Rump Kilt Skin (F/M) repeated

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Femdom fiction by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2012. Strictly 18+, adults only!

Although the smoke of the steam engines engulfed the platform, the two figures recognised each other instantly.

“Hello Aunt Penelope!”

“Hello Gregory!”

They exchanged a kiss and smiled at each other.

“It’s very kind of you to let me stay this week!  I really want to explore the city’s architecture.  It will help with my finals.”

“There’s no finer city in Scotland, Gregory.  I’ll show you around.  Just be a good lad for me.”

“Oh I will Aunty!  I’ll be on my best behaviour.  You won’t be needing your old cane this time.”

“Well, that’s good.  I don’t think I’ve got it any more.  I think your uncle threw it out just before he died.  He said it wouldn’t be needed any more.”

“Oh,” said Gregory trying to hide his disappointment.  He had been thinking about his Aunt’s canings a lot lately.  They had been terrible at the time but now that he was in his early twenties and sexually mature, he had rather fancied a reminder of the cane’s bitter sweet caress.  “You must really miss Uncle Robert.”

“Yes, I do miss him.  Most of all I miss having a man around the house.  I feel like I’m rattling around in that big empty house.  So it will be a comfort having you to stay for the week.  Come on, let’s head home and I’ll fix you some food.”

Over broth and oatcakes the two stared at each other lovingly.  There was real electricity between them.

Aunt Penelope nipped out to the outhouse.  She hadn’t been there much since the death of her husband.  She rummaged around and eventually found what she was looking for – the old leather tawse.  She picked it up and stroked it with affection.  The brown leather twin-tailed strap was capable of severe punishment.  The happily-married couple had used both it and the cane regularly to spice up their sex life.  Then, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the cane.  He hadn’t thrown it out after all!  He had always been a bit of a tease!  She decided to take both items in to show Gregory.

She placed both items on the kitchen table.  Gregory was sat there still, daydreaming, but the arrival of the cane and tawse brought him back down to earth.

“Oh Aunty, you won’t be needing those, will you?”

“I rather think I might be, young Gregory!”

“I thought you said Uncle Robert had thrown the cane away.”

“Well, I honestly thought he had.  But now I’ve found it, I rather think I might put it to use.”

“Oh Aunty!  And that beastly tawse?”

“Yes, that too!  I think you deserve a good thrashing for all those times you took advantage of me.”

“But Aunty, you led me on!”

“Yes, I may have done.  But you should have declined.  I had a devil of a job keeping it secret from Robbie.”

“You didn’t tell him?”

“No, I didn’t.  I felt so guilty though.  Maybe he guessed and that’s what finished him off.  Poor Robbie.  Anyway, you can take advantage again this week, but only if you accept your punishment first!”

“Oh Aunty, must I?”

“Yes, you must.  It’ll help us both assuage the guilt, I think.”

“Yes, Aunty.  I suppose you’re right.”

“I hope you’ve brought your kilt.”

He nodded.

“Go and change into it then.  Remember, no underwear”

“Yes, Aunty.”

“And I’ll slip into something more comfortable.  Something you’ll really like.  Meet me in the bedroom.  I want the full outfit too, please.  Sporran, garters, shirt…”

So it came to be that the two of them met up in the master bedroom.  Gregory looked smart in his traditional Scottish wear, and Aunt Penelope looked severe in a black girdle.   She flexed the cane menacingly.

“Right Gregory, bend over the side of the bed and lift your kilt up for me.  I will be alternating strokes between the cane and the tawse.  That’s it, stick your rump out for me.”

She approached him, and tucked the cane under her arm.  She had a good feel of his generous, meaty rump.  Its skin was still soft and boyish, not nearly as hairy as her husband’s had been.  The smooth surface was about to become marked by the lash of the cane.

SWISH-CRACK!

“ACH – YEOWCH!” Gregory cried as the stroke was much harder than he’d been expecting.   He heard the clatter of the cane being put down on the side table.

WHACK!  Now the tawse lashed down.  A different kind of pain followed.  A bruising, hurtful pain.

SWISH-CRACK!  It was the cane again and a sharp line of fire assaulted his arse.

WHACK!  The tawse crashed down on Gregory’s cheeks.

SWISH-CRACK!  The whippy cane struck down.

WHAACK!  The tawse crashed down even harder than before!

“AARGH!”

WHACK!  The tawse struck again, unexpectedly, as the cane had been due.

“OWWW!”

“That’s enough of the tawse, I think.  Six of the best with the cane!”

SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!

Both were really getting into their stride.  Aunt Penelope stopped to feel his manly cheeks.  They were hot and inviting.  She made a mental note to find something suitable to push up his arsehole.  A quick feel of his semi-erect penis followed.  Yes, it would serve her well once again.

“Six more, I’m afraid Gregory.  Your penis is betraying your true feelings.  You’re enjoying this!  Six more, then you can mount me.”

SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!

She tucked the cane under her arm again and groped his arse and cock once more.  

“Still enjoying it I see!  Do you think you can take six more with the tawse?”

“I’d rather have the cane, Aunty.”

“Are you really sure?”

“Yes, but make it a dozen!  In for a penny, in for a pound!” he laughed.

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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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Story ©  MMXII by Rod Cayenne

Photo © by Jonathan, R.I.P.

Comments welcome

Comments from the original 2012 post are here

Old School Blazer (F/M) repeated

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Femdom fiction by Rod Cayenne, repeated from October 2013.  Strictly 18+, adults only!

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.”

“Sorry, Aunty.”

“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.”

“Oh, Aunty!”

“You’ve been a naughty boy, Jonathan.  Aunty’s not happy.  Can you guess what comes next?” she asked him teasingly.

“No.”

“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!

“Ready, Jonathan?”

“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.

“AAAARGH!”

“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.”

