♥ Site recommended story ♥
Hot and brand spanking new fiction by very special guest author Charles Hamilton the Second . This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are aged 18 or over.
The ring tone of the phone played again. With trepidation Alan Hawkes glanced at the caller ID. He knew it would be his dad again. It was the third time in an hour.
He let the phone ring out. He knew he would have to face his dad sooner or later. But not just now. He wasn’t ready yet.
His dad must have seen the newspaper story. It had been in the local paper, but dad lived a hundred miles away. He probably saw it on-line. Someone must have shown it to him.
Alan Hawkes was twenty-four years old. He was a purchasing administrator for a national fast-food chain. He lived with his girlfriend. They had a child. They even had a mortgage. He was an independent adult. But, he would never be free of his dad.
The phone rang again. This time Alan answered it. Dad was mad. “Come home Saturday.” It was an order. One that must be obeyed.
As “crimes” went, Alan Hawkes’s was not big. He and some workmates had too much to drink and empty beer bottles were smashed in the street. The case at the magistrates’ court made the newspaper. A small fine; nothing much.
Saturday was a fine bright spring day. Alan Hawkes arrived at his “home” in the early afternoon. No matter how many years he would live in his own place, his parents’ house, where Alan and his two younger brothers were brought up, would always be called “home.”
He parked the car and walked up the path. He still had a door key and let himself in. His nineteen-year-old brother Jimmy came out of the kitchen to greet him. The smile that split Jimmy’s face was as good as a confession. It was he who had told dad.
“You’re for it now,” he crowed. “Dad’s mad as hell. It’s the woodshed.”
Jimmy knew that for certain. Only the previous Tuesday, he had himself been in the woodshed over dad’s knee; his jeans at his feet and his pants at the knees while the old man pounded his son’s bare buttocks with a heavy wooden utility brush. Jimmy and his pals had been out on the lash. With bladders full of beer and nowhere to relieve them they had urinated in a shop doorway. There were no police and no newspaper story. A neighbour passing by had spotted him and told his dad.
They called it the “woodshed,” but it wasn’t really. Theirs was a large suburban house. It had a big garden with a shed, but no woodshed. The “woodshed” was a small space in the basement, just off the utility room where they kept the washing machine and the chest freezer. There was a beat-up couch and a table and an old TV. It was more like dad’s “den.” This was where he would take his sons when they needed their backsides blistered.
Dad reckoned it was more private than the living room or the boy’s bedroom. The boys were never allowed in the den on their own. If they were spotted sneaking down the stairs to the basement, it could mean only one thing: a spanking was imminent.
Dad was a powerful man in his late forties. He owned his own building firm; he’d built it from scratch. He employed hundreds of men. He was the boss. He was used to getting his own way.
Dad and his twenty-four-year-old son stood in the den. Dad eyed his son from head to foot with undisguised disdain. Every square inch of Alan’s arms was covered with tattoos. There was another across most of his back that dad couldn’t see. Why did young people mutilate themselves like this, he wondered. Did they think it made them look attractive?
He wasn’t about to have an argument about “body art,” he had other business to attend to.
Alan stood, his eyes blazing as his dad ripped into him. He was determined he would not cry, but the tears were already forming.
“Irresponsible,” “immature,” “reckless,” were some of the words dad threw at his son. “You have a child of your own …” he let the sentence trail off. How could Alan ever think to discipline his own son if he couldn’t behave himself?
Alan watched passively as the colour of his father’s face moved through pink, to mauve, to purple. His old man was genuinely enraged; this was not an act.
“Why am I doing this?” Alan had wondered during the two-hour drive. Why was he travelling a hundred miles knowing that his dad would belt his backside for him when he arrived?
His dad had no control over him anymore. Alan didn’t live at home, his dad didn’t employ him in his business and he wasn’t obliged to him for anything.
All these things were true, but somewhere deep down in his soul in ways he couldn’t understand his dad was still his dad. He was the boss. When he told you to jump you replied, “How high?”
Both Alan and his dad knew how this confrontation would play out. Corporal punishment must be administered.
Satisfied that he had vented his spleen and there was no more to be said, dad strode from the woodshed into the adjoining utility room.
He returned seconds later. Alan’s mouth gaped open. “What the …”
Under his arm, dad held a long thin cane. It was like nothing Alan had seen before. It wasn’t a length of garden bamboo. It had a curved handle at one end and even in its current lifeless state, it looked extremely whippy.
“I got it on eBay,” dad said in response to the quizzical look from his son. “Especially,” he smirked.
He slipped the cane into his hand and wobbled it in front of his boy’s face. Alan’s eyes followed it as his dad made practice swishes. A “swoosh” echoed around the den every time it cut through the air.
“They used to use these in schools. Years ago,” his dad flexed the cane between two his hands.
Alan’s face paled. He had been spanked many times by dad, even as an adult. It always hurt like hell, but nothing he had experienced before would be as painful as this.
“Six-of-the-best they used to call it,” his dad continued. “But, since you are not a little boy, let’s call it twelve.”
He swiped the cane through the air to emphasise his point.
“Trousers, pants down. Bend over the couch.”
Alan’s eyes blazed. Twelve strokes with that cane. Bare arsed.
“B …” he started to mouth the words of protest, but held back. He mustn’t argue with his dad. The old man’s mind was made up. If Alan made a fuss, he would get extra strokes. That was for certain.
He took a deep breath. There was nothing for it. Events had to take their course.
