Hot fiction by Rod Cayenne
Robert James strode into the house, making his way down the hall. He stopped quickly, as there before him stood his father, looking stern, with his arms folded, as if blocking the way.
“Robert, we need to have a chat. A little chat, a man to man chat. Come with me.”
They made their way into the father’s den. It was supposed to be a home office, but it was so untidy, it could have passed for a teenager’s bedroom. A motorbike in some state of dismantlement stood in the corner of the room, where the carpet had been folded back, presumably to avoid dirt and oil stains. The room was really being used as an overflow from the garage. A selection of girlie calendars adorned the walls, while the room stank heavily of cigarette smoke. Robert found it quite creepy in there, and wondered why his mother put up with it all, especially the calendars.
Reluctantly, Robert sat down, facing his father who was sat behind a rather battered wooden desk. A cloud of smoke rose from the roll-up hanging limply from the father’s mouth.
“Son, your mother was tidying your room the other day. She found a school cane under the bed. What was it doing there? You haven’t gone all kinky on us have you?”
“Oh that!” laughed Robert, as if it was nothing. “Well you know I collect antiques and curios and things. Well that cane came as part of a job lot of school memorabilia, which I quite liked in a nostalgic way. I picked the lot up for a song.”
“Oh, that’s good then. We were a bit worried. I took a look at the cane. Quite an evil item, reminded me of my old school days.”
Robert laughed again, saying, “Yes, I bet you were a naughty boy, Dad. Always in trouble, with a sore bottom?”
“Hmmm. Less of your cheek, son. I did have a few run-ins, and let me tell you the cane is no joke. A nasty punishment, indeed. I want you to promise me that you’ll never use that cane. Especially if you have a girlfriend.”
“Dad. Get real!”
“Well, I know what you youngsters can be like. Sadistic!”
“I mean it, son. Keep it as a curio if you must, but really your mother and I would rather not see it. Is that clear?”
“OK, OK then. I’ll put it on top of the wardrobe, out of harm’s way.”
“Well before you do, bring it down here, I want to have a good look at it.”
Robert duly did as he was told, reaching under his bed to retrieve the cane. He was telling the truth. He had bought the rattan as part of a lot at the auction down the road, and only hid it because he didn’t know what to do with it. He wasn’t in the slightest kinky, being almost straight-laced in some ways.
“Here it is, Dad.”
“Hmmm. Nasty. Hand it over please.”
Dad flexed the cane a little and scythed it through the air. It made a fearsome noise. It reminded him of unhappy times spent in his headmaster’s study years ago.
“What do you think, Dad?”
“To be honest, son, I think we should chuck it on the bonfire. Your mother and I were both caned at school and we really hated seeing this thing after all these years. There should be a law against it.”
“There is, Dad, there is.”
“Yes, of course, stupid of me, just a turn of phrase, son. OK, take it back and put it on top of the wardrobe, like you said. Then I’ll know where to find it.” A mischievous chuckle from his father made Robert a touch nervous.
Robert took the lithe cane from his father’s hands and made his way upstairs. Standing on tiptoes, he was just about able to push the cane out of view on the top of the wardrobe. In doing so, he disturbed some dust which then filled the air for a few moments.
Robert slumped down on the bed. The air was still full of dust, but at least the cane was hidden. He moved his head around but couldn’t spy the rattan from any vantage point. He’d been surprised by his father’s vehemence about the evils of the cane. Of course, Robert had never experienced it, and didn’t have any interest in doing so. He might dispose of it, as it was proving to be a controversial acquisition. He didn’t want to upset his parents.
A few days later, it was Robert’s twenty-first birthday. As it was a Saturday, he spent a lot of the afternoon at the auction rooms but couldn’t find anything worth bidding on. He cycled home disconsolately. It had actually been quite a boring day, and he was regretting not jumping on a train to London, where he could have visited a world-class auction.
“Hello, Robert! Having a good birthday?” his father asked as he opened the door.
“No, not really, it’s been a bit shit, really!”
“Sorry, Dad. The auction was crap today. Total crap.”
“Language! Anyway, I’m sorry I haven’t got you a present yet. I wasn’t sure what to get you. Unless you’d like a birthday spanking? With that cane of yours?”
“Oh fuck off, Dad!”
Robert ran up the stairs, slamming his bedroom door. He hadn’t appreciated his father’s joke about the cane. It would have to go.