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Story © MMXIII by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved.

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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.

_______________

Comment please!

Comments from the original October 2013 post are here.  

I Masturbated In My Brother’s House (M/M) repeated

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A repeat of this work of total fiction by your host Rod Cayenne.  Strictly Over-18s only!

I’ve always had a funny relationship with my brother Patrick.  He always called me “kid” which was guaranteed to piss me off big time.  That and the fact that he was a good ten years older than me.

A few years back he purchased his first house.  In a less than desirable suburb of the city, he really thought he had arrived.  It was a Victorian terrace, with a big railway viaduct down the bottom of the garden.  Being a bit of a gricer, I took pleasure in telling him that it was the line the nuclear waste trains ran along.  That freaked him out briefly!  His green credentials were seriously dented.  Yes, we were siblings with the traditional rivalry.  Even so, I was happy to help him move in and decorate as I was waiting to start a new term at University.  I stayed for a few days.

Towards the end of my stay, I was enjoying a fine brew of tea and a crafty cigarette as my elevensies break.  My brother had taken the train into town to sort out some things.  I was a bit bored and tired as I gazed idly out of the kitchen window.  I picked up the previous day’s evening paper and scanned through it as I puffed on my fag.  Suddenly, I spat tea out of my gob with disbelief as I started to read an article about corporal punishment and the cane in particular.  It was a hot piece alright, on a subject I’d always had an unhealthy interest in.  In fact, it was so hot that I soon whipped Mr Cock out of my trousers and began to masturbate furiously.  Unfortunately for me, my brother returned just at that moment, unheard by me. Perhaps the radio had drowned out the noise of him opening the front door?

“What the fuck are you doing, kid?” he boomed at me.   “Wanking in my kitchen!  What if the neighbours have seen?  They might think it was me.  Their new neighbour is a wanker indeed!  Shit, I hope they haven’t seen you.  You little sod!  What are you wanking off to anyway?”

He snatched the rag from me.  I blushed a deep red as the penny dropped.

“So, into spanking, are you?”

I thought it best to say nothing at that point.  I mean, what could I say?  My mind raced, and I remember a few smacked bottoms he’d given me when we were younger.

“I can see that you need a good hard spanking now, kid!”

“Don’t be daft,” I replied, “I’m twenty!”

“Shut up!  Go to your room and wait for me.”

Reluctantly, I made my way up the stairs to the small bedroom I’d been sleeping in.  The fresh magnolia paint gave the room a sunny air.  The window was open to allow the paint smell to dissipate.   I sat down on the bed, feeling for all the world like a guilty teenager.  Soon my brother appeared, smiling a sinister smile.  He unlaced his Green Flash trainers and slipped them off silently.  The meaning was clear.  He was going to beat me with them.

“Such depraved behaviour, kid!  Demands punishment, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” I agreed submissively.

“Better bare your bottom for me, then.  It’s traditional, after all.  Then bend over the bed.”

“Patrick, is all this really necessary?” I asked, in one last forlorn attempt to avoid a beating.

“Oh yes, I’d certainly say so!  That’s it, nice and bare now.”  I slipped my jeans and pants down.  “Tut, tut, carrying a bit of extra weight on your buttocks these days, I see!”

My humiliation was almost complete.  He picked up one of his green and white tennis shoes and slapped it down hard on my naked arse.  An almighty thundercrack seemed to accompany it and a wave of pain engrossed my body.  Rapidly, a second, third and fourth stroke struck home.  Already the pain was overwhelming me.  If my brother was worried about the neighbours seeing me wanking, why wasn’t he worried about the noise from my spanking?   Surely it was drifting out of the open window?  I needn’t have worried though, as just then two expresses passed on the viaduct, drowning out the sounds of my beating.

“AAARGH!” I cried as further strokes lashed my naked behind.  I was close to begging him to stop, but really I was so ashamed of my behaviour that I felt I really had to just grin and bear it.  As further strikes hit me though, this became harder and I soon felt silent tears rolling down my face.  Again and again he hit me, sometimes with the left tennis shoe,  sometimes the right.  My arse was aglow, bright red and throbbing.  Certainly the beating had cured my urge to masturbate.  Eventually it was over.  Patrick slapped my arse gratuitously with his hand a couple of times as I staggered to my feet.

“Don’t think I’ve finished with you yet, kid,” my brother said.  “This afternoon you and I will take the train into town where you will buy a cane, seeing as you have such an interest in them.  You will pay for it and I will use it on you.  Clear?”

I almost forgave my brother later as he cooked us the most sensational Italian lunch.  However, my arse was sorer than sore as I sat on the hard wooden seat of the refectory-style table.  As we enjoyed a cold ice cream dessert from the freezer I wondered whether it might not have been better used to cool my inflamed cheeks.

After lunch, Patrick dragged me off into town on the train.  That was a bit of a treat in a way, but our eventual destination bore heavily on my mind.  A place that sold canes?  Surely there were no such places any more?  Then I remembered I’d seen some pretty feeble-looking canes in a local sex shop.  My brother grinned at me as we passed over some uneven points and I grimaced as my bottom was bounced around on the seating.

Eventually, we got to town and emerged from the station.  Almost opposite was our destination, a rather old-fashioned looking shop.  It specialised in umbrellas, hiking and walking sticks and “canes”!  I followed Patrick in, the door causing a loud bell to sound as it was opened.  I was immediately hit by a slightly musty smell as I surveyed the dingy surroundings.  A wizened old gentleman appeared and offered us assistance.

“I’m looking for a punishment cane.  Probably a senior model, preferably with a crook handle,” Patrick informed the man.

“Ah.  Right, sir.  Not much call for those these days, I’m afraid.  Yes, a great shame. But we do keep a few in stock for connoisseurs and enthusiasts.  Come and have a look.”

