Mr Black (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

New to The Canery is this exciting spanking story by very special guest author Baddlad17.   All the characters are 18 or older. WARNING: ADULTS ONLY!

Mr Black by Baddlad17

Roger Black loved his job. The longest serving member of staff at Farmley FC, he was in charge of the club’s laundry. It was his job to ensure all kits were washed, dried and pressed for the next training session or match for the first, second and youth teams, a job he did extremely well. Despite these tiresome and repetitive duties he took pride in his work, ensuring the lads were turned out well. As a lifelong fan of the club he loved every minute of it.

In addition to this, he also took in two or three of the younger trainees as lodgers, earning extra money from the club for looking after them. The young lads under his care soon discovered that the laundry man was a very different character at home than the jovial, lovable character well–known at the club.

The comedian was a real tartar with the lads under his roof.  Eighteen-year-old Jack Wilkinson rode his bike the last few yards down the street on the pavement as he made his way home to his digs after a long day at the club. He had spent the afternoon in the boot room, cleaning and polishing the first teams’ boots in readiness for tomorrow’s match. He was in the company of housemate and fellow trainee Colin Jenks who also boarded with Roger. Colin had been busy sweeping up, and taking care of other menial tasks that are necessary requirements of all club trainees.

Today was Friday and both lads knew that meant discipline night, the night their arses paid for any misdemeanours they had committed or deemed to have. As Jack dismounted his stomach began to do somersaults as he knew he was up for a whacking this week for sure. Roger had caught him smoking at the bottom of the garden on Wednesday. Club rules strictly forbade any player to smoke. Roger had given him the option and knowing that the likely outcome of the manager finding out would result in him being let go from the team, he had meekly agreed for his landlord to deal with it at the end of the week. In addition he had also overslept earlier in the week. He knew he would get little sleep tonight, face down on his stomach with blazing stripes burning across his pert, muscular mounds.

Colin was also up for a sore arse, leaving his dirty clothes on the bathroom floor, general slovenliness around the house and failing to get home before curfew which was ten-thirty on weekdays. Roger was a stickler for the rules, and both lads knew they would be getting a whacking.

Jack closed his bedroom door and began to strip down. He stood as always admiring himself in the mirror. He was a good looking lad, short dark hair, hazel eyes and a cheeky smile which could win anyone’s heart, except Roger Black’s. His broad muscular chest had a slight fuzz of hair, leading down to his washboard stomach and then a treasure trail of hair from his belly button down to his pubic bush. His ample cock sat astride his tight firm balls. His arse was smooth, muscular and firm to touch. Thighs thick and firm were covered in fine downy hair all the way to his ankles. Girls loved his looks and athletic physique. His first passion though was his football, his dream being to gain a permanent place at Farmley and play for the first team. He often dreamed he was leading the club out in a cup final at Wembley to thousands of cheering fans.

Colin was very similar. He was a very good-looking lad who would make it as a model if his football career did not materialise. Blonde and blue eyes with a smile to melt a thousand hearts he was already over six feet tall. He was, if anything more determined than Jack to make it. His grandad had been an icon for the club and when he had shown promise of following in his footsteps, he had been given an apprenticeship more because he was Arthur Jenks’ grandson than on merit. This made him focus on proving the other lads wrong, hence his determination to make it.

When the clock struck six o’ clock, two eighteen-year-old lads stood facing the wall, hands on head waiting for the summons into the dreaded study. Roger walked along from the lounge and admired the lads dressed in full kit, awaiting his pleasure. His eyes paid particular attention to their backsides, currently encased inside the club’s soccer shorts, and the firm thighs already bare. Roger’s cock began to swell as he looked lustfully at them. Yes, Roger was secretly gay and would want nothing more than to bend them over and take them from behind. Denied that pleasure, he contented himself with using the excuse of discipline in order to get his hands on the lads in his care. Later on he would enjoy his evening wank as he remembered the sight of their red, striped bottoms.

No one at the club was aware of this, or that he often brought home some of the soiled shorts and socks of his favourite players in order to sniff and masturbate over them. Being the laundry man no one ever knew any uniforms were missing.

He went into the little office and left the door ajar while he made the preparations for this Friday night ritual. He took out his little notebook and examined the reasons why he was about to thrash his charges tonight. It was a futile exercise, he had already read the notepad several times, sentence already decreed, the lads would be going to bed with very sore backsides. The cane was sat as always in a wicker basket behind his desk, and an old gymshoe lay in the desk drawer.

Jack was called in; he stood with his arms at his sides in front of the desk. Roger looked lustfully at the hunk in front of him. He would sorely love to slip his shorts down and take his cock between his lips and suck him till the creamy fluid erupted, but unable to perform that task and give the lad immeasurable pleasure, he would have to content himself with applying a very painful punishment, leaving his backside red and sore.

Where do we start this week Jack? You overslept on Wednesday, and why did you oversleep?

I was tired, Roger.

Come on now Jack, up half the night playing on your X-Box is the reason, don’t deny it, I heard the thing when I popped to the toilet. I have told you before about this, you can have no complaint as to the punishment. Six whacks of the gymshoe should serve as a reminder to get you out of bed on time in future. We now turn to the smoking incident, far more serious. You are well aware that Mr Coleman would dismiss you from the club if he discovered you had been partaking in such a filthy habit. If we keep this between ourselves I will award you eight strokes of the cane. Any repeat and I will have no option than to report this to club management.

Roger had no intention of reporting the incident to the club. He enjoyed tanning Jack’s arse immensely. He would never do or say anything to jeopardise that pleasure.

You know what to do, get them down and get over.

Jack stood in front of the desk, inserted his hands into the waistband of his soccer shorts, and then peeled them down, ensuring his briefs were lowered with them. Roger sat at his desk for a moment, salivating at the juicy cock now just inches from his face. He opened the desk drawer and extracted the large grubby old plimsoll. It had slapped many backsides over the years, once it had belonged to a goalkeeper who had size fourteen feet. When the old pumps were of no further use Roger retrieved them from the bin and brought them home in order to make use of them for a different purpose. They had seen far more use in this secondary role than their original. He stood up and walked behind Jack who had now positioned himself over the desk. Once again Roger looked lustfully at the two bulbous mounds presented for his pleasure. He could just see the tuft of hair poking out from between the twin globes. He tapped the slipper gently across the bared backside before taking his arm back to shoulder height. He held it for a second or two, then let it let fall rapidly onto the exposed surface. Jack hissed and twisted as the first bite stung his bottom.

The slipper cracked down a second time, rapidly inflaming the skin. A clear oval patch could be made out on each cheek. Roger’s knob was already starting to thicken and swell as he observed the results of his ministrations. Four more large loud cracks of the plimsoll rang round the room in the little office. Jack could not hold back and began to grunt and yelp as the fiery torment reached its conclusion.

Roger stepped back and took in the sight now presented, two quivering mounds of reddened bum cheeks awaiting the next part of their torturous punishment. He placed the slipper on the desk, sole side up, in front of the tearful lad who could gaze on the instrument that had inflicted white hot pain across his buttocks. Picking up the cane from its resting place he swished it through the air a few times before coming behind the waiting youth and gently resting it low down, close to where buttock meets thigh. He eyed the reddened target then raised the cane before bringing it cracking down. Jack yelled lustfully as the first bite of the rod sliced through the already tenderised cheeks, causing searing pain on the line it had struck. Tears rolled down the youth’s face as the pain reached his brain. Stroke after searing stroke of the rod sliced across his bottom causing untold agony to the young player. He vowed never to touch another cigarette.

The eighth and final stroke of the cane slashed across his buttocks leaving the lad sobbing gently.

Stand up Jack, and go across to the wall, leave your shorts dropped and your hands on your head.

The lad slowly rose and reached down to take hold of his shorts and pants. Roger looked on lustfully as he waddled to the wall, and then let his shorts drop again before placing his hands on his head. The old man gently stroked his cock as he looked at the red striped cheeks. How he would love to kneel down and let his tongue slip beneath those burning mounds. If only these lads would appreciate a bit of cock, it would save them a lot of arse pain.

Colin, let’s have you in lad.

The second good-looking youth stumbled into the little office, as always he was greeted with the sight of his housemate facing the wall, his red striped arse on full display. Colin hated this and often wished that Roger would deal with him first, but for some reason Jack was always called in before him. He stood before the desk, his eyes glued to the outsized gymshoe that lay sole side up. He winced remembering the many times it had slapped his arse cheeks. Roger was sat behind the desk looking lustfully at his second lodger. He loved Colin’s boyish good looks. If anything he found him more attractive than Jack.

Colin, you are a lazy little sod. How many times have I told you about clearing up after yourself? In addition you seem to think that you can ignore curfew and come in when you want. You need to understand that if you are to do well in training and earn that longed-for position as a centre half at the club, you need to be committed and sacrifice some of the things other teenage lads get up to.

He picked up the slipper and looked at the smooth surface, then opened the drawer and put it away, its work done for today.

Last time I gave you a walloping with the slipper, it did not seem to have the desired effect. Perhaps a taste of the rod might be more memorable? Shorts down and assume the position.

Colin knew it would be the cane this time; he had been warned last time that any further lateness would result in a caning. He slipped down his shorts and pants then went over the desk, gripping onto the far side. Roger stood up and picked up the cane once again. Once more he stood ogling a pair of fine muscular mounds, totally at his mercy. His cock was already stiff and he could feel pre-cum already dripping from the tip.

The bare arse cheeks quivered as he laid the rod in the crease ready to strike the first of six strokes. The cane lashed across Colin’s buttocks right on the crease, just as Roger had planned. Immediately the lad’s head shot up, his face contorted in agony. He shut his eyes tight and gripped firmly onto the desk. The next stroke doubled the agony and once again he bit down, desperate not to yell out. The third loosened the tear ducts, bringing water to the corner of his eyes and the fourth saw them drip down his face. The final two strokes had the lad grunting as the caning reached its ending.

Up, and go and join Jack by the wall.

Roger quickly turned his back on Colin for a moment in order to hide his raging erection. He watched as he hobbled across to the wall before dropping his shorts and placing his hands on his head.

Roger sat at his desk and looked at the two red, striped arses on display. Shorts and pants at their ankles, their socks pulled up to just below the knee. Footy kit always turned on the laundry man and the sight of the trainees with their shorts around their ankles, red arses on show was more than he could take. He slipped out a tissue from his desk drawer and whipped out his cock.

While the lads faced the wall, their own knobs now at ninety degrees, their landlord took just a couple of pulls before he exploded into the tissue. He somehow managed to control himself from grunting out. Clearing up the mess he looked on for a few moments longer at the sight before him. He knew he would be having another wank before bedtime as he recalled the events of the last few minutes.

Pull them up and off you go. I hope I don’t have to repeat this next Friday.

Of course that was a lie; he would make sure he found some reason to give them sore arses next week.

They pulled their underpants over their erect cocks before getting their shorts back in place. The lads left the office rubbing furiously at their stinging cheeks, then made their way upstairs and into Colin’s room where they could examine the damage, commiserate with each other, and then enjoy their own little wank sesh as they both tossed off to see who could cum first. If only Roger Black knew what was going on one floor above. But alas he would never know. He would have to content himself with a solo performance. He would have to wait another week before he got the chance to thrash the boys again. But one thing was for sure he would find a reason and next Friday the lads would be before him once again.

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Story ©MMXV by Baddlad17, and used here by very kind permission of the author.

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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Authors love your feedback!  Please leave a comment by using the link at the top of the story.

 

Baddlad17’s excellent earlier stories for The Canery are available here.  Further great stories by Baddlad17 may be found at this external link.

Father’s Favour (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

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

 

“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.  The full list of stories by this author is available here.

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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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The Quest For A Bigger Penis (M/M)

Another chance to read this explicit caning  entertainment by Rod Cayenne. All the characters are 18 or older.  Adults only!

I knew I was in big trouble as soon as Dad called me into his little office. He stood there with one of his many canes in his hands. I gulped with fear, for I had never been able to take his canings stoically. No, there were always tears, cries and desperate pleading and wriggling under the lash of the cane. I had hoped now that I’d turned eighteen, that the canes might be retired. It seemed not.

“Peter, you were sick in bed this morning. You hadn’t been drinking again, I hope?”

“No Dad. Sorry. It was nothing like that.”

“Good! Otherwise this beauty would be teaching you a lesson.”

I didn’t share his view of what constituted beauty. In fact, I would have classified that whippy cane as a beast! As one of those rare strict Methodists, I knew he didn’t like me touching alcohol.

“So, what did make you sick then, lad?”

I didn’t feel like lying. It wasn’t really in my nature. I thought it best to confess, so I pulled the blister pack of blue pills out of my leather jacket. I handed them to my father. I could tell that he thought they were drugs.

“It was these that made me sick Dad, they taste awful!”

He read the lettering out loud, “Vigorlon Penis Enlargement Pills! I don’t believe it! These things are just a con! I can’t believe that a son of mine was so stupid as to fall for one of these scams!”

I stood there embarrassed, and red-faced.

“I’m sorry Dad. It was just a whim when I bought them.”

“Over the internet, I suppose?”

I nodded.

“With your card?”

I nodded.

“You stupid boy! So this is what you waste your allowance on! You’ll probably have to cancel your debit card too. I wonder what else you’ve been looking at on the internet, you haven’t been looking at pornography?”

I couldn’t lie. My Methodist upbringing had taught me that lying was a most serious sin. Of course I’d been looking at porn.

Again, I nodded at Dad.

“Well, that’s good,” he laughed. “Most men do.”

I was amazed when he said that, so I just nodded again, this time with a little smile. I was even more amazed when he put the cane down on the desk and offered me a chair. He poured me a glass of water from his cut-glass decanter.

“Well, well, well,” he said eventually, “I really don’t know what to make of you, young Peter. You’re at a difficult age, aren’t you? Part man, part boy, I’d say. Maybe more boy.”

Once again, I found myself nodding in agreement. Experience had taught me never to argue with Dad once we were in his small home office. I drank the water nervously. It was refreshing, as I was still dehydrated after being sick. Things were looking good. He picked up the cane and placed it back in the brass umbrella stand, where it was kept along with several other rattans and a rather faded gents umbrella. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was too good to last, however.

“NOW LISTEN TO ME!” Suddenly, his tone became fierce. “I am quite insulted that you feel that the penis your mother and I gave you at birth isn’t big enough! The Lord moves in mysterious ways, you know.”

Here we go, I thought to myself. My bottom started to tingle.

“And! Let there be no doubt in your mind that I am very, very unhappy that you have spent money, the hard-earned allowance money I’ve given you, on this rubbish!”

He waved the strip of pills at me. Slowly, he popped each of the remaining blue tablets out of the blister pack. He counted the pills out loud. There were fifteen. I just knew where this was leading.

“Fifteen pills, fifteen strokes!” he announced. He reached behind him and selected a more severe rattan with a crook handle.

“But Dad, I’m eighteen now!”

“Good point, Peter. We’ll make it eighteen, then. Over the desk, trousers down!”

I wasn’t going to argue. I bent over submissively and the first cane stroke hit home. Oh, it was a hard one, for a first stroke. He was really angry, I could tell. He’d been hiding it well, but now the cane was letting him vent his full fury. That was reinforced by the second and third strokes which were straight out of the fires of Hell.

“Underpants down! Fifteen strokes on the bare for the fifteen pills.”

I wasn’t going to argue, as I lowered my pale blue Jockeys. I certainly wasn’t going to tell him that it was a hundred pills I’d ordered!

Stroke four sliced into my naked flesh. I was gasping, close to hyperventilating. I cried out loudly. I knew that would amuse him. For a religious man, he had a streak of sadism. Yes, there was a lot of cruelty within him.

I took the fifth quietly, and then the sixth much the same. He moved things up a gear as the seventh was by far the hardest yet. By now I was squirming under the cane’s vicious caress. My bottom was writhing, first in one direction, then the other in a vain attempt to avoid the blows of the cane. Eight! Nine! Ten! I was counting them quietly under my breath, while silent salty tears streamed down my face. This was a hellish beating!

He stopped and grunted. Suddenly, his hands were feeling the cane ridges on my bottom. He’d never done that before, and it was so humiliating, especially as he barked at me to keep still. He changed canes.

“Number Two cane to finish off, Peter.”

In all my years, and through numerous beatings, I could never fathom out the significance of the numbering system of his canes. Perhaps there wasn’t one, and this was all part of a sadistic game? All I knew was that Number Two cane was named appropriately, as it hurt like shit.

“AARRGH!” I cried as the eleventh stroke slashed down, quickly followed by a twelfth, landing just below.

Dad laid thirteen and fourteen diagonally, which was agony. The final four strokes were aimed at the tops of my thighs, his speciality, and they stung like mad. Strangely, all I could think about was that I wouldn’t be wearing my Speedos down on the beach for a while!

I wasn’t crying heavily, but my face was covered in snot. Dad offered me a tissue. I’d been trying not to say thank you, as an act of defiance, but it just sort of slipped out. He grinned when I said it. At times like that I really hated him. My only consolation was that my mother and sister were out shopping, so my beating had been a private, man thing.

That evening, I was over at my friend Andrew’s house. Somehow the story of the day’s events came out. I’d been trying to hide it, as I knew my friend had an unhealthy interest in my beatings. He managed to worm every little detail out of me this time. Nonetheless, he asked if he could see the marks, almost as if he didn’t believe me.

“Pervert!” I accused.

“No, really, I just want to understand. Although I could put some cold cream on them, I’m sure my mum’s got some in the bathroom.”

Reluctantly, I agreed. Andrew traced each and every mark with his forefinger. I’d found the day pretty confusing all round. My head was far from clear. Maybe it was another side-effect of those blue pills?

Andrew came back from the bathroom with a jar of cream. Gently, he massaged it into my bottom. My cock suddenly burst into life! It was rock hard. We gazed into each others eyes and knew we were going to have to take things further. No erection pills would be required! This time he put his forefinger into the jar of cream and then shoved the finger up my arsehole. His lips caressed my cock. He worked that cock for all it was worth. I came heavily in his mouth.

