♥ Site recommended story ♥
Hot explicit adult fiction by guest author Dave Stewart
It was in the local supermarket that I met Mr Hurd for the first time in many years. At school he had been my mathematics teacher and while we had never fallen out as such, I had felt the wrath of his tawse many, many times. He looked different now. Obviously older, as it was 25 years since I had left school, so I suppose he had to be in his late 60s while I was 41.
“Mr Hurd?” I enquired.
The tall, still authoritative figure eyed me up and down before answering, “Yes, and who are you?”
“David…David Welsh Sir,” and I smiled adding, “Mr Hurd.”
A few moments of thought and then he said, “Ah, Welshy my lad, yes how are you and what have you been doing with yourself?”
We chatted and he insisted that went into the coffee shop for a catch-up. We talked about life and what we had both done and he told me he had retired from teaching and moved down to the same village I now lived in.
I enquired what he did now and he replied that he, “Still sees some old boys now and again.”
Our chat ended and it was two weeks later that we again met in the same store and shared another coffee. Talk this time returned to school days, because in truth we had little else in common, and he made me blush by reminding me of the days he had me stand in front of him for a hand tawsing. “Yes my lad I don’t think the sixers ever did you any harm. Did they?”
Again I could not disagree as I my education had led me on to university, and I now held an accounting post that gave me a good lifestyle, although I was still single.
I found myself drawn to converse further about the tawsings and asked him, “Tell me, did you enjoy thrashing us boys?”
A laugh followed and he admitted to, “A certain amount of pleasure and satisfaction sorting some boys out!” He then startled me by adding, “And you Welshy. I remember giving you a few good tawsings and admiring how you took them. I often wondered since how you would have taken the cane, had it been in use in our part of Scotland.”
I became quite brave at this point and said I no doubt would have handled the cane just as well as the tawse. Mr Hurd asked me how it felt to take a tawsing and we conversed openly about all things to do with beatings and school discipline.
“You should come and visit me some time, Welshy, and I will show you my memorabilia from those days. I kept some of my toys when they were banned.”
I said that I would like that, while wondering why and we arranged for me to visit him the following evening. I found myself thinking all night and then the following day about school discipline. I found myself unusually excited, touching my cock frequently then wanking furiously twice. I was indeed excited, fantasising about being tawsed again, which shocked me.
I visited Mr Hurd that evening and we chatted over some cheese and wine before he went to a drawer and handed me the same tawse he said he had taken to me all these years ago. It was a fearsome dark brown three tailed length of leather and I could see immediately why it had terrified us kids all these years ago. In fact Mr Hurd had a reputation for being a hard and ruthless tawser and six from him was the worst punishment in school.
My mind wandered back to Miss Beaton, my English teacher, a tall lady in her early 20s. I was in love with her, or so I thought, and I fantasised about being tawsed by her. That first time she rumbled me she appeared surprised but the second time she knew exactly what was on my mind. So she sent me to see Mr Hurd! Never again did I try it on with Miss Beaton. Strangely, just then Mr Hurd mentioned her as he poured more wine into my glass.
“Yes Welshy, you had a crush on that delightful lady and a fetish about her punishing you, I believe!”
I blushed and the memories came rushing back. We laughed and chatted further before I asked about his other memorabilia.
“Ah, that is in my study,” he stood up and I followed him automatically. We entered an upstairs room that was indeed full of memorabilia including a traditional cast frame school desk and a teacher’s one.
“I am a bit olde worlde about this room, Welshy, so when we are within it you should call me ‘Sir’, is that clear? Just like you did at school and in the supermarket when we renewed our acquaintance.”
“Eh? Yes, Yes Sir,” I responded.
Sir opened a cupboard and within were an array of canes and tawses. I couldn’t believe my eyes! I was invited to inspect them. As I did so, I heard rustling behind me, and then when Sir came into view he was wearing his old schoolteacher’s gown.
I am, and was, far from stupid and realised immediately that there was more to Sir than first met the eye. And a strange feeling swept over me as I stood holding the tawses and canes in turn.
