Dealt With At The Gym (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥
Hot new spanking fiction by special guest author Sukemnsee – strictly over 18s only!

Like many, I have a monthly subscription to a major gym chain. Unlike many I do use it all year round, and not just in January while new year’s resolutions are fresh in mind. It is a very busy place and despite them cramming the floor space with as much equipment as possible, there is often a wait to use the machines. As a result I time my gym visits to avoid the crush and resort to swimming if it seems too busy. Whichever I use, I like to dwell in the spa pool for a while at the end of a vigorous session though of course I have a brief shower if going direct from sweaty exercise. The spa pool runs in a cycle of about six minutes with about four minutes of that being highly agitated water.

Today as I got in, mid agitation, it was quite busy so I was positioned quite close to another guy. As the calm waters returned most of the spa bathers got out. The guy next to me rolled over and was now very close to me. He smiled and said hello, saying he loved to relax in the spa. Being in the spa is sometimes like being on public transport, it’s quite rare for strangers to engage in conversation. He had a nice smile and was a good ten years younger than me.  We continued the conversation and I found out how long he planned to stay in the spa and that he would head for work directly after. I was in no rush so I decided to linger.

By now our bodies were surprisingly close to eaach other considering there was no pressure on space. As the agitation cycle resumed, he said it was great to relax and I agreed and I spread my arm out and he rested against it. I rubbed against him cautiously.  He didn’t resist and then I found his hand was wandering behind me. This continued until the waters calmed. At the next agitation cycle my hand was on his thighs until he pushed it onto the front of his trunks. There was a prize in sight!  The water billowed around, and I was able to pleasure him during subsequent agitation cycles, feeling him grow and stiffen all the time. I finally desisted just before the final agitation cycle to allow him the opportunity to compose himself before climbing out of the pool.

Some time later after showering and drying myself carefully, I left the changing area and headed for the complex’s exit. I was intercepted by an older gentlemen in company uniform.  From his badge, I could see that he was the Manager. It struck me as rather unusual to have older staff in what was usually a young environment. He asked me to go to his office with him.  The office was private but very noisy as you could clearly hear music from the various sound systems used in the gym. He told me they were clamping down on voyeurs and asked me to lay my phones and tablet on his desk for him to check my recent photos. I complied knowing there was nothing recent to catch his interest. Maybe he was just fulfilling a quota check to satisfy company protocols, I reasoned to myself.  One little embarrassing thing was that my tablet was picking up wi-fi and so frequently flashed up Tumblr notifications, showing adult group names and group descriptions.  I wasn’t sure whether he paid them any attention, but I certainly did.

He then said it was his turn to show me some photos. There were a couple of stills of me in the cafe area and he commented that I always chose a place to have my drink where nobody could overlook my screen and that he felt that was suspicious behaviour. Then he showed me some video images of me in the spa pool.  He said they were captured in manual not scan mode.  Those wretched cameras captured my recent activity and neighbourly games far more clearly than anyone else in the pool could ever have seen.  The manager told me he could not have clearer evidence of my activity and he noted that there were no signs of consternation on the faces of my new friend and I.  He said that action was required!

I worried immediately that he would call the Police.  My standing in the community would be worthless if charges were brought.  It was hard to know what he intended.  Would he just be cancelling my membership?  Could it be both?  I am sure he enjoyed watching me squirm and all the time my tablet was still on his desk showing those dubious Tumblr notifications.

He looked me squarely in the eyes and said I looked like I did not want the Police called in.  I agreed, and pleaded for them not to become involved.  I said I was sorry.  He responded that if he had a pound for every one of the athletes he had coached in a long career that had said sorry, then he would feel quite rich. Athletes learnt to behave sooner or later, some quicker, some longer, they just needed the treatment, he said.  In my embarrassment I agreed that I needed the treatment, although I really had no idea what it entailed.  I was feeling desperate and fed up with all the constant music pounding away.  He smiled and stared at me further.

He then demanded I get totally naked. This was a shock, but I felt no option other than to comply.  I felt bashful as my not so fit torso and then the rest of my body was revealed to him.  He told me to touch my toes.  I struggled to do this, only getting as far comfortably as grasping my ankles.  I felt incredibly vulnerable. Surely he would not..?  Then out of nowhere he lashed some form of leather strap across my bottom.  I gasped from shock and the sudden feeling of pain. It must have left an imprint on my pale skin.  I tried not to cry out as he applied further strokes.

Time after time he laid that strap fiercely into my bottom till I felt there was nowhere he had not covered. I was groaning all the time as this was way more severe than I had felt I had volunteered for.  I felt soundly punished.  I tried to distract myself with images of him doing the same to fit young athletes, their firm buns being chastened by his strap, but each time he laid that flexible strap on me he seared my fleshy mounds.  He knew what he was doing and he obviously had loads of experience, but I wondered just how far he would go in blasting my rear. It just had to be a purple mass by now rather than just majorly red.  I was grateful that the music was at least masking the noise of my thrashing. I was determined to hold on to some dignity but it was holding on by a mere thread.

Eventually he had stopped and told me to stand. I was quite giddy and leaned against the wall for support. I caught my my reflection in the mirror tiled wall opposite. My bottom was deeply red but intact, swollen but not mutilated, completely scorched through his expert application of that strap.  I gazed back at him, and saw the brown leather strap still dangling from his hand. It didn’t really look like a dangerous implement, but I now knew that it was.  I was allowed to get dressed and warned that my session for today was complete.  I was sent on my way with an instruction to behave or face further consequences.  I left meekly. wondering whether he had even broken into a sweat as he had beaten me.

As a regular gym attender, I know most of the faces working there, especially the younger ones manning the reception desk. I walked gingerly past them, feeling my inflamed bottom every step that I took, hoping that those youngsters had no idea of what had happened. One of the lads gave me a broader smile than usual.  Could he have known?  Or was I over-sensitive?  Or might even he know from bitter experience what that older manager was capable of?  I left courteously but knowing that I needed to lie down flat and soon, and to reflect on what an expert I had encountered that night. And face the conflicting emotions of whether this was a lesson or a new desire!  Future visits would determine whether I had seen the last of that ex-coach and his fiendish strap or not.

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 © MMXVIII by Sukemnsee and used here by very kind permission of the author.  Self portrait photo by Rod Cayenne © MMXVII.

All rights reserved.

