♥ 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!
Going Up! by Joelstrap
“Going up!” said the electronic voice as I entered the lift.
I stood facing the doors as they closed, but in the mirror to one side I noticed him standing behind me. I could hardly help it, because he was well worth noticing. Student, perhaps, I thought; around six feet, build of an athlete. Indeed he was wearing shorts and open-neck shirt and carrying a wooden bat and a ball.
I eyed him surreptitiously. Soft, brown hair clustered thickly about his head and face and extended to his collar. Eyes of deep brown appeared to be taking an interest in my behind and that realisation caused a slight stirring down below for me.
I took in the well-muscled arms, sun-browned; the broad, flat chest, the nipples just showing proud through the thin fabric of a well-fitting shirt; the slim waist; the fact that his shorts were tight enough to reveal a manly bulge and, yes definitely, a swelling above it, reaching to the waistband. I took in too the long, firm legs and well-used trainers. I liked.
He seemed oblivious to the fact that I was watching him and was certainly focussed more on my bottom than on anything else. As I watched, he moved the bat to his right hand and swung it about, as if he was hitting something; then, before I had time to register what was going on, he swatted me across the buns with it.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I demanded, turning a furious face towards him.
He seemed untroubled.
“Sorry,” he said disarmingly. “I thought you might like it.”
“Well,” I admitted cautiously, “I suppose it was okay. But you…”
At this moment I was interrupted by a violent juddering of the floor and then the lift bumped to a halt, so that we both almost lost our footing.
“Oh, shit!” he said fiercely.
I picked up the emergency ’phone and spoke to the caretaker who assured me he’d see what he could do. In the meantime, we’d just have to wait.
“You were going to say that I shouldn’t be swatting complete strangers on the bum with my bat, weren’t you?” he suggested.
“Exactly. So why did you?” I asked.
“You’ve got such gorgeous buns, I couldn’t resist,” he replied with disconcerting openness. “Are you really annoyed?”
I decided to play along as I definitely wanted to get to know him a bit better.
“Not really,” I told him, sliding down to sit on the floor. “It was quite exciting.”
That got a reaction. His eyes shone.
“Yeh? You really liked it? You want more?”
His erection was straining at his shorts and his eyes were dancing. He raised his bat and cracked it against his palm.
“Have you swatted a guy before?” I asked him.
“No; but I’d like to!” He slammed the bat into his palm again and then adjusted the bulging fabric at the front of his shorts.
“Sit down,” I told him, “and tell me why you want to spank me.”
He dropped to the floor, a slightly disappointed look in his eyes. I didn’t think it would do him any harm to wait. I took the opportunity to deal with my own erection while he was getting himself settled in the corner of the lift.
“Dunno, really. I got dad’s belt across my arse when I was a kid, up to maybe about fourteen; but that’s all. I have these wild fantasies about tanning a guy’s bum though. Never had a chance to do it, worse luck,” he complained.
“But you think you’ve got a chance now?”
“Well, have I?”
“Maybe,” I replied, tantalising him. I loved to watch the expressions chase each other across his face; hope morphing into uncertainty and back to hope again. “Why did you swat me?”
“I told you. I just couldn’t resist your buns!”
I was frankly flattered. I was nearing thirty, but was proud of the fact that regular running and work-outs had kept my body firm and my buns taut. It was good that a kid at least ten years my junior found my buttocks such a turn-on.
“I could get you done for assault,” I said
“I know. You wouldn’t, would you?” he enquired and his eyes looked anxious.
“No,” I reassured him.
He looked decidedly relieved and then the fire rekindled in his eyes and he stroked the surface of his bat. He glanced up at me from under lowered eyelids.
“So, can I paddle you?” he asked eagerly.
I turned and moved on to all fours, presenting my buns to him.
“Oh, all right,” I told him. “Go on. But, careful at first, mind,” I warned, slightly concerned that in his excitement he might get carried away.
He came over, hefted the bat once or twice in his hand and then hit me squarely in the centre of my bottom. Even through my denims, I felt it. It was a good, firm, confident stroke. He repeated it several times, covering the surface of my behind and I flinched at each swat; they were hard enough to get my attention, but not too hard. It seemed he was a natural.
“On the bare?” he asked after a dozen strokes; and I could hear the tension in his voice.
I stood up and slipped down my jeans and underpants and then knelt, offering him my unprotected buns. I felt his swats now all right. He varied the intensity and the pace of delivery so I wasn’t sure what to expect next; nor exactly where. He was good; my cock was straining.
The lift juddered.
“Fuck! It’s starting again,” he said.
I leapt swiftly to my feet, hastily yanking up pants and denims and buckling my belt. I only just made it as the lift came to a halt and the doors opened. The caretaker looked in.
“Fine,” I told him as we both got out. I turned to the boy.
“What’s your name?”
“Derek,” he said. “Me and mum moved in a couple of weeks ago; on the fourth floor. I’ve just started at college. Dad’s left us,” he ended rather disconsolately.
“I’m sorry. I’m Andy and I’m on the fourteenth floor.”
“The penthouse?” he asked, looking impressed.
“One below,” I said with a smile. “I’ve got a cane in my flat if you’d like to see it; maybe we could even have a go with it?”
“Oh, wow! Honest?”
“Come on,” I said. “We’ll take the stairs this time!”
It seemed like a good idea when I suggested it, considering the recent track-record of the lift; but I hadn’t allowed for our erections and progress was slow.
When we reached the fourteenth floor, I opened the door and ushered him in.
“Hey! This is a lot bigger than ours,” he marvelled, laying his bat and ball on a chair. He walked over to the big window and gazed for a moment at the panorama of the city spread beneath us. Then he turned to me.
“So, where is it then? The cane, I mean.”
“You’re impatient,” I told him with a grin. “Hang on.”
I opened a drawer and took out my cane.
He stared, wide-eyed.
“Never seen one before?” I asked.
He shook his head as I moved towards him.
He extended his hand and I raised the cane with lightning speed and cracked it sharply across his outstretched palm. He let out an offended yell and withdrew it smartly, nursing it under his arm. His face showed outrage and hurt.
“What the hell did you do that for?” he demanded angrily, looking disbelievingly at the red mark on his skin.
“Why did you hold out your hand?” I countered.
“To get the cane from you, of course,” he replied.
“Well, you got it, didn’t you?”
“You know bloody well that’s not what I meant!”
“I thought that’s what you came up here for,” I said. “So I could give you the cane.”
“So you could give me the cane?!” He looked scandalised.
“That’s right. That is why you came, isn’t it?”
“No, it fucking well isn’t. I thought I was going to give you the cane.”
“No! Fancy that now! Well, what a mix-up,” I said, trying hard not to smile at his confusion. “So,” I continued. “Am I to take it that you don’t want me to cane you?”
“Too right,” he answered at once.
“Are you sure about that?” I asked, watching him closely.
He was eying the cane, uneasily and yet with curiosity.
“Sit down and have a feel of it,” I said.
He sat on the sofa and I handed him the cane.
“Get your hands on it and learn about it and I’ll make some coffee,” I told him.
When I returned with a couple of mugs, he was still arching the cane, feeling its lithe flexibility, its strong, slim power.
“You like?” I enquired gently.
“It’s cool. Bet it hurts like hell.”
I handed him a mug and he laid the cane on the coffee-table; but his eyes kept straying back to it, absorbing both its threat and its promise. He was still fully aroused; as was I.
“So, have you changed your mind? Would you like to try what it tastes like?” I asked.
He took a mouthful of coffee and then got up and walked over to the window and looked out for several seconds. At last he turned, his face slightly flushed.
“On my shorts?” he enquired shyly.
I had him!!
“At first,” I said.
He turned fully to me, eyes blinking rapidly.
“On the bare?” he asked softly, awe in his tone.
“Of course. How else?”
“Suppose it’s meant to.”
“Definitely. Not much point otherwise. That’s why it’s got to be on the bare,” I informed him.
“Yeh. I see that,” he replied.
“So, you up for it, Derek?”
He turned again to the window and I watched his profile as he fought his inner battle; one part of him wanting it; the other scared of the pain. But I knew which side would win! He looked at me and I could see the resolve on his handsome young features.
“Okay,” he told me, his voice admirably steady. “I’m up for it!”
I picked up the cane.
“Now, you do exactly as you’re told,” I informed him sternly. “Got that?”
He stood very straight as he said it, like a soldier on parade. Boy, he was gorgeous. I took in the slim, athletic body, the tanned legs and arms, the strong neck, the generous mounds of his rump; and the throbbing bulge in his groin, which corresponded beautifully to what was happening between my own legs. He was standing stock-still, eyes to the front, the merest hint of a tremor in his hands betraying his excitement and apprehension. He was ready to obey.
I placed a dining-chair in front of him and told him to bend over the back of it. He complied instantly, presenting me with one of the most beautifully-formed pairs of buns I’d ever seen. They were stunning, fully-rounded, stretching the fabric of his shorts so every curve stood out. If ever a boy’s bottom was begging for the cane, this one was. For several seconds I was spell-bound, just gazing in admiration, seeing in my mind’s eye the neat tram-lines of the cane on the bare flesh; and the dark, thrilling place concealed between the muscular buttocks.
I had to adjust my jeans again as I took up position behind him and to one side. I touched the cane on his rump and saw his tense body quiver.
“Not too hard at first,” I told him. “Try to keep still and to keep quiet. You hear me, Derek?”
I raised the cane and gave him a firm stroke across the centre of his bottom; and was rewarded with a slight wince, but no sound.
I gave him a second one, a little lower, increasing the force slightly. Again a wince and the hint of breath drawn in sharply.
Just below it for number three, stoically taken. For the fourth I moved above the first and added a bit more zing. He flinched and gasped audibly; but he stayed down and there was no protest. I glanced beneath him and was pleased to see that his erection was as strong as ever. So was mine!
Five was given still higher; and then six on a diagonal across the first five. He jumped a bit at that one and a half-stifled yelp came from him. My cock jumped too with the excitement. I waited to see if he was going to get up; but he was good. He’d been told to stay down and down he stayed. I was beginning to feel some respect for this youngster.
“Stand!” I ordered.
He straightened up at once and his hands moved to his behind.
“Hands at your side, head up, eyes front!” I barked at him and he responded immediately. He was still fully aroused and the slight smile on his face suggested he was feeling pleased with himself at how he’d done so far. So far! But we’d see!
“Take off your trainers.”
He did so and resumed his position, standing to attention.
“Take off your shorts!”
Again he obeyed swiftly, baring his buttocks as he had nothing on underneath. He seemed untroubled by the long, thick cock which bounced enthusiastically when it was released from the constrictions of his shorts. Again he stood, erect and motionless, waiting.
I let him wait; and just watched. Slowly the signs of growing tension began to appear; a nervous twitching of his fingers; a delicate sheen of sweat on his face and arms; an increasingly frequent sideways glance to see what I was doing. I admired the faint red lines which my cane had left on those stunning buns and was pleased at their symmetry. I picked up the cane again and observed at once the dramatic increase in the tension of his body. He was holding himself ready now; for he knew that a sterner test faced him and that it was about to begin.
I went round in front of him and showed him the cane. He eyed it balefully, swallowed and then stared resolutely ahead. I really did have a lot of respect for this boy.
He bent dutifully over the chair and there were his buttocks presented and waiting, bare and vulnerable for the cane. I lashed the air and smiled as I saw him wince. I touched his firm behind with the rod and saw the tension rise so it seemed his young body was stretched like a violin-string. I would play the instrument with my cane and see what kind of music was produced.
I reached back and hit him fairly hard. His body jerked and a loud gasp escaped him. His glutes tightened, quivered and then slowly relaxed.
The expressive monosyllable came out like a bullet.
“Felt that, did you?” I enquired.
There was as much enthusiasm as there was resignation in his response.
“You’re remembering your orders to stay in position?”
“Yes, sir. I won’t move,” he answered with surprising confidence. We’d see!
Crack! I etched a second fiery line below the first and just for a moment his right foot lifted from the floor before being replaced. He took the strokes resolutely, uttering gasps, the occasional squeak, his body responding to the pain with flinches and tensed muscles; a bending of the knees and a half turn of his lower body as he processed the pain, but always coming back to position. I watched with delight the contorted features on the open young face as he dealt with his agony; and I observed closely how the proud cock sagged a bit and then at the eighth stroke suddenly began to rise again. By the time I’d completed the dozen he was fully erect. The boy ran true to form; he was as good as he looked.
He obeyed, a little stiffly and stood to attention once more. There was a wetness in his eyes and a series of vivid welts on his bum; but his cock was up, his head was up and his self-confidence was sky-high. He’d done well; and he knew it; and he’d liked it!
I laid aside the cane and went in front of him again. I knelt at his feet and cupped his heavy, full balls in my right hand. He rose slightly on to the balls of his feet.
“Steady!” I told him; and I heard him breathe out and ease back so that his heels were on the floor again.
I touched the base of his penis with my tongue and licked carefully. From deep in his chest came a kind of moan as he sounded the base notes of male ecstasy.
“Going up!” I said as my tongue slid up the long, hard shaft. He was quivering on the brink and when I sent the end of my tongue across the straining, exposed tip of his penis, he came in a great surge of orgasmic power, releasing with his copious young spunk all the tensions and stresses of what he’d just endured. I glanced at the spreading damp patch on the front of my jeans and saw his gaze follow me.
“Looks like you came right to the top too,” he said with a shy smile.
“Maybe you’d like to come back in a day or two?” I suggested.
“Try to stop me!” he said eagerly.
“But don’t use the lift,” I warned him. I picked up my cane and showed it to him. “I’ve got another way of getting you up!”
“All the way to the penthouse?” he enquired with a broad grin.
“Oh, you won’t be stopping at the penthouse,” I told him. “You’ll be going right through the roof.”
And three days later, he did; and so did I!
Story ©MMX by Joelstrap, and used here by very kind permission of the author.
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.
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
♥ Site recommended story ♥
Explicit spanking fiction by Rod Cayenne – strictly over-18s only!
What a stupid question! No, of course not! No, I never regretted moving to the coast. Why would I? A tidy little inheritance and my early retirement had enabled it. My house was one of a detached pair in typical 1950s style. With extensive sea views and long gardens, I counted my good fortune every single day. The coastal climate was fantastic and I felt ten years younger at least. In fact, the only annoyance at my new home was the seagulls. Of course, you get them almost everywhere inland these days, but I did tire of their constant noise and of them shitting all over the place.
My neighbour was Mr Shepard. He was 70, if he was a day. He was a retired barber from the West End of London. He used to regale me with tales of his famous and infamous customers, though rarely of the more humdrum ones. Evidently, his salon had been a fairly lucrative business.
He was a stocky man, completely bald on top but with a neatly trimmed white moustache. He always wore dark, neatly pressed trousers and had a taste for striped shirts. His shoes shone immaculately, whether brown or black, and he always wore a matching thick leather belt. It soon became clear to me that this handsome old devil was gay, whereas my own sexuality had always been a little, how shall we say, ambiguous? Despite myself, I fancied him something rotten.
I was amazed to find he’d refitted one of the downstairs rooms of his home as a bijou barber’s salon. There was just one leather padded adjustable barber’s chair, but the illusion was completed by all the usual trappings – a huge mirror lit from above, clippers, razors, combs, towels, tubs of dressings, styptic pencils and even a display of what appeared to be fine old Fetherlite and Gossamer condom advertisements. On hooks to the side of the chair hung a back mirror, a razor strop and somewhat incongruously, a school cane. I asked him about that cane.
“Oho, that! Gets a lot of comment, that! I call it my barber’s pole! I used to use the strop and cane on uncooperative customers, back in the day.”
I assumed he meant young customers but I couldn’t be sure! I wanted to talk about it a bit more, but didn’t know how to tune the conversation in on the subject. In truth, I’d been caned at school rather a lot and began to enjoy the invigorating sting of the rattan. I was waiting for him to offer me a short back and sides, or a short, sharp shock, but sadly neither was mentioned!
It was a few days later when we were sat in his garden enjoying the summer sunshine and the cool ocean breeze. I gazed lovingly into his sea-blue eyes. I sipped at my vodka and Coke and cursed as a seagull crapped on the cast iron table we were sat at.
“Those fuckin’ seagulls! Always shitting everywhere!”
“Tut, tut, Jason! What awful language! I ought to tan your hide with my strop and pole for that. Wherever did you pick up such foul language?”
My first thought was that I’d picked it up at school, like you do, decades before! I blushed a little. It was as if he could read my every thought.
“You’re right of course! You should tan me,” I laughed nervously as the words tripped out.
