Martin’s Missed Curfew (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A brand spanking new male discipline story by very special guest author Charles Hamilton the Second.  Currently exclusive to The Canery.  All the characters are aged 18 or over.  

Mr Wilberforce sat in his favourite chair in the lounge reading the morning newspaper. He had left the door to the hallway open so he could catch Martin. His slipper was conveniently placed for the task he had to perform.

He heard Martin (“Marty”, if Mr Wilberforce was not displeased with him) quietly descend the stairs, as if on tip toe and intent to sneak out of the house unnoticed.

“Martin, come in here, please.”

Obediently, Martin entered the room. He knew he was for it. There was nothing he could do, except take what was coming to him.

“What time did you get in last night?”

No answer. Martin looked at the floor and twisted his hands behind his back.

“What have we said about curfew?” It wasn’t a rhetorical question, but Martin still did not answer. This was not the first time he had been on the carpet because of the curfew.

Mr Wilberforce sighed and tried again, “What did I say would happen if you missed curfew again?”

This time there was a whispered response, “A spanking.”

“Speak up, Martin.”

“A spanking,” said a little more clearly.

“Yes, a spanking. You can’t say you were not warned.”

It was true; this wasn’t the first time Martin had missed his curfew; but it was only the second time he had been caught. Yes, he had been warned of the consequences of his actions: Martin knew he only had himself to blame.

“But, I’m too old to be spanked.”

“Doh! I will decide when you are too old to be spanked.”

It was true, Martin was old enough legally go to bars and buy alcohol, but that wasn’t the point.

“We have rules in this house. They are very simple rules and you are required to obey them. You know that,” Mr Wilberforce berated Martin, who had no choice but to stand quietly and accept everything that was said to him. He couldn’t look Mr Wilberforce in the eye and continued to stare down at his own bare feet.

“And,” Mr Wilberforce went on speaking in an even tone, “you know the penalty when you disobey.”

Martin nodded, apparently sorrowfully, his face downcast. There could be no doubt now about what would happen next.

“You have wilfully disobeyed me. You were told you must obey your curfew and you deliberately ignored me. Isn’t that so?”

Martin nodded his agreement.

“Speak up lad. You wilfully disobeyed me.”

“Yes, Sir,” Martin’s voice was so soft, Mr Wilberforce could hardly hear.

“Well that’s it then. You give me no alternative,” Mr Wilberforce rose from his armchair, crossed the room and pulled a straight-backed dining chair into the middle of the carpet. Then, he reached down to the shelf beneath the television set and picked up one of his slippers.

“Come on, you know the drill.”

Martin did indeed know the drill. This was not the first time he had been spanked and even though he was a veteran he still felt a surge of anxiety as he watched Mr Wilberforce take up his bedroom slipper before sitting himself down in the chair and adjusting his body to create a platform over which Martin would present his bottom for punishment.

“Stand there boy. Shorts and pants down.”

Martin moved a few paces so he was standing directly in front of Mr Wilberforce, who by now was squeezing his slipper in his right hand, demonstrating how flexible and springy an instrument it was. Martin couldn’t take his eyes of it; he knew how stingy it would be when it connected with his bared bottom.

The shorts were snug fitting and didn’t need a belt to keep them up, so Martin just had to undo a button on the waistband and they slid unaided by him first down his hips and then his buttocks to rest at his knees. Martin spread his legs by an inch and the shorts fell to his feet.

Mr Wilberforce watched as Martin then put his thumbs inside the elastic waist of his underpants and with a sharp flick of the wrist sent them down to meet his shorts.

“Yes,” he thought as Martin’s stood before him, naked from the waist down, “you are too old for a spanking, but you only have yourself to blame for this.”

His bottom was now fully prepared, but Martin knew he had to wait for Mr Wilberforce to give the next instruction; it was part of the ritual of spanking.

“Come, bend over my knee.” He had heard that command many times in the past, so many he really couldn’t count, but each time it was spoken his heart would race a little quicker and he would start panting.

Martin lowered himself across Mr Wilberforce’s lap. He was much shorter and thinner than the man who was about to spank him; Mr Wilberforce was easily tall enough to play basketball. Martin placed the palms of his hands flat down and stared into the faded carpet, then he raised his bottom as high as he could, giving his punisher a perfect view of his crack. That wasn’t the purpose of the manoeuvre; it was to give Mr Wilberforce the best-possible target to aim at.

