♥ Site recommended story ♥
New to The Canery is this exciting caning story by very special guest author JOELSTRAP. All the characters are 18 or older. WARNING: ADULTS ONLY!
Return Of The Cane by Joelstrap
At eighteen, a guy’s cock can soar at the most unexpected times and I was used to the discomfort of a raging organ unwillingly confined within the restraints of my pants and jeans when I glimpsed a sexy-looking boy, a pair of tight young buttocks, soft hair clustering thickly round a pair of youthful ears. It occurred on less predictable occasions too, such as when I turned a page in a magazine and was faced with an advertisement featuring a cool guy in revealing attire; or when I got a wolf-whistle in the gay bar; or when I was listening to a tedious lesson and my mind slid without conscious decision to carnal matters.
This morning it was the “twenty-five years ago” column in the newspaper that did it. Glen and I were sitting on the top deck of the bus, on our way to the sports-centre to spend a few hours honing our bodies, working out, and generally whipping up a manly sweat. I was flicking idly through a paper for that day. Don’t get me wrong. I hadn’t bought it. How old-fashioned do you think I am? It had been left on the seat by a previous passenger and I’d picked it up and was entertaining us both by reading out little snatches of news which caught my eye. Glen was listening, and reading things for himself as he looked over my arm. I was reaching the back of the paper and was about to turn over the page when Glen uttered unexpectedly.
“Fuck!”
“What?”
“Look at that.”
He pointed to the “twenty-five years ago” column, which I’d ignored, and to one particular item. I read it aloud.
“On this day in 1987 the cane was abolished in schools in England, although its use continued in private schools.”
That’s when my cock suddenly seized the initiative and I had no notion of why. It just happened, and I found myself wriggling in my seat as I attempted to conceal my discomfort from Glen. He was no fool and saw clearly what was going on.
“Hey, Simon, you like the idea of getting your arse caned, huh?” he teased with a broad grin as he slapped playfully at my bulging crotch and made me yelp.
“Shut up, you bastard,” I hissed. “Somebody might hear you.”
Glen looked round.
“There’s no-one else up here but that guy in front,” he objected, indicating a lad a row ahead of us but across the aisle of the bus.
“Anyway,” I said nastily, “you’re the perverted wanker who got so excited about the mention of the cane that you said fuck out loud.”
“So I did,” he replied, unconcerned. “Ever wonder what it was like to be around more than a quarter of a century ago and to get the cane at school?”
I shook my head, and, giving up on any hope that my penis was going to retreat of its own accord, plunged a hand into my jeans and rearranged things. Glen grinned mischievously but made no comment. I observed that there appeared to be a considerable tenting in the front of his own denims.
“Bet it stung like fuck,” he opined. “Boys used to get six of the best, you know.”
“Yeh. I’ve heard. Sounds pretty painful. Glad we were born too late to have to take something like that,” I said.
“Are you?”
“Well, of course I bloody am. Aren’t you?”
“Dunno. It’s kind of interesting,” remarked Glen.
“Interesting? Getting your backside thrashed with a bloody cane?”
“Your cock seems to be finding it interesting,” observed Glen.
“So does yours,” I snapped back.
“I wonder just what it did feel like,” mused Glen.
“Bloody sore,” said another voice, making us both start.
I glanced round and saw that the lad sitting across the aisle and a little in front of us, had turned and was surveying us with a hint of a smile on his face. He’d be about our own age and wasn’t at all bad-looking in a slightly edgy way. His black hair was cut very short and he had a day’s growth round his lips and chin. A denim shirt was open half-way down his chest and a thick silver chain hung round his neck.
“Sorry?” said Glen, taken aback. “You saying you’ve felt a cane across your arse, mate?”
“Too right I have,” the young guy affirmed. “And it’s bloody sore,” he reiterated.
“But….but how?” I asked. “I mean, it says here the cane was abolished in schools twenty-five years ago today, 15th August, 1987.”
“So? I don’t get it in school.”
I heard Glen draw in his breath sharply. My cock strained for my navel.
“You got it at home?” I asked.
He nodded vigorously.
“My step-dad believes in corporal punishment for young guys like us. I was fourteen when he and mum got together and he took the cane across my bum right from the start. Mum said it would do me no harm and I was just to submit. So I did, because she told me to. I don’t get it terribly often,” he ended.
“Get it?” gasped Glen. “You mean you still get your bum caned?”
“Sure, when I deserve it.”
“But you look like you’re at least eighteen,” I protested and he nodded assent. “So he can’t cane you. You’re an adult. You can just say you’re not taking it.”
“Why would I do that?”
I stared at him.
“You like it?” I gasped, eyes wide.
“I never said that,” he responded.
“So, why take it?” I persisted.
“Better than the alternatives,” he replied nonchalantly.
“Alternatives?” asked Glen.
“You know. What do your dads do when you fuck up?” he asked.
“Grounding; not getting to borrow the car for weeks,” I said.
“Mobile confiscated; computer switched off; endless chores to do,” supplied Glen.
“There you are then.”
“Where?”
“Come on, guys! You’re not that thick. How long do all these punishments take? Days, weeks? How long does a caning take? A couple of minutes maybe.”
“Yeh, but a caning…….” I said.
He shrugged.
“Suit yourselves, but I’ll take six of the best with the cane across my arse any day rather than be grounded for a fortnight,” he informed us.
“He’s maybe got a point,” said Glen, turning towards me.
“Well, maybe. But I don’t think I’ve got the choice. Can’t see my dad taking a cane across my behind. Would yours?”
“Hmmm. I guess not,” replied Glen slowly.
The young guy got up and headed down the aisle of the bus.
“You two should get yourselves together and think about the cane,” he said. “Maybe your dads wouldn’t be so averse to it as you think if you suggested it.”
With this observation he began to descend the stairs.
“Stupid bastards,” I heard him mutter to himself as he disappeared from view.
I sat silently for a moment.
“So, are we?” asked Glen softly.
“I’ll have to think about it,” I replied.
We said no more about the merits of being caned as opposed to being grounded, but I thought about it a lot in the following twenty-four hours and concluded that a punishment which was swift, albeit painful, almost certainly was preferable to one which was lengthy, boring and inconvenient. Whether or not that made the latter a more effective punishment, I couldn’t quite decide. Part of me felt that it possibly was, while another part kept returning to just how much a caning would hurt; for that might be the deciding-factor in its favour.
Being August, Glen and I were on holiday prior to going to college in September and so we were meeting most days together, or as part of a larger group. Glen was straight as a die and I was bent as a boomerang, but we accepted each other for what we were and had been close friends for almost six years now. Since Glen was, as he put it, “between girlfriends”, and I was still searching for my perfect boy, we were content with plenty of each other’s company that summer.
