In The Pillbox (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

By Rod Cayenne.  Explicit erotica repeated from 2013.  Strictly over-18s only!

 

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” my man Evan asked me.

It was a fantastic location.   A veritable desert strand of a beach, a beautiful headland, and nearby a nature reserve – a Site of Special Scientific Interest (SSSI), or Safleoedd o Ddiddordeb Gwyddonol Arbennig (SoDdGA) as they say here in Wales!  The tide was out, but the salty smell of the ocean was still in the summer air, and the song of the gulls echoed all around.

Rather incongruously, there were a couple of concrete pillboxes along the beach.  Obviously relics of World War II rather than the Cold War, they had both seen better days.  Indeed, the shifting sands had meant both concrete structures were now well out of true level.  We made our way towards the larger pillbox, and a small gang of teenagers rushed away as we approached.  Perhaps the sight of two leather-clad bikers walking hand in hand gave them the willies?  No matter, as I always think an absent teenager is an ideal teenager!

We ducked as we made our way into the pillbox.  Guys must have been shorter in those days, I told myself.  The octagonal interior of the little concrete building was a little disconcerting at first.  Piles of sand had encroached quite a lot, but there was just about sufficient height for us to be able to stand.  The place smelt a bit of piss, of course.  These places always do!  There were beer cans – local bitter, strangely – and empty Sterling fag packets.  Someone must have bought a job lot!

“Well?” he asked again, somewhat impatiently, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yes, I think so!” I laughed, “This would be a great place for a seedy fuck!”

“Yes, dead right it would be, loverboy!  And for some discipline too!  No room to swing a cane, but we could bring the leather strap,” he laughed as he said it, “Hot and well-shagged bottoms tonight!  Here, take this plastic bag and clean the place up, boy!  We don’t want any accidents or incidents while we’re on the job do we?”

It wasn’t a particularly pleasant task.  In the end the bag contained tin cans, fag packets, some broken glass and even a human turd.  I tied the handles up tight and we took the bag with us, depositing it in the bin in the car park where Evan’s Triumph Bonneville awaited us.

That evening we packed my backpack excitedly.  A can of Carlsberg for me, an energy drink for him.  A packet of heavy duty condoms and a tube of our favourite slippery lube.  A couple of battery torches and our mobiles.  Finally, pride of place for our brown leather spanking strap.  We both enjoyed a bit of the leather from time to time, although I was the sub more often than not.

I felt quite excited as we headed back to the beach.  The vibrations from the engine of the Bonneville throbbed around my thighs as my cock stiffened inside my leather chaps.  I held onto Evan for dear life as he threw us around the corners of the long, winding coastal road.  This time we parked near our chosen pillbox.  We kissed passionately at length before he led me back through the brambles to our venue.  It was now late evening and fortunately no-one else was around.  We flashed our torches to examine our surroundings again.  I moved some fresh cans and  crisp packets out of harm’s way.  The place stank of piss even more than earlier on.  We stuck our torches upright in the piles of sand covering the floor.  We needed a little illumination for what was to come next!

“Drop them!” he ordered.  I complied, pulling my leather chaps right down.  I bent down on all fours, jockstrap still in place and my head only just above the sand-covered floor.  “Fifty!” he announced.

I should explain that our leather strap is heavy duty.  It must have cost Evan a fortune to buy.  It was a hard thrashing.  The strap lashed and lashed again.  I gasped, groaned, writhed and cried out.  Fifty strokes was a hell of a lot.  All the noise the strap and I could make was muffled by the sound of the crashing waves, now that the tide was in.  My arse was aflame, sore and I wasn’t sure a shagging after my beating was a great idea at all.  Evan was sure, however, and his sheathed cock was soon persuading me that all was not lost.  I was turned on by our seedy surroundings, my throbbing arse cheeks and the rhythm of my lover’s cock exploiting my most private place.  We were both sweating profusely in our leathers and soon he came noisily inside me.

I slumped right down, my arse and my brain exhausted by our exertions.  My boner was as stiff as a surfboard, aching and dying for relief.  I wasn’t sure that he’d want me to reciprocate, as he’d been in one of his more dominant moods that day.  He smiled at me in the faint torchlight, as he removed the condom from his shrinking cock.  He tossed the rubber aside saying, “Let’s leave something for the next occupants to clean up!”

I was a little shocked.  I picked up my can of lager and tugged at the ringpull.  “That was great, thanks,” I sighed, still recovering from the hard beating and fuck.

He grabbed at his can.  Those energy drinks don’t half smell strange, but then so did the pillbox.  I traced my fingers through the sand, and then a little later he whispered, “Want some revenge then?”

“You bet!” I said, staggering to my feet and pulling my leather chaps up properly.  This wasn’t an opportunity I got very often!  I undid his belt and slid his leather jeans right down.  Evan’s bottom was magnificent!  A little puppy fat, but rather hidden by thick, dark matted manhair.  I sniffed at his arse.  Wonderful!  I picked up the strap and lashed it down on my lover’s mounds, before he had time to change his mind.

“ARRRGH!” he cried immediately.  For a sometime dom, he could be quite a wimp when the tables were turned.  I intended him to have a full fifty too, but lost count around the thirty mark!  Eventually, I threw the punishing strap down and in my most assertive tone ordered him to put a rubber on my swollen cock.  The lube squelched rudely out of the tube as I rubbed the stuff all over the condom.  Soon I was home in his hot hole, thrusting for dear life.  At times like this, Evan can become quite submissive and docile.  I fucked him roughly.

Afterwards, we laid in each others arms for a while.  He said he wished he had a cigarette, and I told him he wasn’t taking up that filthy habit again!  We kissed again and again.  That late evening, I felt the balance in our relationship had altered subtly, with me taking on a more equal role.  We would return to that pillbox, and its smaller neighbour just along the beach, on a regular basis from then on.

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Story © MMXIII by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved.

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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The Moped Gang (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot spanking fiction by Charles Hamilton the Second  and Rod Cayenne.  This story is new to The Canery!  All the characters are aged 18 or over.

 

The headmaster leaned forward in his chair, rested his arms on his desk, clasped his hands together and stared intently at the five sixth-formers standing before him. His unkempt moustache bristled as he sneered, Well, well, well, Gentlemen, welcome! I seem to have convened an impromptu meeting of the Moped Gang!

All five eighteen year olds stared blankly, trying with varying degrees of success to look unconcerned. It would be a lecture, of course. Mr Lynch would lambast them about their behaviour and send them on their way. Maybe with an essay to write, Why I should be a credit to the school, something like that.

The headmaster shook his head wearily. The five lads from my school who have been terrorising the neighbourhood. Juvenile delinquents, he told himself. They were mighty fortunate not to be up before the Magistrates’ Court. Out loud he said, You have been inflicting your loutish behaviour all over the neighbourhood.

He paused, waiting for a reaction. When none came, he carried on. You have been riding those infernal mopeds disturbing all and sundry. He suppressed a smile. Mopeds; bicycles with hairdryers for engines. Hardly the Hells Angels. Nonetheless the good name of the school was at stake. You have been smoking and drinking and, the headmaster shuddered at the thought, urinating in most inappropriate places. The churchyard and the gardens of the Masonic Hall, I hear. And often you are foolish enough to do this in school uniform! You are a disgrace!

Mr Lynch hauled himself to his feet. He was a stout man, some would say he was running to fat. At six feet, he was taller than any of the boys standing in his study. Five pairs of eyes watched him intently as he shuffled across the room towards a bookcase. It ran most of the length of one wall and had glass doors. The shelves were stacked with history text books. Mr Lynch liked to keep his hand in in the classroom. A tall thin cupboard divided the bookcase. He fumbled in his pocket for barely a moment before bringing out a key. His hand trembled as he inserted it in a lock and opened the cupboard. His body obscured the boys’ view but an unmistakable rattling sound revealed its contents.

Mr Lynch turned to face the delinquents. It’s a shame that you are all eighteen and so too old for this cane of mine. Isn’t that so, Smith? The headmaster held the rod between his hands and flexed it.

Err, yes, Sir, Smith blustered.

The headmaster swiped the cane through thin air. Too old for this cane, Passey?

Yes, Sir. Passey stared intently at the cane. It was a little over three feet long with a curved handle.

Swish! The cane flew again. Too old, Wilkinson?

Yes indeed, Sir, the lad coughed nervously, sensing some kind of trap.

Mr Lynch took a step forward, leaning into a thin, lanky boy. And how about you, Jenkin, just turned eighteen, I believe, so too old for this cane of mine?

Yes, Sir, Mr. Lynch, Sir. Jenkin returned the headmaster’s gaze. He wished he would just get on with it. An essay. A detention even. He wanted to get away, the Moped Gang had a meet that evening.

Mr Lynch swivelled on his left heel. And finally, we get to you, Davies.

Yes Sir? a short, stocky boy narrowed his eyes. He didn’t understand the tone in the headmaster’s voice.

You’re a little bit different from the others here, aren’t you?

I am, Sir? He felt his cheeks flush, what was the Old Man talking about?

Oh yes! You may be eighteen like the others here, but I understand that your father beats you regularly. With a cane just like this! He swiped it twice through the air for emphasis. He told me all about it when we were at the Model Railway Club. We are both members, you see. He’s the life and soul of the club, old Deltic Davies, you know. He often tells us he’s had to get his cane out.

Jenkin suppressed a snort. The cane, from his dad, he thought. Wait until he told the other sixth-formers. Davies’ face reddened with embarrassment and shame. He felt no shame being up before the headmaster, but for the Old Man to know he was caned at home; that was unbearable. And now, the shame that his friends had just found out about it too.

But there was more. The shame that his father played trains! Diesel trains too. And Dad was friends with headmaster. That had to be the worst! No, wait! Did the headmaster know that Davies had his trousers at his ankles and his underpants at his knees as he bent across the dining room table for lashes from Dad’s cane across his bared bottom?

What if all of that became public? It would be the end for Davies. How could he remain leader of the Moped gang? Davies stared at his scuffed shoes. He couldn’t look the headmaster in the eye. Neither could he look at his mates. He knew inwardly they were smirking. He wouldn’t hear the end of it once the headmaster released them from his study.

Mr Lynch flexed his cane some more, he tapped it gently against his right leg, then he swished it through the air again. He knew he was an old ham. This was supposed to intimidate a boy. Usually it worked. But maybe not this time, he thought. Davies’ face was scarlet, but the other four seemed unconcerned.

So we’re all agreed that you are all too old for this cane of mine? Mr Lynch’s moustache quivered as he bared his yellow teeth in a smile. There was a murmur of agreement from the boys. Davies sighed a little too loudly and the headmaster shot him a withering look.

I have decided, the headmaster continued, that you are right. At eighteen, you are all much too old for this cane. For this junior cane. He swiped it through the air again. It made a terrific Whoosh! as it travelled. No, what you lads need is the senior cane. Just right for your sturdy rumps! Jenkin! Go and ask Miss Glossop for the senior cane. Here, you can take this junior one back with you.

Wilkinson had been right, the headmaster had been playing them for fools, and they were trapped in his game. Jenkin took hold of the cane. It was surprisingly light. He had never seen a cane up close before. Brocklehurst Grammar was a traditional school – traditional curriculum, uniform, sports, religion and above all traditional discipline. And, that meant the whippy, crook-handled rattan cane. Could there be any boy in the sixth-form who had not offered his stretched backside to a master for a stinging six-of-the-best at some time during his school career? Jenkin was an exception; he had only joined the school the previous year after his father moved to the town with his job. This would be Jenkin’s first caning; an experience he did not relish.

Miss Glossop, the headmaster’s secretary, sat in an anteroom perched over her typewriter. Her long, thin nose and shiny black hair made her look like a crow. Jenkin shuddered as he handed the cane over. He didn’t use it then? I’m surprised! she barked disdainfully. If she had her way all five boys would be in front of a school assembly bent across a long table while the headmaster flogged their naked buttocks. And, she, Miss Glossop, would be seated in the front row.

He was very annoyed. Is he going to expel you? she asked.

No, no, nothing like that. At least I hope not. He told me to ask you for the senior cane.

Ah, of course! Absent-mindedly, she ran the tip of her tongue across her bottom lip, leaving behind a trail of spittle. That makes sense. He really is annoyed with you then. The senior one is reserved for the wickedest of the wicked. You bad lads!