“Are you impressed young Welshy?” Sir asked.
I turned around, holding a tawse, and answered truthfully, “Yes Sir, very.”
“Are you still as brave Lad?” asked Sir suddenly. I blushed deeply and lowered my head. “Perhaps not?” he teased.
“Your not meaning, well, meaning Sir that you expect me to take the tawse all these years later?”
Sir replied, “Come, we shall retire downstairs again and chat some more, Welshy.”
Downstairs Mr Hurd, or Sir, explained to me that he knew all those years ago what I was up to with Miss Beaton and wondered if I still held such fantasies. He added that many boys still did and then told me that he had a few old boys who visited him for some school discipline. He concluded by saying, “Perhaps I misjudged you Welshy…or was it that bulge in your shorts that misled me?”
That started a long conversation about those special boys and what they got up to. Sir told me how some boys took the tawse, some the cane and some did lines for him. Some did all three.
I asked Sir what he enjoyed most and he said that he got great pleasure returning to his schoolteacher role and providing the necessary discipline. He was still sat in his gown holding that wicked tawse when the conversation dried up suddenly. All I could say to him was that I was not sure about things.
He smiled rather benignly and said that he understood, and that I should go and think and if I decided it was for me then fine, and if not no more would be said.
As I left, feeling foolish and embarrassed, Sir gave me his phone number and said he hoped to speak soon.
I left knowing I had chickened out but could not get home soon enough to wank off. I decided that I needed to visit again. The following day I phoned Sir and left a message and eagerly awaited his call back. All I said in my message was “Sir it is Welshy and I think I would like to visit again, as discussed.”
The call back came that evening after 10pm and a very straight-talking Sir asked me what I wanted and made me say I wanted to experience the tawse again. Like at school. He also drew from me that I wanted to be caned as well.
“Very well young Welshy!” he retorted. “You will report to my study tomorrow evening at 7pm . When you do you will have written for me 100 lines, which I will inspect. I expect your handwriting to be neat. And no grammatical or spelling mistakes. The lines will be “I deserve to be tawsed and caned for my behaviour.”
The conversation ended and excitedly I got paper and pen and started to write. Now, lines was never my thing and soon the boredom overtook the excitement and it was an hour and a half later when I completed the hated lines. I hated them, just like I had at school.
The following evening I visited Sir at the agreed hour and he opened the door dressed in his gown, shirt, tie and suit trousers.
“Welshy good timekeeping, now come on in. Nervous?” he asked, and he smiled when I said I was very nervous.
He took me to the study and asked for my lines before telling me to wait outside his door until I was called. Stood there, it was school days all over again. Waiting to be punished! I felt that very worrying nervous stomach churning feeling almost all schoolboys have known.
“Get in here now Welshy!” bellowed the voice from within. I entered and was immediately lectured on my behaviour and lines. Spelling and writing issues were pointed out and I began to feel almost intimidated.
“Right then Welshy. Perhaps some hand warming will encourage better writing for your next set of lines!”
I noticed he had referred to my next set. I stood in front of Sir as he withdrew the familiar tawse from within his gown. Without being told to, I raised my hands, placing palm on palm, almost as if this was a normal thing to do. After some instruction as to height and posture, the tawse was raised and descended with a force that made me yell out and rub my hands furiously.
A smiling Sir simply said, “Change palms for me, Welsh.”
I took my six strokes, three on each palm, with a strange feeling of pained excitement. As soon as it was over I started to sport the most difficult of erections to hide. Sir noticed it. He smiled but said nothing.
Sir replaced the tawse in his gown as he took it off, placing it over the chair, and rolled his sleeves up. He then went to the cupboard and took his time selecting a cane. He swished and flexed several in the process, maybe for effect, before picking a wicked looking crook-handled, swishy cane.
“Now then Welsh. I want your trousers lowered and you bent over that desk.”
