help him, given the type of business. He thought about the matter and remembered that the business school in town taught a Digital Marketing degree. He wondered whether any of the students there would need an internship or work experience as part of their degree. He had a quick look on the local jobs website and saw that there were many ads from companies in town for Marketing interns, although he was perhaps a little late in the season.

He signed up for one of the jobs websites and placed an ad:

Digital Marketing Internship working for online business in the adult sector. Must be studying for a degree in Digital Marketing with courses in SEO, Community Management etc. Remuneration based on results. Must be open minded.

Oliver was in deep trouble. He had left it late to find somewhere to do work experience, and instead of pursuing the job ads and going to interviews, he chose to go clubbing and take it easy. Now it seemed there were scant opportunities that were suitable to allow him to complete his degree. Worse still, with his mediocre results, his final project, which would be based on his work experience, would have to be exemplary. It was at the end of the last page of results that he noticed the ad for the internship at the adult website. He had no problem with that, a porn website? He would be the envy of all of his classmates. He quickly wrote a cover message and forwarded his CV.

John answered the knock at the door to his workshop and appraised the handsome young lad with an athletic build and a slightly arrogant smile. He was the only applicant for the job so the interview was merely a formality.

“Hi, I’m Oliver, I’m here for an interview for the internship”.

“I’m John. Come on through to the office and I’ll tell you about the job.”

John explained the nature of his business, the challenges he was facing and what he required.

Although Oliver might have been lazy, he was silver tongued and was able to outline how he would study the website and its activity and put together a plan.

John was happy with Oliver, but he did not offer him the job straight away. He was pretty sure that he had sussed Oliver out as a party boy who was looking for anything he could get. He was sure that his position was one of the only ones in town not filled. It wouldn’t do for Oliver to think that he had it in the bag, he was an arrogant little shit and needed to feel a little pressure. He thanked Oliver for his time and advised that he would be interviewing other candidates and would be back in touch soon.

After a few days Oliver called John practically begging for the job and finally John had him where he wanted him and offered the job, getting his intern on very good conditions.

It took John to be on top of Oliver every day to make sure that he was doing his work and not simply browsing the internet . Finally after a couple of weeks, Oliver produced a competitor analysis and a plan as to what he would do to make improvements to the website.

“The biggest problem that you have on the website is that it is very dry, you just have the products, your canes for example and very little else. Your competitors are on various social media websites, they post photos of canings for example, they have detailed descriptions of the expected results of their products. This helps in terms of SEO but also in the BDSM world where it seems that sensations and feelings are very important, it is important that your content is in line with this. The key part of my plan would therefore be to improve your descriptions and perhaps have a photo showing the results of their use. So for example a description of how your canes feel compared to the others and perhaps a photo of someone’s bottom which has received six of the best with the cane in question.”

John was pleased with the analysis and the recommendations. He also now had Oliver right where he wanted him.

“Well, thank you Oliver. That seems very thorough and I’m really pleased that you have thrown yourself into this project so much. We’ll get started today. To write those descriptions you are going to need to feel all of the products, starting with the canes, we’ll also have the bonus that you can review my punishment bench and restraints. Then once your bottom is ready we can take those photographs, I have all the equipment we need, with a week or two between each shoot, I’m sure that we’ll have enough time”

Oliver grimaced, this was not at all what he had been thinking of. He was thinking of hiring models and making up the descriptions. He stuttered his objections.

John cut him off. “Listen here Oliver! I know that you have been lazy during your degree, I called your lecturer and he told me that your results have been really poor and that only a spectacular final project is going to save you. He is under the impression that you are very capable but that you enjoy your social life too much. It’s too late to start again in another company so you have to stay and to get a good report from me, your client, you are going to have to contribute to this project in every way, I don’t have the money to do it any other way. Take it or leave it. Now strip and get yourself over that punishment bench! You can view this as your penitence to atone for your laziness up to now!”

Oliver knew he was beaten and that he would have to be beaten. He stripped and positioned himself on the punishment bench. John used the leather restraints to strap down his arms and legs, rendering Oliver immobile.

“We are going to start with the junior canes, move on to the seniors, then the reformatory canes and finally the whangee cane. You need to remember each one to write those descriptions”

John swished the first cane.

“This is the Kooboo Junior”

John positioned himself behind Oliver and aimed for the top of his bottom, he drew back the cane and brought back bringing it down with a loud CRACK!.

Oliver felt a thin line of intense pain which was unbearable but quickly faded to a more tolerable level.

“Now the Dragon Junior”

SWISH CRACK!

This time the pain was equally intense but seemed to penetrate deeper and it took much longer to reach a tolerable level, Oliver gasped.

“Let’s move on to the Seniors, weĺl begin with the Kooboo”

This time the pain was not quite so stinging but more aching and seemed to last longer.

John was working his way down Oliver’s buttocks and they already had three vivid parallel stripes in contrast to his pale skin.

“Dragon Senior”

SWISH CRACK!

The pain was stinging and aching all at once and it seemed it would never subside. Oliver felt a tear forming at the corner of his eye.

“Now on to the reformatory models starting with the kooboo”

SWISH CRACK!

This time the sound of the swish was less shrill and the crack a deeper more resounding thud. Oliver felt an aching pain and could almost feel the bruises forming across his arse.

“Dragon Reformatory”

SWISH CRACK!

This time the pain was so intense he gave a scream and struggled against the restraints. The pain penetrated deeply and like Duracell, went on and on and on.

“Now, one that is a little different to finish. This is the whangee cane. In the other canes any knuckles are sanded down, but in this one they are the point. The knuckles add a level of intensity where they land and leave a reminder that is felt for longer.!

SWISH CRACK!

The pain was unbelievable! Oliver felt the sting as with the other canes but also felt deep penetration where the Knuckles connected with his skin. Together the sensation was diabolical. He gasped, emptying his lungs of air.

After the caning Oliver went home and looked in the mirror at his striped arse which from top to bottom was progressively more severely marked. The worst of the pain had faded and a pleasant warm sensation had begun to blossom across his buttocks. Although the caning was unpleasant and painful, unexpectedly he had sprung an errection. There was some appeal in the discipline and even the pain. He took care of himself while reliving the caning in his mind.

Over the next few months the descriptions of all the products improved. Oliver’s bottom, striped by various canes, and bruised and marked by paddles and other implements featured across the site. Sales increased significantly. At the University if one paid attention, Oliver could be seen to squirm and shift uncomfortably in his seat in lectures following the days he worked in John’s business.

Olivers final project obtained the highest possible mark and he got his degree and went to work for a flourishing start up, but found that he missed working for John. He approached John who was pleased to employ him on Monday evening every week to maintain his social media presence. This was great for Oliver as he had enjoyed working for John and the extra money on top of his regular job could go to his Holiday funds. On Tuesdays at the start up Oliver can often be seen sitting gingerly on his chair at meetings and is unusually eager to stand up and present.

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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 © MMXX by Clifton Castigo, used here by very kind permission of the author.  All rights reserved.

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

The Very Supportive Care Worker (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Red hot new spanking fiction by very special guest author Sukemnsee – strictly over 18s only!

 

The Very Supportive Care Worker by Sukemnsee

 

I looked across at Nobby and Sach making fools of themselves.   They were trying to flatter a manipulative older woman who in my mind just wanted these young men to buy her a drink.  I realised that I had to do so much more with the decade that would commence in a few hours. There was no quick escape tonight, I would raise a glass like everyone else in The Ruddy Duck public house and toast midnight and Happy New Year.  I hoped that later as we would walk back to our local streets that Nobby would not start puking along every hedgerow, once again unable to hold his drink. He was such a lightweight amongst us 20-year-olds! My current social circle, product of school and college, was so-called apprentice engineers.

It had been a depressing year really, one to escape. Yes I had to change completely and forge my own pathway and Eric had inspired me in this.  The New Year’s Day private party with Eric and his friends was something else!  It was exciting, with new experiences, and more secrets not to tell my crowd about, and a sign that this year was starting differently.

Back to work on 2nd, I went straight to Foreman Len and said I planned to finish at the end of the month. I half-hoped they would throw me out instantly but he was quite polite and appreciated what I had done while working there. He said I was the cream of the intake so he always knew I would move on, but maybe not so fast. 

I enrolled in several courses in following days, taking up most of my evenings, getting minor certifications to get me employed by a Care Agency. Did it so well I left the factory one day and was on a joint assignment the very next day. My colleague was nowhere near as professional as my friend Eric, but then Eric was special in my eyes.  I had seen lots of dross tending to my late father before, but Eric had engaged my father with respect and attentiveness and restored his dignity in trying times. Eric was a role model for me in many respects.

Just two weeks later I was off to one of my first solo engagements. There was some tittering in the office as they gave me the job folder.  They wanted to see how long I would last with the miserable old man I’d been assigned to.  Such negativity, just like many factory days, those past days!  Well I would take this client on, and if I got rebooked repeatedly then that would be to my credit and help my career pathway. 

Thomas was a little curmudgeonly at first, I was yet another different face needing to be told what he needed.  The agency had sent me to him far too early! There was a TV programme he wanted to watch before being packed off to bed. Here was a quick win. I told him that if I was paired with him frequently then I could see what flexibility of time there was to make my visits suit him better and for tomorrow I would have stored his programme on my tablet using catch up and he could watch it then. This caused an utter transformation and immediately I had one happy man as my very elderly client. 

We settled into a routine very quickly. The agency was surprised that there were no complaints as in the past carers had been changed at least weekly. I even had a Supervisor call in mid visit to observe all was in order. I remembered that Eric had forged a bond with my late father by taking an interest in his past, in his case lower league football. Thomas was not much of a football supporter although he had enjoyed going to cricket, occasionally rugby and turned out to have encyclopaedic knowledge of athletics in years gone by. I certainly had to do some quick research to make conversations meaningful. On one occasion there was a rare visit from the successful in business son of his. I sensed this was a duty visit rather than deep bonding but he took me to one side and slipped me a £50 pound note as a bonus assuming I had low wages because he knew his father was much more content of late. I tried to make a polite refusal but was actually really pleased to accept it. 