Alan shuffled to the back of the couch. He pulled at the elasticated waist of his trousers sending them south. Then with the merest flick of his wrists the underpants followed. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, rubbed the palms of his hands together, and then as if diving into an icy pond, he threw himself over the back of the couch.
He had been in this position before. Last time, just before Christmas, he had taken a couple of dozen whops from an old razor strop. It was a family heirloom. At least three generations of Hawkes men had had their bare backsides tattooed by it.
Alan straightened his legs and set his feet about twenty inches apart. He kept his head low into the dusty couch cushion and raised his bum as high as he could. Submissively, he waited for the first lash from dad’s new school cane.
Dad had never caned anyone before but he reckoned it wasn’t rocket science. He stood a little to his son’s left and tapped the cane across his buttocks to get an aim. Then, he moved the cane back and whipped it down hard.
Alan’s buttocks were far from firm. He was no athlete and he spent too many hours in the pub. Like so many of his generation, he was already in his mid-twenties running to fat. The cane struck home, sank into his wobbly bum and emerged a split-second later leaving behind a distinctive red mark.
Alan sucked in his breath. It had hurt, but not as much as he had feared.
Swipe number two sank lower across the buttocks. Again the flesh quivered and the cane submerged into the pink mounds. Another line appeared; this one a little deeper than the first. A welt slowly formed.
Alan opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish, but he successfully suppressed any sound.
There was plenty of fat for dad to aim at. He went high with the third stoke, cutting across the top of the curves, just below the base of the back. His son gasped. That one was the most painful yet.
The next one he aimed low, almost across the crease where the bum and the thighs met. Alan yelped. His legs twisted at the knees and his hips swayed. “Huff, huff, huff,” he wheezed. Sweat was beginning to show under his shirt. His heart was racing.
Encouraged by the reaction to the previous stroke, dad laid three more in quick succession in the same area. Rat-tat-tat! It sounded like machinegun fire echoing around the small den.
That had Alan roaring. His face rose from the dusty cushion and he shook his head violently from left to right. Tears flowed down his cheeks.
“Steady. Keep still.” It was a curt command from his dad and Alan knew better than to disobey the order. He gulped in draughts of air.
Thwip, thwip, thwip. Three more slashes cut into the jelly-like buttocks. The flesh shuddered under the impact as the cane struck the same spot over and over. A small trickle of blood weeped from the cut.
Alan was no stranger to corporal punishment, or to its pain, but this bare-arsed caning was the worst he had experienced. He stamped his feet on the floor, bounced his head up and down against the back of the couch and twisted his torso as waves of agony shot north-to-south and east-to-west through his entire body.
Dad swivelled on his heels. That hissing sound had not come from Alan, his son, prostrated across the couch in front of him.
He turned to see Jimmy, his face pale and his lips parted in astonishment.
“You!” dad roared at the nineteen-year-old. He knew immediately that he had sneaked into the basement to try to witness his brother’s humiliation.
“Stand there!” he shook his cane. “Face the wall! I’ll deal with you later!”
Sorrowfully, the teenager shuffled across the room and pressed his nose against the wall. Behind him he heard the almighty swish of the cane flying through the air, followed by a dull thud as it sank into jelly. His brother’s growl was husky; all the saliva had drained from his mouth. He hacked up a dry cough.
Swish! Crack! the cane flew and landed for the twelfth and final time. Dad paused to admire his handiwork. His aim had been true. Twelve distinct marks were burned across his son’s buttocks. Most ran in a perfect parallel one to the other. Blood was seeping from a particularly deep and wide welt. The bum was red raw and he was certain he had given Alan a thrashing he would not forget in a hurry.
Dad tucked the cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major might. He made an imposing sight.
“Get up and leave.”
Alan didn’t need telling twice. He pulled himself up from the couch, tugged up his trousers and pants in one movement and headed for the stairs.
Moments later he was hurrying down the street. At the time he found his parked car his brother Jimmy was loosening his trousers before bending over the couch to offer his bum for what would be the first encounter of many with dad’s new school cane.
More stories from Charles Hamilton the Second are at Male on Male Spanking Stories:
Story © 2016 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.
♥ Site recommended story ♥
Hot and brand spanking new fiction by very special guest author Charles Hamilton the Second . This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are 18 or over.
Commander Albert Reynolds, RN (retd.) turned the volume of his wireless down low and sat back in his comfortable chair. The boys had given him a strange proposition but he was not sure he should have turned them down.
He pressed his fingers together, pursed his lips and closed his eyes, allowing the sound of Henry Hall’s dance band to drift into his consciousness.
The three boys, well they were young men really, had departed back to their rooms, leaving the old man to re-evaluate their offer.
It had started a couple of months previously. Jack, James and Arthur had come to live at the Commander’s boarding house. They were from respectable families; otherwise he would never have let them stay.
They were students, just up at the Varsity. Out in the big world on their own for the first time in their lives.
The Commander recalled Mrs Rollington; Jack’s mother. “He’s a fine God-fearing boy, Commander,” she had intoned, rather fiercely, he thought. “He has been brought up in a good Christian family. His morals are impeccable.”
The Commander laughed at that as Henry Hall’s soothing voice introduced the next dance tune. “Impeccable morals, my eye,” he thought.
That had been the problem. Three eighteen-year-old boys let loose on the big city after years cooped up in high class boarding schools. The Commander was an old naval man, he knew what young men could get up to when out on the town. There was smoking, drinking, and, yes, even possibly the occasional woman: Jack, James and Arthur had been making up for lost time.
The Commander was no hypocrite; young men had appetites, he realised that. But there were his other tenants to consider. And there had been complaints; especially from Mr Bunyan at number eight.