“Inside then!” he ordered. Oh my God! He wasn’t joking.
I soon found myself bent over the magazine table in his salon room. A pile of football and girlie mags fell to the floor. I felt his hot breath behind me as his hands made for my belt buckle. He must have done this before as he released the belt like an expert, undid the button and zip and yanked my trousers right down.
“Actually, you’re far too low there. Let’s have you over the arm of the barber’s chair instead.”
I waddled over with my trousers around my ankles. But the barber’s chair was too high! He pumped the chair down a little. I stared into the big mirror to my right. I was horrified to see him approach and then pull down my boxers. My naked arse was on display to Mr Shepard and the mirror. He pushed me down so that I was bent over the arm with my hands resting on the chair seat.
“Now that’s what I call an arse!” he laughed, landing a hearty slap right on my naked bum. I reflected that he was the one using less than refined language now, but I wasn’t going to argue as I spied him reaching for his leather strop. I began to fear it. It looked heavy and purposeful. Obviously, it was a professional piece of kit from the days when things were made properly here in England before our industrial decline.
Crack! The heavy leather hit me hard. My worst fears were confirmed. This was no toy; this was the real thing! It burnt and blazed and was rapidly followed by another equally hard stroke.
A third lick of the leather bit into my reddening arse. “Shit!” I muttered quietly to myself, mindful of how my bad language had landed my in this humiliating position. I stuck my bottom out ready for the next stroke. It wasn’t long coming, and was followed by another two in rapid succession. That made six in total, surely enough to satisfy him and to make amends? Evidently not! The sadistic bastard cackled loudly and lashed seven, eight and nine into me. I’d had enough pain, but some pleasure was kicking in now, too.
“Last three,” he announced. He left me there waiting for them for what seemed like ages. Suddenly a hard stroke hit my left cheek, and then an equally stinging one hit the right. A final stroke landed right in the middle of both cheeks. It really was a killer blow, forcing me to cry out. Gently, I rose and started to rub my assaulted arse. He cackled again.
“I don’t know where you think you’re going, young man! That concludes the razor stropping, but there’s still the cane to come! So you can get down again. And make it smart, otherwise you’ll get double!”
I did as I was told, bending back over the barber’s chair, slyly catching a quick glimpse of my reddened arse in the mirror. What a sight! As I bent over again, I realised I really wanted the caning. It had been a long time, but I really needed it. As the first rattan stroke lashed down, my memory of beatings past surfaced. I remembered distinctly how I’d grown to like the sting, which wasn’t what was meant to happen in a punishment. Yes, I liked the bite and the sting, and maybe the shame too!
A second stroke broke my nostalgic reverie as it hit just below where the first had landed. Both marks throbbed and ached as my tormentor paced around the room, whipping the cane through the air. He cackled and admonished me, “I hope I’m getting through to you, young Jason. I won’t have any foul language in my garden or house. Is that clear?”
I agreed submissively as he sliced a third cane stroke down on my naked bottom. I was enjoying the beating but it did hurt like fuck. I was torn between pain and pleasure. He stopped to pick up the magazines from the floor. I watched him in the mirror as best I could. He tutted as he assembled the reading pile back on the table. He lined the magazines up neatly, almost obsessively. I began to suspect he was trying to wind me up by making me wait for further cane strokes.
At last, he was back and a fourth stroke sliced me, and then a fifth. He stopped to feel my bare arse. The old perv! His hands were cold as they surveyed the damage the strop and cane had inflicted. His fingers lingered over each weal, and then he rubbed my bottom as if to make it feel better, but then he landed a swift slap right over the marks. He laughed and picked up the cane.”This will be the last one as long as you promise to do as I say.”
I promised, not really knowing what was in store, although I could hazard a guess. The sixth stroke sliced into me. It was a hard, unforgiving stroke. I grunted with pain.
After my beating, I was dragged off to his master bedroom. It was a masculine room, with no pretence of routine domesticity. The decor was predominantly black, red and white, just like the salon room below. The duvet and sheets were shiny, satin black. So was the condom he slid onto his impressive erection. That was a barber’s pole of magnificent proportions! He started off spooning me, which wasn’t uncomfortable, but he soon demanded doggy which was both humiliating and painful. He pounded my beaten arse like a man possessed. He grunted and sighed and I squeezed my anal muscles to increase his pleasure. I knew there and then that this would become a permanent arrangement. My bottom was his to beat and fuck as he saw fit. Oh yes! What a man!
D I S C L A I M E R
All characters appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Story © MMXIV by Rod Cayenne
All rights reserved.
Comments from the original 2014 post are here
♥ Site recommended story ♥
Hot fiction from 2016 by Rod Cayenne. With special thanks to Jim for inspiration – where are you Jim?
It wasn’t easy being the rookie cop in the big concrete police station. Jim kind of dreaded the others, and the rough horseplay he saw there in the locker room. He buffed up the shine on his black police boots with the brown wooden brush, and sighed heavily.
“Here, let me have look, lad,” said Tom, one of the older bobbies, the duty Sergeant. Jim passed him a boot to inspect. “Hmm. When all’s said and done, this is not very good. Give it some elbow grease, lad. This needs a lot more shine, a proper mirror-finish. You can barely see the reflection of my beard in this one.”
His beard! Oh yes, his beard. His masculine, greying, sexy beard. Jim had lusted after it and the man behind it ever since he first clapped his eyes on Tom. The beard, the white starched shirt, the blue eyes, his thick leather belt and his bushy eyebrows. The man was a total dream!
Tom pulled the rookie to one side and whispered in his ear, “You’re going to have to do a lot better than this. Watch out for Charlie Alpha!”
Charlie Alfa? Charlie Alfa? He’d heard the name a few times. Who was this bloke the others spoke about in hushed terms? Before he had a chance to mull over it more, Tom the Sergeant was outlining the day’s schedule.
“We’re pulling a gang of teens in this afternoon. They’ve been a right fucking nuisance to some good people so we’re going to put the frighteners on them. Clap them in the cells for a few hours. Probably not a job for you to get too involved in. Then tonight we’re staking out a cottage. The loos in the Jubilee Gardens. I don’t really approve of such harassment any more. I’m not, err you know, but the fact is that there are quite a few of us coppers who sometimes like a bit of variety, if you know what I mean. In fact, I think you maybe one of us, am I right lad? But the Chief Super is a bit old-fashioned in many ways and wants us to crack down, arrest and ruin some married men. But I don’t think so somehow! So we’ll go and watch the action and then conveniently forget to book anyone.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Jim laughed, his tenseness relieved by the frank and friendly banter of the duty Sergeant.
As it happened, it did all go to plan, Jim, Tom and a colleague had a wonderful, voyeuristic time, no animals were hurt, and no arrests were made. However, the Chief Superintendent was not amused. He’d wanted a scalp or two, but nothing had been delivered.
Jim was to discover all about the Chief’s displeasure at his first quarterly performance review. It started well, with gushing praise for much of his conduct. There were problems though, outlined as the Chief paced up and down his spacious office, “Persistent lateness and cocky attitude. I was also disappointed with the stake-out at Jubilee Gardens. I do hope Tom hasn’t corrupted you with his strange beliefs?”
“Err, no Sir. We were just unlucky. We had this fella lined up for cuffing, and then he just disappeared into the night.”
“Is that so, is that so? I am detecting a pattern here. A good policeman let down by negligence, tardiness, complacency and too cock-sure for his own good. What you need, my lad, is a good taste of my Charlie Alpha November Echo!” the older man smirked.
“Eh?” Jim asked stupidly.
“That’s ‘Eh Sir?’ or ‘Eh, Chief Superintendent?’ to you lad! Where are your manners? Do I have to spell it out to you? Charlie Alpha November Echo! C…A…N…E. The cane! Six of the best, should do it.”
“But Sir! You can’t do that!”
“Dereliction of duty, lateness, cocky attitude. I can do it, lad, and I will do it. I think we’ll make it eight strokes, in fact! You’ve had the cane before?”
“Yes Sir. My father…”
“Your father, eh? Hmmmm. Very good. Perhaps I’ll call him later!” With that, the Chief Superintendent sat down and reached under his desk. He produced a cane which he laid on the desk top, right in front of Jim who proceeded to go pale.
“Aha! Do I detect some familiarity with this?”
“Well, it’s very similar to my father’s.”
“Is that so? I doubt he got his from the same place as mine!”
“How so, Sir?”
“I picked this beauty up in a raid of a brothel in the City. You could say she’s a metropolitan model, but I’ve named her Charlie Alpha.”
In fact, it was a pretty standard school cane. A pretty cane! A punishment cane, with a perfectly-curved crook handle. Just like the one Jim’s father had used to use.
“Alright then lad! Stand up! Over the back of the chair please. No, no, you can keep your trousers on. Unlike some round here, I am not a lover of naked male flesh.”
The Chief Superintendent was not a lover of male flesh indeed, but he was a sadist. A semi-secret sadist. How he enjoyed whipping his juniors with a rattan rod! A rod he affectionately named Charlie Alpha!
Jim’s police trousers were stretched tightly as he bent over the back of the chair. So tightly that the outline of his Y-fronts could be seen, offering a gratifying target for the Chief, as he flexed the cane purposefully.
The Chief didn’t hang about as he landed not one, not two but three fast strokes. Jim hadn’t expected that, being used to his father’s more leisurely ways of punishment. The heat and pain was immediate and intense. Jim gasped, overwhelmed by his superior’s sadism.
The Chief paused, “I hope you can see that I mean business, young James!”
“Yes, Sir!” Jim replied dutifully. He pushed his bottom out, ready for the next stroke. It came with a loud crack, Jim feeling as if his trousers, underpants and the flesh beneath were being ripped to shreds. A fifth stroke followed rapidly, causing a squeal from Jim.
“Quiet Constable! Take your medicine like a man!”
The sixth and seventh strokes followed rapidly again, and despite the Chief’s direct command, Jim could not help yelping as each one landed on target. The young constable was embarrassed at his weakness, yet consumed by overwhelming pain at the same time. The last stroke landed accompanied by a loud “AAARGH!”
At least it was over, Jim consoled himself. It had been quite a beating, so rapid and so painful. He’d try to avoid the Chief and Charlie Alpha in future!
“You can get up now,” the Chief smirked. “I hope you won’t need a reminder in the near future. I expect only the very best from my PCs. Otherwise they get the best of this!” he said throwing the whippy cane down on the desk. “Off you go!”
Jim left silently, closing the door gently. Outside the office, his hands flew to his meaty backside. He clawed and kneaded at the flesh, desperately trying to ameliorate the intense, throbbing pain. He loosened his belt by a couple of notches, but it didn’t seem to help any. As he walked down the winding staircase, he caught Tom’s eye, for the sergeant was manning the reception desk.
“Ah. A painful gait, I see. I’d guess that your review ended with an introduction to Charlie Alpha. Am I right?”
“Shit, yes, Tom! Eight fuckin’ introductions!”
“Eight, ho ho, he must have been annoyed! Most new recruits get four to six at most to start with. Sounds like you hit the jackpot!”
“Jackpot! I should be so lucky! I guess that Sergeants are immune?”
“From Charlie Alpha?”
“Of course lad, we’ve paid our dues. Charlie’s reserved for kids like you.”
“Cheers, Tom. I mean Sarge! I’m off home now, think I’ll have a bath, see if that helps.”
Jim made his way home on the service bus. His bottom ached and throbbed as it bounced around on the poorly-padded bus seat. He felt every austerity pothole as the bus rattled and clattered down the neglected A-road. Alighting at the stop, he nipped into the shelter to compose himself before he faced his parents. He didn’t want to give the game away, so smartened himself up, tightening both his belt and tie to look his best.
As it happens his father was waiting to greet him at the door, “Hello son! How was work today?”
“Oh hi, Dad. Work? Oh, you know, same old, same old!”
“That’s not what I heard! The Chief Superintendent rang me. He told me about your caning. I didn’t know the Police went in for that sort of thing at all!”
“No, neither did I Dad!” said Jim rubbing his backside ruefully.
“Well now. I approve. Wholeheartedly. He told me what a cocky fool you’ve been. I’m not surprised. We’ve noticed it at home too. Far too frequently. I’ve sent your mother out.”
That could mean only one thing to Jim. ‘Sending his mother out’ was his father’s code for “I’m going to cane you!”
“Dad, you can’t mean…”
“I do indeed! I bet you thought I’d got rid of the good old cane, didn’t you?”
“Well, yes, I’d rather hoped, as I’m 21 now…”
“Never too old for a caning while you’re under our roof! You’ve brought shame on us, James! I made the Chief Superintendent a solemn promise. That I’d take care of your discipline between his quarterly reviews.”
“Dad, you can’t! Besides, it’s quarterly review day today, hardly between reviews!”
“Don’t get clever with me! I can see what your boss meant about your cockiness. As long as you live under this roof, you are a boy as far as I’m concerned. So before I deal with you, you can have a shower and shave off that ridiculous, cocky moustache too. You’re too young for it! When it’s gone you can report to my study in your pyjamas!”
Jim was dismayed. No moustache! No dignity! And a very, very sore arse. And those pyjamas! His mother insisted on them while he lived at home, although Jim would far rather sleep in the nude. He’d have to ask for a room at the Section House, this was all much too much!
Father meanwhile was happy. He’d take the lad down a peg or two, for sure. He’d felt the urge to discipline his cocky young adult son for some time. Rather stupidly, the lad had furnished him with just the right excuse!
Upstairs in his en-suite, Jim hacked away at his moustache with some disdain. He’d grown to like it, feeling that it gave him the authoritarian air so appropriate for a police officer. But now that contrived gravitas was gone. He gazed at the fresh-faced 21-year-old in the mirror. Why hadn’t he argued it out with his father? It was a question that buzzed around his head time and time again as he massaged his sore arse cheeks under the warm water of the walk-in shower.
“I’m waiting!” Jim’s father barked. Jim duly dropped his pyjama trousers. The old man lifted the tail of the pyjama top to inspect his son’s beaten bottom. The Chief had done an excellent job, with eight crisp but haphazardly-placed weals clearly on display.
“Another eight then, I think. Just to reinforce the displeasure of your mother and I! Don’t let us down again, son.”
With that father landed the first purposeful stroke. Jim had to gasp, for it cut across much of the Chief’s earlier handiwork. And so it continued. A second, harder stroke. A yelp from the young man. A third, leisurely delivered but excruciatingly painful. A squeal from Jim. A whippy fourth, a violent fifth. A teasing sixth, a scorching seventh. Cries and grunts. A valedictory eighth.
Jim got up slowly, pulling up his pyjama bottoms ruefully. He was holding back the tears, but had to speak, “Thank you father.”
“You’re welcome! Anytime!” He meant it too. At last, with great pleasure, he had tamed his cocky son!
Come the next shift, Jim made his way into the police station cautiously, trying to walk as normally as his well-beaten bottom would allow. It was just his luck to find his new friend Sergeant Tom on the reception desk.
“Hey, Jim lad! Where’s your moustache gone? My, you look so much younger without it. Just like the naughty boy you are. Now, tell me, how’s your naughty bottom?”
“Don’t bloody ask! My Dad gave me a thrashing too! The Chief had rung him, so Dad decided to give me the same with his cane.”
“Wait! Your Dad has a cane too? Blimey, you’ve been unlucky! How many did he give you?”
Tom whistled with disbelief, “Anyway, how about after the shift you come back to my place? I’ll make you feel better.”
Tom did eventually comfort Jim, but only after giving him another caning too!
Story © MMXVI by Rod Cayenne
Photographs © by Rod Cayenne
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.
Comments welcome – please use link at the top of the story
♥ 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!
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.
“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.
“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.”
“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.
“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?”
“That’s a big help.”
“You got any ideas then?”
“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.
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:
“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.
“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.
“Look, over there, on the wall above the fireplace!”
I looked where Glen was pointing and then gasped.
“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, 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.”
“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.
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?”
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.”
“And tomorrow you will be coming here to work in my garden; is that correct, boys?”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.
“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.
“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 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.
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?”
“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?”
“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.
“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.
“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.
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.
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
♥ Site recommended story ♥
Hot and explicit true story by David Stewart, repeated from 2012. All the characters are 18 or over.
I’ve always felt that I wanted to be spanked, and I’m not sure why.
It was always ladies I fantasised about until I was about 22, when I made a friend who would introduce me to the world of adult discipline.