Suddenly, Robert’s father burst in, angrily. “I don’t appreciate being told to ‘F Off’ in my own house, son! Let’s make this a birthday to remember shall we?”
With that his father rolled up his shirtsleeves and reached up on top of the wardrobe, retrieving the cane.
“Dad, you cannot be serious!”
“Oh, but I am! You’re going to regret being rude to me. And you’re going to regret buying this cane!”
Robert’s face flushed a bright beetroot red. He was so embarrassed and felt about one foot tall.
“Dad, no please. It’s my birthday!”
“Shut up whining! Now, I want you on all fours on the bed, now!”
“Dad, no, this is insane!”
Father tucked the cane under his left arm and approached his son. Suddenly, the belt holding up Robert’s jeans was being unbuckled by his father! The denims were yanked down unceremoniously, followed shortly after by the boy’s underpants! Tears of shame were forming in the son’s eyes. He didn’t struggle, but buried his face in the pillows on the bed.
CRACK! A first stroke sliced through the air, whacking into the boy’s naked arse cheeks. It left an angry red line, and was accompanied by a loud gasp from Robert.
CRACK! A second stroke was accompanied by writhing from the boy.
“Keep still, unless you want double!” his father commanded. The man’s assertiveness was quite a surprise to his son, although perhaps not to anyone who has had an encounter with an angry man with a cane in his hand!
CRACK! The third stroke slice into the lad’s tender, downy cheeks. He was marking nicely, for this was indeed a rather wonderful cane.
CRACK! An extra hard stroke struck just on the sit spot, causing an angry wail from the boy. His bottom was now looking like a naughty schoolboy’s, decorated with the consequences of impertinence and rudeness.
Father was enjoying dishing out this beating. He was beginning to understand the virtues of the cane, whereas previously he had only been aware of its vices.
CRACK! The fifth was again an extra hard one, higher up this time, scorching the naked boy flesh with evil intent.
CRAAACK! A sixth stroke lashed down, causing the boy to squeal and writhe.
Father decided that six was sufficient for now. Yes, a traditional schoolboy six of the best had been delivered to his immense satisfaction. Robert’s face was buried in the pillows, although it was clear he was sobbing gently. Father admired his son’s naked, striped bottom. He reflected that his son was now old enough to have his arsehole fucked. That was something he could never do to him, but further canings were definitely assured.
“Happy Birthday!” father cried as he placed the cane back on top of the dusty wardrobe.
Story © 2013 by Rod Cayenne
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Erotic fiction by Rod Cayenne
Sergeant Dexter couldn’t believe his eyes. The tip-off had been correct. Through his binoculars he could see a young couple, as naked as jaybirds, fornicating in the strawberry fields for which the village was famed. Although we were in the enlightened late 1950s, this was an outrage even by the prevailing modern, progressive standards.
He watched as the young man’s naked bottom bobbed up and down as he serviced his willing female companion. When to interrupt? Now, mid-flight as it were? Or afterwards, as the young lovers came back down to earth?
He decided to watch a little longer, as he was impressed by the young man’s technique. Indeed, the Sergeant was learning that his own skills were perhaps a little dated as he watched the youth driving and thrusting into the maiden. Suddenly, they swapped, and the girl went on top, sliding the man’s erect penis into her. The man massaged her ample breasts and then the lovers kissed passionately.
The Sergeant admired the lilly white feminine buttocks as they bounced around. They begged for a spanking, and were quite a contrast to the hairy male ones he had been watching only a few moments earlier. Indeed, our policeman was finding all of this a most rare and entertaining spectacle. His own penis was rising to the occasion, and for a brief moment, he considered masturbating right there and then in the Austin patrol car. He decided against, as it would be undignified, and there was also a slim chance he could be caught himself. He’d never live it down!
It was a lengthy session of lovemaking. Obviously, the young man had very good control, something again that the Sergeant could only dream of. Eventually, the lovers climaxed and fell into each others arms. Now was the time to strike!
The Sergeant gathered his notebook, pencil, truncheon and handcuffs. He slammed the door of the patrol car noisily, causing the lovers to stir from their post-coital embrace.
“Caught you!” announced the Sergeant. He recognised both of them, “George Trevose and Susan Waterman, whatever will your parents say?”