I did as instructed and felt grateful for the thin covering of my underpants. Standing behind me, Sir flexed the cane then spoke with authority, “So Welsh, your first taste of the cane. I expect you to remain over the desk. If you stand, utter profanities or reach behind I shall give that stroke again and add an extra penalty one. Boys at school took this in their stride, so I expect an adult lad like you to do the same. Do you understand?”
I very nervously spluttered out “Yes Sir” and inwardly wondered what it was that had encouraged me into this situation. I felt his hands on my backside and then, to my horror, the pants were dragged down. I felt the tentative tap of the cane on my bare flesh.
Suddenly, as I toyed with my own thoughts about what it would feel like, the first cane stroke whistled down. I shot up in response to the pain, bolt upright, and shouted “FUCK ME!”
Sir growled, “Perhaps later lad, but now we’ll start again and add another. YOU WILL LEARN TO BEHAVE IN MY CLASS!”
The second cut deep. I bit my lip and held on with stoic determination. The third stroke almost made me stand up again and the fourth was a real burner. The next two strokes made me hold on for grim death and it was all I could do not to do anything except grunt loudly.
I was keeping count and knew I had taken six. There were two more to come and I was determined not to incur more. I wondered to myself why I didn’t just stand up and say I wouldn’t take any more. Just then the next stroke whistled down followed swiftly by a burning final stroke. My eighth.
“Stand and turn around Welsh!” I was instructed. I was told to stand in the corner. I stood there contemplating what had just happened and soon my softened penis grew embarrassingly.
When Sir allowed me come out of the corner, I tried to use my hands to conceal my erection from him. I was mortified but Sir smiled. He came towards me. Without any resistance from me, he held my cock and slowly started to wank me. Despite or perhaps because of my burning hands and bottom, I soon exploded into the tissue he had handy. I was left to clean up and dress.
Arriving back downstairs we discussed openly what had happened and I declared that it was more painful than I had expected. However, I couldn’t deny that my rock hard cock betrayed my excitement.
“Any time you wish some more Welshy then all you need do is write me some lines, and then come and see me.”
It felt strange thanking the man responsible for my discomfort as I left and even stranger that as soon as I sat in the car I was planning my next tutorial.
I was about to undertake what might be termed “adult further education.”
Story © 2012 by David Stewart, used by kind permission
Erotic amusement by Rod Cayenne
Sometimes I almost feel like I want to kill my mother-in-law. Why? Well, let me take you back…
I’d been married to Janine for about a year. Circumstances dictated that I had to spend a week at her mother’s cottage in leafy Worcestershire. The area was beautiful but at the same time rather boring for a youngish fellow like me. Naturally, over the week I had the urge to masturbate, and quite a lot at that. Much to my shame, Janine’s mum caught me at it one day! She was furious, accusing me of being unfaithful to her daughter, and generally made me feel pretty rotten. It’s not easy for a mature woman to understand just what it’s like being a man. Being a man means possessing an uncontrollable, rampant cock and two balls full of sperm between your legs. It’s torture sometimes.
Anyway, as I was saying, she caught me at it. I was going hell for leather at the time, hoping for a quick orgasm. I think if I’d been doing it more sedately, it might not have been so embarrassing. She squealed and then the shouting started! She could shout for England! I covered up quickly, but her face went bright red with anger, or something. I wanted to die, or make amends somehow or other.
As she berated me, she revealed that she had once caught Janine’s half-brother Gilbert doing the same thing when he was nineteen. She had ‘smacked him black and blue with her hairbrush’ apparently. Unfortunately, I chose that moment to crack up with laughter. I couldn’t help it. It was just the vision of stuffy old Gilbert over her lap that did it.
Her fury was awoken again, and in the end to placate her, I foolishly suggested that she gave me the “Gilbert treatment.” I couldn’t believe how quickly she jumped at the opportunity. She trotted off to her bedroom to retrieve her hairbrush. Even to my less than expert eye, I could see that it was a vicious-looking item. I later found out that it was a genuine ebony one.