She rose from her swivel chair and sashayed to a tall metal locker at the far end of the room. Jenkin watched mesmerised as her bottom wiggled suggestively. She unlocked the locker and withdrew the cane. Just as the headmaster had done, she flexed the rod between her hands. Blood rushed to Jenkin’s cock. A sudden vision of himself bent across Miss Glossop’s desk, trousers and pants at the floor, made the cock stiffen. Hurriedly he clasped his hands together and held them in front of his balls.

Here it is then. The senior model. Extra painful. Miss Glossop narrowed her eyes and handed the stick over. Be sure to tell the headmaster that there are a couple more in stock in case this one breaks.

Err, will do Miss Glossop, he blustered. He took the cane, unsure how to handle it. It was a little longer and thicker than the junior cane. At first he took it be the curved handle and let it fall by his side. It was long enough to touch the ground and reminded him of a walking stick. That didn’t seem right, so then he gripped it half way down. It was a sturdy rod with notches every four inches or so along its length. It was awesome; it would pack one heck of a punch. For one absurd moment he thought of Charlie Chaplin and how the clown would twirl his cane in the silent movies.

You’d better be getting back, Miss Glossop said grumpily. Jenkin jerked back into life, tucked the cane under his arm rather like a sergeant-major did and returned to the headmaster’s study.

…

You four, the headmaster waved his arm, stand and face the bookcase. He watched as the teenagers shuffled into place, no longer unconcerned. Jenkin, he pointed with the cane to a worn armchair. Bend over. Manufacturers called these chairs comfy or comfortable chairs but Mr Lynch was determined that Jenkin’ visit would be anything but comfortable. The chair was old and worn. The material on the apex of the back was shiny with age. How many boys had contributed to that, Jenkin wondered.

Bend over, lad, the headmaster had had his little joke with the boys, now he was anxious to get on with it; the sixth-formers less so. Jenkin stood a foot or so away from the back of the chair. How exactly was this done? He took a deep breath rubbed the palms of his hands together and reluctantly fell forward, rather like a diver going into an icy pond. Jenkin was so small and the chair so tall, that his stomach rested easily on the top of the chair’s back. He felt his pale-grey trousers ride up his buttocks. He couldn’t see himself, but he was sure the material had separated his cheeks.

Legs further apart. Up higher. It was a calm command and Jenkin obeyed without question and struggled to get into the requested position. Head nice and low, please. Now, his bottom was resting at a perfect angle to receive a thrashing from the headmaster. Jenkin gripped the seat cushion and closed his eyes. He had never been caned before and nor ever spoken to a boy who had been. His previous school had been quite liberal and corporal punishment was unheard of. His buttock cheeks clenched. He had not meant to do this, it was as if his body was trying to find a natural way to protect him from the pain ahead.

Relax lad. Relax. The headmaster sawed his cane across the underside of Jenkin’s now upturned bottom. He was finding his spot, taking his aim. Jenkin’s firm bottom stretched his now very tight grey trousers, a point the headmaster was careful to observe as he positioned himself behind him.

Stick your bottom out more, lad, hollow your back. Mr Lynch knew this was Jenkin’s first caning and he intended it to be memorable. Jenkin when I cane I make sure it hurts. There is no point in giving a boy a beating if it doesn’t. I won’t lie to you, your backside will be on fire and you will be sore for a few days. The marks will last about two weeks but you will live.

It had the desired effect and tears started to dampen Jenkin’s eyes before the first stroke had cracked against his tight backside. He gripped the chair cushion so tightly his knuckles ached.

The headmaster grasped the cane and took two steps away. To calm down he took a few air shots before finally returning to stand to Jenkin’s left. Then, with his arm outstretched he lay the cane tip half way across the cheek of the teenager’s further buttock. Jenkin flinched slightly as the rattan touched the middle of his bum. The headmaster raised it slowly then brought it whistling down. It landed with a satisfying thwack right across the cheeks.

Oww! Gosh, oww! Jenkin yelped, trying to keep his scorching bottom still after his first ever stroke of the cane.

The study was again filled with the sound of the cane swishing through the air, followed by that awful crack that signalled another searing bout of pain across his already sore bottom. The headmaster drew the cane back for another stroke. Jenkin arched his back and screwed his face up as he experienced the smarting of yet another assault to his now red-raw bottom.

Despite the shocking pain, Jenkin resolved to take the caning bravely and silently; he didn’t want to show himself up in front of his mates. But when slash number three connected with the seat of his trousers he lost all control, his feet beat a frenzied tattoo, as his hips twisted and squirmed. He desperately wanted to jump up and run from the study clutching his buttocks in both hands, but some schoolboy instinct kept him down. He was grateful that he had the chair cushion to grip, even though his hands were now grasping it so tightly his fingernails dug deeply.

The next swipe was greeted with a howl and Jenkin was now audibly muttering: No! and Please! But there was to be no mercy in the study that afternoon. Mr Lynch stood back, took aim again and the cane flashed through the air with a whoosh and the resulting blow snapped into Jenkin’s waiting backside with venom.

A river of tears cascaded down Jenkin’s face as he waited, heart thumping madly, for the final crack which the headmaster put right across the middle of his buttocks, angled, so that it crossed about three of the other cuts.

It took some time after the last stroke for Jenkin to realise the ordeal was over. Yes, the headmaster sighed. That concludes your punishment, Jenkin. I hope you have learned your lesson.

Like so many thrashed schoolboys before him, Jenkin remained slumped across the back of the chair, just trying to absorb the line of fire across his bum. Nothing had prepared him for the pain or for the feeling that his bottom had being cut into slices and then set on fire.

Up lad! the headmaster commanded, We haven’t got all day. With great difficulty, Jenkin’s hands scrabbled for the arm of the chair and he pushed himself upright, panting and sobbing. He danced on the spot, clutching the seat of his trousers. Even through the material he could feel the six vivid and very painful stripes decorating his hindquarters.

Stand and face the bookcase, the headmaster intoned. Wilkinson, take his place.

….

Thirty minutes later Owen Davies steered his moped through the gate of a large detached house. Home. The intense pain from his caning had dissolved into a dull ache, but the hard seat of his Honda had set the welts on his bum throbbing. He kicked the stand on his bike and left it standing by the door of the house. The Moped Gang were meeting later.

He opened the front door to find his brother Dai standing, waiting for him in the hallway. A supercilious grin slit the twenty-year-old’s face. Who’s been a naughty little boy then? he chirped in the sing-song voice of a child as he swished an imaginary cane through the air. Owen grimaced. This was the last thing he needed.

I got a phone call from your headmaster, Dai’s grin broadened. He wanted to speak to Dad, but I told him he was at that toy train convention until Saturday.

Owen moved towards the stairs, intent on ignoring his annoying brother. He wanted to get to his bedroom for a close look at his bum.

So, Dai blocked his brother’s way, he told me all about you and your Moped Gang. Six-of-the-best, eh? He swiped the imaginary cane again. You naughty, naughty little boy.

Piss off, Owen sneered. He hated his brother. Always had done. Owen was the bright boy in the family. Dai wasn’t clever enough to go to grammar school. He left Gumshoe Lane Secondary Modern aged sixteen. How Owen despised him. Thick as two short planks. A waste of space.

Of course, Dai jeered, When Dad finds out you’ll get another caning. His arm flew through the air again. And, Dai was enjoying himself and he wanted his little brother to know it. What was it Dad said last time? He poked the underside of his chin with an index finger, pretending that he was thinking. Oh yes, I remember. Owen clenched his fists, for two pins he’d sock his brother on the jaw. He knew what Dad had said.

He said if you got into any more trouble on that phut-phut he’d confiscate it and sell it. Then where would you be little brother? Dai reached out and ruffled Owen’s hair. You’ll be on the bus like the rest of the kids.

Owen stood devastated. Dai was right. That was what Dad had said. He would do it too. A bare-arsed caning and no moped. That bike was his life. He was the leader of a gang. It made him feel really important. The other guys actually looked up to him. Now what would happen? He knew only too well; no bike, no gang, no life.

Of course, Dai spread his arms wide like a market trader offering a bargain to passers-by, Dad need never know. He grinned and stared intently at his little brother. Dai had a plan. One that he would really enjoy putting into action. What d’ya say little brother?

Owen sucked in air. What the hell was Dai talking about? Why did he have to behave like an idiot all the time?

What the fuck are you talking about? he spat. He hated his brother. Owen couldn’t wait until the autumn when he could leave the house and go away to university. His imbecile brother would probably have to live at home the rest of his life.

Dai shrugged his shoulders and showed Owen the palms of his hands. A little plan, dear brother, he said in a mocking accent that made his brother’s skin crawl.

Owen hated himself for doing it, but he asked none-the-less, What plan?

Ha, Dai spoke in that mocking voice again. Now, he wants to know. Now, he asks me: What is the plan?

Oh, for fuck’s sake, I want to go out, Owen pushed past his brother and started toward the stairs. Fearful, he might have missed his chance Dai said in a rush, I won’t tell Dad your headmaster called. I’ll cane you instead. Owen stopped in his tracks and turned. The surprised expression on his face asked What?

Dai took a deep breath, You’ll get to keep your moped.

The room span. Owen gripped the banister rail for support. His mouth opened, but before he could tell his brother once more to fuck off he shut it tight. He should not be too hasty. That bike was his life. There was only one way for him to keep it. His head spun. This could not be happening. If he let his brother cane him he got to keep the bike.

Thinking about it later, Owen could hardly believe he spoke the next words, You promise you won’t tell Dad? Dai’s cold blue eyes blazed, Scout’s honour, he said and waved two fingers in the air. All right, Owen whispered.

Good-oh! Dai smiled broadly. We must do it now, my shift at the Wimpy starts at five-thirty. Gingerly Owen rubbed his fingertips across the seat of his trousers. His bum still ached from the headmaster’s caning. Now, he had to let his obnoxious brother beat him on the bare bottom. He would rip it to shreds. He grimaced. You couldn’t make it up, he thought.

Owen watched Dai rush up the stairs and fling open the door to Dad’s bedroom and enter. Moments later he came out crestfallen. The wardrobe’s locked. He let the importance of his message hang in the air. Owen needed no explanation. Dad kept his canes in that wardrobe, if they couldn’t get it open there was nothing to beat him with. He would lose his moped after all.

Owen sighed, Can we get a cane someplace else?

Dai snapped his fingers to indicate a thought had come to him. Of course, let’s go round the neighbours and ask if anyone can lend us a cane, he said sarcastically.

Owen sneered. All right, but there must be a way round this.

Dai did the snapping of the fingers thing again. This time he was serious, It doesn’t have to be a cane. I can spank you. When Owen looked doubtful, he added, You know, over the knee, like a little boy.

Owen blanched. It would have been mortifying enough to go over the dining room table for a caning, but over-the-knee to have his bare bottom spanked; that was too much. Dai read his brother’s mind. He wasn’t about to let this chance to thoroughly humiliate his brother pass. You’ll get to keep the moped, he reminded him.

That was enough. It was the only way. With his heart pounding and temples throbbing, Owen nodded his assent.

Good-oh, Dai brightened up. Go wait in the sitting room. I’ll fetch something. Sorrowfully, Owen trudged across the hallway. Seconds later Dai bounded down the stairs brandishing a heavy wooden clothes brush. He bounced into the sitting room, noting with delight the gloomy expression on his kid brother’s face. He picked up a large armless chair that lay against a wall and plonked it down in the centre of the room. He sat down, spread his legs wide and, waving the brush wildly, called across to Owen. Come here you naughty little boy.

Owen grimaced. How he would like to smash his fist into Dai’s smug face. He stood and glared. Dai’s smirk was undisguised. Come on, let’s get on with this. He snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot on the carpet close to his right knee. Stand there. Owen refused to look at his brother as he shuffled the three paces it needed to take up the position.

Dai sucked in a lungful of air. His eyes sparkled. Trousers down, little man. Trousers down. Owen avoided his brother’s gaze and instead concentrated his attention on the far wall. He had never really noticed the painting that hung there before. Some modern art thing. All oranges and reds. It looked like the artist was having a fit when he painted it. Owen stared hard at the picture as he reached for his belt buckle. He was surprised how little his fingers fumbled as they loosened the belt, popped the button at the waistband and pulled the zipper. His pale-grey trousers slid down his thighs unaided and snagged at his knees.

Ha! Dai smirked, White Y-fronts, I forgot your snob school made you wear those. Do they do a pants inspection every morning? He laughed aloud. Owen sucked on his cheek, determined not to raise to his brother’s bait. Pants down. All the way, Dai pointed at Owen’s feet. The eighteen-year-old closed his eyes tight. Think about the moped, he said to himself. If you let him do this you keep the bike. He tucked his thumbs under the elasticated waistband of his pants and guided them south.