Patrick duly inspected a variety of canes, and I blushed every time he swished one through the air.  The stock was rather more extensive than we’d been led to believe and my brother didn’t seem to be in a great hurry, unfortunately for me.  Eventually, he selected a golden brown specimen, with a quite beautiful curved handle.  It looked as if it was straight out of an ancient comic. Somehow I knew that it would be no laughing matter, however.

“The boy will pay for it!”  Patrick announced.  I duly scraped the necessary together, which was humiliating, but at least it gave me the chance to ask the assistant to wrap the cane for me.  And so it was that we left the shop, with me carrying a lightweight package wrapped in brown parcel paper!  On the train ride back, Patrick winked at me a couple of times.  Was he enjoying my humiliation, or was he, as I was beginning to suspect, a bit of a spanko himself?

Back at the house, Patrick ordered me upstairs again, “And this time change into your pyjamas.  You will be sent to bed after your caning!”

“But I don’t have any pyjamas with me!”

“What?  No pyjamas?  I suppose you sleep in the nude, do you?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I do.  Except when I’m at Mum and Dad’s.”

“I see.  More lewd behaviour!  Extra strokes for that, kid.”

I walked up the stairs with my tail between my legs.  Well, not really as I don’t have a tail.  And, even if I had, I felt that Patrick would have beaten it off in next to no time!

I was sat on the bed again when Patrick came in.  He was taking the wrapping off the cane.  It’s full majesty was soon revealed.  He cut it through the air a couple of times.  I really wasn’t looking forward to this.  Although caning had been a major fantasy for me, I was pretty sure I didn’t want one in real life.

“I thought I told you to get ready for bed?” Patrick reminded me.

“But I told you, I sleep in the nude!”

“In that case you will be caned in your bed clothes, that’s to say stark bollock naked!  See to it!”

Reluctantly, I stripped off.  I could smell my sweat.  If only his shower had been working.

“Right, bend over brother.  Six for masturbating in my house, and four extra for sleeping nude in my house!  And two more for a general lack of respect for me and my house!  How many does that make?”

“Twelve, Patrick.”

“No!  It makes twelve of the very best!  Stick that bottom out more!”

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!  Three shockingly hard strokes landed on my already tender arse.  The sting of that cane was unbelievable.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!  It was all too much.  This time tears and snot fell down my face.  I had hoped that the cane from that tired old shop would have been past it, but it was full of youthful vim and vigour.  Shit!

“Oh please Patrick, no more!  I’m sorry.  Haven’t I done a good job for you here?”

My brother paused.  Perhaps I had struck a chord?

“Well, Wayne…”

I was amazed.  He’d used my first name!  That was the first time for ages.  Surely a good sign?

“You have done some really good work on the house and with helping me move in.  Thank you.  I shall of course reward you for that.  However, your inappropriate behaviour does still need to be punished!”

He flexed the cane and slashed it down on my naked arse once more.  It wasn’t quite such a harsh stroke, and neither were the other five that followed on.  So maybe I had six of the very best and six close to the best?  Anyway, I couldn’t help sobbing a little by the time he threw the cane down.

“That was fun!” he laughed.

I wanted to call him a bastard but I thought better of it.  And then, he didn’t send me to bed after all.  I think that was because he wanted me to do some more work on the house for him.  I was glad to be standing up as I painted, for my bottom was way too sore to do anything requiring sitting down!

At the end of the stay, he did give me an envelope stuffed with cash.  It certainly helped out over the following term, so I did feel grateful to him.  Despite this, for a while I was reluctant to visit him again.  I was wary of his punishments.  However,  eventually I had to admit to myself that it had all been very exciting, if a tad painful.  So, I did spend a few weekends and holidays in his tender care!  The cane and slipper were used a lot, but only because we both wanted it that way.

THE END

D I S C L A I M E R

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

________________

Story © MMXIV by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved

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Comments welcome

Comments from the original 2014 post are here

Merry Christmas 2015!

A very happy Christmas to all readers!  I hope you enjoy your Yuletide celebrations, especially if they include a bit of bottom warming.  Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!

A new story will appear here very shortly.   It may well be the long-awaited Part 4 of the “Junior Masters” Trilogy!  In the meantime, my M/F and F/M Christmas story “Unmentionable Christmas” from 2013 is still available to read free at http://www.thespankinglibrary.org/  or in the “One Last Christmas” collection, one of the Christmas anthology downloads.  That story won’t be appearing here on The Canery blog…  

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Posted by Rod

Picture © by Jonathan, R.I.P.

Suntanned (M/M) re-posted

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A repeat of this popular spanking fiction by Rod Cayenne.

All the characters are 18 or over.

Strictly over 18s only!

Poor Kevin Brown couldn’t understand why his mother was being so very frosty.  As arranged, she had collected him and friends Peter Watson and Tony Taylor from the airport.  An old Boeing 727 had returned them from their Club 18-30 Balearic holiday.  The lads all boasted suntans, hangovers and stupid grins.

The grey Ford Escort headed back home along the motorway.  Kevin was sat in the front with his mother, while his two chums were in the back.  Even through his hangover he could sense that there was a problem. He had to find out exactly what it was.

“Mum, you seem a bit annoyed.  It’s very kind of you to pick us up like this.  Really, we’re very grateful, Mum.  Is there a problem?”

“Apart from missing my WI meeting?  Yes, there certainly is.  I heard about what you youngsters got up to on the island!”

“Whaaat?”

“Yes, my friend Gladys Griffith was at the same hotel in the same resort, with her teenage daughters.  You probably didn’t realise who those girls were when you were hitting on them, pestering them, drunk and boorishly.  Fiona and Millie.  Remember them?”

“Oh, Mum!  I’m sorry.  We’re sorry, aren’t we guys?” The other passengers nodded on cue.