We lay exhausted on his bed for a few tender minutes. I offered to reciprocate. He just laughed.

“Not likely, mate. I’m not sticking my todger in there. Those pills have dyed your tongue blue. They could be poisonous, you know. Chinese, were they? I don’t want a blue cock, you know!”

I was really turned on by then. I offered him anal instead. I wanted it myself, but was a little reluctant only because my arse was still sore after the caning (and despite the cold cream massage). Andrew couldn’t believe his luck. Fortunately, he had a condom, and with the help of the cold cream we were soon at it. He thrust and thrust into my willing, striped arse. The knobbing felt even better than his forefinger had. It wasn’t long before he shot his load. It had been a short fuck alright, but we were both satisfied.

We lay in each others arms again, gently petting. He whispered in my ear, “Could you sneak out one of your dad’s canes? I want to try it.”

It seemed a strange request at first. But as I laid there in the afterglow, it seemed to make sense eventually. After all, it was a caning that had brought us together and I knew just which cane to smuggle out. It would have to be Number Two.

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* IMPORTANT – DISCLAIMER *

This is a work of fiction.  The author does not participate in substance abuse or condone it.

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

__________________

Story © 2013 by Rod Cayenne

Comments always welcome – please use link at top of story

A Strict Father-in-law (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A first repeat of this red hot caning fiction by very special guest author Baddlad17.  All the characters are over 18.  Strictly Adults Only!

A Strict Father-in-law by Baddlad17

I married my wife Alison after a whirlwind romance. She was still at University, while I worked in a garage close by. I did not meet her father until a few days before the wedding. I was immediately in awe of him. Robert Black, a police sergeant, a well-built man around six foot tall and weighing sixteen stone with not an ounce of fat on him; he was solid muscle. He unnerved me as his cold blue eyes penetrated me. I felt he disapproved of our relationship and was not very happy that I would be taking his daughter away from him. He was very overbearing and on that first meeting, although I was polite, was secretly pleased that I would have very little to do with him.

My wife is the middle of three children and the only girl. Her brothers, Mark and Gary were twenty three and eighteen respectively when we married, while Alison and I were twenty. Her brothers were as tall as their Father though built more slightly. Their mother had left many years before leaving all three in their Father’s care. Although Robert loved his children dearly he was very strict and the boys received regular discipline whenever they disobeyed him; even when they were no longer boys. At the wedding I could tell both were very wary of their Father, though at the time I had no idea why.

It was almost a year after we were married when things suddenly changed. Alison had finished her degree just as I lost my job. However as a motor mechanic it would be reasonably easy for me to find another one. Alison longed to return to her hometown to be closer to her family. After much debate and quite a few arguments we decided to give it a go. Her Dad was insistent we moved in to the big house with him and the boys while we saved up enough money to buy a place of our own. So somewhat reluctantly I agreed. We gave notice on our rented flat and moved back to my wife’s home town and family home.

Robert greeted us at the door, throwing his arms around Alison; he was so pleased to have the apple of his eye back home. While clear he was pleased to have his daughter back, my reception was between cold and frosty. At dinner that evening we sat down with the boys to enjoy a full roast which had been prepared by the daily, Mrs Wilkinson, who had worked for the family for many years. Gary and Mark were polite and respectful to Alison and me. It was obvious that my wife and her father adored one another and they dominated the conversation until we started on pudding. Robert suddenly turned to Gary.

You and I need to have a talk in my study after dinner. Come up at eight thirty son.

Yes sir, he said, bowing his head. Mark also put his head down and for a few minutes the conversation went quiet. I had no idea what was going on but there seemed to be some tension over the upcoming meeting.

After dinner we went into the lounge while her Father made his way upstairs. The boys were nowhere to be seen so as we relaxed on the sofa, I asked Alison what was going on and why Gary seemed so nervous at meeting his Dad.

Oh, he will be getting a caning, she said matter of factly. My eyes nearly popped out of my head.

What! You are joking right? He is nineteen years old, not nine.

The boys have always been punished by my father in that manner. Even Mark still bends over if he does anything wrong. You had better watch out darling! He might want to put a few stripes on your bottom if you are naughty.

At that moment I heard a thwipp and crack followed by a howl. I realised she was not joking. Gary was actually being caned. I had been over the Heads desk at school on a few occasions so the experience was not uncommon to me. What I could not get my head around was that Gary was a grown man, not a boy.

I listened to the strokes landing, with each succeeding one the cries became more vocal. After the tenth stroke it stopped, and a few minutes later I heard two doors close before it all fell silent. Alison seemed totally unperturbed at the evenings action, but my mind was in turmoil. What I could not understand though, was why the event had turned me on! My cock was rampant, so shortly after we went to our room, stripped down and Alison and I made passionate love.

As I thrust in and out of her tight juicy quim, the image of her Father wielding a cane across my arse went through my mind. Soon my loins emptied inside her and we both moaned in ecstasy as our lovemaking reached its inevitable climax. Lying beside her in the warm afterglow I brought the subject back to Gary’s caning and the evening’s events.

Darling, anyone would think it had turned you on! Do you like the idea of being caned? Maybe I could get daddy to cane your naughty bottom for you Jamie, she said teasingly.

Just the thought of it got me excited, so very soon I was ready again, thrusting my rampant cock deep inside her.

The following morning I came out of our bedroom and caught a glimpse of Gary going into the bathroom. He was naked, so from the back I got a full view of his black and blue backside. The stripes were livid and swollen, it looked so sore. He turned to close the door and spotted me standing there. He was really embarrassed, quickly went and closed the door. He was obviously angry I had seen him like that.

The incident stayed in my memory for a long time; hearing the cane striking, the howls, and the sight of his arse the next morning. For some reason I began to find my father-in-law attractive. He was big and strong and the thought of him wielding the rod of correction really gave me the horn. The image of him thrashing me in his police uniform would really send me over the edge.

About two weeks after Gary’s caning I came home from my new job and caught sight of the next incident. That afternoon I had finished early, as I had to go and register with a new GP. The first thing I heard as I entered the house was the swish and crack of the cane echoing down the stairs. I took off my shoes and made my way slowly upstairs. As my eye line reached the top step I had a clear view into the office which was straight ahead and the door was only half open. I could barely believe the sight before me. This time Mark was over the desk, his big hairy backside was on full display, trousers and underpants bunched around his ankles, his shirt halfway up his back and his buttocks proudly displaying a set of livid stripes which were starting to swell, across the exposed skin. As I watched I saw my father-in-law line up the cane and strike again. The buttocks quivered as they absorbed the stroke and Mark yelled out in agony. I counted the stripes; he was sporting eight burning welts.

I watched a further four strokes land across the already sore buttocks. I was shocked; but excited. My cock was swelling rapidly as I drank in the sight before me. As the last stroke burned its angry way across Mark’s arse Robert turned round and spotted me looking.

Enjoy the show did you young Jamie? Watch out, that one is for free. If I catch you spying again I will have you in here for some of this, he said, flexing the cane.

I quickly rushed off to my room. I should have been really annoyed at that statement but instead my cock was dripping pre cum as I thought of what I could be in for. I lay on the bed and took my prick out giving it a few pulls till my sack emptied into the tissue I had ready. Feeling relieved I replayed what I had just witnessed in my mind’s eye. I don’t know why, but I knew it was only a matter of time before I would be bending over for that cane. The thought of it got me really excited.

Over the coming weeks I thought more and more about Robert caning my arse. It was becoming an obsession. At dinner one night he announced that Gary was due another meeting in the study. Alison was out with her friends. I waited till I heard the first swish then slowly made my way upstairs. Once again the door was open, with Gary bent over the table his bare arse in full view. Two vicious welts were swelling across his cheeks while the cane was being lined up for the third. I made my way to our bedroom and could not wait to get my cock out. I listened to the swish and crack of the cane while I masturbated furiously. On the ninth stroke my cock exploded, shooting semen all over the bed sheets. I lay there spent as I heard the door close. Gary’s room was next to ours and through the wall I could hear him gently sobbing. Suddenly, the door burst open and Robert stood looking at me as I lay there my cock still dripping cum.

Enjoy that Jamie did you?

I quickly grabbed my pants to cover up but Robert just smiled and said, I think we need to have a discussion in my study young man. Be there in five minutes. He turned and left.

Once he had gone I got off the bed and covered up properly, my cock still moist with semen. I straightened my hair then slowly slipped my jeans back down before turning my back to the mirror to examine my still lily white cheeks which I knew would soon be inflamed and striped by the cane. I was already getting excited at the thought of it.

I pulled them up and crossed over to the study. The door was open and my father-in-law was sitting behind his desk, on top of which lay a slender punishment cane, similar to the one I had felt at school years back.

Right now young Jamie, we need to have a little discussion about your general behaviour. You live under my roof now and over the last few weeks you have shown little appreciation of my generosity. As you are well aware, when Mark or Gary overstep the mark they get to feel this across their backsides. It is quite amazing really how this changes a young man’s arrogant behaviour. As my son-in-law I see no reason why you should not be dealt with in the same way as my sons.

He went on, Your attitude has been rather surly and you have behaved in a less than courteous manner to both me and your wife. And as for your masturbating whenever you see one of the boys caned, words fail me! So, the choice is yours. Drop your trousers and get over this desk or I will have to tell Alison about your dirty little habit. Which is it to be?

But she is going to see the stripes anyway, what am I going to tell her?

You can tell her that your general attitude has been less than expected, unacceptably so. As such I gave you a choice; a caning or to move out. You agreed to take the cane rather than lose your home. She will believe that.

My stomach was doing somersaults as I contemplated the next few minutes. It had been almost seven years since I had last bent over for the cane in my Headmaster’s office. I had always wanked afterwards; but on this occasion my prick was already swelling! I unbuckled the belt before slipping my jeans down to my ankles. My underpants followed the southward journey landing in a heap on top of my jeans. I slowly bent over the desk and stretched across the surface taking a grip of the far edge.

Robert was behind me tapping my naked cheeks with the cane.

I think eight strokes as this is your first time, Jamie. In future you can expect the full dozen.

I heard the cane swish then felt it crack across my arse. I lost my breath as the white heat of the first stroke zipped across my buttocks. The cane was tapping again before I heard the second swish. This time my voice returned and I let out a yell. As the strokes lashed across my bottom leaving line after searing line of agony my eyes filled with water and began to fall down my face. I had always thought my Headmaster knew how to lay on a cane; compared to my father-in-law he must have been an amateur. The sixth stroke landed right in the crease causing me even more misery. I felt him change direction and tap diagonally, my cheeks were already aflame. Suddenly I felt the lash, crossing all the previous welts, he changed direction again lashed the last one in the opposite direction leaving a large X over the first six stripes.

I laid over the desk sobbing as he put the cane down.

You can stand up Jamie.

I stood up and reached round to feel the swollen ridges across my poor bottom, unable to let go of my inflamed cheeks.

Right then Jamie, from now on you know what to expect if your attitude or behaviour is unacceptable. I hope you will learn to control your attitude and urges. Now go to your room.

I pulled my underpants over the scalded flesh and gently raised my jeans just high enough to allow me to waddle from the room. Taking shorts steps, everyone an agony, I somehow managed to make my way back to our room. As I opened the door I realised Gary was watching me from his doorway. He turned around dropped his pants and gave me the full moon, showing his own ridged buttocks. I was amazed to find that despite the fire burning fiercely I was getting hard. Despite what had happened earlier I whipped out my prick ready to play with it when I heard the front door shut. Alison was home.

Within a minute she burst into the room a big smile on her face.

Hi Baby, have you had a pleasant evening?

She saw the pain etched across my face as she closed the door. She beamed at me.

Has Daddy smacked your bottom for you? I know that look well enough; I have seen Mark and Gary with that expression many times in the past.

I nodded.

So he has finally caned you! Daddy always does what I want.

What!

Yes Jamie, it has been quite obvious that you wanted him to cane you. I saw how you reacted when Gary was caned, and then daddy told me you were excited as you watched Mark take his punishment the other week. Let me have a look at the stripes.

I was lost for words, in a trance I turned over,wincing in pain. She peeled my undies down to examine the marks.

He is still pretty good, but he does get plenty of practice.

Alison reached into the drawer and suddenly I felt some cold cream being gently applied to the wounds. Her tender touch and the cooling cream quickly got me turned on. Within a minute I was fully erect and gagging to go for it.

Not yet darling, she purred, let me relieve you first. We can make love later.

She gently took my manhood between her lips and began to caress the tip, teasing and gently blowing me. I was in ecstasy, my erection rock solid. Soon I reached the point of no return and within a minute I blew my load deep down her throat. The relief was immense. In spite of the soreness in my arse I was feeling very horny.

About ten minutes later we made love, as I thrust my rampant cock deep inside her she moaned with pleasure. We made love twice more that night, then again in the morning. Despite my arse being raw the memory of the caning had awoken something inside me. Something I needed. Alison knew this, and so did her father.

We lived with the family for several months before finally we had enough money to move into our own place. Robert caned me often when he felt I deserved a sore backside and on every occasion our lovemaking was far more intense. Even after we moved out I still returned from time to time to have my faults caned off. Each time Robert was happy to oblige and Alison enjoyed our more energetic lovemaking.

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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 Baddlad17, used here by very kind permission

All rights reserved

___________)

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

Comments from the original posting are here

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Instant Message (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A repeat of this hot male caning story by an anonymous author.  All the characters are aged 18 or over.  This story is strictly Adults Only!

hotstudlondon101: good to see you on here again matey

berniep2013: yeah, you too. I’m OK i guess but i got whacked again…

hotstudlondon101: what, your dad again?

berniep2013: shit, yes bastard caned me

hotstudlondon101: wouldn’t be allowed here

berniep2013: I know mate, but it’s all the rage here in fuckin asia

hotstudlondon101: haven’t you told him you’re too old at 18?

berniep2013: i really daren’t. it’s normal here mate. until you leave home

hotstudlondon101: i suppose it makes sense in a way. arse marked then is it?

berniep2013: is it ever!  yeah, fucking black and blue, red, bruised, sore as hell

hotstudlondon101: what did you do to cop it?

berniep2013: i swore at mum

hotstudlondon101: LOL. you deserved it then.

berniep2013: no i didn’t! cheers mate, bloody hell, mate, let met tell you, you’ve no idea how much that fuckin cane hurts 😦

hotstudlondon101: no, really you deserved it. I’d never swear at my mam, never ever.

berniep2013: well she unplugged my playstation so i lost the bloody game.

hotstudlondon101: if i was your dad i’d have trashed your PS for swearin at my wife!

berniep2013: well the bastard trashed my arse insteadd. really wanna leave here badd

hotstudlondon101: how many did you get?

berniep2013: about 20, lost count mate, no, might have been nearer 15 or 16, but more than i’ve ever had before, shit

hotstudlondon101: tell me about the cane, what’s it like?

berniep2013: you wouldn’t wanna know mate. it’s awful – it stings like buggery. like a swarm of bees has bitten your arse. or sat on hot coals or somethin. bad, real, bad.

hotstudlondon101: no, i meant what does it look like?

berniep2013: oh right. about three foot long, golden yellow brown sort of colour, with a curved sort of handle. it’s well whippy. a typical school cane, reckon.

hotstudlondon101: sounds a cool item, did you cry?

berniep2013: its not cool and don’t ask mate, really.

hotstudlondon101: did you cry?

berniep2013: I SAID DON@T ASK!

hotstudlondon101: you did then!

berniep2013: maybe a bit, I certainly cried out! god that thing’s awful, an invention of the devil, they sell them all over here, shops, markets, everywhere

hotstudlondon101: you only see them in sex shops here

berniep2013: really?

hotstudlondon101: yeah, for couples to spice up their sex lives, that sort of thing

berniep2013: can’t see the appeal.  the cane fuckin hurts.

hotstudlondon101: I’d like to try it.  I fancy a sore arse. 😉

berniep2013: you’re mad mate, totally mad!

hotstudlondon101: yeah, maybe a little.  MAYBE

berniep2013: you wouldn’t be so keen if you could see the state of my arse!!!!!

hotstudlondon101: LOL.  Good idea mate. turn your webcam on so i can see it

berniep2013: PERVERT!

hotstudlondon101: no, go on, be a mate, i wanna see it

berniep2013: alright hang on

hotstudlondon101: lookin good, wow!  shit mate your arse is a real mess!

bernie2013: i know, here, I’ll bend over a bit more, have another look

hotstudlondon101: God, he really worked your arse over

bernie2013: it’s so sore even now.

hotstudlondon101: his aim’s not so good.  he’s hit the tops of your legs too

berniep2013: i think that was deliberate.  his aim’s good, believe me…he knows what he’s doin.  Those marks will show if i wear my shorts.

hotstudlondon101: i bet you won’t be swearing at your mam again in a hurry

bernie2013: dead right, i won’t!  mum’s the word

hotstudlondon101: the cane worked then, didn’t it?

berniep2013: suppose

hotstudlondon101: of course, there is a danger

berniep2013: of what?

hotstudlondon101: that your dad will realise the cane has worked.  he might use it more often!

berniep2013: shit, no! NO! NO WAY!  MY POOR FUCKIN ARSE!!!!!!

hotstudlondon101: LOL

berniep2013: BASTARD!

hotstudlondon101: Language!  No swearing now, or I’ll tell your dad!

berniep2013: very funny NOT!!

hotstudlondon101: OK sorry, although i do have his email address, family friends, right?

berniep2013: OK, I’ve told you my news, what have you been up to?

hotstudlondon101: Had sex with a guy for the first time

berniep2013: What? I thought you were str8?

hotstudlondon101: nobody’s straight these days!

berniep2013: probably not in London anyway. did you like it?

hotstudlondon101: fuckin’ loved it.  especially with his cock up my arse 😉

berniep2013: that must have hurt!

hotstudlondon101: only a bit – not like a caning!

berniep2013: no, nothing hurts like a caning

hotstudlondon2013: mate?

berniep2013: what?

hotstudlondon101: while your webcam’s on, how about spreading your butt cheeks so I can see your hole?

berniep2013: alright, alright.  seeing as it’s you.  but you do realise it’s gonna hurt me to touch my arse cheeks, right?

hotstudlondon101: I do hope so, i do hope so, LOL! 😉

___________)

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 © MMXV by anonymous, used here by very kind permission

All rights reserved

___________)

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

Comments from the original posting are here

Beyond The Locker Room (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A first repeat of this horny lads’ story by your host, Rod Cayenne. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!