Dai tapped the brush against the palm of his left hand. Bend over my knee, you naughty boy. I’ll get you for this one day you bastard, Owen told himself as he guided himself across his brother’s lap. Owen was short and squat while Dai was tall and lanky and the boy fitted perfectly. He spread his arms wide and placed his palms flat into the deep-pile carpet. Behind him his toes merely brushed the ground. His bottom was raised against Dai’s right thigh, at a perfect angle for the brush. A cool breeze from the open window behind him caressed his naked legs.

Owen felt his brother pull the tail of his shirt up the small of his back until it bunched at his shoulders. Woweee! Dai exploded with glee. Implanted across his brother’s bared buttocks were six distinct welts. Your headmaster has given you a good set of marks. He put the index finger of his right hand into his mouth and soaked it in saliva. Then, carefully he traced along each cut with the fingertip. Owen shuddered as the pain in each welt reignited. Dai cupped his hand and roughly rubbed it first across the left buttock and then the right. It feels like corrugated cardboard back here. He didn’t try to hide the fun he was having.

Owen shut his eyes. He couldn’t see, but he guessed his brother had a perfect view of his crack and could even see up his hole. He could die from embarrassment. This will soon be over, he reassured himself. Then I can go out on my moped and lead a gang who respect me.

Dai tested the brush in his hand for weight. It was about a foot long with an oval-shaped head three inches wide. It’s primary purpose was to keep clothes clean but it also made a splendid spanking implement. Dai tapped the brush against the centre of Owen’s left buttock so that it fell across three of the cane marks. This should set them on fire again, he grinned as he smacked the wood down hard. There was a dull thud as the brush connected with Owen’s firm flesh, followed by an elongated hiss of air escaping through pursed lips; it sounded like a steam train settling down. Owen’s body shook; he raised himself an inch off his brother’s lap and his legs flailed. No you don’t buster, Dai gripped Owen around the waist. You’re not going anywhere. Satisfied his younger brother was firmly secured he hammered the brush across Owen’s bum. It was like machine gun fire. Rat-a-tat-tat; rat-a-tat-tat. Within seconds every square inch of Owen’s bottom was on fire, from the top of the curves, across the mounds themselves and into the ultra-sensitive underside, the part of the bum that connected with the chair when you sat down.

Even without the cane wounds this would have been a severe spanking. The relatively small area of shiny polished wood attacked his tender buttocks. Owen wriggled and writhed; he waved his arms around; he kicked his legs; his head flailed to left and right and then up and down (just like a horse does when he neighs) as his brother pounded away. The agony in his backside was intense. He gave up and gave in completely, hanging and dangling over his brother’s knees, his squalling taking over, as he gasped, choked, sobbed, and shook. He felt the fiery blistering on his bottom driving him to still deeper wailing and weeping.

This encouraged Dai to renewed vigour. Owen’s legs thrashed about so much he kicked his trousers across the room and the struggle continued so greatly that long before his brother had finished the bare-bottomed spanking the white briefs dangled from his left ankle.

Owen wrestled to escape the relentless torrent of increasing pain that had set his buttocks ablaze. He fought to escape from the very firm grip of his brother’s left arm around his waist. He pleaded, begged, promised and threatened endlessly between his gulps and his gasping for breath. But to no avail.

Dai hadn’t known he possessed such strength: not only was he able to pin his rowdy eighteen-year-old brother in place across his knees, face down, bared bottom high, he continued to batter his buttocks with the brush. He pounded away at the boy for almost another five minutes, Owen struggled and pleaded but his brother continued; he was having too much fun to stop just yet.

He was so engrossed in his task and Owen so overcome with pain and indignity that neither heard the gentle burr outside in the drive. Four moped riders stared in astonishment through the open window. They saw that their gang leader had just had his second humiliating beating of the day.

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are over 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

____________

More stories from Charles Hamilton the Second are at Male on Male Spanking Stories:

http://charleshamiltonthesecond.wordpress.com/

Story © MMXVIII by Charles Hamilton the Second and Rod Cayenne, used here by very kind permission of the authors.

Comments welcome – please use link at top of story.

Father’s Favour (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Repeated from 2015, this extra hot fiction is by very special guest author 11plus.  All the characters are 18 or over.

 

“Dad, this may sound weird, but I want you to try corporal punishment on me.”

“Eh?  You what?  Damn right, son, that does sound weird!”

“Dad, listen to me.  I’m incredibly lazy.  We both know that.  I need some serious motivation if I’m going to get through University.”

“Maybe, maybe, but it’s out of the question.”

“It’s not like you can stop my pocket money. Gran’s inheritance has left me a lot better off than my mates.”

“True, but really, the very notion is preposterous and out of the question.  Let’s move on, silly!”

“No Dad!  I’ve thought about this a lot.  It’s taken me a lot of courage to raise this, you know.  I need something unpleasant to motivate me.”

“Listen Peter!  You don’t know what you’re asking for.  I imagine we’re not talking a hand smacking here?  I was thrashed regularly at your age, eighteen, and let me tell you, it’s no laughing matter!”

“Exactly, Dad.  No laughing matter, that’s just what I need.  I’m lazy and devious with it, you must know that?”

“Of course, I recognise that.  But we all have our crosses to bear.  You’ll just have to learn some self-discipline.  Listen, what you’re suggesting borders on sadomasochism, and I want no part in it.  If you ask me, you need to see a doctor, this is just so sick!  But if you’re serious, you’ll have to find someone else, perhaps a girlfriend…”

“Oh not that girlfriend business again, Dad!”

“Yes, again!  You need to sort yourself out!  That much is self-evident!”  Father banged his clenched fist down on the hard wood of the kitchen table, to reinforce the point.  Peter realised he was getting nowhere; his father was quite adamant.

It was about a week later when the two men were sat at the same table.  Father puffed on his cigar, while son coughed as he smoked a more modest cigarette.

“How’s your hangover, son?”

“Not too bad, thanks, Dad.  A little bit headachey, but I’ll get over it.”

“I heard you come back, you fell up the stairs.”

“Did I?  Gosh, sorry Dad.”

“And I heard you throw up in the loo.  About 4 or 5 in the morning, I think.”

“Yes, sorry Dad.  I did clean up the mess.”

“Yes, as well you might!”

“Sorry, Dad.”

“I had a bad night, because of you.  You really can be most thoughtless.”

“Dad, what more can I say, other than that I’m really sorry?”

“It’s just not good enough, my boy!”

“Dad…”

“Now, listen to me!  As I tossed and turned last night, trying to get back to sleep, I was thinking about what you said about corporal punishment.  It could indeed be just what you need, Peter.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Peter, who had cooled to the idea ever since his father seemed to be vehemently opposed to the idea.

“Yes, a short, sharp shock is just what you need.”

Peter groaned.  Suddenly, his headache seemed to be getting worse.  His father continued, “Yes, a good thrashing might sort you out.  But I can’t bring myself to do it.”

“Right Dad, good,” said Peter, immediately feeling somewhat relieved.

“So, I’ve called in an old favour,” the older man said, with a sly grin.

“How do you mean?”

“I’ve had a word with old Charlie Churchman at number 73.  You know, the old teacher from St. John’s.”

“What?” asked Peter, with a feeling of dread.

“He will provide you with some discipline, he seemed happy to help!”

“Dad!  Please no!  That’s way beyond strange.”

“Well, you asked for it, son.  In more ways than one.  I went over to his place for a chat first thing.  I imagine you were still out for the count at the time.  Now, listen.  You will report to his house this morning at 11.30 sharp!  Wearing your running kit.  Is that clear?”

“Dad, no!  I’m not having some old stranger spanking me!”

“It’s too late for that.  We can’t back out now.  If you want, I will walk up to his house with you.  At least that way, I can be sure you won’t back out of it.  And I doubt he will spank you.  He’s more used to using the slipper or cane.”

“Shit, Dad!”

“Language, Peter!”

“Sorry, Dad.  Whatever have I let myself in for?”

“I don’t really know.  But if it cures you from getting blind drunk and selfishly disturbing me, then I’m all for it.”  The older man laughed heartily.  “Now, how about you go and freshen up?”

With that, young Peter made his way up to the bathroom.  His head was spinning, but this time not from an excess of alcohol.  No, this time it was dread, fear and yes, a little excitement too! As he sat on the toilet, head in hands, he contemplated his fate.  Well, his father was right.  He had asked for it.  But now the prospect was all too real.  Perhaps he should have left things until he started at University?  Normally, there was nothing he liked more than a leisurely dump, but today he fidgeted around on the seat.  His pert teenage bottom was pale and unblemished but for how much longer?  He wriggled around restlessly on the toilet seat.  How much would it hurt?  Would it be bare? Was dad pleased?  All of these thoughts flashed through his mind as he flushed and cleaned the toilet diligently.

Peter stared at his teenage face in the mirror as he scraped away with the blunt Gillette.  A pale and worried lad stared back.  He washed away the blood from the razor cuts, and rinsed away the foaming residue.  He listened idly for the gurgle as the last few drops of water drained away down the plughole.  Yes, he normally enjoyed his morning routine and ablutions, but today he was preoccupied. Today was the day he would be thrashed!

The lad then made his way to the walk-in shower.  As he did so, he became acutely aware of the rank but manly BO of his armpits.  In truth, there was nothing he liked more than the erotic smell of sweat, even his own, but he knew that it was not socially acceptable, and so it would have to be washed away. Soon he was basking under the refreshing hot jets of water, working the white bar of soap carefully around his armpits.  Then he made his way down to his cock.  He had a gentle, short golden piss, as he’d become aware that he had not fully emptied his bladder earlier.  He then took the soap and smothered his whole penis is soapy lather, pulling back the foreskin and washing every little detail of the wrinkly member.  But as he did this, he became aroused, the cock stiffening and throbbing as the soap was worked on it.  He masturbated with joy and relieved some of the tension that had been building up.  Suddenly, as he thought about his imminent punishment, thick cum spurted from his piss slit, splashing onto the white ceramic tiles.  Gosh, that had been fun!  But at the same time, like so many teenage masturbators, he also had some feelings of guilt.

Peter carefully washed his penis again, this time removing all traces of his creamy sperm.  He moved the soap around to the protuberant cheeks of his pert teenage bottom and washed thoroughly.  As he did so, he reflected that his bottom could soon be a very different, reddened colour.  He washed and washed, and became excited again as he thought about what his punishment could be.  The soap worked a foamy lather into his hairy arse crack, and he spent extra effort on the beautiful puckered rose arsehole that was hidden among the hairy bush.  He wanted to be extra clean around there, just in case in his punishment was to be on his bare bottom!  Soon he was shampooing his hair, and then massaging shower gel into his teenage flesh.

As he dried himself, Peter again reflected on his unblemished, peachy bottom.  Standing on tiptoes he looked at his arse in the mirror.  He pulled his cheeks apart and looked at his own arsehole.  He was beginning to feel a little disgusted with himself.  What a young pervert he was becoming!  Just then he heard his father banging on the door with a curt instruction to hurry up!

And so it was that at 11.15, Father and son left the house.  Father was dressed in what you might call casual smart, with a cord jacket and cravat.  Son Peter was dressed in some running gear – black nylon shorts with a jockstrap underneath, and a white T-shirt. The contrast between the smart father in his timeless brogues and the teen in his trendy trainers was marked.  They soon arrived at Churchman’s house.  After some brief handshakes, father left son to the tender mercies of the retired teacher.

“So!” said Charlie Churchman gazing at the teenager before him.  “As I understand it, we have a boy here who needs some motivation to combat his habitual laziness.  Is that right?”

“Err, yes.  Yes, Sir!”

“And a boy who comes home drunk, waking his father, and so on?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And has a bit of an attitude in general?”

“Maybe, Sir.”

“THERE’S NO MAYBE ABOUT IT, LAD!  Your father has told me all about it.  Excessive masturbation too, I’m told!  You need a girlfriend lad!”

Peter groaned, “Not the girlfriend bit again!  You really have been talking to dad, haven’t you?”

“Well, of course.  You wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t!”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Are you stupid, boy?”

“No Sir,” said Peter on the verge of defeat, “But to be fair, I probably do need some stupidity thrashed out of me.”

“Yes!  Good!  Progress!”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Well then, a thrashing it shall be!”

“Yes, Sir.  Thank you, Sir.”

“How old are you?”

“Just eighteen, Sir.”

