Erotic fiction by Rod Cayenne.
I’d had a terrible night. I kept waking in a sweat from vivid dreams, or were they nightmares? They were all about my headmaster, who I hadn’t visited for recreational discipline in ages.
In my dreams I was bending over for his whippy cane. The sounds of it and our comments to each other kept revolving around my head.
“Six of the best!”
“I think we’ll have those down now!”
“Remember to thank me after each stroke”
“Stick it out”
“These will be harder”
“Get them off.”
“Over the desk!”
“Please beat me harder, Sir!”
On top of all this, I had an itchy bottom. I kept scratching it, but it was no good. Something harder than a scratching session was going to be needed to make things feel right again.
He wasn’t going to be pleased that I had left it so long. In fact, it was just possible he might refuse to see me at all. I gave some thought to buying him a present to make amends. After a little more thought, I decided that use of my bottom as he saw fit would probably be enough. Suddenly the itching returned.
A little while later, as morning took a firm hold, I picked up the phone and dialed his number.
“Hello, it’s me…”
© Rod Cayenne, 2011
Click here to return to the home page for more caning stories
Erotic fiction by Rod Cayenne.
It was a misty morning. I was taking my dog for a walk on the ancient track. Crossing a road at one point, I saw a couple unloading an estate car in the lay-by next to the track. She was dressed in horse-riding apparel, he was wearing just white shorts, a white t-shirt and running shoes. She strode purposefully towards me, while he followed a little way behind. She had a leather-bound riding crop in her hand. She gave me a friendly smile, so I said “Morning! Have you lost your horse?”
“Oh no,” she replied. “No, no, no. Not at all – this crop is for whipping my husband’s bottom with.”
Naturally, I was taken aback at this revelation. However, I decided to play along as things were sounding interesting.
“He does look like a naughty boy,” I said. “May I watch?”
She wagged the black plaited crop in my face and then said, “Yes, why not! You are naughty boy too, but on this occasion you may be our look-out! We often come here on gloomy days for a taste of outdoor discipline.”
We walked on for a few minutes before she stopped and said “Bend over here, Paul”. Obediently her husband bent, touching his toes and looking uncomfortable as his shorts rode up around his ample bottom.
“He’s getting at least fifty strokes – first twenty on his shorts,” and with that she laid into him. The leather crop struck down repeatedly as he squirmed and tried to muffle his cries. What a scary sound it made.
“Shorts down,” she ordered. Skimpy black briefs didn’t offer much protection as she whipped another ten strokes down on his cheeks.
“Pants down now for the next twenty,” she laughed. I was enjoying the spectacle, and even more so now as he edged his briefs down to reveal a hairy but reddened arse to me and to his wife. These strokes seemed even harder and he gasped, cried out, wriggled and screamed.
“A disappointing display from you today Paul!” she said to him. “I’m sure our guest would like to join us later at home to see you at the mercy of my cane.”
“Oh no!” he cried and “Oh yes” she and I chuckled. She licked her lips and then said to me “Have you ever had the cane?”
Content © Rod Cayenne, 2011
Part Two is here
…or click here for the caning stories home page
Erotic fiction by Rod Cayenne.
Quite how my parents came to the decision that I should stay at my Uncle’s will always be a mystery to me. It was something to do with my attitude and final year studies. However, I was just 21 and we weren’t a good combination. I rather resented him. He was successful and semi-retired at a comparatively young age. He was quite bossy and told me about the rules he expected me to follow. I was even told not to stain my bedsheets! As a randy young male this was a problem. Consequently I had taken to masturbating in the toilet sometimes. It was a quiet place and it felt wicked and pervy. I generally only did it when Uncle was out. If he was in, I made sure the door was locked and that the radio was on.
One day it all went horribly wrong. I was sat on the toilet pumping my cock and with my middle finger inserted somewhere where it really shouldn’t have been. I’d forgotten to lock the door and Uncle caught me. “DISGUSTING!” he shouted. “Clean yourself up and come and see me in the front room.”
