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Hot fiction by Rod Cayenne
I was eighteen at the time. I’d dropped out of school and straight into some warehouse work, which I really enjoyed. I was still living with my parents, as I was saving up with a view to renting a place with a friend. They were away on holiday, so I had promised to look after the place and keep the garden tidy. In fact, I was in the conservatory looking at the long grass as I played idly with my stiff penis that morning. I pulled my foreskin back and teased the glans with my fingertips.
I hadn’t expected to be scared shitless by a family friend, but that’s exactly what happened. My parents had asked Mr Atkinson to keep an eye on me while they were away. He had been a teacher at my school, but I was never in his class. My main contact with him had been at the after school Chess Club that he ran. I was a fair to middling player, but with his avuncular encouragement, I’d improved my game considerably. He had a bit of a reputation for strictness, but for being firm but fair. A few of my contemporaries had been slippered by him. Apparently, an appointment with his punishment plimsoll was not easily forgotten.
Anyway, that day he must have slipped into the garden, and catching me at it, he had banged on the glass of the conservatory. I nearly leapt out of my skin! I hurriedly shoved my stiff member back into my pants and went to let him in.
“Just what do you think you are doing, Justin?” he asked. Well, it was obvious what I’d been doing. I’d been masturbating. I thought in those days, the ’80s, that everyone accepted that it was a normal and healthy thing to be doing. Not Mr Atkinson, though! He was really pissed off with me. I’d never heard him shout so much, and he was shaking with rage.
“You dirty, dirty boy. If I’d caught you doing that at school, you’d have tasted my slipper or the head’s cane! Shouldn’t you be mowing the grass anyway?”
I nodded with embarrassment. How I wished my parents hadn’t encouraged him to pop around to make sure all was well. My parents! Suddenly, it dawned on me that he might tell them. I had to beg him not to.
“Yes, Rob and Dawn wouldn’t be best pleased would they? Such depravity! If you really can’t control your urges Justin, you should do it in private behind a locked door. Surely your father must have warned you about this sort of thing?”
“Actually, no. He was too embarrassed to ever talk to me about it.”
“That no excuse but it explains a lot. And I suppose he never smacked you?”
“No, not really. Neither did you, Sir.” It seemed like a good moment to use his old title.
“No indeed, but I rather wish I had done now. Would have sorted you out. Just what you needed.”
Rather foolishly, I nodded, adding, “It’s not too late.”
He looked at me strangely. For I had spoken an unspoken truth. At eighteen, I was very much still the schoolboy to his teacher figure. He shook his head. Then after a short silence, he shook it again. “Come with me!” he demanded.
I locked up, placing the keys in a pocket of my Wranglers and I followed him up the footpath, rather like an obedient dog. He lived up the far end of our road. On his own.
“In!” he ordered as we reached the threshold. His place was vaguely familiar, for it had a similar floor plan and feel to our family home.
“Sit down a minute,” he said, as he disappeared upstairs. I sat down on the grubby orange dralon sofa. I was sweating profusely, worried sick. He soon came downstairs, carrying a dirty white plimsoll and a crook-handled cane.
“Oh, not a smacking then?” I asked naively.
“I hardly think so, Justin. Your have earnt something a little harsher, I feel. Don’t you?”
“Well, couldn’t you just smack me on the bare? There’s no need for those barbaric things.”
“Don’t worry, Justin. Your punishment will be on your bare bottom. But I think a hard thrashing with this cane is what is warranted. The slipper’s not going to teach you to keep your penis in your jeans, is it?” he said, throwing the plimsoll down on the deep pile carpet.
“Oh, Mr Atkinson!”
“Jeans and underwear down please. Bend over this pouffe.”
Submissively I did as I was told. My arse seemed like it was on offer, raised provocatively on the brown leatherette. I felt quite exposed and almost giddy with fear, or was it excitement? At that particular moment I felt as if I was fulfilling some destiny. It was as if my arse had always been meant to be chastised by him.
With an almighty crack the first stroke landed. I’d never felt pain like it, and immediately cried out. He laughed at me, which made me feel about one foot tall.
“Just what you need, Justin. We’ll have to make it twelve if you don’t want me to tell your parents what you were up to.”
I groaned. A dozen seemed an awful lot. I wasn’t sure I could stand the pain. In fact, I was sure I couldn’t. Just then the second stroke cracked down. It was even worse than the first one. I could feel tears forming in my eyes. I didn’t want to cry, but this was going to be a difficult situation from which to emerge with any dignity intact.
