Appraisal (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A brand new story by Rod Cayenne.  Dedicated with special thanks to Gerry, good friend of Rod and The Canery, who suggested the initial idea.  This story is currently exclusive to The Canery and is only suitable for adults!

 

He was just eighteen, but he’d been around the block long enough to know a cheap cigar when he caught a whiff of one.  And that really was the cheapest of the cheap that his boss, Mr McGuire, was puffing.

“Good sales this week, team!  If I can believe Judy’s figures, that is.  They are right, aren’t they Judy?”

“Oh yes, Mr McGuire, sir.  You can be sure that they’re correct. I checked them twice, to be sure.”

“Well, that’s good.  Most satisfactory.  You can all go home now, that’s almost half an hour early, I think.  Am I right, Judy?”

“I haven’t double checked, but it does sound right, Mr McGuire!” Judy replied cheekily, a sparkle in her eyes.

“Good, off you all go then!  Except you, Master Williams.  We’d scheduled your first monthly appraisal for 4.30 hadn’t we?”

“Oh yes, I’d forgotten that Mr McGuire, sir!”

“I’m not in the least bit surprised to hear that, Williams!  Now, into my office!  The rest of you, have a great weekend and see you Monday.”

Williams idled around as he watched the rest of the team preparing to depart, most of them bound for the delights of the local pub, the City Arms.

“MY OFFICE, NOW!” boomed McGuire to his new recruit.  The ladies of the team tittered and tutted as they tarted themselves with lippy and the men smirked at Williams.  Meanwhile, the lad, barely eighteen, wondered why they were so slow at leaving and why his boss was suddenly being so fierce.

Trevor “Willy” Williams had been working for the company for six weeks.  As part of his probation, he had been made aware that there would be monthly appraisals with the boss.  It hadn’t worried him unduly but now he was biting his lip nervously as he opened the half-glazed door to the boss’s office.  Mr McGuire followed him in.

“Sit down lad.  First off, an apology that this appraisal is two weeks’ late.  This was due to Mrs McGuire’s sudden decision that we should go on one of these new-fangled package holidays to Torremolinos, Spain.  I think that was a case of keeping up with the neighbours, you know.  My first time in a jet aeroplane, by the way.  British-built, of course.”

Trevor smiled to himself.  It seemed that Mrs McGuire wore the trousers in that relationship!  It was good that Mr McGuire was being friendlier again.  That fierce side was something he didn’t want to see again.  However, his luck was out as suddenly his boss stood up, and paced around the metal desk, and started reeling off faults that he’d found with his latest recruit:

“You’ve been late four times!  You fell asleep in the staff canteen during morning break.  You’ve missed your targets twice.  You were rude to Judy, Maureen and several times to Wendy.  You spend far too long in toilets.  You’re not, ahem, abusing yourself at work, I hope?”

“Oh no sir,” said Trevor while making a mental note to stop masturbating at work, no matter how sexy the office girls were, “I wouldn’t dare do that.”

“Indeed.  And then today, to cap it all, well I’m sure I could smell alcohol on your breath.”

“Oh, that’s because Mum forgot to buy a new tube of Colgate, Mr McGuire.”

“WHAT?!  It’s no good blaming your mother, lad!  It’s your responsibility.  You shouldn’t even be drinking at your age.”

“But, but, I’m eighteen!”

“Stop arguing lad!  No drinking allowed in the working week.  I’m sure it states that in your contract of engagement.  If it doesn’t, it should.  But then our Personnel Department is pretty hopeless.  Anyway, where was I?  Oh yes, now, this all paints a sorry picture.  A very sorry picture.”

“I’m sorry, very sorry, Mr McGuire.”

Trevor’s repetitious response earned an immediate rebuke from his boss, “Are you being funny with me, lad?”

“Oh no, Mr McGuire.”

“Good!  I should think not!  Now all these faults…this is a very bad start.  I’m disappointed.  I could let you go.  Give you your cards.”

“Oh no, please, Mr McGuire.  I’ll pull my socks up.”

“Actually lad, never mind pulling your socks up, you can pull your trousers down.  I’ve decided that the office cane is the only possible answer to this very poor start.”

“Office cane?  What office cane?”