“Sergeant, we’re both eighteen, don’t tell them please,” requested young George, “You don’t have to tell, do you?”
“Yes I do! You’re not even twenty-one, yet here you are disgracing yourselves in the open air. Get dressed! We’re going down to the station.”
He bundled the hastily-clothed pair into the patrol car and they drove off to the police station, which was located in the local market town. There he read his copious notes out loud to a couple of his colleagues, as the lovers squirmed with embarrassment.
The policemen huddled in conspiratorial conversation behind the reception desk. Suddenly, there was raucous laughter! George and Susan wondered what on earth was going on. Eventually, Sergeant Dexter called them over and announced that they were to join him in the interview room.
In the room, the Sergeant picked up the bakelite receiver of the telephone. He then rang the local chairman of magistrates, Colonel R C H Smith (retd.). They spoke at length about the incident, while across the interview table, the lovers held hands tenderly.
“Yes, totally naked. Unofficial punishment, you say? If the parents agree? I suppose so. Yes, yes. We do have a selection of canes here. Yes, nice and whippy. Sting like the devil. Good idea. I quite agree, Sir. I’ll put it to the lad. I’ll keep you informed, yes, of course.”
Young George wasn’t stupid. He knew what was coming from the half of the conversation he had heard. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what was to happen to his partner in crime, Susan Waterman.
The Sergeant spoke, “The chair of the magistrates is most annoyed with you two. If it weren’t a bank holiday weekend, a special court might have been convened. He’s a great believer in swift justice. So he’s suggested unofficial punishment, if you agree. It will be a caning for young Trevose, and I’ll talk to your parents, Susan, about what we are to do about you. Are you both agreeable? You’re getting off very lightly, considering. I understand that this naked exhibitionism has been happening on a regular basis. Well, do you both agree?”
The lovers nodded dejectedly.
“Right then! Here’s what’s going to happen. I will cane Trevose. Eighteen hard strokes. One stroke for each year of his age, as prescribed by the magistrate. The caning will be on the bared posterior, of course. After the caning, he can walk home. I will drive Susan back home, and talk to her parents.”
“So I don’t even get a lift back to the village? Shit!” said George.
“Watch your tongue, young man!” admonished the Sergeant. Meanwhile, tears of shame and fear rolled down Susan’s face. Her father would be furious! He might even withdraw her meagre allowance.
“Let’s get on with it then. Susan, you will remain here. WPC Green will arrive in a minute to keep an eye on you. George, you will accompany me next door for your punishment. Try to keep the noise down, as Susan will hear otherwise.”
As it transpired, it was all too easy for the sounds from the adjacent room to be heard. The Sergeant had left the door wide open deliberately, and the WPC did the same with the interview room door.
The first crack of the cane on the naked flesh of George Trevose was wickedly loud and accompanied by a pitiful “Owww!”
A second stroke seemed even louder and from the room the order from the Sergeant for Trevose to keep still could be heard. A third and a fourth stroke lashed down.
The fifth stroke must have been extra hard as the victim shrieked loudly and was admonished by the Sergeant, “Shut up and take it like a man!”
The caning was worse than anything George Trevose had experienced at his school. The next five strokes were lashed down quickly.
In the interview room, Susan’s eyes were filling with tears again as she listened to her lover being thrashed by the brute of a policeman. The WPC offered her no support, just a cold, steely stare, occasionally punctuated by a smirk when a hard cane stroke broke the silence.
There was a long gap before the eleventh stroke. The Sergeant was admiring his work. How pleasing the buttocks looked now that they were covered in the vicious red tramlines donated by the cane. It was quite a contrast to the unmarked but hairy bottom the Sergeant had watched in the strawberry fields.
With a sigh, strokes eleven and twelve cut into the naked flesh causing a loud squeal from Trevose. Again, the Sergeant stopped and admired the sight before him. What a pity there wasn’t more sanctioning of this sort of unofficial punishment, he thought to himself. In truth, it was dying out slowly and this would be one of the last occasions that the Sergeant would enjoy what was becoming something of a passion for him.
“Shit!” the Sergeant muttered, annoyed that so few disciplinary opportunities were available to him. He sliced the cane down hard again and again until the full sentence of eighteen strokes had been delivered. The painful payload had caused George Trevose to slump exhausted over the chair which had been bent over.