Martin felt the man’s arm almost encircle his midriff, pinning him down hard against Mr Wilberforce’s huge thighs. Martin accepted he had deliberately broken the curfew rule and he deserved this spanking and he was prepared to submit his bared bottom to punishment. He had no intention of trying to escape his just deserts. But, he knew that sometimes in the past the agony of the spanking had been too much that despite his best intentions to be submissive he had kicked and flailed about fighting to free himself. Martin felt no resentment that Mr Wilberforce didn’t trust him to take his bare-bottom slippering with dignity.

It was a standard spanking. Mr Wilberforce usually delivered forty-eight hard whacks with his slipper, landing it all the way across the target area. By the time he finished, both cheeks would be scorching hot and bruises would already be forming. The sit-spot where the buttocks met the thighs and the thighs themselves would be imprinted with the shape of the slipper’s sole.

He spanked hard (there was no point otherwise) and from the first slap the pain seared through Martin’s body, travelling from the buttock and up his back and down his legs. After only two or three whacks the agony reached his brain, releasing endorphins and taking him on a high he could never reach with cannabis or the other drugs he sometimes took.

Forty-eight whacks with the slipper might reduce a novice to tears, but Martin was no greenhorn when it came to spanking. It hurt alright, yes, it hurt a great deal, but he could take it and besides the “high” he was on far outweighed any pain he was also experiencing.

Then it was over. Job done. Two toasted buttocks.

Martin lay motionless across Mr Wilberforce’s knees, palms still dug into the carpet, bottom raised high. He knew the spanking protocol: don’t move from the subservient position until given permission to do so.

He could feel Mr Wilberforce’s cold hand massaging the heat in his own buttocks. It felt rather nice. It was his punisher’s way of saying “Despite having injured you, I love you,” or something, he supposed.

“You may get up now. Get dressed.”

Mr Wilberforce studied Martin as he stooped down to retrieve his pants and shorts. It was as if it were the first time he had seen the wrinkles on his face or the liver spots on the backs of his hands.

___________

More stories from Charles Hamilton the second are at Male on Male Spanking Stories

http://charleshamiltonthesecond.wordpress.com/

Story © 2015 by Charles Hamilton the Second, used here by very kind permission of the author.

____________

D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are over 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

_____________

Comments welcome

Comments are here

TV Repairman (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A brand spanking new male discipline story by very special guest author Charles Hamilton the Second. Over 18s only!

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Ding, dong! Ding, dong! The front doorbell rang.

Damn and blast! Sanderson, the aging bachelor, cursed silently in the kitchen. He was up to his elbows in flour and dough. It must be the television repairman. He’s late; he promised to be here hours ago. Workmen, damn them, they’re so unreliable.

His paying guests had been getting restless without the television to watch. He had three of them at present. It was a huge house with many spare bedrooms. Why not let them out to homeless teenagers? It was his civic duty, Sanderson told those who puzzled over the arrangement. Worried that the pie he was working on would spoil if left too long, he hurried to the door and opened it.

“Good afternoon sir. I’m Gerald from Acme TV Repairs. I’ve come to fix your set.”

Sanderson hoped he wasn’t gaping. It was an Adonis standing before him. He couldn’t be a TV repairman surely; he was no more than a boy.

But he was. There in his hand was an ID card with photograph and emblazoned across the breast of the young man’s gleaming white shirt was the company name and logo.

“Come in, come in,” Sanderson spluttered. He drank in the sight as the repairman brushed past him and entered the hallway. He wasn’t very tall, but he had the build of an athlete. Muscles bulged under the open-necked shirt and Sanderson could tell the boy was probably hairless underneath.

His deep suntanned face emphasised his dazzling white teeth and ruby red lips. His light brown hair was closely-cropped, rather like a US Marine’s, and his opal eyes shone when he spoke.

“The television set is in the study, please come this way.”

Gerald flushed. The ‘study’; what an evocative word that was to him. It conjured images of ancient boarding schools. And that meant headmasters’ studies; which meant headmasters in flowing academic gowns, carrying crook-handled canes. It was only a short step from there to think of schoolboys summoned to the study for six-of-the-best.

As long as he could remember Gerald had fantasised about himself dressed as a schoolboy bending over and submissively offering up his bottom to be thrashed by a headmaster. He avidly read ancient storybooks with names like the Gem and the Magnet that he had discovered on the Internet. They featured the adventures of boys in boarding schools which often led to a master swiping an ashplant cane into the stretched backsides of his naughty pupils.