“So an adult then?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Eighteen years old, so I think eighteen strokes of the cane would be appropriate.”

“Eighteen!  That sounds a lot!  I was expecting a hand spanking, not the cane.”

“Really?  Really?  How naive!  Hand spankings are not for adult males.  No, the young adult male bottom can take much sterner treatment.  Let me see your bottom.  Bend over a minute.”

So Peter bent over.  His shorts stretched tightly across his bottom, while the white fabric of the jockstrap was hidden by the thin shiny black nylon fabric.  Mr Churchman gently felt the cheeks, and then pinched the flesh sharply.

“Ouch!  Do you mind?” cried Peter.

“Quiet lad!  Just seeing how fleshy your bottom is.  It’s quite well padded.  My expert view is that it can take a good beating.  Right then.  Perhaps six with the riding crop on these shorts.”

“Oh, thank you Sir!”

“Followed by twelve with my finest school cane on your bared bottom.”

“Oh, Sir!”

“It’s not a lot, trust me, lad.  At your age, and with that fleshy bottom of yours, you should be able to take it with ease, if not comfort!”  The man laughed heartily, “Now stay here while I go and fetch my crop and a cane.”

Peter considered running away as he surveyed the musty living/dining room.  However, he knew he had nowhere to run, even though he had his running kit on!  He was just considering his options when Mr Churchman returned.  He had a school cane and a purple riding crop stashed under his arm, almost up to his armpit.  His stiff, purposeful almost military gait assured Peter that he was in for a hard time.

“Very well then,” the old man announced as he pulled a dining chair over and plonked himself down on it.  “Crop first.  Over my lap!  Come here.”

Peter placed himself down on the lap, his hands and toes resting on the shabby beige carpet. Charlie Churchman slowly smoothed out the wrinkles in the lad’s shiny shorts before slashing the crop down violently on the cheeks.  Rapid fire-style, the other five strokes landed indiscriminately on Peter’s buttocks.  Peter grunted with each strike as the most unpleasant burning sensation lit up his flesh.  He wriggled and writhed as each blow struck home.

“Stand up!”

Peter dutifully shuffled to his feet, and his hands immediately flew to squeeze and massage away  the pain.  But Churchman was having none of it, “NO RUBBING WITHOUT PERMISSION!  Right, hands by your sides.  That’s better!  Right.  Shorts down!”

As Peter edged his shorts down, he heard Churchman put the crop down and then pick up the cane.  He whipped it through the air with determination.  “Take your jockstrap off.  How I dislike those modern things!  And with their tacky branding.  That’s it.  Might as well strip off completely.  That’s it!  You really are quite a handsome lad, aren’t you?  Lost your voice?  Now, let’s have you bent over the back of this chair.  Good.  Now, stick your bottom out for the cane.  It’s important that you show your proper submission by offering yourself to the stick.  That’s it!  I’m beginning to think that you’re a natural!”

Peter’s bottom was offered meekly to the cane.  Already marked with six vivid red crop stripes, it was about to feel the force of a rattan wielded in anger.  And it was a very angry first stroke indeed.  It sliced down right across the middle of Peter’s bottom cutting and burning almost immediately.  Peter let out a deep grunt.

“Stick your bottom out for the next stroke, Peter, you’re doing very well!”  It was the first time that Churchman had used the lad’s forename.  Peter’s bottom bobbed up dutifully for the next stroke which landed in almost exactly the same place as the first one had.

“ARRGH!” squealed Peter, caught by surprise by the viciousness of the two strokes merging into a single stripe of immense pain.

“QUIET!” directed the retired teacher, as he waited for the buttocks to raise in preparation for the third stroke.  Almost as if on autopilot, they did.  And also as if on autopilot, the cane lashed down again.

After six strokes, Churchman announced, “Time for a break.  Stay in position.  No rubbing.  I need to check how your bottom is bearing up.”

The retired teacher’s hands gently felt the scarred buttocks.  He massaged and probed, his fingers straying not only to the crack and arsehole but also to the cock and balls.  Peter wasn’t sure what to make of it all.  It was an exquisite torture, but it was an indecent one.  He felt violated, and yet somehow almost turned on.  Churchman was impressed by the lad’s compliance and also by his cleanliness.  Only a soft sheen of sweat betrayed the ordeal the boy was in the middle of enduring.

“Right!  Six more!  Bottom up further, legs wider apart.  Wider.  Wider!”

Peter’s bottom was now on offer even more, a most unusual and provocative position.  His arsehole was clearly displayed, much to the gratification of his tormentor.  Duly provoked, the cane slashed a seventh stroke, an eighth and a ninth.  By now Peter was wriggling his bottom, to the left and then to the right, in a vain attempt to avoid the sting and bite of the rattan.

“Keep still!  Don’t spoil things, you were doing so well, Peter!”

A tenth stroke landed unexpectedly quickly after that admonishment, causing Peter to squeal and gasp, “No more, please Mr Churchman, Sir!”

But the lad’s plea fell on deaf, un-receptive ears.  Already the old man was lining up a penultimate diagonal stroke which proceeded to cause a further yelp from the startled lad.

“Last one coming up, Peter.  Keep still and keep quiet!”

But it was impossible, the final stroke seemed to be the worst, causing another unmanly squeal.  Churchman tutted and threw the cane down on the nearby settee.

“A patchy performance, Peter.  Regular canings would do you no harm at all, in my opinion!  I’ll be telling your father that I am on call twenty-four hours a day, if you ever need a refresher.  Is that clear?  Well?”  The lad just nodded, sniffed and wiped away a tear as he dressed slowly.  “On your way now, Peter.  Run along to the park.  Your father will be waiting for you by the bandstand.”

“He will?”

“Yes, that’s what he told me.  And make sure you give him some respect.  Otherwise you can expect a return visit here.  Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, you do, Sir!  I don’t want a repeat visit, thank you.”

“Very well.  I didn’t think you would for one minute.  Now, make sure you don’t then.  And remember, respect!”

Peter dressed hurriedly and rushed out of the front door as quickly as he could, slamming it carelessly and running towards the park at the end of the avenue.  Though his buttocks felt like they were on fire, he was able to make quick progress and was soon through the Victorian cast-iron park gates.  He made a beeline for his father who was sat on one of the green metal seats, puffing contentedly on a cigar, almost predictably.

“You survived then?” Peter’s father asked sarcastically, “Bet it hurt though?”

“Too right!  Six on these thin shorts with the riding crop.  Like I was a fuckin’ horse or some other animal!”

“Language, Peter!”

“And then twelve with the cane on the bare!”

“Aha!  About the same as I used to get when I was your age.  Right, son!  We’re going into the Gents and you are going to show me your freshly caned bottom.  Before the marks disappear.”

“I don’t think the marks are going anywhere soon, Dad!  No, no, no!  If you must look, couldn’t we wait until we get home?”

“Do as I say, son, or we’ll be calling in to Mr Churchman’s on the way home.  And if that happens, I will watch your punishment.”

Crestfallen, the lad followed his father as he made his way into the toilets.  The loos were surprisingly well-lit, but the smell of stale urine and disinfectant assaulted their nostrils as soon as they entered.  Two other men were there, apparently masturbating furtively at the stainless steel trough urinal.

Father waved them an all-clear thumbs-up signal, and then spoke, “Don’t mind us, I’m just inspecting my boy’s thrashed bottom!”

Of course, the two men didn’t mind at all.  As father bent his son over, they turned round, cocks sticking out prominently, as they watched the boy’s shorts come down.  One of them whistled loudly as the red tramlines were revealed on the boy’s naked flesh, neatly framed by the jockstrap.  Father smiled at the men. He knew them by sight.  Since the divorce from his wife he had become a daily user of the toilets, and indeed, that’s where his friendship with retired teacher Charlie Churchman had first blossomed.  He smiled and then landed a meaty slap on his son’s bottom, saying, “Pull them up, son.  And then wait outside for me.  I need to use the facilities.”

Outside the Gents, Peter paced around impatiently.  His bottom throbbed and ached from the thrashing.  He suddenly realised that his father was taking an awfully long time to relieve himself. Must be a big job and washing and drying his hands, he thought.  Just then he heard loud laughter from the red brick toilets, and soon after his father emerged, looking a little flustered.

Father and son strolled home slowly, with little small talk.  As they approached No.73, Peter grew a little agitated.  And as they passed by, he thought he saw the net curtains twitch a little, but he couldn’t be sure.  Was Mr Churchman having a crafty look at father and son?   Peter rubbed at his very sore bottom involuntarily just at that minute.  What a day!

Only a few days later, Peter and his father were sat at the kitchen table again.  Peter’s bottom had recovered from the ravages of Churchman’s crop and cane.  Peter coughed and wheezed noisily and announced, “I’m just going to nip down to the shops to buy some more fags.”

“Oh no you’re not, son!” said father, puffing on his cigar, “Smoking is such a dirty habit.  Mr Churchman and I have decided that you are giving up.”

 

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Story © 2015 by 11plus, used here by very kind permission of the author.

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are over 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Photographs © 2015 by Rod Cayenne

Cane by http://www.quality-control.co.uk/

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Hot Lesbian Action (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Brand spanking new fiction by your host, Rod Cayenne. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!

 

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

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

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

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

“Sorry Dad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry Dad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are over 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

__________________

Story © MMXVIII by Rod Cayenne.  All rights reserved.

Photo model: Rod

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Comments functionality not available at present.  The author welcomes feedback at rod.cayenne@yahoo.com

Dealt With At The Gym (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥
Hot new spanking fiction by special guest author Sukemnsee – strictly over 18s only!

Like many, I have a monthly subscription to a major gym chain. Unlike many I do use it all year round, and not just in January while new year’s resolutions are fresh in mind. It is a very busy place and despite them cramming the floor space with as much equipment as possible, there is often a wait to use the machines. As a result I time my gym visits to avoid the crush and resort to swimming if it seems too busy. Whichever I use, I like to dwell in the spa pool for a while at the end of a vigorous session though of course I have a brief shower if going direct from sweaty exercise. The spa pool runs in a cycle of about six minutes with about four minutes of that being highly agitated water.

Today as I got in, mid agitation, it was quite busy so I was positioned quite close to another guy. As the calm waters returned most of the spa bathers got out. The guy next to me rolled over and was now very close to me. He smiled and said hello, saying he loved to relax in the spa. Being in the spa is sometimes like being on public transport, it’s quite rare for strangers to engage in conversation. He had a nice smile and was a good ten years younger than me.  We continued the conversation and I found out how long he planned to stay in the spa and that he would head for work directly after. I was in no rush so I decided to linger.

By now our bodies were surprisingly close to eaach other considering there was no pressure on space. As the agitation cycle resumed, he said it was great to relax and I agreed and I spread my arm out and he rested against it. I rubbed against him cautiously.  He didn’t resist and then I found his hand was wandering behind me. This continued until the waters calmed. At the next agitation cycle my hand was on his thighs until he pushed it onto the front of his trunks. There was a prize in sight!  The water billowed around, and I was able to pleasure him during subsequent agitation cycles, feeling him grow and stiffen all the time. I finally desisted just before the final agitation cycle to allow him the opportunity to compose himself before climbing out of the pool.

Some time later after showering and drying myself carefully, I left the changing area and headed for the complex’s exit. I was intercepted by an older gentlemen in company uniform.  From his badge, I could see that he was the Manager. It struck me as rather unusual to have older staff in what was usually a young environment. He asked me to go to his office with him.  The office was private but very noisy as you could clearly hear music from the various sound systems used in the gym. He told me they were clamping down on voyeurs and asked me to lay my phones and tablet on his desk for him to check my recent photos. I complied knowing there was nothing recent to catch his interest. Maybe he was just fulfilling a quota check to satisfy company protocols, I reasoned to myself.  One little embarrassing thing was that my tablet was picking up wi-fi and so frequently flashed up Tumblr notifications, showing adult group names and group descriptions.  I wasn’t sure whether he paid them any attention, but I certainly did.

He then said it was his turn to show me some photos. There were a couple of stills of me in the cafe area and he commented that I always chose a place to have my drink where nobody could overlook my screen and that he felt that was suspicious behaviour. Then he showed me some video images of me in the spa pool.  He said they were captured in manual not scan mode.  Those wretched cameras captured my recent activity and neighbourly games far more clearly than anyone else in the pool could ever have seen.  The manager told me he could not have clearer evidence of my activity and he noted that there were no signs of consternation on the faces of my new friend and I.  He said that action was required!