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Beach Buggy (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot caning fiction by your host Rod Cayenne, repeated again – strictly over 18s only!

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Back then in the early ’80s Peter had a bright red Beach Buggy.  It had a fibreglass body and an air-cooled VW Beetle engine.  Nowadays, it would probably seem a bit naff, but it pulled the girls!  His folks had bought the car as his 21st birthday present.  He felt really spoilt, and he was to a certain degree.

His folks indulged his every whim.  They even allowed him to shag his regular girlfriend Linda in his room, as long as he locked the door and one of them took precautions.  He asked his Dad one day about why they were so indulgent.

“I’m probably over-compensating.  You see your grandparents were really strict with me.  I didn’t dare do anything.  They were much harsher times.  Dad had a cane, and I got it at school too.  Sometimes my bottom seemed like it was permanently scarred.  It wasn’t, but it was all over the top as I was a well-behaved lad on the whole.  A lot like you.”

“Oh, I had no idea.”

“No, well, it’s not something I like to dwell on.  The past is gone, thankfully.  Anyway, that’s why we chose a school for you that didn’t allow the cane.”

“Gee, thanks Dad.”

“No need to thank me.  Your mother felt the same way.  You know, just before he died, Dad gave me his old cane.  He said I might be needing it as you got older.”

“Never!”

“Oh yes!  Well, your mother and I agreed that we wouldn’t ever use it and that I should cut it up.”

“Good one, Dad!  I expect you enjoyed destroying it?”

“Well son, I’m not really the destructive kind, as you know, but I placed in the vice with great glee, I can tell you.  And then I got a hacksaw and was just about to cut it when the doorbell rang.  It was the police, asking about some hoodlums.  They had been trashing the allotments just down the road.  I remember old Mr Wiggin nearly crying about the damage they’d done the day before.  He was a war hero and really deserved better.  I found myself agreeing with the coppers about the virtues of the birch.  And after they’d gone, I really couldn’t face cutting up that cane.  Don’t tell your mother, but it’s still in the garage.”

“Really?  I’d better watch my step then!  Gosh, a real cane.  I’ve never even seen one.  Dad?”

“Yes Peter?”

“Can I see it?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know really.  It’s family history of a sort, I suppose.”

“Well yes, that’s true.  It is family history.  I’ve got the scars to prove it!”

“Really?”

“Not, not really.  They always healed up.  But mental scars, yes, I still have some of those.”

“OK, forget it then.  I don’t want to upset you.”

“No, it’s OK.  This would be a good time to show you it, as your mother’s out paying the gas bill.”

So the two generations of the Appleton family headed for the double garage.  From a dusty cupboard at the back, Peter’s father extracted the school cane.  It had that classic, crook-handled shape.  Peter had only seen canes in trashy comics.

“Doesn’t look up to much, Dad,” said Peter with a trace of disappointment in his voice.

“Don’t be deceived.  It’s a real killer.  Hurts like mad.  Believe me.”

“I do, I think.  Still, it does look a bit weedy.”

“And before you ask, no you can’t try it.”

“I wasn’t going to…”

“Yes you were!  It’s written all over your face.  It’s no toy or game, I can assure you.  No fun at all.  Let’s cut it up now!”

“No!” said Peter with uncharacteristic vehemence.  “No, that wouldn’t be right, would it Dad?  Family history, like you said.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” said Dad swishing the cane through the air.  “Alright, let’s put it away.  I still don’t like to see the bloody thing.”

Days later, Peter was chatting to his mother about things, when the topic of the cane came up unexpectedly.

“Your father’s still got that cane, you know.  I found it in the garage when I was poking around, last summer it was, I think.  Yes.”

“I know.  He showed me it.”

“He did?  He was meant to cut it up.  He didn’t though.  I hope he hasn’t gone all kinky on me.”

“Kinky, how so?”

“Oh you must know, Peter.  A bit of slap and tickle, you know. “

Peter was a bit embarrassed, but carried on, “I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about there, Mum.  He seemed to be a bit in awe of that cane.”

“Yes, I bet,” said Mum sighing and shaking her head.  She was in another world.  She too had ample experience of corporal punishment back in its heyday.  “I’d be happier if your father had cut it up like he’d promised.”

“No, mum.  It’s family history.”

“If you say so, Peter.  Really that thing belongs in a museum.”  They would have to disagree on that one.

Some days, Peter would think about that cane.  He’d think about it a lot.  He’d wonder what it felt like to be beaten, and whether he could cope with the pain if he were ever to receive such a caning.  At other times, he wondered about his father being on the receiving end.  Had he cried?  Was it given on trousers?  Was it given on pants?  He didn’t like to dwell on the thought, but perhaps it was even given on the bare!  Now, that would have been scary!  Scary but exciting, perhaps?  Actually, he did dwell on it a bit.  Well, a lot.  Especially when masturbating.  And at his age, Peter often masturbated several times a day, despite having the lovely Linda available.  Sometimes it seemed as if Peter enjoyed masturbating to thoughts of the cane rather more than he enjoyed Linda’s warm and welcoming body.

Now and then, Peter would mention the cane to one or other parents.  They conferred about this and were both disturbed by his thinly-disguised interest.

“Perhaps I should give him a quick whack and be done with it?” Dad suggested.

“No, I don’t think so, dear.  We should get rid of that stick.  It’s what we agreed.  Besides, he’s 21 now, an adult.  We can’t start whacking him now.  He never messes up anyway.”

But he did mess up.  Bigly.  The Beach Buggy wasn’t a total write-off, but it was battered as it rolled off the road after an altercation with a Ford Capri.  Worse still, Linda bashed her head in the accident and was kept in the local cottage hospital overnight for observation.  Her father, a prominent magistrate, demanded she saw no more of Peter and in a frosty phone call to the parents prescribed ‘a good whipping’.  It didn’t happen, of course.

Peter was badly shaken up for weeks after the accident.  He became morose and withdrawn and missed Linda badly.  She had dumped him, at her father’s insistence.

There was only one solution, Peter decided.  One Tuesday evening, while his mother was at a WI meeting, he went to the garage.  Opening the dusty cupboard he saw the golden yellow cane.  It was what he needed and craved.  Perhaps it would clear the air and break the circle of unhappiness Peter was trapped in?

Back in the lounge, Peter’s father was astounded to see his son holding the cane.  He switched off the old colour set and sighed.  There wasn’t much conversation, as the two men understood the situation instinctively.