It was three days after the encounter on the bus with the “cane-boy” as I called him in my own mind, that Glen broached the subject of caning once more. We had just finished a work-out and were setting off on a run, moving just fast enough to leave some breath for conversation. As we made our way along a tree-lined avenue in a residential area of town, heading for the riverside paths, he spoke.
“So, you decided if we’re stupid bastards yet, or not?” he enquired.
I kidded on that I didn’t know what he was talking about, but Glen wasn’t so daft. He punched me hard on the biceps and I gasped and rubbed at my arm.
“That fucking hurt!”
“I’ll give you another if you don’t answer my question,” promised Glen good-naturedly.
I scowled at him but did as I was bidden.
“I’ve been thinking about it; and I think we might be,” I told him. “See, it really comes down to how much a caning hurts. If it’s really horrendous, maybe grounding’s better, even if it is a lot slower. But there’s something hellish attractive in getting your punishment over and done in a few minutes,” I admitted; “however much it hurts.”
“Yup! That’s kind of how I see it too. So, you know what we’ve got to do now, don’t you?”
I glanced at him, perplexed.
“What?” I asked.
“Get a fucking caning of course, you chump,” answered Glen with a smile.
“Oh. Right. You sure you want to be caned?”
“I’ve no idea; but I think we need to find out. Agreed?”
“Yeh, okay; agreed. So, clever-clogs, how are you planning to get us a caning then?”
“Dunno.”
“That’s a big help.”
“You got any ideas then?”
“Nuh!”
“That’s a bigger help.”
“Hell, it’s your idea that we get ourselves caned,” I protested irately. “Get that brain of yours working.”
I slapped him on the head and he snorted.
We ran on in silence for a bit and then I gave him a push.
“Hey! You got any ideas yet?”
Unfortunately I pushed him harder than I intended and caught him off balance so that he stumbled into the roadway. There was a screech of brakes and a furious blast on a horn as he jumped clear of a passing car. Glen’s a great guy but he has a quick temper and I wasn’t surprised when he leapt angrily at me and shoved me hard against a six-foot interlaced wooden fence and then slapped my face. Instinctively I retaliated and then somehow we were fighting, rolling on the pavement. Glen had the upper hand when we collided violently with the fence and a section of it collapsed inwards, tipping us into a shrubbery on the other side.
“Fucking hell!” muttered Glen. “Now we’ve done it.”
We got to our feet, our anger evaporating as swiftly as it had arisen, united in a common realisation that we were in deep shit. The whole panel had not only fallen inwards, it was broken and in places shattered by the weight of our bodies; and several shrubs had suffered some damage as well.
“Best go to the house and own up,” I said.
Glen nodded resignedly. We directed our gaze to the house which turned out to be more of a mansion, set behind an expanse of pristine lawn.
“Hell, this looks like an expensive pad,” murmured Glen as we made our way across the greensward to the front door.
Glen rang the bell. After a short silence we heard footsteps and the door was opened by a tall, well-built man, probably in his early sixties, who surveyed us with some distaste.
“Well?”
We weren’t exactly a prepossessing sight in our running shirts and shorts, smeared and begrimed with dirt from the pavement, both sporting a number of grazes on bare arms and legs where we’d come off second-best in our contact with the ground or the fence.
“I’m, er, I’m afraid we’ve come to confess,” I said hesitantly. “We were larking about and bumped into your fence and we’ve broken a panel. We’ll pay to have it repaired,” I continued quickly, while wondering gloomily what we were going to use for money.
“Show me,” said the man abruptly.
Slightly taken aback, we turned and led him round the house and across the lawn to the shrubbery. He examined the smashed panel in silence.
“At least you’ve had the decency to come and own up,” he said at last.
“We had to,” replied Glen virtuously, seeing perhaps some value in crawling. “It was entirely our fault and we don’t do this kind of thing; at least not on purpose. We’re not vandals,” he added.
The chap looked at us for a few seconds.
“You’re bleeding,” he remarked, eying my left arm and then Glen’s knees.
“It’s nothing,” I assured him.
“Come up to the house and wash and I’ll give you some antiseptic cream to rub on.”
He turned away and strode back to the mansion. Glen looked at me and I shrugged. We followed. He showed us into a downstairs bathroom where we cleaned ourselves up and then smeared antiseptic-cream on our grazes. It stung like fury. We went out into the hall and he appeared from a doorway near the back.
“In here a moment, boys,” he said and we obeyed.
The room was furnished as a study, large bookcases lining the walls, and it was dominated by a huge desk. He directed us to sit in a pair of faded leather armchairs and then sat behind the desk and looked at us.
“I’m Mr. Cranston,” he informed us. “I estimate that there’s about eighty pounds worth of damage, because the panel’s too badly broken to be repaired and will have to be replaced.”
I gulped and glanced sideways at Glen, who was looking stunned.
“You agree to pay for the repairs?” the man asked.
I swallowed, trying to blot out the vision of the coming interview with my dad, and said in a strangulated voice:
“Yes.”
“Of course we’ll pay for it,” added Glen more audibly. “We did the damage so it’s right that we pay; but it might take a while. We’re, er, not too well off.”
“No, I didn’t think you were. At college?”
“Going next month,” said Glen.
“Names?”
“I’m Simon. He’s Glen.”
A phone rang and the guy extracted a mobile from his pocket and spoke into it. He stood up.
“Just excuse me for a minute, boys. I have to take this. I won’t be long.”
He went out of the room, closing the door. We could just hear the murmur of his voice in the hall although the words were indistinguishable. We looked round the room and then suddenly Glen grabbed my arm painfully.
“What?”
“Look, over there, on the wall above the fireplace!”
I looked where Glen was pointing and then gasped.
“Shit!”
“It’s a fucking cane,” said Glen.
“But what the hell’s he doing with a cane?” I asked.
“How should I know?”
He got to his feet.
“Where are you going?”
“To have a closer look at it.”
“He might come back.”
“You go over to the door and listen. If you hear him coming, tell me.”
I stood near the door and could hear the ongoing murmur of the phone-conversation. I watched as Glen crossed to the fireplace and looked closely at the cane. As he ran a tentative finger along its slender curve, my cock bounded. Glen stood for some time just looking and then came over to me.
“Go and have a gander,” he instructed.
I left him to listen by the door and crossed to the other side of the room. The cane was lithe and smooth and, as I traced its limber arc with the pad of an index-finger, I was aware of the potential it held. I visualised it whipping across my behind, the wood moulding itself to the contours of my bare buttocks in a torrid embrace. Blood roared in my penis and I knew in some dark, ancient place within my brain, that there was something here which simultaneously fascinated and frightened me.
I returned to my chair and Glen joined me.
“So?” he asked.
“So what?”
“So, do you want it?”
It was a simple enough question, but the answer was less so.