One day we started talking about his former working life. It transpired he had been a schoolmaster in a notorious grammar school which even had boarders as well as day pupils. He had focused mainly in teaching Geography and History as specialist subjects but over the years had stepped in more than once in staff shortages to teach many a subject. Before he retired he held the position of Deputy Headmaster which suited him as he was still able to teach for the majority of the day whereas if he had taken Headship his teaching hours would have been very limited. He could have retired from full time position as early as 1983 but he pressed on and left in Summer of 1986. He then set up some private tutoring at home for another 10 years when he specialised in getting older boys through retakes of examinations and getting them on the path to University.

This provided lots of conversational material. Although my own schooling was adequate, I had recently had access to my Great Uncle’s project. He had recently retired from working and had decided to write up all his school and youthful memories in detail along with other research with a view to possibly publishing one day. He had shown me a lot of the early manuscripts and I had found them fascinating. His age meant he was being educated while Thomas was active in teaching so the anecdotes I heard had from my client had some relevance. My relative was a bit of a character so the memories I passed on really engaged old Thomas. 

I don’t know why but we had never discussed school punishments but I had recently been asked to proofread a couple of chapters for Uncle and when I mentioned I had this task I was asked to bring them with me and read aloud the jottings. A strange word in my lexicon. Wow! this was dynamite as suddenly it dawned on me after the first session that Thomas had obviously been a strict disciplinarian as his body language told it all. It seemed many teachers had distinctive ways in those days.

That material was a real Pandora’s Box. I had been virtually ignorant of all this history but I started to find it fascinating, especially the way it was accepted practice without complaint. Slowly Thomas started to reveal ways he kept young men in line. I could have great conversations with Uncle about this or write great amounts from the revelations. I started to get curious and on one or two occasions I was concealing a strange sexual excitement. I asked him Thomas why such a successful system died out. In his view this was a major collapse in society standards leading to the current entitled generation. What was lost was a sense of boundaries and acceptance of consequences. It was natural in maturity for young men to push boundaries and what developed them was the way they adapted and stretched ingenuity. 

A few weeks later, I had an unusual and sadly quite hostile argument with my mother. It was months of pent-up frustration I suppose but I should have handled it better. Thomas sensed this as soon as I arrived and once I had done all the necessary tasks he soon had me admitting my shame and repentance. Given my total lack of experience he told me I would receive a spanking just this time! Suffice to say I never realised an old man could use his hand so effectively especially as my bottom was bare before he said I had enough. How I ended up getting spanked by him without dissent was a slight mystery but I just seemed to have complied with instructions and I was warned future misbehaving would be far more painful. 

Six days later I found out. So soon when I had thought the previous week was just a one-off experience that had almost been a reverie. I arrived with a black eye and multiple other signs that I had been involved in a fight. The night before I had agreed to go to the pub to mark Nobby’s birthday but some louts started picking on little Sach and so I waded into defence. They ended up worse than I did though but I must stress this was not my customary behaviour at all. Thomas was immediately displeased. He made a comment that a common thug should not be sent to care for him. He did not seem to want to listen to my version of events so I just got on with the routine tasks. 

Toward the end of my session when I was preparing his luncheon tray for later, I was told to attend him in the front parlour on completion, such different use of language to our usual conversations. When I did attempt to open the door it was shut. I rapped on the door. I heard a response telling me to enter when the green light showed. I had never seen any lights? Then above the door frame was a flashing red light. It went to a steady green and I heard a click at the lock and I was able to push the door open.  What a transformation! Thomas was standing by a desk smartly dressed in a suit with shirt and tie. He also had a black gown over this similar to the way people dress up for University graduation ceremonies. There was even a hat, I now know it to be called a mortar board, on the desk alongside another item of equipment. I was summoned to stand close to the desk. 

I then got a major lecture on failing to reach the standards of a gentleman indicating that I had let myself and my family down by being involved in a common pub brawl. My protestations about saving a friend were unheeded. I felt really cowed in the face of this authority. I suddenly realised what a potent force he must have been in his prime. Then he picked up the brown stick with a curved handle off the desk and asked me what it was. I called it a stick, even a walking stick and was met with derision. I honestly had no idea what an old fashioned school cane looked like despite reading some of my Great Uncle’s writings.  I found it later on the internet. Like all miscreants, he told me, I needed a thrashing to help me make the right choices. I did exactly what he told me as this new incarnation of Thomas was mesmerising.

He had me bend over completely touching my toes then he came to the side of me and I felt the stick, I mean cane, gently tapping on my trousers before suddenly he lashed it in with force and set my whole bottom ablaze. I jumped up and then had to resume my submissive position again. Another two more strikes had me squealing, rather pathetic really. My bottom now felt like it was three times normal size. I had to endure three more strikes of this innocent looking cane before he had me stand up.

Even that hurt as my tenderised muscles moved. I was glad that was over; except it wasn’t. As an older boy, similar to many of his prefects, I was told that I needed an exemplary lesson. There was more to come! I now had to drop my trousers and take one leg out and the I even had to remove my stylish underwear, so that it hung at one ankle. 

I was told I would not be able to stay still touching my toes so instead I had to reach over the desk and lie on my stomach. Then I had to spread my legs wide. This made a perfect target for him to aim at. I never realised at the time until I did more internet research that in that position it was not just my bottom visible but that he would have seen my testicles drooping and maybe more.  What he did see and comment markedly was that my skin coloured easily and he could see the marks from the first six stroke marks. He then promised to fill in the gaps.

As before there was the tapping for positioning then the first swipe of the cane. Ouch was an understatement! The pain was incredible. It was far worse than when I wore trousers and pants.  I squealed unwittingly. By the third I was screaming. At the fourth I jumped up and almost danced around the room trying to alleviate the pain. I was sternly told to get back  in place as any more movement would lead to additional penalty strokes. The fifth stroke landed and I gritted my teeth. I felt that there would either be blood in my gums or all over my bottom at this rate. The sixth stroke was just as evil as all the rest but it turned out to be the last and I stayed silent and indeed very crestfallen. I was allowed to get dressed although I am sure my leg was shaking and my bottom twitching as I did so. 

It was my time to go home. I was told to let myself out as Thomas needed to rest after his exertions. I resisted the opportunity to tell him if had not exerted himself so much on me he would still be fine. I walked home as I did not feel I could sit on a bus without others noticing how uncomfortable I was. As I cut through the woodland I found a hidden sppace and dropped my clothes to get a glimpse of my bottom. It was not a selfie to share online! Instead it was a mass of red lines but they did not seem to be overlapping.  I felt the marks – one or two felt ridged. I feared I was being watched so I dressed and headed home, thankful I had a gap before my next carework appointments. 

Although I still care professionally for Thomas, and to the highest standard, something has changed. I am mindful of keeping my own behaviour to a comparable standard, to avoid facing further punishment.  After just six weeks there have been two more trouser canings. On a “three strikes and you’re out” principle it is likely there would be a terrible three layer caning as the next instalment. I still love the work and indeed another cash envelope came my way recently from the businessman son as Thomas is thriving in every respect. 

After those two recent canings, both evening sessions, I have found myself very charged up if you know what I mean when I retire to bed. I think Thomas has suggested he would cane other suitable youths and I am so close to getting Sach involved, or at least makiing him aware of my corrections.  However, like everything else nowadays I need to think carefully before I act in a foolhardy manner. New Year, New Pathway, New Decade, New Life. Yes, all is great now. 

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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 © MMXX by Sukemnsee and used here by very kind permission of the author.  All rights reserved.

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

The Gate Of The Year (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A brand new story, set on New Year’s Day, by very special guest author JOELSTRAP.  This story is currently exclusive to The Canery!  All the characters are 18 or older. WARNING: ADULTS ONLY!

 

The Gate Of The Year by Joelstrap

Half-blinded by tears and fury, I kicked the stone hard into the pond and the ducks, which had clustered round expecting bread, scattered in alarm with much flapping and splashing. I took aim at another stone.

“Don’t you kick that stone, boy!”

I whirled round angrily, ready to do battle.

“Listen, mate, I’ll kick all the bloody stones I want to and you can go and……….”

I came to an abrupt halt as I took in the guy who had addressed me so peremptorily. He stood just on six feet and was clad entirely in black leather from his boots to his trousers and jacket. A heavily-studded belt girt his waist and a knotted leather thong hung round his neck. Close-cropped black hair added to the slightly menacing look, as did the dark shadow along his upper lip and chin.

“Yes?” he enquired softly. “I can go and do what?”

“Nothing,” I replied swiftly, accepting that he was an inch taller and a good bit broader and heftier than I was.

“You going to kick any more stones at the ducks?”

“I wasn’t kicking the stone at the flaming ducks! I was just kicking it into the pond!”

“I know a very good optician and I could……”

“What!?” I interrupted rudely.

“If you couldn’t see the ducks right there in front of you,” he continued quietly, “maybe you need glasses.”

“I don’t need fucking glasses!”

“So you did see the ducks?”

“Of course I saw them! I wasn’t aiming at them!”

He raised his black eyebrows. I looked away and then back at his face.

“Okay!” I admitted sulkily, “I was being thoughtless and stupid and selfish. Satisfied?”

“You are a bad-tempered brat, aren’t you?” he observed. “Maybe I should beat the living shit out of you.”

“Like hell you will!”

“You don’t want me to beat you?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“A perfectly natural one. I think you need a good beating to improve your behaviour. Unfortunately I can’t give you one unless you consent; so I’m asking,” he replied, making it sound as if it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

“You think I need a beating?” I asked.

“Don’t you?”

“Look, chum, I’ve no idea who you are, but there’s no way I need to be beaten and there’s no way you’re going to beat me, okay?”

“So who did you fall out with? Brother, friend, boyfriend?” he enquired.

“Why the hell do you think I fell out with anyone?” I flared, taking a step closer to him and balling my fists, rage making me over-confident.

He wasn’t intimidated, and simply said, “Maybe the young lad who cannoned into me as I came into the park, and didn’t even have the good manners to say sorry?”

“Nicky bumped into you?”

“Ah! Nicky is it? Hmm. Let me guess. Boyfriend; and you had an argument and he stormed off?”

“It wasn’t an argument and we………hey! This is none of your fucking business!”

“Sit down and tell me, then,” he commanded and pointed to a bench at the edge of the duck-pond.

I glared at him briefly, turned on my heel, and began to stride away.

“Come back and sit down,” he said, so softly that I only just heard him.

“You can’t tell me what to do!” I hissed furiously.

