I wonder what went on in lighthouses? No, no, I don’t mean the light! I mean those hunky bearded guys in off-white Arran knit jumpers, stuck in the middle of nowhere, with only a male colleague or two for company. Did homosexuality rule? Masturbation must have, at least. Imagine the guys got on each others nerves…or transgressed some (unwritten) rule. Was there corporal punishment? A whipping with a short length of stiff rope? Or a traditional bare bottom caning, navy style? Mmmmmmm…
posted by Rod of The Canery, comments welcome
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♥ Site recommended story ♥
Erotic fiction by Rod Cayenne
He stroked the felt badge on his old school blazer with affection. He should have thrown the blazer away years ago, as he never wore it, and it smelt of mothballs. There it was, hanging on a polished wooden coat hanger, on a brass rail within a rather knackered old wardrobe. He sighed and remembered his school days. They were happier days and simpler times.
It was seven whole years since he’d left the sixth form. He had been an underachiever, or lazy, depending on your point of view. The odd fierce beating had failed to motivate him. Neither had the special attention and encouragement of his homosexual English cum RE teacher been of any help. He left with one solitary ‘A’ Level pass, in History of all subjects. It was a subject that appealed to him still, for he was of a nostalgic bent. To a certain extent, you could say he lived in the past.
Carefully he took the blazer down from the hanger and folded it once, neatly, and placed it in one of the large leather trunks in his bedsit. He carried on placing clothes in the trunk, thinking now and then about his old blazer as he did so. Eventually, he was packed. His aunt would be there soon. He was moving out of paid digs into his aunt’s home in a leafy suburb of the city. In truth, being a tenant hadn’t worked out for him, and when his favourite aunt offered him a room at a token rent, he really couldn’t resist.
It had been agreed between the lad, his aunt and parents that he would stay there for a year or so. The idea was that he should sober up and take his fledgling Civil Service career a little more seriously. He could save up the deposit on a rental property while he lodged with his aunt.
Eventually she arrived in her beat-up Morris 1100 estate. It was barely big enough to accommodate the two leather trunks, his record player and albums. She smiled lovingly at her nephew, lit a cigarette and gave the accelerator hell in high heels. The overladen old car burst into life, the tyres screeching and leaving an acrid smell of burning rubber behind. He’d forgotten what a truly awful driver she was! He held on for dear life as she whipped the recalcitrant Morris around corners it was clearly taxed by.
In record time, they were back at her house, a whitewashed semi in a pricey cul-de-sac. He’d forgotten quite what a lovely place it was, and he remembered glorious summer holidays he’d spent there while his parents had short holidays in a desperate hope of saving their loveless marriage. Despite the odds, they had succeeded in maintaining their relationship. He wondered to himself why his aunt hadn’t settled down.
It was a few weeks later that things took an interesting turn. One Friday evening, young Jonathan was summoned downstairs by his aunt. As ever, she looked remarkable and regal. Her purple paisley outfit stank of cigarettes and cheap perfume. She had her arms crossed and an expression which veered between disdain and amusement.
“Anything the matter Aunty?” he asked.
“Yes, a little something, Jonathan. It’s not the end of the world, but you have been a little inconsiderate.”
“I have?” asked Jonathan, racking his brains as to what he could have possibly done wrong.
“Yes. Now, when you moved in, I agreed to clean your room now and then, as you couldn’t really be trusted to.”
“Yes, Aunty. I’m truly grateful. Really, I must thank you.”
“Alright, alright! Don’t overdo it. Now, I don’t want you thinking I’m a miserable old fossil, Jonathan, but I really didn’t like the state of your room.”
“It’s OK, Jonathan. I was just a little dismayed to find dirty handkerchiefs and underpants lying around. Then, I almost tripped over a pile of girly magazines.”
“Oh, Aunty, I’m sorry, I should have put them away.”
“Yes, you should have.”
“I’m sorry. In fact, I’ll throw them away, if you like.”
“No, no. Don’t be silly. I understand that men like to play with themselves. Apart from which, I had a quick flick through the magazines. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Err, no, Aunty. I’m just a bit shocked.”
“No need to be. I enjoyed the pictures. I have always had Sapphic interests, you know.”
Actually, he didn’t know. He’d seen that word somewhere but couldn’t remember what it meant just then. He blushed a little, as she continued, “But I was a little surprised to find some spanking magazines in the pile. An interest of yours?” she asked with a penetrating gaze.