“It’s exciting in a scary kind of way. I feel a sort of challenge; like it’s saying to me, see if you can take the fire of my licks, and I’m saying, yeh, I’m tough enough; bring it on. But am I tough enough to take it?”
“We don’t know,” said Glen. “that’s the point. We wanted to get our bums caned and suddenly here’s a chance offered to us on a plate.”
“How do you work that out? You planning to say Right then, sir. We’ll see that you get paid for the damage. Oh, and by the way, would you mind doing us a little favour and taking that cane of yours across our arses a few times, just for fun, like?”
“Not like that, no; but we will have to ask.”
“How? I don’t know about you, but oddly enough I’ve never asked anyone to cane my tail for me before.”
“If that guy wasn’t liable to come in at any moment,” threatened Glen, looking decidedly annoyed with me, “I’d be taking that cane across your fucking tail myself, right now! Stop being so bloody negative, Simon.”
“You still haven’t told me how you’re planning to get us a caning,” I persisted obstinately.
Glen sighed and was about to reply when the door opened and Mr. Cranston returned. Glen rose at once to his feet and stood with his hands behind his back, the model of a submissive and obedient boy in the presence of a master. The older guy looked a question at him.
“We’ve been talking while you were out of the room, sir,” began Glen in respectful tones, “and, like we said, we don’t actually have the money to repay you; so we came up with a suggestion, which we realise you might not like, but we’d be pleased if you’d at least hear it and think about it.”
He stopped.
“Go on,” said Mr. Cranston.
“I know it’s a bit out there, but we……..”
“I beg you pardon. Out there?”
“Oh, er, unusual. You see, we noticed that cane over the fireplace and thought maybe we could pay off a bit of the debt by getting punished; and then for the rest we’d come and work in your garden for you for free tomorrow; all day.”
The guy raised his eyebrows.
“Has either of you ever been caned before?”
“No, sir,” we replied in unison.
“So you don’t know what you’d be letting yourselves in for, is that right?”
“Not really, sir,” I said, following Glen’s respectful lead and addressing him formally.
“I’m getting near to retirement and I’ve been a teacher all my days and I used that cane in the early years until its use was abolished a good many years ago now.”
“Twenty-five years ago on the fifteenth of this month,” said Glen.
“Now why are you so sure about that, young man?” he asked, turning a speculative eye on Glen, who flushed slightly.
“We happened to see it in the”twenty-five years ago“column in a newspaper a few days ago,” he replied.
“And it interested you? So much that you remembered it?”
Glen seemed at a loss for words and I felt a growing sense of embarrassment. The guy appeared to be homing in unerringly on our real motive in volunteering to have our bottoms caned. He crossed the room and took the cane from its place. I rose to my feet to stand beside Glen. Holding the cane, Mr. Cranston came and displayed it before our eyes. I realised that it was possible that I was within a few minutes of having that lithe rod used on my buttocks. I gulped.
“Would I be right in saying that you knew there was a cane here; staged that fight to destroy part of my fence and then have been trying to manoeuvre me into giving you a caning because you’re turned on, I think the saying is, is it not, by the thought of a beating with this?”
“No, sir!” I gasped, appalled at his misreading of the situation.
“It wasn’t like that, sir. Honestly,” interjected Glen. “We’ve never had any corporal punishment in our lives and when we read the bit in the paper about the cane anniversary, well it kind of excited us and we wondered what it felt like to be caned. Boys do think about things like that,” urged Glen.
“I can remember what it felt like to be eighteen,” replied the old guy with a hint of a smile. “Just!”
“But the damage to the fence was an accident and we’d no idea you had a cane or were a teacher or anything. It was just when we saw it hanging there and the fact we don’t have much money and had been talking about what the cane felt like; well, it just seemed like a chance too good to miss,” I said.
“I see. If you are both willing to submit to being caned, then I think six of the best should make a strong impression on you.”
“Six?” I gasped.
“Of the best?” gasped Glen simultaneously.
“Having second thoughts?” he enquired, flexing the cane.
“No,” said Glen quickly before I could say “yes”.
At that moment there was a knock at the door and Cranston called come in. We turned to look and to our astonishment in walked “cane-boy”, the young guy from the top deck of the bus. He stopped and stared at us.
“Oh! It’s you two,” he said, looking baffled.
“You know each other?” asked Mr. Cranston, and there was a distinct coldness in his tone.
“Kind of,” I said. “We met on a bus a few days ago and………”
“So you did in fact know that there was a cane here; and perhaps my suggestion that all this is staged was correct after all?”
“No, sir,” we said in unison.
“Yet you know my stepson and made no mention of that fact? Were they aware that you get caned, Darren?” he enquired turning to the boy who was still standing just inside the door, clearly at a loss as to what was going on.
“Er, yes, but….”
His stepfather raised a hand and Darren fell silent.
“What was it that you wanted, Darren?”
“Just to say I’m going into town and do you need me to get you anything. But I don’t understand what……..”
“No, thank you. I don’t need anything. Off you go.”
For a moment I thought that Darren was going to stay and argue, but then he seemed to think the better of it and turned and went out.
“So, it appears that you pair are liars as well as vandals,” he accused us grimly. “I think that in the circumstances a good hard caning is very much in order. Maybe it will improve your behaviour and prevent you from trying to trick people in future. I certainly used to find in the old days that a flaming-hot bottom had a very positive effect on a boy’s standards of behaviour. It will be interesting to see if the cane is as effective on lads who have managed to reach eighteen without so much as a spanking.”
“But, sir,” began Glen, “we honestly didn’t….”
“Silence! Do you know how to hold your tongue, boy?”
“Well, of course I…”
“Then do it; or I might have to give you a little lesson in keeping quiet when you’re told.”
He whipped the cane downwards with a sudden motion, making the air whine and making both of us wince instinctively.
Glen looked mutinous, but he said nothing.
“You want to say anything, boy?” he enquired turning to me and whipping the cane viciously again.
I shook my head dumbly.
“Good. I take it that neither of you has changed your mind and you are still willing to submit to a caning?”
After a swift glance at each other, we nodded submissively.
“Right! You; over there, hands on your head, don’t move and don’t utter a sound. Understand, boy?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Glen quietly as he took up the position indicated.
“You, bend over the desk!” he ordered me harshly.
I swallowed and obeyed. A few seconds later I was aware of the touch of the cane as it was laid lightly across the dead-centre of my behind. I tensed in readiness. Now I was going to find out just what a cane felt like; and it wasn’t a game. My penis was semi-erect, as if it was hedging its bets, waiting to see if the cane was going to send it up or down. This was genuine punishment and I just knew that it was going to hurt.
It did. The slim cane lashed round my buttocks, feeling as if someone was squeezing them together with a band of white-hot steel. Fire seared its way deep into my unsullied flesh. I shuddered and heard my own breath drawn in sharply as I registered the power and pain of the stroke. So this was how it felt to be caned. Maybe grounding for a few weeks wasn’t such a bad idea after all. My penis, however, still hadn’t decided and remained largely unchanged.