“Are you sure?  It’s got to hurt, you know,” Dad said gently…

Peter just nodded.  He handed his father the cane.

“Right!  We’ll do this properly or not at all.  That means a bare bottom, I’m afraid, Peter!”

“Oh.  I wasn’t expecting that, Dad.”

“Well, that makes you a little naive then, doesn’t it?  Drop your jeans, over the arm of the settee.  Jockeys down too, please.”

Reluctantly, Peter bared his youthful buttocks.  He felt the cool air of the room on his naked flesh.  He also felt the first stirrings of an erection.  That was something he didn’t want his father to see.

Dad flexed the cane and swiped it through the air.  It felt good to have the cane in his hands.  It would probably be the one and only time he would get to beat the boy.  He was determined to make it hurt, to make it count, to purge his son’s guilt.  He would approach the beating as a solemn ritual, almost a religious rite.  There would be no telling off, no verbal correction.

With a sudden swish-crack the first stroke landed.  It had begun!  Peter’s first caning had begun!  The lad was excited but then the shock of the pain coursing through his body brought him to his senses.  The throbbing and burning in his bottom was awful, just awful!  He’d never experienced anything like it.

As a vicious second stroke landed, Peter wondered whether he’d made a mistake in volunteering for the caning.  The burn from that stroke was even worse in its intensity.  He couldn’t help but let out a loud groan.  Yes, he had definitely miscalculated.

Dad flexed the cane and sighed with contentment.  He’d never been on this end of the cane before and could now understand the appeal!  It really was gratifying to use.  The sound of the cane in use was terrific.  This time there was a more noticeable physical reaction as Peter’s pert bottom flinched with pain.  Soon, however, the son was sticking his bottom out submissively again, signalling that he was ready for the next onslaught.  Father was determined not to go easy.  A caning had to hurt, after all, didn’t it?

Another harsh stroke sliced into Peter’s buttocks.  He sighed and groaned heavily.  This was really too much!   Dad wasn’t so sure, though.  He admired his son’s striped bottom.  How gorgeous those red marks were!

It was time to add another red beauty.  The golden cane slashed down fiercely and bounced back ready for more action.  Peter was sniffing and shuffling, not quite crying, but clearly upset.

“Keep still, Peter.  It will all be over more quickly if you do,” his father said quietly.

After the sixth stroke, the boy made to get up.  His father was having none of it!  He pushed his lad back down roughly and then proceeded to give him four rapid fire strokes which had the lad gasping and writhing.

“Two more!”  Father announced, with some regret as his sadism was surfacing and demanding even more.  Peter was simultaneously relieved and anxious as the remaining tariff was announced.  It would make twelve cane strokes in all.  A harsh beating for a first timer.

The eleventh stroke hit home with a sickening crack.  It was the hardest stroke yet, as Father was still exploring his technique.  Peter yelped and then gasped like a naughty schoolboy.

“Last one, son.  Brace yourself!”

Peter did brace himself.  He gritted his teeth and did his best to clench his sore, sore buttocks together.  He was willing his father on, hoping for a rapid conclusion to his beating.  However, Peter’s father couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease his son by slicing the cane through the air several times, and making the boy wait.  It was deliciously sadistic making his son endure the waiting.  Peter was overcome with anticipation, willing the final stroke on.  When it came it fell a bit flat.  It wasn’t as hard as he’d expected.  Both men decided, independently, that there would have to be another caning, one with a more satisfactory ending.

Peter rose slowly, and his hands immediately sought to comfort his ravaged arse cheeks.   No amount of rubbing or kneading would make a significant difference as it had been a thorough punishment.  Slowly he pulled his white Y-fronts and blue jeans back up.  Peter’s father was enjoying the spectacle.  The two men smiled at each other and then father winked at his son.

“Room!” Dad commanded, pointing to the door with the crook-handled cane.

As Peter made his way up the stairs he felt a pleasant tingling in his penis, and a warm glow spreading all over his beaten bottom.  He would have to masturbate!

In the lounge, Peter’s father poured himself a stiff one.  He’d enjoyed dishing out that caning.  He resolved again that it would not be the last.  He rationalised this to himself by deciding that Peter would have benefited from his punishment.  Although a good lad in general, he would need further guidance in future.  Next time, Dad thought, he would have to make the young man’s bottom the same overall bright red as the Beach Buggy!  Oh yes!

———————–

Peter’s mother returned from her meeting.  She was tired and thirsty, but decided to slump on the settee for a few minutes.  She was more than a little surprised to find that she was sat next to the old cane.  It rather looked as if the men of the household had worked something out.  Perhaps that was no bad thing?  Well, boys will be boys!

The cane had weaved more than one spell that evening.  Peter’s parents enjoyed a wild session in bed that night, their best for many a year.

 

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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.

(___________

Story © MMXIV by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved.

___________)

Comments welcome – please use link at top of the story

Comments from the original 2014 post are here

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

♥ Site recommended story ♥

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

The air was heavy with cigarette smoke.  The two men were chatting behind the counter, waiting for the flood of punters who would arrive as soon as the city offices closed.  It was unmistakably a sex shop.  The windows were blacked out, there were tacky neon signs and entry to the shop was via a beaded curtain.  There were rows and rows of magazines, ranging from the tame to the explicit, though the latter were censored due to the Obscene Publications Act.  It hadn’t been that long since the last police raid on the premises…

Proprietor Rick, 35, lanky, greasy and bearded, puffed on his long cigarette.  Boyish runaway Peter, just 21, gazed naively at the contents of the shop.  He’d only just got the job, which was proving to be quite an education for him.

“Is there a lot of demand for this homo stuff?” Peter asked Rick.

“Yes, it sells pretty well.  Mainly to married men.  City gents.  Public school types.”

“I don’t really understand any of this stuff, it does nothing for me.”

“Don’t worry my boy.  Later tonight, I’ll show you some proper uncensored stuff.  Some of the gay stuff is pretty hot.”

“Well, if you must.  I just don’t get it at all.”

“It’s taking off, Pete, my mate.  Zig has been the spur, all that bisexuality stuff.  It’s the future, I’m sure of it.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes, trust me, mate.”

“Yes, I do, Rick.  And what about this stuff, the spankers as you call them?”

“Ah yes, the spanking mags.  Our best sellers, they are.  The English are just mad about the stuff, especially the caning mags.  It’s lost on most of the tourists, of course.”