“I just did,” said he calmly. “Now, the real question is, are you going to do it?”

“I suppose you’re gonna beat me if I don’t?” I enquired sarcastically.

“Just sit!”

To this day I don’t know why I sat; but I did.

He came and sat beside me and asked my name and age.

“I’m Simon. I’m eighteen,” I replied meekly.

“So, Simon, tell me about Nicky.”

I decided that perhaps to tell a stranger, whom I’d probably never see again, might be quite a good idea.

“He broke up with me,” I said. “Arranged to meet me here because he said he had something to tell me; and then the two-faced little bastard says he’s been seeing another boy for the past three weeks and would rather be with him. Great start to the year, huh? First day of January and the sadistic bugger does this to me! Happy New Year….and I don’t think!”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “So, what are you going to do now? Take it out on a few more innocent ducks?”

I leapt to my feet, ablaze with anger.

“Are you bloody thick or something?” I stormed. “I wasn’t aiming at the bloody ducks! Now fuck off, and leave me alone!”

He continued to sit there, looking up at me, a slight smile on his sexy features. I made a big effort and resisted the urge to punch him on the nose. Instead I took a deep breath, turned and ran away towards the shrubbery. I was aware that there were hot tears trickling down my face, but I didn’t care. All I wanted was to get out of his sight among the bushes. I heard a thumping sound and realised that he was pursuing me; and that he was a faster runner than I was. I was within a few yards of the shrubbery when he rugby-tackled me to the ground and I found myself face-down, with his weight pinning me to the wet grass.

“Get off me!” I snarled furiously.

“Why?”

“Because it’s bloody assault, that’s why!” I yelled, turning my head to try to look into his face.

“It’s a rugby-tackle. That’s legal. It’s not assault.”

“It’s assault if it’s not during a game,” I protested. “In the middle of the bloody park and no rugby-ball in sight, it’s fucking assault!”

“So you’re objecting?”

“Of course I’m objecting!”

“Balls! Now, are you gonna grow up and talk to me sensibly?”

I couldn’t believe him!

“I’m not a little boy!”

“Yeh? Okay. Come back to the bench and sit down again.”

He rose to his feet in one swift bound and I followed more slowly.

“Look at my clothes,” I protested, “all damp and muddy.”

“Boo-hoo!”

“You don’t care, do you?”

“Not a whit.”

“A what?”

“A whit.”

I gave myself a shake, stalked over to the bench and sat down and waited until he came and sat beside me.

“You were going to tell me what you were going to do now,” he prompted.

“I’m going round to that slimy toad’s house to tell him what I think of him.”

“Haven’t you done that already?”

“Well, yeh, but…..”

“So, what good’s telling him again going to do?”

“It’ll make me feel better.”

“You sure?”

“Well, what else can I do? He betrayed me, the lying sneaking bastard!”

“Yeh. You said. I get it. He’s a skunk. Now forget him and tell me what you’re going to do next.”

“I won’t be accepting any apology from him if it all goes pear-shaped with his new boyfriend. He needn’t think he can come crawling back to me like the snake he is.”

“So what you gonna do?”

“Do you know, I gave him a great Christmas-present and all he gave me was a bar of chocolate! Course he was already with the new bugger and probably spent all his money on him. Rat-arsed shit-bag!”

The guy suddenly stood up and planted himself right in front of me, tall, leather-black, menacing. He lifted his right foot and placed the sole of his boot between my legs, pressing firmly on my balls.

“Get the fuck off!” I gasped.

“Are you listening to me?”

His boot pressed much harder and I tensed and held my breath, gazing nervously at him.

“Yes,” I panted.

“Right. I’ve asked you several times about what you’re going to do and all you’ve done is hark back to the past. I’m asking you to look forward. Fuck Nicky. He’s history. He’s last year. What are you gonna do this year?”

The pressure on my balls was a dull ache.

“I…..I think I want to find a new boyfriend.”

“Great!”

He suddenly removed his boot and replaced his foot on the ground. I caressed my testicles carefully.

“That was bloody sore,” I complained sullenly.

He shrugged.

“Who’s caring? Right. You want a new boyfriend; and you’ve got one.”

I looked round, startled, as if a boy would suddenly materialise out of the deserted park.

“Me,” he said.

“You?”

“Don’t think I’m good-looking enough?”

“I didn’t say…..”

“Not sexy enough for you?”

“I never said…….”

“Want me to go away, right now?”

“Yes….no……how the hell do I know?” I burst out angrily. “Who are you anyway?”

He held out his hand to me and “Janus,” he announced formally. “Twenty years old, stunningly attractive and superbly modest. Pleased to meet you, Simon.”

In spite of myself, I cracked a little smile at his words as I extended my hand and shook his.

“Janus is a funny name,” I observed.

“My birthday is today, New Year’s Day,” he replied, as if this was an explanation.

I looked blankly at him. He placed a hand on my thigh, well up towards my crotch and a thrill streaked through me. I gasped aloud and grabbed him by the wrist.

“Stop it!”

“Don’t you like me?”

“Yes, no, look just leave me alone.”

“Take your hand off my wrist.”

Slowly I obeyed.

“Now think carefully. Do you really want me to remove my hand from your thigh?”

I was painfully aware that I had a massive swelling in the front of my denims and he couldn’t possibly have missed it either. I shook my head.

“Good. Now listen. Janus is the name of a Roman god. He had two faces, one looking backwards and the other forwards. He was the god of beginnings and doorways and gateways, and of course of the new year, because he perched between the past and the future, looking both ways. His name, and the name January, are related to a Latin word ianua which means door. This month is the doorway of the new year, with the past year behind it and the new year in front.”

“So that’s why you’re called Janus? Because you’re at the doorway between the old and the new year?”

“Yup. And so are you today. You’ve got to look back or look forward; back to Nicky….”

“….the cheating bastard!”

“…or forward to someone new: me!”

His hand slid further up my thigh and then his thumb moved firmly over the throbbing bulge in my groin. I drew in breath sharply as a stab of delight ripped through me, fierce as a laser, fresh as a blast of icy air.

“But I don’t know you!”

“You will. Are you ready to turn away from the past and look ahead?”

“How did you know I was here?” I countered.

“Know? I didn’t know. I was out for a walk in the park and I saw you kicking a stone at the ducks. I don’t approve of hurting other living creatures, so I realised you needed a bit of discipline; and when I spoke to you I found you were a bit of a brat, which confirmed my opinion.”

“I’m not a brat!”

“You’ve seemed like one for the past few minutes.”

“I’m well-behaved as a rule; but there’s an exception to every rule. I’ve just had a stressful experience. And anyway, why do you want me as your boyfriend, if I’m a brat in need of discipline?” I enquired.

“Because you’re as sexy as a cartload of monkeys; you’ve got an arse to die for, eyes like melting toffee, and look like you’ve got a massive load of junk in the front of your jeans,” he stated astoundingly.

I flushed bright red.

“And besides,” he continued, “brats can be cured of their brattiness by a good, sound beating or three.”

“Why do you keep coming back to beating me? You can’t beat me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I won’t bloody well let you!”

“Scared?”

“I’m not scared!”

“So, you need a beating. I’m willing to give you a beating. You’re not scared of a beating. What’s the problem, Simon?”

“Boys don’t get beaten these days,” I objected. “Nobody ever even spanked me in my life!”

“Never mind. You’ve just been unlucky. But I can spank you too if you want.”

“But I don’t want a spanking!”

“You don’t like the idea of me stripping you very slowly until you’re completely naked and then pulling you across my knee, your stiffie pressed against my thigh; and then my hand caressing your bare bottom before starting to spank you slowly and steadily, gradually building the heat until it becomes a sting and then a burn and then a blaze; and maybe your balls suddenly squirming and pumping out your load?”

As he said this, his hand cupped my junk and squeezed just hard enough to make me gasp with pleasure and feel the pre-cum in my pants.

“Well, if you put it like that…….”

“But first I need to give you a beating to teach you not to kick stones at ducks and not to behave in a brattish way.”

“I told you before! I wasn’t kicking the stone at the ducks!”

“But the ducks were there right in front of you and you kicked a stone. Are you really trying to tell me there wasn’t a serious risk you might have hit one of them?”

“Well, okay,” I said reluctantly. “I guess it was a bit thoughtless.”

“So, you’re going to be caned.”

“Caned? The cane went out with the Ark! I’ve never even seen a cane for real; and I bet you haven’t either.”

“I’ve got one.”

I goggled at him.

“You’ve got a cane? A real live cane?”

“It’s not alive.”

“You know what I meant!”

“Yup. Come back with me now to my place and I’ll beat your arse with it.”

“No way! That’ll hurt.”

“Fucking right it’ll hurt. It’s meant to; and it will punish you for your thoughtless behaviour and go a long way to improving your attitude.”

For some reason my penis loved this talk and strained desperately to escape the constrictions of my clothing. I winced. Janus grinned.

“Yeh, you know you need a good beating; and you can’t wait to feel the sting of my cane. It’s another way of turning your back on the past when nobody bothered to tan your insolent young hide, and looking to the future where you’ll get a strong, sexy boyfriend who’ll give you the discipline you need.”

He stood up and extended a hand.

“Come on.”

I got to my feet and hesitated.

“Well, take my hand, you oaf!”

“But someone might see us!”

“So?”

“It’s just that……”

Janus sighed: “Look! Are you gonna take my hand or not? And before you answer, I might as well warn you that if you don’t, I’ll take it as a personal insult and give you extra with the cane.”

I gazed admiringly at him; and slid my hand into his. We walked swiftly to his flat where he took me into a small but comfortable sitting-room, sat me on a chair and handed me a cane.

“There you are. Have a feel of it; get to know it. I’ll make some coffee.”

As he clattered with crockery in the kitchen, I felt my way along the limber length of the cane with a wondering index-finger. I bent it with both hands into a smooth arc. I whipped it in front of me and heard the air whine. My penis was desperately struggling to break free from my jeans. My head assured me earnestly that being beaten with this cane would hurt. My balls couldn’t have cared less and screamed at me to offer my arse to the rod. Janus came in with two mugs of coffee and a tin of biscuits and laid them on the table. He perched himself on the arm of the chair where I was sitting and firmly took the cane from me.

“Ready to be caned, Simon?”

“I thought I was getting coffee and biscuits.”