The cane scythed down again, catching me slightly lower down with another fiery torpedo scorching across my behind. With an effort, I steadied my legs. My cock made its decision and retreated swiftly. A whistling sound, followed by the snap of wood explosively applied to boy, heralded the third stroke and I gasped aloud, aware that scalding tears were forcing their way out from my tightly-closed eyes. A fourth line of agony was etched above the first, high on the crown of my arse and I groaned as I fought to stay in position. I couldn’t understand why my jeans weren’t giving me more protection.
The penultimate stroke was aimed with deadly accuracy full on that sensitive area of skin where a boy’s buttocks merge into the tops of his legs and a vicious jolt of pain made me buck and utter a half-stifled yelp. I clenched my gluteal-muscles in a desperate fight to retain self-control and gripped the far edge of the desk so hard that my fingers hurt. A final stroke cut diagonally across most of the earlier ones, inflicting an even greater level of burn as welts were themselves welted. This time my yelp wasn’t even half-stifled. I stayed across the desk while waves of torrid heat swept in rapid succession over my rump, gradually diminishing to a deeply-felt throbbing.
“Stand up!”
I complied slowly.
“I’ll say this for you,” observed Cranston, “you’re no coward. I’ve seen boys with years of experience of being caned behind them, as it were, who couldn’t take six of the best as stoically as that. Go and stand facing the wall, hands on your head. Make one single sound; move one single muscle, and I’ll cane you again. Understand, boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
As I moved over to the wall, hands obediently on my head, resisting the urge to feel at my tormented bottom, a great surge of triumph billowed through me. In spite of the pain, I felt unaccountably good. His words of praise had buoyed me up enormously and even as I settled in position, eyes fixed on the bare wall, my cock began to rise again. Meanwhile Glen had been ordered into position for the cane and by moving my head very slowly, so that the movement would be imperceptible, I was able to see him from the corner of my eye, bent ready over the desk.
I wondered vaguely what it must have been like for him to see and hear me getting it and know his turn was coming. On the whole, I concluded, I’d probably had it slightly easier in getting my licks first. I saw the cane raised, brought whistling down, saw Glen flinch and heard the snap of impact on his rear. The cane fell again and Glen grunted. Gasps came to my ears as the rod lashed my mate’s backside twice more. I tensed myself in sympathy as I waited for the fifth stroke to fall, for this was the one which was destined for the crease and which would introduce Glen to a new level of pain. I heard him squeal and saw him writhe as he fought his agony. Barely had his legs ceased to quiver than the final, diagonal cut was delivered and a second yell of pain was driven from him as his body shuddered.
“Well-taken. Stand up. Hands on head. Don’t touch your bottom. You, over here,” I was told.
I came and stood beside Glen. Cranston arched the cane before our eyes and surveyed our pain-contorted faces.
“Have you learnt not to tell lies?” he asked quietly. “Or would you like another six each?”
In spite of my pain and the imminent peril of getting my arse thrashed again, I refused to let this smear on our characters pass.
“Sir,” I said with all the dignity I could muster, “we didn’t lie to you. It’s just chance that we happened to meet Darren on the bus, and then end up smashing your fence a few days later. As far as I’m concerned I was caned for damaging your property, a punishment I said I was prepared to take; and I have. I’m not a liar; and if you ever catch me lying, you can give me three dozen with your cane, and I’ll know I deserve it and won’t resist.”
I held in check the powerful impulse to end with so there!
“He’s telling the truth,” added Glen, “and so am I. And you can thrash the shit out of me too if you find I’m not.”
For several seconds he looked at us, holding our gaze in turn while his hands continued to flex the cane slowly.
“You seem very sure of yourselves,” he remarked at length. “So much so that I’m inclined to believe that I’ve misjudged you and that you were telling me the truth. I’m sorry for doubting you; but as Simon has pointed out, the punishment was initially to pay off some of the debt you owe for the damage you’ve done to my property, and so was still fully deserved. Do you both accept that?”
“Yes, sir,” we answered together.
“I’ll speak to Darren and if he confirms that he hasn’t told you where he lived or anything else to direct you here, I’ll consider you vindicated. Should he reveal that he did tell you such things, I assume that you will keep your word and both submit to the sort of caning that will make what you’ve just received feel like a series of mild slaps.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And tomorrow you will be coming here to work in my garden; is that correct, boys?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll expect you at eight o’clock.”
This was unexpectedly early and I glanced at Glen but he just said,
“We’ll be there, sir. How long will you want us to work, sir?”
“Six o’clock will do.”
Ten fucking hours! The sadistic bugger!
We were shown to the door and as we walked in silence down the driveway, I was very much aware of the fabric of my shorts rubbing against my cane-weals as I moved. It was mildly arousing. As we emerged into the street, Glen spoke.
“Well,” he said, “now we know what a caning feels like. Bloody agonising.”
I rubbed carefully at my buttocks.
“I never expected it to burn like that,” I admitted ruefully. “So, do you think you’d rather have the cane than the kind of punishments that we usually get?”
“Do you?”
“While I was getting my licks, I decided that the cane wasn’t for me; but now I’m not so sure. It’s pretty hellish at the time, but at least that’s it done and you can get on with living.”
Glen nodded.
“I’m with you,” he said. “I’m going to ask my dad if he’ll start to thrash me in future when I fuck up, instead of grounding and all that shit.”
“Yeh? Think he’ll agree?”
“Dunno. But I’m gonna have a damn good go at persuading him. I’ll take a well-caned arse over a fortnight with no internet-access any day. You?”
“Yep! But I don’t think my old man will agree to cane me.”
“But you’re gonna ask him, right?”
“I’ll ask him,” I assured him, wondering to myself exactly how you asked your dad to get himself a cane and then use it hard across your bum when you messed up. Little did I know that all my wondering was unnecessary.
The next morning, Glen called for me well before eight o’clock so that we could go to do our day’s work in the garden. Glen insisted we take care not to be late.
“He’d probably cane us if we weren’t on time,” he said.
“But he can’t,” I protested. “We’re eighteen. We only got caned yesterday because we consented. He can’t just order us to bend over for the cane because we’re a few minutes late.”
“But if he did, would you obey?” asked Glen.
I hesitated. I had a sense of respect for the old chap. Anyone who could thrash my behind that hard had earned it. He had an air of authority about him too and that inclined me to compliance with his commands. The simple fact was that, although I knew I didn’t have to, I probably would submit to his discipline if he told me to. Glen watched me with a faint smile on his face.
“Thought so,” he said with a hint of glee. “And so would I.”
I glanced at my watch and we increased our pace. It wouldn’t do to be late.