She ordered me to lower my keks but allowed me to keep my underpants on. An arrangement that suited my newly-found modesty. However, those underpants were unfashionably skimpy, so offered little real protection as the hard, merciless brush blows hit home.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
The brush continued its punishing reckoning. Only just then, as I wriggled on mum’s lap did it dawn on me just how sexy she was. It was her black nylons that started it. Then her perfume, which like her presence, was almost overwhelming. Then there was her sexy voice as she belittled me with her pithy and barbed comments,
“I’ll teach you to masturbate in front of me. You’re going to regret this! You disgusting little worm! You’re not worthy of my Janine’s affections.”
On and on she went. All the time the ebony brush beat the hell out of my bottom. And then suddenly and inexplicably I felt the first stirrings of another erection. Damn! She could feel it too, as she suddenly stopped the spanking.
“I think we’d better have these down, so that I can keep an eye on you!” she laughed.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
The brush struck again and then again and again. The pain as it assaulted my naked backside was phenomenal. And then, suddenly it was all over.
After she’d gone, I finished off. I came heavily as I thought about her. I managed to keep quiet as I came, as I didn’t want to alert her to my actions. I massaged my burning cheeks, which gave some momentary relief from the burning pain.
The atmosphere was electric for the rest of the week. There was a real sexual frisson between us.
On the last day of my stay, I was packing my Adidas bag when she came into my room, the guest bedroom. She had the hairbrush in her hand, but it wasn’t being used for grooming her hair. Oh no! She waved it at me, saying, “I think, my boy, a reminder would be in order before you go back to my Janine!”
I couldn’t argue with her as I still felt incredibly embarrassed. I bent over her lap again, this time keks and briefs were around my ankles from the word go as she punished me with the brush.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
Sitting down was painful as I took my reserved seat on the train. She was waving to me from the platform, and then, Oh God, she waved the hairbrush in the air as the train accelerated away! It was at this point that I began to hate her a little. That little public gesture with the hairbrush made me think that my spankings would not be kept secret. And indeed, by the time I got back to our London home, Janine had received a blow by blow account of my humiliations.
Mum’s evil influence spread, with Janine acquiring a special wooden hairbrush from an upmarket arcade somewhere in Chelsea. I was treated to weekly spankings, and quite quickly these became even more frequent, and came to dominate our sex life.
Things got even worse however, when mother-in-law came to stay. I ended up being spanked by the pair of them as they watched TV in the living room. Strictly! And then there was that infamous shopping trip. I was enjoying the peace and quiet when they burst in the front door, obviously after a few drinks. I was informed that they’d bought me a present. I was told to close my eyes. I was handed the present, and, even before I opened my eyes I had a good idea what it was.
It was a cane. A school cane. About three feet long with one of those crook handle things. It looked lethal, and in their willing hands it was. I was made to drop my keks and underpants, bend over and then place my hands on the coffee table. Very soon, the assault on my arse began. SWISH-CRACK! SWISH-CRACK! SWISH-CRACK! SWISH-CRACK! SWISH-CRACK! SWISH-CRACK! I had to beg for a halt around the sixth stroke, but was immediately told that the 12 strokes due had been increased to 14 because of this! It was good to rest for a few seconds as the pain sunk in before the caning resumed. They were taking it in turns now, and I was becoming a very sorry husband. And a very sore husband. They laughed and laughed and I was awarded further sets of six strokes. Eventually, I think I took 32 strokes before they took pity on me. The damage was incredible.
I was sore for days! But even worse was the knowledge that my sweet Janine now had a doomsday weapon to control her husband – a whippy, rattan school cane. And all thanks to my kind, caring mother-in-law.
Story © 2012 by Rod Cayenne
Photography © 2012 by Bamboo Swinger, used by kind permission
Erotic equestrian fiction by Rod Cayenne
My riding instructor cut a handsome figure in his tweed jacket, jods and shiny black Aigle boots.