“I had the cane at school.  I can’t see the attraction.  It bloody hurt, and wasn’t sexy at all.”

“Ah.  Pleasure from pain.  Yes, that’s a bit harder to explain.  Very popular, all the same.  There’s a good margin on spanking stuff and the cops don’t always seize it.  Of course, a lot of them are into it.  In a big way.  Caning especially!” he laughed.  Rick went on to explain the fine details of the bondage, S&M and fetish magazines and accessories stocked in the shop.

“So, going back to the police.  Got any tips for me when we do get raided?”

“It doesn’t happen very often, Pete.  Hopefully I’ll be here.  But if not, just don’t let them near the ‘under the counter’ stuff.  And be polite, for Christ’s sake. “Yes, Officer, No Officer, Three Bags Full, Sir”.  I think they cream off some of the stuff for themselves, the wank mags, the spankers.  Just make sure you do as they say.  Otherwise I’ll be taking a cane to your sorry arse!”

“You wouldn’t dare!  Anyway, I bet you haven’t got a cane.”

“You’re right.  I haven’t got a cane.  I’ve got several!  We used to sell them, but the cops kept nicking them.  Arseholes!”

“Shit, I’d better behave myself.”

“Yes, lad.  You better had.  You’re never too old for the cane, I always say.”

Peter gulped and decided to change the subject a little, “These blow-up dolls are a bit crap, aren’t they?”

“Ah yes, the Roxys, as I like to call them.  A bit sad, but they’re good sellers.  They’re crap, as you say.  I certainly wouldn’t fuck one of them!”

“No, me neither, I’d rather wait for the real thing,” said Peter eyeing the masturbation aids.

Suddenly, the influx of customers arrived.  There were older men in raincoats, and a few younger guys, all  looking for wank fodder.  Of course, some had guilty expressions, red faces and others had indulged in some Dutch courage.  Peter enjoyed flirting with the older punters, as he slipped their purchases into discreet brown paper bags.  Trade was brisk that evening.

“I think you’re good for sales, young Peter.  Maybe I won’t cane your arse just yet,” Rick laughed.

That night young Peter was shown a lot of uncensored material, and ended up sleeping with Rick upstairs in the damp flat above  the shop.  It was a night that Peter would never regret.  The two men became regular sexual partners.  The arrangement suited young Peter as he could never pull the girls.  For Rick, it was just lust for the 21-year-old’s youthful arse and tight hole. Both were curiously dispassionate about their affair and it never really developed into love.

A few months later, there was a police raid on the premises.  Rick was absent, so young Peter had to handle things alone.  A substantial amount of magazines was seized.  Rick was furious but at least none of the more, ahem, specialised material was found by the coppers.  Peter couldn’t help but feel guilty for the upheaval, though in truth he was blameless.  The following few days at work he was completely downcast.

“Don’t worry, Peter.  It’s not your fault we were raided.  I’ve been in touch with the law, and they have said they might return some of the stuff as it has been cleared.  I’m pretty matey with some of the lads down the station these days.  Our paths cross a lot, as it were.  I sometimes slip them a few spankers to keep them sweet.  They’re only doing their job, after all.”

“You bribe them with spanking magazines?”

“That’s a very strong word, Peter.  I just like to oil the cogs of the machines of justice, as it were.”

“Well it hasn’t worked, has it?  They’ve not returned the stuff have they?”

“Not yet, but they will, my boy, they will.”

“You think!”

“No, I know.  Now bite your lip, unless you want a good hard caning from your boss?”

“No thanks, Rick,” said Peter, although he did wonder if such a thrashing might purge his overwhelming feelings of guilt.  His mind was in turmoil following the raid, and about his relationship with Rick.  He was even beginning to feel guilty about working in the shop and how it would impact on his life and career.

A few days later, two policemen turned up at the shop at closing time.  They had brought many of the seized magazines back with them, so Peter was tasked with unloading them from the Austin panda car.  Soon the car was emptied, and the police sergeant sent the driver on his way.

“Drink, Mark?” Rick asked the sergeant.

“Well, I shouldn’t really, I’m still on duty.  But if you insist.”

“I do, I do.  Come upstairs for a beer, you too Peter.”

Peter was reluctant to join the two men.  The presence of Sergeant Mark was making him nervous.  After all, he was the cop who had fronted the raid on the premises.  However, soon all three men were enjoying cans of frothy Watney Truman bitter while a Roberts transistor radio piped an offshore pirate station around the flat.

“Sorry about the raid, Rick.  It was orders, of course.”

“It’s OK Mark, I understand.”

“The Super’s been ordering a crackdown.  We’ll try and leave you out of the next round.”

“Cheers, Mark.  I think the raid terrified young Peter here.”

Peter nodded and blushed.

“Well, he certainly could have been more helpful.”

“Really?  PETER, IS THIS TRUE?” barked Rick.

Peter wasn’t sure how to react, so he just shrugged his shoulders.

“Yes, he wasn’t very cooperative,” said the sergeant, frowning.

“Well, I’m sorry Mark.  I had no idea.  Perhaps the lad should have a taste of my cane?  He must learn to help the rule of law!”

“Yes, Rick, a good caning would teach the lad some respect!”

“In fact, Mark, maybe you could do the honours?”

Peter’s jaw dropped as events started to move rapidly.  Soon Rick returned from the bedroom with a swishy rattan school cane in his hands.  He gave it to the sergeant.

“A fine specimen!” the policeman exclaimed, “Just like the ones at my old school.  Err, Peter, it has to be bare, I’m afraid.”

Rick pulled a wooden chair into the middle of the room, commanding Peter, “Over!”

Peter complied reluctantly.  He was scared.  Scared of the sergeant, and scared of Rick.  More than anything, he was scared of that cane.   He’d always assumed Rick was joking about having some canes.  Evidently not!  He hadn’t had the cane for several years, and now he was going to get it from the big, burly policeman!  He decided to comply to the letter, in the hope of some clemency or maybe a reduction in the number of strokes.  Sighing, he let his jeans fall, and then his less than clean string pants followed.

The sergeant was enjoying the view, as was Rick.  Their plan was working perfectly.  Peter had been set up!  The sergeant flexed the cane enthusiastically.  He was going to enjoy this!