“Fortunately the girls had the sense to move on.  But Gladys heard you swearing your heads off at the pool and beach as well.  I suppose that was alcohol-fuelled as well?  You do know her husband works with your father?  It’s all very embarrassing.”

“Sorry,  Mum.”

“Oh, you’ll be sorry alright.  You have an appointment with your father and his cane.”

That news caused Tony and Peter in the back of the car to laugh and guffaw at their friend’s shame and apparent comeuppance.

“But Mum!  I’m 22!  Much too old for the cane!”

“Not while you live under my roof, you’re not.  Anyway, this was my idea.  I asked your father if he still had that old cane of his.  He couldn’t find it, but he managed to buy a brand new one.  It wasn’t cheap, but is extra pliant and extra painful, I believe.  I heard him trying it out on some old cushions as I left the house.  It sounded like it was worth every penny.”

Tony and Peter laughed again at their pal’s misfortune. What friends they were turning out to be!

“Shut up you two!” cried Kevin in his distress  and embarrassment.  “Bastards!”

“That’s enough of that bad language, Kevin,”  his mother admonished.  “That’s the sort of behaviour that’s got you into this trouble.  Now, Peter and Tony.  You are not blameless in this whole business, of course.  But that’s not my concern.  However I would like you both to witness Kevin’s punishment, if you’d be so kind.  It might make you two think twice in future, as well.  Now, can you both spare a few minutes?  It won’t take long for the cane to remind Kevin how to behave.  Peter, can you make it?”

“Well, yes.  As long as I’m not copping a few strokes,” said Bastard No.1.

“No, no.  Your bad behaviour isn’t my business.  Kevin’s is, of course.  Tony, how about you?”

“I’m cool with it.  We’re sorry about everything, Mrs Brown, and thanks again for the lift, but the truth is Kevin was kind of the ringleader, anyway,” said Bastard No.2.

A shame-faced Kevin blushed and looked straight ahead at the motorway traffic, fighting back angry tears. He couldn’t bear to look at his two so-called friends in the rear-view mirror.  What bastards!  His mother shook her head in dismay.  Was her son really the ringleader in this sorry business?   She was becoming quite distracted.  Fortunately, Junction 15 loomed on the horizon, and she remembered to exit just in time.

Now home, Kevin’s father was shouting at the trio, “Never in all my years have I been so ashamed!  Guy Griffith said I should beat the living daylights out of you, Kevin!  I’m not a cruel man, but he does have a point.  You need a good, hard reminder to behave yourself!  You have gone too far this time!  I’m not sure I can show my face at the Bowls Club ever again!”

Kevin’s father was indeed an older man; just the right age for the Bowls Club, and a product of the public school system.  As such, he remembered only too well how much a caning could hurt.  He remembered that every time, the shock of a caning was something you couldn’t prepare yourself for.  His old prefect’s cane had seen a little use over the years, until it went missing. Finding a replacement cane had been an uphill task. Fortunately, one of the club members informed him about a local ironmonger who still had stocks of the increasingly unfashionable punishment implement.  He also remembered the glee on the shopkeeper’s face as the sale was made.  “You’re doing the right thing.  This trendy ‘spare the rod’ business will be British society’s undoing,” he had said.  What Mr Brown didn’t know was that Kevin had hidden the old cane, fearful of its sting and retribution.

Father flexed the new cane.  It was a vicious beauty, and perhaps his most satisfying purchase in many a year.  Yes, it was money well spent.

“Right, Kevin.  Let’s have you over this chair.  Trousers and pants down.  I expect you’ve been skinny dipping, so your friends will have seen it all before.”

Indeed, the three lads had indulged in the pleasures of the nudist beach, but only a couple of times.  So when Kevin dropped his pants, the bottom revealed was still fairly pale when compared to his suntanned back and legs.  Peter and Tony looked on, somewhat embarrassed, while sandwiched in between them, Kevin’s mother showed only grim determination.  She did not really want to see her baby hurt, but he did deserve the punishment.  She crossed her legs and fidgeted nervously.

The cane lashed down on Kevin’s flesh. Immediately, a prominent line appeared and Kevin leapt to his feet, swearing and cursing!  Father pointed the cane at son, gesturing that his submissive posture should be resumed.

“Well, that was a very immature reaction, Kevin!  And the sort of foul language Mrs Griffith tipped us off about.  Dear, dear!  I think we’d better start again.  First stroke coming now!”

Kevin’s friends grinned at the display before them.  His mother uncrossed her legs, and then crossed them again hastily.  She too was transfixed by the naked exhibit before her.  She sighed with contentment as she looked at the red weal on her son’s bottom.

CRACK!  CRACK!  Two hard strokes landed on the youthful flesh, causing Kevin to gasp and writhe.  A most indecent display, his mother reflected.  His friends were quiet, but Kev was seriously embarrassed when he thought about the eyeful they would be getting.

“Keep still, Kevin!  More to come!”  Mr Brown stated in a very matter-of-fact way.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!  He wasn’t pacing himself, and these rapid strokes would teach his son the hard lesson both parents had deemed necessary.  Again and again the cane lashed down, until a full baker’s dozen red stripes decorated Kevin’s pert posterior.  Waves of agony shot through his body.  He was allowed to rise, which he did slowly.  He pulled up his underwear and trousers, and turned to face his friends and mother.  All three were recovering from the shock of what they had just witnessed.  Mr Brown had exited the room, to pour himself a refreshing glass of water.  He guzzled it greedily, almost as if he’d been in the desert for weeks.

Kevin’s companions were now on their feet, commiserating with their friend, only slightly insincerely. Mrs Brown was reaching for her car keys, ready to offer lifts, when the phone rang.  She picked it up.  It was evidently the father of Tony Taylor, Kevin’s friend and a witness to the beating, of course.  Mrs Brown handed the phone over to her husband.