It sure was great to be back at the gym.  It was even greater to be there in the changing room.  All around was the gorgeous, arousing smell of man sweat. Yes, the masculine aromas of sweaty armpits, men’s bodies, cheesy feet, musky jockstraps and tired briefs wafted all around.  It took me right back to my school days. All that was missing was a sadistic PE teacher, complete with punishment plimsoll. Then there were the lockers, tall and grey, almost like businessmen in suits. When you opened a locker door, your treasured clothing would tumble out, just like a cock falling from unzipped trousers. Well, that’s the way it seemed to me and my vivid imagination.

I picked at some stubborn, hard snot in my nose as I reminisced idly about the school gym in particular, only to be startled by my friend Freddie.

“Eeew!” he declared as I withdrew my finger from my nasal orifice. I thought I’d better make some small talk, as he did seem a bit grossed out by me.

“I love changing rooms,” I said, “The stale smells, the slatted wooden benches, the knackered lockers where you have to wrestle to get the battered doors to lock properly.” He was getting a censored view of my randy thoughts, but then I wondered whether to mention old Mr Smith and his slipperings. It was too late though, as the words just slipped out, as it were, as I said, “All that’s missing is Smithy and his punishment plimsoll!”

“Shit, yeah!” said Freddie, “That fucking thing stung like the blazes.”

“Tell me about it!” I added, “I remember it well. In fact, like it was yesterday. Do you know, I once got six with it? My arse was on fire! I wanted to dial 999 to get it extinguished,” I joked.

“Six? It does sound like a job for the emergency services! Nurse, the screens! But hey, I don’t remember you getting that many. Most I ever got was four. What did you get a sixer for?”

“You don’t remember it ’cause I never told anyone. I was too embarrassed and too damn sore. He caught me jacking off.”

“Oh ho! I see. You always were a bit of a wanker. But doing it at school was just asking for trouble. Stupid, in fact. When was this exactly?”

“Just before we left. So, Upper Sixth, and I must have been almost eighteen and a half. It was a Friday afternoon and he gave me six stingers on the bare! Well, I already had my pants pulled down for my wank of course. It’s not like he was going to tell me to pull my pants back up so that he could whack me, that really would have been bizarre.”

“Right! He was pretty fond of dishing it out on the bare. As I say, I got four a few times. That slipper left real marks, too. Still, doesn’t it make you wonder how many we could take now we’re proper adults? A lot more I reckon!”

“Maybe, but who in their right mind would want to try? You’d have to be crazy to do that!”

“Kind of. But it would be fun, don’t you think? Kind of wicked.”

“Kind of wicked? Kind of whack-ed, more like! What are you suggesting? A whacking for fun? You’ve got to be joking. No, it’s a crazy idea. Pervy too.”

“Kind of.  But old Smith was a bit of an old perv, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I do think that when I look back now. I didn’t think about it much at the time. I guess I was young and naive. Its been almost two years since I had that sixer, I reckon.”

“So, definitely no more whacks for you? Maybe you’re just chicken?”

“Hey now! Shut up, Freddie! That’s just not fair. If you’d been there that last time you’d have seen just how bravely I took it. It was fuckin’ hard and I didn’t cry. The last thing I am is chicken, you bastard!”

“Well, I wasn’t there, much as I’d like to have seen you bawling like a baby. I still reckon you’re chicken, cluck, cluck, cluck!”

“Drop it, you bastard!” I said but just then Freddie whipped me on my bare leg with his towel. “That fuckin’ hurt!” I cried out, feeling pretty pissed off with my mate.

“See! Cry baby chicken!” taunted Freddie again.

“Bastard! I’ll show you who’s fuckin’ chicken! Have you got a gymshoe at your place?”

“Err yeah. I’ve got a pair of Green Flash somewhere I think.”

“Just the job! Although we’ll only need one of the pair. You’re not getting cold feet now are you? I’d hate to call you chicken!”

“No, it’s alright, Pete. Just hadn’t imagined us doing it for real.”

“Well it was your idea!”

“No it wasn’t! You were the one who mentioned Smithy!”

“Let’s cut the arguing and go back to yours. You’re in for one sore arse!”

“So are you! But I’m gonna show you just who’s chicken, even if it kills me!”

“A Green Flash probably will kill you. The soles must be real rubber, I think. Should pack quite a sting!”

“Yeah, packing heat alright!”

Back at Freddie’s, we ended up in the lounge. His parents were away in Torquay, so we had the place to ourselves. We sat down on the plush G-Plan settee, enjoying cans of pop from the small fridge before Fred got up to fetch the slipper.

“Alright six on the shorts for each of us.  Then, how’s about if we think we can take more, we do it on the bare?”

“Alright, but I really don’t want to see your bare arse,” I said, although really and truthfully, there was nothing on earth I wanted to see more.

I went first. Freddie slammed the slipper into my arse, like a true sadist. My shiny black Adidas shorts were soon ablaze, as the rubber sole unleashed the flames of Hell all over my arse. After my six, I couldn’t help rubbing away at my arse cheeks, trying to reduce the awful stinging pain. It took a while for the pain to begin subsiding, and only then did I feel like picking up the slipper myself, responding, “Right, you bastard! I’m gonna give as good as I got! Your bum’s in for a shock! Six of the very best! Coming up!”

How I enjoyed whacking his arse! The slipper seemed to have a hefty weight and a momentum all of its own as I decorated his shiny white shorts with agonising blows.  I didn’t want to stop at six but that’s what we’d agreed. Just six whacks was enough to bring out my inner sadist.

Like me, Freddie was finding it hard to process the pain. He couldn’t help but laugh as he stood up though, rubbing his cheeks, just like I had. “Well, shall we examine the damage, mate?” he asked.

Slowly, we both dropped our shorts, revealing startlingly red bottom cheeks to each other. That slipper sure left its mark! Or marks! There was a problem though. I was getting stiff. Shit, despite my vain efforts at self control it soon grew into a right proper erection. Of course, Freddie was quick to notice, and as luck would have it the bastard’s own cock was as limp as a soggy lettuce. “Pervert!” he taunted, “You’re so gross! If you’re not picking your nose, you’re flashing me.”

I searched high and low for the right words to reply to him. I’d hoped he would have forgotten about my bogie quest. What to say, what to say? It wasn’t easy to think straight with a throbbing arse and cock. I wanted to say something really smartarse and clever and cutting to him. “Fuck off!” I shouted.

“Fuck off yourself!” he replied, laughing, “Now I reckon I can take sixty in all, how about you?”

“Sixty? No way, that’s fifty-four more!  You’d need an ambulance after that many.”

“So how many do you think you can take, Pete, me old chicken?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps thirty-six? Yeah, I reckon I can manage that without medical intervention.”

“Alright, another thirty whacks for you. Better let me know if you want to chicken out earlier though!”

I bent over the arm of the sofa, as before, but this time with my shorts still pulled down.  My cock was still erect, but that soon disappeared as the Green Flash flashed down time and time again, setting my already sore arse aflame again.  By six, I’d had enough. By twelve, he’d eased off temporarily but the cumulative effect of the strokes was agonising. At eighteen, I was writhing my arse from left to right, trying to avoid the punishing blows. I was half expecting a verbal rebuke from him, but instead I heard him chuckling to himself. Around the twenty-five mark, a strange submissiveness took over me. I felt my bottom raising to meet the slipper each time. Could it be that there was almost some pleasure in it after all?  At thirty he laughed and dropped the slipper.

“I’ll have another six please,” I announced to his astonishment.

“Is that a dare?” he asked me.

“No, no, I just think I can take a little more.” In truth though, I was at the point where the punishment had turned me on a little, and this was my true motivation.

Freddie was happy to oblige, tanning my arse really hard. I heard a manly grunt from him as he landed the last of forty-two strokes. He dropped the Green Flash down on the carpet.

“Well done, well taken,” Freddie begrudgingly said, before he took my place, bending over the arm of the sofa. I noticed that the marks on his arse were already fading a bit. Perhaps he had a really tough arse? We were about to find out…

As I picked up the slipper, I could feel my cock stirring again. Yes, I was looking forward to using that damned slipper. I definitely had a sadistic streak, as well as the masochistic one I’d discovered towards the end of my beating. I guess that day was the first time I realised I was a sado-masochist. What had started as a bit of lads’ fun was taking a darker turn, at least in my mind.

“Right, arse up in the air!” I ordered, “Right up!” I gazed at his hairy, attractive arse and hole and then slammed that slipper right into him. Again and again, he gasped and moaned as I gave my bastard friend a jolly good workout. I was enjoying the verbal play too, telling him “You deserve this”, “I’ll teach you, you bastard!”, “Be quiet!”, “Take it like a man!” and so forth.  By thirty strokes there was a change in him. Was he going all masochistic, like I had? It was hard to tell, and as I got to forty-two, I asked him if he’d had enough. Much to my surprise, he had.

“Yeah, actually I have had enough. We’re both on forty-two, let’s call it quits for today. We can always do it again sometime.” He staggered to his feet, rubbing his sore behind, as I gazed at the Green Flash with some regret at the premature termination of my friend’s beating. “I’m gonna have a wank, see if it’ll take my mind off my sore arse,” Freddie announced. Well, it was his house. But I thought he was going to disappear and do it in his bedroom or in the toilet, but no, he started jacking off there in the front room, right beside me!

I felt that I had no choice but to join in. Well, it would have been rude not to, wouldn’t it?  So I whispered, “Me too. I alway wanked after a session with Smithy’s shoe.”

“Hey, don’t suppose I can wank you off?” Freddie asked.

“Sure! If you’ll do the same for me? And just as long as you don’t go telling on me.”

“What, to an old perv like Smith?”

“Exactly. Don’t grass me up to old Smithy! I don’t think my arse could take anymore!”

______________

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 © MMXVII by Rod Cayenne

____________

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

The Chair Of Truth (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot new caning fiction by very special guest author Clifton Castigo. This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are aged 18 or over.  Strictly ADULTS ONLY!

The Chair Of Truth by Clifton Castigo

It was the last night of their “Lads” holiday on the Costa Dorada when Mark learned the truth about his best friend Simon.

The two of them had come to Spain to enjoy wild nights out partying and lazy days on the beach or by the pool.

They had decided to visit a local cabaret bar that had been recommended by their holiday rep. That night there was an “Adult” hypnosis show. Simon bravely volunteered to be hypnotised. The Mesmerizer hosting the show had the volunteers perform all manner of sexually suggestive stunts but the key part of the evening came when he introduced the “Chair of truth”.

The Mesmerizer told the volunteers that they would have to tell the truth when they sat on the chair. He then proceeded to ask each of them to sit on the chair and interrogated them with a series of lewd questions that culminated in asking about their deepest darkest sexual fantasy.

In the case of Simon he said “To be caned and then taken up the arse by my best friend.” The audience laughed, but Simon’s input was quickly forgotten when the next volunteer said his fantasy was “to fuck his girlfriend’s mother”. His girlfriend who was with him on holiday was not impressed. At the end of the show the Mesmerizer instructed that the volunteers should forget all they had done during the show. As most of them had been videoed by friends and family, most of them, though, would not be able to forget.

Mark decided not to broach the subject on holiday with Simon. He quickly moved him on to another bar to spare him the embarrassment of conversations with other punters.

A couple of weeks later Mark had had time to think about what to do about Simon’s confession under hypnosis. Simon knew Mark was bisexual but until Simon’s confession in the bar Mark had always thought his friend was straight. He guessed that Simon was bi-curious but was too shy to take a dip in the pool. Mark decided he would make Simon’s fantasy reality and see where that led them. They were both in their 20s and Simon was pretty hot with a gym-toned body and an ample, pert arse, Mark couldn’t say that he hadn’t thought about it before.

Mark did a bit of research on caning and learned about where to buy canes (from a website) and the ritual of the punishment as well as the element of fetish.

A few weeks later Mark decided to show Simon a video of the hypnosis show he had made on his phone. He hadn’t told Simon that he had made a video up to that moment and had only provided sketchy details about what Simon had done under hypnosis.

Simon watched enraptured with his face turning progressively redder.

After the “Chair of truth”, Mark switched off the video and produced a cardboard tube from which he withdrew 3 yellow/brown crook handled punishment canes of different thicknesses. He swished one of them and said:

“I have decided to punish you for keeping this secret for so many years, but not today! I want you to reflect on keeping secrets from your best friend and next weekend you can take your medicine. We won’t talk about this more today, but you are a naughty boy and you’re going to have to atone.”

When Mark researched caning online he learned that anticipation was an important part of the ritual. He wanted to make Simon’s experience memorable so came up with the week’s delay to really get Simon horny and ready to take his punishment and what would follow.

To add to this he sent Simon a series of text messages during the week:

Monday: You won’t be able to sit comfortably for a week!

Tuesday: Your arse is going to turn purple!

Wednesday: I am going to make you cry!

Thursday: I’m practicing with the canes to make sure your punishment is extra painful.

Friday: You’re really going to feel it!

For Simon’s part he had a hard-on for practically the whole week.

On Saturday Mark sent Simon a message telling him to report for punishment that afternoon.

From the moment that Simon entered the house, Mark took charge. He ordered Simon to strip and then to bend over the back of a chair he had moved into the centre of the living room.

A chair of truth had started him on this road and here he was bent over another chair of truth with his arse fully exposed to see if the reality would match his fantasy.

Mark flexed the first of his canes in sight of Simon and swished it through the air menacingly.

“You’re not a schoolboy so no “six of the best” for you!  I bought 3 different types of cane and I am going to give you six with each. I don’t want your hands to leave that chair or you’ll get extra.”

Mark lined himself up beside Simon and tapped the first of the canes, a stingy junior cane, on Simon’s buttocks before drawing it back into the air and bringing it back down with a loud SWISH and a resounding CRACK. A thin line of white appeared before quickly forming into a pink welt.

He remembered the instructions he had read online and timed the next stroke for about 15 seconds later. For Simon this meant that it landed just as the white hot searing pain from the first stroke reached it’s maximum intensity.

He gasped and let out an “arrgh” but held on to the chair for dear life. As the strokes continued the pain grew exponentially worse.

Soon it was time for the second set of six with a longer senior cane. This produced a longer lasting sensation for Simon. The extra length really gave Mark the chance to build up speed and he noticed with satisfaction the livid welts being produced on his friend’s arse.

Finally the last set of six with a reformatory cane left an excruciating deep pain which would fulfil Mark’s promise that Simon wouldn’t sit comfortably for a week.

By the time Mark had finished, Simon’s arse was purple overall formed by the mix of coloured stripes top to bottom imbued with pinks, reds and specks of blue.

Mark stepped back and admired his work before removing his jeans and boxers and slipping on a condom on to his raging hard-on.  He then proceeded to fuck Simon until they were both thoroughly spent.

Simon’s fantasy was everything he hoped for and more, and Mark enjoyed it too. Although Simon did not appreciate it being forced out of him, he reflected that if our fantasies always remain secret, they can never come true.

_____________

D I S C L A I M E R

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

(_____________

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

__

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

More hot stories by Clifton Castigo are available here.

The Trouble With Short Shorts (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

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

The Trouble With Short Shorts by Joelstrap

It was the nose which caught his attention. Seen in profile, as Greg was seeing it, the boy’s nose formed a straight line which, unexpectedly and exquisitely, turned up at the tip. Enchanted, Greg stopped, his trolley forgotten, and gazed in admiration. The boy was in the passenger-seat of the car, his bare arm resting on the ledge of the open window while he scrolled through something on his smart-phone. As Greg stared, a woman approached, pushing her laden trolley and shouted to the boy.

“Lee! Get off your lazy behind and help me put this stuff in the boot!”

The boy looked up, rolled his eyes, opened the car door and slid out in a swift, lithe movement. Greg drew in breath sharply. He forgot about the delightful, tip-tilted nose and focussed all his attention on the boy’s shorts. Never, in Greg’s opinion, had shorts been more deserving of their name. Not only were they so incredibly short that they revealed a substantial portion of the lad’s lower buttocks, but they fitted him so closely that they showed off every contour of his stunning bottom and revealed rather than concealed a generous endowment at the front. Greg gazed, spell-bound as the boy began to unload the shopping into the car-boot, showing off his perfectly-formed posterior from every angle as he turned, bent and straightened up.

There came a screech of brakes and an angry male voice shouting at Greg, “Get yer fuckin’ trolley off the road!”

Greg jumped in alarm and swiftly hauled his trolley back into the parking-space.

“Bloody young gomeril!” muttered the irate man as he drove on, giving Greg a vicious two-fingered sign as he passed.

The boy paused in his task of loading the shopping and looked up. He grinned at Greg and then, nodding at the departing motorist, made a ‘he’s mad’ sign with a finger pointing to his head. Greg grinned back. The boy returned to his task. For several seconds Greg gazed again at those amazing shorts and then gave himself a shake. He wasn’t one to let an opportunity slip by through shyness. The boy had emptied the trolley and the woman took it and set off to deposit it in a shelter a few metres away. Greg strode swiftly across.

“That your mum?” he asked and when the boy nodded, he continued. “Gotta be quick then. I like boys and you are absolutely stunning. Interested?”

The boy’s eyes swept appraisingly over Greg’s lean, hard body and then, “I like boys too,” he admitted. “Phones?”

The boy moved swiftly round to the side of the car, reached in the open window, and brought out his cell-phone and the pair exchanged numbers even as the lad’s mother opened the driver’s door to get in. With a sinuous leap, the lad was in his seat and a few seconds later the car drove off, leaving Greg staring after it, his mouth slightly open in delighted astonishment.