“Err, not really. I bought them on a whim.”
“Don’t lie to me, Jonathan! I saw the cover prices of those magazines, you don’t pay that kind of money if you’re not really interested. You’ve circled some of the personals as well.”
“You’ve been a naughty boy, Jonathan. Aunty’s not happy. Can you guess what comes next?” she asked him teasingly.
“Naughty boys get their bottoms smacked, Jonathan. We’re agreed about that, aren’t we?”
He nodded anxiously.
“And if you’re the naughty boy, who’s left to do the smacking?”
He gulped, “Well, you are, I suppose. But I don’t want to do it Aunty. It’s only a silly fantasy. Can’t I just throw the magazines away, and we can forget all about it?”
“No, I told you. I liked those magazines. You’ve opened Pandora’s box. You can share your magazines with me in future, naughty boy. Especially the spanking ones.”
“Oh, Aunty. This isn’t right at all!”
“Shut up, Jonathan. You and I are going to have some fun. Now, go and put your office clothes on. Except for a jacket. Instead, you can wear that cute school blazer for me.”
He hadn’t realised she had even seen the old blazer in the built-in wardrobe unit. How he wished he’d thrown it away. And those cp magazines! Why couldn’t he be normal? He headed upstairs anxiously. In his bedroom, he slid the frosted glass doors of the wardrobe back along their runners. He reached out for a pair of grey slacks, and a white shirt. It would need ironing! But, much to his surprise, it was uncreased. Aunty had ironed all of his shirts, perhaps in expectation of the evening’s events. He picked a striped tie that would complement the blazer. Slowly, he got changed. He wasn’t sure that he really deserved or wanted a spanking. He couldn’t bring himself to argue with Aunty, however. She was so nice, after all.
Slowly, he did up the buttons of his shirt and then he peeled down his underpants and gazed at his pert, naked buttocks in the full-length mirror. He gave them a loving squeeze. If he was going to be spanked, he decided, then he wanted it to really hurt! He toyed with the idea of leaving his underpants off altogether, but obviously Aunty wanted him in traditional schoolboy attire, so he pulled them back up. Then he thought about the spanking some more. Would it be on his bare bottom? Bound to be, as he’d been looking at nude magazines!
Jonathan had dithered enough. It was time to go down the stairs and face the music. He strolled into the living room, trying to look nonchalant or even a touch defiant. However, he couldn’t keep the pretence up for long, for he was astonished to see his aunt flexing a rattan school cane, just like the ones in his spanking mags, crook handle and all!
“Aunty, you didn’t say anything about a caning! Just a smacked bottom!”
“You’re forgetting those circled adverts, my boy. ‘Dominant aunt canes naughty pupils in luxury home’ and so forth. I know what you want and what you need. But don’t worry you’ll be feeling my hand as well as this cane. My, my, I must say how smart you look in your old school blazer!”
He did look rather handsome and very boyish. The black blazer with the yellow piping and neat school crest made him look even younger than his twenty-five years. The tie he had chosen was a pretty good match, too. He really did look the part. He was excited and scared at the same time. There was no sign of life in the front of his grey trousers, however his bottom was tingling in expectation.
She pulled a dining chair into the middle of the room, and sat down. She smoothed a few creases out of her purple skirt and then demanded, “Over my lap, Jonathan.”
She proceeded to smooth out some creases in his trousers, patting his bottom gently as well. His cheeks seemed to demand attention. As advertised, you could say!
“No,” he said defiantly.
She ignored his disrespect and slammed her hand down on his bottom. She did it again and again, smacking hard and moving straight into frenzy mode! He wriggled and writhed in a vain attempt to avoid the chastising hand.
“UP!” she demanded, “Trousers down!”
He obeyed instantly, and took his place over her lap again. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the cane on the dining table. He really didn’t want to experience it. Not today, anyway. He wondered whether, if he took his spanking like a man, she might let him off. Taking his punishment manfully rapidly became impossible however, as aunt spanked and spanked hard and effortlessly. He began to moan and cry out in pain. She responded by tugging at his underpants!
“Nice clean pants, I’m pleased to see, Jonathan. Let’s keep them that way, by moving them out of the danger zone, shall we?”