“Yes, yes.  Most regrettable.  I expect the whole town knows now,” Mr Brown said in a peevish tone, “Well all three lads are here.  I decided to cane Kevin, and the other two witnessed it as a warning.  Yes. a traditional school cane.  Yes, with a shepherd’s crook-type handle. Definitely rather whippy and painful.  No, it’s new!  My old one went AWOL.  No, I didn’t know you could still buy them either.  Got it from Murgatroyd’s.  You should get one yourself!  OK, we’ll talk it over down at the Queen’s Head.  What?  You want me to cane Tony for you?  Well, I don’t know.  What?  Yes.  Yes.  Perhaps.  I gave Kevin twelve.  Yes, it was rather a lot, I suppose. Oh, and an extra one for some childish behaviour. Alright, I’ll do it.  But you’d better have quick word with Tony yourself, so that he knows it’s your idea.”

Although Tony had only heard half the conversation, he knew exactly what his father was going to tell him. Anxiously, he twisted at the coiled lead of the trimphone as his father shouted down the line.  The whole room could hear as Mr Taylor tore a strip off his son.  The words ‘bare arse’ seemed to echo around the room!  Tony handed the phone back to Mr Brown.  The two fathers had a quick farewell chat  after agreeing a tariff of ten strokes.

“Just ten for you then, Tony.  I don’t like to ask, but your father was most insistent on a bare bottom for you.”

“It’s OK, Mr Brown, sir.  I suppose I deserve it.”

Kevin was rubbing his bottom as discreetly as he could. But all the rubbing in the world wasn’t reducing the sting very much at all.  Still, it seemed like the right thing to do.  Certainly, his body was telling him to do it. He gazed over at Tony who was slipping his board shorts down to the ground, revealing a boyishly smooth bottom.  Meanwhile, Peter Watson bit at his nails nervously.  He was only too aware that natural justice and fair play demanded that he too should be caned. He’d have to persuade his parents otherwise.  Hang on though!  At 23, it was no business of theirs!  Hell, at 23 he was too old to be caned, full stop! However did he get himself into this mess?

CRACK!  Mr Brown’s cane was now getting a fresh workout, this time on Tony Taylor’s naked haunches.  Mr Brown was a natural caner.  He knew it, and the boys knew it.  Tony knew it even better than the others, as he was the one feeling the wrath of the angry adult right at that moment.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!  Yes, Mr Brown was having a cracking time alright!  So was his wife, who was only too happy to watch the handsome lad being reduced to a wreck before her eyes.  The smooth babyish buttocks were marking up a treat!

CRACK!  Tony was losing count.  He wasn’t trying to count as such, although it was a natural thing to do. But he lost it.  Lost count, that is.  And then he lost his dignity as well as the cane did indeed reduce him to a sniveling wreck.  Kev had found his beating hard to bear, but Tony was totally unaccustomed to this kind of harsh punishment and it showed. Oh yes, it showed. Mrs Brown wriggled restlessly on the sofa as the final stroke cracked down.

An eerie silence fell on the room.  Tony pulled his shorts back up , gave himself a quick botty rub, and went and sat down in a vacant armchair.  Mr Brown slashed the cane through the air.  It made a shocking swishing noise as it sliced through the silence.  He stared towards the only unbeaten lad, Peter Watson.  He beckoned him with his forefinger.  He made Peter stand a couple of feet in front of him, then purposefully bent the cane into an arc right in front of the lad’s gaze.

“Well, Peter?”

“No, no, you can’t Mr Brown!  Please!”

“I can and I rather think I should.  The other two have taken their punishment, so why shouldn’t you do likewise?”

“But my parents!  They haven’t agreed to this!  Besides I’m almost 24!  The cane is for teenagers!”

Mr Brown bent the cane right in front of Peter’s face once again, saying, “This is all very tiresome.  The very fact that the others have taken a caning means you’re not too old.  And do you really want me to ring your parents?”

“No, but…”

“Take your punishment like a man, Peter!” interrupted Kevin, at last extracting some kind of revenge at the expense of his sometime friend.

“Be quiet, Kevin!” snapped Mr Brown.  “You are still in disgrace.  Any more from you, and I’ll have you over the chair for another twelve strokes!”

Kevin blushed a deep, deep red.  Once more the room fell quiet.  Then the silence was broken by Peter unzipping his Wranglers.  It seemed that his time had come!

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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 businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Story © MMXIV by Rod Cayenne

Photograph © MMXI by Jonathan, R.I.P.

All rights reserved.

___________)

Comments welcome

Comments from the original 2014 post are here

Comments for this 2015 repeat are here

Reminder – Christmas Shopping

Now is the time! Christmas is fast approaching. What better way to show your adult partner your hitherto secret desires than by giving them a rattan cane as a gift? At this time of year, you can always treat it as a jokey present! Or blame a friend for suggesting it as a gift. It’s probably the only time of year you can get away with such a light-hearted approach. Do it now! If you get a negative reaction, you can always dismiss it as a joke…it didn’t cost much, it wasn’t serious, Santa must have left it, I’ll throw it away, etc. I don’t recommend the latter, of course. Just save it for a rainy day…

Please don’t blame me if you end up with a sore bottom as one of your gifts! If you get a favourable reaction, it may be sub or it may be dom! Or it may be somewhere between the two! Your mileage may vary, as they say.

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Posted by Rod Cayenne

Canes by Quality Control 

This is a revised version of a post from Christmas 2011

Comments welcome!

Father’s Favour (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot new fiction by very special guest author 11plus.  All the characters are 18 or over.

 

“Dad, this may sound weird, but I want you to try corporal punishment on me.”

“Eh?  You what?  Damn right, son, that does sound weird!”

“Dad, listen to me.  I’m incredibly lazy.  We both know that.  I need some serious motivation if I’m going to get through University.”