Mr Bunyan had called on the Commander four times now. At each visit he was a little more irritated – and, irritating. The Commander knew the type, always finding something to complain about, but maybe this time he had a point.
“It’s just too much Commander Reynolds, Sir,” Bunyan had simpered, the first time he laid down the complaint. It had been about the boys arriving back in the early hours of the morning, clearly the worse for drink.
“It’s the ladies I feel sorry for.” He meant the women tenants. Apart from the three boys and the Commander, Bunyan was the only man lodging at the house, although the Commander was not so sure the word “man” quite described the flamboyant creature that stood before him. Was that a whiff of gardenia in the air?
The Commander was a leader of men and he expected to be obeyed. He had what he described to Bunyan as “a little word” with the boys.
Things improved, but not for long. By the time Bunyan was tapping on the Commander’s door with his fourth complaint, the Commander’s patience was exhausted.
That had been last Friday and it was yesterday he gave the boys formal notice to quit the lodgings. To go, find rooms somewhere else, leave Bunyan and the Commander in peace.
“Oh my, what will my mother say?” It was Jack who spoke first. The three boys were contemplating the devastating news – chucked out of their lodgings for immoral behaviour.
James and Arthur were equally aghast. James most certainly did not want to face his father with this news. Mr Miller expected impeccable behaviour from his sons, especially in public. He was old school, with the emphasis on “school.” He would not hesitate to take his whippy dragon cane down from its hook in the study and apply it with great force across his errant son’s backside; eighteen years old or not.
Arthur had no such fear of his own father. He had never laid a finger on him in his life. There would be no thrashing, but Mr Rhodes would show a deep sense of disappointment that would cut into Arthur much more acutely than any lashes with a cane across his bared buttocks.
“The Commander is right, we have behaved pretty badly,” Arthur had been raised to have a grave sense of guilt. But, neither of the other fellows disagreed. They were guilty as charged. They were not used to freedom that was the reason. They had spent the past ten years imprisoned at one boarding school or another; their lives totally regimented. Rules governed their lives. Do this, do that! Rules that must be followed, and of course, punishments endured if they were not.
“Yes, we have been rather foolish.” It was an understatement from Arthur. Too much wine, women and song had led them to this downfall.
“What if the university finds out? Will we be sent down?” James raised the question. Expulsion for bringing the university into disrepute would be disastrous. It would be the end of James’ chances of a career in the Foreign Office.
The three boys fell silent, each contemplating their own personal disaster.
Jack eventually piped up. “If we had been caught smoking and drinking at Bridgetown, my housemaster would have thrashed us.”
He left the sentence hanging. It was true; the consequence at school for bad behaviour was a very sore backside indeed. But, every boy who ever was ordered to “bend over that chair” to offer up his buttocks to a dominant master, agreed it was worth it. Six-of-the-best meant atonement. The crime had been committed, the punishment was accepted and everybody moved on with their lives.
“It was the same at my school,” James was almost misty-eyed with nostalgia. “Mr Horridge would’ve had us across his desk. Trousers and underpants at our ankles. Even when we were seniors. My hat! We couldn’t sit down for a week after that.”
James and Jacked joined in companionable laughter. Arthur’s face drained of colour. How could they find this amusing? Bare-bottomed thrashings. Not sitting down for a week. What brutes these schoolmasters were.
“What about you Arthur?” James peered through his spectacles at his young friend. “What did they do at your school? Did you get it bare?”
Startled, Arthur found himself saying, “Oh, my yes, of course, ouch! Yarroo!”
Why had he lied? Was he ashamed that he had attended a Quaker school, founded by pacifists? Corporal punishment was unheard of. He had never even seen a school cane in his life, let alone felt one across his stretched bottom.
“Hey! I’ve got an idea!” It was James who made the suggestion. It was such an obvious solution. He was sure the Commander would agree. He must have been a public school man himself. Surely, he would understand.
“Let’s offer to take a beating. Apologise, say we’ll never do it again. And we should mean it.”
Jack’s face lit up. “Yes, that’s it. He’ll understand. We could offer to go bare, if that’s what it took.”
The two boys were so taken by their proposed solution they failed to notice Arthur’s coughing fit.
So it was that the three boys stood in Commander Reynolds sitting room, hands behind their backs, feet slightly apart, eyes downcast inspecting a rather worn green-patterned carpet.
It had been James’ idea, so he was the boys’ representative.
“So you see Commander,” it was a confident address. The boys might have spent a little too much time on the town recently, but they were intelligent articulate teenagers. In time they would all make their mark on the world, but now, on this day, they had to dig themselves out of a rather big hole.
“If we behaved like this at our schools we should have been soundly beaten by our housemasters.”
Jack found himself inadvertently nodding his agreement, but still he stared at the carpet, unable to look the Commander in the eye. Cold sweat poured down Arthur’s back, he was certain he would be sick at any moment.
The Commander looked at the three boys in astonishment. Beat them, as if they were schoolboys and he was their housemaster. Who had ever heard of such an idea?
“So, we respectfully ask that you punish us with a beating and then allow us to stay on as tenants.” James finished his little speech. He had decided not to include the offer to take it trousers and underwear down.
The Commander silently counted to ten. His mother had taught him this when he was a very small boy. If you think you are going to lose your temper count to ten before you speak.
Eight, nine, ten. “No, that is not a good idea. You will all vacate your rooms as previously ordered.”
James opened his mouth, but the Commander cut him off. He would not hear argument. “That is all. You are dismissed!”