I worried immediately that he would call the Police.  My standing in the community would be worthless if charges were brought.  It was hard to know what he intended.  Would he just be cancelling my membership?  Could it be both?  I am sure he enjoyed watching me squirm and all the time my tablet was still on his desk showing those dubious Tumblr notifications.

He looked me squarely in the eyes and said I looked like I did not want the Police called in.  I agreed, and pleaded for them not to become involved.  I said I was sorry.  He responded that if he had a pound for every one of the athletes he had coached in a long career that had said sorry, then he would feel quite rich. Athletes learnt to behave sooner or later, some quicker, some longer, they just needed the treatment, he said.  In my embarrassment I agreed that I needed the treatment, although I really had no idea what it entailed.  I was feeling desperate and fed up with all the constant music pounding away.  He smiled and stared at me further.

He then demanded I get totally naked. This was a shock, but I felt no option other than to comply.  I felt bashful as my not so fit torso and then the rest of my body was revealed to him.  He told me to touch my toes.  I struggled to do this, only getting as far comfortably as grasping my ankles.  I felt incredibly vulnerable. Surely he would not..?  Then out of nowhere he lashed some form of leather strap across my bottom.  I gasped from shock and the sudden feeling of pain. It must have left an imprint on my pale skin.  I tried not to cry out as he applied further strokes.

Time after time he laid that strap fiercely into my bottom till I felt there was nowhere he had not covered. I was groaning all the time as this was way more severe than I had felt I had volunteered for.  I felt soundly punished.  I tried to distract myself with images of him doing the same to fit young athletes, their firm buns being chastened by his strap, but each time he laid that flexible strap on me he seared my fleshy mounds.  He knew what he was doing and he obviously had loads of experience, but I wondered just how far he would go in blasting my rear. It just had to be a purple mass by now rather than just majorly red.  I was grateful that the music was at least masking the noise of my thrashing. I was determined to hold on to some dignity but it was holding on by a mere thread.

Eventually he had stopped and told me to stand. I was quite giddy and leaned against the wall for support. I caught my my reflection in the mirror tiled wall opposite. My bottom was deeply red but intact, swollen but not mutilated, completely scorched through his expert application of that strap.  I gazed back at him, and saw the brown leather strap still dangling from his hand. It didn’t really look like a dangerous implement, but I now knew that it was.  I was allowed to get dressed and warned that my session for today was complete.  I was sent on my way with an instruction to behave or face further consequences.  I left meekly. wondering whether he had even broken into a sweat as he had beaten me.

As a regular gym attender, I know most of the faces working there, especially the younger ones manning the reception desk. I walked gingerly past them, feeling my inflamed bottom every step that I took, hoping that those youngsters had no idea of what had happened. One of the lads gave me a broader smile than usual.  Could he have known?  Or was I over-sensitive?  Or might even he know from bitter experience what that older manager was capable of?  I left courteously but knowing that I needed to lie down flat and soon, and to reflect on what an expert I had encountered that night. And face the conflicting emotions of whether this was a lesson or a new desire!  Future visits would determine whether I had seen the last of that ex-coach and his fiendish strap or not.

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.

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Story © MMXVIII by Sukemnsee and used here by very kind permission of the author.  Self portrait photo by Rod Cayenne © MMXVII.

All rights reserved.

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Sadly comments functionality is not available for this story.

Beach Buggy (M/M) repeat!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot caning fiction by your host Rod Cayenne, repeated again – strictly over 18s only!

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Back then in the early ’80s Peter had a bright red Beach Buggy.  It had a fibreglass body and an air-cooled VW Beetle engine.  Nowadays, it would probably seem a bit naff, but it pulled the girls!  His folks had bought the car as his 21st birthday present.  He felt really spoilt, and he was to a certain degree.

His folks indulged his every whim.  They even allowed him to shag his regular girlfriend Linda in his room, as long as he locked the door and one of them took precautions.  He asked his Dad one day about why they were so indulgent.

“I’m probably over-compensating.  You see your grandparents were really strict with me.  I didn’t dare do anything.  They were much harsher times.  Dad had a cane, and I got it at school too.  Sometimes my bottom seemed like it was permanently scarred.  It wasn’t, but it was all over the top as I was a well-behaved lad on the whole.  A lot like you.”

“Oh, I had no idea.”

“No, well, it’s not something I like to dwell on.  The past is gone, thankfully.  Anyway, that’s why we chose a school for you that didn’t allow the cane.”

“Gee, thanks Dad.”

“No need to thank me.  Your mother felt the same way.  You know, just before he died, Dad gave me his old cane.  He said I might be needing it as you got older.”

“Never!”

“Oh yes!  Well, your mother and I agreed that we wouldn’t ever use it and that I should cut it up.”

“Good one, Dad!  I expect you enjoyed destroying it?”

“Well son, I’m not really the destructive kind, as you know, but I placed in the vice with great glee, I can tell you.  And then I got a hacksaw and was just about to cut it when the doorbell rang.  It was the police, asking about some hoodlums.  They had been trashing the allotments just down the road.  I remember old Mr Wiggin nearly crying about the damage they’d done the day before.  He was a war hero and really deserved better.  I found myself agreeing with the coppers about the virtues of the birch.  And after they’d gone, I really couldn’t face cutting up that cane.  Don’t tell your mother, but it’s still in the garage.”

“Really?  I’d better watch my step then!  Gosh, a real cane.  I’ve never even seen one.  Dad?”

“Yes Peter?”

“Can I see it?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know really.  It’s family history of a sort, I suppose.”

“Well yes, that’s true.  It is family history.  I’ve got the scars to prove it!”

“Really?”

“Not, not really.  They always healed up.  But mental scars, yes, I still have some of those.”

“OK, forget it then.  I don’t want to upset you.”

“No, it’s OK.  This would be a good time to show you it, as your mother’s out paying the gas bill.”

So the two generations of the Appleton family headed for the double garage.  From a dusty cupboard at the back, Peter’s father extracted the school cane.  It had that classic, crook-handled shape.  Peter had only seen canes in trashy comics.

“Doesn’t look up to much, Dad,” said Peter with a trace of disappointment in his voice.

“Don’t be deceived.  It’s a real killer.  Hurts like mad.  Believe me.”

“I do, I think.  Still, it does look a bit weedy.”

“And before you ask, no you can’t try it.”

“I wasn’t going to…”

“Yes you were!  It’s written all over your face.  It’s no toy or game, I can assure you.  No fun at all.  Let’s cut it up now!”

“No!” said Peter with uncharacteristic vehemence.  “No, that wouldn’t be right, would it Dad?  Family history, like you said.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” said Dad swishing the cane through the air.  “Alright, let’s put it away.  I still don’t like to see the bloody thing.”

Days later, Peter was chatting to his mother about things, when the topic of the cane came up unexpectedly.

“Your father’s still got that cane, you know.  I found it in the garage when I was poking around, last summer it was, I think.  Yes.”

“I know.  He showed me it.”

“He did?  He was meant to cut it up.  He didn’t though.  I hope he hasn’t gone all kinky on me.”

“Kinky, how so?”

“Oh you must know, Peter.  A bit of slap and tickle, you know. “

Peter was a bit embarrassed, but carried on, “I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about there, Mum.  He seemed to be a bit in awe of that cane.”

“Yes, I bet,” said Mum sighing and shaking her head.  She was in another world.  She too had ample experience of corporal punishment back in its heyday.  “I’d be happier if your father had cut it up like he’d promised.”

“No, mum.  It’s family history.”

“If you say so, Peter.  Really that thing belongs in a museum.”  They would have to disagree on that one.

Some days, Peter would think about that cane.  He’d think about it a lot.  He’d wonder what it felt like to be beaten, and whether he could cope with the pain if he were ever to receive such a caning.  At other times, he wondered about his father being on the receiving end.  Had he cried?  Was it given on trousers?  Was it given on pants?  He didn’t like to dwell on the thought, but perhaps it was even given on the bare!  Now, that would have been scary!  Scary but exciting, perhaps?  Actually, he did dwell on it a bit.  Well, a lot.  Especially when masturbating.  And at his age, Peter often masturbated several times a day, despite having the lovely Linda available.  Sometimes it seemed as if Peter enjoyed masturbating to thoughts of the cane rather more than he enjoyed Linda’s warm and welcoming body.

Now and then, Peter would mention the cane to one or other parents.  They conferred about this and were both disturbed by his thinly-disguised interest.

“Perhaps I should give him a quick whack and be done with it?” Dad suggested.

“No, I don’t think so, dear.  We should get rid of that stick.  It’s what we agreed.  Besides, he’s 21 now, an adult.  We can’t start whacking him now.  He never messes up anyway.”

But he did mess up.  Bigly.  The Beach Buggy wasn’t a total write-off, but it was battered as it rolled off the road after an altercation with a Ford Capri.  Worse still, Linda bashed her head in the accident and was kept in the local cottage hospital overnight for observation.  Her father, a prominent magistrate, demanded she saw no more of Peter and in a frosty phone call to the parents prescribed ‘a good whipping’.  It didn’t happen, of course.

Peter was badly shaken up for weeks after the accident.  He became morose and withdrawn and missed Linda badly.  She had dumped him, at her father’s insistence.

There was only one solution, Peter decided.  One Tuesday evening, while his mother was at a WI meeting, he went to the garage.  Opening the dusty cupboard he saw the golden yellow cane.  It was what he needed and craved.  Perhaps it would clear the air and break the circle of unhappiness Peter was trapped in?

Back in the lounge, Peter’s father was astounded to see his son holding the cane.  He switched off the old colour set and sighed.  There wasn’t much conversation, as the two men understood the situation instinctively.

“Are you sure?  It’s got to hurt, you know,” Dad said gently…

Peter just nodded.  He handed his father the cane.

“Right!  We’ll do this properly or not at all.  That means a bare bottom, I’m afraid, Peter!”

“Oh.  I wasn’t expecting that, Dad.”

“Well, that makes you a little naive then, doesn’t it?  Drop your jeans, over the arm of the settee.  Jockeys down too, please.”

Reluctantly, Peter bared his youthful buttocks.  He felt the cool air of the room on his naked flesh.  He also felt the first stirrings of an erection.  That was something he didn’t want his father to see.

Dad flexed the cane and swiped it through the air.  It felt good to have the cane in his hands.  It would probably be the one and only time he would get to beat the boy.  He was determined to make it hurt, to make it count, to purge his son’s guilt.  He would approach the beating as a solemn ritual, almost a religious rite.  There would be no telling off, no verbal correction.

With a sudden swish-crack the first stroke landed.  It had begun!  Peter’s first caning had begun!  The lad was excited but then the shock of the pain coursing through his body brought him to his senses.  The throbbing and burning in his bottom was awful, just awful!  He’d never experienced anything like it.

As a vicious second stroke landed, Peter wondered whether he’d made a mistake in volunteering for the caning.  The burn from that stroke was even worse in its intensity.  He couldn’t help but let out a loud groan.  Yes, he had definitely miscalculated.

Dad flexed the cane and sighed with contentment.  He’d never been on this end of the cane before and could now understand the appeal!  It really was gratifying to use.  The sound of the cane in use was terrific.  This time there was a more noticeable physical reaction as Peter’s pert bottom flinched with pain.  Soon, however, the son was sticking his bottom out submissively again, signalling that he was ready for the next onslaught.  Father was determined not to go easy.  A caning had to hurt, after all, didn’t it?

Another harsh stroke sliced into Peter’s buttocks.  He sighed and groaned heavily.  This was really too much!   Dad wasn’t so sure, though.  He admired his son’s striped bottom.  How gorgeous those red marks were!

It was time to add another red beauty.  The golden cane slashed down fiercely and bounced back ready for more action.  Peter was sniffing and shuffling, not quite crying, but clearly upset.

“Keep still, Peter.  It will all be over more quickly if you do,” his father said quietly.

After the sixth stroke, the boy made to get up.  His father was having none of it!  He pushed his lad back down roughly and then proceeded to give him four rapid fire strokes which had the lad gasping and writhing.

“Two more!”  Father announced, with some regret as his sadism was surfacing and demanding even more.  Peter was simultaneously relieved and anxious as the remaining tariff was announced.  It would make twelve cane strokes in all.  A harsh beating for a first timer.

The eleventh stroke hit home with a sickening crack.  It was the hardest stroke yet, as Father was still exploring his technique.  Peter yelped and then gasped like a naughty schoolboy.

“Last one, son.  Brace yourself!”

