I Could Smell The Man On My Hands (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A hot new tale by your host, Rod Cayenne. All the characters are aged 21 or over. Strictly adults only!  This story is exclusive to The Canery.

I thought I’d washed thoroughly in the showers before leaving the gay sauna. But somehow the smell of the young man lingered on my hands. Musky and masculine, with just a hint of funk and condom rubber, the smell was unmistakably him and not me.  I cursed the soap gel dispensers at that sauna, which always seemed to be half-empty, and difficult to use.  A lot of guys there took their own toiletries, I’d noted.  It seemed a rather French thing to do, but I resolved to do the same in future.  Still, I sniffed nostalgically at my hands as I walked down the historic Rue des Artistes.  Maybe I’d been too busy washing my head hair, as somehow or other, I’d accidentally managed to get a large dollop of lube in it.  Then I remembered what fun we’d had.  I’d spanked him for ages in a private room, le vice anglais indeed, and then we’d shagged each other senseless in front of an eager cosmopolitan audience in the cinema room.  The feeling as his thick bell-end eased and probed its way into my tight tunnel was just exquisite. Mmmm, such happy days!

Just a couple of weeks later I found myself cutting through the leafy park on my way to the car dealers.  The sun shone like molten gold on the boating lake as I stopped and sat myself down on one of the green-painted metal bench seats.  The ducks were quacking merrily and I could almost hear Debussy in the air.  Instead, I heard the purposeful exclamation of my erstwhile lover from the sauna, muscled young Henri, “Jim, it’s you!  I can’t believe it’s you!  I had assumed you were a tourist!”

“Oh no, Henri!  I’m no tourist, I live and work here!”

“In that case we have something to celebrate, Jim!  Hey, why don’t you come back to mine?  Now!”

“I’d love to but I can’t.  Car trouble.  Got to pick it up.  They’ve fixed the main problem but I’ve got to take it back again in another couple of days.  So much for fucking French engineering!”  Indeed, my locally-sourced Citroen had turned out to be a bit of a citron.

“Pfft!  Always whingeing, you Little Englanders!  Here, let me give you my number.”  He tore a page from a diary or some kind of French Filofax thing and scribbled away with a chewed blue BiC ballpoint pen.  I took the paper from his beefy hand and gave him a sly wink.

With indecent haste, just a couple of days later I was over at his apartment.  It was located off a swish and swanky little mews not so far from me.  He greeted me like a long-lost friend, kissing both my cheeks like many foreigners and the French always seem to do.  We sat down on a leather chaise, cuddling and kissing as the prelude to our hot afternoon.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a glass-topped table displaying a martinet and a beastly-looking riding crop.  Clearly my friend had a taste for corporal punishment games.

“Yes, my good friend,” he said, “They will both see some use today, don’t you suppose?”  I nodded and was just about to say how much I agreed, when he interrupted excitedly, “I have something else here that may interest you.  Something quintessentially British!”  He wasn’t wrong.  He was right.  He picked up the item from behind the sofa and waved it at me saying, “Look dear boy, it’s a cane!”

“I can see that!  Give it to me!” I bent the thing almost double before scything it through the Parisian air and whipping it down on a nearby plump cushionette, saying, “Where on earth did you get this?  These fucking hurt, you know!”

“So I’ve heard, my friend.  But I don’t really believe it.  More Little Englander exaggeration.”

“We’ll see about that!  Anyway, you haven’t answered my question about where you got it from,” I snapped testily back at him.

“I bought it at a sex shop, of course.  Where else?  It was – how you might say – an under the counter item.”

“I doubt that!”

“They had a few for sale.  Some straight and some, like this one, with that funny curved handle thing.”

He’d chosen well, I decided as I bent the rattan again, saying, “Come on then, bare your arse for me!”  He dropped his pale blue slacks and his burgundy underpants.  He looked faintly ridiulous standng there in just his Sasha Distel-stylee polo neck top.  So I ordered him to take that off too, and totally naked bent him over a chair near the window.  He had to stand on tiptoes due to the high back of the chair.  “Six strokes is traditional,” I informed him.