That evening he called the number and introduced himself. “And I’m Lee,” the boy replied. “I’m…eh…kinda amazed you seem to like me so much. You’re pretty hot yourself, by the way,” he added.

“Wearing shorts like that, what red-blooded gay-boy could help liking you,” Greg informed him. “That’s one hell of a cute arse you got on you, Lee; and you weren’t leaving much to the imagination.”

“Er, yeh, thanks.”

“So, how’d you like to come out for dinner with me tomorrow night?” asked Greg. “Then I can find out if you’re as good as you look.”

“How do you mean?” enquired Lee.

“I mean that a boy can look as sexy as warren of rabbits, but be as boring as a wet Wednesday in January,” replied Greg. “I wanna get to know you.”

“Right. I’d like to get to know you too. I mean, you’re right. I love your short hair and the shadow round your jaw and the bulge in the front of your jeans; but I need to talk to you as well.”

“You noticed quite a lot, considering how short a time we were together,” observed Greg.

“If a guy’s worth looking at,” retorted Lee, “I’ll look and I’ll take in what matters.”

Greg laughed. “Okay,” he said, “we’re agreed that we’re both as hot as hell. Now, do you know The Diner’s Delight in Round Square?”

“Yeh, sure.”

“Meet me outside there at eight tomorrow evening, huh? I’ll treat you.”

“Oh, but I can pay for mys……..”

“My treat!” reiterated Greg firmly. “Don’t argue. But you can do something for me. Wear those shorts.”

“But would that be okay in there?”

“Of course. There’s nothing stuffy about the Delight. They just like to see bums on seats and satisfied diners.”

“Okay. See you tomorrow.”

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

Greg leaned forward across the table and looked into Lee’s eyes. Lee gazed back admiringly, appreciating the shining black of his dining-companion’s own eyes, the thick arches of his brows, the tanned skin, and the frame of short, dark hair which lay straight along his brow. Greg placed his right hand on Lee’s wrist and moved his thumb seductively over the boy’s skin.

“I like you,” said Greg quietly.

“I like you too,” Lee replied, feeling the heat rising in his face.

Greg shifted slightly in his seat as his rampant penis tried to force its way out of his tight leather jeans. Lee grinned at him and observed coyly, “Seems like your body likes me too.”

Lee suddenly felt one of Greg’s feet rising swiftly between his legs and landing firmly on the throbbing bulge in the front of his denims. He gasped and an expression of delighted discomfort spread rapidly across his face.

“And your body likes mine,” said Greg.

“Yeh,” panted Lee.

“Nice t-shirt too,” continued Greg, his eyes sliding over Lee’s torso, enjoying the sight of the boy’s nipples erect as little soldiers beneath the tightly-fitting cotton, and the narrowing of the boy’s body from the chest to the slim waist. “Why didn’t you wear your shorts?”

“I, er, well I thought that in a restaurant they might not be…..you know…..they’re quite snug,” he ended, flushing.

“You certainly fill them,” agreed Greg, “and they don’t leave much to the imagination. I like you in them. They show off your arse brilliantly; and you look like you’re pretty well-hung too. When you got assets like that, you need to wear clothes that don’t hide them. I really wanted to see you in those shorts again.”

“I’m sorry, Greg; but there’s another thing. They are kind of provocative; and maybe some other guy might get ideas.”

“I’d soon change his ideas for him,” said Greg seriously. “Any guy tries to mess with you and he’ll have me to deal with.”

Lee winced as this display of dominance made his penis strain painfully against the fabric of his jeans.

“You aren’t half sexy when you’re masterful like that,” he admitted. “And you look hell of a desirable in black leather.”

“You like a bit of masterful behaviour, Lee?”

“Yeh; it’s kind of exciting. I dunno why; it just is.”

“Right; well listen carefully. Next time we go out, you’ll wear your shorts if I tell you to wear them; or I’ll spank you hard.”

Lee’s eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline and, as his penis tried to force its way out of his pants, he gasped aloud and plunged a desperate hand into his jeans to rearrange things.

“You’ll spank me?” he panted wide-eyed.

“Hard,” said Greg.

“Right. I’ll remember.”

Lee let his eyes roam over Greg’s soft leather shirt, open at the neck to reveal a generous patch of hair between his pectorals. The young man wore a twisted leather thong round his neck from which hung a small, plain silver disc.

A waiter approached with plates of starters and Greg sat back, smiling warmly at Lee who gazed at him in open admiration.

“So, tell me a bit more about yourself,” invited Greg. “What do you like doing, Lee?”

“Dining out with a red-hot hunk,” replied Lee.

“Naturally,” agreed Greg, “but what do you do? What kind of interests have you got?”

“I’m a student at agricultural college. I’m eighteen; and I like hill-walking; and astronomy; and alpacas.”

Greg’s eyes opened very wide. “Alpacas?” he enquired.

“Yeh. You know what they are?” he asked and then, when Greg nodded, he went on, “I think they’re just fantastic. My uncle’s got some on his farm and what I really want to do one day is get a place of my own and have a few alpacas. I go out there most weekends to help out, and earn a bit of cash as well.”

“So what do you like about them, Lee?”

“They’re just so cute to look at, and sort of cuddly; and the way they look at you, sort of curious, as if they’re asking themselves, now what’s this odd-looking creature?; it’s all fascinating.”

Lee continued to chatter about alpacas and his uncle’s farm and Greg listened intently, until Lee suddenly fell silent and said, “Shit! Stop me. I must be boring the pants off you.”

“I could listen to you for hours,” said Greg.

Lee eyed him solemnly for a few seconds and then said quietly, “But it wouldn’t make any difference if I was talking about alpacas or giant sloths?”

Greg grinned broadly.

“You’re no fool,” he conceded, “but although I love just being with you and hearing you talk, I was listening to what you were saying too. I wouldn’t mind going out to your uncle’s farm and meeting these furry beauties for myself.”

“Great! Maybe in two or three weeks’ time? I’ve kind of committed myself to a lot of work on the farm for the next couple of weekends, and I don’t like to go back on what I said I’d do. Uncle Gordon relies on me. But after that I won’t be so busy and I’d have time to show you round.”

“You’re on! And in the meantime, maybe you’d show me round you?”

Lee flushed scarlet.

“Er, yeh,” he muttered.

“So when we go to Hot Haunches on Friday night, you’ll be wearing those shorts, so that I can get a really good look round your arse.”

“We can get into Hot Haunches?”

“Sure. I’m a member and I can take a guest. I’m twenty, by the way, and doing estate-management at college. I’m old enough to look after you and make sure you don’t get led astray by all the hot boys in the club.”

“They’re gonna want to see me?”

“Lee, boy; they’re gonna want to do a lot more than see you!”

Once again, Lee’s face turned bright red up to the roots of his hair.

“Fuck, but you’re cute when you’re embarrassed,” grinned Greg. “And don’t worry. Like I said earlier, nobody’s gonna get his hands on you as long as I’m around.”

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

Greg approached the residence where Lee had a room and saw the lad watching for him from the window. He waved and Lee disappeared and emerged a minute or so later from the door. Greg looked at him.

“No!” he said firmly. “I said shorts, Lee.”

“Yeh, but when you said all that stuff about hot boys wanting to get their hands on me at the club, I thought that maybe jeans would be…….”

“You know what thought did, Lee?”

“Huh?”

“It thought wrong. Shorts, Lee. Now!”

For a moment Lee looked as if he might argue, but then he suddenly turned and ran back into the building, emerging a few minutes later wearing the required shorts.

“Oh, boy! Even better than I remember,” gasped Greg. “How the hell do you get into them?”

“Nothing underneath,” Lee admitted, “and then a good bit of wriggling. Best not to ask me to do any climbing over fences or up trees either,” he warned, “or they might split.”

“How about when you get hard?”

“Yeh, well, that gets a bit uncomfortable,” Lee admitted, “and it does sometimes feel like they might burst. Shit! Think how embarrassing that’d be!”

Greg took his hand and they walked off towards Hot Haunches.

Inside the club, it was clear that Greg was well-known, as he was greeted warmly by a large number of acquaintances; and Lee had to get used to being looked at with great admiration and even greater lust by a string of randy young guys. He kept close to Greg.

“I’m sure most of these guys are mentally stripping off my shorts,” whispered Lee in Greg’s ear.

“Too right they are,” replied Greg. “Come on. Let’s see you dance. That should drive them crazy!”

Greg led him by the hand to an area under swirling, coloured lights, washed by loud music with an insistent beat, and Lee, who loved to dance, let himself go. He shut out all the staring eyes and danced only for Greg, who proved himself to be equally adept on his feet, and the pair began to move instinctively more provocatively, their movements becoming increasingly intimate stages in a courtship, until Lee suddenly stopped and placed a hand on Greg’s chest. Sweat glistened on his face, his eyes were dark, his lips were parted; and he waited. Greg knew an invitation when he saw one, drew Lee close and kissed him with a passion which left Lee panting when at last Greg withdrew his lips.

Lee made a sound like a hive of angry bees and gazed adoringly into Greg’s eyes. Greg led him to a table and sat him down.

“I’ll get a couple of pints,” he said. “Won’t be long.”

As soon as Greg turned towards the bar, several young guys approached with admiring comments about Lee’s performance and about his shorts. They asked about his relationship with Greg and several assured him that if he and Greg broke up, they’d be ready and waiting. Lee smiled, embarrassed, and wished Greg would hurry back. A blond youth on whom sexuality seemed to sit like a cloak, leaned close to Lee so that the boy could smell his animal attraction, and remarked softly, “You let me into those shorts, kid, and I guarantee I’ll send you into orbit.”

“And you say anything like that to him again, Jonas, and I’ll send you into orbit, with my fist to see you on your way,” said Greg loudly behind him.

Jonas straightened up and gave Greg a sulky stare before muttering, “Okay. Keep your hair on,” and sauntering off with an air of pretended nonchalance.

Greg plumped a full glass in front of Lee and sat down with his own beer. He raised the glass and winked at Lee. “To the hottest arse in the place!” he said.

“Looks like it’s one naughty arse though,” observed a cheerful-looking boy with a broad grin and dark-brown eyes.

“Hi, Ronan!” said Greg. “What do you mean?”

Ronan nodded at Lee’s bottom. “Oh don’t think I didn’t notice. You’ve been tanning his hide for him, eh, Greg?” he said as he passed on towards the bar.

Greg’s eyebrows rose and he looked at Lee who turned bright red and muttered something inaudible into his beer.

“Lee?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Ronan obviously noticed something, so it can’t be nothing. Stand up, Lee, and turn round.”

Reluctantly Lee complied and Greg observed, extending a short distance beyond the lower edge of the boy’s shorts, a pair of pale red marks, clear evidence of a cane having been used on his bottom.

“Well now, whatever Ronan may have assumed, you and I both know that I haven’t been caning you; but you’ve clearly been caned. So the question is, Lee, who caned you and why?”

“I told you; it doesn’t matter,” said Lee.

“Is that why you didn’t wear your shorts to dinner the other day? And why you tried to get out of wearing them tonight? Because you knew they were too short to hide the marks?”

Lee was silent for a time and then looked into Greg’s face.

“Okay. My uncle takes a cane to me sometimes if I fuck up when I’m working at the farm. It’s no big deal. I don’t mind. Probably does me good. I wouldn’t take it if I didn’t think I deserved it.”

“That’s okay. Not many guys get their hides tanned these days, but as long as you’re agreeing to it, that’s fine.”

“You’re not angry with me?” asked Lee anxiously.

“No way. Like I said to you the other day, I’d spank you if you didn’t wear your shorts when I told you to. Some guys respond well to a good spanking.”

“Would you really have spanked me if I hadn’t gone and changed before we came out tonight?”

“I certainly would; and you’d have felt it.”

“Shit!” murmured Lee, and looked with open admiration into Greg’s eyes.

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

Over the subsequent three weeks, Greg and Lee became increasingly close and Greg was thrilled to discover when he got into Lee’s pants, that the boy was as exciting as he looked; while Lee revelled happily in Greg’s masterful yet considerate love-making. The pair had bonded not only physically but in other shared interests in the countryside; and had even talked vaguely about what they might do together when both had finished studying. Greg had noticed evidence of the cane on Lee’s behind on one or two other occasions and had asked why Lee had been beaten; but the youth just shrugged and said that it didn’t matter.
The day came for Greg’s visit to the farm. Lee had gone down to work on the Saturday and met Greg off the bus at lunchtime on Sunday. Lee’s uncle and Greg got on well together at once, and all three spent an enjoyable couple of hours seeing over the farm, introducing Greg to the alpacas, and chatting about the agricultural prospects; which were no worse than usual.

“Wow! Cuddling one of them is almost as good as cuddling you,” Greg informed Lee in a whisper after their visit to the alpacas.

“You better not think about doing what you do to me to one of them,” warned Lee with a grin. “I don’t think they’d like it.”

“Naw! Now that I’ve got into your shorts, I’ve got all I want,” replied Greg. “I notice you’re not wearing them.”

“I can’t wear them when I’m working,” protested Lee. “They’re far too tight. I’d split them. Anyway, Uncle Gordon would probably think they were obscene.”

“They are obscene,” asserted Greg. “That’s what makes them so attractive. But I guess your uncle might cane you if you turned up wearing them.”

Lee shrugged non-committally. They returned to the farmhouse for tea. The phone rang and Lee’s uncle answered before turning to Lee. “That’s old Mrs. Curtis up at the cottage. She says there’s three sheep out on the road just beyond her house. She wonders if you would go up and get them in? Seems she’s got some baking for you.”

“Oh, yeh! She makes brilliant treacle-scones and said she’d make me a batch. I’ll take Bess and get them back easy enough. It’s a dead-end beyond her cottage. Be back in about half an hour, I hope.”

Lee gulped down the last of his tea, whistled to Bess, and shot off.

“He’s a good worker?” asked Greg.

“He is that. Loves coming down here at the weekends and he’s daft about these alpacas. But he does a lot of other work for me too. He’s a good lad and he’s not afraid to sweat a bit. I pay him what I can, and I suppose it helps a bit with his expenses when he’s at college; but I can’t give him as much as he should get for the hours he puts in. Not that he’s complaining mind. He loves it.”

“So how do you keep him at it?” enquired Greg, probing gently.

“Keep him at it? More like how do I keep him away from working!”

“Ah! You don’t have to take him out to the stables and give him a good thrashing with a riding-crop to make sure he works hard then?”

The farmer laughed. “That’d be the day! My old dad used to tan my hide sometimes in the old days, but kids today get it easy. I bet Lee’s never had a hand laid on him in his life. Or you either, Greg?”

“No; never. I suppose maybe a few guys do get beaten these days, but not many.”

He took a deep swallow at his tea, accepted another slice of date-cake, and asked about alpacas. Lee’s uncle was as enthusiastic about them as was Lee, and was soon holding forth at length. When Lee returned, Greg was sitting, slightly glassy-eyed, as Uncle Gordon elaborated on methods of insemination.

“All safe and sound,” announced Lee. “Bess got them back in the field in a trice and I think I found where they got out. There’s a bit of wall tumbled slightly and I suspect they were able to leap over there. I built it back up as best I could, but it’ll need you to do it properly. Uncle Gordon’s skilled at dry-stone walling,” he added to Greg.

“I’ll get on to it tomorrow first thing. Now, you have yourself some more tea and date-cake and then it’ll be time for you to go for your bus.”

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

Lying in his bed that night, Greg did some thinking. It seemed clear that Lee’s uncle never so much as slapped his hand, far less took a cane to his bottom. So, who did? And why did Lee lie about it? The lying disturbed Greg. As a boyfriend, Lee seemed to be all he could have wanted. Apart from his physical and sexual attractions, which were outstanding in Greg’s eyes, he and Lee just got on easily and naturally together. In the few weeks of their relationship, he’d already begun to feel that this was special. However, a boy who lied about something that was clearly going on in his life, might prove to be an unreliable boy in other matters, and Greg felt that he needed to find out. He was prepared to suspend judgement until he knew more; but he had to uncover the mystery of the cane-welts on Lee’s bottom.

As far as possible, he kept an eye on Lee and tried to see where he went when he wasn’t at classes or with Greg himself. He had a stroke of luck a few days later when he arrived at the gym to meet Lee and found the boy on his mobile, standing talking with his back to him.

“Okay. 7 tomorrow night. I’ll be there. Bye.”

It was all that Greg overheard, but it seemed suggestive. As Lee put his phone in his pocket, Greg dodged behind a tree and then approached as if freshly arrived, a few seconds later. After their workout, when they were in the cafe enjoying cold drinks, Greg asked if Lee’d like to go to Hot Haunches the next evening.

“Aw, shit! Yeh; I’d love to, but I’ve got something else on,” said Lee, looking disappointed.

“A date with a red-hot boy?” asked Greg.

“Of course not, you chump! Besides, you’re the hottest boy in town, and I’m staying with you. Hey! Would you look at that pair?”

Greg turned to look through the wall of glass that separated the cafe from the pool and saw two guys swimming back-stroke across the pool from opposite sides and clearly unaware that they were on a collision course. There was nothing Lee or Greg could do to stop it and a few seconds later the crash occurred, both swimmers splashing wildly as they rubbed sore heads and got themselves on top of the water again. Lee at once embarked on a tale of how he’d once seen a guy jump into the pool only to land right on top of another just as he surfaced from swimming under-water. Greg had the distinct impression that he’d been neatly diverted.

The next evening, Greg was on the lookout, and when Lee emerged from his hall of residence and set off walking swiftly along the road, he was on his trail. He watched as Lee entered the driveway of a trim bungalow, set back from the road behind a neat lawn, and rang the door-bell. He couldn’t see who answered the door, but Lee was swiftly ushered inside. Greg made his way round the perimeter of the garden to the side of the house where there was only an opaque bathroom-window, and then dashed across to the building. Screened from the road by a high hedge, he was able to work his way along the front of the bungalow and to rise up and peep carefully in each window. Finding no-one in either of the rooms to the front, he made his way round towards the back and came to a high fence with a gate in it, closing off the rear-garden. The gate appeared to be locked. Greg, however, was determined. He took a leap, grasped the top of the fence and scrambled athletically up before dropping to the ground on the other side. A short way in front of him was a patio with table and chairs and tubs of flowering-plants; and behind it an open French-window gave access to a room in the house.

