Fairly fresh filth from the pen of your host, Rod Cayenne. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!
It was week four of my new job as one of the butcher’s boys. It was going well. I liked my uniform of white shirt, grey trousers and the traditional striped blue apron. At least I didn’t have to wear a straw boater hat like my boss, Mr. Smith, always did. I suspected he wore it to hide his rather generous bald patch. Anyway, a hat like that would cause havoc with my heavily-gelled spikey hair. Another thing I liked was that now and then I got to ride the shop bike to deliver fresh cuts to customers all over the town. What I didn’t like was dealing with difficult members of the public.
“Silly bitch!” I muttered as the troublesome customer left the premises.
“Joel! Apart from that being not a good time for your runny nose to be dripping into the ground beef, that was the lady of the manor! She expects to be treated with respect, and to be called Ma’am. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Mr. Smith, err Sir!”
“Sir, eh? I like that, young Joel. I like that a lot. Come and see Sir in his office after work, will you?”
“Err, yes, Mr. Smith. Sir! But how come she doesn’t send one of the servants to pick up her supplies?”
“Servants! Don’t make me laugh! She does engage domestics but they never last long. She’s too demanding. Even for the East Europeans. Anyways, she’s got a good eye for the best cuts, that one. Likes to choose everything herself. Now, on with your work please! Get mincing!” he laughed heartily and slapped my arse playfully as he went down the back of the shop, and then upstairs to his office.
It was soon five o’clock, closing time, and my fellow assistant, Robbie, wished me luck as he left. Disturbingly, he winked as he said it. I watched as he made his way past my rusty Ford Fiesta to the bus stop. He was quite a hunk, I thought to myself as I duly made my way up the creaking staircase to see the boss.
The less than hunky Mr Smith was sat in his tatty swivel chair facing the window when I entered. He turned around slowly to look disdainfully at me. I fidgeted as I gazed at his desk, trying to avoid eye contact in my usual shy way.
“Look at me, Joel! That’s better. My, what a handsome lad you are, to be sure. Now, you’ve been here a month, haven’t you?”
“Yes, Mr. Smith, Sir!”
“Mmmm. Now, on the whole you’re doing well. Very well. But I could do without you being cocky with the customers. Especially the rich ones! I can’t afford to lose even one customer. They deserve your respect. Times are hard, and there are rumours of a supermarket moving in. That means every single customer is precious. Our livelihoods, and your job, depend on treating them well. Now, look at the window. What does the gold lettering say?”
“Traditional Family Butchers, Sir.”
“Indeed. Traditional. Family. Two of my favourite words, son. Tradition. Family values. Respect. Decency. Tradition.”
“Yes, and now I find your lack of respect for customers in general and for one of the town’s finest families absolutely appalling! I suggest a traditional remedy! A good, sound smacking!”
“Whaaat? You’re joking?”
“Oh, I’m not. Oh no. Not the sort of thing I joke about, at all. Oh no. And if you don’t want me to show you the door, you’ll get over here over my lap this instant!”
He grabbed my arm and I gave way. He hauled me over his lap, right over his blood-stained navy blue pinstripe apron. Urgh! He spanked me merrily over my thin grey trousers, it hurt like mad and then he made me drop my trousers. Then he spanked my skimpy pants like his life depended on it, and then OMG! He ordered me to remove my briefs. I was going to get some more on the bare! Slap after slap. He created merry hell. The fires of merry hell. At first it wasn’t so bad, but boy, did he have a thorough technique! His hand felt tough and leathery as it crashed rapidly into my young flesh. Every inch of my arse was deep burning red by the time he’d finished. What was worse was that he was obviously enjoying it, chuckling away while admonishing me. I think he had a boner, too. Unless there was a penknife or something in his apron pocket.
After a final fast round of slaps, he finished and grunted. His hands stayed in contact with my bare bottom, however. He started rubbing it better, which was really nice for a while but then his fingers strayed towards my arsehole. I flinched.
“Don’t be shy, young Joel. I know all about you! One of my friends told me he’d seen you down the gay sauna!”
“What gay sauna? What is a gay sauna even?”
“Don’t give me that! You know damn well the one I mean. Down by the station, down the big town.”
“OK but no, no, he must be mistaken!”
“Don’t lie to me boy! He told me about this tattoo!” he said as he lifted my shirt up further, revealing my wicked Chinese dragon ink. He traced the design with his finger. “Nice!” he said.
“Well, alright it was me. One of my friends works there, handing out the towels and taking the cash.”
“Really? A towel-folder, eh? What’s his name? Gideon?” he laughed, “I hear you’re a regular there, even wearing flip-flops like the old hands. Be careful not to be too regular there or you might bump into someone else you know. Me, for instance!”
“You! But you’re married!”
“True, true. But then so are a good half of the guys there! And they are always on the lookout for young, fresh chicken. Like you! Still I’m sure I can rely on you to keep my secret, just as you can rely on me to keep yours. Now be a good boy, get up and suck my cock for me!”
“Just do it, lad! You know you want to.”
Well as a young tart, how could I refuse? I unzipped his trousers, rummaged in his pants and found what I was looking for with no trouble! I slurped away at his engorged meaty column and he sighed contentedly. My tongue probed under his foreskin and teased around the piss slit.
“Good, good. I shall expect you to swallow, my boy.”
“Yes boss, err Sir. Of course. It’s the only way!”
He grunted, sweated and moaned and then came suddenly, jets of hot spunk splattering inside my mouth. It tasted great, really great. No, I mean really, really great. You’ve no idea. I began to think I could develop a taste for old men’s sperm.
“Now, that’s better. I’m pleased to see you can be a good boy. But I’m warning you, any more nonsense and you’ll be feeling this!” With that he slapped a brown leather spanking strap down on his desk, right before my eyes.
“Shit!” I exclaimed.
“More like shit hot! Bespoke, made especially for me by my good saddler friend down the road. You wouldn’t believe how much it hurts. He’s bi too, by the way. And a regular down the sauna.”
I wondered whether his saddler friend was the one who had tipped him off about my frequent trips to the sauna. In truth, I was becoming rather addicted to the anonymous casual sex on offer there. I then wondered whether my colleague Robbie had felt Mr. Smith’s hand in anger, or even that leather strap? I rather thought he had, as that would have explained the wink. But I wondered if he’d ever sucked the boss’s cock? I hoped not as I felt Mr. Smith had taken rather a shine to me, all of a sudden. I had one final thought. Maybe a pay rise could be on the cards?
Warning: Contains adult material. Forbidden to those under the age of 18.
This blog is intended for adults only. All listed sites, pictures displayed or referred to in this blog feature consenting adult models and players over the age of 18. All stories and artwork featured are fiction only and refer to adults in role play. This blog is not suitable for persons under the age of 18.
The owner of this blog does NOT condone, promote OR encourage the corporal punishment of minors or non-consenting adults.
Many people use the rattan cane in their adult relationships. Sometimes this is for domestic discipline. Others use it to spice up their sex lives. Some just like recreating experiences from long ago. You will find fictional stories here which explore these themes. All the characters are aged 18 or over.
All characters appearing in this blog are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
"We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey" - Kenji Miyazawa, author and poet (1896-1933)
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