“Oh yes, lad.  My office cane.  Every office should have one, I reckon.  You’re lucky that this office does indeed have one.  Look!”

It was a cane, of that Trevor could have no doubt.  It had appeared as if from nowhere, conjured up by the magician before him.  It was a trick, a magic but sinister trick.  Trevor looked at the cane with a little disdain, some fear and maybe a dash of excitement too.  Yes, he was definitely feeling mixed emotions as he stared at the lithe and purposeful wand that his boss was flexing in front of him.  McGuire told him to drop his trousers.  Trevor’s slacks fell down decisively.  “You can keep your underwear on this first time.  Yes.  That’s fair, I think.  Anyway, rather smart Jockeys you’ve got there, lad.  Nice and pure white.”

“Err, thank you.”

“Next time though, no matter how smart your pants are, it will be bare bottom.  Do I make myself clear?”

“Err, yes Mr McGuire, Sir.  Bare bottom,” said Trevor blushing a deep red, and wishing that he hadn’t repeated McGuire’s words.

“Yes, and if it’s bare bottom I might find out why everyone calls you Willy!  Might I not?”  McGuire laughed meanly, but really this was no time for humour, “Now, you’d better bend over this chair.  Make sure you hold on tight to the seat.  Let me just check that we’re alone. I thought I heard something or someone out there.”

Soon it was Trevor who heard something; it was McGuire shouting at a colleague, “Bugger off Lyle!  Unless you want a refresher with this here cane?  In front of young Williams.”

Trevor heard the main office door slam decisively and then his boss returned cane in hand.  Only then did Trevor realise that McGuire had been out into the office with the cane, therefore indicating what fate had in store.  Then he realised from what his boss had said that his co-worker “Lucky” Lyle was obviously no stranger to the cane.  Which in turn was strange as Lyle was clearly in his thirties and surely too old to have been caned anytime recently?  Maybe his luck had run out?

“Let’s get down to business.  Time to teach you a lesson, my lad.  No-one, but no-one messes with Mr McGuire and his team!”

Trevor heard the unmistakeable swoosh of the cane as it swept down and whacked his pristine underpants.  There was an almighty crack, and then searing pain kicked in.  Trevor was startled and breathless.  He hadn’t expected his day at the office to end this way, with a shameful beating.  He gasped for air, and inhaled it deeply before releasing it with a tired sigh.

“There, that was for being rude to the girls.  How was that, my boy?.”

“That was awful, Mr McGuire.  Although I suppose I deserve it.”

“You certainly do, you certainly do.  The next stroke will be for persistent lateness.”

McGuire lashed the cane dowh forcefully.  Again it cracked into the tight white briefs. It was worse than the first stroke, much worse.  “And the next stroke is also for persistent lateness.  Don’t let it happen again!”

“Arrggh!” screamed Trevor as the full intensity of the two lateness strokes combined with the initial stroke.  His arse was now throbbing with pain and aflame with repentance.

“Not liking it, are we boy?”

“No sir, Mr McGuire, sir.”

“No,  and here comes stroke number four.  This one’s for falling asleep in the canteen and consequently being late back to your desk.”  The cane rose and fell…

“I’m sorry Mr McGuire.  Arrrrghh!  Ouch!  I’m really sorry.”

“Good, I’m liking what I’m hearing.”  And indeed he was.  He was liking it with truly sadistic glee.

“Next stroke coming.  For arsing around in the toilets.  Swinging the lead or whatever you get up to in there.  I’m not having it!  Do you hear?”

Tevor heard alright, but was too preoccupied to answer as the whippy rattan landed another stinging, vengeful blow.  He gasped and choked.  It was all too much.  He felt his eyes moistening.  Shit, he didn’t want to cry!

“Now then, you’ve had five strokes.  I guess you’re hoping for no more than the usual six of the best?”

“Yes, Mr McGuire.”

“Well, tough!  You’ve missed two sales targets, so it’s two strokes to come.  Coming now!”

And they did come.  Rapidly.  Scorchingly.  Meaningfully.

“Just buck your ideas up, lad,” sighed the boss as he laid the cane down on his desk.  “I don’t enjoy having to do this, you know.”  McGuire was such a liar!