Two crestfallen (and one very relieved) teenagers trudged up the stairs to their rooms.
Now, in a darkened room, sitting in his chair, was the Commander having second thoughts? Corporal punishment, was it such a bad idea?
Heavy rain lashed against the window, almost drowning out the dance music. Suddenly, in his mind it was at least thirty years ago, he was a sub-lieutenant, young men in thin white trousers were being bound hand and foot, and forced to bend their bodies over a triangle. Handkerchiefs were stuffed into their mouths. A chief petty officer armed with a cane lashed twelve strokes into their taut buttocks.
It happened all the time; there was nothing unusual about it. It was perfectly legal and still happened today.
There were lighter, more informal punishments. The Commander silently chuckled. There had been this boy; what was his name? He was no older than the three tenants upstairs. He was an incorrigible rogue, but not an evil sort. It soon became a ritual. Anderson was he called? Anderson would be caught smoking or absent from his post, the Commander (he was not a Commander then) would be informed. Guilt would be established. Then Anderson was given a choice: be put a charge or go across the knee.
He was a tiny fellow, this Anderson. He looked like a small child. Perhaps that was why the Commander felt he should punish him like a naughty boy. A heavy wooden clothes brush was kept in a drawer. Anderson would be ordered to fetch it while the Commander settled himself into his favourite chair. Then, without further instruction, Anderson would hand the Commander the brush before unbuckling his own belt and lowering his trousers.
Then with an air of resignation on his face he would lower himself across the Commander’s knees. He remembered it as if it had happened that morning. The underpants were a rather grubby grey-white colour. He would pull the drawers up tight so the outline of Anderson’s buttocks were clearly visible and then at a slow, rhythmic pace he would crash twenty-four hard whacks into the boy’s stringy buttocks.
It hurt the boy, probably a great deal, but he never showed his pain. It must have been a matter of pride, to be able to take a whacking stoically. The spanking over, Anderson would jump to his feet replace his trousers and stand to attention, thumbs in line with the seams of his trousers.
“Thank you Sir, I deserved that.” He always said the same thing after every spanking. Had the Commander made him say that or had he thought to do it himself?
A thunderclap woke the Commander from his dream. Heavens, he had not thought about Anderson in more than thirty years. Poor boy, he died in action before he reached his twentieth birthday.
The Commander had been on the receiving end himself. Many times; beyond the age of eighteen. He had attended a naval training ship. There had been this one time, he was with a party of about thirty boys who misbehaved themselves ashore; they had to be rounded up by the ship’s authorities. They used a birch in those days. It was not as heavy as the judicial birch that was still in use today. One by one the boys were forced to lower their trousers and go across the block. The Commander wriggled in his chair as if the scars of the birching were still troubling him.
He moved from his chair and switched on a light. Perhaps the boys had a point. They could atone for their crimes. He did not want them to get into further trouble at the university.
He had listened to the news earlier on the wireless. Mr Chamberlain had returned from Munich with a peace agreement. The Commander did not believe it for a moment. War in Europe was coming and these boys would soon be fighting for their country. The Commander himself would probably be recalled.
Damn it, let’s do it. The Commander was a man of decision. Yes, a caning. Twelve each: on the bare. It must be an exemplary thrashing, but once delivered and received that would be an end to it.
That was how the following evening the three young men stood once more before the Commander, staring down at the carpet.
The Commander had made much preparation. First, he had to purchase a cane. They are readily available in most oil shops, as any naughty boy could attest. The embarrassment of being sent by father to purchase a cane was intense. The shopkeepers never believed a boy’s tale that the cane was needed because they were “playing schools.”
The Commander wanted a special cane, a Malacca for preference. The thick dense rod was as whippy as a school’s rattan cane but it packed more of a punch and with ridges every four inches or so along its length it would leave deep bruises on the boys’ buttocks. They had asked for a caning and it would certainly be given caning to remember.
There was a specialist shop he knew in Earls Court that supplied just the thing.
The Commander was now armed with a suitable weapon, but he had another problem. He was not the boys’ parent or guardian and he had no legal jurisdiction over them. In short, he had no right to punish them.
He was not a legal expert, but he drew up a short contract. The boys were not yet twenty-one and so were not adults. Even so, he would make them sign to say they consented to a thrashing. Next, he needed a witness in case something went wrong. Nearly all of his tenants were women and it would not be right to ask them to see the boys bare their buttocks. Bunyan would have to be the witness. He agreed a little too eagerly when asked.
There were no speeches or ceremony. They all knew why they were there. The Commander went over to the far end of the room, swung round the large horsehair armchair that was to serve as the punishment chair and pushed it into the centre of the room. Having done that, he turned back towards a cabinet and opened the top drawer from which he took the cane.
“Right, Miller,” he swished the cane at James, “Trousers and underwear down.”
James knew he was blushing as he removed his jacket then unzipped his trousers and pulled them down. He stood behind the chair and peeled his underwear from his buttocks before letting them drop on top of his trousers.
“I assume that you know the procedure,” the Commander was still swishing the cane menacingly. “Over the chair, with your legs well apart.”
James did of course know exactly what was required. As he got over the chair, he pushed his arms out along the full length of its armrests, so that his buttocks were raised over the apex of the chair and his legs were stretched apart.
The Commander turned his shirt back and Bunyan moved a pace or two to his left, ensuring a clearer view.