SWISH-CRACK!  The policeman sliced the whippy rattan down hard on Peter’s unblemished buttocks.  A deep red line appeared.  It was a good cane.  It was a very good cane!  Rick already knew it was a very good cane, as he sourced all his canes direct from the importer.  The importer was only to happy to supply the sex shops with the finest of punishment implements. After all, they gave a higher profit than the school trade.

SWISH-CRACK!  Sergeant Mark whipped a second stroke down on Peter’s arse.  The cheeks gave way as the cane sliced like a hot knife through butter.

SWISH-CRACK!  Peter gasped and wriggled as the assault continued.  He was told to keep still by the sergeant, “unless he wanted extra!”  He didn’t!  Of that, Peter was sure!

SWISH-CRACK!  “YEEEOW!” Peter cried, just like a schoolboy. How gratifying that sound was.

SWISH-CRACK!  A fifth stroke slashed down.  What an expert tormentor the sergeant was proving to be!

SWISH-CRACK!   A sixth stroke and Peter felt sure that would be the final one.  But he was wrong!  Very, very wrong!

SWISH-CRACK!   The seventh was a real corker, cracking and burning into Peter’s soft posterior.

SWISH-CRACK!   The eighth was the worst so far, searing and unforgiving. Peter bucked and writhed but by now Mark was almost in a trance, slashing the cane down without thought as he rejoiced in his own sadism.

SWISH-CRACK!  SWISH-CRACK!  SWISH-CRACK!  The beating carried on relentlessly. From a distance, Rick admired the red stripes adorning his lover’s youthful buttocks.

SWISH-CRACK!  The twelfth surely was the last?  Yes, it was!  It hurt like the blazes, but Peter was pleased to hear the cane clatter on the floor as the sergeant threw it down with a grunt.

Peter’s ordeal wasn’t over yet, however.  The sergeant dragged him off to the bedroom saying, “We won’t be long!” to Rick.

“There’s some lube in the top drawer!” Rick shouted, just as the bedroom door slammed shut.  Soon the sounds of the two males at it could be heard by Rick, after he’d switched Radio Veronica off!  It all reminded him of when he was younger, when Mark had given him much the same treatment.  Yes, Mark liked some “chocolate on his biscuit” as he had so charmingly referred to it.  But Mark only liked them young.  He had lost interest in sex with Rick once Rick had reached the ripe old age of twenty-five.

The frantic mating noises didn’t last long, just as the copper had predicted.  Evidently, Mark had delivered his payload and soon emerged from the bedroom zipping up his police trousers.

“Take some pictures of Peter for me, will you Rick?” Mark asked with a grin on his face.  Rick nodded and later that night duly snapped Peter with his Praktica.  The lad’s shagged and caned arse featured heavily in the resulting portfolio.  Rick knew exactly what Mark wanted in the photos, and had them processed by a trusted photolab just around the corner from the sex shop.

Over the next few days and weeks, Peter couldn’t decide if he’d enjoyed the sex and caning he’d endured courtesy of hunky cop Mark.  Sometimes, he felt as if it had been terrific.  Other times, he felt used and dirty.  Eventually, his mind settled on the positive and he confided in Rick that he’d like to see Mark again.  It happened!  And it so happened that there were also threesomes where Peter’s bottom entertained both Rick and Sergeant Mark. There were no more raids on the shop for another four years or so.

____________)

Story © 2013 by Rod Cayenne

____________

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.

_____________

Comments welcome

Comments from the original post are here

…And The Gods Made Love (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A first repeat of this hot story by Rod Cayenne, from 2014. Strictly for over 18s only!

In the seaside convenience store, the two retired headmasters eyed each other warily.

“Bernie?”

“William?”

Gradually, broad grins emerged. The two hadn’t seen each other for many years, although Christmas cards had been exchanged regularly. They had met each other at a teaching conference in London, where they immediately hit it off and ended up bed-sharing. Of course, back in those dark and distant days, they had to be really discreet. They soon discovered that they had both retired to the same vibrant coastal town with its many attractions and gay-friendly atmosphere.

“Back to my place?”

“That would be nice!”

“Better get some of these then. I’m right out of them. Can’t be too careful these days,” said Bernie as he tossed a box of a dozen Durex into his basket.

William made no comment, but picked a tube of KY lubricant and followed his friend to the checkout. As they queued, he couldn’t resist slipping his hand under Bernie’s cord jacket. He pinched the pert bottom hard! Bernie gasped with surprise, before saying, “You’ll pay for that, William!”

“Oh, I do hope so, Bernie, I do hope so.” Already roles were being arranged for what would be their first encounter for many years!

The checkout guy was young, fresh-faced and extremely large. He joked with Bernie and then with William, laughing as he wished the gents “a fun evening!” After all, it was obvious what was on the cards for the two friends.

As they strolled along the esplanade, William raised a topic of mutual interest, “You’ve got a cane at home?”

“Several, actually. And you will be feeling them all!”

“Yes, I rather thought I might be.”

“Tell me, William, did you take my advice all those years ago?”

“Rather! After the conference, I thought long and hard about the benefits of corporal punishment, and then became an enthusiastic caner. I got quite a taste for it. Used to cane the buggers really hard. I loved it when they squealed! And of course, behaviour and academic achievement went through the roof!”

“Told you so!”

“Yes, you did. Teachers like us were like gods in those days. And then I hooked up with our Classics master. Somehow we discovered that we had a mutual fascination for cp. We used to cane each other a lot, especially when his wife was away. I didn’t think I’d like being on the receiving end, but I did. It’s jolly good fun, isn’t it?”

“Yes, indeed, almost a sport of kings.”

“Eh?”

“Never mind.”

“Well, anyway, I used to lie in his arms afterwards and say, ‘I never expected to be doing this.’”

“Mmmmm, nice!”

“I’m so glad to have found you again, Bernie. I need it badly.”

“Yes, you do. And don’t worry, I’ll be giving it to you alright. Hot and hard!”

“Right! It has to be hard to feel the benefits, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed it does, indeed it does. No pussyfooting.”

Bernie’s house was a whitewashed art deco treasure. It boasted superb coastal views and had an air of opulence. The sympathetic furnishings emphasised the expensive look. Bernie fiddled with the espresso coffee machine as William took in the view from the kitchen.

“A quick cuppa, then I shall be sorting out your naughty botty!” said Bernie, slipping into some childish banter, “Your very wicked, naughty botty!”