“You seem to be a little too fond of the whip, my friend!” he admonished. “Please cut down its use on the horses. If you have a sadistic streak, you should take it out on the stable lads or lassies. They are used to the riding crop and dressage whip on their haunches.”
“Really?” I laughed as I dismounted and tied the horse. “Don’t tempt me.”
“Aha, another enthusiast, if I’m not mistaken. I’m not shocked. Your interest is quite common. Are you really keen? If so, I may be able to help.”
“Really?” I asked again. I stared into his blue eyes.
“Yes, really. There is a flogging group hereabouts. Interested?”
“Yes, rather! Tell me more please,” I added, more than intrigued.
“It’s called The Crop Circle. Get it?”
“Oh, how very droll. Sounds right up my street.”
“Well, don’t get too worked up about it just yet. Let me tell you a bit more about it.”
“Thank you,” I added, trying to seem humble and at the same time trying to will away an erection from forming in my jodhpurs as I thought about beating stable lads and lasses.
“Alright then. I’ll be honest with you. It started off as a spin-off from an occult group.”
“Oh, wicked!” I said, somewhat childishly.
“Quite. But then quite a few of us realised we were more interested in the floggings than the witchcraft.”
“I see. I understand.”
“Of course, some of the traditions have followed on. There is an initiation. Which will be painful for you…”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I can handle that.”
“Don’t be so sure about that. Most likely it’ll be be a birching. With rods you’ve collected yourself from the sacred forest.”
I gulped a little. It’s true I was less keen suddenly, although I was aware that I had a masochistic side too. We went into the stables where he showed me the fine collection of crops and whips, which were prominently on display. I picked a crop and admired its beautiful craftsmanship and leatherwork. I placed it back with a shudder.
“I’ll get the Circle Master to contact you. Of course, I cannot guarantee anything. He is choosy. There is the initiation and you have to prove yourself worthy. There are dominant and submissive members of the group. And of course, some who like a little of both sides of the coin. Tell me frankly, where would you see yourself fitting in?”
“Well, to be honest, I do like a bit of variety in all things.”
“I see. At least, I think I do. You want some give and some take?”
“Yes. Yes, to be honest, that’s what I really want.”
“Good! In that case I think a preliminary thrashing right now would be appropriate.”
“Yes, just think of it as a pre-initiation. After all, I could forget to mention your interest to the Circle Master.”
I don’t think I’d ever felt so trapped in my life before!
“Can I keep my jods on please?”
“No, no, no! That won’t do at all! It wouldn’t be a proper initiation if it wasn’t on the bare, would it?”
“But this is just the pre-initiation,” I tried to plead.
“Don’t split hairs and don’t try to be funny with me. The stable hands get it bare, and they are a lot younger and less tough than you are. Get your bottom bare now and get over the bale. I’m going to beat you for excessive use of the whip. Isn’t that fair?”
“Yes, I suppose so. Although I didn’t mean any harm by my use of the whip.”
“Tell that to your mount! But don’t worry, because I won’t mean any harm by my use of the whip on you. To make it fair, I’ll use your own whip on you. Give it to me please.”
I handed the crop over. It was a cheap item, not as impressive as those in the display, and I was seriously doubting that it was that severe. However, my opinion soon altered as it thrashed down on my naked haunches!
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
I gasped as lines of fire lit up my backside.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
It was humiliating.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
It was even worse that I was being beaten with my own crop.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
I resolved to go easy on the horses in future.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
The flames began to subside just a little as the crop was thrown down beside me.
“I think we’ll complete your schooling with a final half-dozen with the dressage whip!”
I wanted to say no, more than anything in the world. But I was under the instructor’s spell, and the word just wouldn’t come out. He pushed me further into the bale with his shiny boot.
That dressage whip was even worse! It cut and flailed and reduced me to tears. It was agony. Agony and ecstasy. I loved it!
There were to be several more sessions over bales, fine leather saddles and in a bedroom back in the farmhouse once the weather got really cold. But I didn’t hear from the Circle Master in all that time. Had I been tricked, or was I just not worthy? I didn’t want to press it with the instructor as our sessions were so intense and enjoyable. No, I didn’t want to jeopardise the good thing we were sharing.