I whipped the rattan down with venomous intent.  The poison took immediate effect as my French friend gasped with undisguised horror.  “Quelle horreur!” he must have thought to himself.  Absolutely nothing prepares a virgin for that first stroke of their first caning!  Still, I wasn’t going to dwell on that thought, after all I had another five strokes to deliver.  I whacked the second one down, just below where the first one had landed.  “No!” he cried.  I feigned complete deafness as I raised the cane again. I aimed lower still, landing a real beauty on his naked flesh.  “No more, Jim!  Please!” he pleaded.  I chuckled inside with sadistic delight, for I had this French Fancy just where I wanted him.  He should have known better than to have so flippantly underestimated the power of the cane.

“Half way,” I said to him, but in truth I was half way to paradise.  My cock was twitching and straining in my trackies as our CMNM scene progressed.  His hairy arsehole was intermittently on view as he squirmed about.  It wasn’t the target area but it sure was enticing.  There was the promise and allure of more wild sex treasure there, for sure.  I lashed the fourth stroke down, laughing with delight at his undisguised misery.  He groaned loudly and muttered something foreign that I just couldn’t catch.  After all, I wouldn’t recognise the French word for “bastard” now would I?

I was half-tempted to make the final couple of strokes diagonal ones, but I didn’t want to blow it by being too sadistic.  That could keep for another time!  Right then, I landed two bracing parallel stripes on his French flesh.  He jumped up and jigged around, rubbing his bottom vigorously.  His member was half-erect, and open to admiration.

“That’s enough of that, Henri,” I admonished, “Now be a good boy and fetch me the martinet.”

“Oh, Jim.”

“Just do it!” I barked in my best military tone.

He duly presented the martinet to me.  It was a strange item to these English eyes.  Often referred to as a dog whip, this particular one was a rough and cheap item.  The handle was poorly fashioned, but the leather lashes were rather more professionally finished.  I really had no idea how to use it, but figured it couldn’t be that difficult.  I led him back to the chair, and bent him over.  The cane weals were now really prominent.  I couldn’t resist feeling them.  They were very hot to the touch and Henri groaned as I felt them all over.  I was a little disappointed that I couldn’t feel the weals throbbing, but I guessed that was a pleasure only the caned could enjoy.  I spat on my finger and rubbed the wetness on his arsehole as a tease of pleasure to come.  I then rubbed the handle of the martinet around the same enticing area.  I thought about pushing the tip of the handle in but instead decided to lash the martinet down on the waiting cheeks.  I did it again and again.  I was enjoying the moment as the leather strands whipped all around his arse, also filling in any gaps between the cane weals.  I could feel my cock stiffening as I brought the whippy lashes down again.  What an intriguing implement I though, and so quintessentially French!  Henri was now mewing, perhaps with pleasure but certainly with discomfort.  I threw the martinet down and picked up the riding crop.  Now, the crop was a real old favourite implement.  I scythed it through the air.

“Time for the crop, Henri.  I’m going to beat you like an animal!”

“No Jim, please.  Fuck me instead.  Please!”

Well, that was certainly an option.  My cock was rigid and its head was straining against my tracksuit bottoms.  But I really wanted to beat him hard with that crop first.  I was crazy with lust, desire and sadism.  The horse-whip was rather different to the dog-whip I mused as I cracked a first stroke down on top of flesh already scarred by the cane and the martinet.  Henri bucked with pain immediately.  I really didn’t care as the animal beastliness in me had taken over, and I crashed a second and a rapid third stroke down, enjoying the sound, feel and vision of the punishment.  I determined to make it just nine strokes of the crop, so I lashed the final six rapid-fire style and he gasped and complained throughout.

“Now, let’s fuck!” I laughed as I entered him roughly and started pumping for dear life. I slapped his arse a few times, relighting the barely-dormant flames of my sadism.  I was already close to cumming.  I pulled at his lanky black head hair as I gave a couple of final thrusts.  Hot spurts of cum gushed from my cock right inside his young arse.

Later that sunny afternoon, we swapped roles and he beat and serviced me.  Well, it only seemed fair and my gosh, what fun we had!  As I walked back home sore arsed through the park I noticed I could smell him on my fingers again.  It made me horny again and I laughed out loud to no-one in particular.  Well, I had to really, didn’t I?

 

 

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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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