On Monday morning, Trevor arrived at work punctually.  A plump, well-padded and rose-coloured cushion had been placed on his office chair.  Williams blushed the deepest red he’d ever gone.  It was obvious that every single member of the sales team knew damn well what was likely to have transpired at the so-called appraisal.  Indeed his worst suspicions were confirmed as subtle ribbing, jokes and shaming carried on all week.  The pain from the bullying was almost as bad as the pain from the beating.  So much so that Trevor declined an invitation to join his colleagues at The City Arms on the Friday.

On the following Friday, just a fortnight after the appraisal, Mr McGuire leant over Trevor’s desk.  This time it was the boss who smelt of alcohol.  He leered at his junior and said, “Williams, I’ve decided to bring your appraisal forward to this afternoon, so that we can get back on to track to the monthly schedule.  I think you know what to expect.”

Trevor didn’t know for sure, but he did expect it would be a bare bottom caning this time.  Oh hell.

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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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Comments welcome, please use the link at the top of the story.

Top Shelf Showdown (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A repeat of this hot fiction by your host, Rod Cayenne.  All the characters are aged 18 or over!

My local newsagent, Mr Kumar, was such a sweet old thing.  His greying hair and gold-rimmed spectacles betrayed his age, which was probably mid-60s.  He carefully slotted my copy of “Mayfair” inside the “Telegraph.”  He winked at me as he did so, and I handed a crisp new note over to him.  He understood that us men sometimes needed this one-handed reading matter to relieve our domestic tensions.  Indeed, in my case it was being decidedly unattached which made my urges at times overwhelming.

Just as I was about to leave, Kumar pulled me to one side.  “Mr Kemp,” he said, “It’s not my place to judge, but I wanted a word about your son, Robert.”

“Really?  I do hope he hasn’t been stealing stuff,” I laughed, knowing full well that my son wouldn’t do such a thing.

“No, no, bless me, it’s nothing like that.  I just wanted to check his age with you.”

“He’s eighteen.  Cigarettes?”

“No, not that either.  Eighteen is good and legal.  You see, he buys adult magazines too.  Rather specialist ones, you might say.  Mainly these spanking ones.”  With that, Kumar pointed a spindly finger at some top shelf titles like Janus, Blushes and Swish!  “An unusual taste in one so young, if I may say so,” he chuckled.

Ignoring his gaze, I picked up one of the titles, actually some sort of readers’ letters edition.  I flicked through and looked at the photos and illustrations of attractive maidens having their bare young bottoms spanked, slippered, hairbrushed and caned.  I swallowed hard.  I really couldn’t see the appeal of it all.

I sighed and placed the magazine back on the top shelf, noticing the exceptionally high price tag on the fluorescent orange sticker as I did so.  “Disgusting!” I exclaimed, probably more from embarrassment than true revulsion.

“I don’t like stocking those magazines, but the wholesaler always sends them, and doesn’t like too many returns.  I’m probably cutting off my nose to spite my face here,” said Mr Kumar, “Because young Robert is one of my best customers.”

“Well thank you for letting me know,” I said laughing, “Perhaps I’ll get my slipper or hairbrush on the case!”

“Oh no! Oh no, no, no!  I didn’t mean to cause trouble!” he said, but you know, I rather think he did.

I went back to my old Cortina, wondering what to do.  Was it any of my business?  Was it any of Kumar’s business?  No and no, the answers came to me.  Perhaps I should have let Robert have my back issues, although to be honest I rather prized my collection of Men Only and Mayfair magazines.  I decided to do nothing.  I got home and read the paper, and then proceeded to enjoy my adult reading.  As I spunked over my belly and chest, I started to feel a little bit guilty.  Guilty about knowing my son’s secret, and guilty about my double standards.  Still, there it was.

Unfortunately, things came to a head only a week or so later.  I came home early, only to find Robert masturbating in the living room.  He was looking at one of the spanking magazines.

“Robert!  What the hell are you doing?  In the lounge, of all places!  Give me that magazine!”

Once again, I found myself flicking through what is commonly known as a “spanker,” although this time my interest was more piqued.  Page after page of naughty females being spanked, their arses up in the air, with pretty much everything clearly on view.  Oh yes, this time I could kind of see the appeal.  But that didn’t stop me being a complete hypocrite!  I shouted at my son some more, “This is utter filth!  Girlie mags are one thing, but this sort of depraved thing’s only suitable for the dirty mac brigade!  I was brought up that it was wrong to hit women, so this really sickens me!”

