Packing Heat (M/M) NEW!

 

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Brand spanking new fiction by your host, Rod Cayenne. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!

It was Autumn, 1967.  Hippies with flowers in their hair were everywhere, except in the once-noble village of Nether Bumming.  Down at the half-timbered Fox And Hounds, Jim Rodgers played with his fresh pint.  He tried to blow the froth off the top off the bitter ale.  It wasn’t shifting, so he sliced it off with a sticky, dog-eared and discoloured cardboard beer mat.  That was not something he’d have done had he not been well on the way to inibreation.  Anyway, clearly he was distracted; miles away.

“Just what’s up, Jim?” asked his young friend PC Steve Churlington.

“Nothing’s up.  Really, nothing.  Nothing at all.”

“Don’t give me that!  You’re brooding about something or other.  It’s that lad of yours I’ll warrant, what’s his name again?”

“Oh, you mean Peter?”

“Yes, Peter.  Tell me now, what’s he been up to?  I thought you and I had no secrets.”  The cop winked at his close friend.

Jim gazed at his pint, tracing a pattern in the condensation on the outside of the glass with his grubby finger.  He sighed and smiled and looked his friend straight in the eye, before revealing, “Well, you’re right.  Of course.  He’s been a real handful since his mother ran off with that low-life estate agent.  I may have mentioned it before.  He and I seem to be jostling to be head of the household all the time.  Which is ridiculous, as it’s my place, after all.  Now the little sod’s bought an air rifle, a gun.  Can you believe it?”

“Oh I see.  What’s the problem, then?  He’s old enough to own one, he’s seventeen isn’t he?”

“Eighteen and a half, actually.  It’s just, it’s just…”

“What exactly, Jim?”

“Well, it’s just that I asked him not to buy one.  I begged him not to buy one.  I told him not to buy one.  I forbade him from buying one.”

“You didn’t want him to buy one then?” laughed his friend the cop, supping ale with a twinkle in his eye.  The froth from the beer decorated the cop’s moustache briefly before his beefy hand wiped it away.

“Shit, Steve.  No, I didn’t want one in the house but the little sod is earning now and has got a mind of his own.”

“I suppose that’s the danger at his age.  But he’s not 21, so you are still in charge.  He’s testing you, as you hinted.”

“Oh maybe, maybe not.  Yes, definitely maybe.”

“A very tricky situation then.  And let me guess, his father’s reluctant to leather him?”

“Yes, rather.  Although, I suppose it’s just what he needs and deserves.”

“Hmmm.  I agree.  Totally.  You know, I see this all the time.  The young generation disrespecting their parents, their teachers even.  Thank God the schools have the cane.  It would be chaos without, especially with all this hippy, Summer Of Love nonsense at the moment.”

“Shove the Summer Of Love!” said Jim, and then “Cheers!” as the two men crashed their glasses together, laughing and supping their ales.  Jim belched loudly and “A Whiter Shade Of Pale” played on the distant jukebox.

Later, as the evening wore on, PC Steve leant over towards Jim, and put his hand on his friend’s knee, saying conspiratorially, “You know I could deal with Peter.  As an officer of the law, I’m sure I could find a way of giving the boy a really sore arse.”

“Oh, would you?” implored Jim, “Could you?”

“Leave it to me!” said PC Steve conspiratorially.  “But I do need some background.  He’s had the cane before? And a good slippering?”

“Yes, quite a lot, when he was younger.  It was noted on his reports.  By the Headmaster.  He was a bad lad then, alright.”

“You didn’t follow it up ever, then?”

“Oh no, no.  Isobel wouldn’t wear it.”

“Hmmm, seems to me that she wore the trousers in that relationship!”

“Mmmm.  That’s tired old territory though, Steve.  And I was happy to leave it to the Head, who could be an unforgiving bastard at times, to be perfectly frank.”

“Well, Peter’s obviously a lad who needs a firm masculine hand.  The smack of discipline!  The bite of the cane!  Don’t you think?”

“You won’t be too hard on him, will you?”

“I said to leave it to me, but I certainly won’t go off half-cock!  Let’s just say I have some experience with this sort of thing.  He’s in safe hands. Or safe-ish hands!”

And so it was that PC Churlington put his plan into action.  With inside information from the concerned father, he’d staked out the likely venue for young Peter to be practicing mayhem with his air rifle.  He soon spied the lad and his mate, Rowan Knight, shooting at cans and the bark of trees on the edge of the medieval forest.  There was just the one gun, which Peter was allowing his friend to use now and then.  After a short but purposeful toot on his whistle, PC Steve bellowed, “Oi!  You two!  What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Crikey!  It’s the cops!” cried Rowan with amazing powers of perception, before he scarpered away, his fat teenage thighs working harder than they ever had before.  Peter was left holding the baby, or rather the gun.  Suddenly the rifle seemed very heavy in his sweaty grip as he stared into the penetrating blue eyes of the constable.

“It’s all legal, Officer!” exclaimed Peter.

The policeman grabbed the lad firmly by his ear, “Oh no it’s not!  Not in a public place like this, and this PC says a licence is needed under new legislation.  Have you got a licence?  My diligent research suggests that you have not.”

“What?”

“The new 1967 legislation requires a licence!  Use of firearms especially in forested areas is strictly controlled, you know.”

“What new legislation?  They didn’t mention that at the shop when I bought the gun.  With respect, I reckon you’re pulling my leg, Officer!”

“Oh no I’m not, sonny!  And that’s enough of your lip!  Now, we can deal with this down at the station, with all the paperwork and publicity in the local papers.  The Echo loves to print this sort of stuff.  Right next to all the reports about the dirty importuners.  Would you like all of that?”