Unceremoniously, the Commander tapped the waiting buttocks then raised his arm to shoulder height, before with a flick of the wrist he brought the cane down hard across the exposed backside. James clenched his teeth but a groan still escaped as he absorbed the first of twelve stokes. The Commander was soon into his stride, ensuring he spread the strokes across the teenager’s bottom. Starting in the middle, he worked his way down till number six landed hard across the top of James’ thighs.
No amount of teeth clenching could stop the loud howl that escaped from the boy’s throat. The Commander paused to admire the six thick red, almost parallel, lines across James’ once creamy white buttocks. He landed number seven higher up, before changing his stance and lashing number eight diagonally crossing the previous seven welts. James roared and his bottom gyrated. The Commander was breathing almost as heavily as the boy he was punishing as he whacked the rest of the strokes diagonally across the buttocks, from the left and from the right.
James gagged as howls and sobs were wrenched from his body and he clutched onto the horsehair sofa as if his very life depended on it.
Then it was Jack’s turn. He had been panting vigorously since the start of James’ beating and his short, sharp breaths now grew more urgent as he lay across the chair.
His bottom was well-rounded with firm and toughened muscles, but it had no protective layer of flesh. There would be no give and compression of the cheeks as the cane struck home, its impact would be imparted directly into the muscle of the suffering boy. Movement would remain agonising long after the beating had been completed and all strokes administered. The lack of absorbent meat on his buttocks meant that the knots of the Malacca cane were likely to tear the skin and cause bleeding, perhaps even with a single stroke.
With incredible speed, accuracy and force, the Commander lurched forward and delivered three rapid strokes which ricocheted off the boy’s backside, making him writhe and jerk and gasp loudly before slumping back over the chair, panting and twitching, in total subjection.
The Commander wielded the cane with stunning skill. The stinging lines of pain which sliced their way across Jack’s backside exceeded any previous canings he had received at school. He bounced up and down on the back of the chair and strained every muscle in his legs to hold them straight and apart.
The twelfth and final stroke was imminent. Jack’s clenched fists, wet with the saliva from his mouth into which they had been thrust to hold back his cries, and stinging with the imprint of his teeth, groped desperately to cling on to the chair.
The cane rose and fell. The collision was formidable. The cane cracked with unrestrained vengeance across the bare flesh of Jack’s buttocks. The sound reverberated around the room and a shudder rippled through the teenager’s body as the full impact of the stroke bit into him.
Arthur stood gazing at the sight of Jack’s striped, bruised, red and purple blotched buttocks clenching and unclenching, trembling like jelly. His own legs buckled and for a moment he feared he would fall onto the floor in a fainted heap.
“Over!” the Commander swished the cane impatiently. Arthur wanted to push past the Commander and his fearful cane, and dash from the room. He would not stop running until he had reached his mother’s arms at his home one hundred and fifty miles way.
That is what he wanted to do. But it was not what he did. His two great friends Jack and James had endured their thrashings. They had been brutal, but the two boys had behaved honourably. They had misbehaved and had accepted their due punishment. No matter how terrible the ordeal might be, Arthur resolved to take the caning. He deserved it. He would not let himself down in front of his friends.
In a trance he stepped forward towards the chair. He clenched his eyes tightly shut and fumbled at his trousers. He could not quite get his fingers to work and it took an age before he felt the heavy cloth of his trousers slide down his thighs before travelling past his knees to rest at his shins. His underpants followed reluctantly.
The Commander’s impatience grew. “Hurry up boy, I haven’t got all day.”
Arthur felt the colour draining from his face. His legs became weak and an immovable lump came into his throat. His eyes displayed the sheer horror and despair which was consuming him. A sudden realisation that this boy was terrified brought a sneer to Bunyan’s lips.
With eyes still tightly closed, Arthur stretched himself forward and offered up his bared buttocks to his tormentor.
The boy’s apprehension was obvious, even without studying the quivering vibration of his naked and expectant bottom, the Commander knew that he was terrified of the pain of the beating to come. He was horrified that he might fail the test.
No matter, events must take their course. The Commander, surprised that his palms had suddenly begun to sweat tucked his cane under his arms so he could wipe his hands against his trousers. Bunyan too was sweating, but anxious to get on with the show.
The Commander slipped the cane from his arm into his hand and prepared to administer the third thrashing of the evening.
The first cut bounced into Arthur’s mounds and sank deep into the flesh, before it re-emerged leaving behind a thick red mark across the centre of both cheeks. Arthur let out a piercing scream and jumped from the chair, both hands grabbing his ferociously boiling buttocks. He stamped up and down on the carpet in a fruitless attempt to ease the agony.
James’ eyes widened at the spectacle. He had seen many boys caned in his lifetime, but none had behaved like this. What was wrong with the boy?
The Commander thought he knew. This boy had never before been on the receiving end of a caning. How could such a thing happen? Was he not eighteen years old and the product of an English public school? The public schools – which were in fact expensive independent private schools – were renowned across the British Empire for their discipline. The school cane had been one of the country’s finest exports for a hundred years or more. How could this boy be a virgin to its lash at his age?
“Back over!” it was a ferocious command. “Do not dare behave in such a disgraceful way. Take your beating like a man!”
Totally humiliated and with tears streaming down his cheeks, Arthur prepared once more to receive the kiss of the cane.
The Commander was a military man through to his inner core. This shaking, wailing boy bent over the chair, bared buttocks pointing upwards at him, might be experiencing this for the first time, but he must not be lenient. He was as guilty as his two fellows and he must be punished in exactly the same way. It would not be fair on them. Besides, if he laid the cane on lightly, Jack and James would know and they would despise Arthur for it. No, the right thing to do would be to tear the boy’s buttocks to shreds.