Story © 2012 by Rod Cayenne
Photography © 2011 by Jonathan, and used by very kind permission
An erotic eulogy by Rod Cayenne
Ah, her sweet buttocks of pleasure. So warm, so tender, so gentle. Soft, welcoming and beautiful.
“Come and see us,” the twins seem to say. “Treat us nicely. Enjoy the treasure. Have some pleasure.”
But those cheeks bring out my sadistic side. I long to spank them. To pinch them. To beat them. To welt them. To be really rough. They are beautiful buttocks, but at the same time almost offensive. Theirs is an obscure offence that must be punished. Perhaps with my heirloom leather strap. Or this handy modern rubber one. It smells wicked and it is wicked. It will reduce her will to rubble. Even more sadistic is this trusty rattan cane. It beats and whips, brings gasps, screams and wet, wet tears.
“Put them away,” I want to say. “Hide your buttocks. Skin them with trousers, skirts or tights. Conceal their treasure. Hide them, hide them from my evil gaze. I cannot lie. I love and detest them at the same time.”
You as their owner are to be blame. You flirt that bottom at me, knowing full well my unusual proclivities. It turns you on to know my mind is in this turmoil. You are such a fool and you have been warned. Oh yes, you’ll be sorry. “Fetch the cane!”
Written by and © Rod Cayenne, 2012
Adult entertainment by Rod Cayenne
The story so far: 22-year-old Johnny has just had a severe caning from his father. The cane has been in use regularly ever since Johnny complained about how boring Sundays were.
Part 1 is here
Part 2 is here
Part 3 is here
Now read on for Part 4:
“Quick, Johnny, pull your trousers up, your mother’s here!” said Dad hanging the whippy cane back on the brass hook.
“Shit!” said Johnny, but whether it was the surprise of his mum’s arrival or the pain he felt as he pulled his jeans up over his sore arse wasn’t clear.
Dad opened the kitchen door as Mum strolled in through the rear entrance. She gave them both a peck on the cheek, then addressed Johnny sternly, “You’re obviously in disgrace! Go to your room, shut the door, and stay there until one of us tells you to come out again.”
With that, 22-year-old Johnny and his sorry arse disappeared upstairs. Fortunately, his bedroom door had a lock. For he knew he would soon be masturbating happily to the recollection of his Sunday caning. Still, he couldn’t help wondering what his mother was doing there. The timing of her arrival had been unfortunate, to say the least. It was a coincidence, surely?
Meanwhile Mum and Dad were having a cuddle in the kitchen. It had been a while, but a reconciliation was underway.
“So tell me about this caning business, honey,” she purred.
“Well, there’s not a lot to tell, really. It started happening a few weeks ago. Johnny was in one of his surly moods. It was a Sunday, and he was bored. I told him that I’d got into trouble at boarding school for saying how boring Sundays were. I’d had a bare bottom caning for my troubles. I can still remember it as if it were yesterday. Anyway, I had a cane in the loft. I’d nicked it from school.”
“Yes, I remember seeing it a long time ago. I’d have hoped you’d thrown it away by now.”
“Oh you know me. I never throw anything away. Yes, well anyway, I was saying. Johnny wanted to see my cane. And then he wanted a sample stroke just to see what it was like. And then he started provoking me, so I gave him six of the best. Since then, I’ve caned him every Sunday. I’ve spanked him, too. Bare bum of course.”
“Hmmm, sounds a bit kinky to me darling. Are you sure, this isn’t some gay thing?”
“Oh come on! You know me better than that, surely?” he lied, for the homoerotic nature of the canings was a great source of pleasure to him. Since that first caning, he had masturbated most days thinking about bare bottoms and whippy canes. He had even knocked one off right there in the kitchen.
“Well, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. If I move back in though, I want Johnny’s canings to continue. He’s a bad lad a lot of the time. Maybe we could take it in turns? One of us canes him while the other one watches.”