Peter did brace himself.  He gritted his teeth and did his best to clench his sore, sore buttocks together.  He was willing his father on, hoping for a rapid conclusion to his beating.  However, Peter’s father couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease his son by slicing the cane through the air several times, and making the boy wait.  It was deliciously sadistic making his son endure the waiting.  Peter was overcome with anticipation, willing the final stroke on.  When it came it fell a bit flat.  It wasn’t as hard as he’d expected.  Both men decided, independently, that there would have to be another caning, one with a more satisfactory ending.

Peter rose slowly, and his hands immediately sought to comfort his ravaged arse cheeks.   No amount of rubbing or kneading would make a significant difference as it had been a thorough punishment.  Slowly he pulled his white Y-fronts and blue jeans back up.  Peter’s father was enjoying the spectacle.  The two men smiled at each other and then father winked at his son.

“Room!” Dad commanded, pointing to the door with the crook-handled cane.

As Peter made his way up the stairs he felt a pleasant tingling in his penis, and a warm glow spreading all over his beaten bottom.  He would have to masturbate!

In the lounge, Peter’s father poured himself a stiff one.  He’d enjoyed dishing out that caning.  He resolved again that it would not be the last.  He rationalised this to himself by deciding that Peter would have benefited from his punishment.  Although a good lad in general, he would need further guidance in future.  Next time, Dad thought, he would have to make the young man’s bottom the same overall bright red as the Beach Buggy!  Oh yes!

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Peter’s mother returned from her meeting.  She was tired and thirsty, but decided to slump on the settee for a few minutes.  She was more than a little surprised to find that she was sat next to the old cane.  It rather looked as if the men of the household had worked something out.  Perhaps that was no bad thing?  Well, boys will be boys!

The cane had weaved more than one spell that evening.  Peter’s parents enjoyed a wild session in bed that night, their best for many a year.

 

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

(___________

Story © MMXIV by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved.

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Comments welcome – please use link at top of the story

Comments from the original 2014 post are here

Behind The Beaded Curtain Of A Sleazy ’70s Sex Shop (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot all-male erotica by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2013 by popular request.

The air was heavy with cigarette smoke.  The two men were chatting behind the counter, waiting for the flood of punters who would arrive as soon as the city offices closed.  It was unmistakably a sex shop.  The windows were blacked out, there were tacky neon signs and entry to the shop was via a beaded curtain.  There were rows and rows of magazines, ranging from the tame to the explicit, though the latter were censored due to the Obscene Publications Act.  It hadn’t been that long since the last police raid on the premises…

Proprietor Rick, 35, lanky, greasy and bearded, puffed on his long cigarette.  Boyish runaway Peter, just 21, gazed naively at the contents of the shop.  He’d only just got the job, which was proving to be quite an education for him.

“Is there a lot of demand for this homo stuff?” Peter asked Rick.

“Yes, it sells pretty well.  Mainly to married men.  City gents.  Public school types.”

“I don’t really understand any of this stuff, it does nothing for me.”

“Don’t worry my boy.  Later tonight, I’ll show you some proper uncensored stuff.  Some of the gay stuff is pretty hot.”

“Well, if you must.  I just don’t get it at all.”

“It’s taking off, Pete, my mate.  Zig has been the spur, all that bisexuality stuff.  It’s the future, I’m sure of it.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes, trust me, mate.”

“Yes, I do, Rick.  And what about this stuff, the spankers as you call them?”

“Ah yes, the spanking mags.  Our best sellers, they are.  The English are just mad about the stuff, especially the caning mags.  It’s lost on most of the tourists, of course.”

“I had the cane at school.  I can’t see the attraction.  It bloody hurt, and wasn’t sexy at all.”

“Ah.  Pleasure from pain.  Yes, that’s a bit harder to explain.  Very popular, all the same.  There’s a good margin on spanking stuff and the cops don’t always seize it.  Of course, a lot of them are into it.  In a big way.  Caning especially!” he laughed.  Rick went on to explain the fine details of the bondage, S&M and fetish magazines and accessories stocked in the shop.

“So, going back to the police.  Got any tips for me when we do get raided?”

“It doesn’t happen very often, Pete.  Hopefully I’ll be here.  But if not, just don’t let them near the ‘under the counter’ stuff.  And be polite, for Christ’s sake. “Yes, Officer, No Officer, Three Bags Full, Sir”.  I think they cream off some of the stuff for themselves, the wank mags, the spankers.  Just make sure you do as they say.  Otherwise I’ll be taking a cane to your sorry arse!”

“You wouldn’t dare!  Anyway, I bet you haven’t got a cane.”

“You’re right.  I haven’t got a cane.  I’ve got several!  We used to sell them, but the cops kept nicking them.  Arseholes!”

“Shit, I’d better behave myself.”

“Yes, lad.  You better had.  You’re never too old for the cane, I always say.”

Peter gulped and decided to change the subject a little, “These blow-up dolls are a bit crap, aren’t they?”

“Ah yes, the Roxys, as I like to call them.  A bit sad, but they’re good sellers.  They’re crap, as you say.  I certainly wouldn’t fuck one of them!”

“No, me neither, I’d rather wait for the real thing,” said Peter eyeing the masturbation aids.

Suddenly, the influx of customers arrived.  There were older men in raincoats, and a few younger guys, all  looking for wank fodder.  Of course, some had guilty expressions, red faces and others had indulged in some Dutch courage.  Peter enjoyed flirting with the older punters, as he slipped their purchases into discreet brown paper bags.  Trade was brisk that evening.

“I think you’re good for sales, young Peter.  Maybe I won’t cane your arse just yet,” Rick laughed.

That night young Peter was shown a lot of uncensored material, and ended up sleeping with Rick upstairs in the damp flat above  the shop.  It was a night that Peter would never regret.  The two men became regular sexual partners.  The arrangement suited young Peter as he could never pull the girls.  For Rick, it was just lust for the 21-year-old’s youthful arse and tight hole. Both were curiously dispassionate about their affair and it never really developed into love.

A few months later, there was a police raid on the premises.  Rick was absent, so young Peter had to handle things alone.  A substantial amount of magazines was seized.  Rick was furious but at least none of the more, ahem, specialised material was found by the coppers.  Peter couldn’t help but feel guilty for the upheaval, though in truth he was blameless.  The following few days at work he was completely downcast.

“Don’t worry, Peter.  It’s not your fault we were raided.  I’ve been in touch with the law, and they have said they might return some of the stuff as it has been cleared.  I’m pretty matey with some of the lads down the station these days.  Our paths cross a lot, as it were.  I sometimes slip them a few spankers to keep them sweet.  They’re only doing their job, after all.”

“You bribe them with spanking magazines?”

“That’s a very strong word, Peter.  I just like to oil the cogs of the machines of justice, as it were.”

“Well it hasn’t worked, has it?  They’ve not returned the stuff have they?”

“Not yet, but they will, my boy, they will.”

“You think!”

“No, I know.  Now bite your lip, unless you want a good hard caning from your boss?”

“No thanks, Rick,” said Peter, although he did wonder if such a thrashing might purge his overwhelming feelings of guilt.  His mind was in turmoil following the raid, and about his relationship with Rick.  He was even beginning to feel guilty about working in the shop and how it would impact on his life and career.

A few days later, two policemen turned up at the shop at closing time.  They had brought many of the seized magazines back with them, so Peter was tasked with unloading them from the Austin panda car.  Soon the car was emptied, and the police sergeant sent the driver on his way.

“Drink, Mark?” Rick asked the sergeant.

“Well, I shouldn’t really, I’m still on duty.  But if you insist.”

“I do, I do.  Come upstairs for a beer, you too Peter.”

Peter was reluctant to join the two men.  The presence of Sergeant Mark was making him nervous.  After all, he was the cop who had fronted the raid on the premises.  However, soon all three men were enjoying cans of frothy Watney Truman bitter while a Roberts transistor radio piped an offshore pirate station around the flat.

“Sorry about the raid, Rick.  It was orders, of course.”

“It’s OK Mark, I understand.”

“The Super’s been ordering a crackdown.  We’ll try and leave you out of the next round.”

“Cheers, Mark.  I think the raid terrified young Peter here.”

Peter nodded and blushed.

“Well, he certainly could have been more helpful.”

“Really?  PETER, IS THIS TRUE?” barked Rick.

Peter wasn’t sure how to react, so he just shrugged his shoulders.

“Yes, he wasn’t very cooperative,” said the sergeant, frowning.

“Well, I’m sorry Mark.  I had no idea.  Perhaps the lad should have a taste of my cane?  He must learn to help the rule of law!”

“Yes, Rick, a good caning would teach the lad some respect!”

“In fact, Mark, maybe you could do the honours?”

Peter’s jaw dropped as events started to move rapidly.  Soon Rick returned from the bedroom with a swishy rattan school cane in his hands.  He gave it to the sergeant.

“A fine specimen!” the policeman exclaimed, “Just like the ones at my old school.  Err, Peter, it has to be bare, I’m afraid.”

Rick pulled a wooden chair into the middle of the room, commanding Peter, “Over!”

Peter complied reluctantly.  He was scared.  Scared of the sergeant, and scared of Rick.  More than anything, he was scared of that cane.   He’d always assumed Rick was joking about having some canes.  Evidently not!  He hadn’t had the cane for several years, and now he was going to get it from the big, burly policeman!  He decided to comply to the letter, in the hope of some clemency or maybe a reduction in the number of strokes.  Sighing, he let his jeans fall, and then his less than clean string pants followed.

The sergeant was enjoying the view, as was Rick.  Their plan was working perfectly.  Peter had been set up!  The sergeant flexed the cane enthusiastically.  He was going to enjoy this!

SWISH-CRACK!  The policeman sliced the whippy rattan down hard on Peter’s unblemished buttocks.  A deep red line appeared.  It was a good cane.  It was a very good cane!  Rick already knew it was a very good cane, as he sourced all his canes direct from the importer.  The importer was only to happy to supply the sex shops with the finest of punishment implements. After all, they gave a higher profit than the school trade.

SWISH-CRACK!  Sergeant Mark whipped a second stroke down on Peter’s arse.  The cheeks gave way as the cane sliced like a hot knife through butter.

SWISH-CRACK!  Peter gasped and wriggled as the assault continued.  He was told to keep still by the sergeant, “unless he wanted extra!”  He didn’t!  Of that, Peter was sure!

SWISH-CRACK!  “YEEEOW!” Peter cried, just like a schoolboy. How gratifying that sound was.

SWISH-CRACK!  A fifth stroke slashed down.  What an expert tormentor the sergeant was proving to be!

SWISH-CRACK!   A sixth stroke and Peter felt sure that would be the final one.  But he was wrong!  Very, very wrong!

SWISH-CRACK!   The seventh was a real corker, cracking and burning into Peter’s soft posterior.

SWISH-CRACK!   The eighth was the worst so far, searing and unforgiving. Peter bucked and writhed but by now Mark was almost in a trance, slashing the cane down without thought as he rejoiced in his own sadism.

SWISH-CRACK!  SWISH-CRACK!  SWISH-CRACK!  The beating carried on relentlessly. From a distance, Rick admired the red stripes adorning his lover’s youthful buttocks.

SWISH-CRACK!  The twelfth surely was the last?  Yes, it was!  It hurt like the blazes, but Peter was pleased to hear the cane clatter on the floor as the sergeant threw it down with a grunt.

Peter’s ordeal wasn’t over yet, however.  The sergeant dragged him off to the bedroom saying, “We won’t be long!” to Rick.

“There’s some lube in the top drawer!” Rick shouted, just as the bedroom door slammed shut.  Soon the sounds of the two males at it could be heard by Rick, after he’d switched Radio Veronica off!  It all reminded him of when he was younger, when Mark had given him much the same treatment.  Yes, Mark liked some “chocolate on his biscuit” as he had so charmingly referred to it.  But Mark only liked them young.  He had lost interest in sex with Rick once Rick had reached the ripe old age of twenty-five.

The frantic mating noises didn’t last long, just as the copper had predicted.  Evidently, Mark had delivered his payload and soon emerged from the bedroom zipping up his police trousers.

“Take some pictures of Peter for me, will you Rick?” Mark asked with a grin on his face.  Rick nodded and later that night duly snapped Peter with his Praktica.  The lad’s shagged and caned arse featured heavily in the resulting portfolio.  Rick knew exactly what Mark wanted in the photos, and had them processed by a trusted photolab just around the corner from the sex shop.