The day was warm, the work fairly hard but not unduly so, and neither of us was afraid of breaking sweat. We put in over four good hours before we were summoned into the kitchen where a generous lunch was provided. This was unexpected. We’d both brought our own sandwiches. The old chap’s wife just smiled and told us to tuck in. Two young guys who have just done several hours hard physical work take plenty of refuelling before they resume their labours and so we did full justice to the food on offer. Afterwards we sat in the sun for the remaining twenty minutes or so of our lunch break. It was while we were doing this that Darren appeared.
“Hi, guys! Old man making you sweat for your sins, eh?”
“Tell me about it,” I said, displaying my palms to show him the newly-formed blisters, testimony to my efforts with the spade that morning.
“I told him that I hadn’t given you my address or anything, so I think he believes you now that you didn’t plan to come here to try and get a caning. So, how did you know where to come?” he asked.
“We didn’t!” protested Glen. “It’s just a bloody coincidence. Why won’t anyone believe us?” he demanded grumpily.
Darren held up his hands.
“Okay! Okay! I believe you. But you did volunteer to let my step-dad cane you, didn’t you? I mean, he could hardly have beaten your arses if you hadn’t agreed, could he? Did you want to get a taste of the cane after what I told you on the bus the other day?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “We started thinking about it and began to wonder if maybe there was something in getting a caning rather than being grounded or whatever. We’d no idea how to go about getting our bums caned to try it out; and then luck brought us here. We genuinely couldn’t pay for the damage, not without getting help from our dads and we didn’t want them to know what we’d done anyway; so when we saw the cane in the study, well, it seemed like a good idea. It got us a taste of the rod and, along with today’s work, it let us pay off what we owed without getting our dads involved.”
“Did you mean us to hear you calling us stupid bastards when you were getting off the bus?” asked Glen.
Darren grinned and nodded.
“Thought that might spur you on a bit to maybe find out a bit more about getting tanned. Never thought you’d end up here, getting your bums striped by my step-dad though. So, what did you think of it? Do you think you are stupid bastards for letting your dads ground you and take away privileges and all that shit, when you could pay for your fuck-ups quickly with a caning?”
“You’ve missed out the important fact that a caning also hurts like hell,” I said, giving my bottom a reminiscent rub. I’d still been able to see the tram-lines the cane had left on my skin when I’d looked in the mirror this morning. I’d felt brilliant; my cock had been rampant and I’d given myself a fantastic orgasm.
“Sure. It’s meant to hurt like shining fuck,” agreed Darren. “Wouldn’t be punishment otherwise, would it? But would you rather have a few minutes of intense pain, or days, maybe weeks of not being able to do what you want?”
“I’m for the cane,” said Glen. “Guys for the last twenty-five years don’t know what they’re missing. You’re right. I think we’re all stupid bastards. Bring back the cane, I say, and let’s have a new generation of guys who pay for their sins right away and then get on with living as better-behaved boys.”
I nodded.
“Yeh. I’m going to see if my dad will agree to tan my hide when I fuck up in future,” I told him.
Glen got up.
“Going for a piss,” he said and vanished into the house.
Darren turned to me.
“Like to let me see your war-wounds?”
Darren was extremely attractive. He had a kind of animal sexuality which drew me in anticipation, not un-tinged by a frisson of fear. I bared my buttocks willingly for him and hoped he’d approve. He whistled softly when he saw my marks.
“Wow! He caned you fucking good! I bet you felt those!”
“He got through to me,” I confessed ruefully.
Darren extended his hand.
“Can I?”
“Help yourself,” I offered.
His hand slid gently over my welts, tracing the line of each in turn, while my cock was stiff as a telegraph-pole and blood thundered in my ears.
“Mmmm!” murmured Darren. “Would you like to come out with me this evening?”
“My bottom impresses you that much?”
“Yes,” replied Darren solemnly. “It does.”
“You’re on then,” I told him.
That evening, I was delighted to find that Darren found me to be as impressive as my buttocks; and I reciprocated the feelings, appreciating his extremely comely behind, but enjoying too his personality. We became friends and when Glen found himself a new girlfriend shortly afterwards, I began spending much more time with Darren. In the intensity of a developing new relationship, the matter of the cane and the problem of how to get my dad to consider using corporal punishment in future, slid into the background; at least until Darren and I burnt down my dad’s garden shed.
It was, of course, entirely unintended, but we had perforce to accept that we had been disgracefully foolish, to say nothing of having acted very dangerously. It was a Saturday afternoon and we were at my house in the morning. My parents were out for the day visiting relatives and we decided, since the sun was shining, to have a barbecue for lunch. Darren fired up the apparatus while I prepared rolls and located sausages. Unfortunately, before the sausages were half-cooked, the skies turned black and it was clear that at the very least we were in for a heavy shower. We got hold of a couple of umbrellas and stood holding them over the barbecue as the rain started; large, warm drops at first, and then it came.
The heavens opened and thunder rumbled ominously around the distant hills while the rain fell as if a sluice had been opened, bouncing off the patio. The storm drew nearer and lightning flashed across the skies while we stood protecting our lunch-to-be with umbrellas. It was only when lightning struck the metal tip of the umbrella I was holding and sent it spinning from my hand, knocking me to the ground in the process, that we realised the position was hopeless, to say nothing of perilous.
“Come on,” suggested Darren. “Let’s carry the barbecue into the shed.”
I was vaguely aware that this probably wasn’t a good idea, but was so desperate to escape the teeming rain that I made no objection. By the time we got it there, we had to start again as all the fuel was extremely damp. I had to find some paraffin to toss on to the charcoal to get it burning once more. While Darren was turning the sausages with a fork, I was accidentally sprayed with burning fat which scalded my bare arm so that I leapt forward in fright and the barbecue went flying. Before we had time to do anything sensible, there was a roar of flame and I realised that the falling grill had smashed the paraffin-bottle and the glowing charcoal had ignited it, causing a minor conflagration.
We both tried to kick out the flames but only succeeded in singeing our feet. In desperation we rushed outside to get water and returned as fast as we could with a couple of pails, only to find flames, fed by the paraffin, leaping skywards and the shed engulfed beyond hope of salvation. I recall thinking furiously that just when torrential rain would have been useful, the storm had passed and barely a few spots were falling. We eventually located a hose and managed to bring the fire under control, but it was too late. The building was a smoking, blackened ruin. All we could do now was wait until my parents returned.
“You go home,” I said to Darren. “This is my responsibility and I’m the one who’s going to have to take the consequences.”
What these consequences might be, I tried not to consider yet. Darren insisted on staying.
“We’re in it together, mate,” he said firmly. “I’m going nowhere.”
I was exasperated with him but secretly pleased to have some company as I awaited the second storm of the afternoon. I had an unpleasant feeling that it was going to be spectacular. I’d fucked up a few times in my life, but never on a scale like this.