“Get up! Get dressed and get out!” the Sergeant instructed. Next door, WPC Green admired his masterliness. He’d have made a wonderful headmaster she reflected, as she ejected Susan from the interview room, gleefully aiming a slap at the miscreant’s pert bottom.
The Sergeant drove Susan back to the village. On the way they passed a dejected George Trevose walking home.
“I bet he’s got one sore arse,” the Sergeant guffawed. His bawdy and sadistic comment fell on deaf ears. Susan was more concerned with her own fate. Whatever would her parents say? Her father would be devastated, she felt.
That night, the WPC and Sergeant enjoyed a wild session of lovemaking in his rented house. Somehow, Dexter’s technique had suddenly improved, and WPC Green ended up more satisfied than ever beore. He had learnt a lot from the folly of youth, well, from George Trevose anyway.
Two days later, the Sergeant was cycling from the police station back to the village. Tied with string to the frame of his trusty Raleigh bike was a school cane. Reluctantly, Susan Waterman’s father had agreed that she should be thrashed for her indiscretions. He had begged Sergeant Dexter to carry out the distasteful task. Little did he suspect that the policeman possessed almost indecent flagellant enthusiasm for the task he had been given.
Neighbours peered from behind net curtains as the policeman propped his cycle near the front gate and carefully untied the string holding the cane in place on the frame. The Sergeant had oiled the cane, to increase its suppleness and to protect it from the elements. What a figure he looked in his handsome uniform! The cane he carried made him look quite formidable.
The Watermans hadn’t seen the Sergeant arrive, although he had been expected. He knocked purposefully on the door. Susan’s father duly appeared, looking a bit sheepish.
“Are you sure about all of this, Sergeant?”
As he crossed the threshold, Dexter reminded him, “I saw the whole thing, Mr. Waterman. Quite a disgusting exhibition. No shame at all, these kids.”
“Yes, I suppose so. I was thinking no more than six strokes. Cup of tea, Sergeant. Or something stronger?”
“I’d love a bitter, but I’d better not. I’m on duty still. So yes, a tea would be most welcome.”
Waterman shouted up the stairs, “Susan, the Sergeant’s here. Make us a pot of tea please, honey.” Just then Waterman’s wife joined them. She had asked for tea too and sat down with her husband and the policeman.
“Well,” said the Sergeant, “I don’t think six strokes is enough for the disgusting display I endured. Remember, at least one other person in the village must have seen them at it before now. After all, it was a tip-off that alerted all of us at the station to the problem. No, six strokes isn’t enough. Hardly worth me taking the trouble to come over. I’d recommend eight or ten as a minimum. What do you think Mrs. Waterman?”
“Oh, I don’t know officer! I’m thoroughly ashamed of her. I can’t believe they weren’t taking any precautions either! The stupid girl! I don’t want to be a grandmother just yet, thank you very much! Eight strokes seems entirely reasonable to me.”
“The lad took eighteen,” the Sergeant reminded them, “Really, she’s getting off very, very lightly. Eight will suffice, then. Now, one delicate matter to discuss. The lad took his on his bared posterior. How do you feel Susan should get hers?”
“She can have them bare too,” interjected Mr.Waterman. Perhaps more surprisingly his wife nodded silent agreement.
Just then, Susan opened the door, carrying a silver tray with the tea, crockery, milk, sugar and some home-baked cakes on. Her hands were shaking a little, causing the cups to rattle.
“Ah Susan, we were just discussing your punishment,” said her mother. “A caning, just like George’s. On your bare bottom, eight strokes. The Sergeant will do the honours.”
“Not bare, surely? Oh Mum!”
“Yes, talking of which, you can be mother, as it were, and pour us the tea.”
Soon the tea was being sipped, and all eyes were on Susan. Except her own, which were on the cane Sergeant Dexter had brought with him. Strangely, she felt quite excited and was looking forward to showing the officer her bare bottom. She was really quite incorrigible!
“Let’s get on, shall we?” asked the Sergeant taking control. “Skirt up, knickers down, over the arm of the sofa. Hurry up girl!”
Mrs. Waterman admired the masterful way he took charge. Must be trained that way, she mused. She found it quite a turn-on all the same. If only her own husband were made of sterner stuff!
All eyes were now on Susan who bent submissively, flipping her skirt towards the heavens, and gently eased her knickers down. The target was revealed. Dexter licked his lips, and flexed the cane. Mr. Waterman was more embarrassed, and was wondering about the wisdom of the whole set-up.