To set the scene here, I was a young police officer. I met John, who was 59 and a retired teacher (or so he told me). I had been schooled in Scotland and he had taught on both sides of the border. I met him as a result of a call to assist with some children that were causing a nuisance. We had a chat over coffee about ‘the kids of today’ and so on. Over a few visits the story was always the same, about people lacking discipline nowadays and eventually I guess we both learnt that each other was more than interested in the topic. He did ask me if I was disciplined at home and in school, and did I think I was better for it. In hindsight, nowadays he would be called a pervert, but there you are and remember this was the late ’70s.
He made an unusual comment one visit, asking, “Do you ever miss the way a spanked bottom or tawsed hands dealt with an issue and then it was over?” I answered, “I suppose so, in a strange way.”
As I left that night John made his move and said, “You know David, if you ever felt the need to revisit those days of a spanked bottom, then you only need ask me to do it for you.”
Well I left, and I gave my cock a thorough workout later that day. The following day I called him and spoke nervously about the comment. Not wanting to make a complete fool of myself if I got it wrong, I asked, “What did you mean last night when I left, about if I ever felt the need or something?”
“David, I know some adults still miss that old fashioned spanking thing and as a friend if you felt you needed it, then I would do it for you.” It was a s simple as that, but it had taken about six visits before he asked. I said that I thought I did and he said, “Well if you do David, bring your PE kit to change into and we will see to it!”
Two days later I turned up in uniform along with a bag with shorts and vest in it, and we had a coffee. “Did you bring anything with you today, David?”, he asked. Nervously I showed him the plastic bag and then its contents. John then went on to try to relax me, which was impossible. He told me he had friends who he spanked, and not to think I was unusual in any way.
Eventually he said something about “So should we go and deal with you then?” We stood and went to what was a small study. It had a desk with leather chair, a hard-backed chair in the corner, and a small cupboard on one wall.
“So how should I deal with you, David?”
I said, “Just like my father would, Sir.” There had been no request to call him Sir, it just felt right.
“I will leave you to change then into your shorts and vest.”
When he returned some five minutes later I was stood there with an erection in my PE shorts. He smiled and pulled the hard-backed chair out, told me to go over his lap and then he spanked me over my shorts for a while. I left that night disappointed, to be honest.
The next time I visited, we chatted about it. I had brought my kit again. He asked me how it had been. I suddenly blurted out that “It was not quite as I expected.” Asked why, I said, “Well I was always spanked on the bare bum and it always really stung. I always felt as if I had been punished then.”
John looked at me, smiled, and said “Ah David, so you want a proper spanking do you, pants down, over my knee and one that teaches you a lesson?”
“Well yes, Sir,” I stuttered. “It’s just that I always thought spankings should be like that.”
As a result, a few minutes later I was at John’s side and having my shorts and pants pulled down. This caused my erection to stick out (and be ignored by John). I was then pulled over and I got the hardest spanking I could remember. I recall yelling out “Oh Sir, I am so sorry!”
After the spanking, I was made to stand in the corner, bottom bare and hands on head. That was the way it went for a few months until one day I turned up without my kit. Over coffee we were chatting about spanking and I said, “It makes me regret forgetting my kit today.” John smiled and said, “Well David, I think, if you don’t mind, and as I have seen most of you anyway, we can do without the PE kit from now on, if you want.”
We went up to the study and John for the first time stood watching me and said “Right David I want all your clothes off today.” I was soon stood naked and erect as he gazed at me. “Does it excite you that I am going to spank you David?”
“Do you usually have a wank afterwards, thinking of me spanking you?”
“Yes, usually Sir!”
He moved closer to me. “Do you ever think of me touching your cock David, or does that thought never enter your head?”
“I do Sir, sometimes.”
His hand started to move towards my cock. He touched it and it stood even more erect. He pulled back and then had me over his knee, spanking that erection out of me. It was a harder than usual spanking and I nearly cried. Afterwards he put his hand between my cheeks and made me erect again. So it was that I was wanked for the first time by another guy. That became the norm and I would visit for a spanking at least twice a week and I started to visit him on my days off. It was only a short while before I started to wank him off as well.
After about six months he re-introduced me to the tawse. In doing so, he revealed his love of tawsing. The norm then became for me to have to take six of the tawse along with any spanking. Normally, this was after the spanking, as he liked my hands to be warm when I touched him. After a tawsing, they were really hot!
It was a year before I got caned and I was warned how sore that experience would be. We had discussed it before, but I was still rather unaware of the pain a cane could cause. I recall being told that the cane would be applied next time I came and to make an appointment on a day off. He promised me a real ‘six of the best’ and I got that, for sure.
It was six days later. I visited him nervously. This time, John was very different. “Come in boy!” was his command and I was taken directly to his study. A a cane lay on the desk. He lectured me and told me I was to be caned, six strokes and if I stood up or touched my bottom that stroke would not count and he would add another.
Naked, I stood waiting and Sir said to me in a softer tone, “Now remember David, you asked for this and I need to give you it as I would if it were a real punishment. It is going to hurt like nothing you have experienced before, but I have explained all that already, haven’t I?”
“Yes Sir”, I said.
“And you still want to find out what a real caning is like?”
“Yes Sir, please Sir.”
His attitude changed suddenly, “Right boy! Over the desk, and grip the far side.”
The cane was tapped a few times before it thrashed down. The sound felt delayed, as if it came after the hit . There was a distinct moment when I felt nothing, but then a fearsome pain cut through me! I stood up and grabbed my bum, only to hear a very unsympathetic, “Get down boy! I expected better!”
The next stroke elicited a real yell from me followed by a third then a fourth which both did the same. It was true agony and I had to wait for the fifth stroke. The sixth cut deep into my cheeks and then Sir spoke, “Now you have to be given the first stroke again and then one extra. Are you ready boy?”
“Sir, please no more! I’m so sore!”, I whined.
“You wanted a real caning, now take the last two like a man, David!”
Almost immediately the cane delivered the penultimate stroke, followed shortly by the eighth, final stroke. In tears, I stood up and Sir cuddled me, and then made me stand in the corner. After a while the flames of pain diminished. He led me to the bedroom where he undressed and we got into bed. In the end, I stayed the whole night after being taken out for a curry.
Our relationship lasted for over six years and during that time my bottom was constantly spanked and caned. My hands were tawsed so often that I lost count! It was the only time I have had a long relationship with another guy. Believe it or not, the reason we stopped was because by then I’d met my wife. The marks were too conspicuous to have. She became my chastiser. I have however, always retained a desire to be spanked by another older guy and especially to be hand tawsed by one. I have met a few guys who can tawse school-style and are happy to spank a naughty lad like me.
So that’s the true account of how I came to be into spanking.
Story text © 2012 by David Stewart
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.
♥ Site recommended story ♥
A brand new sequel by Rod Cayenne. The original story can be found here.
Both stories are dedicated to Gerry, good friend of Rod and The Canery.
All the characters are aged 18 or above. This story is currently exclusive to this site and is for adults only!
Reappraisal by Rod Cayenne
“Well, here we are again Williams. I do believe that this is your penultimate official probationary appraisal. Of course, as a diligent boss, with a duty of care, I’ll keep up with reviewing you on an unofficial basis. I trust that you are content with that? Hmm? I said, I trust that you are content with that?”
“Ooh, sorry Mr McGuire, yes, that’s all fine.”
“I hope you weren’t daydreaming, Williams?”
“Err, no Sir,” said the 18-year-old. It wasn’t entirely true, though. He had been thinking about the appraisal and the resultant caning which was no doubt coming his way. He squirmed in the plastic chair in front of the boss’s desk. That very morning he’d been admiring his splendidly unmarked bottom in the mirror in his lonely bedroom. He had felt a little bit agitated, and a greater bit excited at the prospect. In fact, he’d felt turned on, but didn’t have the time to masturbate. He reasoned with himself that he could do that in the toilets of the office building, after all, and that’s exactly what he did do, soon after arriving for work.
“Now let’s review first the outcomes of your appraisals to date. First appraisal, very unsatisfactory performance led to seven strokes of the office cane on your trousers. Second appraisal six strokes bare. Yes, that one was fun, I remember. Fun for me, at least. You were a trifle embarrassed! Third appraisal, eight strokes bare. Fourth appraisal, ah yes, nine strokes bare. A lot of squealing from you on that last one, yes?”
“Err, yes, sorry about that but you do cane very hard, Mr McGuire, Sir. Much harder than my old headmaster.”
“Yes, I dare say I do, and I gave it some extra heft last time. Still, it’s the only way. It’s got to hurt, to teach a lesson. You’re ready for the full dozen now, I’d suggest. I think we’ll spare you the bare bottom business this time though.”
“Oh no, it’s OK Mr McGuire! I can take it and I probably deserve it. That is on the bare Sir, naked, uncovered, as it were.”
“No lad, my mind’s made up. Anyway, we’re definitely seeing some signs of progress, some good solid sales.”
“It’s not that, Sir. I just believe it’s doing me some good. On the bare.”
“I see. Or perhaps I don’t? You’re not enjoying these canings are you, Williams?”
“Oh no, Mr McGuire, Sir. Of course not. How could anyone? Perish the thought! They really hurt, but I’m sure that they are doing me some good.”
“Hmmm, well alright then. It will be bare then, but only because I’ve no doubt that despite your denials, you are still playing with yourself in the toilets. Someone else mentioned it to me. Might have been young Lyle. Can’t recall. You teenagers are incorrigible. Always got your hands on your penises. My son’s just the same.”
Williams blushed, and then blushed some more. He couldn’t in all honesty deny it. Then he remembered that he’d seen McGuire’s son recently. A big, burly fellow he was. He’d called into the office one evening, just as everyone was leaving. Surely he was not another lad who was subject to the office cane? Or maybe there was a cane or two at home? Williams was becoming obsessed with thoughts about Mr McGuire and his canings.
“Anyway, back to business. Despite the good sales, your childish demeanour and antics in the office have been unwelcome once again. Still being a thorough nuisance to the office girls. They are not your playthings and they don’t welcome your attention. So, overall then, a patchy performance lately. Have you anything to say?”
“Not really, Sir. Other than to say that I’m sorry, sincerely.”
“Very well. Let us see whether a good dose of the rattan will help you along.”
“Bare, Sir, as we agreed?”
“Yes, very bare, my boy. Take everything off!”
“Yes, every last stitch of clothing!”
“Well, it’s after close of business. We shouldn’t be disturbed. You may find it humiliating, but I’ve got no problem with that.”
The lad stripped and created a neat pile of clothes. He hid his underpants under the rest of his clothes, as he didn’t want Mr McGuire to detect the tell-tale spunky whiff they were giving off. All was soon revealed, as Trevor “Willy” Williams had a fine, athletic body. He had a lovely, pert arse. When he bent over, his large bollocks and the tip of his penis could be seen hanging down. It was a body good enough to grace the pages of the specialist magazines Mr McGuire sometimes treated himself to.
“A dozen. A full dozen. Full strength. On your bared posterior,” intoned McGuire solemnly. It was all a facade, however, and he was laughing silently to himself at the lad’s impending shame.
With a solid crack the first stroke landed. Williams could take it. He’d been there before, and he could take it on the bare. Indeed, he didn’t stir at all when the second stroke followed rapidly. The third stroke tested his mettle rather more, and by the time of the fourth stroke he was finding it hard to resist moving and clenching. Indeed, by the time of the fifth stroke his discomfort was such that he made to stand up. But McGuire was having none of it. He pushed the lad back down roughly, shouting, “KEEP STILL!”
The sixth and seventh strokes followed through, with McGuire reassuring the lad with more gentle encouragement to “Keep still, keep still, soon be over.” That wasn’t entirely true, however, as the boss decided to stop for a glass of water. Holding the glass to his mouth, he paused to look at Williams’s arse in more detail. It was pert and inviting, even though it had seven prominent red wheals on display. Just five more strokes to go, McGuire thought to himself, and such a shame that it would then be the end of his jollies for a while. Ah well, it was one of the perks of the job. “Right, lad. Let’s get you beaten!”
“Charming!” Williams though to himself, only to have the train of thought derailed by a sudden trio of harsh, fast cane strokes. They hurt; they really hurt.
“Last two, lad.” McGuire sliced the cane diagonally, left to right and then right to left. Williams almost choked as the pain was all-consuming. He gasped and spluttered, and was trying hard not to cry. “Get up! Trousers and pants up. Now sit down here again, if you can. Now listen. As your sales performance has shown real promise, I’ve decided that you should attend the next National Sales Conference. You will accompany me and I’ll show you the ropes. It’s next month, the 18th to the 20th of June. We’ll be staying at a place near the seafront that I always use. Judy has already got arrangements in hand.”
“But, but…”, Williams was about to object but then he noticed that McGuire was still flexing the cane. He couldn’t take any more caning that evening. “But of course, Sir! That would be terrific!” the lad lied shamelessly.
“Good, good.” McGuire almost purred with pleasure. His devious plan was working well.
Conference time came, and the two men headed to the coast on a less than fast “express train”. At the reception desk of the Cock Inn, Williams could see his boss was shaking his head. Evidently there was a problem.
A stern-looking McGuire address his colleague, “Oh dear, Judy seems to have booked us a double room, instead of two singles. Blasted woman! Accommodation is very hard to find when the Sales Conference is in town. So, there’s no alternative. At least it’s an en suite room. You’ll have to share my bed, I’m afraid.”
Actually it was Williams who should have been afraid. Briefly he considered suggesting that he returned home to the bigger city. He really did not fancy sharing with Mr McGuire, his cheap cigars and beery breath. However, he was keen to hold on to his job and felt he had real potential as a salesman. At least McGuire hadn’t got that damned cane with him, Williams thought. Maybe they would get on better without that disciplinary sanction?
“Let’s go up to the room, lad. By the way, I should also mention that I’ve brought a cane with me, so watch your step.”
“Not the office cane, Sir?”
“Oh no, that wouldn’t fit in my case. It’s another one. I had it specially shortened by one of my old trainee salesmen after I broke it on his arse! Yes, my shortened cane has got your name all over it. If you get my drift? So, you might want to make a good impression on me at the conference. Mix and mingle, get some good contacts and leads. There’s a lot riding on the outcome.”
Later, the two men enjoyed a hearty meal in a local steakhouse, and a quick tour of local alehouses. It was ten o’clock by the time they got back to the inn, and it’s well-stocked bar, and a little later still when they made their way up to the shabby room. McGuire lay on the double bed while his junior salesman was busy in the bathroom.
“You’re not wanking in there, are you Williams?”
“Oh no Sir, just a big job.”
“I don’t need to know that! Show some respect!” boomed McGuire. Such crudeness deserved a caning, he immediately thought to himself. He further thought that if he was right about the lad and his strange urges, he’d welcome a caning before bedtime. The booming pub discotheque downstairs would hide the sound of the well-deserved punishment, as an added bonus.
Williams emerged from the bathroom, by which time McGuire had the shortened cane in his hands, flexing and swishing it with determination. “Your crudeness, disrespect and lack of appreciation for my hospitality has just earned you a caning, my lad.”
“Yes, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir. I suppose I had it coming.”
“Yes, maybe so. Six of the best I think. Now drop your pyjama trousers for the cane.”
Only six, Williams thought to himself, with a touch of disappointment. Still, there was plenty of time for a “top-up” before the conference ended. Or maybe he could provoke his boss into giving him extras? He thought about that some more as he bent over the edge of the bed, bottom now fully bared, and decided it was not a good idea.
With a venomous crack, the first cane stroke landed. It had been almost four weeks since the lad’s last appraisal, and in truth he had craved some more discipline at the hands of his boss. But then to his chagrin, McGuire stopped to relight a half-finished cigar. The acrid smell wafted around the poky bedroom. It was a good couple of minutes before the boss flexed the cane and crashed a second stroke down on Williams’ pert arse. That was more like it, the lad thought to himself. Yes, a real throbber, that one. A third followed, and then a fourth that was harder still. McGuire was having to work closer to his subordinate due to the shorter length of the cane. He steadied his employee by placing his firm hand on the lad’s back as he rapidly inflicted strokes five and six. McGuire had had an up close and personal view of his salesman, and was truly sold on what he’d seen. Six hot red lines decorated the rump before him. Yes, a short but satisfying disciplinary session was now concluded by a hearty slap that the boss landed on his junior’s bare arse.
“Time for bed, lad?”
“I suppose so. I’ll just pull up my pyjamas.”
“That’s really not necessary. I sleep in the nude, young Trevor. I suggest you do the same.”
D I S C L A I M E R
All characters appearing in this story are over 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or businesses, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Story © MMXX by Rod Cayenne. All rights reserved.
Comments welcome, please use the link at the top of the story.
♥ Site recommended story ♥
A repeat by request of this popular caning story. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!