“Maybe, maybe, but it’s out of the question.”

“It’s not like you can stop my pocket money. Gran’s inheritance has left me a lot better off than my mates.”

“True, but really, the very notion is preposterous and out of the question.  Let’s move on, silly!”

“No Dad!  I’ve thought about this a lot.  It’s taken me a lot of courage to raise this, you know.  I need something unpleasant to motivate me.”

“Listen Peter!  You don’t know what you’re asking for.  I imagine we’re not talking a hand smacking here?  I was thrashed regularly at your age, eighteen, and let me tell you, it’s no laughing matter!”

“Exactly, Dad.  No laughing matter, that’s just what I need.  I’m lazy and devious with it, you must know that?”

“Of course, I recognise that.  But we all have our crosses to bear.  You’ll just have to learn some self-discipline.  Listen, what you’re suggesting borders on sadomasochism, and I want no part in it.  If you ask me, you need to see a doctor, this is just so sick!  But if you’re serious, you’ll have to find someone else, perhaps a girlfriend…”

“Oh not that girlfriend business again, Dad!”

“Yes, again!  You need to sort yourself out!  That much is self-evident!”  Father banged his clenched fist down on the hard wood of the kitchen table, to reinforce the point.  Peter realised he was getting nowhere; his father was quite adamant.

It was about a week later when the two men were sat at the same table.  Father puffed on his cigar, while son coughed as he smoked a more modest cigarette.

“How’s your hangover, son?”

“Not too bad, thanks, Dad.  A little bit headachey, but I’ll get over it.”

“I heard you come back, you fell up the stairs.”

“Did I?  Gosh, sorry Dad.”

“And I heard you throw up in the loo.  About 4 or 5 in the morning, I think.”

“Yes, sorry Dad.  I did clean up the mess.”

“Yes, as well you might!”

“Sorry, Dad.”

“I had a bad night, because of you.  You really can be most thoughtless.”

“Dad, what more can I say, other than that I’m really sorry?”

“It’s just not good enough, my boy!”

“Dad…”

“Now, listen to me!  As I tossed and turned last night, trying to get back to sleep, I was thinking about what you said about corporal punishment.  It could indeed be just what you need, Peter.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Peter, who had cooled to the idea ever since his father seemed to be vehemently opposed to the idea.

“Yes, a short, sharp shock is just what you need.”

Peter groaned.  Suddenly, his headache seemed to be getting worse.  His father continued, “Yes, a good thrashing might sort you out.  But I can’t bring myself to do it.”

“Right Dad, good,” said Peter, immediately feeling somewhat relieved.

“So, I’ve called in an old favour,” the older man said, with a sly grin.

“How do you mean?”

“I’ve had a word with old Charlie Churchman at number 73.  You know, the old teacher from St. John’s.”

“What?” asked Peter, with a feeling of dread.

“He will provide you with some discipline, he seemed happy to help!”

“Dad!  Please no!  That’s way beyond strange.”

“Well, you asked for it, son.  In more ways than one.  I went over to his place for a chat first thing.  I imagine you were still out for the count at the time.  Now, listen.  You will report to his house this morning at 11.30 sharp!  Wearing your running kit.  Is that clear?”

“Dad, no!  I’m not having some old stranger spanking me!”

“It’s too late for that.  We can’t back out now.  If you want, I will walk up to his house with you.  At least that way, I can be sure you won’t back out of it.  And I doubt he will spank you.  He’s more used to using the slipper or cane.”

“Shit, Dad!”

“Language, Peter!”

“Sorry, Dad.  Whatever have I let myself in for?”

“I don’t really know.  But if it cures you from getting blind drunk and selfishly disturbing me, then I’m all for it.”  The older man laughed heartily.  “Now, how about you go and freshen up?”

With that, young Peter made his way up to the bathroom.  His head was spinning, but this time not from an excess of alcohol.  No, this time it was dread, fear and yes, a little excitement too! As he sat on the toilet, head in hands, he contemplated his fate.  Well, his father was right.  He had asked for it.  But now the prospect was all too real.  Perhaps he should have left things until he started at University?  Normally, there was nothing he liked more than a leisurely dump, but today he fidgeted around on the seat.  His pert teenage bottom was pale and unblemished but for how much longer?  He wriggled around restlessly on the toilet seat.  How much would it hurt?  Would it be bare? Was dad pleased?  All of these thoughts flashed through his mind as he flushed and cleaned the toilet diligently.

Peter stared at his teenage face in the mirror as he scraped away with the blunt Gillette.  A pale and worried lad stared back.  He washed away the blood from the razor cuts, and rinsed away the foaming residue.  He listened idly for the gurgle as the last few drops of water drained away down the plughole.  Yes, he normally enjoyed his morning routine and ablutions, but today he was preoccupied. Today was the day he would be thrashed!

The lad then made his way to the walk-in shower.  As he did so, he became acutely aware of the rank but manly BO of his armpits.  In truth, there was nothing he liked more than the erotic smell of sweat, even his own, but he knew that it was not socially acceptable, and so it would have to be washed away. Soon he was basking under the refreshing hot jets of water, working the white bar of soap carefully around his armpits.  Then he made his way down to his cock.  He had a gentle, short golden piss, as he’d become aware that he had not fully emptied his bladder earlier.  He then took the soap and smothered his whole penis is soapy lather, pulling back the foreskin and washing every little detail of the wrinkly member.  But as he did this, he became aroused, the cock stiffening and throbbing as the soap was worked on it.  He masturbated with joy and relieved some of the tension that had been building up.  Suddenly, as he thought about his imminent punishment, thick cum spurted from his piss slit, splashing onto the white ceramic tiles.  Gosh, that had been fun!  But at the same time, like so many teenage masturbators, he also had some feelings of guilt.