Greg crept along and peered carefully in, his eyes widening at what they saw. Lee was standing in only his very short and tight shorts and an extremely close-fitting t-shirt, while facing him stood a guy of perhaps thirty or so, flexing a slim cane in both hands.

“Get in position, boy!” ordered the young man.

“But, sir, I……” began Lee; but he got no further because the guy with the cane suddenly grabbed him by the hair, twisted hard and pushed him down into a bent-over stance, his hands on a low stool.

Greg was outraged. Caution and secrecy vanished in a flash. He leapt upright and surged through the open French-window like an avenging Fury to grab Lee and push him roughly behind him while he faced the young man with the cane.

“Good evening,” said the guy with the cane. “I don’t think we’ve met?”

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?!” demanded Greg furiously.

“Greg!” pleaded Lee, trying to push forward, “it’s okay. I’m…..”

“Shut up, Lee!”

Lee raised his eyebrows but fell obediently silent.

“Perhaps,” said the guy with the cane, “you’d like to explain who you are?”

“I’m Greg; Lee’s boyfriend; and I don’t know what your game is, mate, but…….”

“Ah; that explains it. Could it be that Lee didn’t tell you about me?”

“No, he fucking didn’t,” snapped Greg.

“In that case,” said the young man laying down his cane, “I think you and I need to have a little talk in private. Corner, Lee!”

Lee looked as if he was about to protest, but then seemed to think the better of it and simply turned, walked to the corner of the room and stood, hands clasped behind his back, facing the wall.

“What the……?” began Greg.

“Cold beer?” the young man asked him.

“What? Er….well, yeh, but….”

“Great. Come through to the kitchen. I’m Martin.”

He led the way out and Greg found himself following. He was ushered into a seat and a can from the fridge was opened, poured into a glass, and placed before him. The young man took a drink of his own beer and then explained that he advertised his services on the internet to young males who felt they needed or wanted to be spanked, paddled, caned, leathered, even whipped. Lee had apparently contacted him a couple of months back and had been visiting once a week or so ever since, progressing from over-the-knee spankings to being caned.

“I understand what it may have looked like,” he said to Greg, “but it’s what he wants.”

“But he doesn’t! When you told him to get in position, he started to protest and you forced him down!” objected Greg.

“Yes; it’s part of the game. Lee likes a bit of rough-handling. He likes to know who’s boss. That’s why he tries to object; because he knows what will happen. Have you noticed anything like that in your time as his boyfriend?”

“Well, yeh, now you mention it, he seems to like it when I’m kind of dominant. It gets him hard.”

“So you don’t need to worry. He’s not being mistreated or assaulted or anything like that. But if Lee hasn’t told you about his visits to me, how did you find out?” asked Martin.

“I saw cane marks on his arse a few days after we first met, and when I asked him about them he reluctantly said that he got them from the uncle at whose farm he works at weekends; but he took me down to visit the farm recently, and I had a chat with his uncle, and no way has he ever touched the kid with a cane, or anything else. I’d got very close to Lee and trusted him; and to be honest this worried me. Something was going on that he’d lied about to me and I wasn’t happy. I needed to know. I kept my ears and eyes open, overheard him arranging this meeting tonight, and followed him here. Look, I’m sorry I over-reacted, but I honestly thought that……”

“It’s fine, Greg. I understand and there’s no harm done. But this business of your boyfriend lying to you; now that’s a bit more of a problem. So, what do you want to do about it?”

Greg sat silent for some time.

“I think he needs to be punished,” said Greg at length, “to teach him to be truthful. You were going to cane him, obviously; but would you make it a punishment-caning. I presume that would be a bit more severe than what you normally do?”

“A good bit more severe; but I agree that he deserves it. I think that I should give him his first six as usual across his shorts; and then you should give him the next six on the bare as his punishment.”

“Me? But I’ve never caned anyone in my life!”

“So? Just keep your eye firmly on the target until you’ve actually hit him, and you’ll be fine. You look like you work out, and you’ve got a great set of biceps there, so I think you should be able to get through to him easily enough.”

“Okay; I’ll give it a go. You know, I might kind of enjoy it.”

“It’s a brilliant feeling, controlling a boy, making him submit to you, watching and hearing him react to the cane, seeing the marks you’re raising on his arse.”

Martin wriggled in his seat and Greg plunged his hand into his jeans. The two grinned at each other.

“Yeh,” observed Martin, “you’ll enjoy caning him. Now come through to the lounge and I’ll let you have a little practice on a cushion.”

“Okay; but what about Lee?”

“What about him?”

“He might wonder where we’ve gone.”

“So?”

“Oh, I see,” said Greg.

“Waiting is a very important part of the whole experience for a boy,” vouchsafed Martin. “Don’t worry. He won’t be going anywhere. He knows better than that. He won’t like waiting; but that’s his problem. Come through here.”

Martin showed Greg into the lounge and took a cane from a cupboard and then showed him the position in which to stand, instructed him in how to aim and in the vital importance of keeping his eye firmly on the target-area until the cane had made contact with boy-flesh. He did a few demonstration strokes on a cushion and then handed the cane to Greg who hit lightly at first as he got his range and got his eye in; and then hit hard.

“Great,” said Martin approvingly. “Good, hard strokes and every one dead on target. You’ve actually got all of them in a surprisingly narrow band, which suggests you’ve got an excellent eye. Of course the advantage of getting them in a narrow band is that the boy feels it more,” said Martin with a grin.

Greg plunged a hand into the front of his jeans.

“Okay, let’s go and deal with that young liar. Leave that cane here. The one in the other room is actually an even better one; and for Lee I think that only the best will do.”

“Like six of the best?” suggested Greg.

“From each of us,” agreed Martin.

“Shit! Are you sure he could take that?”

“He’ll take what he’s given,” said Martin.

Lee was still standing facing the wall when they returned. Martin ordered him to come and stand in front of them and then gave him a lecture on openness with his boyfriend and on the unacceptability of telling lies. Lee listened in slightly sulky silence.

“Now,” Martin went on, “Greg here needs an explanation of why you lied to him.”

“I….see, I thought you might be angry with me if I told you,” began Lee, looking appealingly at Greg. “It was…..it was another guy, and….there’s no sex,” he burst out vehemently. “Tell him, please sir, it’s just the caning!”

“There’s no sex,” Martin affirmed. “My girlfriend wouldn’t approve anyway.”

“So why didn’t you tell me the truth, Lee, instead of saying it was your uncle? I had a talk with him when you were out getting these strayed sheep back and it was clear as day he never laid a hand on you. No, don’t worry,” he continued when he saw a look of horror on Lee’s face, “I didn’t mention caning to him; just used a bit of light-hearted conversation about you to find out what I wanted to know.”

“Like I said,” responded Lee unhappily, “I guess I felt kind of guilty. I….I didn’t want to lose you,” he ended.

“And you’re not going to; but you’re not going to lie to me in future either. You got that, Lee?”

“Oh, yes. I promise. I know I’ve been stupid, but it’s over and I won’t lie again.”

“That’s good; but it’s not quite over yet. Martin?”

Martin picked up the cane and addressed Lee.

“I’m going to give you six across your shorts to punish you for not telling Greg what was going on; and then Greg is going to give you six on the bare to punish you for lying to him.”

“What? No!” Lee burst out. “I don’t want Greg to beat me!”

“What you want is irrelevant, young man,” said Martin grimly, “and if there’s so much as one more syllable of objection out of you, there’ll be an extra six from Greg to teach you submission. Do you understand me?”

Lee swallowed hard and murmured a soft, “Yes, sir.” He looked decidedly uneasy.

“Get in position, boy!”

Lee turned and bent over, his hands clasping the sides of the low stool, in the same place as he’d been when Greg had burst into the room earlier. The shorts were pulled even more tightly across the youth’s bottom and accentuated the stunning curves of his rump. Greg plunged his hand once again into his jeans. Martin took his stance to Lee’s left and did a few practice-strokes with the cane. Greg noticed that Lee flinched each time. The cane was then laid across Lee’s behind and rapped several times before being raised and brought down sharply with a snap which echoed across the room. Lee winced and clenched his buttocks. Martin took his time, sliding the cane across the boy’s globes and then holding it there for several seconds before administering a swift stroke. Again Lee winced and clenched. Two more strokes elicited a similar reaction and then the fifth landed low on the boy’s crease, the end of the cane catching bare skin. Lee yelped and bucked, his hands tightening their grip on the edges of the stool. Martin let him wait before sliding the rod across his bottom again and then holding it for a while before lashing it hard at an angle across Lee’s rear. Again the youth yelped as the pain got to him, his taut young body squirming as he fought his pain. Martin stroked the front of his jeans and watched with undisguised enjoyment as Lee processed the sting and settled down. Greg pressed a finger on his perineum to stop himself from cumming.

“You’re one lucky guy,” Martin informed Greg. “He’s got one hell of an arse on him. You….eh..you fucked him yet?”

“Oh, yeh! And he’s good. I mean really white-hot, send you into orbit, good,” said Greg.

“And he’s great when it comes to being caned as well. You’ve hit the jackpot, mate.”

“Thanks.”

“So now you gotta hit the boy! Stand up, Lee!”

Lee straightened up, rubbing his comely buttocks.

“Shorts off!”

The youngster obeyed in silence, baring his sexy globes and revealing six clear red marks on the skin.

“Wow! You marked him even through his shorts,” breathed Greg.

“Back in position!”

Lee gave Greg a look of mute appeal and then bent over the stool once more, his body tense, ready. Martin handed the cane to Greg.

“Take your time,” he said very softly. “Concentrate on getting your aim right. And, Greg, if he moves out of position or tries to rub his bottom, tell him off right away. Do it harshly. You have to show him you’re in charge and you won’t let him off with anything.”

Greg nodded and positioned himself carefully before lining up the cane on Lee’s taut globes. He slid the rod across the flesh several times and then had to pause to adjust his own arousal before rapping the waiting boy with the cane. He focussed determinedly on the area he intended to hit and, keeping his eye firmly on the target, raised the cane and swept it down hard and accurately on Lee’s behind. The reaction was immediate. Lee let out a squeal and bucked violently, clenching his glutes desperately hard. From the lithe buttocks with their pale red marks from Martin’s caning there rose a darker, angrier mark which stood proud of the skin. Martin’s eyebrows rose and as Greg glanced towards him, he gave a nod of approval.

Greg had to attend once more to his own arousal before doing a few practice-strokes behind Lee, eliciting an instinctive flinch from the boy each time. He lined up the cane, waited several seconds and then hit again slightly lower down. Knowing now the level of pain to expect, Lee was ready and managed to keep the sound to a half-stifled yelp and his physical response to a fierce tightening of his buttock-muscles. Greg watched as he calmed himself and relaxed a little; and then he brought the cane into play again, etching a third fiery welt on Lee’s rump. He aimed number four just at the top of Lee’s crease and hit the target full-on. Vicious pain ripped through Lee’s body and his right hand flew round to scrub desperately at the tortured flesh.

“Get your hand away, boy!” snapped Greg, giving the boy a sharp rap on the wrist with the cane.

Lee gasped and returned his hand to the chair, giving Greg a resentful glance along his side as he did so. Martin gave Greg a thumbs-up sign and Greg slid the cane even lower along Lee’s crease. The boy knew what he was going to get and his hands grasped the stool with greater determination, the high tension in his body revealed by a slight tremor as he held himself in readiness to take the fifth stroke. Greg landed it exactly where Lee feared it was headed and in spite of his best efforts, he couldn’t hold in a snarling squeal of pain as he gave a violent kick and then clenched ferociously hard. For the final stroke, Greg aimed to cross-cut three of the central welts and as the cane landed accurately and hard, Lee writhed powerfully before steadying himself. Greg could hear him panting.

Martin came forward and took the cane from him.

“Superb, Greg. Now, you’ve punished him, but it’s important that he knows that you still love him. Show him.”

“Come here, Lee,” ordered Greg, struggling to keep a tremor out of his voice.

Lee stood up slowly and approached Greg, rubbing cautiously at his welted bottom. His face was tear-stained and beads of sweat stood on his forehead. He looked to Greg utterly delectable. Greg didn’t say a word; simply opened his arms, and Lee accepted the invitation without a moment’s hesitation. He clung tightly to Greg who could feel the boy’s hot tears on his neck. Greg let him have a minute or two to himself within the circle of his arms and blinked back a few tears of his own. He then slid a hand into Lee’s hair and pulled his head firmly up so that he could look into Lee’s eyes. Then he kissed him; and Lee responded. When eventually they drew apart, Lee whispered, “I’m sorry. I’ll never lie to you again.”

“Good. Now we’re going back to my room in the residences and you know what I’m gonna do to you there, don’t you?”

Lee smiled shyly: “Yes, please, Greg,” he said.

After thanking Martin, Greg and Lee made for the front-door where Greg paused and said to Martin, “I’m sorry that Lee won’t be coming back to you, but I promise that he won’t miss out on his discipline.”

“What?” demanded Lee, turning round abruptly. “You’re gonna cane me?”

“I certainly am. Now I know what you want and that I rather like dishing it out, I’ll have to buy myself a cane to use on you.”

“But I don’t want another thrashing like you just gave me,” protested Lee. “That was brutal!”

“You’d better behave yourself then,” Greg informed him, “and then I’ll only need to give you milder, maintenance canings, like Martin gave you. And, for your information, what I gave you wasn’t brutal. It was hard, just as you deserved; but if you really fuck up, I’ll show you what brutal feels like.”

“You could cane me even harder than that?” gasped Lee.

“Sure I could; so just watch your step, eh Lee?”

“Yes,” replied Lee softly, gazing into Greg’s face, his eyes wide with admiration.

Martin gave Greg a huge wink as the pair set off to walk back to the residences.

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

Two or three days later Greg and Lee were eating at The Diner’s Delight once again.

“I’m glad you’re wearing your shorts,” observed Greg.

“You told me to!”

“I see you’ve still got some faint marks showing on your bum.”

“Yeh. That waiter over there noticed them when he pulled out my chair for me to sit down. He’s been ogling me ever since. I think he’s wishing I was on the takeaway menu.”

“Well you’re not. Your fantastic arse is all mine. The cane I ordered online came this morning, so I’ll be trying it out on you tomorrow; on the bare.”

“But I thought you liked me in my shorts!”

“I do; but sometimes I like you even better out of them.”

Lee flushed and looked down at his food.

“Brute,” he murmured happily under his breath.

 

 

Story ©MMXXI by Joelstrap, used here by very kind permission.  Please leave a comment by using the link at the top of the story.

 

Joelstrap’s excellent earlier stories for The Canery are available here.  Further great stories by Joelstrap may be found at this external link

An Encounter With Dr Willoughby (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A brand new caning story by very special guest author Baddlad17.  This story is currently exclusive to The Canery!  All the characters are 18 or older. WARNING: ADULTS ONLY!

 

 

2007

It was a shock revelation, to see it, boldly printed in black and white print on the front page of the local newspaper.

Former headmaster arrested

Dr George Willoughby, retired headmaster, was arrested yesterday following accusations of physical assault against several of his former pupils over a number of years. Whilst conducting a search of his property several VHS Tapes depicting images of senior schoolboys in the process of receiving corporal punishment were seized as evidence. The investigation continues into the alleged assaults.

I sat back at my desk and subconsciously my hand slid under my buttocks. It had been more than twelve years ago since it had happened, and I had pushed it far from my mind, but just the mention of his name had revived the memory, and once again I could almost feel the welts, throbbing across my backside, and that overwhelming burning pain that had lingered for hours. The physical marks soon faded, but the mental ones had never truly left me, and despite my best efforts to erase it, this had brought that terrible event right back to me as though it had happened yesterday.

***********

1995

“I am afraid it will have to be the full six, and on the bare given the offence and your seniority in the school.” I stood with my head down, aghast and dismayed before Dr Willoughby while he berated myself and James Baker for breaking the rules. I could hardly believe what he was saying. The cane, on the bare! It was 1995, not the dark ages. Corporal punishment had been abolished in state schools almost seven years before, and since then the majority of private schools had followed suit, leaving just a handful who still retained the right to use it, and it was just bad luck I was a student at one of them.

To round off the humiliation about to befall us we were eighteen-year-old seniors. It was March, the early spring sunshine streaming through the tall window into the airless room starkly reminded me it was just a week away from the Easter holidays. Father had booked a trip to Spain for the break and I was looking forward to spending some time sunning myself and sipping sangria by a pool before returning to sit my A-Level exams in May. But standing before the dour old headmaster intent on whipping an old school cane across my bare arse, my mind was solely focussed upon a more urgent and entirely different fate that was about to befall me.

Baker held his hand up to protest, but he was curtly cut off before he had even spoken a word. “Don’t even bother to try and offer any defence, I know you are both eighteen, and legally entitled to go into a public house, drink alcohol and smoke, but you are also fully aware that all three of those activities are strictly against the rules for students here at the College. I intend one way or another to make an example of you, you are however legally adults, so, the choice is yours. Take your punishments, or you may go. If you choose to leave you will be summarily expelled and will not be permitted to sit your finals. You may take a moment to decide.”

I glanced across at my mate. It had been Baker’s idea to go to the pub in the first place, and it was with grave reservations I had been persuaded to tag along. We would have got away with it too, had we not run into the head’s secretary Mrs Pritchard. She had popped out in her lunch break to the butchers’ shop to get some meat for her husband’s meal and happened to be passing the pub entrance at the very moment we stepped into the street and straight into her path. We knew we were for it. She hated all the boys at the school and was quick to report them for any misdemeanour so, discovering two of the most senior boys leaving a pub she must have felt she had hit the jackpot. The gratifying smirk across her lips was enough evidence to convince me that whatever meat she had purchased, our goose was cooked.