Uncle’s Den by Rod Cayenne
“Marvels of miniature engineering, these.” My uncle coughed and wheezed as only a failed ex-smoker could. The N-gauge locos sped around the track in the large room, known to all and sundry as “Uncle’s Den”. There were bookcases of detective stories, railway and wildlife books. A small collection of classical CDs filled another small bookcase. Talking of which, some jaunty baroque ensemble playing could be heard when the trains weren’t drowning it out.
I looked around again and then did a double take. Strangely, on the back of the door hung a school cane. Of course, I had to ask him about it.
“Oh that sweet old thing! That’s there as a deterrent. One of my friends drives the trains too hard sometimes. He really canes them. If he causes a derailment, he gets a sound six of the best from me. Seems fair.”
“So I’m told. Often quite loudly!”
“Where did it come from?”
“The jungles of Malaya, I should imagine.”
“No, no Uncle! That’s not what I meant at all. I mean, how did you come by it?”
“It must have been exported from Malaya to dear old Blighty at some stage. Then, no doubt an Educational Supplies company must have cut it to size and steamed on the crook handle, and then sold it on to the school I worked at.”
“Wait! You never told me you were a teacher.”
“You never asked! I didn’t teach for long. I didn’t have the knack or the calling for it. So I only did three terms. Almost a year. That was enough. That was enough.”
“Enough to convince you that you weren’t cut out for it?”
“No, no! Enough for me to learn how to cane most effectively.”
“Yes, and that cane is one of a handful I liberated when I left the profession. The rest are under my bed.”
“You stole it?”
“No, I borrowed it and a few others, I like to think. After all, abolition was nearing and the canes weren’t seeing nearly enough action.”
“Yes, abolition of corporal punishment by the Conservative government of the time.”
“Yes, that woman! Don’t get me started.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Anyway, let me tell you a secret. Promise not to tell? Well, my friend gets it bare.”
“He gets the cane on his bare bottom.”
This revelation made me nervous. Clearly there was more to my mild-mannered uncle than I’d ever imagined. I gazed into his brown, slightly bloodshot eyes, and could feel my face reddening with embarrassment. It was hard to imagine this friendly, paunchy fellow as a strict disciplinarian.
Later that afternoon, I was playing trains with my uncle. I’d forgotten what fun it could be, and yet after a good hour or so, a sense of devilment took me over and I cranked the controller well into the red. The sad maroon diesel couldn’t cope, spinning off the tracks just by the points before the tunnel.
“My fucking Warship! The pride of my hydraulic fleet! You little bugger! Ah well, it doesn’t look like there’s any damage. But you can fetch me the bloody cane! I’m going to damage your arse, all the same.”
Like a zombie, and shocked by his language, I walked towards the door. I unhooked the cane from its resting place. I’d expected it to feel like a serious combat weapon, but instead I was struck by its light featherweight form.
Uncle seemed really annoyed with me. This meant trouble, of that I could be sure. He said, “Six of the very best for you! We’ll do it here in the den,” and then his attitude softened momentarily, “After all, only the very naughtiest boys get to visit Uncle’s bedroom.”
I didn’t pay much attention to the meaning of those words, as I bent submissively over the back of a chair as instructed. The whippy cane lashed down on my thin Adidas shell suit trousers. They offered little protection from the burning sting of the stick. A second stroke followed. It was harsher, and yet somehow quite invigorating. Uncle was certainly a master at this, I reflected as the unbridled agony of the third and fourth strokes hit me. I was just recovering a bit when the fifth stroke landed, unleashing new waves of pain. The sixth stroke was late. I think he was teasing me by delaying it. I tried to focus on the baroque music, but it wasn’t easy to do as the throbbing in my arse consumed nearly all my attention. Eventually the final stroke crashed down, seemingly re-awakening the weals from the earlier strokes. The pain peaked and then rose again and again.
At home that night, I examined the six crisp lines adorning my bottom. They looked angry and sore. But that’s not how I felt. The pain had been awful but it had been a real turn-on. I masturbated several times in my bunk bed that night. In the end, I fell asleep, drained of spunk and energy. Then I awoke and after examining my bottom again, my right hand was soon gripping my cock for another frantic wank.
It was just a fortnight later that I found myself round at my uncle’s house again. We played with the model railway again, and then because of more reckless train driving we were suddenly teacher and pupil again! This time, he insisted I dropped my trousers and pants for a bare bottom caning. I loved it, and I’m pretty sure he did too. After all, I had a real peach of a teenage bottom. He probably hadn’t seen anything quite like it in years! This time as well as the six of the best, he awarded two extra strokes for ‘excessive wiggling and general disobedience.’ Now, they really hurt!
“Well, how was that, young Wayne?” he asked as he hung the cane back up.
I had to be honest with him, “Actually, although it hurt, I did quite enjoy it. Well, actually I enjoyed it a lot, I’m ashamed to say.”
“Aha! It seems that we have a young masochist in our midst then, doesn’t it? You enjoyed it, eh? Tut, tut. In that case, in future there’s no need to go crashing my expensive trains just to secure a sore bottom! If you want a caning, just ask me for it. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Uncle! Perfectly clear!”
“Yes, good. I’m sure we can find some other pretext for it. Let’s see now, you’re nineteen, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am. Nineteen and a half, in fact.”
“In that case, I’m sure that every week I can cane you for excessive masturbation and dirty thoughts, can’t I? Well, come on now, am I right or am I right?”
“You’re right, Uncle. Of course,” I confessed. In truth, wanking was my favourite pastime. So it seemed that we had an understanding. No longer would I have to cause trouble on the tracks to get my whacks!
D I S C L A I M E R
All characters and businesses appearing in this story are over 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Story © MMXVII by Rod Cayenne
Comments welcome, please use the link at the top of the story.
♥ Site recommended story ♥
A brand new short story of corporal punishment fun from the pen of your host, Rod Cayenne. This story is currently exclusive to The Canery. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!
All Day Breakfast by Rod Cayenne
The Coronet Café and Milk Bar was opposite the faded Grand Theatre where Derek often performed, sometimes as a lead and at other times as an understudy. It was also directly below the tiny flat he rented from the cafe’s proprietor, one June Prior. A scratchy and warped Merseybeat 45 played on the jukebox.
“You boys! I can guess just what you’ve been up to. Why Derek, your guest can hardly sit still,” June wagged her finger at the young lovers, only semi-seriously. Fag ash from her roll-up narrowly avoided landing in the sink where she was scrubbing away the last remnants of a recalcitrant omelette. “Did you not get enough of the cane at school? Tut, tut what would your old headmasters say, if they only knew? You know, there should be a law against it. Yes, indeed my naughty boys! Anyways, there is a law against the other stuff I’m sure you get up to! Dirty, dirty boys!” Another clump of ash fell from the ciggy. “How did youse two meet anyway?”
“Actually we first met each other in the theatre toilets,” Russell sniggered, “It’s where all the big boys hang out.”
“Ach! How I wish I hadn’t asked,” said June as she turned her attention to a prime cabbage she was preparing for the Sunday roasts, “The age of romance is certainly dead.”
Russell burped loudly and Derek laughed.
“See! Dead! Disgusting! I ought to throw you both out, but you know you are my only two customers at the moment!”
“Two All-Day Breakfasts, please June,” said Derek as he looked up from his stone cold sugary cappuccino.
Suddenly, June’s mood improved. After all, cash was king at the Coronet! “With bread and butter?” she pushed her luck. The two lovers nodded eagerly, “Soft eggs?”
“Aha,” said Rusell.
“Softie for me too please, love,” said Derek in his campest tone as he drummed his fingers on the red and white chequers of the Formica table top.
June stared at the ceiling. “OK, just let me finish this,” she said as she started daydreaming while slicing the cabbage. She was enjoying a flashback to that fateful day, only a few months back when she had stumbled across Derek and a different male lover in the flat. It was rent collection day, so she’d let herself in, only to find herself confronted by a most unusual spectacle in the dingy living room. Two naked youths, both sporting huge erections, one about to bend over the settee, and the other with a whippy crook-handled cane in his right hand. Yes, it had been quite a shock. She had mentioned it and the tin of Vaseline she’d seen to the vicar, but he’d reasssured that sort of thing was quite normal and could soon be legal. “After all, we are in the Swinging Sixties!” he had laughed. Those erections haunted her nights and her daydreams, for she was still a virgin most pure. Her tireless pursuit of money had left her life quite barren.
“I could spare some of this cabbage if you want some with your breakfasts,” June offered.
“Err, no thanks, that is something I really did have enough of at school, thanks June,” Derek replied.
“Me too, me too,” added Russell.
Later that afternoon Derek and Russ were lying naked in each others arms. The old bed creaked as they kissed passionately.
“That June’s quite a character, isn’t she? Although that breakfast was pretty awful. It keeps repeating on me. It keeps repeating on me,” said Russell.
“Oh do shut up! I get the joke. Think yourself lucky that you escaped the cabbage. But I am quite fond of June. She’s such a sweetie. I ought to fuck her sometime,” Derek mused.
“Nah, fuck me instead,” Russ suggested.
“Nah indeed, I don’t think so! You’re due a caning, my boy.”
“Yes, you are. After all, we’ve got to live up to the reputation June’s given us.”
“That bloody woman! What an old slapper!”
“The only slapping that will be going on is my hand on your arse. Then maybe a dozen strokes with my finest rattan for you. For being rude about June. She’s actually quite chaste.”
“And that’s a word I don’t like hearing in my home. Some extras for that I think. Fetch the cane, my boy.”
Russell dived under the bed. For it was there that Derek kept two swishy canes. A junior one which stung like the devil, and a senior one which raised wheals like nobody’s business.
It was clear from Derek’s instruction that he meant to use the senior one, “Now bring the stool in from the parlour.”
Russell groaned. A caning over the old wooden chemistry lab stool was something that would really hurt. Clearly Derek meant business today. Russell, completely naked, draped himself over the stool.
“Bottom right up, that’s it,” Derek instructed before landing a meaty slap on the right buttock. He followed through, alternating firm smacks between the two pert and inviting cheeks. So many generous and livid red handprints soon decorated Russell’s rear. Derek wasn’t in the mood for wasting time though, and promptly landed the first cane stroke right across the middle of Russell’s arse.
The second stroke was the killer though. Derek had lashed it down right on exactly the same spot as the first one. “Aargh!” cried Russell.
Derek laughed and remonstrated with him that it was a bit early in the thrashing to be crying out, “But then, you are a real Softie, aren’t you? Mister Softee!” His cruel words added to Russell’s humiliation. Then the cane thrashed down again, and again. The beating was harsh, remorseless and hardly playful. After twelve strokes, Russell was close to tears. Close, but not quite there.
“Stay where you are!” commanded Derek, “You’re due extras for swearing. Two for ‘bloody’ and two more for that ‘S Word’ that I cannot abide! Let me swap canes. I think the bite of the junior is just what you need now.”
Derek scrambled under the bed, to retrieve the second, thinner cane. If only Russell could have seen, for Derek was now presenting a most undignified spectacle. His own naked bottom, arsehole and rampant cock were on display as he groped around under the bed to find the second cane. He should have got Russell to do this, he thought to himself. “Got you!” he cried eventually, crawling back up with the lithe cane firmly in his grip.
Crack! The junior cane lashed into Russell’s rump, relighting the pain from the previous dozen strokes. The lad whimpered gently as a second stinging stroke followed. At times like this, Derek could be a real bastard.
“There, that’s for the first swear word. These next two will be harder; you know how I feel about that second word!” said Derek. Little did Russell know where this prudishness had come from, after all Derek had just used the F Word. In truth, that prude streak was from Derek’s own painful upbringing as the son of a beastly clergyman.
So it was that the final two strokes were hard, stinging and masterful. Derek threw the cane down and jumped on the bed. Soon, Russell joined him. Derek flipped him over to inspect the damage. Indeed, the sixteen strokes had made quite a mess of Russ’s rear. It was criss-crossed with angry red lines, and as Derek massaged gently, Russell could not help but wince as the pain was revived to some extent. Derek’s cock was erect and primed.
“Make love to me,” pleaded Russell.
“No, not now. Later perhaps,” said Derek enigmatically. To be honest, Russell’s caned arse was such a sight, that his lover was a bit turned off momentarily. Derek pulled on his blue jeans and a paisley shirt. “I’m just popping down to see June. Catch you later, naughty boy.” He slapped Russell’s arse as he departed.
Russell rolled on to his side to gently soothe the damage Derek had wrought. After a few minutes, the pain gradually subsided, to be replaced by a warm and calming glow of contentment. Soon, his penis had sprung to life. It was rock hard, and throbbing with life, like an independent spirit. Of course, Russell had to attend to it. Frantically, he pumped and pumped until he achieved a gratifying release.
Downstairs in the café, Derek was whispering in June’s ear. “Sixteen hard strokes I gave him. Made quite a mess of his arse, I can tell you. That’ll teach him to swear in my fuckin’ flat!”
“My flat,” June corrected him, wagging her finger. Little did Derek know that June had recently taken a trip uptown, like you do, and bought her own whippy cane. She had definite plans to use it on her tenant. After all, she shouldn’t have to put up with swearing from him, now should she?
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 © MMXX by Rod Cayenne
Comments welcome, please use the link at the top of the story.
♥ Site recommended story ♥
Red hot new spanking fiction by very special guest author Sukemnsee. This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are 18 or older. WARNING: ADULTS ONLY!
The Builders by Sukmnsee
I live in a newly built apartment in the early phase of a major housing project. The whole process is years behind the first mooted schedule of regeneration and some of that may well be the developers are riding the crest of appreciating property prices. As a result, for a while there has been lots of scenic view from the 3rd floor balcony but that is rapidly changing.
A large building development site is quite fascinating, my mind is drawn to how much expenditure happens in the project. The apartments when sold are big money but not as silly as some prices but how many apartments have to be sold to cover the costs. In phase 3 of the plan, there are 3 separate tower cranes, all at a cost to hire. There is no end of plant in use and at times it seems like a major construction workforce.
For months after demolition of earlier buildings, it just seemed that time was used playing with JCB earth movers, levelling ground, digging, excavating, reprofiling accompanied by multiple movements of lorries taking away subsoils to some depository and people paid just to wave a hosepipe in the street and at the wheels of trucks.
Then there was the piling. Little machines with big drills going deep as if drilling for oil and making holes, followed by men weaving rusting steel rods into a frame before concrete poured over. Eventually those same piles became visible with new movements as great retaining walls and feet of other foundations.
Now the main fabrication of the new tower blocks is taking place, one off to the left, one much farther and in the right then signs of new infill so that before long I will not see the first building in the project constructed or the traditional main road behind. The work is intense now with concrete, floors and more steel and frames to cast key building points in the addition of level after level. It still remains fascinating though as you see an array of men in white hard hats and bright yellow visibility wear, all having tasks to do. A hammer to be swung, a chain to pull on the concrete hopper dangling from the crane. All the gibbets used for securing men with safety harness clips so there is reduced risk of injury if they step too far, of mobile steps with gates to avoid unbalanced falling back. Bright yellow covered walkways, defined steps to change levels, no end of measures designed to improve safety.
I can lounge around watching the work all day when free time occurs or maybe download other entertainment as I enjoy the cosy warmth of good insulation and divest of most clothing, only getting up to refresh the hot tea.
It was one such afternoon that suddenly I heard a sharp rap at the apartment door. Who could this be, why no preliminary call on the video link intercomm. The door is not actually locked when I am at home but it is solid and shut so little prospect of disturbance. Was it a neighbour? If it was some sales call they would get an earful. I pulled on my tighty whities and went to the door, remembering an old memory of doing some random canvassing and a well known actor, recently deceased, answering his door to me in singlet and underpants and thinking why not, I am the intruder.
At the door were two builders, probably from the site opposite. One was about 40 and quite solid, the other was probably short of 30 and quite lean. The elder one said they needed to talk to me about the view from my lounge. I asked them into the lounge which is dominated by large windows and sliding door onto the small balcony. On the opposite wall there is a bed settee, usually just in use as sofa, and in the corner close to the windows but shaded by wall is the television with other furnishings around the walls.
As they stood there, the younger one commented that it was strange in a way that I could easily look at the window and see such a load of activity. I admitted that it was at times fascinating watching the range of activities, especially the long tortuous process of watching the crane operator ascending by a series of individual ladders, noting some days it was a vigorous climb yet others seemed a real weary process. Right now in the middle distance the footings were taking shape ready for some serious completion of floor levels which was already happening slightly to the left.
The older one interjected that if I could see so much detail, had I not thought that builders might be able to see into open, unshaded windows. I said that they would usually be too busy on their projects to be noticing. He replied there are times that they need to wait for delivery or that night security patrol makes loose comments about people in flats. I was a little shocked by the notion of viewing by night security as I had never noticed anyone patrolling the site.