Dad viewed the damage in silence and then took us into the house where I stood, in abject misery, guilty as hell, awaiting my fate. The lecture was lengthy and furious and I felt like a little kid again as my irresponsibility, folly and sheer stupidity were pointed out to me in no uncertain terms and I was made to admit repeatedly that I was aware of what I’d done and how appallingly I’d behaved and, worst of all, how I’d betrayed my parents’ trust in me to be sensible when they weren’t around. It all ended with the sentence: grounded for three months except when I was attending classes or working to earn money to have the shed rebuilt and its contents replaced. It was no less than I’d expected and I knew better than to argue. I hung my head in genuine shame and, when asked if I thought my punishment was reasonable, I answered in the affirmative.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Darren, who’d maintained a commendable silence throughout the tirade but for whose presence I’d been nonetheless grateful, had uttered for the first time. Dad turned to him.
“Well?” he demanded and his tone was hardly encouraging.
“If I’d done something like this at home, I’d expect to be severely punished too,” he said quietly. “The only thing is that my step-dad has another way of disciplining me when I fu….mess up. He canes me.”
I saw dad start.
“That’s unusual these days,” he said. “But what’s it got to do with all this?”
“It’s a very effective form of punishment, sir,” said Darren. “No guy can keep his nose clean all the time and I know I need a thrashing now and again when I get out of line; but I make damned sure I don’t let myself in for the cane any more than I absolutely have to, because it hurts like hell, if you’ll excuse the language.”
“I know. I’m old enough to have experienced the last years of corporal punishment at school. Last time I got the cane I was fifteen and I got four of the best from the history-master for passing a note to a girl in class whom I fancied.”
I stared at dad. Caned? Him? Fancying a girl in class? Dad? I couldn’t quite get my head round the images which tried to force themselves into focus in my mind.
“So,” continued Darren, pressing his advantage, “I’m as much to blame here as Simon although I know it’s his responsibility; and I wouldn’t feel right if he was punished and I wasn’t. I don’t know what you think about corporal punishment, but I’ll bend over and take a thrashing from you for my behaviour today and I’m sure Simon will do the same. You look as if you could get through to me without much trouble,” he said, eyeing dad’s well-developed biceps; “and it would wipe the slate clean for us both, apart from getting jobs to earn money to pay for the damage.”
“You want to pay for the damage too?”
“Of course. I accept that I was at fault as much as Simon was. We’re equally to blame and we both deserve to be punished, and to work to put things right.”
“You forget one thing, young man,” said dad. “I’ve never so much as smacked Simon’s bottom. It’s just not considered the done thing these days, more’s the pity perhaps. Anyway, a caning requires a cane and I don’t have one.”
“I’m sure dad would lend you his,” Darren said confidently. “It’s a real stinger,” he added. “We’d feel it.”
“I’m sure you would,” replied dad, “but then you’d have to let your step-father know what had happened. After all, you could just go home and say nothing.”
“But that wouldn’t be right, would it, sir?”
“I agree. You’re determined to do the right thing?”
“Yes, sir. If I share the blame, I share the punishment.”
Dad turned to me.
“Simon?”
“I don’t think you need to punish Darren. It was up to me to behave responsibly and to make sure nothing happened; and I didn’t. But,” I added quickly, because I realised that Darren had used the situation to try to get dad to punish me with the cane instead of with weeks of grounding which would mean we’d be severely restricted in our time together, “I’m willing to take a caning rather than be grounded.”
Dad gave me a wry smile.
“Get the punishment over fast, eh? It’s the one thing I regretted when the cane was abolished when I was fifteen. I had to do lines and detentions and punishment exercises which all took ages. I’d rather have had the cane any day,” said dad.
Dad? Lines, detentions? Dad? Weird!
Darren called his step-dad on his mobile and went out into the hall to talk to him. I took the chance to ask a bit more about the cane.
“Dad? Does it bother you, caning me I mean?”
“No. I never felt it did me any harm, but times were changing and your mum and I decided, like a lot of parents I guess, that we’d discipline you in other ways. I wonder if you realise what you’re letting yourself in for? The cane’s no joke, you know. It’s designed to hurt a lot; and it does, believe me.”
For a moment I was on the brink of telling him that I’d had a caning and a pretty tough one at that; and I knew how much it hurt; but I held back and said nothing about it. I looked at dad. He was just on the verge of forty but was fit and strong. He’d be able to wield the cane with more power than Darren’s step-father who was in his sixties. On the other hand, Darren had told me that strength wasn’t the whole story when it came to caning a boy effectively; for there was also a skill and technique in using a cane on a recalcitrant boy’s bottom. A knowledgeable master wielding a cane with average strength could cause as much or more pain to the unfortunate boy on the receiving end than could a stronger master who lacked the skill to maximise the effect of each stroke. At least, I concluded, dad wouldn’t have the skill, so perhaps the pain would be less than that inflicted on me by Mr. Cranston.
“I know,” I said. “I realise it’s not an easy option; but I like the idea of getting things dealt with quickly even if it’s painfully; and I just wondered if you’d consider dealing with me that way in future,” I ended, taking the chance to put the question.
“Hmmm. Let’s see how you get on today. Maybe once I’ve caned you for this afternoon’s exploits, you’ll have changed your mind about corporal punishment.”
“I won’t,” I assured him; but he just smiled.
Darren re-entered and handed dad his mobile.
“Would you speak to my step-dad, please, sir? Simon and I will go out into the hall until you’re finished.”
He made for the door and I followed.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“He was pretty horrified at what I’d done but I think he was pleased I’d owned up and hadn’t tried to keep it a secret; but he certainly thought I needed to be thrashed. I explained about your situation and that you were willing to take a caning, along with me, from your dad; and that he was willing to do it if he could borrow the cane. So it’s up to them now.”
It seemed an eternity before dad eventually called us back into the room and returned Darren’s mobile to him. All had, so it appeared, been arranged and Darren was despatched then and there to go and fetch the cane so that our punishment could be administered as soon as possible. I was sent to stand in the corner, facing the wall, hands behind my back and forbidden to move or make a sound. I was to spend the time until Darren returned with the cane thinking about my folly and about how I was going to behave in future. It was deadly dull and hellish boring, because it took Darren the best part of forty-five minutes to run home and then run back with the cane. I endured it rather sulkily because I felt that being caned was enough punishment and I didn’t need to be treated like a kid. For a second or two I’d thought about arguing, but had then thought the better of it. I had a recollection of Darren mentioning getting extra strokes for arguing. I didn’t think I wanted any extra since what I’d already earned was probably more than enough to cope with.