“Sure; after you’ve been caned. Are you ready?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never had anything like this before.”

“You agreed earlier that you’d behaved badly in the park and so you deserve to be caned. It will clear up your bad behaviour and help you look to the future.”

“Oh yeh? Quick blast with a ruddy cane and I’ll forget all about Nicky? Like hell I will!”

In one fluid movement, Janus rose to his feet and lashed the cane down with full power on the leather cushion of the sofa. The whistle of the descending rod and the explosive crack as it hit made me jump with a squeak of alarm. He smiled at me.

“Think you’ll be remembering Nicky when my cane’s lashing across your behind, Simon?”

I gazed in horrified fascination at the deep indentation which the cane had made on the cushion, and shook my head wordlessly.

“Right. Jeans and pants off. Quick!”

“I…….”

“Now, boy!”

Such was the dominant power in his voice that I got to my feet and began to unbuckle my belt. I was aware that he was watching me closely. I bent down to untie and remove my trainers and all the time I could sense his eyes on my bottom. I pulled off my denims, put my hands to the top of my briefs; and hesitated. Even although my throbbing penis was protruding well beyond the waistband and fully visible to him, I felt a sudden shyness at revealing everything.

“Hurry up, boy!”

His voice was harsh and threatening. I submitted and removed my underwear, setting my bounding organ free at last. Janus gave a low whistle.

“Wow! Impressive!” he breathed; and I felt myself blushing scarlet to the roots of my hair.

He arched the slim cane slowly and I eyed it warily.

“Turn round; bend over with your hands on the chair, legs apart, bottom up.”

I obeyed and he ran a hand over the curve of my globes.

“Fantastic arse, Simon,” he enthused. “Why are you getting the cane?”

“For acting irresponsibly and thoughtlessly when I kicked the stone into the pond; and for being a bit of a brat.”

“And?”

“I dunno. I thought that was it.”

“To help you turn your back on Nicky and the past and look forward to me and the future.”

“Oh, yeh, that too I guess.”

“Say it, Simon.”

I turned my head to make a cheeky comment, but caught a look in his eyes which made me change my mind.

“To help me turn my back on Nicky and the past and look forward to the future with you,” I repeated dutifully as my rampant cock pulsed excitedly.

The cane made gentle contact with the bare skin of my rump and I flinched at its cool touch. He drew it slowly back and forward across my behind and then rapped it lightly several times. I tensed my body in readiness, penis at full stretch, heart thumping, blood thundering in my ears. I realised that although I was afraid, I was also excited. Simultaneously I wanted, and didn’t want, to be caned. Janus lifted the cane away and I waited for an interminable few seconds before it whipped hard into the centre of my buttocks, delivering a fierce sting which made me wince. My penis seemed to approve and strained for another millimetre of length.

He hit me again, slightly lower down and the second streak of fire felt more intense as it burned its way into my flesh. I drew in breath sharply, clenched my glutes for a few seconds and then slowly relaxed a little. The cane tapped several times at my behind before cracking down lower still. I gasped and squirmed as a vicious pain seemed to tear cruelly hard into my body. For the first time my penis sagged a little.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” I panted.

“It’s going to hurt more.”

“I know.”

“Scared?”

“Yeh.”

“Gonna stay down and take it like a man?”

“Do I look like I’m running away?”

“Mmmm! Seems the spunk in those big balls of yours isn’t the only spunk you’ve got. Okay; show me what you’re made of, Simon.”

He lashed the cane hard into the underside of my globes where the flesh was more tender and forced a squeal of pain from me. Furious with myself, I gripped the edges of the chair-cushion hard, gritted my teeth and stayed in position.

“Felt that, didn’t you?”

“Yeh.”

“Think I can make you squeal again with the next one?”

“No.”

“You sure, Simon?”

“Yeh.”

The cane was driven hard into my crease where the sensitive skin of my bottom merged into the tops of my legs. A lightning-streak of searing fire blasted its way across my behind and I sank my teeth desperately into the cushion, clenching my buttocks so hard that my whole body shuddered with the tension. I was just beginning to loosen my tooth-hold on the cushion when he wielded his cane again, hitting at an oblique angle across the three lowest welts. Pain blazed a fiery furrow deep into my flesh and I felt scalding tears trickling down my face as my teeth sank again hard and deep into the cushion. For several seconds the world shrank to a tight red circle of pain; and then slowly the fires began to ease and I dared to breath again. My behind throbbed with the violence of what the cane had done to it, but my penis, decidedly floppy for the past three strokes, came roaring back, welcoming the steady burn in my bottom.

“What have you learnt, Simon?”

“To behave responsibly, not to be a brat, and to be your boyfriend,” I replied submissively.

“Stand up.”

I rose stiffly and stood feeling with both hands the raised ridges the cane had made on my bottom. My penis was threatening to punch a hole in the ceiling.

“Are you sure you want me to be your boyfriend?” Janus asked.

“Will you cane me like that in future if I misbehave?” I countered.

“Of course.”

“Okay, I’m sure. I want you to be my boyfriend.”

“And you give your consent to me caning you whenever I think you deserve it?”

“Yeh. I’ll take the cane.”

Janus sat down with the cane across his knees and beckoned me to kneel between his legs, facing him. He handed me one of the mugs of coffee and we drank silently for several minutes, just enjoying looking at each other. He took a biscuit from the tin, took a bite and then held it to my mouth; and I took a bite too. For some reason it was incredibly erotic, and our eyes locked and remained entranced, held, until the whole biscuit had been consumed.

I felt that it was time I asserted myself a little.

“Are you going to kiss me?” I asked, placing a hand on each of his inner thighs, my thumbs just brushing the stretched leather which held his junk.

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

“Well, you’ve beaten me and my body seems to think that it’s yours now.”

“What about your mind?”

“It’s getting there. I think if you kissed me it would help.”

He put a hand in my hair and twisted it firmly and then raised my head even as he lowered his face towards mine. I closed my eyes and felt his lips brush mine. A thrill ran through me. He repeated the action several times and then kept his mouth on mine as his lively tongue pushed between my lips and darted round my gums until I responded and we sank into burning ecstasy. When we drew reluctantly apart, he looked me in the eyes.

“So, does your mind accept that you’re mine?” he enquired.

I nodded dumbly, gazing wonderingly at him.

“And Nicky is history?”

“Who’s Nicky?”

The kiss which followed that swept me three times round the galaxy. As I emerged, my head was still spinning and I swayed on my knees in front of Janus. He steadied me.

“You okay, Simon?”

“Yeh; just a bit dizzy. You can’t half kiss a boy. I never felt anything like that before. Made my head spin.”

“But you know which way you’re going?”

“Oh, yeh. I’ve gone through the door and I’m going straight ahead, leaving the past behind. I got one question though. You said that you didn’t approve of hurting other living creatures. Well, I’m a living creature, and you bloody well hurt me with that cane of yours!”

“As a rule that’s true; but as you said yourself, there are exceptions to every rule; and as far as I’m concerned, boys are the exception to that rule. They need to be hurt for their own good.”

“Okay. I know when I’m beaten. Take me back to the park.”

“What?”

“So we can take some bread for the ducks; to kind of say sorry to them. Have you got any bread here?”

“Sure; but you’re getting a bit bossy, aren’t you?”

“It’s how I am,” I replied firmly. “Deal with it.”

“You do realise that dealing with it might involve the cane and your bare bottom, Simon?”

“I was counting on it.”

Janus stood up, grinning broadly, and fetched some bread from the kitchen. Outside, I took his hand and walked clear-eyed and confidently into the new year.

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Story ©MMXX 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

Hot Lesbian Action (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A repeat of this hot spanking fiction by your host, Rod Cayenne. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!

 

Jasper tumbled through the front door, tired after another hectic day at the warehouse.  It seemed that every day, the work got busier and busier but his low pay stayed the same.  Anyway, he was dead beat.  Much to his annoyance, he bumped into his sister.  Her movie starlet looks and now a place at college were constant irritations to him, “Lesbian! Lesbian! Lesbian!” he shouted, taking his frustrations out on her.

Jasper’s cruel taunting soon had his younger sibling in tears. Just turned 18, young Hilary had man trouble.  Or more strictly, no man trouble.  For it was true, she had never had a boyfriend.  “Lesbian, Lesbian!” he shouted again. Forced laughter followed from Jasper, but it soon stopped when he felt his father’s firm hand on his shoulder.

“I think you and I have some man to man business to discuss, young Jasper.  Up to my bedroom.  Now!”  A while back, such a discussion would have resulted in a session with the slipper. Jasper was sure such indignities were in the past, at least for him.  For he was almost 20, and proud to be working hard for a living.

In the bedroom, Jasper looked worried as his father removed first one, and then the other of his rubber-soled slippers and placed them on the bedding.  Father spoke quietly to son, “Didn’t I warn you about picking on your sweet sister?  Several times?  And yet you still carry on, don’t you?”

“Sorry Dad.”

“It’s no good being sorry now, young Jasper.  And just because now I’ve got my slipper ready.”

“Oh Dad, come on!  The slipper?  The slipper?  Really?  I’m almost 20!”

“You mean you’re still a teenager, son! A rude, disobedient, heartless one at that!  In short, a bully.  I think you are long overdue for a reminder of how much the slipper can sting.”

“No Dad, really!  I’m almost 20, and Hilary will hear!”

“Yes, I’m sure she will.  And perhaps that will teach you to be a lot kinder to her.  Really, the way you treat her is nothing short of disgraceful.  She’s a delicate girl, and now to top it all you are being a coward.”

“Dad, Dad, come on, be reasonable, I was only teasing her.  She can take it.”

“I don’t know about that!  But I do know that you can take a good slippering.  From me.  Right now.  Bend over the bed, son.  And take your trousers and pants down for me.”  Jasper hesitated and played for time, but his father was having none of it, “Do it!  And do it now, unless you want me to take them down.  Or perhaps I should ask your sister to?”

Father seemed undecided which slipper to use.  Left or right?  Either one would pack a punch, of that there was no doubt.  Outside the bedroom door, Hilary giggled to herself.  Nasty brother Jasper was about to get his comeuppance, and she was about to get to hear all of the action.  The slipper was soon connecting with the tender bare teenage flesh. Jasper groaned and yelped as the pain got through to him. Hilary was listening, enjoying every single whack, but regretting that the panelled door had no keyhole that she could spy through.  She knew there would be no comeback, for she was her father’s pride and joy.  A particularly severe blow caused Jasper to cry out, “Owww!  For fuck’s sake Dad, I’m too old to be slippered!”