The older one continued that it was noticed that this flat never drew the curtains that were there and so from time to time you have been watched. You spend a lot of time on the sofa more or less naked and obviously watching TV Video for some stimulation. Even now you are hardly dressed and it is daytime, perhaps you had an early finish.
The younger one piped up, saying that what he was alluding to was that he wanted to see your porn. The guy needs help and figures you could be good to let him watch for a while, get his blood flowing and his mind racing. But I see a simple screen, where is the video or is it a super smart TV?
I laughed, “sorry but it is a relatively simple TV with freeview built in, I stopped acquiring video years back when on line became so popular. I mainly use my iPad on the Tumblr app with occasionally following through to some video snippets or even longer films on You Tube. Mind you, you have just given me an idea, I could set up my projector against the blank wall and link into my lap top”
The elder one thought and declared projection would be better than trying to look at a small tablet but how about I start looking at the tablet while you get the projector set up
I handed over the iPad with the Tumblr app open while I took a few pictures off the wall to increase the potential projection area. Next I planned to move the table back into centre so that the projector would be well positioned. I never got that far. My elder man was disappointed.
“What the hell is all this crap, I haven’t seen a single fanny yet! Are you a bloody poofter, all you have got is loads of men with dicks and pervy smacking shots. That’s not what I want to see!”
He handed over the iPad to the younger builder who laughed.
“I suppose this stuff is quite kinky, cannot see you getting your rocks off to this”
He handed back the iPad back to me without closing the app so the image I saw was a guy of about his age, full frontal, in shape and pleasing to see. I wondered if there was any message or just accidental point of stoppage.
“Well, if that’s your attitude I won’t bother to set the projector or search some straight porn out”
“Too right”, said the older guy, “we’re off, waste of time this was!”
They headed off and I shut the door behind them, slowly getting angered at the effrontery of the guy for thinking he could invade my privacy and then be picky about what he found before I was ready. I went back to the sofa and calmed down by surfing the app until I was more inclined to get really excited, but I just stayed in the moment rather than finishing off.
Probably an hour had passed when there was another rap at the door. Was it the same guys again? I strode to the door not even bothering to put my pants back on. What did I care, whoever was calling without using the intercom was essentially invading my privacy. Then as I started to open the door, I thought what if it is a neighbour, so I opened the door slightly and put my head around.
“Don’t worry, I am on my own, he is working on that building by the main road”
It was the younger builder. I let him in. Surprisingly he was carrying a small tripod. He also had a back pack on. He strode on into the lounge.
“I just wanted to apologise for Harry’s behaviour. I was embarrassed how the situation developed and things he said. You must know we are not all the same. Perhaps I can make it up to you by posing for pictures”
As he was saying this he was emptying the back pack which had a tool belt, a yellow hard hat, a digital camera and a tape measure.
“You have some cheek! You sheepishly follow the other guy around as he behaves badly and finds my porn is not his liking. Then you presume you have me figured out and that if you dress up as a builder for a picture I am going to be easily satisfied”
This indignation that I suddenly put on took him by surprise.
“Oh! I thought you would like me in hard hat and boots. I know quite a few of the guys sneak looks at me in the showers. I got the idea from that brief moment I had your iPad as I switched to your likes and that is why I looked out a yellow hat”
I thought I had better not overdo my reaction as he looked quite sheepish and while I had burst his bubble, I certainly did not want to lose this developing opportunity. I just wanted to change the sense of control back to me. I looked at the iPad and switched to the likes, maybe he used Tumblr as well to know where to look so easily. Sure enough, a few pictures back was of a hunky guy, naked and excited wearing a yellow hard hat and a strategic little replica.
“It could be an idea to reproduce some of my likes, but perhaps while I nip to the bathroom for a few moments you had better look again. My tastes are varied and you could be exploring new ground”
I handed him the iPad once more and went into the bathroom for a thorough freshen up, if this led to anything I did not want to be found distasteful, assuming that is he could cope with me being a much older mam, old enough to be his father or better his uncle, definitely overweight and not exactly model material.
By the time I walked back into the lounge he had the tripod set up with the camera mounted and he just happened to be naked except for work boots and a yellow hard hat. What a lovely sight he was. He was well proportioned of average height and a light brown with just a hint of red or perhaps the better description is auburn smattering of hair between well developed chest muscles becoming a wispy trail down to a handful of pubic hair and a pleasant cock that had just enough foreskin nestling above a pair of egg sized testicles. From there his legs seemed just right. A man in condition but not overblown through excessive gym sessions. No wonder other guys stole glances at him. I scanned all this image in my head very swiftly and he may have been surprised to know how much I had already taken in.
I told him the first thing he needed to do was show me how the camera worked, assuming I was an absolute beginner. He joined me at the camera standing close to me explaining the functions which included a video function and a timer delay that was ideal for selfies as he termed the practice of capturing his own image. Having done that he walked back into the centre of the room and I noticed his rear view was just as pleasant as the front. He had enough shape to define his buttocks but they were neither flabby or bony. Being younger, they had no sag and were not hairy at all, though there was the beginnings of a hairy patch in the small of his back.
I told him that I was confident we could create some great builder as model pictures that he would like for himself and not just to be pleasing me, but that first, there were other things to deal with. I asked if he had seen some of my likes and he said most of it was all new to him. By this stage he had revealed his name was Archie, short form of Archibald with a second name of Bartholomew, names which had been in his family for generations. He commented that I had a lot of spanking pictures, with me confirming I was often a receiver with little tolerance but as the years rolled by I was becoming the spanker more often. The lad was sharp as he noted I said more often so perhaps I did still get spanked after all. I admitted that I did permit some people to spank me. I wondered why I was so open to him. I told him he knew what was to happen next given his bad behaviour earlier, a first instalment before other things he might have had in mind. He looked concerned and said he did not really know what he had to do. That provoked a sharper response as I told him to do was to take a spanking. I was a little fierce as he responded that he knew now that he would be spanked he just did not know how he should be positioned.
I moved one of the dining chairs into a nice central position then set up the video on camera to catch the scene with a two minute delay. Then I went and sat on the chair and told him to get himself over Uncle’s knee. Rather hesitatingly he came to my right hand side and leant over. He had quite long legs so I widened my legs a little to make a wider platform. He stretched over quite easily and placed his hands on the floor ahead of him. He also spread his legs a little. A lovely sight, his crack relaxed, his two buns shapely, the camera would have a great view. I wondered if he had done this before or was just intuitive. I palmed my hand around his buttocks getting the measure of them telling him that I would normally spank a young man in three stages, over trousers, over underpants and then on flesh. I was still rubbing my hand and I felt him widen his legs a little, probably finding this a little stimulating. I responded by letting the side of my hand move along his crack and as it got lower to define each buttock. I was still talking, telling that I would reflect the stages by not being too intense at first but that he would get to know when he was at third stage.
Suddenly I had raised my hand and planted a broad palm firmly on his right buttock. Not too intensely but it made him gasp from surprise. I continued a few more measured slaps, striking different parts with the hand deadening the shot and not rushing from the skin. It produced a few pinky marks. I stopped and rubbed him again, telling him I did not spend long punishing the thicker material of trousers.
My hand now came down rapidly with more intensity with more defined slaps. Some of them made him jerk a little and little noises of discomfort were heard. As I was slapping him I told him this stage was often more of a surprise in the change of intensity. I also told him that this was not his total punishment and we were looking forward to using the camera so that I would not get to the bare skin stage as such this time. With a flourish I landed a quick volley of meaningful spanks then told him to get up. He was not as quick to get up as he had laid down and as he stood he moved his legs a little adjusting to the discomfort and looking over his shoulder to see some initial redness. I got up and reset the camera.
I asked him if he had thought what sort of poses he wanted for the camera shots. He was a bit nonplussed. I asked did he just want a few straight poses or perhaps angles suggesting him working. He liked the idea of related shots. Firstly I had him wear his tool belt and had him stand on short steps, feet on different steps reaching up over his head as if nailing something. I rotated him and got several shots showing his musculature and his shapely bottom which although still pinky was not the main focus. Then I took a few full body shots, getting him to move the tool belt off centre so that next to the belt hung his own prized tool. I noticed that indeed had stirred and looked even more attractive as we worked. I then went into the kitchen and put some turmeric into water and bringing back a sponge I painted him a little to suggest the dust and dirt of his work. Those made excellent shots. Finally I got a few shots of him working on the floor. I loved the shot where he was kneeling on all floors scrubbing away at the floor, the angle suited his muscular body and whether he realised it or not, the view looking towards his anus revealed his testicles to hang in a defined and erotic manner. As I moved him to further poses my hand just had to be guiding him with pressure on his bottom, desperately resisting the notion to start exploring with fingers or just some serious slapping.
At this stage he was quite playful and he must have realised that I was enjoying his exposures. I told him I now wanted some simple full body shots and so he paraded with flexes of biceps and holding his chest firm and stomach in. I noticed his penis was fuller than it had been, highly attractive and such a temptation but it was still far from full extension or rigidity. I got active with the camera for a while then told him he knew there was one special shot he had come to recreate but he needed to take some action while I was just getting one more prop ready. I offered him the iPad but he said he could manage.
I came back into the room minutes later and he had succeeded. He was stood there with hands behind his neck proudly disporting his frontal view with a enticing rich erection jutting almost vertical and an appreciable size. His foreskin had been retracted and hardly visible as the skin was reused in the expanded area before his bulbous darker tip. I came forward and added my prop, a tiny yellow helmet jauntily astride his exposed glans, just like the initial picture seen except that toy would have been better crafted than my brief improvisation with cutting the top of the thumb of a rubber glove. They made excellent pictures and when I showed him on camera view he seemed pleased too.
I told him we had finished with the photo shoot but I noticed he was still erect. I fingered it carefully telling him that we could be patient and let it subside or we could look to provoke deflation by making it produce. He smiled and said that he was definitely still horny. I asked him what he wanted to do and he was unsure, not wanting to get too wild this first time but leave some things for another visit. That was enough and I took a firm grip of his erection and tugged him across the room, with no resistance, so that I was seated at one end of the sofa before pulling him much closer and flicking off the little cap, I placed my lips over his engorged glans and he fell forward using his arms to steady himself on the top of the sofa although he made no effort to stop what I had started. I had quite fancied leaving the cap in place at first but being unsure how secure this quick makeshift prop would hold in place I had not wished to inadvertently swallow it. I would of course ensure there was a future better quality mini helmet for a helmet but for now I had an unvarnished tool ready for me to work on.
I continued to work on his erect phallus using the tip of my tongue to tease all of the glans and the rim while just gently fingering the lower part of his shaft and cupping the definition of his testicles. This worked as I expected as he was soon leaking precum, the sticky transparent natural lubricant. I considered to myself that his willing acceptance suggested this was not the first time he had quality fellatio and had probably had it from a male as well.
Without breaking contact, I shuffled so that I was more lying on the sofa and that he could also lie across my head and start a more defined motion. I know many people struggle with deep throating but with my experience I knew I could cope without too much gag reflex. This also gave me a chance to cup his firm glutes with an odd slap added as he now pumped into me. If there were to be future sessions I would mould his actions but if he was at all typical of many heterosexual males I had enjoyed, his sense of control and thrusting would keep him satisfied and less self conscious.
After maybe ten minutes my jaw was starting to ache but I could also feel his bodily reaction was becoming fevered and frenetic as he drew close to his orgasm. He suddenly yanked his penis free of my mouth and then almost simultaneously pumped ribbon after ribbon of white spunk all over my face. I let him finish then grasped his tip again back into his mouth to clean up. Very quickly he had that great sensitivity and started to pull away and it was obvious I had caused deflation. To my surprise he then planted a definite kiss on my mouth, not rushing or being squeamish about my sticky face, telling me that was helluva blowjob. He then pulled away telling me he was cleaning himself up in my bathroom to which I consented, telling him to grab a clean towel from the hall cupboard. Meanwhile I slowly washed my own face in the kitchen sink and draped a dressing gown on me.
Several minutes later, he emerged and packed up the tripod and camera and then dressed himself. He was quite natural and not wildly embarrassed and as Archie left he told me had had a great session on many counts and he would let me see the pictures he keeps sometime soon. He quietly left and I laid back and relished my recent experience.
Archie called again the following Tuesday afternoon, using the video link intercom to request access. It was only about 15 minutes after I had returned home, an earlier finish, so potentially he had been keeping an eye out for me returning home.
Once he was inside, being careful to take off work boots and leave them in the hallway, seated and accepting a glass of water, he began his conversation, which he had indicated was to be of a short duration.
Firstly he thanked me profusely for last week. He had enjoyed it even above his expectations. He quickly apologised once more about Harry and said that Harry would have had no idea that there had been any follow up and he should be unlikely to find out unless, he left the phrase unfinished and said the pictures and videos had turned out well and he would shortly send them across to me electronically.
He was quiet then for a moment, perhaps he was formulating how to ask for a further session.
I let him be still but then asked what problem had arisen as I could see something in his body language.
He smiled briefly and admitted there was a slight problem about Kipling. I was surprised as my first thought was of the classic writer, Rudyard Kipling, and had no idea he was talking of a younger builder on the site. When he said that was the young man’s first name and not surname as that seemed unusual, I did say is he a good puppy, as it was more likely to be a contemporary name for a dog.
After some hesitancy, he explained that Kipling had sought him out and had a private conversation, he did not really know him before that. The problem had been with the work camera that he had used. Despite his best efforts, he had not managed to clear all the card memory or built in cache and this young man had used the camera and managed to find evidence.
I asked what he thought had been found and it was three or four modelling shots and a section, strangely not whole, of some video of Archie being spanked.
I immediately asked if the boy, why I made him sound much younger was a mystery, was trying to blackmail Archie and demanding any money.
Archie said he had not immediately looked at it as blackmail but he was aware that the evidence could be reported to site management and that would start some embarrassing enquiries, not the least of which was that he had not
officially clocked off the site even though at the time he had visited, his section was delayed awaiting deliveries that had been forecasted to be at least 90 minutes late and had profited from the time while others he knew had lost money gambling in card games. He had clocked off this time, he did not like to make mistakes repeatedly.
I asked if it was not money, what was it that Kipling was looking for as I could tell this was unfinished business.
Archie said that perhaps luckily that the imagery seen had made Kipling horny and although he was only almost 21 years old, he had seen extensive Male porn and did find that spanking and more did get him excited. And so basically he was demanding to be included when we held a next session when at least one person present would be spanked deeply. He wanted to be an onlooker. Archie did think however that he was being bold and had no tangible experience but was maximising this sudden opportunity.
I smiled to myself as the television series called The Apprentice was now showing and it almost sounded like a line from the boss before the final discussions and raking over task failures.
I decided to put him to the test. I told Archie to contact him and we could have some activity tonight when they had finished work. Archie tried calling him by mobile phone which was unanswered. I was not surprised as if this Kipling boy was active on the building site, then would it compromise safety to be making calls and having distractions. Archie made ready to physically return to the site but then the phone rang and the call was returned. Kipling apologised he was busy and needed time to reach a place to make a call, I could hear this as Archie had the phone in speaker mode. Archie told him I had made an offer for straight after work. Kipling said he could not do that as he planned to meet up with friends, I told Archie it was no issue except that it would probably be at least three weeks before any new opportunity and the call was appropriately ended.
After Archie had set the phone down, I said to him five minutes and he was puzzled as I did nothing more to explain, we talked instead about the model photos taken and I was probing his imagination as to what future poses would be ideal.
His phone rang again, he answered it to Kipling. I looked at my watch and pronounced 4 minutes and 19 seconds. The meeting for this evening was on after all as Kipling had advised friends he had to attend elsewhere. After finishing the call Archie had smiled as he commented that I had every expectation of this swift response. I sent him on the way and said I would expect to meet them both within 30 minutes of the site shift ending, allowing them enough time to freshen up.
Two hours later, both young men were on the way up to me. Before Archie had left he had handed over to me his own digital camera for me to get familiar with in case I wanted to take any photos in the forthcoming session and I hoped I was now quite proficient. They came into the flat and slipped the door catch behind them and on into the lounge. Kipling was of a similar height to Archie with quite dark colouring and pronounced eyebrows on a fairly handsome face. His chest was perhaps slimmer but like many of the younger men of our time, his diet had already led to his hips being fuller and his body had the beginnings of a pear shaping. He also had those sloppy grey tracksuit trousers that are contemporary in comparison with the smart denim that was the choice of Archie. Both of them had removed socks and boots soon after entering as I had arranged with Archie. He had also put their outer jackets away as well so they were already comfortable in the lounge. For the moment I was wearing a white shirt and black trousers, also barefoot but within slippers.