Sanderson opened a door and ushered Gerald inside. “If you don’t mind I’m in the middle of making a pie. If I don’t get back to it, it will spoil.” And, without waiting for a response he dashed back to the kitchen.

Gerald stood just inside the study door. It was so unlike rooms in the houses he usually visited. The wall on the left side was lined with floor-to-ceiling shelving from the door right across to the window, though the last foot or so was appeared to be made of oak panels. The shelves were stacked with books; it was like being in a library. In the middle of the shelves was a tall thin cupboard with a locked door and a smoked glass panel. There was an unlit open fire and photographs around the room. A desk was straight ahead of him and filling up the rest of the room were two horsehair armchairs, a couple of straight-backed wooden chairs and a padded Chesterfield couch.

Gerald’s eyes rested on the Chesterfield couch. It was large, solid and made of black leather. It was exactly like the one in a video he loved to watch. A schoolboy called Alan had been caught smoking in the lavatories and had been ordered to the study. There he is ordered, “Take down your trousers and bend over the Chesterfield.” Without hesitation he pulls his trousers down and lowers himself across the arm of the couch. He is wearing tight white underpants. Unceremoniously, the schoolmaster takes a curve-handled rattan cane and swishes six strokes into the boy’s quivering buttocks.

Gerald loved that scene so much that in bed he jerked himself off as he played it over and over again in his head. Only this time the boy bent over the Chesterfield, his trousers at his ankles and his bum held high, was not Alan it was Gerald himself.

A clock on the bookshelf chimed four o’clock. Oh lor, was that the time? Gerald opened his tool box, extracted a screwdriver and began to take off the back of the television set.

In the kitchen, Sanderson pounded the pastry with extra vigour. He could not get the sight of that young man out of his mind. Had he ever seen a boy so gorgeous? His shoulders and chest were broad and tapered down to an enviably slim waist; his long, athletic legs were crowned by a neat pair of buttocks.

Then there was the uniform he wore. The pale-grey immaculately-pressed trousers and gleaming white open-necked shirt made him look like a senior schoolboy. If he wore a striped tie and alize that Alan, the boy in the video, was there with him in the room; first he takes down his trousers and then offers up his beefy bum for the cane.

Gerald had fantasized often enough, but he had never had the chance to actually experience a caning. Corporal punishment had been abolished in schools before he was even born and, of course, parents no longer spanked their children at home. What he wondered, would it feel like to bend over a Chesterfield as if he were a naughty schoolboy?

Slowly he walked over to the huge couch. His heart raced as he stood behind the Chesterfield and realized he was the perfect height to drape over its back. If he did that and stretched his arms out in front of him with his palms flat down on the heavy leather seat his bum would be in the perfect position for an imaginary headmaster or maybe a head boy to whip a cane across the seat of his trousers.

He could feel his cock stiffen as he recounted the dream. He knew that tonight after this little experience he would probably have a humdinger of a wank, imagining what it might be like to be beaten in this study across this very couch. But, wouldn’t his orgasm be even more spectacular if he really had been across the couch, head low, bottom high, waiting for the punishment to begin?

Do it Gerald, go ahead do it. He silently dared himself to bend over the couch just like he was a naughty boy; just as Alan the smoking sixth-former in the video had done.

His cock pressed hard against the front of his trousers. His penis definitely wanted him to do this. So like all other young men, he listened to his dick. Gerald took a deep breath, unbuckled his belt, popped the button at the top of his trousers, lowered the zipper and let them fall gently down to his knees. Then he rubbed his hands together and lowered himself across the arm of the couch just like Alan in the video.

Gerald had no way of seeing what he looked like, but he knew he was not the picture of Alan because whereas that boy wore traditional Y-front underpants, Gerald had on a pair of loose-fitting lemon boxer shorts. He could smell the old leather of the couch and his erect penis pressed into the arm of the couch.

Gerald closed his eyes and conjured up the image of the schoolmaster in the video; the one who gave Alan his six-of-the-best. Swipe! Gerald visualized the first cut bouncing off his taut bottom. Swipe! Number two landed just below the first and the imagined pain in his bottom was rising. Swipe! The study door opened. “Sorry to have left you …” Sanderson breezed into the room full of apologies. He stopped dead. There bent across the arm of his Chesterfield with his trousers at his knees and his gorgeous arse held high was the Adonis.