Peter carefully washed his penis again, this time removing all traces of his creamy sperm.  He moved the soap around to the protuberant cheeks of his pert teenage bottom and washed thoroughly.  As he did so, he reflected that his bottom could soon be a very different, reddened colour.  He washed and washed, and became excited again as he thought about what his punishment could be.  The soap worked a foamy lather into his hairy arse crack, and he spent extra effort on the beautiful puckered rose arsehole that was hidden among the hairy bush.  He wanted to be extra clean around there, just in case in his punishment was to be on his bare bottom!  Soon he was shampooing his hair, and then massaging shower gel into his teenage flesh.

As he dried himself, Peter again reflected on his unblemished, peachy bottom.  Standing on tiptoes he looked at his arse in the mirror.  He pulled his cheeks apart and looked at his own arsehole.  He was beginning to feel a little disgusted with himself.  What a young pervert he was becoming!  Just then he heard his father banging on the door with a curt instruction to hurry up!

And so it was that at 11.15, Father and son left the house.  Father was dressed in what you might call casual smart, with a cord jacket and cravat.  Son Peter was dressed in some running gear – black nylon shorts with a jockstrap underneath, and a white T-shirt. The contrast between the smart father in his timeless brogues and the teen in his trendy trainers was marked.  They soon arrived at Churchman’s house.  After some brief handshakes, father left son to the tender mercies of the retired teacher.

“So!” said Charlie Churchman gazing at the teenager before him.  “As I understand it, we have a boy here who needs some motivation to combat his habitual laziness.  Is that right?”

“Err, yes.  Yes, Sir!”

“And a boy who comes home drunk, waking his father, and so on?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And has a bit of an attitude in general?”

“Maybe, Sir.”

“THERE’S NO MAYBE ABOUT IT, LAD!  Your father has told me all about it.  Excessive masturbation too, I’m told!  You need a girlfriend lad!”

Peter groaned, “Not the girlfriend bit again!  You really have been talking to dad, haven’t you?”

“Well, of course.  You wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t!”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Are you stupid, boy?”

“No Sir,” said Peter on the verge of defeat, “But to be fair, I probably do need some stupidity thrashed out of me.”

“Yes!  Good!  Progress!”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Well then, a thrashing it shall be!”

“Yes, Sir.  Thank you, Sir.”

“How old are you?”

“Just eighteen, Sir.”

“So an adult then?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Eighteen years old, so I think eighteen strokes of the cane would be appropriate.”

“Eighteen!  That sounds a lot!  I was expecting a hand spanking, not the cane.”

“Really?  Really?  How naive!  Hand spankings are not for adult males.  No, the young adult male bottom can take much sterner treatment.  Let me see your bottom.  Bend over a minute.”

So Peter bent over.  His shorts stretched tightly across his bottom, while the white fabric of the jockstrap was hidden by the thin shiny black nylon fabric.  Mr Churchman gently felt the cheeks, and then pinched the flesh sharply.

“Ouch!  Do you mind?” cried Peter.

“Quiet lad!  Just seeing how fleshy your bottom is.  It’s quite well padded.  My expert view is that it can take a good beating.  Right then.  Perhaps six with the riding crop on these shorts.”

“Oh, thank you Sir!”

“Followed by twelve with my finest school cane on your bared bottom.”

“Oh, Sir!”

“It’s not a lot, trust me, lad.  At your age, and with that fleshy bottom of yours, you should be able to take it with ease, if not comfort!”  The man laughed heartily, “Now stay here while I go and fetch my crop and a cane.”

Peter considered running away as he surveyed the musty living/dining room.  However, he knew he had nowhere to run, even though he had his running kit on!  He was just considering his options when Mr Churchman returned.  He had a school cane and a purple riding crop stashed under his arm, almost up to his armpit.  His stiff, purposeful almost military gait assured Peter that he was in for a hard time.

“Very well then,” the old man announced as he pulled a dining chair over and plonked himself down on it.  “Crop first.  Over my lap!  Come here.”

Peter placed himself down on the lap, his hands and toes resting on the shabby beige carpet. Charlie Churchman slowly smoothed out the wrinkles in the lad’s shiny shorts before slashing the crop down violently on the cheeks.  Rapid fire-style, the other five strokes landed indiscriminately on Peter’s buttocks.  Peter grunted with each strike as the most unpleasant burning sensation lit up his flesh.  He wriggled and writhed as each blow struck home.

“Stand up!”

Peter dutifully shuffled to his feet, and his hands immediately flew to squeeze and massage away  the pain.  But Churchman was having none of it, “NO RUBBING WITHOUT PERMISSION!  Right, hands by your sides.  That’s better!  Right.  Shorts down!”

As Peter edged his shorts down, he heard Churchman put the crop down and then pick up the cane.  He whipped it through the air with determination.  “Take your jockstrap off.  How I dislike those modern things!  And with their tacky branding.  That’s it.  Might as well strip off completely.  That’s it!  You really are quite a handsome lad, aren’t you?  Lost your voice?  Now, let’s have you bent over the back of this chair.  Good.  Now, stick your bottom out for the cane.  It’s important that you show your proper submission by offering yourself to the stick.  That’s it!  I’m beginning to think that you’re a natural!”

Peter’s bottom was offered meekly to the cane.  Already marked with six vivid red crop stripes, it was about to feel the force of a rattan wielded in anger.  And it was a very angry first stroke indeed.  It sliced down right across the middle of Peter’s bottom cutting and burning almost immediately.  Peter let out a deep grunt.

“Stick your bottom out for the next stroke, Peter, you’re doing very well!”  It was the first time that Churchman had used the lad’s forename.  Peter’s bottom bobbed up dutifully for the next stroke which landed in almost exactly the same place as the first one had.

