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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