It had come as no surprise to receive the summons to report to Dr Willoughby at the end of school, and so here we found ourselves before him, with an agonising choice to make. The cane on the bare, or expulsion. The head sat in his chair, glaring coldly over his horn-rimmed spectacles at us. I wondered how many boys arses he had thrashed over the years, and whether he enjoyed it. I had never been caned before in my life, I had only joined the College in the sixth, after relocating to Hampshire following my father’s promotion. Baker on the other hand had been a student here for almost seven years and he was no stranger to the rod, but as I later discovered, never before had he been required to lower his clothing.

Over the years the use of the cane had started to be frowned upon. Sensing the mood for change Dr Willoughby had removed the right for masters to use corporal punishment, retaining the ultimate deterrent for himself to administer if it was required, and then only after consulting parents and gaining their approval did the rattan rod descend upon a pair of quivering buttocks prostrate before him.

Nearly all boys summoned for caning were punished with trousers in place, on rare occasions if the miscreant was a recidivist, or the offence particularly heinous he would send for them when he knew they would be having a sports lesson. When this happened, he would attach a note for Mr Nicholls in the gym to direct the boy concerned straight to his study, not allowing him to change into his school uniform. So, when he presented himself he would be clad in just thin cotton PE shorts which provided almost no protection from the piercing bite of the cane. But a thrashing on the bare bottom was indeed a red-letter day, and one that the head would only ever contemplate if the malefactor was eighteen years old, and legally an adult, thus negating the need to contact parents.

I was terrified of getting the cane, but I didn’t want to appear cowardly in front of Baker, nor did I have any wish to be expelled, such an outcome was too horrific to even contemplate, my father would go berserk and my mother would die of shame. I could see the look of disappointment on her face as I stood quaking before the desk. Willoughby looked askingly at Baker. “I will take the cane, sir.” My mate had accepted the thrashing option without a thought, and now all eyes were on me.

What could I say? My head was pounding, my heart pumping wildly in my chest as I plucked up the courage to say the words that would condemn me to an eye-watering beating I would long remember. “The cane sir.” I eventually said, which clearly gratified the headmaster.

“A wise decision, best to get this unsavoury business out of the way.” He stood up and walked across to a tall cabinet in the corner of the window. Opening it up he reached inside and extracted a long slender cane. I estimated it was around three foot in length, including the curved handle. I had never seen one in the flesh before, and the anxious knot in my stomach tightened even more as I watched the head swish it savagely through the air.

“Blazer’s off now and leave them on my desk.” Taking my cue from Baker I nervously fumbled with the buttons of my smart blue blazer, removing it and placing it beside his on the desktop.

“Barratt step back and stand by the wall, Baker, stand behind the leather chair and lower your trousers and underpants down to your ankles, then go over it and present your buttocks for the chastisement they so thoroughly deserve.”

I looked on in stunned silence as my friend complied, unbuckling his belt, unzipping, and allowing his trousers to slope down his legs, and land in a heap at his feet. I held my breath as he slipped his hands inside the elastic waistband of his boxer shorts, and then lowered them clear of his arse and southwards to straddle around his ankles. He stretched over the back of the low backed leather chair and placed his palms on the seat cushion, his upthrust buttocks bared and prepared for the stinging justice of the rod. My eyes were fixed on the meaty mounds, firm and muscular, with a dusting of fine, downy hair which was to be expected from a fit athletic lad who was a stalwart of the First XI cricket team.

Dr Willoughby removed his suit jacket and placed it on his chair before stepping across and standing behind and just to the left of Baker wielding the whippy rod with glee. The bastard licked his lips, a sadistic grin etched across his face as he sawed the cane across the centre of the penitent buttocks, which twitched in anticipation of the hurt they were about to feel as he prepared to strike the target. He tapped a few times, taking careful aim, then lifted the rod away, before whipping it back down with the venom of a snake. It swept into the bared cheeks with a will of its own, imprinting a vivid white line that almost instantly turned red as the blood rushed along the bruised flesh. Baker hissed in pain and his cheeks quivered of their own accord.

Pressing on Willoughby gently tapped the cane low down, gaging the distance he prepared to strike again, and with a flick of his wrist he swished the second cut along the crease line of the manly mounds. Baker emitted a low groan but somehow managed to maintain remarkable composure, crisply holding his position despite the intense agony coursing through his buttocks. Strokes three and four fell heavily, slicing fresh streaks of fire between the first two blazing welts. I could hardly watch as the head placed the fifth stroke from lower left to upper right, gating the earlier stripes. The rod struck true sweeping in and intersecting through the cuts which caused my friend to howl aloud. Without waiting for him to regain any composure he aimed the last stroke from the opposite angle and lashed it down with all his might. Baker wailed once again in utter agony. From my vantage point I watched the final stripe swell across the bare arse, leaving a pattern of four horizontal lines and a large X crossing through them.

Dr Willoughby stepped back and admired his handiwork while Baker remained prostrate over the chair, his sizzling buttocks clenching and unclenching of their own accord. I looked on in a state of sheer horror knowing in just a few short moments I would be in the same wretched state. “You may rise and dress boy, Barratt, prepare.”

The back of my shirt was soaked in sweat, despite the room feeling cool. “Come on boy, I haven’t got all day.” Willoughby was gleefully flexing the whippy stick between his hands, limbering up in readiness for the attack. I somehow got my feet moving, swapping places with Baker. His face was purple, his eyes wet with tears and his face creased in pain as we passed one another. Standing behind the chair I stared ahead, unwilling to go any further.

“Take your trousers and underpants down boy and present your bare buttocks for punishment.” He swished the cane through the air and repeated the instruction. Slowly and steadily, I reached for my belt and began to lower my clothing. It took further prompting before I stretched over the chair and placed my hands onto the warm surface of the leather seat which was still moist from Baker’s sweaty palms. Stretching over the apex I was sure my stomach pressed into some sort of sticky residue, it was then I realised Baker had leaked precum as he danced over the chair. While I waited for the pain I stared blankly at the soft leather before me, a large round stain in the middle of the seat clearly produced from the copious tears of countless boys who had been in the same humiliating position over the years. I felt Willoughby placing my shirttail over my back, fully exposing my arse and then the cane was pressed into my bum.

Was this really happening? Here I was, eighteen years old and bent double over the back of a chair, my bare arse pointing upwards, waiting for a grouchy old schoolmaster to whip a cane across it. My old schoolmates would never believe it was possible. The cane lashed down and the pain exploded across my rear, incredible pain which brought tears to my eyes almost immediately. I don’t know how I got through the remaining five strokes. I squealed, squawked, yelped, and bellowed as he flayed my arse raw. I was far from brave, though I did manage to hold my position over the chair, fearful of the consequences should I stand up.

Eventually, the agony came to an end and I was permitted to stand. Tears rolled down my face as I stood before the desk beside Baker to receive the final admonishment. Dismissed we waddled down to the bogs to inspect the damage. I stood with my back to the mirror, craning my neck to glance at the livid welts which blazed fiercely across my backside. At that moment I made a vow never to step foot inside a pub until I had left the College for good.

***********

The stripes lasted well into the Easter holiday and I had to be careful when wearing my trunks that the marks stayed hidden. How could I have explained to my parents what had happened? Within three months I had taken my finals and departed from the College, never to return, nor to give the place a second glance. The encounter with Dr Willoughby had soured my time there and I wanted no further connection to the school.

Reading the headline had left me with mixed emotions, it also brought back a most painful memory I had long ago hidden, but above all, I was left with a feeling of satisfaction. Willoughby had clearly abused his position and finally, the long arm of the law had caught up with him. Justice would be done.

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Story ©MMXXI by Baddlad17, used here by very kind permission of the author.

 

Please leave a comment by using the link at the top of the story.

 

Baddlad17’s excellent earlier stories for The Canery are available here.  Further great stories by Baddlad17 may be found at this external link.

A Taste Of Sweden (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A brand new short story by your host, Rod Cayenne.  This story is currently exclusive to The Canery and is only suitable for adults!

By the time I was nineteen, I trekked around airfields and air shows around the country on my trusty old Triumph motorbike.  The shows were spectacular, with an unmistakable and enticing sexual undercurrent.  I used to love chatting to the other male planespotters.  The fat ones, the thin ones, the married ones, the ones that still lived with their folks and the lonely old perverts.  But in another league were the hunky aircrew at the shows.  I’d hang around the metal barriers like a groupie hoping to catch the attention of a sexy pilot or navigator.  I had a particular liking for the angular beauty of the Swedish planes and their dishy, dreamy Nordic pilots.  They always gave a good display, in more ways than one!

Show day was inevitably a sweltering hot day.  I could feel my skin burning under the punishing rays of the sun.  Sweat poured off my brow and my armpits were on overdrive.  I leant over the barrier and caught the lanky blonde pilot checking me out.  I think.  Well, I was certainly checking him out.  It felt like mutual attraction.  He took his Aviator shades off, walked over and stared at me with his piercing electric blue eyes.  He had a gorgeous tan, and chiseled Viking looks.  I couldn’t begin to guess his age, he had a few lines and the first signs of gentle crow’s feet around the corners of his eyes.    “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I, boy?” he asked me.

“Yes, you may have done.  I love the Swedish planes.”

“And their pilots, too, unless I’m mistaken?  Well, well.  You are gay, I suppose?”

“A little, Sir.”

“A little?  No-one is a little gay!  And I bet you don’t have a little penis, eh, my boy?”

I blushed and stammered, “Oh, you know…”

“I know I like English cock,” he whispered, “Welsh cock, Scottish cock, Irish cock.  Hot, throbbing United Kingdom cock.  Come and see me in my hotel room tonight.  Here are the details, go on, take it.  You do have a car?  The damned hotel’s in the middle of nowhere.”

“I’ve got a bike.”

“Aha, hence the leather trousers?”

“Err, yes.”

“Well, that’s very good.  I like a bit of leather.  Or a lot of leather,” he laughed.  “Now, piss off!  I’ll see you later.”

What an extraordinary guy with a strange bedside manner, I thought to myself as I walked away studying the hotel card he’d given me.  He’d scribbled his name on it, Curt, Room 8.  He was certainly curt with his words.  So he liked a bit of English cock?  I told myself I was going to get to fuck him, for sure.  What a treat that would be!

I stayed on until the end of the show.  It was good to see the Arrows again.  Then back on my bike, I was able to overtake the stationary queues of sad family cars as I headed out to the country hotel. 

I had to negotiate past a grim dragon of a receptionist.  She stared at me scornfully through her horn-rimmed specs as I said, “I’m here to see Curt from the Flygvapnet.”  She stared at the ceiling, and then at me.  It was like I was asking for someone from an alien planet. 

At last I was on the threshold.  I rapped on the door.  He opened it sharply.  He was wearing only a hotel robe and his hair was still damp.  He burped.  He pulled me in and slammed the door shut.  Here was a man who knew what he wanted, I told myself.  His robe fell open, and I could see that he was blonde down there, too.  “Suck it!” he ordered.  I sank to my knees and soon had him hard as my tongue teased and tossed his uncircumcised cock.  I wiggled my tongue in between his foreskin and his helmet.  He groaned with pleasure and then pushed me down on the over-sized bed and rammed his stiff member down my throat.  It hurt and I had to summon all my willpower not to gag several times.  He was rough and dominant.  I was surprised, and unsurprisingly, I was turned on by this beastly Viking of a man.  He tasted great as he fucked my mouth urgently.  Suddenly he told me to stop.  “I don’t want to cum just yet,” he said.  I was relieved as my throat was kind of sore.

“Now time for some leather fun, my boy,” he announced.  I had visions of him in skintight gear, but it wasn’t to be.  “Open that drawer,” he ordered.  I walked over to the bedside table and opened the drawer.  There, on top of the King James bible, laid a leather spanking strap.  I’d seen something similar in a sleazy shop in Soho, London, but I was stunned.  I knew it wasn’t my scene at all.

“You are a very naughty boy!  One hundred lashes, for you, I think.”

He pulled my leather keks and sweaty pants down, baring my arse.  I attempted to struggle.  The leather strap cracked down like a thunderbolt on my soft teenage flesh.  Ten, twenty, thirty, that fuckin’ thing ripped and tore my skin.  In the event, it was nothing like a hundred, but I was lying face down on the bed, ashamed and fighting back salty tears.

“That was fun!  Now, I think you English boys like the cane?  It happens that I have a nice stick here.”  It wasn’t a nice stick at all.  It was a nasty stick.  I suspect that it was a birch rod rather than a cane.  It was short but demonic.  He lashed my cheeks with it.  I writhed and cried out at that first stroke.  I bucked and gasped at the second.  By the third I felt tears could not be far off.  And then after eighteen manly strokes he dropped the cane.  At last there was some relief as his tongue licked my weals and wounds gently.  That was nice.  I could feel his stiff rod pressing against me as he soothed the damage he had so lustily inflicted on me.  God, that had hurt but my my own cock was now perky and rearing up for action.  How I wanted to fuck him.  And then I felt the unmistakable coldness of lubricant on my manhole as he got ready to board me and pilot me into the wild blue yonder.  And he did.  Sheesh, that man could fuck for Sweden.

We lay together on the bed afterwards.  He offered me a malt, saying, “Mmm, this is the finest Scottish whisky, so hard to find and so very expensive in Sweden.  Yet here they have it in all the shops and supermarkets.  Strange.  Only a small one though, I’m flying again in 18 hours.”

I’m ashamed to say I choked on the scotch, just like I had on his cock.  It was strong stuff, just like the relentless beating he had given me.

“You will stay the night.” 

“Well, I don’t know…”

“That was an order, not a request!” he laughed and slapped my thigh extra hard.  A scorching red imprint of his palm and fingers was clearly visible.  “Now be a good boy, and ride my cock good and hard, otherwise I’ll get my wicked friend Håkan to come over and thrash you as well!”

Much as I’d have liked a threesome, I really couldn’t face any more punishment, assuming Curt wasn’t playing a game with his threat.  And I never did get to fuck him.  But he did fuck me, fuck yes, he fucked me a lot and almost all night long.  What with one thing and another my arse was really fucking sore on the bike saddle as I headed back to my digs, sober and randy in the early morning sunshine.  I resolved to be a bit more careful in future.  After all, I’d expected to be on top, but I ended up a very sore bottom.  Still and all, back in my lonely room it was high time for some hand relief.

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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Story © MMXXI by Rod Cayenne.  All rights reserved.

__

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

 

 

I Drink The Blood Of Sixteen Virgins (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Classic caning fiction by special guest author 11plus. Repeated from 2016 by popular demand. All of the characters are aged 18 or over!  Suitable for adults only.

“This is really rather good.  You should try to get it published.  I could type it up for you, if you like,” said Julie Smith, as I gazed into her blue eyes.  Of course, it was her knickers I really wanted to gaze into.

“Have you got a typewriter at home then?” I asked, “After all, I’m not sure you should type it up here at school.”

“Mum’s got a fancy new electric typewriter.  She doesn’t mind me using it.”

“Well, that’s a very kind offer,Julie.  Thank you.  I’d like that very much.  And do let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, won’t you?”  So it was that I left the smudgy manuscript of ‘I Drink The Blood Of Sixteen Virgins’ with her.

The following day, I found myself waiting in the gloomy corridor outside the headmaster’s polished oak door.  I was nervous and scared.  I wasn’t sure what the problem was, but he seemed terribly angry with me.  He’d told me to report to his study ‘within the hour’.  But he wasn’t there.  What did he want to see me about?  Eventually, he came ambling along, smoking, with a chipped mug of tea in his hand.  He ushered me into the room, followed me in and then asked me to close the door. He dripped tea over the floor.  The stink of stale and fresh cigarette smoke was overwhelming.

It was then that I saw two things that horrified me.  On his desk was the manuscript I’d given to Julie.  And then right next to it was a crook-handled school cane!  It wasn’t hard to put two and two together, and end up with six of the best!  Even a poor Maths scholar like me could see the inevitable conclusion.

The headmaster picked up my work, saying, “Not very bright of you to autograph this, Hughes!  How dare you write this filth, and then bring it into school!  And to leave it lying around in the sixth form girls’ study.  Surely you know that’s out of bounds, even to senior boys?”

“I’m sorry Sir.  I lost track of it.  I’ll take it home.  It was meant as a fun piece.  Not so much a novella, more of a bodice ripper, Sir!”

“A bodice ripper, eh?  What a quaint term.  However, this is clearly a satanic effort, Hughes.  And this is a Christian school, I hardly need to remind you.  Clearly, I need to beat the devil out of you.  With my bottom ripper!”

“But Sir…”

“Listen lad!  I know what you’re going to say.  Let me guess now.  You’re too old for the cane.  You’re 18, an adult.  However, I’m a firm believer that no-one, let alone an upper sixth former, is too old for the cane!  Now then.  I’ve had a look at your record.  Never been beaten before, I see.  That’s commendable in some ways.  But how long has this filthy story been festering away in your mind?  Eh?”

“Errr.”

“Lost for words?”

“Yes, Sir.  Sorry Sir.”

“Hmmm.  Well, really I’d like to give you sixteen strokes of the cane, one for each virgin defiled in your filthy story.  But I’m not allowed to impose that many.  So, perhaps half, that is to say eight would be appropriate.”

“Oh Sir!”

“However, if you agree to me destroying this filth, I will reduce the sentence to six of the best.  Six of the very, very best.  I’m being lenient.  Well, what do you say?  Well?  Hurry up!”

“Thank you Sir.  Please destroy it.”

“Good!”  With that he tore the A4 pages in half, top to bottom.  He then proceeded to rip the paper into smaller pieces.  Once he had finished, he chuckled and piled the scraps into his large glass ashtray.  Then to my astonishment, he lit up another cigarette and then used the match to burn the paper scraps.  I was worried that the maniac would set the study on fire, but he monitored the smouldering scraps carefully, stubbing out the fires with the tip of his cigarette.  He soon lost interest, and left the charred scraps alone.  “I feel better already,” he said, leering menacingly at me, “I could let you off I suppose.  Yes, I could.  I could, but I won’t.  You need to be taught a lesson!”