And, that is precisely what the Commander did.
The Commander saw the tension taking over Arthur’s entire body and sensed the teenager holding his breath to bursting point, as the older man realigned the cane to deliver a diagonal stroke to cut across the previous one.
His arm swept down. The cane struck the springy globes with a swish and leapt away. Arthur’s body convulsed on the chair, his fingers scrabbled and wrenched, he gave a pitiful whine and then settled again, ready for the next stroke.
The next lashes fell a fraction below each other getting lower and lower with number six landing right on the crease, by now Arthur was bawling and tears had fallen from his eyes and the chair cushion was wet with teardrops. His hands were tightly gripping the chair as another stroke landed at a right angle crossing all the previous stripes. Arthur howled once more and his backside wobbled and shook as he came to terms with this latest onslaught.
When number twelve landed the Commander whipped it with a will right on top of stroke number seven on the crease, Arthur’s head shot up and he screamed in agony.
“That will do.” It was a calm, courteous statement. The punishment was over.
Arthur let go of the seat cushion; his knuckles now bleached white. Nothing registered clearly or coherently as quickly he got up, but his hands immediately went round to feel his scalded buttocks and he could not get dressed immediately until the pain reached its peak.
The pain was so intense that in spite of his eighteen years he could hardly see for the tears which were flooding his eyes: he had taken as severe a caning as could have been delivered.
Five minutes later, the Commander was once more alone in his room. The three boys were upstairs admiring their corrugated backsides and congratulating one another on their fortitude. Mr Bunyan was lying on his bed, his trousers at his ankles. In the distance a thunderclap heralded yet another rain storm.
More stories from Charles Hamilton the Second are at Male on Male Spanking Stories:
Story © 2016 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 are here
♥ Site recommended story ♥
Explicit spanking fiction by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2014 – strictly over 18s only!
All the characters are 18 or older.
“We’ve caught him, Nicky!”
“Caught who, Eric?”
“The men’s toilets graffiti vandal!”
“Great stuff! Well done! Let’s hand the bugger over to the police then.”
“It’s not that simple, Nicky. It’s one of the volunteers. Young Bobby Jones.”
“Bobby? Bobby! Good Lord! Well, I’m really disappointed. I know his parents. Why on earth did he do it?”
“I think he’s a bit mixed up, to be honest. He’s only just left his teenage years, after all. Some of the stuff he was writing was really strange, too.”
“Well, here are the photos of it.”
“Oh gosh, I see what you mean! This stuff is really foul. ‘Cocks sucked here’, ‘I sniff knickers’, ‘Spank me’. We wouldn’t want our passengers reading this filth. Indeed, he’s one mixed up kid!”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“Very puerile. You’re sure it was him? There’s no doubt?”
“Err no. In fact I caught him myself. He was masturbating as he wrote the stuff, but had forgotten to lock the cubicle door.”
“Stupid boy! Sounds like he might be ambidextrous.”
“Yes, and bisexual,” laughed Eric. “He was using this marker pen.” Eric placed a felt-tip marker pen in a plastic bag down on the Station Master’s desk.
“What’s with the bag?”
“I thought I’d slip the pen in it, just in case fingerprints were required.”
“No shit, Sherlock!” cackled Nick the Station Manager. “No, we don’t want the police involved. Do we? No, definitely not. We don’t want any bad publicity. I can see the headlines now: ‘Preserved line targeted by pervert.’ Perhaps we should just give him the spanking he seems to want?”
“Yes, great idea. That would be fun!”
“Yes. I’m sure you and I could get some kicks at his expense, couldn’t we? But only if he agreed and consented of course.”
“Well, I’ve had words already. He is mortified at being caught. He likes helping out on the line, and doesn’t want to be kicked out. He’s offered to scrub the graffiti off.”
“Oh, that’s the least he can do! He can be on toilet cleaning duty for the next few weeks as well. He won’t like that. Especially in a month with two bank holidays! Plus we’ll give him a good, hard, bare bottom spanking!”
“I think we can be a bit more creative, actually. How about a traditional Guards Van punishment?”
“What’s that then? I’ve never heard of that.”
“Well apparently, in the old days, miscreants, ne’er-do-wells, vandals and vagabonds would be taken to the Guards Van and have their bare buttocks flogged with a cane, while they bent over the brake handle.”
“Hmm. Like the sound of that. Never heard of it before though. Are you sure you haven’t just invented it?”
“No, of course not. It was a pre-BR thing. Probably pre-war. Are you game then? The lad has a big cock, by the way.”
“Cut or uncut?”
“Uncut, just the way you like them.”
“OK, you’ve convinced me. So tell me more about this tradition. Would the Guards Van be in motion while the beating was carried out?”
“No, I don’t think so. That would be dangerous as access to the brake would be restricted.”
“Yes, of course. Anyway, not much room to swing a cat in a Guards Van!”
“No, but where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
“So, just you, me and young Bobby then?”
“Yes! Shall I talk to him?”
“Yes, please do. And make out that we are doing him a big, big favour by this, and by not getting the police involved.”
“OK. Leave the arrangements to me. I’ll bring a cane from home.”
“I thought you might! Actually, bring two. We can both beat him and he will be intimidated by the site of two superiors with canes.”
Poor 21-year-old Bobby Jones could hardly believe his ears as the proposition was put to him. Removing the graffiti, cleaning the toilets and a caning in the Guards Van! He really couldn’t believe it. Moreover, he couldn’t believe how meekly he had accepted his sentence. He was naïve. He didn’t suspect that he’d fallen victim to the sexual proclivities of the Station Master and his deputy, both retired engineers and both decidedly kinky and occasional gay lovers.