The third swished down, and then another. And another. And another. Halfway! Halfway to hell, it seemed.
He stopped. I could hear him swishing the cane through the air. He was enjoying this, I felt sure. What a bastard…
“You know, Justin, you have a very caneable backside! What a shame your father never took a stick to it. I could lend him one, I suppose.”
I choked with shock. Surely he was joking? My thoughts were interrupted by the seventh stroke, which demanded my full attention. Shit, it did. My poor fucking arse!
“Yes, Justin. He can borrow this very cane!”
“I thought you weren’t going to tell him?” I asked, in a panic.
“Shut up boy and take your medicine like a man,” he admonished. All the medicine in the world wouldn’t have convinced me that I wasn’t a very sick patient by that stage! My arse felt like it was being ripped apart as the eighth and ninth strokes landed painfully.
The tenth stroke wasn’t so bad, but I think he was playing games with me as the last two were incredibly intense, red-hot and sheer agony.
I started to recover my composure a little, though I remained bent over submissively. His hands were feeling my buttocks, and then he probed around my crack. It was a nice sensation. Chess Club was never like this.
Story © MMXIII by Rod Cayenne
All rights reserved.
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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Erotic fiction by Rod Cayenne
One of the beauties of being an art teacher is having an eye for detail. To recognise each brush or pen stroke of a particular artist is an incredible gift. Mrs Parkinson was a teacher at the local technical college and possessed just such a gift. Her grasp of every nuance of the old masters was almost peerless. She also fancied herself as a handwriting expert.
One rainy Tuesday she was quite unprepared for the weather. Fortunately, a knackered bus from the local operator was approaching, so she flagged it down and was grateful to board it and escape the rain. As a rule, she never used the bus, but the deluge that day had broken her resolve. The grimy, dimly lit interior of the bus was quite depressing, and Mrs Parkinson’s gaze fell on some graffiti on the back of the seat facing her. She was outraged to see, in thick black marker, ‘Anja Parkinson Good In Bed’ inscribed for all to see. Anja was her nineteen-year-old daughter. What really upset her was when she recognised the boastful writing as not being from some local stud, but in her daughter’s own handwriting!
As the day wore on, Mrs Parkinson seethed and fumed. Whatever had possessed her daughter to write such a bold and fearless self-advertisement? If only the girl’s father was still around! He, however, had headed back for Holland several years ago, tempted no doubt by free love and the herbal smoke of the cafes. Teaching that Tuesday, and encouraging her pupils was proving difficult. All she could think about was her daughter and the slutty graffiti.
Walking home after a stressful day, a plan began to form in the teacher’s mind. She felt sure that a good thrashing would be just what Anja needed to bring her to her senses. Her husband had been against corporal punishment, but he was gone, and he didn’t understand the English disciplinary traditions. Mrs Parkinson did, however, and she felt sure that somewhere in the loft back at home she would find her late father’s punishment cane. She decided to retrieve the cane and confront Anja. However, it would have to keep until the weekend as a trip into the loft was a major undertaking.
The rest of the week was awkward. Anja could sense that something was on her mother’s mind but she gave it only momentary thought. Mrs Parkinson was getting quite tetchy, aggravated by a lack of sleep as the enormity of her daughter’s actions kept her awake.
Eventually, Saturday came. Mrs Parkinson told her daughter she would be going into the loft in a few minutes, and asked if there was anything she wanted retrieved.
“No, I don’t think so, thanks Mum. But I’m sure you’ll find something interesting in there. You usually do. Surprise me!”
“Oh, I’ll do that alright, my girl!” Mum muttered to herself as she clambered up the rickety ladder into the loft. The heat was intense as the rain earlier in the week had been supplanted by a most un-British heatwave. Mrs Parkinson sweated heavily as she moved chests and boxes around as she looked for her father’s carved wooden trunk. If memory served her well, his knobbly punishment cane was stashed inside, along with curios from his seafaring days.
Then she found it! She swung the heavy lid back, and was greeted by the smell of camphor. The cane was near the top, but the allure of her father’s memorabilia meant a good browse was irresistible, despite the sweltering heat. Eventually, thirst got the better of her, so she took the cane and closed the wooden trunk.
Anja was indeed surprised to see her mother emerge with the cane tucked under her arm. She couldn’t help but ask her mother what the item was.
“It’s my father’s old punishment cane. He used it a lot on my brothers. He would beat them regularly. I only caught it a few times, when I’d been really, really bad.”