“Now, who’s the kinky one?” he enquired.
“That’s enough of your cheek. Now let me see that cane!”
He leapt up as commanded and removed the cane from the hook.
“Here it is, darling. I stole it from my housemaster’s study. Looks like a vicious one, don’t you think?”
“It does indeed, Phil. It does indeed. And it did make a real mess of Johnny’s backside today didn’t it?” She flexed the cane playfully. “So is this one you had used on you at school?”
“Well, I don’t know darling. My housemaster was quite the disciplinarian. He had quite a collection of canes. They were all stood in a giant vase thing in his study. He always said it was a Ming vase, but I’m sure it wasn’t.”
“So you can’t be sure that you’ve been caned with this one. Or be sure just how vicious it is?”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out then, Phil. Drop your trousers and pants for me!”
“WHAAAAAT? You’re joking?”
“Hurry up! Unless you want double?”
“But darling! If we must do it, we can’t do it here! What about Johnny?”
“Johnny’s in his room in disgrace, if you remember? Now, hurry up! Keep quiet too. I’m sure a big boy like you can take his medicine bravely and quietly, without disturbing Johnny!”
“Oh, OK then. Not too hard though. Remember I haven’t had it in decades…”
“You are long overdue then. Now get those things down now! Hurry up boy!”
A new side to his wife was emerging. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. Carefully, he unbuckled his trouser belt. He slid his trousers and underpants down. It felt sexy.
“Bend over!” she demanded. As he did, she admired his pert backside. It had always been delectable she thought. Now it was presented to her for a good whipping. She couldn’t resist feeling the cheeks. They were quite beautiful and youthful. She pinched the flesh gently, thinking it was a bottom that could take a generous amount of punishment. She had been thinking of six of the best, but was realising that wouldn’t be enough to satisfy her whiplust. She pinched his cheeks a bit more.
“Steady on!” he said.
“Bah! Now Phil, tell me just how many cane strokes did you inflict on poor Johnny?”
“He’s not poor. He’s a bad lad, as you said yourself. Anyway, it was a dozen.”
“I see, but he’s new to the cane isn’t he? You’re more experienced, aren’t you?”
“Oh Gloria! Not lately!”
“Don’t you Oh Gloria me! You will be caned. You will be caned hard. You will be caned hard sixteen times.”
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
The beating was underway. Up in his room, Johnny was enjoying the warm afterglow of his own caning. He gripped his stiffening penis, pulled back the foreskin and wanked away, enjoying the soreness of his arse and feeling very turned on as he thought about his father and the cane. Furiously he wanked and wanked and fantasised about a harder caning next time. He felt sure his father would oblige. Then he thought about his mother. She had seen at least some of his caning. This turned him on even more and more. He thought about how dominant and masterful his father looked, especially with a cane in his hands. Johnny couldn’t hold back any longer. He spunked heavily, groaning and grunting and yet sure he could hear a cane in use downstairs. He rationalised this as just his vivid and perverted imagination. It wasn’t though! For downstairs, his mother was thrashing the cane down as though her life depended on it!
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
Dad Phil squirmed as the cane lashed down. He hadn’t had this treatment for years. It bloody well hurt. However, it was turning him on, just like it always used to.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
“Want some more?” his wife asked menacingly.
“Oh no! No more! Please!” His arse throbbed painfully from the red cane marks. However, his cock was stiff and engorged, even stiffer than it had been of late. He would be able to satisfy her today, he thought to himself. She wouldn’t need to wander for a good cocking anymore.
She was thinking along similar lines. Her pussy was wet and willing.
“Let’s go upstairs,” she said. “Oh and I want that horrible hook thing removed,” she said, pointing at it with the cane. “The cane will be kept under your pillow from now on. Is that perfectly clear? Now, take the cane upstairs with you.”