Over a frothy pint or two in the Station Hotel lounge bar, Eric and Nicky discussed their plans. The main topic was the number of cane strokes to be inflicted: 6, 12, 18 or maybe 21 to match the lad’s age. They discussed it at length, but in the end decided to play it by ear on the day. The two men celebrated their indecisiveness in Eric’s bed later that day.
Soon the appointed day came. A rainy Thursday in April, a non-running day, when the line was pretty deserted of volunteers. Nicky and his deputy Eric were dressed in their station staff uniforms, while Bobby had turned up in his hi-viz boiler suit as instructed. The two older men eyed their victim with undisguised lust. They manoeuvred him into the Guards Van. As expected, there wasn’t a lot of room.
“Right then, Bobby! You do consent to this, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” the lad said bravely.
“OK then Bobby. Drop your trousers,” instructed Nicky.
“I can’t! This is an all-in-one boiler suit!” Bobby protested.
“Better take it off completely, then,” Eric added. Of course, the two men had planned this. Bobby had to remove his work boots and then took off the boiler suit.
“And now your pants. We’ll have them off, too. That’s it. Give them to Eric.”
Naked, apart from his socks and vest, Bobby was manhandled into position over the brake.
“This will be a severe caning. Six of the best from me for the graffiti. I consider that to be very lenient in the circumstances, ” said Nicky.
“Yes,” Bobby replied.
“And I will be giving you a further six for waving that disgusting erect penis at me!” said Eric. “That’s not what toilets are for!”
And so it was that Station Master Nicky slashed the senior cane down on Bobby’s bare behind. It swished and cracked most satisfactorily. Bobby was surprised by how much that cane stroke hurt him, it seemed to get worse and worse. Nevertheless, he managed to retain his composure. It didn’t last, however, as the second stroke lashed down harder, causing a wave of severe heat and pain. Bobby leapt to his feet, hissing and clutching at his bottom.
“Get back down! NOW!” ordered Nicky impatiently. “It’s meant to hurt, you know.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” Bobby said, taking his submissive place again.
“Right! Brace yourself. Here comes the third!” Nicky informed him.
The third stroke was again crushing, powerful and painful. How such a thin stick could hurt so much was beyond Bobby’s comprehension. He let out a yelp as the pain hit him, much to the amusement of his two tormentors. A fourth stroke landed lower on the naked flesh, causing a brilliant red stripe to stand out proudly. Evidently, this was a much harder stroke for the youngster to bear. A gasp and groan from Bobby accompanied the pain.
“Just two more from me. Prepare yourself!”
Bobby thrust his bottom out ready for the fifth stroke. Common sense would have told him to be more reserved, but his pert bottom seemed to have a will of its own, almost as if it was overdue and begging for this sort of harsh treatment. In truth, Bobby was a truly sinful lad and the station staff would have been appalled if they knew about some of the other things he’d got up to there on the preserved railway. Yes, this punishment was well deserved. However, even Bobby was surprised by how much noise that fifth stroke generated. There was not just the swish and the crack of the cane, but also the loud squeal from the lad.
CRACK! It duly landed on the flesh, striping and burning and once again accompanied by a loud squeal.
“Alright! That’s enough from me. Eric will now take over. Don’t spare him, Eric!”
The deputy station master had no intention of being lenient. His cane was a junior, but he knew this would give a sharper, more intense sting to Bobby’s posterior. Unfortunately, he had miscalculated somewhat. The sting was invigorating, burning and stimulating. Bobby soon began to enjoy the bite of the junior cane, and welcomed every stroke. His uncircumcised penis began to stiffen, and after the last stroke his excitement was evident to all!
Eric could not ignore it, “Another disgusting display! Bend back down!” he commanded.
A further six stinging strokes were delivered to Bobby’s bare bottom.
“I think he’s had enough now,” Nicky observed with some regret. “Have you learnt your lesson, Bobby?”
“Oh yes! I’m very sorry!” the lad cried. He was sorry, but he was still turned on by the later stages of his beating. He was excited, but also a little confused. Perhaps the two older men had miscalculated? Perhaps the senior cane should have been saved for last?
Over the next few weeks, Bobby took immense pride in cleaning the station toilets. The ancient porcelain and brass was polished to a remarkably uniform sheen, and every wooden toilet seat in the Gents and Ladies was spotlessly clean. Every hint and trace of graffiti disappeared promptly. The lad had only one worry. How could he get his colleagues to cane him again?
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
Photos © Rod Cayenne
Model: Rod Cayenne
All rights reserved.
Comments from the original 2014 post are here
If you enjoyed this rail tale, then you might like Full Bottom Of Steam by the same author.
♥ Site recommended story ♥
Adults only – erotica by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2012. All the characters are 18 or older.
WARNING ADULTS ONLY
Working on a preserved railway line is such a privilege. It’s voluntary and unpaid, but keeping Britain’s railway heritage and steam locomotives in action is really fulfilling. I love the smell of the engines, the soot, the coal, the oil and grease. They are really evocative smells that take you back to a golden age.
I was discussing this with Erwin one day. He was one of the older guys on the line, a widower of around 75, I’d guess. As we spoke of our love of the olden ways, it became clear he’d seen a lot of tragedy in his life.
“Life can be so cruel,” he said, shaking his head and stroking his beard. “I’ve known a lot of loss. That’s what makes the vandalism on the line so annoying. Those little bastards don’t know how lucky they are. Back in the days when the line was in full service, they’d have been too scared to vandalise the place.”