“Looks vicious. I bet it hurt. Thank goodness those days have gone.”
“They’re fading fast, Anja, but they haven’t gone completely. The cane is a wonderful corrector of wickedness, even now. There’s something you and I need to talk about.”
“There is?” asked Anja, shuffling nervously.
“Yes, there is. Come and sit here, while I tell you more.”
“OK, Mum. If you insist.”
“Yes, I do. In fact, you could say I feel quite insistent. Let me tell you why. Last Tuesday, the rain was so bad that I hopped on one of those green buses.”
“That’s not like you, Mum.”
“I know, I know. Anyway, I found some graffiti I didn’t much care for on that bus. It said ‘Anja Parkinson Good In Bed’. In your handwriting, I believe!”
“Well, at least say you’re sorry my girl!”
“Mum, Mum. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am. There was only the one bus. And the male toilets at college.”
“WHAT? At my technical college?”
“Err, yes. It was a joke, really.”
“No, I don’t think so. It was a joke, like I said.”
“Bah! At my college, too! I bet I’ve been the laughing stock for a while. Well?”
“Oh Mum! What can I say to make things right?”
“Well, Anja! How about this? ‘Mum, I’m sorry, perhaps you should give me a good thrashing with your father’s cane?’ How does that sound?”
“Oh Mum, no, please!”
“No, Anja. It’s just what you need and deserve. My week has been ruined. I’m not sure I can show my face in college again after this new bombshell.”
“Mum, it’s my reputation, not yours. I’m sorry, really I am. I’ll take that caning, if it’ll make you feel better.”
“I know you will. I’ve already decided. And since your graffiti implied you would drop your knickers for all and sundry, then you can drop them for the cane!”
“And if I hear you say that again, I’ll double the dose.”
“Right! Skirt up, knickers down! Bend over this chair! Hurry up. Mum’s not happy!”
Nothing had prepared Anja for what was to come. Mum’s unhappiness was revealed by the first cane strokes which sliced down viciously on Anja’s pale bottom. The girl squealed with shock as the sting burnt deeply.
Rapidly, further strokes followed. Anja’s bottom was used to being pampered by her many attentive boyfriends, but now it was being battered by that wicked cane. It cut and beat down without forgiveness. Again and again Mrs Parkinson whipped the knobbly cane down. Again and again Anja squealed. At first, it was with pain and humiliation, but as the beating continued something else was creeping in! Simultaneously she felt a delightful lightness and a darker wickedness. Yes, the girl was deriving some pleasure from the intense sting and burn of her grandfather’s cane! It was heaven; it was hell. It was good in bed, but it was even better being bent over for the cane!
All characters appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Story © 2013 by Rod Cayenne
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Explicit fiction by Rod Cayenne
The air was heavy with cigarette smoke. The two men were chatting behind the counter, waiting for the flood of punters who would arrive as soon as the city offices closed. It was unmistakably a sex shop. The windows were blacked out, there were tacky neon signs and entry to the shop was via a beaded curtain. There were rows and rows of magazines, ranging from the tame to the explicit, though the latter were censored due to the Obscene Publications Act. It hadn’t been that long since the last police raid on the premises…
Proprietor Rick, 35, lanky, greasy and bearded, puffed on his long cigarette. Boyish runaway Peter, just 21, gazed naively at the contents of the shop. He’d only just got the job, which was proving to be quite an education for him.
“Is there a lot of demand for this homo stuff?” Peter asked Rick.
“Yes, it sells pretty well. Mainly to married men. City gents. Public school types.”
“I don’t really understand any of this stuff, it does nothing for me.”
“Don’t worry my boy. Later tonight, I’ll show you some proper uncensored stuff. Some of the gay stuff is pretty hot.”
“Well, if you must. I just don’t get it at all.”
“It’s taking off, Pete, my mate. Zig has been the spur, all that bisexuality stuff. It’s the future, I’m sure of it.”
“Oh yes, trust me, mate.”
“Yes, I do, Rick. And what about this stuff, the spankers as you call them?”
“Ah yes, the spanking mags. Our best sellers, they are. The English are just mad about the stuff, especially the caning mags. It’s lost on most of the tourists, of course.”
“I had the cane at school. I can’t see the attraction. It bloody hurt, and wasn’t sexy at all.”
“Ah. Pleasure from pain. Yes, that’s a bit harder to explain. Very popular, all the same. There’s a good margin on spanking stuff and the cops don’t always seize it. Of course, a lot of them are into it. In a big way. Caning especially!” he laughed. Rick went on to explain the fine details of the bondage, S&M and fetish magazines and accessories stocked in the shop.