Sheepishly, I entered the room. Uncle seemed quite relaxed at first. Then the shouting started. I was so embarrassed. I just wanted to make things right again.
He told me he’d been a prefect at school and had thrashed masturbators with a whippy cane. I went bright red and wished the ground would swallow me up. I guessed what was coming next. “Of course, I have kept a couple of canes as souvenirs.” He had me practically begging to be caned. I couldn’t believe I was saying it.
“OK then boy,” he said. “At school it was six of the very best for masturbating. But there is also the matter of your finger! What was that doing?” He pointed his finger at me.
“Twelve for that I think! That makes eighteen strokes!”
I begged and pleaded with him that eighteen was too many. He wouldn’t give way, announcing that, “They will be hard and they will be on your bare arse. I’ll teach you to finger yourself, indeed!”
Boy, did those strokes hurt. I begged again and again but the cane he used kept whipping down. I bucked and squirmed with each agonising stroke. The strokes slashed down following a regular rhythm, almost robotic in precision. My bottom was a mass of sore red lines by the time he had finished.
Afterwards, I felt cleansed and a little elated. He told me I needed regular discipline. And so it was to be. Every week thereafter, I bent over for correction. I grew to love the discipline of the cane and the fact that he took an interest in me. I still live in his house but the resentment has long gone.
Story © Rod Cayenne, 2011-13
If your finger’s clean, you can click here to return to the home page
Erotic fiction by Rod Cayenne.
The summer sunshine was warm and cheering. Johnny Jenkins, 45, was taking the family dog for a walk in the local woods on a Saturday afternoon.
The woods were beautiful. They were privately owned but open to the public. Johnny and the dog loved the place. There had been a noticeable rise in vandalism lately, and youths had been digging up the paths to make bumps, ramps and jumps for their mountain bikes.
Just then another dog came rushing towards Johnny, and then the two dogs ran off for a romp. They ran around and around and then Johnny was almost knocked over by the other dog! Catching his breath, he noticed the dog’s owner approaching.
“I’m sorry!” said the dog’s owner, a tall distinguished chap in his fifties. Johnny couldn’t help admiring the man. He had a grey leather jacket on and a rather attractive silver beard. Johnny was attracted to men with beards and he always had been.
“It’s OK,” said Johnny. “That is a gorgeous dog you have.”
Johnny was regaining his composure. He leant against the side of the wooden bridge which crossed the brook in the woods. The other side of the bridge had been broken, and tossed into the brook. Johnny shook his head. “Just look what those kids have done to this bridge!”
“It’s appalling!” the bearded man replied.
“Those kids could use a good caning,” Johnny blurted out, “Just like I got when I was at school.”
“Yes, indeed,” said the bearded guy. “I was a teacher myself. I wouldn’t have hesitated to give those vandals a sound thrashing with my canes. Although I probably shouldn’t say that these days!” he laughed and, if Johnny was not mistaken, winked.
Sensing things taking an interesting turn, Johnny said, “Mind you, I was a bit of a vandal in my late teens, and was never caught. I’ve felt guilty ever since. I don’t suppose you still have a cane?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” the retired teacher said. “If you want to feel it again, we can go back to my house now. The dogs can play in the garden. My wife will be at home but she is used to me dealing with naughty boys. She won’t mind at all.”
The house was actually a detached bungalow, with twin bay windows. Dingy-looking net curtains hung at the windows and the whole of the front looked a bit run down. Inside was brighter, but still there was something a little dated about the place.
The teacher shouted to his wife, “I’m home darling! I’ve found another naughty boy to deal with. Please leave us in peace.” It sounded as if this was a regular occurrence! Johnny wondered how the teacher found all these naughty boys. It must be his authoritarian air, Johnny rationalised.
“I don’t have a study here,” the teacher said. “The bedroom will have to do. This is my cane cupboard!” he announced with pride, and flung the door open.