“Too scared?” I asked.
“Yes, of the police, the courts, the magistrates, teachers and parents. In those days the birch would have sorted them out!”
“Yes, I suppose so. A little harsh and barbaric, though Erwin, don’t you think?”
“Maybe, son, maybe,” he sighed and looked mournful.
“A good guardian would most likely have had a cane on hand for any seriously naughty behaviour too.”
“Naughty?” I chuckled.
“Well, you know what I mean. Naughty’s probably not the right word. Devilment, mischief, wickedness.”
Indeed, I did know what he meant, although his language was quaint and other-worldly.
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever had the cane, have you, young Rod?”
“Err no, it was abolished just before I started school. Thankfully, although I was a well-behaved pupil, on the whole.”
“On the whole?”
“Well, you know, Erwin. Nobody’s perfect.”
“No. I know I wasn’t and that’s how I got to know about the cane and the hard lessons it taught.”
“Oh, yes. Hmm. I’d rather not dwell on it though. Although I do have a couple of school canes at home.”
“You do? How come?”
“Well, as well as railway souvenirs, I also collect some school memorabilia. The canes came as part of a job lot. Nasty items, really. I should throw them away, to be honest.”
“Of course you shouldn’t! They’re history. They should be treasured and preserved, just like we are doing with the railway.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. Still, they are wicked items, probably still have a nasty bite to them.”
“Don’t they get brittle with age then?”
“No, I don’t think so. That’s just me!”
We both laughed long and hard as we walked along the railway tracks back to the signal box, where our buddy Will saw us arriving and put the kettle on.
“I was just telling Rod about my school memorabilia, and the canes in particular, Will.”
“Why, has he been a naughty boy then?”
“Well, you know, he can be a bit tiresome, can’t you Rod?”
“I don’t know what you mean!”
“Will’s a retired teacher, you know. Well used to caning bad lads.” Erwin winked at us both knowingly.
“That was a long time ago, Erwin. It’s not the done thing nowadays. We shouldn’t even be talking about it.”
“In denial!” Erwin exclaimed.
“Yes, I am!”
“OK we won’t mention it again. Why don’t we all go back to mine, so Rod can see the canes and school stuff, and you can tell us all about your teaching days.”
“I thought you said you weren’t going to mention it again? Well anyway, yes, and I’d like to see your nameplates and other railway stuff, too. Right then, when you’ve finished your tea, we’ll go in my Austin.”
Three grown men squashed into Will’s restored Austin A35 and drove the short distance to Erwin’s bungalow.
“Gosh, this stuff must be worth a fortune,” said Will as he surveyed the old loco nameplates on the walls of Erwin’s place.
“Yes, I believe so. I plan on leaving it all to the Railway, to the Trust. I’ve got no heirs. Not that I’m planning on going anywhere just yet,” he chuckled.
Soon, over another cuppa, they were examining the school memorabilia too. Books, caps, badges, a school desk, and a brass bell which still rang out clearly.
“What do you think of these canes then, Will? Pretty nasty, eh?”
Will picked up the canes, swishing and flexing them at length, and smiling.
“Actually, they’re real beauties. Still got a lot of life left in them, I’d say.”
All this was making me a tad nervous. Just then I dropped my cup. It shattered as it hit the hard, tiled floor.
“Naughty boy!” Will exclaimed. “Hold your hand out for the cane!”
Erwin nodded at me. Rather stupidly, I complied.
Will slashed the cane down on my right hand.
The pain was intense! I shook my hand and cried out, “Oh, bugger!”
“Tut, tut! Foul language as well as carelessness. That has to be worth six of the best!” Erwin said.
Will just nodded and swished the cane a little.
“Bare bottom!” Erwin added and winked at Will, who nodded again.
Just then I began to suspect that I had been set up. However, I felt intimidated by my seniors and like a zombie removed my hi-viz waistcoat and sooty blue overalls.
“Hurry up lad!” Will barked. “Over the desk, pants down!”
Erwin laughed as my hairy buttocks were revealed.
“Make sure you teach him a lesson, Will. I don’t like that sort of language in my home. I feel defiled!”
CRACK! The first stroke hit home. I was then the one who felt defiled. It hurt like a burning flame. I gripped onto the desk, although this wasn’t easy as my right hand was still throbbing from the stroke it had received.
CRACK! The second stroke of the six was even worse and I struggled to keep still. Despite this, I thrust my bottom out for the next stroke.
CRACK! The third was just as bad, I wanted to cry out, but was worried that some profanity or blasphemy would slip out.
CRACK! Will thrashed the cane down, lower this time. If anything, it was worse.
CRACK! A fifth stroke was agony, but I was determined to be silent. To grin and bear it.
CRACK! The sixth and final stroke landed with a certain finality. I shot up and rubbed my burning cheeks.
After that caning, I felt sure that my bottom was steaming…
Will and Erwin just laughed and laughed. The sadists! Then Erwin said, “You’d better sweep up the broken cup. Here’s the dustpan and brush. I’ll send you the bill later.” They laughed again.
A few weeks later, Erwin died suddenly. He bequeathed his railway collection to the Trust, but left the school memorabilia to me! A few weeks later still, Will and I started seeing more of each other. Strangely, I would bend over the wooden school desk, and accept harsh bare bottom canings from him. Maybe this is what Erwin wanted for me?
Story © 2012 by Rod Cayenne
Comments are here
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.
Story © MMXII by Rod Cayenne
Photo © by Jonathan, R.I.P.