“Eh, oh, um, sorry,” Sanderson was speechless. For a second he thought he was still in the kitchen baking bread and this was the trial-run for a fantasy he might enjoy in bed later that night.

Gerald sprang to his feet, his face as red as he hoped his arse might be after a real thrashing from a headmaster. “I, I, well, ermm…” He too was lost for words.

The two men stared at each other, both frantically trying to find something to say that was coherent. Sheepishly Gerald pulled up his trousers and zipped and buckled himself up. Sanderson once again appraised Gerald. He was one of the nicest boys he had ever seen outside of a magazine or video. The kid showed a good muscle definition. He checked out Gerald’s chest, first noticing the small nipples pointing out and then a delicately etched rib cage. Next he looked at the belly button; the stomach was flat, not an ounce of fat showed. He had already admired the pert buttocks, offered up to him only moments previously. It was an arse crying out to be spanked.

Gerald stared back at him. Sanderson had a round face, with rather weak jaw line, and dark brown hair that was grey at the temples. He wore gold rimmed glasses that sat two thirds the way down his nose making him look like an owl. He had on a shabby cardigan and grey flannel trousers that were a bit thin at the knees.

Sanderson was first to break the silence. He had a jolly good idea what was going on and Gerald knew that Sanderson knew. Sanderson was thinking about his own days as a younger man, when people never shared their feelings; and of all the opportunities that were lost because he could not find a companion with his interests. Only when well into his thirties after he had found a mentor did his life really open up. If he had learnt anything from those days it was to take a chance on life. A little plan was hatching inside his head.

“Gerald,” he said gruffly, looking the young man intimidatingly in the eye. “You promised to visit me this morning to fix my television set but you were several hours late. What is your explanation?”

Gerald flushed uncertain how to respond. Did the man know his secret? “Well,” Sanderson intoned. He had some experience playing the headmaster in these little games and he was well practiced in intimidating little boys. “I’m waiting for an explanation, boy.”

Gerald wriggled a little and stared down at the carpet. He had no experience playing the role of a naughty little boy. What was happening here came naturally.

“Speak up boy. Don’t try my patience. It will be the worst for you.”

The truth was that Gerald had skipped off work in the middle of the morning to go shopping in town. He was looking for a special top to wear at a party at the coming weekend, but it had been difficult to find and took longer than expected. His heart thumped so hard he swore it would burst through his chest. Where was this questioning going to lead to?

“I went into town,” he croaked.

Ah! Now Sanderson had an angle. “You left work without permission. You know it is explicitly against the rules.”

Gerald flushed scarlet. Oh Christ! Could this really be happening to him?

“Why did you leave work without permission boy? Where did you go?”

Gerald told him the truth. It had really happened. He had really broken the rules: he could get into serious trouble if his boss found out.

“And, do you think you should be punished for this?” Sanderson gave him his get-out-of-jail card. This was Gerald’s call; he would decide what should happen next. Gerald’s head was spinning wildly; but already he knew the answer.

“Yes, Sir,” he could hardly believe he had plucked up the courage to say it.

Sanderson grimaced. “Right boy, stand there,” he barked and pointed to a spot in the middle of the room. In a daze, but entirely sure this is what he wanted to happen, Gerald shuffled into position. He had a perfect view as the owl-like man opened a drawer in his desk and rummaged about inside until he found what he as seeking. He emerged with a key which he took to the tall cupboard with the smoked glass front.

Gerald’s eyes widened as the cupboard door opened revealing two old-fashioned school curve-handled canes, just like the ones he read about in the Magnet and Gem. Sanderson selected one of the canes and swiped it through the air. Gerald stared wide-eyed as the swishing noise echoed around the study. Sanderson pretended not to notice and examined the cane thoughtfully, as if he had never before seen it. Feigning dissatisfaction, he returned it to the cupboard and removed the second cane and flexed it between his hands, as if measuring it up. In truth there was hardly any difference between the two. He took it from the cupboard and swished it through the air to show the boy what it could do. Gerald looked apprehensive, as well he might.

“Stand by the desk,” he pointed with the cane. Gerald moved in the right direction, but stopped short by two or three feet. “Right up to the desk, boy.”

He moved forward a little more. Sanderson stood within his eye line, swished his cane through the air two or three more times, then tapped it against the desk.

“Bend over.”

Although he had no personal experience of the cane, Gerald knew how it ought to be done: he learnt it from the videos he loved so much. With his heart bounding so hard he was sure blood would soon pour out of his ears he leaned forward, resting his stomach on the desk top with his arms stretched to his front and overhanging the end of the desk.