Before he had a chance to reply, they were history! His naked arse cheeks were revealed. His aunt paused the spanking and ran her hands across his bottom.
“Mmmmm, nice and hot, Jonathan! Get comfortable now and we’ll carry on.”
Of course, there was no possibility of comfort. He thought of his mother. She was nothing like this! He thought about his bottom, so cruelly treated and exposed. He hoped his aunt couldn’t see his arsehole! But she could, and indeed was admiring it with a strange fascination as the spanking resumed. In fact, she couldn’t keep her eyes off it. It was a most obscene display she thought, as it spurred her on to smack him even harder. Jonathan’s thoughts moved onto another part of his anatomy. He was willing away the possibility of an erection. He didn’t want a spanking or a caning, but most of all he didn’t want an erection! Not in front of Aunty!
“Stand up!” she ordered. She admired his red bottom. Imprints of her hand and fingers decorated his thighs where her hand had strayed a few times. She really should have taken her rings off to reduce the pain. However, she reasoned, that they were family heirlooms and she really didn’t want to mislay them.
“Ooh Aunty, that really hurt!” said Jonathan, rubbing his sore and thoroughly disciplined bottom cheeks.
“Think yourself lucky I didn’t use my hairbrush on you, young man!” she chided sadistically.
They both stared at the cane on the dining table at the same time. He gulped. She grinned.
“You’ve had the cane before?” she asked dispassionately.
“Yes, I’m afraid I have. At school.”
“Well, yes of course. It would hardly have been at home, would it? Your parents are too soft by half.”
“They’re not soft!” he scoffed, “They just love me, that’s all.”
“I love you too, Jonathan. I’m going to demonstrate my love for you in a very special way. Bend over the table for me.”
She picked up the cane and flexed it. Then she whipped it through the air several times. It made a fearsome sound as it sliced through the air. He was bracing himself for the first stroke. It had been a long time. Over seven years. Seven lonely years of masturbation as he struggled to come to terms with his spanking fetish. Girls seemed to sense that he was a bit weird.
“How many strokes did you get at school, Jonathan?”
“Oh. Always six, Aunty. It was that kind of school. Only the type of cane and the judgement and mood of the master varied.”
“Well, at least your softy parents had the sense to send you to a traditional school. Let’s keep within your boundaries, then. Six of the cane.”
“Thank you Aunty!”
“And one for luck, I think. That makes seven. Let’s go for it then!”
But she didn’t. Instead she plonked herself down on the sofa and lit up a Camel cigarette. She had a lovely view from there. The reddened buttocks, the hairy arsehole and the crown jewels beyond were all visible from her vantage point.
“Just having a ciggie,” she said quite unnecessarily. He screwed up his nose as the smoke drifted his way. Eventually, he heard her stubbing out the cigarette. It was time! Surely? Except it wasn’t! He heard her fumbling in her handbag again. She had decided to have another fag! After a couple of drags, she got up and approached her nephew. She pushed the old blazer and the tail of his shirt well out of the target area. She couldn’t resist running her hands over his buttocks. He coughed as the cigarette smoke surrounded him. He was fearful that she might explore around the front, or even worse, between the buttock cheeks. Thankfully she didn’t.
Eventually, he heard the second cigarette butt being stubbed out. He heard the clatter as she picked up the cane from the sideboard where she’d left it. She whipped it through the air just once before slicing it down on Jonathan’s cheeks with an almighty crack! Oho, she was good! Or bad, depending on your point of view. She hit as hard as Mr Truman, he thought to himself, if not as badly as the chaplain! A second stroke had him re-assessing his aunt’s capabilities as she very nearly sliced him in half, or so it seemed! Stroke three was less intense, although his aunt chuckled as the cane seemed to bounce off his pert mounds, leaving a fainter mark but still imparting a stinging caress. Strangely, this was the first stroke to cause Jonathan to squeal. Then there was an unexpected pause as Jonathan’s aunt paced around the room for a minute or two.
The silence was deafening. Eventually, Jonathan had to say something, and it was, “Is everything alright?”
“What? Oh yes, sorry I was miles away, Jonathan. How far did we get?”
“I’ve had three, so I’ve got four left. Unless you want to let me off?”
“Let you off! You’re joking of course? I was just thinking what fun this was. Be careful I don’t add extra for your cheek!”