Swish-crack! The first stroke landed on the girl’s milky-white flesh, causing an angry red line. She gasped, as did her mother. The sting was bad, but somehow Susan forced herself to stick her bottom out ready for a second stroke.
Swish-crack! The second was a little harder, and right on target, causing the girl to writhe with discomfort. She rubbed her thighs together, then relaxed a little, revealing her treasures to the Sergeant. Something was stirring in his police trousers.
Swish-crack! A third forceful stroke almost sent the poor girl flying, as she cried out with pain. Her parents were finding this a suitable punishment for their daughter’s lewd behaviour. Mrs. Waterman in particular had a satisfied grin as she surveyed the red stripes adorning her daughter’s naked bottom.
CRACK! Stroke four was loud and hard. Susan squealed with pain. Her mother’s excitement was mounting as she witnessed the comeuppance her daughter so deserved.
Swish-crack! The fifth landed low, right on the crease and caused the girl to leap up.
“GET DOWN IMMEDIATELY!” Sergeant Dexter shouted. “That will incur a penalty stroke, I think.”
“Oh yes!” cried the girl’s mother supportively, “And make it a hard one!”
Mr. Waterman was astonished by his wife’s whip-lust. He sat nervously on his hands as the Sergeant raised the cane high once again.
Crack! CRACK! Two rapid strokes again caused the girl to cry out in torment. Her mother was sat on the edge of her chair willing the officer to beat Susan as hard as humanly possible.
Swish-crack! The eighth stroke was slightly more restrained, but it still caused Susan some distress, as she gasped and wriggled under the cane’s stinging caress.
The ninth stroke was now due. It was the penalty one for jumping up earlier.
“Sergeant Dexter, please make this last one extra hard,” Mrs. Waterman requested. “Susan must be taught to behave herself in public and also to take her punishment with dignity.”
The officer adjusted his trousers and raised the cane before whipping it down viciously. The noise of this final stroke was incredible and resounded all around the poky living room.
“AARGH!” cried Susan as the pain hit home. She started to cry. She was utterly humiliated.
Mrs. Waterman clapped her hands together. “Ah! A most satisfactory lesson for the little minx, I feel. Thank you ever so much, Sergeant. Oh, one thing…”
“Yes, Mrs. Waterman?”
“I wonder whether you could be persuaded to leave the cane here? Perhaps in return for a donation to the Police Benevolent Fund?”
“Of course, of course! You can keep it. After all, you never know when it may come in handy again,” he winked. “And a contribution really isn’t necessary. Times are hard, aren’t they? I’ll just book it as a breakage.”
“Tim, take the cane up to our bedroom,” Mrs. Waterman commanded her husband. She gazed longingly at Sergeant Dexter, her new hero.
Susan was recovering slowly from her beating. Carefully, she slipped her knickers back on. She noticed that the Sergeant wore no wedding ring. She wondered whether perhaps, he didn’t have a girlfriend? Perhaps she should force herself on him?
The Sergeant said his goodbyes and made his way back to his bicycle. It had been a good day, and the sunshine made it feel even better. Before heading back to the police station, he was minded to stop off to masturbate in the strawberry fields.
Story © 2013 by Rod Cayenne
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Erotic fiction by your host, Rod Cayenne
I’d grown very fond of Uncle Robbie as I left my teens and moved into my early twenties. When I was younger, I’d found him to be rather stuffy and old-fashioned. As I matured though, I began to appreciate his ways. After all, he was a product of his harsh upbringing.
He had often regaled me with tales of his school days. Of his permanently sore bottom, courtesy of strict teachers and sadistic prefects. Then again, he eventually became a caning prefect himself. He was less forthcoming about that! I suspected he was a little ashamed about how he had become a small cog in the machinery of institutionalised brutality.
We used to joke about how I could have benefited from just such a regime. After all, it was no secret that I was a bit lazy and lacking in ambition. Despite this and the depressed local economy, I had managed to secure a part-time position at a local outlet.
Every now and then, it had become customary for me to spend a weekend at Uncle’s place – a timber-clad bungalow in a lovely wood, miles from any neighbour. Those weekends were really special, as we would spend hours exploring the woods, and catching up. There was no TV, but the radio was almost always on, usually blaring classical pieces and often from a foreign station.