William blushed a deep red, and then Bernie landed a sharp smack on his friend’s buttocks. “Ooh, Sir!” William camped it up.

Bernie took the tray of coffee and biscuits into the living room and switched on the TV, saying, “I just need to check the cricket.”

“I do so miss the traditional cricket whites,” William observed, “So much sexier than those coloured outfits.”

Bernie sighed and nodded. It was becoming apparent that the two men had so much in common. A love for the good old days, leather and willow, rattan and flesh. He could see that they could end up living together. The thought rather startled him, and he wasn’t sure how comfortable he would be sharing his palatial place. Better make William’s beating extra hard, he decided. After all, the man would have to earn his keep!

“Right William!” Bernie suddenly announced in his most headmasterly tone, “Time for your thrashing! I’m just going upstairs to get some canes. When I come back, I expect to see you bent over this sofa. You can keep your trousers on. For now!”

Unfortunately for William, the trousers didn’t stay up for long, and neither did his skimpy briefs. The tariff was soon escalating, 6…12…18…24…30…36! William’s arse was a deep scarlet, or was it black and blue? Well, it was a bit of a mess, anyway. Bernie felt a bit ashamed of the beating he’d given his sweet friend, but both had clearly derived enjoyment from it, all the same. And then, up in the bedroom, among the Egyptian cotton sheets, the two gods made love.

A few months later, William let himself into his lover’s house. He was surprised to find Bernie had company.

“Who’s this then?”

“It’s my nephew, Steven. He’s come down on the train for the day. He’s a good lad, aren’t you, Steven?”

“Err…”

“Well, good on the whole, but like all boys he can be a bit naughty at times.”

“Really?” asked William.

“Yes, honestly. He likes to drop in unannounced. Although he’s 22, he can be a bit of a pest.”

“Really? He looks more like an angel than a pest. Tell me, Steven, have you been pestering you Uncle Bernie?”

But Bernie leapt in with a quick retort, “Yes, he keeps pestering me for a caning, would you believe? Says he wants to find out what it was like!”

“Really, Steven?”

“Err yes. It was just a silly notion. Just to find out. I was only interested because Uncle Bernie was a headmaster back in the days when the cane was allowed.”

“So was I!”

“Oh wow! Two headmasters. I can’t believe my luck!”

Bernie cleared his throat noisily, saying, “Steven, it’s not luck, I feel. Coincidence possibly. More likely that it’s destiny. Now, I’ve never entertained your wish before. But with Headmaster William here as well, I’m sorely tempted, if only to nip this nonsense in the bud! Now, how about if both of us give you six of the very best? Each.”

“Oh, Uncle! 12? That’s rather more than I had in mind.”

“Take it or leave it, my boy!”

“I’ll take it then, but not too hard, Uncle!”

“They will be hard. It’s the only way. You will survive, maybe it will stop you pestering me and you may even come out as a better young man because of it. Let me just check that William is willing to assist. Well, William?”

“Oh yes! I could use some practice! Getting a bit rusty, don’t you know?”

“In that case, William, please go and fetch me a couple of senior boy’s canes. I think you know where they are?”

If young Steven had been gifted with common sense, he might have wondered just how the visitor knew where Uncle Bernie’s canes were kept. But he didn’t. All he could think of was his pending thrashing. Something he had wished to experience for years, and which had been a masturbatory fantasy since his early teenage years. Now that his wish was about to come true, he was rather worried and started to bite gently on his lip.

William ran upstairs, only to return quickly with two crook-handled canes and a broad, cheesy grin. He surveyed the scene before him. During his short absence, Bernie had arranged for nephew Stephen to bend over the sofa, in just the same spot that the two friends had made favourite for William’s own canings! So there was the youthful angel or pest obediently bent, offering his denim-clad buttocks for chastisement.

“Right! Listen carefully, Steven. I expect total obedience during your beating. No jumping up, shouting or swearing. Is that clear?”

“Oh yes, Sir!” young Steven exclaimed.

“Well, it had better be! Any disobedience will result in extra strokes. And they will be extra hard. Still clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Now, it will be six strokes. To get the full school experience, it will be two strokes on your jeans, two more on your underwear, and a final two on your unclothed seat!”

“Wait a minute. Bare?”

“Yes, of course bare! Think yourself lucky I’m not giving you all six bare.”

“Alright, alright! I’m ready. Can we get on with it please?”

William detected some impatience and rudeness in young Steven’s tone. He wasn’t going to put up with that! Well, he would, but the lad’s reward would be a harder caning than William had first planned! Two swift, crisp and hard strokes landed on the blue denim, causing gasping from young Steven. His 22-year-old brain wasn’t used to processing such pain! He couldn’t believe how the pain seemed to be multiplying and overwhelming any feelings of embarrassment and excitement. He was starting to think he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

“Right, Steven! Drop your jeans down for me. There’s a good lad!” said William in his most patronising headmaster tones. Reluctantly Steven did as he was told, craftily giving his bottom a rub as he did so. “Steven, I saw that! No rubbing! That’s expressly forbidden!”

“Actually, Sir, you didn’t forbid it, expressly or otherwise,” said Steven cockily.

“That’s enough! Don’t push me, lad!” said William, waving the lithe cane menacingly, “Smart arses get extra, if they’re not careful.”

Steven thought about sparring further, but the pain in his ample bottom reminded him that this was a time for obedience, not for cheek.

Crack! The cane lashed down on the boy’s tight black briefs.

“Oh my God!” exclaimed Steven, surprised by how much more sting the cane gave now that it was on just the one thin layer of clothing.

“QUIET!” shouted William as he slashed down the fourth stroke with gusto.

“OWWW!”

“I shall not tell you again! Get those pants down!”

Slowly, Steven edged his briefs down to join the jeans crumpled around his feet. Both retired headmasters admired the view revealed to them. A peachy, fleshy pink bottom decorated with harsh red striping. It throbbed and ached as Steven adjusted his position, bending over the edge of the sofa, offering his naked buttocks to the two men. Salty tears were threatening to flow from his misty eyes. This wasn’t exciting, this was humiliating!

The fifth stroke cracked down, the cane bending and distorting the flesh beneath it. It was the hardest stroke yet, waves of heat and hurt overwhelming the cheeky youngster.

“Shit!” muttered Steven to himself. This was bad, and then it got worse as the sixth stroke lashed his buttocks! His arse was red-hot, incandescent with heat and as sore as hell.