“Sorry, Aunty,” Jonathan said with a touch of truth in his voice, “I deserve the full seven.” He stuck his bottom out further, as if wiling his aunt to do her worst.
“Yes, you do!” she said, slicing the cane twice in rapid succession and causing him to grunt and gasp.
The sixth stroke slashed down. He was silent, but somehow sensed the final stroke would be the worst. He wasn’t wrong. She crashed it down diagonally, disrupting the neat parallel weals left by the six preceding strokes and adding to Jonathan’s agony.
“Don’t be such a baby, Jonathan. Now, take your blazer off and go and stand in the corner, facing the wall. I think we both need a few moments to reflect on what’s happened here. You can rub your bottom if you must.”
Stood in the corner rubbing frantically, Jonathan didn’t really know what to make of things. His aunt sat down on the sofa, kicked off her stilletos and lit another cigarette. She was a little more certain about things, announcing, “Twelve with the cane next time, Jonathan. Or maybe more.”
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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♥ Site recommended story ♥
A story by your host, Rod Cayenne.
“I used to encourage Jon the Choirmaster to cane them if they stepped out of line. Not very Christian, I suppose, but then you and I both know that a good, hard caning can work miracles. That’s why the choir was always one of the best in the land. If they were really bad, I’d cane them myself. That used to raise the dust from their trousers, I can tell you! “
“I can quite believe it! So when did the caning stop?”
“Oh, just a couple of years ago. I had to call a stop to it, sign of the times, political correctness and all that. More sherry?”
“No thanks, I’d better not. It’s gone straight to my head.”
“Yes, yes, dear boy. I know what you mean. It’s rather loosened my tongue. I shouldn’t be telling you about all the corporal punishments of old.”
“Don’t worry, Bishop. I approve.”
“Oh, I see. At least, I rather think I do.”
“So, do you still have a cane, Bishop?”
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.
“Ah, that will be Mrs. Crammer with the tea and sandwiches.”
Indeed it was. And what delightful sandwiches they were! Finest English cucumber, and the bread had the crusts neatly trimmed off. After all, the Bishop was known to have trouble with his dentures from time to time. Generous slices of carrot cake were provided too, and the tea was a select blend from the delicatessen in the local covered market.
As the mid-afternoon feast finished, the Vicar cleared his throat and asked again, “So, do you still have a cane, Bishop?”
Suddenly, there was another knock at the door. It was Jon the Choirmaster, who informed the Bishop about the time of choir practice the following day.
“Very good, Jon,” said the Bishop, hurrying him away.
“He seems a very mild-mannered man,” observed the Vicar, “Hard to imagine him wielding the cane.”
“Don’t be deceived! The man’s a beast. Between you and me, I think he used to enjoy it. Sadly, I too used to find it gratifying in a strange, judicial sort of way. That’s why I stopped it.”
“I understand, of course, Bishop.”
Once again, the Vicar just had to ask, “So, do you still have a cane, my lord?”
Unfortunately, his question was drowned out by a loud howl of feedback from the Bishop’s hearing aid. The Bishop whipped the offending device out of his ear and bashed it on the coffee table, muttering, “Bloody thing, invention of the devil!”
Eventually the whistling stopped, and the hearing aid was restored back in the ear, hidden by wispy grey hair. The Bishop man smiled at the Vicar, saying to him, “I expect you’re wondering whether I still have a cane here.”
“Err, yes, actually I did wonder about that.”
“No, I do not.”
“I gave all mine to Jon to look after. I think they’re in his office behind the organ loft. Shall we go and find out? So much more fun talking about canings than parish tittle-tattle.” Obviously, the sherry was bringing out the real Bishop. He raced off at great speed, his robes flowing impressively as the Vicar followed a few steps behind.
Jon was startled as the Bishop and Vicar burst into his tiny lair. He quickly hid the gay porn magazine he was reading.
“The Vic’s interested in the canes, Jon. Be a dear and bring a selection back to my rooms. See you in a few minutes.” Just as quickly as he’d arrived, he was gone, with the Vicar scuttling along after him.
Back at the Bishop’s, the Vicar was decidedly embarrassed, “I wish you hadn’t told him I was interested in the canes, Bishop!”
“Stuff and nonsense! Of course you’re interested. I can read you like a book.”
“Did you see that magazine he was reading?”
“The gay one?”