Content © 2012 by Rod Cayenne
Real life story by new guest author Strapmenow
Webmaster Rod’s note: This was originally published as a comment on my recent story “Full Bottom Of Steam”, but I thought it good enough to use as a short piece in its own right. Fortunately the comment author was happy with this, so in slightly tidied form, here it is:
…Reminds me of receiving from my wife the ½” thick cane, 3½” double leather spanker, and 1¾” thick double leather tawse (split vertically for the last 6½“) last Tuesday. Boy how I hate the tawse! Actually in that session I hated all those implements. They all really hurt.
I was very pleased with the after effects. The tramlines were still very visible 24 hours later. I just had to smile to myself whenever I sat on a hard seat, like the toilet seat or whenever I went driving. Car seats are great reminders if one has just received a jolly good thrashing. When you first sit in the driver’s seat you are reminded of why your bottom is so sore and everytime you shift position to operate the foot pedals one receives further reminders. I can’t help smiling to myself at each of these reminders, knowing how I came to have them and also knowing from whom I received them! I suppose if it were not for those very painful strokes received, one would not have such delicious reminders afterwards.
Whenever my wife feels like giving me a thrashing that is exactly what I receive. The waiting up in our room is really the worst time. There I am, naked and draped over a couple of pillows on the centre of our bed with the instruments of correction either lying on top of me or right beside me. I know (or at least think I know) what I am in for. My ears are very attuned to every sound I hear from the kitchen. My wife is heard rattling around, doing a whole lot of things, I presume, wholly unrelated to my impending spanking. I think to myself during this interminable waiting time, “I wish she would hurry up and get this thing over with.” My tension level keeps on ramping up to a higher and higher level. Yes, I am fearful of what is about to happen and yet at the very same time I really do want it to happen! Eventually I hear her footsteps coming down the hallway and know that it will all soon be underway.
When I introduced my wife to BDSM spanking (by hitting myself with an implement – can’t remember which one at this point of time, which I had purchased from an Adult Shop – it may have been a crop) I gave myself some 500 strokes on my bare bum, which of course considerably reddened it! Ha ha! I told her, “See it has not done me any harm and you can see how much it has excited me.” This was evidenced by my rampant erection. I said,”Next time I would like you to apply the implement.” She did!
I had always heard that the person giving the thrashings got turned on too, as well as the person receiving, but I did not really believe it. I had thought that they were doing it solely for the pleasure of the one receiving. But Pam was wet. I discovered that when she invited me to touch her. Yes, I discovered that she was very wet indeed.
After ten years of marriage I still love vanilla sex. Each time I come inside Pam is just as much a thrill as the first time. “Yes!” I say to myself, “I can still do this,” and it gives me as much of a charge as the very first time. Yet Pam spanking me adds a very thrilling dimension to our sex life. I don’t fully understand why this is so but just know that it is. It most likely is because in consensual BDSM Spanking the one receiving knows that the giver will not permanently injure you, it is not abuse, which I am very much opposed to. The surrender of control says in a very powerful way, “I trust you and know that you will not in any way harm me. Yes, what you are about to do will hurt me, but I know that you will not take me beyond my ability to bare. Yes, at times you will extend my limits and I’ll discover that my ability to bear the pain is much greater than I would have thought.”
Sometimes, indeed most times, I enjoy the spankings. I love the feel of leather being applied to my bare bottom, or hands. Sometimes I think that it is harder than I can bear. The mind most certainly plays tricks with you. I had really thought that when Pam was caning me that she was using full force. In actual fact she was horrified that I thought she was doing that! She was only using her forearm. Of course, what is actually happening is that your brain releases those wonderful chemicals, endorphins, in response to the pain. The recipient drifts off into that dreamlike state, that state of euphoria called sub-space.
Well Rod, I started off supposedly commenting on a story here and ended up giving a rant on the whole spanking scene! I think that I need a jolly good thrashing! Perhaps you may consider writing a story where you do just that. Ha ha!
I will close now after reading what I have just written to my wife, prior to posting. Keep writing those great stories! I, along with your other select group of readers I have no doubt, enjoy what you write here…
Content © 2012 by Strapmenow