“So, going back to the police. Got any tips for me when we do get raided?”
“It doesn’t happen very often, Pete. Hopefully I’ll be here. But if not, just don’t let them near the ‘under the counter’ stuff. And be polite, for Christ’s sake. “Yes, Officer, No Officer, Three Bags Full, Sir”. I think they cream off some of the stuff for themselves, the wank mags, the spankers. Just make sure you do as they say. Otherwise I’ll be taking a cane to your sorry arse!”
“You wouldn’t dare! Anyway, I bet you haven’t got a cane.”
“You’re right. I haven’t got a cane. I’ve got several! We used to sell them, but the cops kept nicking them. Arseholes!”
“Shit, I’d better behave myself.”
“Yes, lad. You better had. You’re never too old for the cane, I always say.”
Peter gulped and decided to change the subject a little, “These blow-up dolls are a bit crap, aren’t they?”
“Ah yes, the Roxys, as I like to call them. A bit sad, but they’re good sellers. They’re crap, as you say. I certainly wouldn’t fuck one of them!”
“No, me neither, I’d rather wait for the real thing,” said Peter eyeing the masturbation aids.
Suddenly, the influx of customers arrived. There were older men in raincoats, and a few younger guys, all looking for wank fodder. Of course, some had guilty expressions, red faces and others had indulged in some Dutch courage. Peter enjoyed flirting with the older punters, as he slipped their purchases into discreet brown paper bags. Trade was brisk that evening.
“I think you’re good for sales, young Peter. Maybe I won’t cane your arse just yet,” Rick laughed.
That night young Peter was shown a lot of uncensored material, and ended up sleeping with Rick upstairs in the damp flat above the shop. It was a night that Peter would never regret. The two men became regular sexual partners. The arrangement suited young Peter as he could never pull the girls. For Rick, it was just lust for the 21-year-old’s youthful arse and tight hole. Both were curiously dispassionate about their affair and it never really developed into love.
A few months later, there was a police raid on the premises. Rick was absent, so young Peter had to handle things alone. A substantial amount of magazines was seized. Rick was furious but at least none of the more, ahem, specialised material was found by the coppers. Peter couldn’t help but feel guilty for the upheaval, though in truth he was blameless. The following few days at work he was completely downcast.
“Don’t worry, Peter. It’s not your fault we were raided. I’ve been in touch with the law, and they have said they might return some of the stuff as it has been cleared. I’m pretty matey with some of the lads down the station these days. Our paths cross a lot, as it were. I sometimes slip them a few spankers to keep them sweet. They’re only doing their job, after all.”
“You bribe them with spanking magazines?”
“That’s a very strong word, Peter. I just like to oil the cogs of the machines of justice, as it were.”
“Well it hasn’t worked, has it? They’ve not returned the stuff have they?”
“Not yet, but they will, my boy, they will.”
“No, I know. Now bite your lip, unless you want a good hard caning from your boss?”
“No thanks, Rick,” said Peter, although he did wonder if such a thrashing might purge his overwhelming feelings of guilt. His mind was in turmoil following the raid, and about his relationship with Rick. He was even beginning to feel guilty about working in the shop and how it would impact on his life and career.
A few days later, two policemen turned up at the shop at closing time. They had brought many of the seized magazines back with them, so Peter was tasked with unloading them from the Austin panda car. Soon the car was emptied, and the police sergeant sent the driver on his way.
“Drink, Mark?” Rick asked the sergeant.
“Well, I shouldn’t really, I’m still on duty. But if you insist.”
“I do, I do. Come upstairs for a beer, you too Peter.”
Peter was reluctant to join the two men. The presence of Sergeant Mark was making him nervous. After all, he was the cop who had fronted the raid on the premises. However, soon all three men were enjoying cans of frothy Watney Truman bitter while a Roberts transistor radio piped an offshore pirate station around the flat.
“Sorry about the raid, Rick. It was orders, of course.”
“It’s OK Mark, I understand.”
“The Super’s been ordering a crackdown. We’ll try and leave you out of the next round.”
“Cheers, Mark. I think the raid terrified young Peter here.”
Peter nodded and blushed.
“Well, he certainly could have been more helpful.”
“Really? PETER, IS THIS TRUE?” barked Rick.
Peter wasn’t sure how to react, so he just shrugged his shoulders.
“Yes, he wasn’t very cooperative,” said the sergeant, frowning.