Over the next few days and weeks, Peter couldn’t decide if he’d enjoyed the sex and caning he’d endured courtesy of hunky cop Mark.  Sometimes, he felt as if it had been terrific.  Other times, he felt used and dirty.  Eventually, his mind settled on the positive and he confided in Rick that he’d like to see Mark again.  It happened!  And it so happened that there were also threesomes where Peter’s bottom entertained both Rick and Sergeant Mark. There were no more raids on the shop for another four years or so.

____________)

Story © 2013 by Rod Cayenne

____________

D I S C L A I M E R

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

_____________

Comments welcome

Comments from the original post are here

…And The Gods Made Love (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A first repeat of this hot story by Rod Cayenne, from 2014. Strictly for over 18s only!

In the seaside convenience store, the two retired headmasters eyed each other warily.

“Bernie?”

“William?”

Gradually, broad grins emerged. The two hadn’t seen each other for many years, although Christmas cards had been exchanged regularly. They had met each other at a teaching conference in London, where they immediately hit it off and ended up bed-sharing. Of course, back in those dark and distant days, they had to be really discreet. They soon discovered that they had both retired to the same vibrant coastal town with its many attractions and gay-friendly atmosphere.

“Back to my place?”

“That would be nice!”

“Better get some of these then. I’m right out of them. Can’t be too careful these days,” said Bernie as he tossed a box of a dozen Durex into his basket.

William made no comment, but picked a tube of KY lubricant and followed his friend to the checkout. As they queued, he couldn’t resist slipping his hand under Bernie’s cord jacket. He pinched the pert bottom hard! Bernie gasped with surprise, before saying, “You’ll pay for that, William!”

“Oh, I do hope so, Bernie, I do hope so.” Already roles were being arranged for what would be their first encounter for many years!

The checkout guy was young, fresh-faced and extremely large. He joked with Bernie and then with William, laughing as he wished the gents “a fun evening!” After all, it was obvious what was on the cards for the two friends.

As they strolled along the esplanade, William raised a topic of mutual interest, “You’ve got a cane at home?”

“Several, actually. And you will be feeling them all!”

“Yes, I rather thought I might be.”

“Tell me, William, did you take my advice all those years ago?”

“Rather! After the conference, I thought long and hard about the benefits of corporal punishment, and then became an enthusiastic caner. I got quite a taste for it. Used to cane the buggers really hard. I loved it when they squealed! And of course, behaviour and academic achievement went through the roof!”

“Told you so!”

“Yes, you did. Teachers like us were like gods in those days. And then I hooked up with our Classics master. Somehow we discovered that we had a mutual fascination for cp. We used to cane each other a lot, especially when his wife was away. I didn’t think I’d like being on the receiving end, but I did. It’s jolly good fun, isn’t it?”

“Yes, indeed, almost a sport of kings.”

“Eh?”

“Never mind.”

“Well, anyway, I used to lie in his arms afterwards and say, ‘I never expected to be doing this.’”

“Mmmmm, nice!”

“I’m so glad to have found you again, Bernie. I need it badly.”

“Yes, you do. And don’t worry, I’ll be giving it to you alright. Hot and hard!”

“Right! It has to be hard to feel the benefits, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed it does, indeed it does. No pussyfooting.”

Bernie’s house was a whitewashed art deco treasure. It boasted superb coastal views and had an air of opulence. The sympathetic furnishings emphasised the expensive look. Bernie fiddled with the espresso coffee machine as William took in the view from the kitchen.

“A quick cuppa, then I shall be sorting out your naughty botty!” said Bernie, slipping into some childish banter, “Your very wicked, naughty botty!”

William blushed a deep red, and then Bernie landed a sharp smack on his friend’s buttocks. “Ooh, Sir!” William camped it up.

Bernie took the tray of coffee and biscuits into the living room and switched on the TV, saying, “I just need to check the cricket.”

“I do so miss the traditional cricket whites,” William observed, “So much sexier than those coloured outfits.”

Bernie sighed and nodded. It was becoming apparent that the two men had so much in common. A love for the good old days, leather and willow, rattan and flesh. He could see that they could end up living together. The thought rather startled him, and he wasn’t sure how comfortable he would be sharing his palatial place. Better make William’s beating extra hard, he decided. After all, the man would have to earn his keep!

“Right William!” Bernie suddenly announced in his most headmasterly tone, “Time for your thrashing! I’m just going upstairs to get some canes. When I come back, I expect to see you bent over this sofa. You can keep your trousers on. For now!”

Unfortunately for William, the trousers didn’t stay up for long, and neither did his skimpy briefs. The tariff was soon escalating, 6…12…18…24…30…36! William’s arse was a deep scarlet, or was it black and blue? Well, it was a bit of a mess, anyway. Bernie felt a bit ashamed of the beating he’d given his sweet friend, but both had clearly derived enjoyment from it, all the same. And then, up in the bedroom, among the Egyptian cotton sheets, the two gods made love.

A few months later, William let himself into his lover’s house. He was surprised to find Bernie had company.

“Who’s this then?”

“It’s my nephew, Steven. He’s come down on the train for the day. He’s a good lad, aren’t you, Steven?”

“Err…”

“Well, good on the whole, but like all boys he can be a bit naughty at times.”

“Really?” asked William.

“Yes, honestly. He likes to drop in unannounced. Although he’s 22, he can be a bit of a pest.”

“Really? He looks more like an angel than a pest. Tell me, Steven, have you been pestering you Uncle Bernie?”

But Bernie leapt in with a quick retort, “Yes, he keeps pestering me for a caning, would you believe? Says he wants to find out what it was like!”

“Really, Steven?”

“Err yes. It was just a silly notion. Just to find out. I was only interested because Uncle Bernie was a headmaster back in the days when the cane was allowed.”

“So was I!”

“Oh wow! Two headmasters. I can’t believe my luck!”

Bernie cleared his throat noisily, saying, “Steven, it’s not luck, I feel. Coincidence possibly. More likely that it’s destiny. Now, I’ve never entertained your wish before. But with Headmaster William here as well, I’m sorely tempted, if only to nip this nonsense in the bud! Now, how about if both of us give you six of the very best? Each.”

“Oh, Uncle! 12? That’s rather more than I had in mind.”

“Take it or leave it, my boy!”

“I’ll take it then, but not too hard, Uncle!”

“They will be hard. It’s the only way. You will survive, maybe it will stop you pestering me and you may even come out as a better young man because of it. Let me just check that William is willing to assist. Well, William?”

“Oh yes! I could use some practice! Getting a bit rusty, don’t you know?”

“In that case, William, please go and fetch me a couple of senior boy’s canes. I think you know where they are?”

If young Steven had been gifted with common sense, he might have wondered just how the visitor knew where Uncle Bernie’s canes were kept. But he didn’t. All he could think of was his pending thrashing. Something he had wished to experience for years, and which had been a masturbatory fantasy since his early teenage years. Now that his wish was about to come true, he was rather worried and started to bite gently on his lip.

William ran upstairs, only to return quickly with two crook-handled canes and a broad, cheesy grin. He surveyed the scene before him. During his short absence, Bernie had arranged for nephew Stephen to bend over the sofa, in just the same spot that the two friends had made favourite for William’s own canings! So there was the youthful angel or pest obediently bent, offering his denim-clad buttocks for chastisement.

“Right! Listen carefully, Steven. I expect total obedience during your beating. No jumping up, shouting or swearing. Is that clear?”

“Oh yes, Sir!” young Steven exclaimed.

“Well, it had better be! Any disobedience will result in extra strokes. And they will be extra hard. Still clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Now, it will be six strokes. To get the full school experience, it will be two strokes on your jeans, two more on your underwear, and a final two on your unclothed seat!”

“Wait a minute. Bare?”

“Yes, of course bare! Think yourself lucky I’m not giving you all six bare.”

“Alright, alright! I’m ready. Can we get on with it please?”

William detected some impatience and rudeness in young Steven’s tone. He wasn’t going to put up with that! Well, he would, but the lad’s reward would be a harder caning than William had first planned! Two swift, crisp and hard strokes landed on the blue denim, causing gasping from young Steven. His 22-year-old brain wasn’t used to processing such pain! He couldn’t believe how the pain seemed to be multiplying and overwhelming any feelings of embarrassment and excitement. He was starting to think he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

“Right, Steven! Drop your jeans down for me. There’s a good lad!” said William in his most patronising headmaster tones. Reluctantly Steven did as he was told, craftily giving his bottom a rub as he did so. “Steven, I saw that! No rubbing! That’s expressly forbidden!”

“Actually, Sir, you didn’t forbid it, expressly or otherwise,” said Steven cockily.

“That’s enough! Don’t push me, lad!” said William, waving the lithe cane menacingly, “Smart arses get extra, if they’re not careful.”

Steven thought about sparring further, but the pain in his ample bottom reminded him that this was a time for obedience, not for cheek.

Crack! The cane lashed down on the boy’s tight black briefs.

“Oh my God!” exclaimed Steven, surprised by how much more sting the cane gave now that it was on just the one thin layer of clothing.

“QUIET!” shouted William as he slashed down the fourth stroke with gusto.

“OWWW!”

“I shall not tell you again! Get those pants down!”

Slowly, Steven edged his briefs down to join the jeans crumpled around his feet. Both retired headmasters admired the view revealed to them. A peachy, fleshy pink bottom decorated with harsh red striping. It throbbed and ached as Steven adjusted his position, bending over the edge of the sofa, offering his naked buttocks to the two men. Salty tears were threatening to flow from his misty eyes. This wasn’t exciting, this was humiliating!

The fifth stroke cracked down, the cane bending and distorting the flesh beneath it. It was the hardest stroke yet, waves of heat and hurt overwhelming the cheeky youngster.

“Shit!” muttered Steven to himself. This was bad, and then it got worse as the sixth stroke lashed his buttocks! His arse was red-hot, incandescent with heat and as sore as hell.

William sighed heavily. He walked around the other side of the sofa and looked the boy in the eye. “Not too badly taken, for a beginner,” he said, “Let’s see if your uncle can cure your pestering, shall we?”

“Oh don’t worry about that, Sir! I won’t be pestering him for a caning ever again! Uncle, are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here. Been watching you take your first beating.” In fact, Bernie had been watching with growing pleasure.

“I’m sorry for nagging you, Uncle. You can let me off, if you like!”

“Nice try, Steven. But you’ve been asking for this for months. Literally asking for it. No, no. I won’t be letting you off at all. In fact, I want to ensure that you never ask me for a caning again. And it seems to me that the best way to ensure that is for me to beat you hard. Harder than William already has.”

“Oh, Uncle!”

“All six strokes from me will be on your bared bottom!”

“Oh!”

“Yes, indeed. No sense in covering it up again. Same rules, no shouting, swearing, moving out of position or rubbing! Understood?”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“Call me Sir! If it was good enough for William, then it’s good enough for me!”

“Yes, Uncle Bernie.”

“Are you trying to provoke me, boy?”

“Sorry Sir!”

“That’s better. Now, brace yourself! Here it comes.”

And come it did. It lashed down with staggering force. The pain came too. Wave after wave of it. Bernie smiled to himself. He was a better caner than William, he was sure. It wasn’t a competition, but he was determined to make a more severe impression than his lover had. Steven was startled by the viciousness of that first stroke. He gasped and choked. It was all too much, too much by far!

A second harsh stroke from the slightly sadistic uncle followed. The red stripe throbbed and pain shot all around from it.

“Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” squealed Steven, leaping to his feet, rubbing his bottom frantically.

“GET BACK DOWN, STEVEN!” shouted Uncle Bernie. William laughed loudly at the perhaps predictable turn of events. Bernie was worried that his nephew was going to start playing up. So he quickly lashed the remaining four strokes down, rapid fire style.

“ARRRGH!” cried Steven.

“Well now, Steven. I think you are due some extras. One for swearing, one for getting up, one for rubbing, one…” It was now Bernie’s turn to laugh. “Well, OK, maybe not. I think you’ve had enough for one day, haven’t you? Well, what have you got to say for yourself?”

“Err. Two things, really. First, thank you, uncle. Second, I don’t think you’ll be seeing me again for quite a while!”

“Aha. Suit yourself. You know I’m very fond of you. Come back when you’re good and ready. And I’ll be dismayed if you ever pester me for another caning.”

“Oh don’t worry about that, uncle. I’m cured!”

“And please don’t tell your parents about any of this.”

“Oh, no chance of that,” said Steven, zipping up his jeans smartly, “No chance at all. I’d be far too embarrassed for one thing.”

“Good. You’re a good lad. With a tough arse. Wouldn’t you agree, William?”