I asked the two of them to seat side by side on the sofa and moved to sit on a simple dining chair which I placed so that I was facing them. I put on a stern face. I addressed Kipling, all the time wondering if it was abbreviated to Kip with his friends and trying to unlink a historical advertising slogan that put the words exceedingly fanciful into my brain. I told him I understood that he had made a discovery that meant he had something to report to me about Archie. This opened his tongue considerably.
“Well Sir, you see it is like this. Archie here is done bad. He has acted all perverted and I got to know about it and he is not even ashamed, he just looked me in the face when I told him and he didn’t say sorry and anyhows not only has he done these things but he musta bin using the camera without the gaffer knowing and just think what would happen if the guv’nor saw what I seen and as I had the camera in my ‘and I don’t wanna get no blame for nuffink as I wasn’t here when those pictures were took and anyway where did he get a yellow helmet”
This was certainly a torrent of words and I had cringed at the grammatical errors in his expression apart from any incongruity in that which had revealed. I picked up on some of his phrasing as I told him that he had given me insufficient detail as to what I could see and as yet had no idea what was in comparison like this. I told him I wanted a slow and measured account of what he knew or had found irrespective of any attribution of blame or consideration of consequence. These long words were troubling him so I told him that I heard he mentioned a camera so he could tell me the whole story one sentence at a time and if necessary I would ask him further questions as he went along.
“Well it was the camera what did it.”
I asked him to tell me about the camera, what sort of camera, what does it look like, to whom does the camera belong, where is it stored, why would he have access to the camera and to remember that a camera was an object and that it could not do anything of its own accord, let alone what I eventually hoped to understand was meant by it. He thought for a few minutes, looking rather perplexed. I told him and Archie to go into the hallway for a moment so that Archie could coach him on the best way to start his account. This delighted Archie who had been doing his utmost to suppress his smirks about the conversation so far.
They returned after almost ten minutes during which I could overhear Archie painstakingly trying to get Kipling to speak in a more structured order including things I would like to know and trying to soften some of the errors he was wont to make.
Once seated, Kipling tried for an improved version.
“My job, my role.. “
There had been a flash of eye contact between the two leading to role being proferred and Archie was trying to increase his lexicon. As he said the word however it sounded far more of a roll as he stressed the letter l.
“Is as a general assistant to the site foreman team although I am being, taught, mentored, in some construction skills, so I do some real work and don’t just ponce around the office… I mean my role is not just being at a desk and I am also studying City and Guilds for the trade. One of the many things I do is capture progress on the site and file a record as well as write up the risk assessments for any new way of working. I use the camera quite a lot as I download the pictures for each project within the bigger phases. So, there I was, taking my recent pictures of the foundations for the gym and health club facility that is part of the development and using the stick, the USB device, to transfer files.
I got my photos easily enough but on the screen there is a measuring icon for the capacity of the camera and it was still showing a lot of megabytes, so I switched to the data manager to access the device directly and it was then I found images that were not expected.
There were photos from inside of an apartment of a man that was basically naked and it was not accidental, he seemed to be wanting to be taken by the camera. It looked like he was a builder for real as there were muscles as well as gear.
Then I also found a video fragment that shows the same person spread over a man on a chair getting his bare bottom spanked but I could not get any sound through the desktop but his bottom was right pink just before he stood up. I looked at the other photos of the builder fella then I realised it was Archie here who was the builder and I was shocked. But I don’t know why he wasn’t screaming the place down with the spanking he got. So anyway, I approached him in secret after work and told him I had the pictures and he didn’t lie at all about the fact it was him but he said the pictures were meant to be private.
Then the next day he asked to see what was in the little video and I showed him so there was no use denying what he had done. He said he would have to tell the other person about the discovery and this has led to us both being here now.”
I had listened for a while and decided to now ask Archie to add to the account especially if there was information I needed to know. He confirmed he had been told about the images being found, that they had been left on the camera and that he was sorry. There was only a small portion of video on Kipling’s phone but it was enough to know he had been rumbled.
I asked him why he had chosen to have Kipling now involved and he confirmed there were more conversations following the discovery and that Kipling would get pleasure from seeing that I am not keeping it secret any longer. I told him that I would find out more about these later conversations but first there was a pressing need to start dealing with him for his crass stupidity in leaving behind evidence on the camera. I told them both to stand up. Firstly I positioned Kipling off to the side looking down towards the chair as the camera had done previously. Then I sat on the chair and told Archie to assume the position and he laid himself across my lap, this time in his jeans.
I laid several spanks of my hand across a wide area of his buttocks to get some blood circulating then started to focus attention in certain spots till he registered attention by wriggling. While seeming to be focused on spanking Archie, my eyes often used peripheral vision and I noticed that while watching what was going on, Kipling had several times felt his own crotch through the tracksuit material which was now bulging with definition so he was obviously finding the developing scenario exciting.
I told Archie to stand and to completely remove his jeans. This revealed that he was wearing bright yellow briefs. I asked Kipling at this point why he had been concerned that in the photos Archie had been wearing a yellow helmet and he responded that the usual site colour was white and that yellow helmets were issued for tasks. The most common of these was when any spraying jobs were required and the builder was wearing a full white coverall and needed the yellow helmet to stand out for safety awareness. I thought to myself that with the adaptation we had used that Archie had definitely stood out in my awareness.
In getting Archie to return over my knees, I commented that already there was some light pink visible on the flesh outside the cover of the briefs. More was to follow. I also at this point told Kipling I expected him to be watching intently with no distraction and so he should place his hands on his head.
I recommenced the spanking and with the thick jeans now removed my palm made significantly more impact. It was not long before he was squirming under many of the smacks of my hand. As this was a long phase I would vary the intensity and frequency and focus at times in one small area rather than routinely cover all areas. This might seem random variance but he did react quite a lot when I took the intensity right down but then built up to a fierce crescendo all on one place and the areas outside of the briefs were a much darker pink now and under the thin stretched vivid fabric there would not be too much variation. I told him to stand once more and to remove his briefs. He did as I asked and waited for further command.
I also told Kipling that he should now get naked as Archie was naked. He started to offer resistance and said he would be embarrassed. I reminded him that as there were only three of us present that it would be no problem. I, for one, had been amongst no end of naked men of all shapes and sizes and seeing a different body in the room was not going to give me concern. Despite the fact I was no Adonis, I was frequently naked in the company of others. I added for good measure that it was also no issue if it would be obvious if Kipling was showing excitement or even a full erection so it was time he removed those clothes swiftly or face a consequence. His face went bright red at this news and while muttering he did comply and once he had shed the last item I reminded him I expected his hands on his head once more.
When he had done this I took a swift glance at his body. His chest was slimmer than Archie and although had some definition was not as sculpted as Archie. There were the beginnings of a paunch in the lower belly that he would do well to contain. His thighs were quite wide but the lower leg muscles seemed quite normal. Although not having much general body hair, he had a thick dense patch of black pubic hair from which it was hard to define his testicles as they looked small and tight, on the contrary though and connected was that he was close to full erection, quite perpendicular and surprisingly light coloured flesh protruding with considerable length yet seemingly very slim in girth. As he was in erection mode, his glans was evident but I suspected that he did have a foreskin.
I turned back to Archie and his fine form and asked why he had wanted to have Kipling here watching him being spanked and to see whatever else might happen in this time in the apartment. He said that it was not so much wanted, though he did not mind being watched after all, but that Kipling had demanded that he be involved if Archie was to have another session. I queried why there could be any justification for Kipling being in a position to make demands. He replied that Kipling could easily report finding the images and question his use of paid time with the management and he would be in some trouble. This did not need to happen if Archie had managed to get Kipling involved in Archie getting a private punishment like today. I probed a little further as I told Archie to get back over my knee but from the other side so that he was now facing Kipling and when I resumed the spanking I would even out the impacts on both of his shapely mounds. Once in position, I was just caressing his bottom, letting him know he was in position while I asked to continue the conversation. I asked him why he thought Kipling wanted to watch this, was it about being with the naked body of Archie because surely he could get his fill of that seeing him any days strutting around the works showers or was there something more. Archie said that Kipling had mentioned that he had found some exciting spanking scenes when surfing the internet for porn but had no real experience. I commented that this could explain why even now that Kipling was showing excitement as he watched Archie getting his bare bottom spanked. I also said that there was blackmail going on but Archie was quick to state no money was involved.
I now started spanking Archie in earnest and more than likely it already felt more severe than our previous session. Some of the slaps produced definite grunts of discomfort and at this time I called Kipling to watch his face, to know that he was being dealt with for his utter carelessness and every other thing he had done wrong in the process. I reminded Kipling more than once to keep his hands to his head when they started to stray towards his groin and it was obvious that he was very excited as the erection had firmed and was adhering far closer to his stomach. After a while when Archie had been wriggling a lot, I told him to stand up. I pointed out the state of Kipling and asked Archie to test how rigid it was. Kipling said no but Archie did as I asked and grasped it firstly then yanked it down like a lever on a gaming machine to then watch it spring back firmly to the stomach. Kipling was embarrassed and very red in the face whereas Archie was just plain mischievous. He asked for the right hand of Kipling and made him feel his reddened bottom to get an idea how much it was on fire. I then told Archie to resume the original position which he did.
I continued to spank him rhythmically and as he wriggled all the more my free hand went under to hold him more still by his joystick and then to manipulate it into a level of response. Archie was sometimes making little yelps but was taking it well overall. He certainly had a very red bottom in places. At times I also was conscious that we were putting on a show for Kipling so I would pull the erection from underneath him to protrude beyond the cheeks while still smacking away. I eventually called a halt and told Archie to stand which he did after some rapid flexing leg movements as if that would ease some of the throbbing pain.
I turned toward Kipling and told him he was allowed to let his hands down before saying that I had a dim view of blackmail and although there was no money involved, there was coercion and threat of consequence so it was still reprehensible. This was why he must now get over my knee for his spanking and more. He protested of course that he was here to watch Archie, that he had never been spanked, that he could not take it like Archie can and several more excuses until he ran dry and realised I was waiting and there was nothing he could do but to place himself over my knees. At this point I quietly whispered to Archie to take some good photographs and in a louder tone I told Kipling that I was not cruel, that I would make allowance for no trousers or pants for stages, that he was inexperienced but that it was definitely time for him to receive a spanked bottom. I also told him that over the next several minutes I would want him to think of at least three wrong things he had done in the last month, apart from the pressure put on Archie which had caused the spankings of today.
As I had done with Archie in the first session, I spanked him progressively and not too severely but enough to cause a definite change in skin colour and he was nowhere near as accepting as he wriggled and groaned from the start. I reminded him that this was but nothing to what he had seen happen to Archie and that I fully expected him to man up and take his punishment better. I think he did try to suppress some noise but he was not coping too well.
The first thing he admitted to doing wrong was not helping enough at home with housework and laundry. He was supposed to separate and sort his laundry but frequently left it in a big mound for his mother to gather and nearly always waited for her to do the ironing instead of helping out.
He preferred to spend time playing games on his computer in his room rather than spending more time with his nine years younger brother who wanted to learn from Kipling.
He spent at least an hour each night surfing porn and masturbating before going to sleep and had started adding lubes and toys for some variety and pleasure. He had a special lockable chest under his bed so stuff would not be seen.
While he had been telling me all of this I had been mainly caressing his reddened bottom without resistance but once he mentioned the porn my fingers had soon reached under and with the slightest of manipulation he was firmly erect again. I tugged awkwardly to make his shaft visible from the rear, being stiffened it wanted to point down more than right back and pointed it out to Archie, that watching a spanking and even being spanked and thinking about spanking was obviously making Kipling quite horny. Kipling’s face was really red as I did this and especially when I had Archie tease his glans with fingertips lightly. He was oozing precum so swiftly.
I let go and thanked him for being honest, I let his erection take a more natural position underside and just kept my palm resting over his lower stalk and gripped his testicles with light thumb pressure. For being honest I was reducing his slippering to eight strokes. As I said this I slipped off my right slipper and taking it my right hand brought it crashing down on his right buttock. The shock and sudden impact made him yelp as the second swipe came down pitched towards the left. I called Archie over and told him to kneel alongside with his bottom raised so I could reach him just as easily. He did this well and was just at an angle to the forward right so that all I had to do was change direction to make impact. I brought another one down on Kipling’s right buttock and as he tensed expecting another, I landed three rapid swipes on Archie whose buttock coloured swiftly but he had made no noise. I brought a fourth down on Kipling who squealed before again applying three more on Archie, deepening the redness. Then I took Kipling by surprise by bringing two rapidly down on his now very red right buttock and I could feel him trying to wrench away except my left hand had enough grasp to lessen his effort. As he calmed he heard Archie absorb six more consecutive swipes with hardly a grunt before I finished Kipling off with one hard swipe on the left and one planted on the crown.
I told them both to stand and observe my hard work on each of them. They gingerly got up and did as asked. I told them to stand side by side facing the patio window so that I could sit back and enjoy my handiwork. Kipling started to protest he would be seen from the building site but I reminded him it was closed. So I sat back looking at the rears, reddened indeed, of two young men, both attractive but Archie so better to behold.
Just then there was a knock on the door in the hallway. I answered to a man I did not know, quite attractive but probably past 30 years old. He explained his name was Gavin and they lived above me but although it seemed the soundproofing in this block was good as he hardly ever heard noise, and in fact I too had never registered noises from above or below, it had disturbed him as he heard noise and wondered if I had any problems. I told him the plumbing was working fine and asked if it was kitchen chopping or something. He said it was almost like hearing a carpet being beaten. I said I merely had a good rug which I vacuumed so it could not have been that and he looked puzzled. I invited him in to set his mind at rest and we swiftly toured the apartment. If he noticed the boys by the wall he made no mention and just apologised for disturbing me. I told him that was no problem and now we had met we should do a coffee sometime. He said Neil was shortly due home and if I provided coffee in about an hour, he would bring sustenance. I accepted and said that would be ideal.
On returning to the boys, Kipling was agitated. He wondered if they had been seen but I said surely not as nothing had been said. He had been interested in the kitchen and the carpet, he may not have even registered the decor. I said anyway that it was enough of the view as it is time to treat Archie. I asked Archie to lay back on the sofa and watched his fine form. I told Kipling to stick with me as we went to kneel by the sofa so that I reached over and started to pleasure Archie in his proud manliness which had started to stiffen while he lay and realised my intent. I asked Kipling to help but he spluttered that he had not done anything like this before. I told him he would soon learn to give and receive pleasure if he followed what I said. I got him to initially focus on licking the length of the underside of the enlarged shaft, just to appreciate the dimension and the texture while I worked the other side and frequently teased the glans tip with a rigid tongue so that Archie was a fountain of precum. Slowly I got Kipling into feeling the shape and looseness of the testicles and eventually got him to hold one ball within the sack in his mouth before returning to the work on shaft. After the initial resistance he was quite a swift learner and did not object as Archie tussled our heads in his pleasure. At one point I pushed the glans over as Kipling rose the shaft and he got his first full glans on his tongue. I kept him there and coached him as he started to naturally fall into fully taking the whole shaft deep down before gagging slightly. I encouraged him back up and got him to focus on stimulating the upper half until full absorption became more natural. Meanwhile Archie was responding with a more defined thrust.
As soon as Kipling was working unaided unwittingly, I dove to the floor and set to work on his slightly dormant erection that sprung into life. I am pretty sure that was the first successful blowjob he had ever received as he was writhing in delight in moments and expressing his own satisfaction by going deeply down on Archie. Archie could recognise this and also started to stimulate Kipling by caressing his neck and ears. Poor Kipling. He was being initiated by two who knew how to get him high and he was in a frenzy making all manner of little squeals. Archie knew he was now close to cumming and with resistance pulled out of the boy’s mouth and took himself over the edge painting the whole upper body with his white liquid ribbons. The feel of the warm liquid on his face produced another gasp and then Kipling had no control over his own geyser which erupted in wave after wave even after I had pulled my face away. He had gotten so excited his breath was in short gasps and he seemed momentarily distant before Archie pulled him up to standing and gave him a big hug with sincere congratulations. He then led him off to the shower for a good but slow clean up, making that first assisted shower experience highly pleasurable.
Eventually they came back into lounge, naked but refreshed and dry. Kipling wanted to get dressed and be away but Archie was quite happy in natural state. I agreed and got full contact details from Kipling as I had future plans for him. He left on good terms and I returned to the lounge where Archie and I began over a couple of beers to discuss further modelling ideas. Time passed and Archie was fully relaxed and delightful in personality.