“What did you say?  Did you swear?  In my house!  How dare you?”

“Sorry Dad.”

“You will be!  You will be!  So, you say you’re too old for the slipper?  That’s good to hear because it just so happens that I found my mother’s old cane the other day.  The one that kept me and your uncles in line for so many years.  Let’s try it out!  I’m sure it will prove to be a most effective remedy for bullying, cowardice and swearing.”

“No, Dad!  No!  Please!  I’m sorry I swore.  I’m sorry for teasing Hilary.  Really I am.”

Father feigned deafness and moved over to the dressing table, opening the lowest drawer.  He extracted the cane.  It was a traditional schoolmaster’s model, with curved handle and a wicked swoosh as father practised swiping it through the air.  The noise alone was enough to fill Jasper with dread and sincere regret.

“On all fours.  Stick your bottom out more!  I need a good target.” Father had barely-suppressed sadistic laughter in his voice as he instructed his son, “That’s it, higher!”

The cane cracked down for the first time.  Outside Hilary was unsure what was happening.  She heard the difference in the sound.  It sounded something like a whip, crop or cane.  It couldn’t be, could it?  She couldn’t be sure.  How cruel though!  But then she remembered how Jasper had treated her over recent months and giggled softly to herself.  Yes, Jasper deserved it.

The second stroke was much more powerful, catching the lad by surprise.  The almighty crack of the rattan was followed by waves and waves of hot, flaming pain.  Jasper collapsed flat on the bed, his hands clutching at his bottom,

“What the?  Get up, this instant!” Father ordered, “In position.  Now!  Four more strokes to come!”

So it was to be the traditional six of the best, thought Jasper.  Father lashed strokes three, four and five down rapidly.  Jasper felt overwhelmed as the pain went way beyond bad.  Outside, Hilary was so excited, she almost felt as if she might wet herself.  She was certainly feeling light-headed.

“Last stroke son.  Take it properly and we’re done here.”  That was a challenge Jasper would have to rise to.  He wiped a tear from his eye, and stuck his bottom out submissively, willing his father and the cane to do their very worst.  And they did, once again the cane lashed down with a resounding crack which seemed to echo around the sparsely-furnished bedroom.

“OK, son.  Get up!”  Father flexed the cane right in front of his son, saying, “Now, we’ll have no more of this swearing.  Or any lesbian talk, Jasper.  Especially from someone who only seems to have male friends at the moment.”  Father winked at son.  Jasper was worried.  He couldn’t know, could he?

Poor Jasper’s bottom was on fire.  He looked at his sore bottom in the dressing table mirror.  The flesh was flaming red all over, with the added bonus of six ugly cane weals which throbbed and itched and ached and burned.  One thing was certain.  There would be no mooning the other lads in the warehouse toilets for a good long while.

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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.

__________________

Story © MMXVIII by Rod Cayenne.  All rights reserved.

Photo model: Rod

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Comments functionality not available for this story again – it must be jinxed!  The author welcomes feedback at rod.cayenne@yahoo.com

Polishing The Fireman’s Boots (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A seasonal repeat for this red hot spanking fiction by your host, Rod Cayenne. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!

Richard was a neighbour, and had been a member of the local fire brigade ever since leaving school.  Our friendship had started during a scout “Bob-A-Job” week, with me polishing his fireman’s boots for him.  It carried on long after that week though.  In subsequent years I found I was still polishing his work boots for him most weeks, in return for some generous pocket money.  I’d thought it quite strange how he’d ask me to come in my scout or school uniform, though.  He assured me that I looked so much smarter like that than in casual wear.  I guess he was right about that and I was happy to play along as long as he paid me.

I came to adore his boots.  It turned into a bit of a fetish for me.  I fantasised about his boots constantly.  I imagined him naked apart from his black leather boots, dominating me.  He was a tall, sexy single guy and one of my first teenage crushes.

I was 18 and horny, and I started to add an extra, secret ingredient to the polish – a little bit of my sperm.  Generally I brought the spunk in from home in a little glass screwtop bottle and added drops of it to the polish as I worked on the shiny boots, if he wasn’t watching me.  Very occasionally he would have to go out while I was there, and on those times, I’d usually manufacture a fresh supply by masturbating straight on to his boots.  The jets of my hot cum would then be worked straight into the boots, with layers and layers of black polish on top.  Then one day, he caught me just after I’d just manufactured a new load of the secret ingredient and was about to massage it into his boots, my school trousers and pants still pulled down!

“I can explain!” I cried, but of course, I couldn’t.  The fresh spunk lying on the boots did all the talking for me.  I rapidly hitched up my black pants and grey school trousers.  Unfortunately, just at that moment, the glass bottle of sperm dropped from my trouser pocket onto the floor.  Damn! He’d seen it!

“Aha,” he said as he held the small bottle up to the light, “A premeditated crime, I see.  And just how long has this been going on?”

At that point I just wanted to die, or have the ground swallow me up.  Shit!  I had been caught.  Caught bang to rights, defiling the shiny black leather of this generous friend of mine.  I didn’t know what to say about it, so I just whispered in shame, “I love your boots.”

“Yes, I can see that, you dirty little boy!  You haven’t answered my question though, have you?  So let me check the facts here.  You’ve been bringing a bottle of your spunk to work into my boots?  And today you’ve not even used its contents, instead you’ve jerked straight onto my boots.”  He’d worked it all out.  Every sordid detail. “And I’ve been paying you for this dubious pleasure!  Well, more fool me.  Now, what will your parents say when I tell them what you’ve been up to?”

This time I had to be more vocal!  I begged and begged him not to tell them.  My face was red with embarrassment.  I felt as if I’d burst into tears at any moment, or piss myself with shame.

“Well, I could punish you myself, I suppose.  But no!  It’s not my place to do that.”

“Anything, Richard, anything, just don’t tell my folks!  They’d throw me out I’m sure!”

“You might be right there.  They are real bible bashers aren’t they?”

“Yes, and they even still pay a tithe to the church.”

“My God, they’re real dinosaurs aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“But your Dad doesn’t beat you in the biblical manner?  ‘Cause that’s what you really deserve, you know.”

“No of course he doesn’t and yes, I guess I’ve been bad enough to deserve something like that.”

“Well, you’re in luck, in a manner of speaking.  It just so happens that I have a strap and cane here.  I had a rather awkward lodger who would only respond to a sore arse.  I think maybe you’re the same.  In fact, I know you’re the same.  Get up the stairs!”

I soon found myself in the master bedroom of his two bed maisonette.  He piled pillows in the middle of the pine king-size bed and made me mount them, after pulling down my school trousers and pants for me.

One thing was for sure, he knew how to make that leather strap sting like the blazes!  It hurt and it burnt my tender bare teenage flesh.  I was riding on crests of pain, but also mixed in was the first tingling of pleasure from the pain.  I even had time to daydream idly about the possibility of working some of my spunk into the leather strap!  I wondered if he’d let me?  It seemed appropriate somehow, LOL.  A noisy and particularly sharp blow brought me back down to earth however, terminating all pervy thoughts, at least for a while.  I wasn’t counting, but I reckon there were about twenty blows in all.  I was relieved when the beating stopped.  What had started as fairly mild discipline had soon escalated into a festival of sadism.  The last blows had broken me, and rare tears trickled down my face.

“There!  I hope that leathering has taught you to never weaken good leather by spunking on it. I’m disgusted by all of this you know!  Really disgusted.  Even I wasn’t like this at your age. Anyway, now, it’s time for some extra punishment for making me pay you good money for your depravity.”

“What?  No, really Richard, I can’t take anymore!”

“I’m afraid lad that my cane always gets used once I’ve got it out from it secret lair!  Let me assure you, no naughty boy leaves my house uncaned!  I’m going to be lenient, however.  A quick six of the best should cure your emissions forever.”

Six strokes didn’t sound at all lenient to me!  My arse was already pitifully sore.  I heard him swooshing the cane through the air.  He cackled with delight as he crashed the first stroke down onto my naked haunches.  I’d never felt pain like it, of course.  The cane was an order of magnitude worse than the leather strap.  My poor abused arse twisted from left to right and back again as I tried in vain to avoid each burning stroke of the unforgiving rattan.  He was true to his word, in that this extra beating was quick.  But the pain!  Oh God!  I yelped and cried as my flesh was criss-crossed not with six but with eight stinging cuts.  The bastard had given me two extra strokes, on the flimsy pretext that I’d been writhing in attempt to avoid my punishment.  I heard him drop the cane and then, as he moved closer to me, I heard him breathing heavily from the exertion of the beating.

Suddenly I felt the bell-end of his penis pushing against the entrance to my tight puckered anus.  A little bit of cold lube and his sheathed monster was in me, thrusting and twisting.  I loved it!  He was an animal, a beast and a truly fantastic fucker.  Never before had my virgin back passage known such pleasure.  I knew we’d have to be doing this regularly in future.  Yes, I loved it, and I could tell that he did too.  I could even see the continuation of my undeclared income stream…

After coming noisily, he slapped my bare bottom and nibbled lovingly at my ear, whispering gently, “Now, anymore of this perverse nonsense, and I’ll take you down the fire station to show the lads your red arse!  It’s their favourite colour, you know.”

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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.

__________________

Story © MMXVII by Rod Cayenne

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

A Cane To Treasure (M/M) NEW!

♥ 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.

___________)

Story ©MMXIX 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

Christmas Shopping 2019

For the season of goodwill to all men… 

Now is the time!  Christmas is fast approaching.  What better way to show your adult partner your hitherto secret desires than by giving them a rattan cane as a gift?   At this time of year, you can always treat it as a jokey present!  Or blame a friend for suggesting it as a gift.  It’s probably the only time of year you can get away with such a light-hearted approach.  Do it now!  Yes, right now!  If you get a negative reaction, you can always dismiss it as a joke…it didn’t cost much, it wasn’t serious, Santa must have left it, I’ll throw it away, etc.  I don’t recommend the latter, of course.  Just save it for a rainy day…or a snowy day…

You can find these implements all over the net.  The two fine canes in the picture came from a firm called Quality Control here in England, but other suppliers are available!  You could try an auction site, for example.