“ARRGH!” squealed Peter, caught by surprise by the viciousness of the two strokes merging into a single stripe of immense pain.

“QUIET!” directed the retired teacher, as he waited for the buttocks to raise in preparation for the third stroke.  Almost as if on autopilot, they did.  And also as if on autopilot, the cane lashed down again.

After six strokes, Churchman announced, “Time for a break.  Stay in position.  No rubbing.  I need to check how your bottom is bearing up.”

The retired teacher’s hands gently felt the scarred buttocks.  He massaged and probed, his fingers straying not only to the crack and arsehole but also to the cock and balls.  Peter wasn’t sure what to make of it all.  It was an exquisite torture, but it was an indecent one.  He felt violated, and yet somehow almost turned on.  Churchman was impressed by the lad’s compliance and also by his cleanliness.  Only a soft sheen of sweat betrayed the ordeal the boy was in the middle of enduring.

“Right!  Six more!  Bottom up further, legs wider apart.  Wider.  Wider!”

Peter’s bottom was now on offer even more, a most unusual and provocative position.  His arsehole was clearly displayed, much to the gratification of his tormentor.  Duly provoked, the cane slashed a seventh stroke, an eighth and a ninth.  By now Peter was wriggling his bottom, to the left and then to the right, in a vain attempt to avoid the sting and bite of the rattan.

“Keep still!  Don’t spoil things, you were doing so well, Peter!”

A tenth stroke landed unexpectedly quickly after that admonishment, causing Peter to squeal and gasp, “No more, please Mr Churchman, Sir!”

But the lad’s plea fell on deaf, un-receptive ears.  Already the old man was lining up a penultimate diagonal stroke which proceeded to cause a further yelp from the startled lad.

“Last one coming up, Peter.  Keep still and keep quiet!”

But it was impossible, the final stroke seemed to be the worst, causing another unmanly squeal.  Churchman tutted and threw the cane down on the nearby settee.

“A patchy performance, Peter.  Regular canings would do you no harm at all, in my opinion!  I’ll be telling your father that I am on call twenty-four hours a day, if you ever need a refresher.  Is that clear?  Well?”  The lad just nodded, sniffed and wiped away a tear as he dressed slowly.  “On your way now, Peter.  Run along to the park.  Your father will be waiting for you by the bandstand.”

“He will?”

“Yes, that’s what he told me.  And make sure you give him some respect.  Otherwise you can expect a return visit here.  Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, you do, Sir!  I don’t want a repeat visit, thank you.”

“Very well.  I didn’t think you would for one minute.  Now, make sure you don’t then.  And remember, respect!”

Peter dressed hurriedly and rushed out of the front door as quickly as he could, slamming it carelessly and running towards the park at the end of the avenue.  Though his buttocks felt like they were on fire, he was able to make quick progress and was soon through the Victorian cast-iron park gates.  He made a beeline for his father who was sat on one of the green metal seats, puffing contentedly on a cigar, almost predictably.

“You survived then?” Peter’s father asked sarcastically, “Bet it hurt though?”

“Too right!  Six on these thin shorts with the riding crop.  Like I was a fuckin’ horse or some other animal!”

“Language, Peter!”

“And then twelve with the cane on the bare!”

“Aha!  About the same as I used to get when I was your age.  Right, son!  We’re going into the Gents and you are going to show me your freshly caned bottom.  Before the marks disappear.”

“I don’t think the marks are going anywhere soon, Dad!  No, no, no!  If you must look, couldn’t we wait until we get home?”

“Do as I say, son, or we’ll be calling in to Mr Churchman’s on the way home.  And if that happens, I will watch your punishment.”

Crestfallen, the lad followed his father as he made his way into the toilets.  The loos were surprisingly well-lit, but the smell of stale urine and disinfectant assaulted their nostrils as soon as they entered.  Two other men were there, apparently masturbating furtively at the stainless steel trough urinal.

Father waved them an all-clear thumbs-up signal, and then spoke, “Don’t mind us, I’m just inspecting my boy’s thrashed bottom!”

Of course, the two men didn’t mind at all.  As father bent his son over, they turned round, cocks sticking out prominently, as they watched the boy’s shorts come down.  One of them whistled loudly as the red tramlines were revealed on the boy’s naked flesh, neatly framed by the jockstrap.  Father smiled at the men. He knew them by sight.  Since the divorce from his wife he had become a daily user of the toilets, and indeed, that’s where his friendship with retired teacher Charlie Churchman had first blossomed.  He smiled and then landed a meaty slap on his son’s bottom, saying, “Pull them up, son.  And then wait outside for me.  I need to use the facilities.”

Outside the Gents, Peter paced around impatiently.  His bottom throbbed and ached from the thrashing.  He suddenly realised that his father was taking an awfully long time to relieve himself. Must be a big job and washing and drying his hands, he thought.  Just then he heard loud laughter from the red brick toilets, and soon after his father emerged, looking a little flustered.

Father and son strolled home slowly, with little small talk.  As they approached No.73, Peter grew a little agitated.  And as they passed by, he thought he saw the net curtains twitch a little, but he couldn’t be sure.  Was Mr Churchman having a crafty look at father and son?   Peter rubbed at his very sore bottom involuntarily just at that minute.  What a day!

Only a few days later, Peter and his father were sat at the kitchen table again.  Peter’s bottom had recovered from the ravages of Churchman’s crop and cane.  Peter coughed and wheezed noisily and announced, “I’m just going to nip down to the shops to buy some more fags.”

“Oh no you’re not, son!” said father, puffing on his cigar, “Smoking is such a dirty habit.  Mr Churchman and I have decided that you are giving up.”

 

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Story © 2015 by 11plus, used here by very kind permission of the author.

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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.

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Photograph © 2015 by Rod Cayenne

Cane by http://www.quality-control.co.uk/

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Comments welcome