Johnny stared into the cupboard. Yes, there was no mistaking it was a cane cupboard alright! There must have been at least twenty canes hanging there. There were various colours, pale bamboo colours to rich, deep browns. Some with a traditional crook handle and some straight ones hanging from thin leather loops. There were at least two riding crops and also what appeared to be a red, synthetic cane. Clearly, this was a teacher who meant business!
Johnny had masturbated to caning fantasies for many years, but now here he was about to experience something he hadn’t felt for, say, 25 years…
“May I keep my pants on, Sir?” Johnny requested. This was a clever trick he’d picked up from spanking stories on the net. The question led the teacher on, and assured Johnny that he would at least have his trousers down for the thrashing to come.
“Yes, you may for the first six strokes, boy,” the teacher said, “But the second six will have to be bare, I’m afraid. Vandalism is something I cannot tolerate and deserves severe punishment.”
So it was to be twelve strokes, Johnny thought to himself. Rather a lot, and twice as many as he’d ever had at school.
The teacher rummaged in his cane cupboard. He took a while and was clearly enjoying his task. He chose a pale and thin looking cane with a crook handle. He swished it through the air. The sound was terrifying. Johnny felt an erection coming on.
“Over the chair, boy!” the teacher instructed, “Don’t touch your trousers, boy. I will take those down!”
And he did! He unbuckled the belt and the trousers fell to the floor. The teacher casually felt the buttocks and then the erection in Johnny’s underpants. “The old perv!” Johnny thought to himself, but didn’t dare share his thoughts with the teacher.
“Let’s get this over with, boy!” the teacher said with an air of distaste. Johnny suspected he was relishing the moment despite this.
“Yes, Sir!” Johnny said quietly.
CRACK! “Ow!” The first cane stroke reminded Johnny what he’d been missing all these years. The pain wasn’t too bad, but then the second stroke came rapidly. It hurt a lot more and Johnny’s eyes grew moist.
CRACK! CRACK! More strokes landed and Johnny was regretting revealing his teenage vandalism. Soon the six strokes on the pants were over.
“Right boy, I am going to pull your pants down now and I don’t want to see an erection! Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sir!” Johnny cried. The erection was long gone. The teacher pulled the pants down roughly. Six beautiful cane marks decorated Johnny’s boyish bottom.
The seventh stroke landed and it was agony! “Please Sir, I’ve had enough!” Johnny cried.
“Don’t complain!” the teacher ordered, “This is long overdue, you vandal! Tell me what you vandalised boy!”
“Well, there was a bus shelter, Sir.”
“A bus shelter!” The teacher was suddenly incandescent with rage. “A bus shelter used by less fortunate members of society? Pensioners, disabled, young mothers?” the teacher asked.
“Yes Sir, sorry Sir” Johnny cried.
“You will be lad, you will be!”
CRACK, CRACK, CRACK !
Soon the twelve strokes were completed. Those last strokes from that whippy cane really stung like mad.
“I am so annoyed with you boy,” the teacher added. “Stay down for another six strokes. Bus shelter indeed! This time you will count the strokes and thank me for each one!”
CRACK! “Ouch! One, Sir! Thank you Sir!”
Soon, eighteen stinging cane strokes had been delivered. Johnny was distraught. He hadn’t expected so many strokes, so much pain and so much cruelty. But somehow it felt so right.
The teacher was looking happier. He was the one with an erection now.
“One of my favourite canes, this one,” he sighed, “I particularly like the crook handle on it. The shape is close to perfection and the sting has some real bite”. He was certainly right about the latter! He took the cane back to the cupboard. The love for that cane and for all his canes was a joy to behold.
“Meet me in the woods tomorrow at one o’clock,” he snapped.
“Yes, Sir. Thank you Sir!” a very humbled Johnny replied.
Story © 2006 by Rod Cayenne
Photo © 2011 by Rod Cayenne
Take me back to the home page