Please don’t blame me if you end up with a sore bottom as one of your gifts!  If you get a favourable reaction, it may be sub or it may be dom!  Or it may be somewhere between the two!  Your mileage may vary, as they say.

___________)

Posted by Rod Cayenne

This is a revised version of a post from years and years ago.  Oh yes…

Comments welcome, please use the link at top of this item!

Junior Masters – Part 2 (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Second part of this spanking story by Rod Cayenne.  Strictly Over-18s only!

Dennis Miller, Junior Associate Physics Master, couldn’t help noticing how well colleague Adrian Bruce and the headmaster had been getting on as the week wore on.  Maybe that caning his friend had mentioned discreetly had brought the two men closer?  Dennis was a little envious.  All the same, he was sure that he didn’t want to go through the same thing.  He couldn’t help wondering whether Adrian was the first junior master ever to be caned there at the school.

On the Saturday morning, Dennis reported to the office for his performance assessment.  Headmaster, Mr Victor Timpson, cut an imposing figure in his distinguished tweeds.  Dennis gazed at him with admiration, bordering on affection.  Just then, however, the junior master noticed the whippy  punishment cane lying on the desk.  Surely, there was no prospect?

Timpson noticed his subordinate’s worried expression, and immediately picked up the cane, saying, “I don’t think we’ll be needing this, will we, Mr Miller?”

“No, I trust not, Headmaster!”

“No.  I’ve been very pleased with your performance, lad.”

The 23-year-old blushed with embarrassment at the compliment and at being referred to as if he were indeed still a lad or schoolboy.  He watched carefully as the headmaster placed the cane back in the cast iron umbrella stand behind him.

“Thank you, Sir.  I’ve tried hard and I think I can honestly say that I’ve only stuffed up a couple of lessons.”

“Stuffed up, that’s a funny expression, what do you mean exactly?”

“Oh you know Sir, screwed up.  Big time.”

“Screwed up?  What a coarse expression.  I don’t much care for that.  Tell me about these lessons, please Mr Miller.”

“Well, you know Sir, ever since the moon landings ceased, the boys seem to be less and less interested in science.  I’ve had to use the cane a few times to keep them motivated.  I do appreciate being given corporal punishment rights.”

“Yes.  Not all of my junior masters have those rights, you know.”

“No, I know, Sir.   Thank you again.”

“So these stuffed up lessons, what do you attribute the problems to?”

“Oh my fault entirely, Headmaster.  Lack of preparation, really.”

“I see.  And what punishment do you deem appropriate for a pupil who hasn’t done his prep?”

“A good question, Sir.  A caning is often called for, Sir.  Especially for a repeat offender.”

“You seem very sure about that, Mr Miller.  So let me ask you another question, then.”

“Fire away, Headmaster!”

“Oh don’t worry, Miller.  I shall fire away.  Most certainly.  So, my new question is, what punishment should a junior master who hasn’t done prep for his lessons get?  Especially if he is, how shall I put this?    A repeat offender!”

“Oh Sir!”

“Yes, indeed!  A caning!”

“But Sir!  I’ve never had the cane before!”

“Hold on!  I have given corporal punishment rights to someone who has never experienced a good, hard  caning himself?  How could I have been so stupid?”

“Well Sir.  I may have slightly misled you when we discussed the matter before.”

“You are making things worse for yourself again, Miller. Every little revelation is dimming my view of you.  Now, let’s just examine the official school punishment book.  You are of course recording all beatings in here?”

“Oh yes, Sir.  Your secretary has been most helpful in that regard, even tracking the pupils down to ensure that they countersign their entries.”

“Ah, yes.  Jayne is assiduous in these matters, even despite her obvious distaste for the use of the cane.  Let’s see.  Yes.  An awful lot of entries from you, Mr Miller.  I hadn’t really picked up on that before.  Mainly sixes, too, I see.  Quite the little sadist aren’t you?”

Poor Dennis Miller stared with embarrassment at his scuffed suede shoes.  There was nowhere else to look.  He couldn’t bring himself to reply.  He could not look Mr Timpson in the eye, just at that moment.  There was a heavy sigh from the headmaster, who rocked back in his chair and leant back to grab a cane from the umbrella stand.  He had picked, at random, a senior model.  Its crook-handle and brown patina made it look old and distinguished, though it was actually a fairly new addition to the arsenal, chosen by his secretary, Jayne Wilkins, who was an expert in sourcing punishment rattans.  Indeed, the headmaster’s study was well-stocked with canes.  As well as in the umbrella stand, there were further canes hanging on hooks in the walk-in cupboard.  The headmaster rose and approached the cupboard, opening the door and pulling out the wooden caning stool.

“My, my!  I hadn’t expected to be doing this today, Mr Miller!  It has to be six for you, of course.  Just like the boys have been getting.  You can keep your trousers on, but I shall expect you to take your beating with decorum.  Is that clear?”

“Sir!  There must be another way?”

“Not unless you want your cards, Miller.  And arguing about your punishment is not good form.  Hardly the decorum I just mentioned, is it?  Take your jacket off and bend over the stool.”

Miller removed his brown cord jacket and draped it over the chair he had been sat in.  Slowly, he bent over the official caning stool, his trousers riding up his pert posterior, causing a half-mast effect, displaying his lime green socks prominently.  Timpson noticed the socks, they were ghastly and nothing like the sober grey socks of his usual visitors.  To him, it was just another example of Miller’s poor judgement.  The cane slashed down.

“AARGH!” cried the junior master, leaping up from the stool, and clutching at his backside.

“What did I say about decorum, Miller?  That wasn’t a hard stroke, you know.  Even a first year could have taken that one in his stride.  Get back down, right now!”

Gingerly, the young master resumed his position.  The headmaster surveyed the scene.  Not a particularly shapely bottom, he mused to himself as he lined up his second stroke.

“OWWW!”  Once again, Miller was showing his distress, much to the annoyance of Mr Timpson.  The same thing happened with the third stroke.

The headmaster took a break and started to pace around the room, flexing and swishing the cane as he addressed the junior master, “Really quite a cowardly display!  For someone keen on using the cane to maintain classroom discipline, I would have expected rather more.”

“Sorry, Sir,` croaked the junior master, still obviously in distress.

The next stroke elicited only a loud groan from Dennis Miller, but it was only a temporary display of courage, as the fifth stroke hit him with agonising pain accompanied by a loud squeal!  How his bottom throbbed and ached from the cruel punishment being meted out to him!

“Last one!  See if you can take it quietly, Miller.  I don’t like all this unnecessary fuss.”

With a loud crack, the cane landed right on target for the last time.  Miller leapt to his feet, clutching his backside and cursing indistinctly.

“Well!  Have you learnt how much a caning can hurt, Dennis?” asked the headmaster with a slightly more friendly tone.

“I’ll say so, Sir!  That really hurt.”

“Good!  But I feel I have no choice but to withdraw your corporal punishment rights until such time as you can prove to me that you can take it as well as you give it out.  That was a most cowardly performance.  Let me know when you feel ready to discuss the matter again.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Let’s fill out the punishment book, shall we?  It’s a shame there isn’t a comments column, as I’d record ‘poorly taken’ if there were one.”

The poor junior master felt utterly humiliated.  As he walked home, he reflected that the only way he could get his much-loved corporal punishment rights reinstated was to take a further beating from his employer, and that was out of the question.

A dejected Dennis Miller opened the front door, only to be met by his step-father, Jim.  A recent addition to the household, there was sometimes friction between the two men.  This time, however, Jim gave a friendly smile and a firm handshake.

“You look a bit got at, young Dennis!” the older man laughed.

“Yes, the headmaster wasn’t very happy with me.  Don’t tell Mum, but the bastard whacked me!”

“What?”

“I said the bastard whacked me!  Six of the best with the cane, just like the boys get.   Said I hadn’t been preparing for lessons and was too keen on beating the boys.”

“Aha!  Power corrupts, doesn’t it?  A bit too free with the cane, eh?  I was the same when I was a prefect!”

“What?  Prefects caned at your school?”

“Oh yes!  It was what they call ‘old school’ in many ways…”

“Gosh!  That caning bloody hurt.  And he withdrew my corporal punishment rights!  Bastard!”

“No more jollies for you then, eh lad?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do!  Anyway, this is a pretty dire situation.  If you don’t want me to tell your mother, you’d better allow me to top up your caning.”

“What?  You’re joking!  That’s blackmail!”

“No, no, Dennis.  Your behaviour towards your mother has been disgraceful lately anyway.  I know that maybe something to do with jealousy caused by my arrival.  You’re obviously in need of some friendly family guidance from your dear old stepfather.  As it happens I’ve got a cane here, a souvenir from my prefect days.  It might take me a minute or two to find as I still haven’t unpacked everything!  Up to your room now, I’ll be there as soon as I can!”

“No Jim!  Really!”

“Shut up, Dennis.  And you can call me Sir!”

For the second time that day, Dennis felt trapped.  Even worse, for the second time that day he was facing a caning.  Until that day, his backside had been virgin territory as far as the cane and its ravages were concerned.  But all that had changed earlier, and was now about to be reinforced.  Desperately unhappy, Dennis made his way upstairs to his untidy bedroom.

Jim burst in with a flourish.  In his right hand he held a cane dating back over two decades to his own school days.  But first, there was another shock for Dennis.

“I want to inspect your bottom, Dennis.  I need to see how badly it is marked to determine how hard I need to be.”

“Oh, Jim!  No!”

“That’s ‘Sir’  and ‘yes’ to you, boy!”

“Sorry, Sir,” said Dennis realising perhaps that he had no choice.  He bent over the bed and slipped his jeans and pants down so that his stepfather could examine his bottom.

“A few nice marks.  Not too deep, just surface scarring.  It’s quite a large bottom, isn’t it?  I reckon I could fit another eight strokes in there.  Any more could be a touch cruel.  We’ll keep the bottom bare though.”

Things were going from bad to worse for Dennis.  Eight strokes instead of a maximum of six that he had anticipated, and now they were to be bare bottom!  He could only hope his stepfather was out of practice!  But it was to prove to be a forlorn hope…

CRACK!  The first stroke landed with presence and determination.  Poor Dennis yelped with pain.  Clearly, his stepfather has lost none of his ability acquired all those years ago.

