♥ Site recommended story ♥
Hot caning fiction by your host Rod Cayenne, repeated again – strictly over 18s only!
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.”
“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?”
“Can I see it?”
“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!”
“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.
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