“Yes, you did well, Steven. Here, give me a hug!”

It ended as a group hug. And then after Steven had gone, the two men had their own cuddle on the sofa. They masturbated each other as they listened to a secretly recorded tape of Steven’s thrashing. How they laughed as the lad squealed on the tape. They wanked faster and faster. “I never thought I’d be doing this,” said William wistfully.

___________)

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

Photograph © Jonathan, R.I.P.

___________)

Comments welcome

Comments from the original 2014 post are here

The Bullwhip On The Wall (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Happy new year! Let’s start the celebrations with a first repeat of this hot story by Rod Cayenne, from 2014. Strictly for over 18s only!

 

Terry was staying at Uncle Billy’s house for a fortnight.  He looked around the large lounge.  It was full of souvenirs from his uncle’s seafaring days.  Uncle Billy had eased back from that whistle-stop lifestyle a long time ago and his home now paid homage to those distant days.  The room was dominated by a large black wooden elephant and a coiled bullwhip hanging on the wall of an alcove.  Terry looked at the whip and shook his head.

“Fearsome, isn’t it?  Mexican, if I recall correctly.  It’s savage!” paunchy Uncle Billy stated in his gruff Liverpool accent.

“Looks kind of exciting.  In a fierce way, of course,” Terry added.

“Yes, although I’m not sure exciting is the right word there, young Terry.  I can see it would get the adrenaline flowing.  It cuts and tears flesh.  Not suitable for use on humans, only animals with tough, leathery hides.”

“That’s a relief!” exclaimed the young nephew.

“Well, you’re here for a holiday, aren’t you?  I’m sure you won’t do anything to upset me and wish I could whip you!” laughed Billy, “It’s only for show, I could never use it.  However, be warned that I do have a riding crop and cane.  I could use both of them on you if you do play me up!”

“Oh really?” Terry asked, excitement returning to his voice, “Are they from Mexico too?”

“Don’t be stupid, lad!  The riding crop is from the saddlery down the road.  It’s a lovely item.  The cane was my father’s, of course.  I remember its sting all too well!  Yeowch!”  Uncle Billy grimaced and rubbed his bottom with earnest nostalgia and perhaps a hint of fun.

“Hold on, your father used to cane you?”

“Oh yes!  Hard beatings they were, too.  And always trousers and underwear down.  I even got it at your age.”

“What?  21?”

“Oh yes!  21, 22, 23, I think.”

“Gosh!”

“Well 21 was the age of majority back then, and I lived with Daddy and his cane for another couple of years after that.”

“How awful!  And on your, err, naked, er, backside?”

“Oh yes indeed!”

Terry gulped as he took it all in.  Perhaps it was no wonder that Uncle Billy had eventually run away to sea?  Suddenly he found himself rubbing his own bottom through his thin summer-weight shorts.  He caught his uncle’s intense and beery gaze.

“Wow!  That must have been painful.  Was it a bit exciting, too?”

“No!  Not at all.  What a strange question!  Really, you youngsters have no idea.  How can you think being caned, let alone whipped, was exciting?  You’re not, you know, a bit strange are you?”

“Oh no, Uncle.  It’s just that it seems like another world.  So very different from today.  So hard to comprehend.”

“I understand, I think, young Terry.  Would you like to see that cane?”

“No thanks.  No need, Uncle.  I’m not that interested, really.”

It was a lie.  Both men knew it.  Uncle raised his bushy right eyebrow quizzically and instructed Terry, “It’s in the umbrella stand in the hall, right by the front door.  I think the riding crop is there too.  Be a good lad and bring me both.  Go on then!  See to it!”

Terry made his way to the hall.  He was annoyed that his uncle had wondered whether he was a bit strange.  After all, Uncle Billy was the one with the bullwhip, cane and riding crop in his house, and all for ornamentation rather than use!  He found the cane straight away, its lithe crook handle sticking out prominently above the umbrellas and walking sticks.  It didn’t look that old, Terry thought to himself.  He then busied himself looking for the riding crop.  Being a tad shorter, it was not visible immediately.  Only after removing a few sticks and brollies did he find it.  It was a beautiful item, with the shaft’s leather plaited neatly in black and blue.  Somehow that seemed appropriate to young Terry.

“Ah, thank you, Terry.  What do you think to these then?”

“Well, they’re less intimidating than that bloody bullwhip thing.  That’s really creepy.”

“Aha, but I thought you said it was exciting?”

“I meant exciting in a sort of creepy way!”

“You mean something like a horror film, then?”

“Exactly, Uncle.  I suppose you’d say it was a kind of morbid fascination.”

“Yes.  You’re making sense now.  So which do you want to try first?  The cane or the crop?”

Terry blushed a brighter red than he had ever done before, “I never said anything about trying them, Uncle!”

“I know that, lad.  But I can read you like a book.  You want to, don’t you?  Yes, you’re a bit of a masochist on the quiet, unless I’m much mistaken.”

“Oh Uncle!  What a horrible word!”

“I believe in calling a spade a spade, Terry.  You want to give it a go, don’t you?  Eh?”

“No, I really don’t.  And if we’re calling a spade a spade then you’re not even a proper uncle!”

“Well, that’s a bit rude Terry, but I suppose you’re technically right there.  But I am a family friend.  A friend of yours, and I’m offering you a favour, aren’t I?  You’re a masochist, and maybe there’s a little sadist in me, I  think.  Well now, this is getting awkward.  Are we going to do it or not?”

“Alright, alright!  But not too hard!”

“Terry, it has to be a bit hard, you know.  To see what it’s like.  To see whether you like it or not.  We’re not playing a school playground game here, after all.  Now, drop those shorts for me please.”

Terry dropped his summer shorts, revealing some surprisingly conservative grey briefs.  Sensing some residual reluctance, Uncle Billy bent Terry over the back of the sofa and yanked down the underwear in one seamless movement.  All was revealed!

“Oh!  I wasn’t expecting that!” exclaimed the youngster.

“Oh yes you were!  I think six strokes of the cane for persistent lying and disrespect.”

“Hey!  That’s a lot!”

“No, trust me.  It’s not.  Not at 21.  You can take it.  But do try to be quiet as the windows really do have to be open at this time of year.  Ready?”

“No!” Terry suddenly exclaimed.  But he was too late to alter his date with destiny, for the cane cracked down viciously just at that moment.

“Ye Gods!” Terry exclaimed as the red-hot burn kicked in, “Oh hell!”

Uncle Billy laughed at his nephew’s discomfort.  The cane was raised high again, and again Billy let rip with a severe stroke which lashed Terry’s naked bottom.  This time Terry just yelped.  He was prepared for the pain the second time.  But he really didn’t like it.  Not one bit.  This was definitely no fun at all.  He was telling himself this just as Billy guided the cane in for a third stroke.  This was the worst stroke so far, whipping the pale young flesh with gay abandon.   Terry squealed this time.

“You can have a break for a minute, if you want to,” Uncle Billy informed his guest.

“Thanks, but I’d rather get it over with.  I can’t believe I agreed to this!” said Terry ruefully.

“You didn’t!  Actually, perhaps you did.  Anyway, I do believe it’s just what you need.”

Just then uncle lashed the fourth stroke down, slightly off-cue and rather low down.  Judging by Terry’s reaction, it was by far the worst stroke yet.  The youngster leapt to his feet, clutching his thrashed behind.

“Yes, very entertaining, Terry.  But you’ve got five seconds to get back down, otherwise you’ll be getting extras!  One.  Two.  Three.  Four.  Five.”

Terry held out until the last count before bending back over the sofa.  Four distinctive scarlet tramlines decorated his otherwise pale buttocks.  Uncle sighed with pleasure as he surveyed them.  He had done all that, and it felt great!  He really liked being on the right end of the stick after all these years.  Yes, it was terrific.  Already he was forming plans for further beatings for Terry during his two-week stay.  He flexed the cane and then sliced it down again.

This time Terry gasped, and his hands flew back to his buttocks, in a vain attempt to soothe away the burning pain.  Uncle Billy was not amused.  “Terry, get those hands off there immediately!  They’re right in the firing line, and you are this far from those extras I promised you.”

“Sorry, Uncle. “

“Right.  Apology accepted.  Last stroke coming up.  Keep still and keep those hands out of the way!”

Crack!  The cane lashed down for the last time.  Terry cried out; he really couldn’t help himself.

“Good!  That’s better.  Not bad for a beginner.  Of course, Daddy used to give me more than that.  But I was used to it.  Now, time for the extras!”

“Whaaat?”

“Yes, Terry!  Just a couple with the crop, I think.  Stay just where you are.”

Terry had forgotten about the crop.  Uncle picked it up and sliced it through the air.  It made a different sound, when compared to the cane.  Perhaps a deeper sound, still chilling and exciting, however.  Uncle moved closer and whacked the crop into the waiting target.

“Owww!” cried Terry, somewhat startled at the pain this new assault delivered.  It was different, but really just as bad!

Uncle Billy laughed and sliced the crop down again.  Terry gasped, and almost choked as pain engulfed his wiry frame.  Eight red lines were causing new waves of agony on the punished buttocks.

“Pull your shorts back up then, that’s a pretty disgusting sight!” Uncle Billy lied.

Terry rubbed and rubbed at his arse, but nothing would help ameliorate the throbbing hot pain.  He looked embarrassed, as Uncle Billy patted the cushion next to him on the sofa, saying, “Come and sit down, Terry.  You look like you’ve had enough excitement for one day!”

“You’re not wrong there, uncle.  But thank you.  I hope we’ll fit in some more excitement before I go home.”

“Yes, Terry.  I’m not surprised.  Plenty of time for that.  We’ve got fourteen days.  Fourteen nights, as well.”

 ___________)

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 welcome

Comments from the original 2014 post are here

 

The Lodgers (M/F, M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot short fiction by brand new special guest author Ian Squire.  This story is currently exclusive to The Canery!  All the characters are aged 18 or over.

Paul and Kim were lodgers in my house. They had the top half of it, with a bedroom and bathroom suite attached. Paul was 28 and Kim was 25. They could come and go as they wished as long as they kept the place clean and tidy and stayed in their part of the house.

I went away on one Saturday and came back Sunday at about 1pm in the afternoon.  What I saw when entering was a shock to me. It was obvious they had thrown a party while I was  gone and the house was trashed. They were I presumed still asleep in bed so I waited until they came down. At 2pm they did and saw me and the state of my house.

“What is the meaning of this?” I asked them, “This is totally unacceptable! You will clean this house up now and then find somewhere else to live.”

“Please Sir, do not throw us out,” said Paul, “We have nowhere else to go. We will do anything to make amends.”

” Then you will accept whatever punishment I decide for you,” I told them, ” You are both going to receive a bare bottom caning, and given very hard, as this is what you deserve!”

” Yes Sir. We will accept whatever you decide is best for us,” said Paul.

” Do you accept this as well, Kim?” I asked, “Yes Sir, I do as well,” she said.

“You are both off work on Tuesday so I will carry out your caning then.”

Tuesday arrived and I summoned them to the lounge. “Both of you will strip naked and then I will begin,” I instructed. They did as they were told. Paul had a nice slim bottom and Kim had a little chubby one.

This was something I was going to enjoy doing. I fetched my junior thin rattan cane, nice and whippy and bendy. Perfect for their bottoms. I told Paul to stand in the centre of the lounge and bend over and touch his toes. This he did.

It was a lovely sight to see and I applied six very hard strokes to his bottom. He yelped after the first three but remained in position until his full six strokes had been given. I told him to get up and then told Kim to touch her toes, which she did. She too felt the wrath of my cane as each stroke landed and she starting crying after number four. I told them both to stand in the corner with their hands on their heads until I was ready to give them more, which they did.

After 15 minutes I told them to come out. I placed an ottoman in the centre of the lounge and motioned Paul to kneel on it, which he did. “Stick that bottom right out and place your hands on the floor,” I said, which he did. Then I applied six more hard strokes. The sound of the SWISH WHACK! as each one landed was beautiful and I revelled in giving each stroke. Paul cried throughout like a baby, but this needed to be done!

Then I told Kim to take Paul’s place, which she did. Another six strokes resounded the room as I let fly with my cane. She cried with each stroke too, but a lesson had to be learnt.

“You may both go now to your rooms now!” I said. “Just remember what will happen if such behaviour ever happens again. Next time you will receive more!”

They went to their room with very sorry looks on their faces.

Story © 2017 by Ian Squire, used here by very kind permission of the author.

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are over 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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