CRACK!   The second stroke just added to the pain.  Again, Dennis yelped, quite inappropriately for a 23-year-old.

CRACK!  CRACK!  Jim upped the ante by adding two strokes in rapid succession.  His stepson just gasped and groaned.

CRACK!  An epic fifth stroke made Dennis leap up, clutching his fleshy cheeks, gasping and trying to massage the pain away.

“GET DOWN IMMEDIATELY!  I hope you weren’t like this with the Headmaster!  Well?”

“Sorry, Sir.  The Headmaster’s caning was hard to take, but if anything yours  is even worse.”

“That’s the way it should be!  Now back into place.  Three more strokes to come.  Think yourself very lucky I’m not adding extras for disobedience!”

“Sorry, Sir.”  Dennis bent back over the bed, offering his smarting and striped cheeks for further chastisement.

CRACK!  A sixth stroke hit home with an almighty sting.  Dennis cried out again, and Jim just tutted and swished the cane through the air as if practising his swing.

CRACK!  CRACK!  Two final, diagonal strokes soon had Dennis crying and clutching at his bottom once again.

“I can see we’re going to have to toughen you up Dennis,” said Jim flexing the cane with menace.

 

To be continued…

________________

D I S C L A I M E R

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

________________

Story © MMXIV by Rod Cayenne

with special thanks to Jim for his inspired ideas

All rights reserved

_______________

Comments welcome

Junior Masters – Part 1 (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Spanking fiction by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2014.  All the characters are aged 21 or over.  Story strictly for over-18s only!

“Good of you to come along, Mr Bruce. I have taken the unusual step of reviewing your performance on a Saturday, so that I can give you my undivided attention.”

“Yes, Headmaster. Very thoughtful. Thank you.”

“Before I give you my impressions, may I ask how do you think things have gone then?”

“Not too badly, Sir. I really love the school, its history and traditions. The pupils are all eager to learn. I do like working for you.”

“I see. From my point of view, I remember a really good start, indeed the whole of the teaching staff was impressed. Especially those early outings to York that you organised. But let’s not beat about the bush. I’ve been very disappointed with your performance lately. After that encouraging start, things have gone downhill rapidly.”

“Really, Sir?”

“Don’t play innocent with me, Adrian Bruce! I realise that you are a junior master, and not long out of University. However, I feel my expectations are not unrealistic. You have failed to keep order in your classes, which has resulted in a steady stream of lads reporting to me. Even a few of the Lower Sixth! Those lads are not much younger than you. I’ve got better things to do with my time than chastise them. I feel that the cocky attitude you have shown towards Mr Williams as Head of History is partly to blame for this.”

“Sir?”

“Yes! How on earth can the boys respect him when clearly you do not?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, Sir.”

“I’m afraid that I would, Mr Bruce. If you do respect Mr Williams, you’ve got a very funny way of showing it. I have discussed the matter with him and clearly he feels aggrieved. He’s not a particularly sensitive soul, either. It’s not just me reaching damning verdicts on your behaviour. I also hear that you have been insolent to the kitchen staff and to Jayne Wilkins, my dear, dear secretary. Now then, how are we going to clear the air, give you a chance to show that you are sorry and discourage any repetition?”

“I really don’t know, Sir. I accept all your points of course and I’m most sorry to have let you down. What do you suggest?”

“I have an idea. I propose to treat you the same way as I would a disobedient, recalcitrant sixth former. That is to say, with a traditional six of the best with one of my finest punishment canes. On the seat of your trousers. I had considered more strokes, but really, you are just a naughty boy at heart and must be treated accordingly. What do you say?”

“What? You are joking, aren’t you?”

“No my dear Mr Bruce, I’m not joking. I’m not known for my jokes at all. In this matter, I’m deadly serious.”

“Well, Headmaster. Let me think. It’s an unusual proposal, to be frank. I suppose it may help clear the air. If you do it, will you be telling Mr Williams?”

“I’ve already discussed it with him. He’s in favour. It will be a secret between the three of us, unless you choose to publicise the matter. I would caution against the latter course, however. Your authority at the school could be further diminished. I would have to consider dismissal.”

“Oh, Sir!”

“Shall we proceed Mr Bruce?”

“No, Sir. Really there must be a better solution.”

“I’m listening, Mr Bruce, but it seems very quiet to me. In fact, I don’t hear a better suggestion at all, Mr Bruce. I put it to you that you are wasting my time.”

“Sorry Headmaster. OK, let’s get it over with.”

“Excellent! I knew you’d see sense eventually.”

“Right then my lad. Go to the cupboard over there, and bring me the caning stool. That’s it! Put it down here.”

Adrian Bruce surveyed the pale wooden stool with dismay. It had a worn green leather seat. He imagined dozens of lads bending over the stool had scuffed the padded leather over the years. He felt humiliated, even before the caning had started. Was he going to be the first ever junior master to be treated this way?

“And now back to the cupboard, Mr Bruce. You will find a selection of punishment canes hanging on hooks at the back. Select one, any one, and bring it to me.”

This was getting worse for Adrian. Now he had to pick the very cane that he was to be beaten with! He gazed at the selection hanging on the hooks at the back of the walk-in cupboard. They all looked much the same to his untrained eye. He grabbed one at random and gave it to his boss.

“A fine choice, Mr Bruce. It’s what I call a walloper, a senior cane, just right for sixth formers.”

Adrian Bruce wasn’t sure how to feel. Should he be reassured that a cane deemed suitable for 17 and 18-year-olds would be used on him? He himself hadn’t been caned for many years, and, of course, had felt immune from the threat of it. Now he was facing a nightmare. He would have to be stoic, and remain composed and silent during his beating. Gradually, he bent over the caning stool, offering his buttocks to his headmaster for chastisement. This had to be the most humiliating day of his entire life!

“That’s not quite right, Mr Bruce. Let me help you get into position.”

The headmaster manhandled Adrian into the correct position. Now, the junior master’s pert arse was even more vulnerable to the forthcoming onslaught.

CRACK! The first stroke landed right on target. The agonising pain caused the victim to yelp with surprise and discomfort. He gripped onto the rung of the stool and gritted his teeth.

“Quiet, boy! I expect you to take your punishment like a man!” admonished the headmaster. The junior master really resented being referred to in that manner, but even more he resented the throbbing pain in his boyish bottom! Could he stand another five strokes? He would have to, like it or not!

CRACK! The second stroke landed and was again accompanied by a barely-disguised yelp from Adrian Bruce, Junior History Master.

“What did I just tell you, lad? I said to be quiet, did I not?”

“Yes, Sir. Sorry. It really hurts though.”

“Obviously, you’re not listening to me, yet again! I told you to be quiet and yet here you are giving me useless, superfluous information about the fact that a caning hurts. Of course it does. I know that already!”

A shame-faced Adrian shuffled back into position on the stool. Wishing to pacify his headmaster, he stuck his bottom out just that little bit further, ready for a third stroke. When it came, however, it was even harder than its predecessors. A squeal escaped from the junior master, despite his best intentions. This time the head just tutted and sliced another hard stroke down. The walloper cane was living up to its reputation!

The penultimate stroke slashed down with a sickeningly sharp retort. Wave after wave of pain racked through the bottom of the junior master. He gasped and gasped again. This was all too much!

The final stroke was the hardest of all, accompanied by a shrill “AAARGH”, which echoed around the bare walls of the study.

 

The headmaster shook his head in disbelief. “A very poor display, that, Mr Bruce. I’ve had tougher third formers over that stool. Get up! Put the stool away. Not the cane though, we’ll leave that to cool down here,” he said placing the rattan rod down on the top of his desk. That was a strange idea, thought Adrian, although he dared not query his headmaster’s decision.

“Sit down!” the head commanded. “There’s just the small matter of the punishment book to complete. Here, I’d already filled in the details. You just need to sign it.”

The headmaster handed the book over. Through misty eyes, Adrian Bruce studied the entry:

Date: 1st February

Name: Adrian Bruce

Form: n/a

Offence: Insolence

Strokes: 6

Location: Seat

Administrator’s signature: V Timpson, Headmaster

Pupil’s signature:

Adrian scratched his signature in the final box using the Waterman fountain pen he’d been lent by the headmaster. As he wrote, he reflected to himself that it had been quite a morning!

“Right! Let’s sum up before you go. More effort and more respect! Discreet apologies to Williams, the kitchen staff, my secretary. Make a point of praising Mr Williams in all your classes. Now, I suppose you may wish to tell the other junior masters about this. I have no problem there. I will be conducting similar performance reviews with them too.”

After Adrian Bruce had gone, the headmaster rang his secretary at her home. “Hello Jayne. Yes, all to plan. Six hard ones. No, no. He didn’t take it at all well. I had to restrain myself from laughing. Yes, a very nice bottom, as you said, just made for caning. No, I made him keep his trousers and pants on. Didn’t want the blighter enjoying it! I can stop the night as Bill’s away. Yes, of course I’ll bring the cane I used with me. See you soon darling. Bye.”

Adrian laid low for the rest of the weekend. His parents were surprised when he scrapped his plans to go to Scarborough on Sunday. Instead, he spent a great deal of time in his room, reflecting on his humiliation and his rather sore bottom.

On Monday, at school, Adrian shared his shame with his fellow junior masters. His friend, Dennis Miller, was a star performer as Junior Associate Physics Master, but even he was concerned about his forthcoming appraisal. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, Den. I’m sure it was a one-off. I’d just annoyed the old man, that’s all. He seems to be really pleased with you. It may be the comparison with you that highlighted my perceived shortcomings,” said Adrian.

“I hope you’re right. The last thing I need is my arse caning. Never again,” laughed Dennis, as he slapped Adrian playfully on the bottom.

By the evening, Adrian made his way home. At least he’d had some sympathy from Den and the other junior masters. Assembly apart, he’d managed to avoid Vic Timpson, his dreaded headmaster!

Back home, Adrian’s parents were sat enjoying tea on the veranda. “Ah, Adrian. Good day at school? You and I need to have a little chat, I think. In my study, please,” his father said.

Adrian’s face fell as soon as the two men arrived in the poky study. For there on the desk, was not only his father’s punishment strap, but also a school cane!

“I thought you’d got rid of that strap, Dad?”