The door knocked once more and I realised it must be Gavin and Neil. No time to prepare so must just brazen it out. I asked Archie to put some water on to boil so we could make coffee and then I answered the door. It was Gavin and Neil but Gavin looked like he had spent the last hour grooming, he looked so fresh and years younger already with his hair tidied. Neil was obviously several years younger and quite fresh in the face, a little stockier than Gavin and much more of a blonde complexion but an endearing smile as they entered. I sat them down and called to Archie that we needed coffee for four now. Neil had been carrying a plate within a bag and made for the kitchen area to then see Archie facing the cabinets. He called back to Gavin that this was the best place for coffee in town and to get ready to enjoy. He left the kitchen area with a grin and came to sit down. Archie being swift on the uptake was unperturbed and so continued the preparation before entering carrying the tray. On seeing him enter Gavin was open mouthed in amazement before Neil made a comment that if his mouth stayed open any longer it would need filling with a throat massage. Neil also laughed and said that they were no longer the only pair in the block and asked Archie, calling him fella briefly as introductions had not yet been made, to do a twirl to excite Gavin. Gavin smiled broadly and was obviously not advising Neil at this time that he had already had a brief preview earlier and added that they were not the only pair of specialists after all.
I interjected gently to say that Archie and I were not a couple but that he was a very welcome visitor and completed the introductions properly. Archie remained unabashed and I was not yet convinced if his sexuality was fluid, defined or just that he was a blatant exhibitionist soaking up the obvious lustful attention of the three of us. Archie knowing he had the pair captivated insisted on telling the whole story of happenings to date and Neil was incredulous to hear what we had done with Kipling just a short time earlier and said he would have to find opportunity to deal with him before too long. They had been also surprised at the possibility of being closely observed from security but then Neil commented that next time he was giving Gavin his recompense that it would be in full view of the patio. I joked that I was no good at climbing on balconies so I would prefer a spectator seat in the lounge. Neil quipped straight back that if I was given a seat in the lounge then Archie would be required to be in suitable position over my lap and that we could work on funky rhythms. Archie laughed and asked how we intended to place Kipling and Neil stated that he would give that certain consideration.
All too soon a couple of hours had passed and Archie announced that he should leave, Neil made a big sign of disappointment as he commented that despite Archie being ever attentive and teasingly close to his head at times that Archie was leaving without any milking. Archie responded that he was happy to be considered a stud but that Neil would just have to wait till I fixed up a future session and then, if he behaved suitably, he might just be rewarded. Just before he left though, Gavin asked him to wait a few moments while he made a couple of telephone calls and the outcome was we all had an invitation to an evening with a long standing set of friends at their country place for the following Friday evening and Archie accepted for us all leaving me quite flabbergasted at the pace of events but not at all disappointed. Archie left swiftly followed by Gavin and Neil and I was left to reflect on another eventful and highly enjoyable day with the prospect of photos to come from the first day and the ones that I had Archie take today while I was dealing with Kipling, potentially a little insurance in case he got leary about todays session though if I had read him right he was surely going to be up for our country visit the following Friday.
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 © 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.
♥ Site recommended story ♥
An exciting 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!
Introduction to The Cane by Joelstrap
“But I was going to meet Paul and go into town,” I protested.
“And now you’re going to go and help Mr Bonthrone with his clearing-out,” said dad firmly. “You’ve got plenty of time to go and meet Paul later, or tomorrow. Now, somebody needs your help, and so you’re going to help.”
“Why me?” I objected huffily. “You could go and help him.”
“I beg your pardon, Colin!”
“Well you could! Why do you have to volunteer me?”
“Because you need something useful to do, Colin.”
“I’ve got something to do! I’m going to meet Paul!”
“I said something useful,” reiterated dad.
“Oh! So now my pal’s useless, huh? Thanks a million!”
“One more insolent word out of you, my boy, and you’ll be spending the next week in your room.”
“Dad! I’m eighteen! You can’t treat me like a bloody kid!”
“Behave like a kid, get treated like a kid,” said dad grimly. “Now get yourself over to Mr Bonthrone’s; and hurry up.”
Muttering obscenely under my breath, but reluctant to risk a week’s grounding, I trailed sulkily across to old Bonthrone’s house. He was approaching seventy and had retired a few years before from teaching maths at the local secondary school. He’d still been there in my early years at the school, but had never actually taught me. He had sold his house and was going to move away in a few weeks’ time to stay nearer his daughter in Northumberland; hence the clearing out of the house.
He welcomed me enthusiastically when I presented myself at his door, making an effort to look as if I had actually volunteered to do this.
“Colin! Your father said you’d be willing to come and give me a hand; and I’m really very grateful. I’ve been in this house for over thirty years and I’m afraid that I’ve accumulated rather a lot of stuff. Just come through here.”
He conducted me into a small study with shelves of books. Against one wall was a large pile of volumes which he said were to go to a local charity-shop. The rest, still on the shelves, were to be packed into cardboard boxes ready for the move. I was soon busy clearing the shelves and filling the boxes. When I’d done, I found him emptying drawers in the kitchen and he gave me a cold lager from the fridge and joined me at the table. We chatted amicably enough before he sent me back to the study to empty the contents of a cupboard. There were more books, piles of old reports, folders of notes on lessons; and, lying in thin layer of dust behind some rolled-up charts, a cane.
I picked it up and ran the pad of my index-finger along its lithe length. Corporal punishment had been abolished a few years before I’d started school and so for me the cane was something older boys had talked about and my dad’s generation reminisced about. I’d never actually seen one. I tried to imagine what it would feel like lashing hard across my bottom; and to my surprise my penis leapt eagerly in response to my imagination. I gave it a practice-swing and was surprised at the way it whistled through the air. This would really hurt, I thought to myself.
I laid the cane down and, just as I had completed emptying the cupboard, old Bonthrone came into the room.
“Good lad,” he said, “you’ve done well. Most of these things can be thrown away, but I’ll have to just check through it all first.”
“I see you kept your old cane,” I said, nodding to where I’d laid it on the table.
He picked it up and looked at it almost fondly.
“Ah, yes. You know, Colin, I rather missed it when it was abolished. It must be almost twenty years ago now; but it was a very effective way of keeping boys under control and ensuring they worked hard. I’ve laid a good few strokes across a lot of young bottoms with this in the first couple of decades or so of my teaching career.”
He swung it high and lashed it down on a leather chair-seat. I jumped at the sound; and so did my cock.
“Wow! I bet they felt it,” I said.
“Oh they felt it,” he assured me. “I made sure of that. Hit them hard and they’re more likely to get the message and less likely to want to come back for more.”
I turned to shift some empty boxes with my foot lest he see the throbbing tumescence in the front of my shorts.
“I’m telling you,” I said to Paul that evening, “it was a real cane; and I got a hell of a stiffie just touching it. When he slammed it into the chair, I damn near came!”
“Yeh,” agreed Paul, squirming in his seat, “it kinda gets me in the balls too. Do you think I could come along to help and maybe get to see it?”
“There seems to be a lot to do and I promised to go back tomorrow morning. I’ll pop over when I get home and ask if he’d like an extra pair of hands; and I’ll phone and let you know.”
Mr Bonthrone was only too willing to have more help and so Paul turned up at my house at ten the next morning and we crossed to old Bonthrone’s bungalow together. We started off working in the garage and having Paul there made it a lot more fun. Later in the morning the old guy went out to the local shop and we took the chance to go into the study and I showed Paul the cane. He handled it as carefully as if it were a poisonous snake.
“Cor! This looks vicious! Imagine the sting it would give on your arse!”
“Would you….er….like to let me feel it?” I asked tentatively. “Not too hard,” I added quickly.
“Sure. Bend over, boy!” he ordered harshly and I sprang to obey.
The stroke wasn’t particularly hard and I felt a mild and enjoyable sting in my rear.
“Go on; a bit harder,” I urged.
He delivered another which definitely made me wince and caused my cock to try to burst out of my shorts. I stayed down and he gave me one more, a good bit harder. I gasped as a fierce streak of fire lashed across my bottom, and instinctively I found myself scrubbing with both hands at my rear.
“Looks like you felt that one,” observed Paul with a grin, “and that wasn’t anywhere near as hard as I could hit you; and you’ve got your shorts on.”
“I know! I can’t even start to imagine what six of the best, really hard, on the bare bum, would feel like. You wanna taste it?”
Paul handed me the cane and bent over. I rapped his neat bottom, the curves showing beautifully through the tightly-stretched material of his shorts, and then gave him a light stroke, followed by a harder one, which made him flinch. I waited.
“Go on then,” he said. “Finish off with a harder one; like I did.”
I obliged, and got a powerful reaction in my penis as I watched Paul buck and straighten up, rubbing at his behind.
“Boy, you’re right,” he opined. “That really does sting like hell. I wonder what it feels like bare?”
I was about to offer to try when we heard the sound of old Bonthrone’s car returning. I quickly replaced the cane and we dived out through the kitchen and into the garage again. The old chap asked if we’d be willing to go on clearing the garage in the afternoon if he gave us some lunch; and we eagerly agreed, as we were actually enjoying it. It was late in the afternoon when Paul made a suggestion.
“Do you think we could snaffle that cane for the night? My olds are out this evening, so our house will be empty. We could do a bit of playing around with it. I’d really like to feel it on my bare arse.”
“Yeh. I don’t suppose he’d miss it for one night. You go and keep him busy in the sitting-room. He’s sorting out books there. I’ll nip into the study and get the cane and dash across to my house and hide it in my room; and then this evening I’ll bring it round to your place.”
That simple plan went without a hitch and about half past seven I arrived, with the cane down the leg of my jeans, at Paul’s home. It had proved harder than I’d expected to walk in those circumstances, but I’d got there without mishap. We had great fun with the cane and both experienced it used with moderate force on our bare behinds. The resultant erections were spectacular and the necessary releasing of each other’s tensions which followed was thrilling and deeply satisfying.
We were sitting outside in the front garden in a sultry heat under a coppery sky when Paul’s parents arrived back; and even as they emerged from their car, a few drops of rain began to fall. The sky blackened swiftly and thunder rumbled not too far away. Paul’s dad glanced upward and then turned to me.
“Jump in and I’ll run you home before I put the car away,” he said. “It looks like there’s a storm just about to break and you’ll probably get soaked if you walk.”
I tried to protest but he was adamant and with a helpless glance at Paul, I got into the car and was delivered safely home as the rain began to come down in torrents and flashes of brilliant lightning seared the heavens. The problem was that I’d had to leave the cane at Paul’s house. I gave him a ring and he said he’d bring it next day when we returned to old Bonthrone’s place to continue helping him with his house-clearing.
“No problem,” he assured me. “I’ll be there at ten and we’ll go across together. I’ll slip the cane back into the study if you keep the old chap talking for a couple of minutes.”
I was mildly uneasy, but there was no alternative and it seemed as if all would be well. Not all is as it seems, however. Next morning I got a call from Paul to say that he’d developed severe toothache in the night and, in spite of his protests, his dad had insisted on getting him an emergency appointment with the dentist at 9.30 a.m.
“I’ll be as quick as I can,” he assured me, “but I don’t think I’m gonna make it to Bonthrone’s by ten o’clock. It’ll be okay though. I’ll bring the cane when I come and you can distract him when I arrive and I’ll put it back. No sweat.”
I was sweating a little though. One thing after another was going wrong with what had seemed like a straightforward plan; and I was uneasy that something else might go awry. It did!
I’d arrived at Bonthrone’s house at ten and was busy emptying a large cupboard in the hall when the old chap came up to me.
“You remember you found my old cane in the study-cupboard the other day?” he began. “And you left it on the table in there, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I affirmed as my heart gave a jolt.
“Well, it’s not there now,” said Bonthrone.
I looked at him, trying to convince myself that the expression on my face didn’t appear as guilty as it felt. Bonthrone had been a teacher for forty years, however, and he could read a boy like an open book.
“Is there something you’d like to tell me, Colin?”
I decided that lying would probably only make matters worse, and so I told him what we’d done. Just as I finished, Paul arrived, wearing his jeans and walking slowly. Bonthrone eyed him and then looked at me.
“Game’s up,” I said to Paul. “He found it was missing and realised what had probably happened to it; so I confessed.”
Paul gave a rueful grin and pulled the cane from his jeans before handing it to Bonthrone.
“I suppose you think we both deserve a proper dose of the cane now,” he said, as I stared at him with raised eyebrows.
“Taking something which belongs to someone else with out permission, is a serious matter,” observed the old guy slowly. “It seems that you both wanted to find out what a cane felt like and you probably did last night; but all the same, I suspect that you weren’t hitting each other particularly hard?”
We nodded agreement.
“Which means that you still don’t really know what a cane feels like, doesn’t it?”
Again we indicated our agreement.
“Do you think you should?”
There was a silence and then Paul spoke.
“Yes, sir,” he said softly. “We’ve behaved badly and I think we do need to find out what a punishment-caning feels like.”
In spite of a strong sense of nervousness, I expressed my concurrence.
“All right, boys. Into the study.”
It was like being back at school again. We walked obediently into the study and Bonthrone followed with the cane. This wasn’t like being back at school; at least, not for Paul and me. The old guy placed a chair in the middle of the room and told me to bend over it, gripping the sides with both hands. I felt strangely vulnerable, and also curiously boy-like again. I felt the cane tapping my shorts-clad behind and was wishing I had worn a baggier pair. These ones fitted very snugly and, stretched almost to bursting-point when I bent over, didn’t allow for any trapped air to help cushion the blows. The cane collided with my rump with a crack which echoed through the room; and I drew in breath sharply. That really hurt! I made an effort and kept my body still, resisting the temptation to rub. The cane was doing another series of exploratory raps on my seat and I was just getting ready to take the next stroke when it came hard and fast and took me by surprise. I barely managed to stifle a yelp of pain as a line of fire ripped through my behind.
“Stand up, Colin.”
Relieved, I stood up straight, glad it was over.
“Drop your shorts!”
“What? No! Please!”
“I’m waiting, Colin.”
I looked helplessly at him for several seconds but saw no sign of him giving way. Reluctantly I pushed my shorts down to my ankles and bent over again, protected only by my thin briefs. As he tapped my rump with the rod, I was more aware now of its lithe pliancy and more afraid of its potential for inflicting severe pain on me. He hit hard, about half way between the centre of my bottom and my crease. I grunted aloud as a whip of flame snapped across my buttocks and forced me to clench them desperately as I fought the burn. Scarcely had I got myself calmed down when the cane lashed me again, lower still. I squirmed and gripped the edges of the seat very hard, a gasp of pain driven from me.
I obeyed and waited nervously, because I thought that I had worked out the pattern; and I didn’t like what I feared was coming next.
“Briefs down and bend back over!”
I knew there was no point in seeking mercy because I wasn’t going to get any. I’d earned this and would have to see it through. I pushed down my briefs and once again assumed the position. The touch of the cane on my bare skin was scary. Now there was nothing between that infernal rod and my unprotected flesh. My penis, so eager and perky when Paul and I had been playing with the cane, had gone into craven retreat now that things had got serious. I tensed my body and waited as the cane played on my behind; and then was driven in hard, forcing a squeal of pain from me as it lacerated my buttocks with a blaze of fiery heat. My right hand flew back and scrubbed desperately at the pulsating flesh.
“Get your hand away, boy!”
Reluctantly I complied and steadied myself. He hit me just where my bottom merged into the top of my legs and it felt as if the cane had gouged a searing furrow of incandescent fire in my hindquarters. I squealed again, bucked violently, and rubbed furiously and hopelessly at the tormented skin.
Breathing hard, and feeling more like an eight-year-old than an eighteen-year-old, I stood with my hands pressed to my blazing bottom, and blinked away incipient tears.
“Well taken,” observed Bonthrone. “Go and stand over there. You, Paul, come here and bend over.”
Paul and I exchanged looks as we passed each other and I noticed the expression of shock on his features. In a way, I thought to myself, he’s getting the tougher end of it, because he’s had to watch me being beaten, knowing all the time that his turn is to come. I couldn’t help admiring Paul’s behind, even although his jeans weren’t as tight as his shorts would have been. He flinched at the first two strokes but made no sound, and then dropped his denims and re-positioned himself wordlessly when told. The pair on his briefs got through to him a lot more and I could hear him gasping and see his buttocks quivering as he clenched them. He’d just dropped his briefs and bent over, bare buttocks on display, for the final two, when the phone rang.
“Don’t move,” instructed Bonthrone as he laid down the cane and went out into the hall to answer it.