“Errr, no.  No.  I wouldn’t.”

“No, I bet you wouldn’t!  Neither would your parents, I’d imagine.  Well in that case, I could deal with this at my place.  Off the record.  Unofficially.”

“Eh?  What do you mean, deal with it?”

“I mean some corporal punishment for you my lad.  A sore arse.  A good hiding.  I’m sure you’ve had one before?”

“Yeah, but those days are gone.  Gone when I left that bloody tyrannical school.  Long gone.  Thank God!”

“Well it’s up to you.  If that’s your decision, I’ll just get the handcuffs from the patrol car.  I should warn you that you’ll be sharing a cell.  We’ve just arrested a particularly nasty bunch of Rockers and some Mods.”

“Oh.  No, wait. Wait, please Officer!  Surely there’s another way?”

“I’ve already told you.  It’s back to mine, or take your chances down the station.”

“But that’s no choice at all!”

“Of course it’s a choice!  Now which is it to be?  Hurry up, I don’t have all day.”

“OK, your place then.”

“You mean, thank you, Officer, I’ll come with you.”

“Thank you Officer, I’ll come with you.”  Adopting a submissive tone seemed somehow appropriate.

“That’s better,” said the constable as he pointed to the car.  He opened the boot, and Peter stashed the air rifle carefully away, as instructed.  The car soon left the forest way behind, with Peter sat in the back.  The constable eyed his uneasy companion in the rear-view mirror and chuckled quietly.  His devious plan was working and his naive prey had been well and truly captured.

The car skidded to a halt outside the ramshackle building that the policeman shared with his bachelor landlord.  The two men stepped out, with Peter retrieving his air rifle.  “Upstairs!” ordered the cop.

In his bedroom, as Peter watched, PC Steve laid out two crook-handled rattan canes, a favourite leather strap, some soothing cream balm, and he prised the lid off a small tin of Vaseline, just so he’d be ready instantly for any golden opportunity that presented itself.  Peter blushed at the disturbing array as it was gradually unveiled before his disbelieving eyes.

“Just how old are you?”

“Errr, I was eighteen in March.”

“In that case, we’ll start with eighteen strokes of the strap!  One for each year of your age.  Seems more than fair to me.  So there will be six on your slacks, six on your underpants, and six on the bare.  Now, bend over the end of the divan for me.”  The burnt umber leather strap soon started to crack down purposefully, and punishingly.  Whack after whack inflamed,  irritated and distressed the cheeks of the cheeky teenager.  The pain intesified of course as the layers of clothing were shed.  After the beating, Peter was grateful when he was allowed to stand and rub his sore buttocks, but it was only a temporary respite.

Next it was time to reinforce the lesson with the bite of the rattan.  The cop flexed the cane menacingly only a few inches from the teenager’s nose.  He scythed it through the air a few times.  The sound took Peter back to the helplessness he’d felt during his school punishments.  “Lie down flat on the bed.  I think at least eighteen strokes with my beautiful canes.  You’re lucky to receive this care and attention.  Make sure you count out loud after each stroke.”

“Yes Officer, thank you Officer.”

Peter braced himself for the onslaught.  Nothing could have prepared him for the pain of the first stroke which was delivered with considerable heft by the fit young policeman.  It was worse, far worse, than any caning at school.  After the leathering, this was real agony.  The second stroke followed after a lengthy pause.  It was a gentler stroke, but still with a bite.  PC Steve alternated heavy and milder strokes, but he suddenly stopped after the eighth.  “You forgot to count.  We’ll have to start back at one, I’m afraid.  Now, pay attention and do as you’re told.”

Peter groaned at his own stupidity in forgetting to count.  How foolish he had been!  Indeed, he’d had a most stupid day all round.  He felt the tell-tale tap of the cane, before it was raised high in the air for the first of the repeat strokes.  As it crashed down, Peter was properly prepared this time, “One!” he cried.

“No, no, no!” said the cop, “That won’t do at all.  I expect respect from you and ‘One, Sir’ or ‘One Officer’ or ‘One, Constable’.  Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir!  Sorry, Sir!”

So the caning and the counting resumed.  This time the only pause was when the cop decide to swap from his “Bruiser” cane to “The Stinger” in the hope of getting more vocal reactions from his victim.  With each solid whack the lad’s arse bobbed up and down just like a fairground horse ride.  Yes, he was bobbing and lifting to meet the cane just in time for each painful disciplinary stroke.  Maybe it was involuntary, or just some kind of a natural submissive reaction to the rhythm of the punishment.

He gasped and groaned, and writhed and turned.  The switch to “The Stinger” had worked!  Peter became more frenzied and then suddenly at around twenty strokes the gasps became pleas for more!  That cruel cane had rekindled something within him.  Clearly the lad was experienced, and was well on his way to developing a taste for the discipline.  PC Steve had found himself a masochist!  The two were well-matched.

“Hmm.  Looks like you enjoyed that.  Just look at the state of your penis!”  A silvery string of pre-cum was dripping from the rock-hard teenage erection.  “Make sure you sell the gun, now.”

“Oh I will, I will.  Whatever you ask, Officer.”

“You can call me Steve.”

Suddenly they kissed passionately.  Peter had never kissed a man before, moustached or not!  He loved it, and what followed.  He became a frequent visitor to PC Steve’s lonely garret.  The lad received the cane regularly and they induldged in many other activities which may or may not have been legal at the time, and about which even the editor of the Echo would have been too embarrassed to publish.

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are over 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or businesses, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Story © MMXIX by Rod Cayenne.  All rights reserved.

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