At last Darren entered, slightly breathless, carrying a plastic-bag which he handed silently to dad. I held my breath as dad plunged his hand inside and withdrew the cane. He bent it gently as if to get the feel of its pliancy and then suddenly whipped it smartly so that the air sang. I winced. My bottom’s first meeting with it had been sufficiently recent that I couldn’t see it without experiencing at least a few pangs of anxiety.
“Yes,” said dad thoughtfully, “I think I should be able to achieve some improvement in your behaviour with this. Right, Simon. Shorts and pants off and bend over the back of that armchair.”
I stared at him.
“Shorts and……dad, you can’t! Not on the bare; that’s….that’s barbarous!”
“You think burning my shed down is civilised behaviour?”
“I didn’t say that. I know it was bad. Can’t I at least keep my pants on?” I pleaded, although I could tell by the expression on his face that I was wasting my breath.
“If you keep me waiting, Simon, you’ll get extra strokes for your disobedience.”
I glanced helplessly at Darren who just shrugged. There was nothing else for it; I was going to have to bare my behind. Angrily, I wrenched off shorts and pants and threw them into a corner. I regretted that almost before they’d left my hand.
“You’re this close to two extra strokes, Simon,” warned dad softly, holding two fingers barely a centimetre apart.
I was furious but I didn’t dare risk extra. Sullenly I crossed the room, picked up my clothes, folded them neatly, and laid them on a chair before giving dad a “fuck you” look. I guess I was lucky not to be awarded an extra pair for that bit of insolence. Dad watched grimly as I positioned myself for the cane.
Like Darren’s step-dad, he touched the cane to my behind gently, getting the range, familiarising himself with the target-area, deciding where the first stroke was going to land. When the cane was lifted away, I tensed and held my breath during the long, expectant pause while it rose and then came screaming down to lash viciously hard across the crown of my bottom, unleashing a fiery streak of pain which drove the breath from my lungs and made me yelp aloud.
This can’t be for real. He can’t be making it hurt this much with just the first stroke. What the hell’s going on?
My thoughts were savagely cut short by the cane whipping with a ferocious snap around the curve of my buttocks, delivering a laser-burn of pain which had me clenching my bottom-muscles with intense concentration while a kind of high-pitched animal-noise was forced from my throat. I realised that I was panting and glanced round in disbelief as if to confirm to myself that it really was my dad, who’d never so much as smacked my bottom in my life, who was meting out such excruciatingly-painful strokes with that cane.
The third stroke was delivered lower still and I found my hand scrubbing furiously at the quivering flesh where the cane’s flying tip had inflicted a particularly intense load of agony. Someone squealed. I concluded that it had to have been me. The cane rapped my wrist sharply and I got the message. I withdrew my hand reluctantly.
That tender strip of skin where a boy’s bottom meets the tops of his legs was the target for the fourth stroke and I bucked violently, only managing to half-stifle a yell, as an explosion of torrid heat blasted my flesh. For a split second both feet came off the ground as I jumped at the shock of the blow; and then I stretched out my right leg, quivering behind me, in a largely vain attempt to ease the excruciating bite of the cane’s tip.
If anyone had told me it could get worse, I wouldn’t have believed them; but it did. Number five was also aimed at my crease but seemed to come in at a different angle, from somewhat below rather than from above, and also felt as if it was inflicted with a violent flick of the wrist just before impact so that the pain I felt was dramatically increased. I cried out, aware that scalding tears were coursing down my face, and rubbed desperately with both hands at my tortured rear. Trying to regain some control, I managed to remove them before he rapped my wrists again.
Breathing hard and noisily, I tensed, shuddering, waiting. Nothing happened. The inferno in my rump roared on steadily, but no further stoking of the fires occurred. Could it be over?
“Stand up, Simon.”
I obeyed stiffly, pressing cool palms with splayed fingers to buttocks from which emanated enough heat to fry a whole side of bacon. I kept my back to dad, unwilling to let him see my begrutten face.
“Go and stand over there, Simon. Darren, shorts and pants off and bend over.”
I stumbled over to where Darren had been standing and took in his sympathetic smile as we passed each other. I watched as he quickly prepared and bent over in readiness.
“Dad?”
Dad looked at me.
“Darren doesn’t need to get this,” I said.
“Oh, yes, he does,” replied dad. “He’s admitted himself he was as much at fault as you were and his step-father agrees that he requires to be punished too. Now, hold your tongue or you’ll go out of the room.”
I relapsed into a sulky silence. Nonetheless, I didn’t miss the exquisitely-attractive curves of Darren’s bottom and the long, muscular legs, firmly braced in anticipation of the cane. He was used to being caned of course and that’s why his reaction to dad’s efforts took me by surprise. He only scrubbed at his buttocks once certainly, after the fourth stroke, but he writhed and bucked and yelped almost as much as I had. It seemed that in spite of Darren’s experience, dad could really get through to him. After five strokes, Darren was commanded to come and stand beside me. He did so, his face white, a few tear-drops trickling over his cheeks, hands clasping his well-thrashed rear. We stood side-by-side, a pair of eighteen-year-olds brought sharply to heel by the cane, submissive, sorry and, above all, very, very sore.
“Learnt your lesson, Simon?” asked dad, still flexing the cane as if he was minded to give me a few more if my response wasn’t what he wanted.
“Yes. I’ll never, ever do anything so stupid again,” I said meekly.
“I’m glad to hear it. You could have been killed.”
He turned away and I was sure there was a slight catch in his voice. In that instant, like a flash of lightning illuminating a midnight landscape, I understood. Paradoxically, the ferocity with which he’d caned me wasn’t due only to the need to punish me, but because he loved me.
“Dad?”
He looked me in the eyes.
“You’ll never have to beat me like that again. I promise.”
Darren snorted and we both turned interrogative glances towards him.
“Never?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
I considered the various ways I’d messed up in the past few years and the likelihood that, even trying my very best, I’d be able to behave with total decorum in the student years which lay immediately ahead, and hesitated before I answered. Both Darren and dad smiled.
“Okay,” I admitted. “Maybe you will have to occasionally; but not if I can help it,” I added fervently. “That was horrendous.”
“I’m with Simon, sir,” said Darren unexpectedly. “My step-dad’s given me the cane often enough over the past few years, usually on the bare, but never anything that hurt me like that.”
I gazed in astonishment at him and then burst out, before I could stop myself:
“So that’s why you did all that yelping and squirming when I thought you’d know how to take it. What I mean is…..Oh, God, I’m sorry, Darren. That didn’t come out right.”
“It’s okay. Can I ask, sir, how you learnt to use a cane like that? I just can’t believe that a guy who’s never caned a boy before could do it so expertly.”
To my incredulous delight, I saw dad go slightly red in the face, open his mouth as if to answer and then close it again. Dad, lost for words? Dad?
“He’s certainly never caned me before,” I said. “I’d definitely have remembered,” I added, rubbing at my bottom which still pulsed with a pain as steady and persistent as a heartbeat. “You haven’t got another son I know nothing about, have you?”