I shuffled over to Paul and asked him if he was okay.
“Sure! Never felt better,” he replied sarcastically.
I ignored him, knelt down behind him and ran the tip of my tongue along the marks on his rump. His whole body tensed and shuddered and little panting sounds escaped him. When I reached through between his legs from behind, I could feel his penis long and hard.
“Steady, tiger,” I whispered softly in his ear. “You can take this.”
“I know,” he replied. “That…what you just did with your tongue…that was awesome. I……”
He broke off and I quickly rose to my feet and got back to my place as we heard Bonthrone replace the phone in the hall. He came back into the room, picked up the cane and in one smooth movement raised it and drove it in hard to Paul’s bare bottom, eliciting a powerful squirm and a decidedly audible yelp. His last one was also delivered just at the top of his crease and made him buck and utter a squeak of pain. His right hand darted towards the tortured flesh and then he regained control and forced it back on to the edge of the chair.
“Well done,” said Bonthrone. “Go and stand with Colin.”
The pair of us stood side by side, bottoms throbbing, cocks sagging, heads down, our clothing pooled round our ankles; two beaten lads, submissive and sorry.
“No more taking things without permission, boys?” asked Bonthrone.
“No, sir,” I replied.
“Never again, sir,” added Paul softly.
“Good. Get yourselves dressed and come into the kitchen. I’ve got some chocolate biscuits.”
He went out, leaving the cane on the table. I eyed it balefully.
“Well,” I said, “now we know.”
My penis was rising fast and I rubbed at the welts on my bottom with a growing sense of pride; and even of enjoyment.
“That was bloody awful,” said Paul, also scrubbing at his well-beaten rump.
“Yeh. Hurts like hell.”
“I kinda liked it.”
“Me too; kinda.”
We eyed each other doubtfully and then exchanged rueful grins.
“It was exciting,” I added. “I think I might want that again; but not too soon.”
“Definitely. We need at least a couple of days to recover.”
“I was thinking a couple of weeks,” I said.
“Balls! We’re gonna need it again long before that.”
“Okay,” I said dubiously. “So, who’s gonna ask him if he’ll do it?”
“Me,” said Paul.
In the kitchen we sat carefully and ate chocolate biscuits and drank coffee.
“So what did you think of a real caning?” enquired Bonthrone with a smile.
“Hurt a heck of a lot more than I expected,” I admitted.
“Me too…but…it was sort of exciting too,” added Paul. “Did you like using the cane again, sir?”
“Yes, I did,” Bonthrone confessed. “I always did like caning a pair of well-formed buttocks; and you two have bottoms to be proud of; bottoms which almost appear to have been made for the cane.”
I felt myself flush at this curious compliment.
“So,” continued Bonthrone, “are you hinting that you might have other misdemeanours and ongoing failures to behave properly, which you’d like me to deal with over the coming days? It’s still almost a month before I’m due to leave.”
Paul and I glanced at each other.
“Yes, please,” we said in unison.
“We need to be caned,” said Paul.
“And I’ll be delighted to cane you hard,” Bonthrone assured us solemnly.
And he did too!
Story ©MMXX by Joelstrap, used here by very kind permission of the author.
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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
♥ Site recommended story ♥
Erotic fiction by Rod Cayenne, repeated by popular demand…
All the characters are aged 18 or over. Suitable for adults only.
Sergeant Dexter couldn’t believe his eyes. The tip-off had been correct. Through his binoculars he could see a young couple, as naked as jaybirds, fornicating in the strawberry fields for which the village was famed. Although we were in the enlightened late 1950s, this was an outrage even by the prevailing modern, progressive standards.
He watched as the young man’s naked bottom bobbed up and down as he serviced his willing female companion. When to interrupt? Now, mid-flight as it were? Or afterwards, as the young lovers came back down to earth?
He decided to watch a little longer, as he was impressed by the young man’s technique. Indeed, the Sergeant was learning that his own skills were perhaps a little dated as he watched the youth driving and thrusting into the maiden. Suddenly, they swapped, and the girl went on top, sliding the man’s erect penis into her. The man massaged her ample breasts and then the lovers kissed passionately.
The Sergeant admired the lilly white feminine buttocks as they bounced around. They begged for a spanking, and were quite a contrast to the hairy male ones he had been watching only a few moments earlier. Indeed, our policeman was finding all of this a most rare and entertaining spectacle. His own penis was rising to the occasion, and for a brief moment, he considered masturbating right there and then in the Austin patrol car. He decided against, as it would be undignified, and there was also a slim chance he could be caught himself. He’d never live it down!
It was a lengthy session of lovemaking. Obviously, the young man had very good control, something again that the Sergeant could only dream of. Eventually, the lovers climaxed and fell into each others arms. Now was the time to strike!
The Sergeant gathered his notebook, pencil, truncheon and handcuffs. He slammed the door of the patrol car noisily, causing the lovers to stir from their post-coital embrace.
“Caught you!” announced the Sergeant. He recognised both of them, “George Trevose and Susan Waterman, whatever will your parents say?”
“Sergeant, we’re both eighteen, don’t tell them please,” requested young George, “You don’t have to tell, do you?”
“Yes I do! You’re not even twenty-one, yet here you are disgracing yourselves in the open air. Get dressed! We’re going down to the station.”
He bundled the hastily-clothed pair into the patrol car and they drove off to the police station, which was located in the local market town. There he read his copious notes out loud to a couple of his colleagues, as the lovers squirmed with embarrassment.
The policemen huddled in conspiratorial conversation behind the reception desk. Suddenly, there was raucous laughter! George and Susan wondered what on earth was going on. Eventually, Sergeant Dexter called them over and announced that they were to join him in the interview room.
In the room, the Sergeant picked up the bakelite receiver of the telephone. He then rang the local chairman of magistrates, Colonel R C H Smith (retd.). They spoke at length about the incident, while across the interview table, the lovers held hands tenderly.
“Yes, totally naked. Unofficial punishment, you say? If the parents agree? I suppose so. Yes, yes. We do have a selection of canes here. Yes, nice and whippy. Sting like the devil. Good idea. I quite agree, Sir. I’ll put it to the lad. I’ll keep you informed, yes, of course.”
Young George wasn’t stupid. He knew what was coming from the half of the conversation he had heard. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what was to happen to his partner in crime, Susan Waterman.
The Sergeant spoke, “The chair of the magistrates is most annoyed with you two. If it weren’t a bank holiday weekend, a special court might have been convened. He’s a great believer in swift justice. So he’s suggested unofficial punishment, if you agree. It will be a caning for young Trevose, and I’ll talk to your parents, Susan, about what we are to do about you. Are you both agreeable? You’re getting off very lightly, considering. I understand that this naked exhibitionism has been happening on a regular basis. Well, do you both agree?”
The lovers nodded dejectedly.
“Right then! Here’s what’s going to happen. I will cane Trevose. Eighteen hard strokes. One stroke for each year of his age, as prescribed by the magistrate. The caning will be on the bared posterior, of course. After the caning, he can walk home. I will drive Susan back home, and talk to her parents.”
“So I don’t even get a lift back to the village? Shit!” said George.
“Watch your tongue, young man!” admonished the Sergeant. Meanwhile, tears of shame and fear rolled down Susan’s face. Her father would be furious! He might even withdraw her meagre allowance.
“Let’s get on with it then. Susan, you will remain here. WPC Green will arrive in a minute to keep an eye on you. George, you will accompany me next door for your punishment. Try to keep the noise down, as Susan will hear otherwise.”
As it transpired, it was all too easy for the sounds from the adjacent room to be heard. The Sergeant had left the door wide open deliberately, and the WPC did the same with the interview room door.
The first crack of the cane on the naked flesh of George Trevose was wickedly loud and accompanied by a pitiful “Owww!”
A second stroke seemed even louder and from the room the order from the Sergeant for Trevose to keep still could be heard. A third and a fourth stroke lashed down.
The fifth stroke must have been extra hard as the victim shrieked loudly and was admonished by the Sergeant, “Shut up and take it like a man!”
The caning was worse than anything George Trevose had experienced at his school. The next five strokes were lashed down quickly.
In the interview room, Susan’s eyes were filling with tears again as she listened to her lover being thrashed by the brute of a policeman. The WPC offered her no support, just a cold, steely stare, occasionally punctuated by a smirk when a hard cane stroke broke the silence.
There was a long gap before the eleventh stroke. The Sergeant was admiring his work. How pleasing the buttocks looked now that they were covered in the vicious red tramlines donated by the cane. It was quite a contrast to the unmarked but hairy bottom the Sergeant had watched in the strawberry fields.
With a sigh, strokes eleven and twelve cut into the naked flesh causing a loud squeal from Trevose. Again, the Sergeant stopped and admired the sight before him. What a pity there wasn’t more sanctioning of this sort of unofficial punishment, he thought to himself. In truth, it was dying out slowly and this would be one of the last occasions that the Sergeant would enjoy what was becoming something of a passion for him.
“Shit!” the Sergeant muttered, annoyed that so few disciplinary opportunities were available to him. He sliced the cane down hard again and again until the full sentence of eighteen strokes had been delivered. The painful payload had caused George Trevose to slump exhausted over the chair which had been bent over.
“Get up! Get dressed and get out!” the Sergeant instructed. Next door, WPC Green admired his masterliness. He’d have made a wonderful headmaster she reflected, as she ejected Susan from the interview room, gleefully aiming a slap at the miscreant’s pert bottom.
The Sergeant drove Susan back to the village. On the way they passed a dejected George Trevose walking home.
“I bet he’s got one sore arse,” the Sergeant guffawed. His bawdy and sadistic comment fell on deaf ears. Susan was more concerned with her own fate. Whatever would her parents say? Her father would be devastated, she felt.
That night, the WPC and Sergeant enjoyed a wild session of lovemaking in his rented house. Somehow, Dexter’s technique had suddenly improved, and WPC Green ended up more satisfied than ever before. He had learnt a lot from the folly of youth, well, from George Trevose anyway.
Two days later, the Sergeant was cycling from the police station back to the village. Tied with string to the frame of his trusty Raleigh bike was a school cane. Reluctantly, Susan Waterman’s father had agreed that she should be thrashed for her indiscretions. He had begged Sergeant Dexter to carry out the distasteful task. Little did he suspect that the policeman possessed almost indecent flagellant enthusiasm for the task he had been given.
Neighbours peered from behind net curtains as the policeman propped his cycle near the front gate and carefully untied the string holding the cane in place on the frame. The Sergeant had oiled the cane, to increase its suppleness and to protect it from the elements. What a figure he looked in his handsome uniform! The cane he carried made him look quite formidable.
The Watermans hadn’t seen the Sergeant arrive, although he had been expected. He knocked purposefully on the door. Susan’s father duly appeared, looking a bit sheepish.
“Are you sure about all of this, Sergeant?”
As he crossed the threshold, Dexter reminded him, “I saw the whole thing, Mr. Waterman. Quite a disgusting exhibition. No shame at all, these kids.”
“Yes, I suppose so. I was thinking no more than six strokes. Cup of tea, Sergeant. Or something stronger?”
“I’d love a bitter, but I’d better not. I’m on duty still. So yes, a tea would be most welcome.”
Waterman shouted up the stairs, “Susan, the Sergeant’s here. Make us a pot of tea please, honey.” Just then Waterman’s wife joined them. She had asked for tea too and sat down with her husband and the policeman.
“Well,” said the Sergeant, “I don’t think six strokes is enough for the disgusting display I endured. Remember, at least one other person in the village must have seen them at it before now. After all, it was a tip-off that alerted all of us at the station to the problem. No, six strokes isn’t enough. Hardly worth me taking the trouble to come over. I’d recommend eight or ten as a minimum. What do you think Mrs. Waterman?”
“Oh, I don’t know officer! I’m thoroughly ashamed of her. I can’t believe they weren’t taking any precautions either! The stupid girl! I don’t want to be a grandmother just yet, thank you very much! Eight strokes seems entirely reasonable to me.”
“The lad took eighteen,” the Sergeant reminded them, “Really, she’s getting off very, very lightly. Eight will suffice, then. Now, one delicate matter to discuss. The lad took his on his bared posterior. How do you feel Susan should get hers?”
“She can have them bare too,” interjected Mr.Waterman. Perhaps more surprisingly his wife nodded silent agreement.
Just then, Susan opened the door, carrying a silver tray with the tea, crockery, milk, sugar and some home-baked cakes on. Her hands were shaking a little, causing the cups to rattle.
“Ah Susan, we were just discussing your punishment,” said her mother. “A caning, just like George’s. On your bare bottom, eight strokes. The Sergeant will do the honours.”
“Not bare, surely? Oh Mum!”
“Yes, talking of which, you can be mother, as it were, and pour us the tea.”
Soon the tea was being sipped, and all eyes were on Susan. Except her own, which were on the cane Sergeant Dexter had brought with him. Strangely, she felt quite excited and was looking forward to showing the officer her bare bottom. She was really quite incorrigible!
“Let’s get on, shall we?” asked the Sergeant taking control. “Skirt up, knickers down, over the arm of the sofa. Hurry up girl!”
Mrs. Waterman admired the masterful way he took charge. Must be trained that way, she mused. She found it quite a turn-on all the same. If only her own husband were made of sterner stuff!
All eyes were now on Susan who bent submissively, flipping her skirt towards the heavens, and gently eased her knickers down. The target was revealed. Dexter licked his lips, and flexed the cane. Mr. Waterman was more embarrassed, and was wondering about the wisdom of the whole set-up.
Swish-crack! The first stroke landed on the girl’s milky-white flesh, causing an angry red line. She gasped, as did her mother. The sting was bad, but somehow Susan forced herself to stick her bottom out ready for a second stroke.
Swish-crack! The second was a little harder, and right on target, causing the girl to writhe with discomfort. She rubbed her thighs together, then relaxed a little, revealing her treasures to the Sergeant. Something was stirring in his police trousers.
Swish-crack! A third forceful stroke almost sent the poor girl flying, as she cried out with pain. Her parents were finding this a suitable punishment for their daughter’s lewd behaviour. Mrs. Waterman in particular had a satisfied grin as she surveyed the red stripes adorning her daughter’s naked bottom.
CRACK! Stroke four was loud and hard. Susan squealed with pain. Her mother’s excitement was mounting as she witnessed the comeuppance her daughter so deserved.
Swish-crack! The fifth landed low, right on the crease and caused the girl to leap up.
“GET DOWN IMMEDIATELY!” Sergeant Dexter shouted. “That will incur a penalty stroke, I think.”
“Oh yes!” cried the girl’s mother supportively, “And make it a hard one!”
Mr. Waterman was astonished by his wife’s whip-lust. He sat nervously on his hands as the Sergeant raised the cane high once again.
Crack! CRACK! Two rapid strokes again caused the girl to cry out in torment. Her mother was sat on the edge of her chair willing the officer to beat Susan as hard as humanly possible.
Swish-crack! The eighth stroke was slightly more restrained, but it still caused Susan some distress, as she gasped and wriggled under the cane’s stinging caress.
The ninth stroke was now due. It was the penalty one for jumping up earlier.
“Sergeant Dexter, please make this last one extra hard,” Mrs. Waterman requested. “Susan must be taught to behave herself in public and also to take her punishment with dignity.”
The officer adjusted his trousers and raised the cane before whipping it down viciously. The noise of this final stroke was incredible and resounded all around the poky living room.
“AARGH!” cried Susan as the pain hit home. She started to cry. She was utterly humiliated.
Mrs. Waterman clapped her hands together. “Ah! A most satisfactory lesson for the little minx, I feel. Thank you ever so much, Sergeant. Oh, one thing…”
“Yes, Mrs. Waterman?”
“I wonder whether you could be persuaded to leave the cane here? Perhaps in return for a donation to the Police Benevolent Fund?”
“Of course, of course! You can keep it. After all, you never know when it may come in handy again,” he winked. “And a contribution really isn’t necessary. Times are hard, aren’t they? I’ll just book it as a breakage.”
“Tim, take the cane up to our bedroom,” Mrs. Waterman commanded her husband. She gazed longingly at Sergeant Dexter, her new hero.
Susan was recovering slowly from her beating. Carefully, she slipped her knickers back on. She noticed that the Sergeant wore no wedding ring. She wondered whether perhaps, he didn’t have a girlfriend? Perhaps she should force herself on him?
The Sergeant said his goodbyes and made his way back to his bicycle. It had been a good day, and the sunshine made it feel even better. Before heading back to the police station, he was minded to stop off to masturbate in the strawberry fields.
D I S C L A I M E R
All characters appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Story © 2013 by Rod Cayenne
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