William sighed heavily. He walked around the other side of the sofa and looked the boy in the eye. “Not too badly taken, for a beginner,” he said, “Let’s see if your uncle can cure your pestering, shall we?”

“Oh don’t worry about that, Sir! I won’t be pestering him for a caning ever again! Uncle, are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here. Been watching you take your first beating.” In fact, Bernie had been watching with growing pleasure.

“I’m sorry for nagging you, Uncle. You can let me off, if you like!”

“Nice try, Steven. But you’ve been asking for this for months. Literally asking for it. No, no. I won’t be letting you off at all. In fact, I want to ensure that you never ask me for a caning again. And it seems to me that the best way to ensure that is for me to beat you hard. Harder than William already has.”

“Oh, Uncle!”

“All six strokes from me will be on your bared bottom!”

“Oh!”

“Yes, indeed. No sense in covering it up again. Same rules, no shouting, swearing, moving out of position or rubbing! Understood?”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“Call me Sir! If it was good enough for William, then it’s good enough for me!”

“Yes, Uncle Bernie.”

“Are you trying to provoke me, boy?”

“Sorry Sir!”

“That’s better. Now, brace yourself! Here it comes.”

And come it did. It lashed down with staggering force. The pain came too. Wave after wave of it. Bernie smiled to himself. He was a better caner than William, he was sure. It wasn’t a competition, but he was determined to make a more severe impression than his lover had. Steven was startled by the viciousness of that first stroke. He gasped and choked. It was all too much, too much by far!

A second harsh stroke from the slightly sadistic uncle followed. The red stripe throbbed and pain shot all around from it.

“Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” squealed Steven, leaping to his feet, rubbing his bottom frantically.

“GET BACK DOWN, STEVEN!” shouted Uncle Bernie. William laughed loudly at the perhaps predictable turn of events. Bernie was worried that his nephew was going to start playing up. So he quickly lashed the remaining four strokes down, rapid fire style.

“ARRRGH!” cried Steven.

“Well now, Steven. I think you are due some extras. One for swearing, one for getting up, one for rubbing, one…” It was now Bernie’s turn to laugh. “Well, OK, maybe not. I think you’ve had enough for one day, haven’t you? Well, what have you got to say for yourself?”

“Err. Two things, really. First, thank you, uncle. Second, I don’t think you’ll be seeing me again for quite a while!”

“Aha. Suit yourself. You know I’m very fond of you. Come back when you’re good and ready. And I’ll be dismayed if you ever pester me for another caning.”

“Oh don’t worry about that, uncle. I’m cured!”

“And please don’t tell your parents about any of this.”

“Oh, no chance of that,” said Steven, zipping up his jeans smartly, “No chance at all. I’d be far too embarrassed for one thing.”

“Good. You’re a good lad. With a tough arse. Wouldn’t you agree, William?”

“Yes, you did well, Steven. Here, give me a hug!”

It ended as a group hug. And then after Steven had gone, the two men had their own cuddle on the sofa. They masturbated each other as they listened to a secretly recorded tape of Steven’s thrashing. How they laughed as the lad squealed on the tape. They wanked faster and faster. “I never thought I’d be doing this,” said William wistfully.

___________)

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

Photograph © Jonathan, R.I.P.

___________)

Comments welcome

Comments from the original 2014 post are here

The Bullwhip On The Wall (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Happy new year! Let’s start the celebrations with a first repeat of this hot story by Rod Cayenne, from 2014. Strictly for over 18s only!

 

Terry was staying at Uncle Billy’s house for a fortnight.  He looked around the large lounge.  It was full of souvenirs from his uncle’s seafaring days.  Uncle Billy had eased back from that whistle-stop lifestyle a long time ago and his home now paid homage to those distant days.  The room was dominated by a large black wooden elephant and a coiled bullwhip hanging on the wall of an alcove.  Terry looked at the whip and shook his head.

“Fearsome, isn’t it?  Mexican, if I recall correctly.  It’s savage!” paunchy Uncle Billy stated in his gruff Liverpool accent.

“Looks kind of exciting.  In a fierce way, of course,” Terry added.

“Yes, although I’m not sure exciting is the right word there, young Terry.  I can see it would get the adrenaline flowing.  It cuts and tears flesh.  Not suitable for use on humans, only animals with tough, leathery hides.”

“That’s a relief!” exclaimed the young nephew.

“Well, you’re here for a holiday, aren’t you?  I’m sure you won’t do anything to upset me and wish I could whip you!” laughed Billy, “It’s only for show, I could never use it.  However, be warned that I do have a riding crop and cane.  I could use both of them on you if you do play me up!”

“Oh really?” Terry asked, excitement returning to his voice, “Are they from Mexico too?”

“Don’t be stupid, lad!  The riding crop is from the saddlery down the road.  It’s a lovely item.  The cane was my father’s, of course.  I remember its sting all too well!  Yeowch!”  Uncle Billy grimaced and rubbed his bottom with earnest nostalgia and perhaps a hint of fun.

“Hold on, your father used to cane you?”

“Oh yes!  Hard beatings they were, too.  And always trousers and underwear down.  I even got it at your age.”

“What?  21?”

“Oh yes!  21, 22, 23, I think.”

“Gosh!”

“Well 21 was the age of majority back then, and I lived with Daddy and his cane for another couple of years after that.”

“How awful!  And on your, err, naked, er, backside?”

“Oh yes indeed!”

Terry gulped as he took it all in.  Perhaps it was no wonder that Uncle Billy had eventually run away to sea?  Suddenly he found himself rubbing his own bottom through his thin summer-weight shorts.  He caught his uncle’s intense and beery gaze.

“Wow!  That must have been painful.  Was it a bit exciting, too?”

“No!  Not at all.  What a strange question!  Really, you youngsters have no idea.  How can you think being caned, let alone whipped, was exciting?  You’re not, you know, a bit strange are you?”

“Oh no, Uncle.  It’s just that it seems like another world.  So very different from today.  So hard to comprehend.”

“I understand, I think, young Terry.  Would you like to see that cane?”

“No thanks.  No need, Uncle.  I’m not that interested, really.”

It was a lie.  Both men knew it.  Uncle raised his bushy right eyebrow quizzically and instructed Terry, “It’s in the umbrella stand in the hall, right by the front door.  I think the riding crop is there too.  Be a good lad and bring me both.  Go on then!  See to it!”