Dad laughed.
“No,” he said. “But you’re right, Darren. That’s not the first time I’ve taken a cane to a young male behind. When I was a student I had a mate, a close friend with whom I had many talks about all sorts of subjects; and one day we were talking about sado-masochism when he suddenly told me he’d love to be caned again, like he was at school, only harder. To cut a long story short, he persuaded me to thrash him with a cane he’d managed to get from somewhere. I wasn’t that keen and he complained I wasn’t hitting him nearly hard enough; so I put a bit more muscle behind it and got him writhing. I thought that would be the end of it, but he asked for another session a week or two later and it became a kind of routine we did every fortnight or so. He liked it really hard and encouraged me to experiment with ways to make the strokes most effective; and that,” he said, looking slightly embarrassed, “is how I know how to use a cane so that every stroke really gets through to a boy.”
“But you never told me that,” I protested.
“Why should I? You wanted to be punished with the cane; and I’m willing to bet you thought it wouldn’t be too bad because I wouldn’t know what I was doing, eh, Simon?”
“Er…..”
“He’s got you,” smirked Darren. “Own up.”
“Yeh, right; I did think that; but I was wrong, okay? Oh, boy, was I wrong!”
“It must be a good few years since a cane was last used in here,” mused dad.
“Huh?”
“Come on, Simon. I’ve told you before that this used to be a school before it was converted into these three houses.”
“Oh, yeh. I forgot. Funny, I never thought about boys getting their bums caned in here. And I guess that we’re the first guys to get caned here for a quarter of a century.”
“The return of the cane,” said Darren in sombre tones, as if he was announcing the start of a film. “Twenty-five years on, bad boys get their bare bottoms soundly beaten,” he concluded alliteratively.
“I suppose it must be a few years now,” said dad.
“No, no,” I said. “It is twenty-five years.”
I told him about the piece we’d seen in the newspaper a few days earlier.
“An excellent way to mark the anniversary,” remarked dad. “Wouldn’t you say, boys?”
“Oh, yes,” I said sarcastically. “Excellent. Just the way I’d have chosen.”
“And now that the cane has returned, as you so aptly put it, Darren, it’s good to know that it’ll be staying for future use on Simon’s bottom should he require further discipline.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said.
“Assuming you haven’t changed your mind and do want the cane to be used to discipline you in future, of course,” said dad.
“I’m up for it,” I consented. “But I’m telling you here and now; I won’t be coming back for more in a hurry.”
Darren was grinning broadly.
“And on your bottom too, young man, should you get yourself into trouble along with my son,” added dad grimly.
Darren’s grin faded.
“Yes, sir,” he said quietly.
It hadn’t taken him long to learn when dad was being deadly serious.
We retrieved our pants and shorts and then, decently clad, made our way back to Darren’s house to return the cane, with dad’s assurance ringing in my ears, that he’d be on the internet straight away to see about buying a cane of his own. He wanted to get one right away, so he said, in case my conduct needed further adjustment in the near future. As we walked, I swore to myself that it wouldn’t.
“Fucking five,” muttered Darren at my side.
“Eh?”
“Five! He only gave me five!”
“I know. I got five too. You complaining or something?”
“Don’t you get it? Five! He made five hurt a hell of a lot more than six from my step-dad!” said Darren and there was a note of awe in his voice.
“Ah. I get you now. Better behave yourself when you’re at my place in future.”
“He’s some guy, your dad,” said Darren in tones of undisguised admiration.
“Yeh? He’s just dad. And he hasn’t half made sure that I know it!”
Back at Darren’s house we retired to his room and he told me to strip and lie face-down on his bed. He brought some soothing cream and massaged it with infinite tenderness into the cane-welts on my bottom, sending sensations surging through me which I’d never known existed, and bringing my penis to full attention. I did the same for him and then we both laughed in an embarrassed and rather shy way as we surveyed our mutual erections.
“Hang a bag of fucking potatoes on these,” commented Darren.
There was an awkward silence as we each tried to think of a way of saying what we both wanted to say. Failing hopelessly I resorted to action and reached out carefully and stroked Darren’s organ for a brief moment. He glanced at me and then reciprocated. Within seconds we were sitting side by side on the bed, fish-naked, bare thighs and shoulders touching, and working swiftly with our hands on each other’s cock. Two fountains of spunk spurted almost simultaneously high on to a pair of bare chests and then Darren scooped some of his semen into his hand and spread it on my chest and I did the same for him. We sank into each other’s arms and the world fled to the edges of existence as we celebrated together the return of the cane.
Prowling round the town-centre the next day, we met Glen and Fiona, his new girlfriend, hand-in-hand. She disappeared into a Chemist’s shop to get “some things” and left us three boys to talk.
“Ever persuade your dad to cane you?” I asked him.
Glen looked blank for a moment.
“Oh. That? No, I forgot all about it. Who wants to get their arse caned anyway? Besides,” he said, nodding towards the Chemist’s shop, “I’ve got more exciting things on my hands.”
“Hoping to get laid tonight, eh?” suggested Darren.
“Er, no, not exactly. I got caught sampling dad’s whisky a couple of days ago, so I’m grounded every evening for a fortnight, worse luck.”
“We burnt down Simon’s dad’s shed; but instead of getting grounded until next Christmas, we got caned hard on the bare and that’s it; sorted. It hurt like hell at the time. Simon’s dad’s an expert and makes it sting far worse than even my step-dad can; but while you’re sitting in your room all alone thinking of how you can’t get your hands, or anything else, on Fiona’s body, you can think about me and Simon roaming free and making love under the stars in the park,” said Darren with a broad grin.
“Just fuck off,” said Glen irritably.
“Bit tense because you can’t get your rocks off?” suggested Darren mischievously.
Glen gave him a vicious two-fingered gesture and, as Fiona emerged from the shop, we headed off down the street. We glanced at each other.
“Stupid bastard!” we said simultaneously.
Late that night, as the incredible stars flowered in the summer heavens, Darren and I lay naked on the warm earth beneath a tangle of rhododendron. Before we got down to business, he pulled two cans of lager from his pockets and, handing me one, raised his own.
“We both know why we’re free to do this tonight,” he said, with a broad grin. “So let’s have a toast.”
He stopped and looked into my eyes. I smiled at him and eyed the ends of the slim red lines which the cane had etched on his behind and which peeped coyly round the curve of his buttocks. Giving my own bottom a gentle rub, I raised my can and clashed it against his.
“To the return of the cane!” I said.
___________)
Story ©MMXII by Joelstrap, and used here by very kind permission of the author.
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D I S C L A I M E R
All characters and businesses appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Joelstrap’s excellent earlier stories for The Canery are available here. Further great stories by Joelstrap may be found at this external link