“Well, I’m sorry Mark. I had no idea. Perhaps the lad should have a taste of my cane? He must learn to help the rule of law!”
“Yes, Rick, a good caning would teach the lad some respect!”
“In fact, Mark, maybe you could do the honours?”
Peter’s jaw dropped as events started to move rapidly. Soon Rick returned from the bedroom with a swishy rattan school cane in his hands. He gave it to the sergeant.
“A fine specimen!” the policeman exclaimed, “Just like the ones at my old school. Err, Peter, it has to be bare, I’m afraid.”
Rick pulled a wooden chair into the middle of the room, commanding Peter, “Over!”
Peter complied reluctantly. He was scared. Scared of the sergeant, and scared of Rick. More than anything, he was scared of that cane. He’d always assumed Rick was joking about having some canes. Evidently not! He hadn’t had the cane for several years, and now he was going to get it from the big, burly policeman! He decided to comply to the letter, in the hope of some clemency or maybe a reduction in the number of strokes. Sighing, he let his jeans fall, and then his less than clean string pants followed.
The sergeant was enjoying the view, as was Rick. Their plan was working perfectly. Peter had been set up! The sergeant flexed the cane enthusiastically. He was going to enjoy this!
SWISH-CRACK! The policeman sliced the whippy rattan down hard on Peter’s unblemished buttocks. A deep red line appeared. It was a good cane. It was a very good cane! Rick already knew it was a very good cane, as he sourced all his canes direct from the importer. The importer was only to happy to supply the sex shops with the finest of punishment implements. After all, they gave a higher profit than the school trade.
SWISH-CRACK! Sergeant Mark whipped a second stroke down on Peter’s arse. The cheeks gave way as the cane sliced like a hot knife through butter.
SWISH-CRACK! Peter gasped and wriggled as the assault continued. He was told to keep still by the sergeant, “unless he wanted extra!” He didn’t! Of that, Peter was sure!
SWISH-CRACK! “YEEEOW!” Peter cried, just like a schoolboy. How gratifying that sound was.
SWISH-CRACK! A fifth stroke slashed down. What an expert tormentor the sergeant was proving to be!
SWISH-CRACK! A sixth stroke and Peter felt sure that would be the final one. But he was wrong! Very, very wrong!
SWISH-CRACK! The seventh was a real corker, cracking and burning into Peter’s soft posterior.
SWISH-CRACK! The eighth was the worst so far, searing and unforgiving. Peter bucked and writhed but by now Mark was almost in a trance, slashing the cane down without thought as he rejoiced in his own sadism.
SWISH-CRACK! SWISH-CRACK! SWISH-CRACK! The beating carried on relentlessly. From a distance, Rick admired the red stripes adorning his lover’s youthful buttocks.
SWISH-CRACK! The twelfth surely was the last? Yes, it was! It hurt like the blazes, but Peter was pleased to hear the cane clatter on the floor as the sergeant threw it down with a grunt.
Peter’s ordeal wasn’t over yet, however. The sergeant dragged him off to the bedroom saying, “We won’t be long!” to Rick.
“There’s some lube in the top drawer!” Rick shouted, just as the bedroom door slammed shut. Soon the sounds of the two males at it could be heard by Rick, after he’d switched Radio Veronica off! It all reminded him of when he was younger, when Mark had given him much the same treatment. Yes, Mark liked some “chocolate on his biscuit” as he had so charmingly referred to it. But Mark only liked them young. He had lost interest in sex with Rick once Rick had reached the ripe old age of twenty-five.
The frantic mating noises didn’t last long, just as the copper had predicted. Evidently, Mark had delivered his payload and soon emerged from the bedroom zipping up his police trousers.
“Take some pictures of Peter for me, will you Rick?” Mark asked with a grin on his face. Rick nodded and later that night duly snapped Peter with his Praktica. The lad’s shagged and caned arse featured heavily in the resulting portfolio. Rick knew exactly what Mark wanted in the photos, and had them processed by a trusted photolab just around the corner from the sex shop.
Over the next few days and weeks, Peter couldn’t decide if he’d enjoyed the sex and caning he’d endured courtesy of hunky cop Mark. Sometimes, he felt as if it had been terrific. Other times, he felt used and dirty. Eventually, his mind settled on the positive and he confided in Rick that he’d like to see Mark again. It happened! And it so happened that there were also threesomes where Peter’s bottom entertained both Rick and Sergeant Mark. There were no more raids on the shop for another four years or so.
Story © 2013 by Rod Cayenne
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