Terry made his way to the hall.  He was annoyed that his uncle had wondered whether he was a bit strange.  After all, Uncle Billy was the one with the bullwhip, cane and riding crop in his house, and all for ornamentation rather than use!  He found the cane straight away, its lithe crook handle sticking out prominently above the umbrellas and walking sticks.  It didn’t look that old, Terry thought to himself.  He then busied himself looking for the riding crop.  Being a tad shorter, it was not visible immediately.  Only after removing a few sticks and brollies did he find it.  It was a beautiful item, with the shaft’s leather plaited neatly in black and blue.  Somehow that seemed appropriate to young Terry.

“Ah, thank you, Terry.  What do you think to these then?”

“Well, they’re less intimidating than that bloody bullwhip thing.  That’s really creepy.”

“Aha, but I thought you said it was exciting?”

“I meant exciting in a sort of creepy way!”

“You mean something like a horror film, then?”

“Exactly, Uncle.  I suppose you’d say it was a kind of morbid fascination.”

“Yes.  You’re making sense now.  So which do you want to try first?  The cane or the crop?”

Terry blushed a brighter red than he had ever done before, “I never said anything about trying them, Uncle!”

“I know that, lad.  But I can read you like a book.  You want to, don’t you?  Yes, you’re a bit of a masochist on the quiet, unless I’m much mistaken.”

“Oh Uncle!  What a horrible word!”

“I believe in calling a spade a spade, Terry.  You want to give it a go, don’t you?  Eh?”

“No, I really don’t.  And if we’re calling a spade a spade then you’re not even a proper uncle!”

“Well, that’s a bit rude Terry, but I suppose you’re technically right there.  But I am a family friend.  A friend of yours, and I’m offering you a favour, aren’t I?  You’re a masochist, and maybe there’s a little sadist in me, I  think.  Well now, this is getting awkward.  Are we going to do it or not?”

“Alright, alright!  But not too hard!”

“Terry, it has to be a bit hard, you know.  To see what it’s like.  To see whether you like it or not.  We’re not playing a school playground game here, after all.  Now, drop those shorts for me please.”

Terry dropped his summer shorts, revealing some surprisingly conservative grey briefs.  Sensing some residual reluctance, Uncle Billy bent Terry over the back of the sofa and yanked down the underwear in one seamless movement.  All was revealed!

“Oh!  I wasn’t expecting that!” exclaimed the youngster.

“Oh yes you were!  I think six strokes of the cane for persistent lying and disrespect.”

“Hey!  That’s a lot!”

“No, trust me.  It’s not.  Not at 21.  You can take it.  But do try to be quiet as the windows really do have to be open at this time of year.  Ready?”

“No!” Terry suddenly exclaimed.  But he was too late to alter his date with destiny, for the cane cracked down viciously just at that moment.

“Ye Gods!” Terry exclaimed as the red-hot burn kicked in, “Oh hell!”

Uncle Billy laughed at his nephew’s discomfort.  The cane was raised high again, and again Billy let rip with a severe stroke which lashed Terry’s naked bottom.  This time Terry just yelped.  He was prepared for the pain the second time.  But he really didn’t like it.  Not one bit.  This was definitely no fun at all.  He was telling himself this just as Billy guided the cane in for a third stroke.  This was the worst stroke so far, whipping the pale young flesh with gay abandon.   Terry squealed this time.

“You can have a break for a minute, if you want to,” Uncle Billy informed his guest.

“Thanks, but I’d rather get it over with.  I can’t believe I agreed to this!” said Terry ruefully.

“You didn’t!  Actually, perhaps you did.  Anyway, I do believe it’s just what you need.”

Just then uncle lashed the fourth stroke down, slightly off-cue and rather low down.  Judging by Terry’s reaction, it was by far the worst stroke yet.  The youngster leapt to his feet, clutching his thrashed behind.

“Yes, very entertaining, Terry.  But you’ve got five seconds to get back down, otherwise you’ll be getting extras!  One.  Two.  Three.  Four.  Five.”

Terry held out until the last count before bending back over the sofa.  Four distinctive scarlet tramlines decorated his otherwise pale buttocks.  Uncle sighed with pleasure as he surveyed them.  He had done all that, and it felt great!  He really liked being on the right end of the stick after all these years.  Yes, it was terrific.  Already he was forming plans for further beatings for Terry during his two-week stay.  He flexed the cane and then sliced it down again.

This time Terry gasped, and his hands flew back to his buttocks, in a vain attempt to soothe away the burning pain.  Uncle Billy was not amused.  “Terry, get those hands off there immediately!  They’re right in the firing line, and you are this far from those extras I promised you.”

“Sorry, Uncle. “

“Right.  Apology accepted.  Last stroke coming up.  Keep still and keep those hands out of the way!”

Crack!  The cane lashed down for the last time.  Terry cried out; he really couldn’t help himself.

“Good!  That’s better.  Not bad for a beginner.  Of course, Daddy used to give me more than that.  But I was used to it.  Now, time for the extras!”

“Whaaat?”

“Yes, Terry!  Just a couple with the crop, I think.  Stay just where you are.”

Terry had forgotten about the crop.  Uncle picked it up and sliced it through the air.  It made a different sound, when compared to the cane.  Perhaps a deeper sound, still chilling and exciting, however.  Uncle moved closer and whacked the crop into the waiting target.

“Owww!” cried Terry, somewhat startled at the pain this new assault delivered.  It was different, but really just as bad!

Uncle Billy laughed and sliced the crop down again.  Terry gasped, and almost choked as pain engulfed his wiry frame.  Eight red lines were causing new waves of agony on the punished buttocks.

“Pull your shorts back up then, that’s a pretty disgusting sight!” Uncle Billy lied.

Terry rubbed and rubbed at his arse, but nothing would help ameliorate the throbbing hot pain.  He looked embarrassed, as Uncle Billy patted the cushion next to him on the sofa, saying, “Come and sit down, Terry.  You look like you’ve had enough excitement for one day!”

“You’re not wrong there, uncle.  But thank you.  I hope we’ll fit in some more excitement before I go home.”

“Yes, Terry.  I’m not surprised.  Plenty of time for that.  We’ve got fourteen days.  Fourteen nights, as well.”

 ___________)

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.

___________)

Comments welcome

Comments from the original 2014 post are here