With that, he picked up the cane and started swishing it through the air.  I didn’t like the sound of that at all.  “Right lad.  Take your jacket off, hang it over there.  That’s it.  Then over the chair!”  He pointed to the grey leather chair.  “Lean over the back.  That’s it.  Right over.  Up on your toes.  Stick your bottom out more.  Hold still!  Here it comes now!”

With an almighty crack the cane landed on my thin grey trousers at lightning speed and with an unbelievably venomous sting.  The chair moved with the force of the blow.  That sting!  Oh, so this was what a caning was like.  It was hell!  Strangely, I felt my bottom willing me on, so I thrust my arse out, goading the sick old man to do his very worst.  Which he did, landing a crisp and cutting second stroke in almost the same place as the first one.  The pain multiplied, as I gasped with disbelief at the havoc the old man was wreaking, and yet my bottom soon raised up for the next stroke.  Thankfully this one landed a little lower, although still blazing away like a wildfire.

Suddenly, he stopped.  We were half way through.  Waves and waves of pain lapped all over my arse.  I was in agony.  I was regretting ever having taken pen to paper and vowed to never write anything in the horror genre again.

“Wait there.  I want another cigarette,” he informed me.  I was about to protest but soon realised that might not be the smartest of ideas.  I heard him light up.  I just wanted him to get on with my thrashing, but I could hear him puffing away contentedly.  I stuck my arse out ready for the next stroke, but the bastard was making me wait and wait.  I wiggled my arse, trying to ameliorate the pain as I did so, but he just told me to keep still.  Eventually I heard him stub out the ciggie, probably on the remnants of my manuscript.

“Ah, now that was a fine, fine cigarette,” he said, “Nothing more satisfying than the combination of a manly smoke and a good, hard caning!”

He laid into my arse again.  The stroke was the lowest yet, cutting into the tender flesh just where arse met thighs.  I squealed with shock and pain, utterly humiliated by my bastard headmaster.  I wanted it over, but he had stopped again.  Surely, he wasn’t going to light up again?  I thrust my bottom out provocatively, positively begging for the final two strokes and to bring on the conclusion.  It must have worked as I heard the swish and crack of the cane again, releasing new agony and another helpless yelp from yours truly.

I waited and waited for that final stroke.  Eventually it came, cracking my grey flannels and causing me to gasp loudly.  I shed a few tears too, most embarrassingly.

“Right, you can get up now.  I shall be keeping a close eye on you in future, Hughes, my boy.  You can expect a fresh, hard caning if you cross my path again!  What can you expect boy?”

I couldn’t believe it!  As well as humiliating me by caning me black and blue, he now wanted to shame me into repeating his threat!  I gave in though, saying, “A fresh, hard caning Sir!”

“Quite so, quite so!  Now watch out or it will be with your trousers down next time.  Dismissed!”

“Thank you, Sir,” I said submissively, grabbing my blazer from the hook.  As I left, I saw that he was filling in the punishment book.  I shuddered and was sure that I didn’t want a second entry in there.

I made my way to the toilets and locked myself in a cubicle.  I found a biro in my blazer, and was soon adding to the graffiti on the walls.  B-A-S-T-A-R-D I wrote, feeling all rebellious.  I then dropped my trousers and pants and felt the ridges the cane had left on my arse.  An overwhelming urge to masturbate came over me and my rock-hard cock was soon spunking into some toilet paper.  The cum was creamy and hot, but not as hot as my arse.  Immediately feeling a bit better, I flushed the evidence away and then wrote the words C-A-N-E-D H-A-R-D T-O-D-A-Y on the painted wooden door.  My experience duly recorded for posterity, it was time to move on!

The lessons that afternoon were hard to concentrate on.  My arse throbbed and ached.  The hard extruded plastic chairs in the classrooms were harshly unforgiving.  There was no comfort to be had, at least not until I got home, I thought.  I fancied a cool bath and then maybe another wank or two.

Julie caught up with me as I walked home.  She had heard about my caning.  You could count on bad news and schadenfreude spreading quickly around the school.  She grabbed my arm and asked how I’d got on.  “It did hurt, Julie.  I can’t deny it.  I’d never been caned before and wouldn’t want it again.  My bum is so, so sore.  The bastard tore up my story too.  I’m not sure how he got his hands on it in the first place.”

“Oh, that’s my fault.  I must have left it in girls’ study.  I’m such a scatterbrain.  I’m so sorry.  And I’m sorry you got the cane.”

“It’s alright.  I’m lucky not to have been caned before, I reckon.  Some of the things I’ve got away with!” I was talking my bad boy image up, hoping to impress the sexy minx with my bravado.  “I should have had more sense than to bring the story into school in the first place, I suppose.  Still, I’ve got the last laugh as I made a carbon copy as I wrote the bloody thing.  If you’re still offering, I’d be grateful if you could type it up for me.  And as I said, if you do, just let me know if there’s anything I can do in return.”

“Of course I can type it up for you.  It’s the least I can do, and actually, there is something you can do for me.”

“Sure.  Anything.”

“You can show me the cane stripes on your bottom.”

(____________

Story © MMXVI by 11plus

Photograph of and © Jonathan, R.I.P.

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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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Other stories by 11plus are here and here

Comments welcome

Countdown To A Valentine Spanking (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

New to The Canery is this exciting spanking story by very special guest author JOELSTRAP.   All the characters are 18 or older. WARNING: ADULTS ONLY!

Countdown To A Valentine Spanking by Joelstrap

February 10th

Simon picked up the post from behind the door of the flat and dropped it on the breakfast-table. He took a mouthful of cereal and then reached for the mail to see if there was anything for him, but Tiger snatched it from beneath his fingers and flicked swiftly through it.

“Bills!” he muttered, and then, “Oh! Wonder what this is?”

Simon sighed and began to open the brown envelopes containing the bills. Tiger ripped open the large white envelope and pulled out a Valentine-card.

“That’s a bit early, isn’t it?” observed Simon.

Tiger opened the card.

“What the…..!”

Simon looked a question and Tiger pushed the card under his nose. Inside there was a large red heart and in neat capital-letters in the centre of it had been written the words: You’ve got a fantastic arse.

“Who do you think it’s from?” asked Simon.

“Search me! Obviously someone with a good eye for a boy’s bum.”

“Funny to send it four days early,” remarked Simon.

Tiger wasn’t listening. “I guess it could be Jack,” he opined as he ran a thoughtful hand through his thick, striped hair.

Simon eyed the hair admiringly. Tiger’s nickname came from the tawny streaks which ran through his mane of dark hair; streaks which were regularly re-done to maintain their startling look. Tiger stood just over six feet tall with an athlete’s build and a handsome face. Nature had endowed him generously with an animal sexuality, and he attracted longing looks from both girls and boys. His trichological glory just made him stand out all the more. Simon ran a hand absently through his own soft, brown curls and silently scolded himself for his feelings of envy. Simon was a couple of inches short of six feet and slim as a birch-sapling. From an attractive face, framed by the luxuriant curls, his large brown eyes looked out on the world with a permanently startled expression, as if each day was a new surprise.

“Or it might be Ralph,” murmured Tiger as if to himself. “He was ogling my arse in the showers after footie the other day. And there’s Barry, of course. Him and me had a bloody good snog at the party last week. Maybe he noticed my gorgeous rump, eh Simon?”

Simon had gathered up the empty envelopes and was staring at the one from which Tiger had taken the card.

“Simon?…..Simon!”

“Huh?”

“Maybe it was Barry.”

“It’s not addressed to anybody,” said Simon, waving the white envelope. “Just the flat’s address. Why did you think it was for you?”

“Who else would it be for?”

“I live here too.”

“Who’s gonna admire your arse? I could almost shove one of you down each leg of my shorts,” said Tiger rudely.

“Size isn’t everything,” said Simon sententiously.

“Yeh, right,” replied Tiger.

February 11th

There was only one letter that morning and it was another white envelope bearing only the flat’s address but no addressee’s name. Simon waved it in Tiger’s direction and Tiger reached out for it; but Simon held it beyond his reach.

“I’m opening this one,” he said. “It could be for me.”

“Balls!”

Simon ignored him and tore open the envelope, before extracting another Valentine-card. He opened it and saw inside a red heart. Neatly inscribed within were the words: Can’t wait to get my hands on those amazing buns!

“Well,” demanded Tiger impatiently. “which part of me is he admiring this time?”

“Same part,” Simon told him, and then added, “but it might be my buns.”

“Of course it’s not your bloody buns,” snapped Tiger, grabbing the card and reading it for himself. “Playing footie’s given me buns of steel.”

“I run,” said Simon. “My glutes are pretty taut.”

“Yeh. They need to be taught how to be real man-buns!”

“Very funny!”

February 12th

Tiger was standing by the window chomping on a slice of toast and keeping an eye out for the postman, while pretending to be watching a couple of cats fighting in the garden of a house across the road. Simon, who knew perfectly well what Tiger was doing, quietly tidied away the rest of the breakfast things and began to pack his bag in readiness to set off for his first class of the day.

“Where the hell’s that postman?” demanded Tiger angrily.

“What do you want with the postman?” enquired Simon innocently. “I thought you were watching a cat-fight.”

Tiger flung him a dirty look. “I want to see if there’s another of these cards,” he admitted. “You wanna make something of it?” he asked, striding across the room and looking down on Simon.

Simon smiled at him. “You gonna tan my hide?” he enquired mildly.

“I should.”

“Why?” Simon asked, his eyes wide and an expression of injured innocence on his face.

“Because I fucking feel like it!”

“It’s not my fault you haven’t seen the postman,” said Simon.

“If the lazy bastard doesn’t hurry up, we’ll have to leave before he comes.”

“He’s not gonna come now,” Simon said.

“Like you know!”

“I do know.”

“Oh, yeh? How?”

“Because he came just before you came out of the bathroom.”

“What? Why the hell didn’t you say so, you twerp?”

“I didn’t know you were watching for him,” replied Simon gently. “You said you were watching a cat-fight.”

“Did he bring another card?” demanded Tiger loudly.

“Card? Er, now, I’m not sure…maybe he…”

“Right! That does it!”

Tiger grabbed Simon by the collar of his shirt and pushed him roughly over his knee and began to administer a series of hard, stinging spanks to his small, neat, fully-rounded buttocks. Simon’s denims fitted closely and revealed the pleasing contours of his behind as well as providing a lot less protection from Tiger’s heavy hand than a looser pair of jeans would have given him. As Tiger spanked hard and fast, delivering a fusillade of smacks across the whole surface of Simon’s rump and well down onto the tops of his legs, Simon squirmed and winced, an expression of ecstatic delight on his face. Tiger felt Simon’s powerful arousal pressed against his thigh, matching his own excitement as he rained down the stinging swats. He gave Simon half a dozen really hard spanks on his inner thighs, eliciting squeals of outrage and pleasure, and then desisted. Simon stood up, rubbing at his burning bottom.

“That the best you could do?” he enquired, his eyes shining.

“You’re asking for it,” Tiger accused, “but there’s no time just now. Get me that flaming card!”

Simon gave him a cheeky grin, dodged a slap aimed at his left cheek, and retrieved the envelope from where he’d concealed it behind the radio. Tiger snatched it from him, noticed that Simon had already opened it, and removed the card. Inside, within a red heart were the words: I can’t wait to kiss every inch of those fantastic globes.

“Shit! This is hot! I just wish I knew who the guy is! I tried dropping hints to Barry and Ralph and Jack, but if it was any of them, they’re not saying.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” asked Simon.

“What?” returned Tiger suspiciously.

“The cards might be for me,” replied Simon sweetly. “Maybe some sexy guy wants to kiss my bare bottom.”

“The only kisses your bare bottom’s gonna get are from my trainer when we get home this evening, if you don’t shut up,” warned Tiger. “I’ve told you. I’m the one who gets his arse ogled; and some guy wants to do more than ogle it.”

“Ooooh! I love it when you’re brutal,” retorted Simon, snatching the card and setting it on the table beside the other two. “Come on or we’re going to be late for college.”

February 13th

That morning’s post arrived just as Simon was pouring coffee, and Tiger dashed to the door to collect it. He tore open the expected white envelope and eagerly extracted the Valentine card. His eyebrows rose as he read the message.

“Listen to this! When I’ve got your neat buttocks bare under my hands, we’ll both be in man-paradise. Wow! He’s one sexy bugger, whoever he is.”

“Yeh, and he wants me,” interjected Simon. “I’m the one with neat buttocks. Yours are big and hairy.”

“They’re a man’s buttocks,” said Tiger. “Yours are a boy’s buttocks; and he says we’ll be in man-paradise. This guy’s got his eye on a real man.”

“I’m eighteen, the same age as you,” Simon protested. “You don’t have to be a hairy-arsed troglodyte to be a man.”

“Hairy-arsed troglodyte? Are you wanting another spanking?”

“I’m always hot for a spanking,” replied Simon. “And only a real man is confident enough about himself to submit to getting his hide tanned.”

“Balls!”

“Besides, I think it’s Ivor, and he’s got his sights set on my neat arse,” continued Simon.

“Who the hell’s Ivor?”

“He moved into the flat upstairs about a month ago. He’s got short brown hair, eyes that seem to see right through you, a great body and one hell of an arse. He wears super-tight jeans and they show off every single curve of his behind. He must have to get up extra early every day just to give himself time to get into them.”

“I didn’t know there was anybody new upstairs. How do you know him?”

“We’ve met in the laundry-room and when we’re putting rubbish in the bins,” said Simon. “I think he likes me. He’s definitely checked me out a few times.”

“How come I’ve never met this guy?”

“Because you’re too busy lazing around here like a hairy-arsed troglodyte while I do all the work. I bet you don’t even know where the laundry-room is!”

“I don’t need to when I’ve got you to do my washing for me,” retorted Tiger dismissively. “You’re good at doing these things, so I let you do them.”

“Let me do them? Bloody cheek! I’m not your slave!”

“I wish you were; for then I’d take a whip to you and get a hell of a lot more work out of you,” warned Tiger.

Simon gasped aloud as his penis rose sharply.

“Little pervert!” muttered Tiger.

Simon rubbed his bottom thoughtfully and wondered seriously if he should try to provoke a spanking. He decided that there wasn’t time for Tiger to spank him properly, and Simon hated to have a good spanking spoiled by rushing. Tiger watched him.

“You want me to tan your hide, don’t you?”

“Yeh, but there’s not time.”

“See? You like going over my knee for a spanking. You’re a boy, not a man.”

“I’m just as much a man as you,” Simon defended himself hotly. “Just different. That’s how the world is.”

“The world is where men are men and boys are beaten,” said Tiger. “You get beaten, ergo you’re a boy.”

“You’re incorrigible,” sighed Simon.

February 14th

The post clattered through the letter-box on Saturday morning and Tiger made a leap for the door before Simon could put down his coffee-mug. He watched expectantly as Tiger impatiently cast aside a few letters and eagerly tore open the one in the large white envelope.

“Flaming hell! Maybe the cards are for you after all!”

Simon looked up from his toast with a questioning expression on his face.

“See?”

Simon took the card and looked at the now-familiar red heart inside; and then he read the words inscribed therein: I’m gonna spank that gorgeous bottom until it’s redder than this heart.
At the foot of the card was written: Be ready for me to collect you at 8 p.m. tonight.
Simon rubbed the strong erection in his jeans and looked at Tiger.

“You scared of a spanking?” he enquired.

Tiger bristled as he retorted, “Course I’m not scared of a bloody spanking! I’m just not a pervert like you who gets off on having his arse tanned.”

“So when the guy turns up this evening, you want me to go off with him?” asked Simon.

“If he’s gonna tan anybody’s arse, then, yeh; it’s you.”

“What if he says the cards really were for you; and he’s drop-dead gorgeous and sexy as a randy stoat and you can’t resist him?” asked Simon mischievously.

“If he wants to spank me, I can resist him,” asserted Tiger. “I’ll let him have you to spank.”

“I’m not yours to hand over to strange guys to spank,” objected Simon. “Besides, he might not want to spank me. Maybe he only spanks hairy-arsed troglodytes.”

“Are you wanting a spanking right now?” growled Tiger.

“Nah. I’ll save my bottom for this evening,” Simon replied as he picked up the rest of the mail. “Oh, bugger. There’s one here for Ivor upstairs, stuck between these two of ours. I’d best take it up to him.”

Simon finished his coffee and toast, took the letter and headed up to the next floor where he approached door 4B. On a small card above the door-bell were the names “B. Morton. I. Broadley.” Simon paused. He’d assumed that Ivor lived alone in the flat as he’d never heard him mention anyone else; and had vaguely thought that he might be gay as Simon was sure he had seen him more than once checking him out when they met in the laundry. He sighed. Maybe Ivor had a girlfriend. Giving himself a shake, Simon pressed the bell. There was a silence and then the sound of approaching feet. The door was pulled wide open and a tall young man stood there, naked except for a pair of very brief briefs which barely concealed his generous endowment. His hair was black and very short and extended down his jaw and along his chin, giving him a slightly menacing, almost brutal look. Well-developed pectoral and abdominal muscles were matched by powerful arms and legs, while the broad shoulders and narrow waist gave him the classic V shape. Simon gazed, stunned.

“Oh,” said the young god. “It’s Simon. I wasn’t expecting you; well, not yet anyway.”

“Sorry?” panted Simon, struggling to find his voice and feeling slightly confused. “This letter for Ivor was delivered to us by mistake, so I just brought…..”

“Oh, I see!” said the young man as an expression of understanding crossed his face. “You’d best come in. Ivor’s in here.”

Simon entered and closed the door behind him before following the vision of male beauty through the hall and into the sitting-room. Simon gasped aloud. Ivor was standing bent over a chair, his hands on the seat, completely naked, and with five clear red streaks across his bottom. On the table nearby lay a lithe cane.

“Simon’s got a letter for you, that was delivered to his flat by mistake.”