This particular weekend, he picked me up straight from work in his beaten-up old Ford. I’d had a bit of a struggle securing the time off, I told him as we headed back to his place.
I knew it had been his birthday the previous day. I’d bought him a little something, and wrapped it neatly in one of my more productive moments. I handed it to him as soon as we got into his place. He looked surprised, although it wasn’t the first time I’d remembered his birthday.
He took his time unwrapping the present. As the contents were revealed he gasped, then chuckled. It was a school cane with a crook handle. It was rather aged, as I’d bought it from an antiques dealer near where I lived.
He picked it up and swished it around. A broad grin crossed his face. He slammed it down on the arm of the chair next to him. It made a fearful crack, causing us both to laugh heartily.
“Well, thank you for the present,” he said eventually, “And really, you shouldn’t have.”
“It’s OK, Uncle. I thought you might like it. It’s not new you know, it’s from an antiques bric-a-brac place.”
“No, Liam. When I say you shouldn’t have, I mean I might be tempted to use it this weekend!”
I laughed nervously. Stupidly, I hadn’t foreseen that eventuality.
“Yes, a very dangerous present. A cane begs to be used, you know? You’d better watch your step, my lad!”
We both laughed. It wasn’t my step I had to watch, it was my arse! I was glad when the subject was dropped as we decided to eat. Over teacakes and jam, there was no more talk of it.
As it was a lovely fresh autumn evening, we took a stroll out into the woods. We saw a deer in the distance. I was quite captivated by it as it seemed so wild and untamed. Uncle told me all about the mating habits of deer, and about the rutting he’d seen more than once.
Back at the bungalow, we both stared at the cane lying on the coffee table. Its presence was making me nervous and I was regretting buying the thing. We didn’t talk about it during the rest of the evening, as Uncle was keen to hear about my job and the family. Only when it was time to turn in, was the subject of the cane brought up, somewhat awkwardly.
“I must thank you again for the cane, Liam. Most thoughtful. Now, why don’t you hang it on the hook on your bedroom door tonight? It’ll remind you to be good. No wanking tonight, mind!”
I was shocked to hear him use that word. In truth, by this time I was terrified of that cane. I did as was expected, however, and hung the cane on the back of the bedroom door. After washing, I lay silently on the bed. The ghostly light from the corridor shone through the glass panel above the door, and onto the cane. The pale light seemed to emphasise the curve of the handle of the cane.
In some ways, I wished I was back home with Mum rather than spending the weekend with Uncle Robbie. Perhaps because of what he had said, my urge to masturbate was strong. As I played with my stiffening cock, I stared at the cane. I wondered what it would feel like to receive a good thrashing from it. I didn’t want it, I told myself, but it would certainly be an experience to remember. My cock was rock hard and desperate for relief. I fantasised about Uncle Robbie caning me as I rubbed my cock frantically. It was a strong orgasm, with cum spurting everywhere. I used some toilet paper I’d sneaked in from the smallest room to dry up the evidence. I didn’t want Uncle to find it. My arse was on the line!
It was a beautiful morning. Sunlight was streaming into the room through the thin curtains and the glass panel above the bedroom door. Time for an early morning wank, I told myself. But evidently, it was later than I thought as suddenly I could hear Uncle Robbie calling me and telling me I had twenty minutes before breakfast was ready. I rushed to the bathroom and had a quick shit, shower and shave.
I dressed hurriedly. As I pulled on my jeans I saw the cane glistening in the sunshine. I took it down and flexed it. As if in a trance, I brought it with me as I made my way into the kitchen/diner.
I put the cane down on the small table. Uncle Robbie looked surprised to see it. We sat down to eat. I tapped at my boiled egg, and we made small talk about the weather and the morning. After breakfast we enjoyed a second cup of filter coffee.
“So, why is the cane here, Liam?”
“I thought you might want it back,” I sighed.
“Nothing you want to confess to then, Liam?”
“Quite sure, thank you, Uncle.”
“Really? I thought I heard noises in the night. Wanking noises.”
“Well, maybe just a little, Uncle.”
“Come off it Liam. No-one has a little wank. A quick one, or a slow one maybe. But you had a full one, didn’t you?”
“Yes, alright I did.”
“Aha! So I’m getting the truth now. Tell me more about it! Uncle wants to know!” he said, picking up the cane.