Two attractive, nicely formed buttocks became fully outlined at the top of long slim legs, encased in close fitting pale-grey trousers. The trousers had tightened significantly around his buttocks, and waves of anxiety mixed with excitement ebbed and flowed through him.

“You are about to learn a very painful lesson young man.” Sanderson stood to his side a full cane length from him and after bending his knees a little he tapped the tip of the cane against the edge of his shapely-moulded left buttock cheek. Gerald’s cock was at full attention, pressing hard into the edge of the desk.

Sanderson tapped away with his cane, took aim and then after drawing his arm back a little, he thwipped the cane across both buttocks. Gerald whelped and could feel a thin red line appear under his trousers. His blood pressure was soaring, rushing to all parts of his body, but especially to his groin which was throbbing much more than his backside. Sanderson swished another cut across the very centre of Gerald’s finely-sculptured globes; this time a little harder than before. Gerald gasped and jerked his head.

“Feeling that aren’t you boy?”

“Yes, Sir,” he replied. He felt it and realised he enjoyed the sensation of the glowing pain very much. Never before in his life, not even when wanking to the most exciting corporal punishment videos, had he experienced such sexual pleasure.

Sanderson landed the third and fourth cuts close to the previous two. Had Gerald been an experienced receiver of the cane, Sanderson would have landed them right on top of the first two; but he feared the agony of this might just put the boy off CP for life. Even so, Gerald was jerking his body from side to side; a reflex action against the pain.

Sanderson thwipped down strokes five and six. Gerald’s head rose from the desk and he brought his arms back so he could bury his face in them. It was over: six strokes of the cane. It was nowhere near ‘six-of-the-best’; that (Sanderson fervently hoped) could be reserved for the boy’s next visit.

Gerald was still lying across the desk, unsure what to do next. His bottom was sore, but he was not in agony. He was a little disappointed; he had expected a caning to hurt much more. His cock still throbbed like mad, but he hadn’t been able to come.

“Stand up Gerald.”

He stood up and Sanderson was able to look him in the face. He read his thoughts.

“Well boy, I hope you have learned your lesson, but if you are before me again for any offence, your punishment will be much more severe. We’ll see how much you like the cane with your trousers at your ankles.”

Gerald did not reply; he wasn’t sure what he was expected to say. The beating had been a little disappointing, but next time, he felt sure, it would be awesome.

“You should leave now Gerald, my paying guests will be returning any time now.”

“Yes Sir, thank you Sir.”

No further words were exchanged that afternoon between the two men. Gerald retrieved his tools, returned to his van and drove away, passing a youngster on a bicycle at the end of the driveway.

Sanderson replaced the cane in the cupboard and was making his way back to the kitchen when the front door opened and James Phipps entered. James was the most recent of Sanderson’s lodgers to join the household. He was nearly six feet tall and well built. He had thick brown hair (overdue for a cut!) and probably had not shaved for a couple of days, even though he needed to.

James was twenty years old and worked at a nearby supermarket. Even though his face was suntanned, he clearly blanched when he saw Sanderson waiting for him in the hallway.

“Ah, James,” Sanderson beamed. “I was hoping to catch you. We have a little unfinished business regarding your missed curfew.”

James thought of arguing, but experience, very painful experience, had taught him never to contradict his landlord. He had agreed the rules and he must abide by them.

“Follow me, please,” Sanderson was deceptively cordial as he made his way back into his study.

Miserably, James did as he was asked. As he entered the room, Sanderson was already placing one of the straight-backed chairs into the very centre of the study. Glumly, James watched as his landlord strode across the room and picked up a bedroom slipper from in front of the open fire.

Then, Sanderson sat himself down in the chair, spread his legs wide and called over to James.

“Come now, James, you know what is expected.”

More stories from Charles Hamilton the second are at Male on Male Spanking Stories

http://charleshamiltonthesecond.wordpress.com/

Story © 2015 by Charles Hamilton the Second, used here by very kind permission of the author.

____________

D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are over 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

_____________

Comments welcome

Comments are here

 

Behind The Beaded Curtain Of A Sleazy ’70s Sex Shop (M/M) repost

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot all-male erotica by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2013 by popular request.

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.”

“Really?”

“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.”

“You think!”

“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.

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Story © 2013 by Rod Cayenne

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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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