Simon looked helplessly from the young man to Ivor and then to the cane; and no words came.

“It’s okay,” said Ivor, rising upright, “we just….”

“Did I tell you that you could get up?” demanded the young man sharply.

Ivor immediately resumed his position with a muttered, “No, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Now,” said the young man. “I’m Bruce. You stand over there, Simon, and keep out of the way, while I finish dealing with Ivor. He’s due one more stroke; but I’m going to give him an extra two for moving out of position just now. He should know better than that; but sometimes he just needs to be reminded.”

Simon stood to one side as instructed and slid a hand into his jeans to rearrange his swiftly-rising penis. He noticed that Bruce’s penis was protruding well above the waist-band of his briefs; and that Ivor’s organ was also fully extended. Bruce took up the cane and whipped it through the air. Both Simon and Ivor flinched involuntarily. Simon saw Ivor tense his body as the cane was rapped several times on the skin and then sent flying down with a whine to make contact with a sharp crack on Ivor’s bare buttocks. A groan came from the caned youth as his glutes tightened and his bottom quivered. Slowly from the skin there emerged a sixth fiery-red welt. Bruce lined up the cane and hit again, this time seeming to land, whether by accident or design, right on top of an earlier weal. Ivor bucked and a squeal escaped him. Bruce held the cane against Ivor’s skin, low on his crease and Simon saw the tension in the boy’s body as he waited for the stroke. Bruce made him wait, the seconds stretching out like elastic until Simon wanted to scream at Bruce to get on with it. The cane flew, scythed down and lashed hard and accurately on that most sensitive part of a guy’s behind. Ivor yowled and his body twisted as he processed the vicious burn. Bruce turned to Simon.

“Hopefully he’ll remember that and stay in position until he’s told he can move,” observed Bruce. “Do you think he will, Simon?”

“I don’t think he could ever forget it,” gasped Simon, staring in horrified awe at Ivor’s cane-welted rump.

Bruce motioned him to sit down and began to make coffee. Simon glanced at Ivor, still bent over the chair. Ivor grinned at him and winked, his eager penis bouncing energetically at full length beneath him. Simon felt a sense of relief that the beating clearly hadn’t dampened Ivor’s cheerful disposition; and that he actually appeared to be decidedly perky about it, at least in retrospect.

“What did you get beaten for?” whispered Simon, keeping a wary eye on Bruce.

“Knocked his toothbrush into the toilet-pan by mistake.”

“You got caned for that?”

“He came in while I was finishing giving it a quick dry on his towel and putting it back on the shelf.”

“Oh, yuck!! No wonder he blasted your arse open,” said Simon.

“Just as well he doesn’t know it’s not the first time I’ve done it,” grinned Ivor.

Bruce had finished making the coffee and the boys fell silent as he came over and handed Simon a mug, placed one on the floor, and himself sat down opposite Simon with a third mug in his hand. Bruce nodded at Ivor and the youth straightened up and came and sat on the floor between Bruce’s feet, wincing as his caned behind came into contact with the carpet. He picked up the mug from the floor and took a long drink. Bruce turned to Simon.

“So, you got the Valentines, huh?” he enquired. “And you’ve worked out they came from us?”

“Well, yeh; I thought they maybe came from Ivor, and were for me; but Tiger thought they were for him. He’s got a string of guys after him so he couldn’t work out who they might be from.”

“Tiger?”

“My flat-mate. He’s called Tiger on account of the tawny streaks in his hair.”

“Ah. I guess that’s my fault,” said Ivor. “It’s kinda embarrassing, but I couldn’t remember your name. I know you told me the first time we met in the laundry room, but I just forgot; and then I didn’t like to ask again, ’cos it seemed kinda rude not to have remembered.”

“It was unpardonably rude,” interjected Bruce, “and he got caned hard for it.”

“Er, yeh. That really hurt,” Ivor admitted; “but I haven’t forgotten your name since,” he added. “Anyway, I’ve seen Tiger once or twice coming up the street, but his arse isn’t a patch on that neat, taut, fully-rounded one of yours, so I thought it’d be obvious who the cards were for.”

“He thinks he’s got a much better arse than I have,” said Simon. “A real man’s arse, so he says. He thinks mine’s a boy’s arse,” he added.

Bruce shook his head vigorously.

“No way. You got a man’s arse all right, Simon. Firm, compact, muscular, lean and steel-hard.”

Simon winced as his penis tried to force its way violently out of his denims. He adjusted things and looked at Bruce.

“So I guess it’s you who sent the cards; and you who wants to spank me?”

“Er, no, not quite,” replied Bruce. “Ivor’s the one who wants to get into your pants…I mean who wants you as his Valentine. But I’m the one who wants to spank you.”

“But I don’t get it,” protested Simon. “Which of you….?”

“It’s like this,” explained Bruce gently. “Ivor here is eighteen, loves getting his hide tanned, and needs a boyfriend. I’m five years older than he is and I love having a young lad like him to control and discipline. We suit each other that way; but we’re not in love with each other. I’ve got a mate round the corner and we have a fantastic sex-life. I want to move in with him, but before I go, I want to get Ivor here set up with a boy his own age, who likes getting his arse warmed, and who can share his bed; and I’ll come round every day to see to the discipline.”

Simon stared before he muttered, “Right. I get it. I think. It’s…it’s a bit weird, huh?”

“Perfectly natural, if you ask me,” said Bruce. “So, when I come to collect you this evening, I’ll bring you up here and spank you; and we’ll see how you get on. Having a fantastic arse is one thing, but wanting to get it spanked is quite another. I don’t suppose you got spanked as a kid?”

Simon shook his head. “No, but Tiger spanks me sometimes.”

Both Bruce and Ivor looked at him.

“Yeh; that’s what we thought. I was passing your flat one day and I was sure I heard the sound of someone getting spanked. That’s why I hoped you’d be the guy I was looking for. Do you like it when Tiger spanks you?” asked Ivor breathlessly.

“I think it’s brilliant,” said Simon with a dazzling grin.

“Looks like we’ve maybe hit the jackpot,” observed Bruce to Ivor. “But what about Tiger?”

“What about him?” asked Simon.

“Well, are you and Tiger……”

“Oh, no! We’re not an item. He was looking for a new flatmate a few months ago and that’s how I ended up here. I’m not Tiger’s kind of boy. He’s got boyfriends by the barrow-load and he loves to play the field. If I moved out, he’d soon get another flatmate.”


They chatted for several minutes longer and then Simon felt he had, albeit reluctantly, to return to Tiger, as he might be wondering where he’d got to. Bruce placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You got a pair of shorts, Simon?”

“Yeh; but I don’t wear them in February. Too bloody cold!”

“Wear them tonight.”

“But I…..”

Bruce’s eyebrows rose steeply.

“Yes, sir,” said Simon and, behind Bruce’s back, Ivor gave him a broad grin and an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

“No underpants or briefs; t-shirt on top, nothing else; bare feet. Understand, Simon?”

“Yes, sir,” panted Simon as he doubled over, stabbed by a spasm of discomfort from his straining, protesting, struggling penis.

Outside the door of his own flat, Simon stood for several minutes steadying his breathing and allowing his bounding erection to subside at least partially, before he went in. Tiger demanded to know where he’d been.

“Watching Ivor getting the cane,” said Simon.

“What?!”

Simon explained while Tiger listened in increasing disbelief.

“Balls!” he said when Simon had finished. “You been reading far-fetched stories on that Malespank site again, Simon?”

“It’s all true,” Simon protested while Tiger rolled his eyes.

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

Well before eight o’clock that evening, Simon was attired in a tight white t-shirt, very short and close-fitting shorts, which revealed the full contours of his exquisitely-rounded bottom, and nothing else at all. Tiger eyed him.

“You sure this Bruce guy isn’t gonna have you for dinner?” he asked.

Simon shook his head.

“These shorts are just begging for a horny guy to get inside them,” warned Tiger.

“I’ll be fine,” Simon assured him, “and I’m just up the stair. If you hear me screaming, you can come up and rescue me.”

“If I’ve got to come and rescue you, the first thing I’ll do when I get you back here is give you the longest, hardest spanking you’ve ever had in your life,” Tiger threatened grimly.

“Maybe I’ll scream for you to come and rescue me even if I don’t really need rescued,” suggested Simon.

“If you do that, I’ll have a beer after you’ve had your spanking, and then I’ll give you another one; longer and harder!”

Simon went up to Tiger and placed a hand on his chest. “You’re the best flat-mate ever,” he said.

“Silly bugger,” muttered Tiger; but Simon knew that he was pleased.


Spot on eight o’clock the doorbell rang and Simon found Ivor waiting. He took him in and introduced him to Tiger.

“I can see why Simon likes you,” Tiger said. “Have a great time,” he added to Simon. “Enjoy the spanking.”

“He will,” Ivor assured him and he led Simon out of the flat and up the stairs to where Bruce was waiting.

“Very nice,” said Bruce approvingly as his eyes slid over Simon’s revealing attire. “You look exactly like a boy who can’t wait to get a Valentine’s day spanking.”

“Is a Valentine spanking different from an ordinary spanking?” enquired Simon curiously.

“There’s lots and lots of love in it,” Ivor informed him. “You’ll feel.”

Simon wondered about the unusual expression, instead of the more normal you’ll see. Bruce told the boys to stand face to face and to look into each other’s eyes. Two eager young cocks rose swiftly as they obeyed.

“Okay,” said Bruce. “Now kiss each other.”

Shyly at first, wary of causing any offence, they touched lips and withdrew and then touched again before tongue-tips darted out to explore further; and before long a pair of passionate mouths were joined and a pair of lively tongues were probing deep and hard. The boys felt Bruce’s hands in their hair, prising them firmly apart.

“Good. Looks like you’re compatible. Okay, Ivor. Strip.”

Simon watched wide-eyed, heart thumping, blood throbbing between his legs, as Ivor obeyed and stood fish-naked in front of him, his hands behind his back, his massive arousal leaving Simon in no doubt as to Ivor’s appreciation of his sexual attractiveness. Simon himself was then ordered to strip and soon he too stood, just as excited, before Ivor. Bruce sat on the sofa and gently but firmly pulled Simon across his knees. Bruce’s bare thigh rubbing against his pulsing cock was a stimulus almost too much to bear. When Bruce began to caress his buttocks with both hands, Simon could feel a wetness beneath him; and it seemed Bruce was aware of it too.

“Steady, boy,” said Bruce. “It’s your responsibility to keep yourself under control. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Simon panted as he tried desperately to remember how to do quadratic-equations.

Bruce began to spank him with slow, firm slaps which drove Simon half crazy with excitement; but as the spanks built up, covering his whole bottom from waist to crease, from thigh to thigh, the sting slowly started to get through to him and he began to wince pleasurably. Bruce spanked harder and suddenly Ivor was at his head, caressing his shoulders, stroking his hair, kissing his neck. Simon moaned and settled into the spanking, while revelling in the exquisite sensations of delight being delivered by Ivor. As the minutes went by and still Bruce’s broad, heavy hand fell inexorably on Simon’s now burning and tender skin, he began to pant and squirm and kick a little, clutching at Ivor with his hands as he fought to process the increasing level of pain. Ivor’s mouth closed on his and as sensations of unutterable pleasure surged through him he found himself embracing the pain in his bottom so that it and Ivor’s kisses seemed one.

The spanking stopped and Ivor pulled gently away.

“Almost done,” said Bruce quietly; and he suddenly and unexpectedly flipped Simon over on to his back across his lap and held his legs in the air with his left hand while resuming spanking him with his right. Ivor meantime grasped Simon’s towering erection with one hand and squeezed his nipples firmly in turn with the other while he drew him into a passionate kiss which made stars explode in Simon’s head. Bruce spanked deep into Simon’s exposed cleft, setting the tender skin there aflame and as Ivor worked with both hands and his sensuous mouth, Simon climaxed so powerfully that the whole room seem to whirl. He regained full consciousness, panting with exhaustion and fulfilment, and opened his eyes to see a grinning Ivor looking into them. He glanced down at his chest and saw it streaked with copious streams of viscuous spunk.

“You got a great pair of balls,” Ivor told him, “and they can’t half produce the goods. You could fill a mug with that lot!”

Simon went red and smiled shyly at Ivor. Bruce interrupted.

“Okay, Simon. You’d best milk Ivor or he’s gonna feel left out.”

Simon slid on to the floor on his knees and took Ivor’s cock and balls in his hands, enjoying the feel of them before he set expertly to work and had the boy spurting semen up into his own face in a cataclysmic orgasm.

“Lick each other clean,” ordered Bruce, “and I’ll get some wine.”

The boys complied and then both sat on the floor at Bruce’s feet and drank the wine which he gave to them.

“Tiger never spanked me like that,” said Simon. “That was awesome.”

“Still one stage to go,” said Bruce, and Simon looked up interrogatively at him; but Bruce said no more.
They drank wine and talked contentedly for about half an hour before Bruce got them on their feet.

“Ivor’s been caned today,” said Bruce, “so he’s not getting any more; but you need to feel the cane, young Simon. If you’re coming to live here with Ivor you’ll be subject to the cane, same as he is, so you best learn how it feels.”

“Cane? Me? But I’ve never been caned! It looked horrendous! Ivor’s still got marks on his bum!”

“I should hope so,” retorted Bruce. “I’d not be doing much of a job with the cane if the marks had faded just twelve hours later. The Valentine story involves pain and sacrifice as well as love; so you get kissed by the cane as well as by Ivor’s lips in a Valentine spanking.”

“Right,” said Simon, and Ivor ruffled his hair encouragingly.

Bruce fetched his cane from a cupboard and showed it to Simon who gazed in a mixture of curiosity and apprehension at the slender, lithe rod. His penis rose sharply and Bruce smiled.

“You want it, eh Simon?”

“My body seems to,” Simon admitted. “My head’s not so sure.”

“Bend over the chair; and stay in position until I tell you to move.”

Simon obeyed and felt the cool touch of the cane on his still-hot behind. Bruce slid it slowly over the skin as if exploring every inch of his quivering mounds. Fierce kisses, he told himself; that’s what they’re going to be. I can take that. The cane was raised and a second later whipped down hard. A fiery streak of pain blazed a path across the centre of Simon’s bottom and he gasped aloud. He steadied himself and grasped the edges of the chair more tightly. The cane was tapping his behind and he knew another stroke was imminent. He tried in vain to relax his bottom as he felt the punitive rod lifted away and then heard the whistle as it descended. A snap, a burst of searing fire, a half-stifled yelp, and then Simon was breathing hard and tensing and relaxing his glutes. The cane lashed across him again and he bucked and grunted as he dealt with the ferocious sting. Barely had he regained control of his body when a fourth stroke bit hard into his flesh and made him jerk and twist from the waist. There was a slightly longer pause while the cane traversed the tender skin where his buttocks merged into the tops of his legs. Simon knew from being spanked that this was a sensitive area and realised that if that was where the cane landed, the stroke would be particularly painful. He tensed himself in readiness but the vicious blast of pain as the cane whipped hard into the vulnerable flesh took him by surprise and he bucked violently, the chair rocking.

“Fuck!”

The expletive was forced from him as he absorbed and reacted to the savage burn. Bruce took him by the hair and twisted his head round so that Simon was looking up into his face.

“No, Simon,” said Bruce firmly. “That is not acceptable.”

“I’m sorry. I know it’s not. I couldn’t help it.”

Simon knew as soon as he’d uttered those last words what Bruce’s response was going to be; and it was.

“You can help it; and you will. I’m going to give you that stroke again to help you remember. Understand, Simon?”

Simon blinked hard and muttered a submissive yes, sir. Bruce released his hair and returned to his position behind and to Simon’s left side. Once more the cane probed the quivering, bruised flesh before snapping down hard at a slight angle so that it cross-cut three of the previous welts. Simon stifled a yell and squirmed as pain coursed through his body.

“That was the punishment-stroke,” said Bruce softly. “Last of the six coming up. Don’t move until I tell you. You remember what happens if you move out of position, don’t you, Simon?”

Simon saw vividly before his inward sight Ivor writhing under the two penalty-strokes he’d received that morning for moving out of position.

“I remember,” Simon assured him fervently. “I do.”

The wait for the final stroke seemed to Simon like an eternity and when it came the cane burned a furrow of searing pain low across his throbbing buttocks, forcing a violent bucking and a high-pitched yelp out of him. He clung desperately to the chair and screwed his eyes tightly shut, concentrating everything he’d got on processing the brutal pain. Gradually he won his battle, forcing the agony into retreat. He felt Bruce’s hands moving reassuringly across his behind.

“That was impressive,” Bruce assured him. “Stand up.”

Simon rose stiffly and began to explore his thrashed bottom carefully with wondering hands. Beneath his finger-pads he felt ridges, heat, and swollen, throbbing skin. Ivor approached and kissed him softly on the mouth and his penis rose so fast that he gasped.

“Okay, Ivor,” said Bruce, “he’s your responsibility now. He needs comfort and he needs love. I’ll be asking him tomorrow morning if he’s satisfied; and if he’s not, I’ll be blasting seven shades of hell out of your young arse with my cane!”

“He won’t have anything to complain about,” Ivor reassured him.

“I won’t, sir. Honestly, I won’t,” said Simon, horrified at the prospect of Ivor getting another beating with that searing cane.

Bruce smiled. “Off you go, then,” he said; and Ivor took Simon by the hand and led him to his bedroom.

There Ivor kissed and licked and caressed his cane-welts before making love to him with such passion and tenderness that Simon wept hot tears of joy. Far into the night they writhed in ecstasy together and dawn saw them lying entwined in each other’s arms, their hearts as inextricably entwined as their bodies. Wakening sleepily in the morning light, Simon gazed adoringly at Ivor as he slept; and he knew with gratitude deep inside that he had been given the gift of Valentine; the gift of love.

 

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Story ©MMXIX by Joelstrap, and used here by very kind permission of the author.

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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Joelstrap’s excellent earlier stories for The Canery are available here.  Further great stories by Joelstrap may be found at this external link