“Come on Liam, tell me about it. We’re both grown men. No need to be shy with me.”
“Well it was a very good one, if you must know.”
“Tell me honestly, Liam, was the cane in your thoughts?”
“Errrrr. Yes, a little, Uncle.”
“Pah! There’s that ‘little’ word again. You had a good wank and you found the thought of the cane exciting, didn’t you boy?” Uncle Robbie had adopted a more authoritarian air.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Good. In that case a caning does seem to be in order, as you disobeyed me and played with yourself. And you want to find out what the cane’s like don’t you?”
I nodded. I couldn’t speak. I did want to find out what a caning was like. I was ready for it, but not what came next.
“Very good. Now, drop your trousers and pants, and bend over this chair.”
“Bare, Uncle?” I asked, the horror of the thought only just sinking in.
“Of course! I’m not caning you through those bloody thick jeans. You’d hardly feel a thing. The pants won’t make much of a difference but I’ve never caned a bottom that wasn’t bare, and I’m not going to start now. Get them down, lad.”
Slowly, I eased my jeans down, followed by my pants. I felt incredibly foolish with my bottom bared towards him.
“Come on, come on!” he goaded me, “I want to try out my present!”
I bent over submissively, offering my bottom for chastisement. It felt like a very strange thing to have to do. Strangely too, it felt quite thrilling.
Suddenly, the first stroke whipped down. It stung like blazes, I’d never felt anything quite like it! I felt hot all over, but my bottom was definitely hotter still and rapidly overheating. I reflected on how stupid and naive I’d been to furnish Uncle with this instrument of torture.
After a lengthy pause, a second stroke landed a little below where the first had marked me. Again, I was astonished by the severity and intensity. I felt flushed in the face, as I suddenly began to realise that the pain was starting to bring pleasure, too.
As the third stroke fell, I realised I was enjoying the caning. Of course it hurt, but the pain and sting produced waves of erotic pleasure. I wasn’t sure how to react, as I’d never experienced sexual pleasure from a man before.
I let out a most unmanly squeal as the fourth stroke cut into my naked cheeks. I heard Uncle chuckle behind me.
“Feeling it then?” he asked, but it was a question I had no intention of answering.
He slashed another stroke down, saying, “I asked you a question, lad. Are you feeling it?”
Well, as questions go, it was a pretty stupid one. No-one could not feel a caning. Especially one like that. I grunted an affirmative. I’d had five strokes and was hoping that number six would be the final one. I was enjoying the session, and was becoming turned on, but felt that six strokes was all I could take.
After another long pause, stroke six slashed down, slicing into my sore cheeks with real force. My arse throbbed and ached. My cock was stirring. I told myself I’d had my six of the best, so I decided to stand up.
“Not so fast, young man!” Uncle Robbie admonished, “I do believe you can take a little more. Besides which, I’m enjoying using this present of mine too much to stop just now. Bend back over for me please. Bottom out a bit more. That’s it!”
Well, I had to admit I admired his mastery, honesty and even his sadism. As the seventh and eighth strokes hit home, I had to admit to myself that I was enjoying the proceedings too. Nine and ten followed rapidly, which I hadn’t expected. I gasped at the double dose of pain.
Another brace of strokes followed. That was surely it, I told myself. I’d taken a sound caning of a dozen strokes. I started to rise. He pushed me back down again, roughly. I heard the swish and crack of stroke thirteen. Waves of pleasure and pain rushed through me. He whipped a fourteenth stroke down.
That was it! He helped me up, rubbing my bottom gently as he did so.
“Go and sit on the sofa,” he commanded. Soon he joined me. He put his arm around me and said, “Thanks for the cane, Liam.”
“Thanks for the caning, Uncle.”
I seized the initiative and kissed him on the cheek. He followed through immediately, and our lips met passionately. We went to bed. I had lost my caning virginity that day. My anal virginity joined it later that morning too. He was quite the skilled lover. We didn’t see much of the woods the rest of that weekend. I did see rather more of the cane, and my bottom got several more workouts from the rattan and from Uncle’s cock.
As soon as I passed my driving test I moved into the bungalow in the woods. I never regretted buying him that birthday present. It was used constantly, and always with me on the receiving end. He died a few years ago. Now I have a younger lover, and he is the one on the receiving end. I think Uncle Robbie would have approved.
Story © 2013 by Rod Cayenne
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