“Yes, full of angelic young men, as far as I could see.”
“Yes, indeed. I think it’s one of mine that I lent him.”
“Don’t you be such a hypocrite! I’m not stupid, you know. I heard what was going on in your old parish. That’s why I moved you. Apart from which, I thought it would be handy to have you nearer so that I could keep you in line, like one of the choristers in days of old.”
“Surely you don’t mean?”
“Yes, I’m going to cane you hard Vicar! You must learn to be much more discreet. Many of us share the same proclivities, but most have the sense not to upset the parishioners. I heard tales of buggery and beatings on your patch.”
“Perhaps I should resign then?”
“No, no, no! That would never do. I have an opening for a regular whipping boy, and you will do for now. I take it you like to receive too”
“Well, not really, Bishop, although I’ve had my share over the years.”
“Yes, I bet you have.”
“Prep school, school, my father, an uncle.”
“Sounds like an ideal upbringing for a man of the cloth. Now, show me your bottom. Properly, now. Bare, I mean.”
Slowly, the Vicar adjusted his clothing, lowering his underpants to reveal a very boyish bottom, almost totally devoid of hair.
“Oh my!” exclaimed the Bishop, “What a peach! It’s absolutely gorgeous!”
“Err, thank you, my lord. Would you like a closer look?”
“Would I? Yes, of course, my good man. Bend over the writing desk for me, please.”
The vicar did as he was told. He was quite a picture, with his cassock raised high, and his pants hanging around his ankles. Suddenly he felt the Bishop’s cold old hands grasping his buttocks. The Vicar was astonished as his cheeks were thoroughly massaged and then the Bishop proceeded to rim him! The Bishop licked and slurped noisily, as only a pensioner would. His tongue teased and probed the Vicar’s arsehole with determination and pleasure.
Just then, Jon the Choirmaster burst in with a collection of canes. He looked only a little surprised to catch the Bishop in such a compromising position!
“Oh what an arse, Jon! The Vicar here’s been keeping it secret from us. Tastes nice, too! Let’s see those canes, then.”
Jon nodded thoughtfully and laid the dozen or so canes out on the antique wooden dining table. There were all sorts, truly a collector’s delight.
“I do so like a traditional crook handle on a cane,” said the Bishop, “They remind me of my Bishop’s staff. Although this one is rather special too.”
He picked up a knobbly black cane. It looked old, battered and slightly bent. A bit like the Bishop, really!
“I called this one the Arimathea. It’s certainly a thorn in the backside of the disobedient. Anyway Jon, I was going to cane the Vic with a good selection of these. But now, I rather fancy watching you whip this naughty peach of a bottom for me.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
“Yes, you whip him while I watch and masturbate!”
The Vicar gasped with disbelief! Jon, however, was not in the least surprised, although he could not resist tittering as he rummaged among the canes on the table. Obviously this room and two of its occupants were used to thoroughly debauched scenes in the holy surrounds. Jon selected a stiff straight cane and whipped a first stroke down hard on the Vicar’s bottom. Meanwhile the Bishop hoisted his robes up as he sat imperiously in a gilded chair watching proceedings. His penis was rock hard as he wanked furiously as the cane whipped down time after time. The Vicar gasped, sighed and wiggled in a most gratifying way. He was obviously an experienced taker as he wasn’t losing his composure, despite what must have been severe pain. The bishop tried to pace his masturbation with the punishing rhythm of the cane as it lashed down, oblivious to any count.
“Six more with the Arimathea!” ordered the Bishop.
“No!” cried the Vicar, turning to view the knobbly cane as it lashed down on his naked haunches.
“Harder, Jon!” ordered the Bishop breathlessly.
Jon duly crashed the next stroke down hard. He was indeed happy to oblige. How he loved to beat bare bottoms like this one! He couldn’t help wondering whether he would get the chance to rim it like the Bishop had done. Or better still, the chance to fuck it good and hard. He paused to admire his handiwork.
“Get on with it, Jon!” ordered the Bishop, who was edging ever closer to orgasm.
CRACK! CRACK! CRAACK! The cane lashed down as instructed. The Vicar could stand it no longer and let out a wail of anguish.
“Aaaah, ah, aaaah, AAAAAAAH!” moaned the Bishop as he spunked heavily all over his colourful robes.
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.
Comment or be caned!