“No. I didn’t expect to have to use it on you again though. But you have brought shame on the family name. Vic rang me and told me all about your poor performance. I went straight over to see him and to apologise. Then he insisted on giving me this cane. It looks wicked, doesn’t it?”

“Well yes, Dad. But I’m 24! Too old for the strap and cane!”

“I don’t think you believe that do you, Adrian? Vic told me you were only too happy to take your punishment from him. As you are only two days older than when you were punished last, I don’t think it’s worth pursuing that age argument, do you? Bend over!”

Adrian was caught, for sure. His father picked up the nut brown punishment strap and cracked it down on his own palm. He winced a little, having forgotten what a sting it could impart.

“Let’s have your bottom bare, too.”

“What? Even the headmaster didn’t want that, Dad!”

“Just do as you’re told. You’re just making things worse for yourself.”

“Oh Dad!”

“I’m sorry son. Your mother has agreed too. As long as you live with us, your arse is on the line. Is that clear? Now, trousers and underpants down!”

Slowly, the flannel trousers and string briefs fell to the floor. Adrian’s peachy arse was ready. Ready for chastisement and contrition.

The leather strap cracked down again and again. The punishment seemed relentless, as Mr Bruce (Senior!) lashed left and right cheeks alternately. A crisp dozen was delivered. Adrian cried out every time the leather connected with his naughty bottom.

“I seem to remember you taking it better in the past, son. Certainly, a lot quieter. I think you need a few refreshers. Now, how about this cane?”

“Oh Dad! Not the cane too?”

“Well, I did consider saving that for another day. But to be honest, I’ve never used one before, and I’m itching to give it a try. But I am feeling kind. Let’s make it eight strokes instead of the full dozen.”

“Eight? The head only gave me six!”

“Yes, he is a bit of a softy isn’t he? But seeing as you’re in an argumentative mood, let’s go for the full dozen after all.”

The cane lashed down, causing Adrian to cry out.

“One!” his father counted out loud.

A second strike whipped down, wrapping around Adrian’s right haunch.  That really hurt him, and caused a sharp gasp.

“Two!” Dad laughed sadistically.

“Three!  Four! Five!” The older man was really getting into his stride now, whipping the cane with real gusto.

“Six!”

“Owww!  No more, Dad!  Please?”

“You should have thought about the consequences before you caused all this trouble.  Your mother and I are not amused.  We paid for your education and this is how you choose to repay us?”

“Seven!”

“AARRGGH!”

“Eight!  Stick your bottom out more, Adrian!”

“Dad!  Please, no more!”

“Nine! Ten! Eleven!”

“OWWW!  I’m sorry!”

“Yes, I’m sure you are now.  Last one!”

“ARRGH!”

“Twelve.  That’s your lot.  By God, what a cane!  I’m glad that I brought the strap out of retirement, but this cane is even better!  I must thank Vic.”

Adrian’s bottom was red raw that evening. His father caned hard, if not entirely accurately. Suddenly, Adrian was giving serious consideration to a career change. After all, if he got away from the school environment, then the threat of the cane would be gone, wouldn’t it? Then he remembered the relish his father had felt in using the cane there at home.  Perhaps there was no immediate escape?  He wondered whether he should he tell Den and the other junior masters about his evening reckoning?  Perhaps not; he felt sure that they would only laugh at him.

 

To be continued…

________________

D I S C L A I M E R

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

________________

Story © MMXIV by Rod Cayenne

with special thanks to Jim for his inspired ideas

All rights reserved

_______________

_______________

Comments welcome

Comments are here

Son’s Birthday Present (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

 

Hot caning fiction by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2013.  All the characters are aged 21 or over.  This story is suitable for adults only.

______________

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.

Robert James strode into the house, making his way down the hall. He stopped quickly, as there before him stood his father, looking stern, with his arms folded, as if blocking the way.

“Robert, we need to have a chat. A little chat, a man to man chat. Come with me.”

They made their way into the father’s den. It was supposed to be a home office, but it was so untidy, it could have passed for a teenager’s bedroom. A motorbike in some state of dismantlement stood in the corner of the room, where the carpet had been folded back, presumably to avoid dirt and oil stains. The room was really being used as an overflow from the garage. A selection of girlie calendars adorned the walls, while the room stank heavily of cigarette smoke. Robert found it quite creepy in there, and wondered why his mother put up with it all, especially the calendars.

Reluctantly, Robert sat down, facing his father who was sat behind a rather battered wooden desk. A cloud of smoke rose from the roll-up hanging limply from the father’s mouth.

“Son, your mother was tidying your room the other day. She found a school cane under the bed. What was it doing there? You haven’t gone all kinky on us have you?”

“Oh that!” laughed Robert, as if it was nothing. “Well you know I collect antiques and curios and things. Well that cane came as part of a job lot of school memorabilia, which I quite liked in a nostalgic way. I picked the lot up for a song.”

“Oh, that’s good then. We were a bit worried. I took a look at the cane. Quite an evil item, reminded me of my old school days.”

Robert laughed again, saying, “Yes, I bet you were a naughty boy, Dad. Always in trouble, with a sore bottom?”

“Hmmm. Less of your cheek, son. I did have a few run-ins, and let me tell you the cane is no joke. A nasty punishment, indeed. I want you to promise me that you’ll never use that cane. Especially if you have a girlfriend.”

“Dad. Get real!”

“Well, I know what you youngsters can be like. Sadistic!”

“Dad!”

“I mean it, son. Keep it as a curio if you must, but really your mother and I would rather not see it. Is that clear?”

“OK, OK then. I’ll put it on top of the wardrobe, out of harm’s way.”

“Well before you do, bring it down here, I want to have a good look at it.”

Robert duly did as he was told, reaching under his bed to retrieve the cane. He was telling the truth. He had bought the rattan as part of a lot at the auction down the road, and only hid it because he didn’t know what to do with it. He wasn’t in the slightest kinky, being almost straight-laced in some ways.

“Here it is, Dad.”

“Hmmm. Nasty. Hand it over please.”

Dad flexed the cane a little and scythed it through the air. It made a fearsome noise. It reminded him of unhappy times spent in his headmaster’s study years ago.

“What do you think, Dad?”

“To be honest, son, I think we should chuck it on the bonfire. Your mother and I were both caned at school and we really hated seeing this thing after all these years. There should be a law against it.”

“There is, Dad, there is.”

“Yes, of course, stupid of me, just a turn of phrase, son. OK, take it back and put it on top of the wardrobe, like you said. Then I’ll know where to find it.”  A mischievous chuckle from his father made Robert a touch nervous.

Robert took the lithe cane from his father’s hands and made his way upstairs. Standing on tiptoes, he was just about able to push the cane out of view on the top of the wardrobe. In doing so, he disturbed some dust which then filled the air for a few moments.

Robert slumped down on the bed.  The air was still full of dust, but at least the cane was hidden.  He moved his head around but couldn’t spy the rattan from any vantage point. He’d been surprised by his father’s vehemence about the evils of the cane. Of course, Robert had never experienced it, and didn’t have any interest in doing so. He might dispose of it, as it was proving to be a controversial acquisition. He didn’t want to upset his parents.

A few days later, it was Robert’s twenty-first birthday. As it was a Saturday, he spent a lot of the afternoon at the auction rooms but couldn’t find anything worth bidding on. He cycled home disconsolately. It had actually been quite a boring day, and he was regretting not jumping on a train to London, where he could have visited a world-class auction.

“Hello, Robert! Having a good birthday?” his father asked as he opened the door.

“No, not really, it’s been a bit shit, really!”

“Language, Robert!”

“Sorry, Dad. The auction was crap today. Total crap.”

“Language! Anyway, I’m sorry I haven’t got you a present yet. I wasn’t sure what to get you. Unless you’d like a birthday spanking? With that cane of yours?”

“Oh fuck off, Dad!”

Robert ran up the stairs, slamming his bedroom door. He hadn’t appreciated his father’s joke about the cane. It would have to go.

Suddenly, Robert’s father burst in, angrily. “I don’t appreciate being told to ‘F Off’ in my own house, son! Let’s make this a birthday to remember shall we?”

With that his father rolled up his shirtsleeves and reached up on top of the wardrobe, retrieving the cane.

“Dad, you cannot be serious!”

“Oh, but I am! You’re going to regret being rude to me. And you’re going to regret buying this cane!”

Robert’s face flushed a bright beetroot red. He was so embarrassed and felt about one foot tall.

“Dad, no please. It’s my birthday!”

“Shut up whining! Now, I want you on all fours on the bed, now!”

“Dad, no, this is insane!”

“DO IT!”

Father tucked the cane under his left arm and approached his son. Suddenly, the belt holding up Robert’s jeans was being unbuckled by his father! The denims were yanked down unceremoniously, followed shortly after by the boy’s underpants! Tears of shame were forming in the son’s eyes. He didn’t struggle, but buried his face in the pillows on the bed.

CRACK! A first stroke sliced through the air, whacking into the boy’s naked arse cheeks. It left an angry red line, and was accompanied by a loud gasp from Robert.

CRACK! A second stroke was accompanied by writhing from the boy.

“Keep still, unless you want double?” his father commanded. The man’s assertiveness was quite a surprise to his son, although perhaps not to anyone who has had an encounter with an angry man with a cane in his hand!

CRACK! The third stroke sliced into the lad’s tender, downy cheeks. He was marking nicely, for this was indeed a rather wonderful cane.

CRACK! An extra hard stroke struck just on the sit spot, causing an angry wail from the boy. His bottom was now looking like a naughty schoolboy’s, decorated with the consequences of impertinence and rudeness.

Father was enjoying dishing out this beating. He was beginning to understand the virtues of the cane, whereas previously he had only been aware of its vices.

CRACK! The fifth was again an extra hard one, higher up this time, scorching the naked boy flesh with evil intent.

CRAAACK! A sixth stroke lashed down, causing the boy to squeal and writhe.

Father decided that six was sufficient for now. Yes, a traditional schoolboy six of the best had been delivered to his immense satisfaction. Robert’s face was buried in the pillows, although it was clear he was sobbing gently. Father admired his son’s naked, striped bottom. He reflected that his son was now old enough to have his arsehole fucked. That was something he could never do to him, but further canings were definitely assured.

“Happy Birthday!” father cried as he placed the cane back on top of the dusty wardrobe.

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Story © 2013 by Rod Cayenne

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

Comments from the original posting are here