“Sorry, Dad,” was all that my embarrassed teenager could say.

“Have you any idea how much this would hurt?” I asked him, pointing to a graphic picture of a young minx being thrashed on the bare with a hairbrush.

“Dunno.”

“Well!  Let’s find out shall we?  Go and fetch the hairbrush off the dressing table in my room!”

“Dad!”

“Fetch it!  NOW!”

A minute or so later, he appeared red-faced with the brush in his hand.  I snatched it from him, still fuming at his totally inappropriate use of the front room.

“Jeans down!  Over my lap!”

Suddenly I was confronted with the reality of the situation I’d created.  My son was draped over my knees, his off-white Y-fronts on display, and fully expecting to be battered hard with the oaken brush.  I began to have doubts.  But it was too late to stop!  I cracked the brush down hard, again and again, and my son cried out as the blows hit home.  I wasn’t going easy on him, I was so annoyed and so determined.  I cracked the brush down again, and then tore his pants down, revealing a severely reddened hide.  This seemed to encourage me to hit him even harder, and soon the brush was making frantic contact with his bare teenage flesh.  After perhaps twenty more blows I stopped, much to his relief.  I was rather embarrassed about it all.  His hands flew to his bum as he stood up.

“Let that be a lesson to you!  If I find this sort of thing again, I will be getting a cane.  Then we can see how you like that!”  I was shocked by my idle threat, and by the way my latent sadism had surfaced.  “We’ll say no more about it!” I declared, wanting instant closure.

Robert beat a hasty retreat to his bedroom.  I picked up the magazine.  It was called Swish!  I skimmed through the pages.  The content turned me on and I soon found myself wanking in the very same room my son had been jerking in!  I kept the magazine and it made some very interesting bedtime reading.  Needless to say, Robert didn’t ask for it back.

It was a few days later that I bumped into my old headmaster, Dr Dillon.  We exchanged some idle chatter in the street and then adjourned to the Crown Inn for a couple of beers.  The alcohol soon loosened my tongue, and he found out about how I had disciplined my son.

“Good for you!  You did the right thing.”  He gently squeezed my hand, saying reassuringly, “Eighteen can be such a difficult age.”

“I don’t know about that.  I was so annoyed!  I even threatened to buy a cane and use it on him.”

“A cane, eh?  Not a bad idea.  Could help cure him of his strange interest, I suppose.  By the way, call me Dave.”

“Well, Dave, that’s what I threatened him with!  He went as white as a sheet.”

“I bet he did.  The cane has that effect!”

“I know, I didn’t much care for it back in the day.”

“No, indeed.  I remember.  Anyway, I can help.”

“How so?”

“I’ve got some canes back at my place.  Souvenirs from abolition.  You can have one, if you like.”

“Oh no.  I couldn’t possibly.”

“Go on.  I insist.  A good, hard caning is just what your boy needs.  I’ve got a few canes, and I can spare you one.  After all, they don’t get a lot of use nowadays.”

So it was that we ended up at his house.  It was a real tip, which was a surprise, given how he used to lecture us on tidiness and presentation!  We made our way into his dining room, where he offered me a chair.  He disappeared for a few minutes, then came in with a good half-dozen canes.  All of them had that strange curved handle, so familiar to generations of British men.

We talked canes for  a short time.  He told me all about rattan and how it was so suitable for punishment canes, unlike bamboo which could split and break if used in anger.  He swished a few of the canes and so did I.  Then there was an awkward silence.  “Choose one,” he said, “Any one.  They are all much the same.”

I picked the one I’d just been swishing around.  He nodded approvingly, “Yes, a fine specimen that one.  Of course it can hurt like the blazes.  Want a stroke to remind you?”

“Perhaps, I’d better,” I agreed reluctantly and bent over the dining room table.  He let rip with the cane which sliced into my trousers.  “Shit! Shit! Shit!” I cried.

“Hurt a bit did it?” my headmaster asked while laughing sadistically.  “Just one more I think, for swearing.  Get back down!”

Foolishly I bent over obediently.  He let fly again with another scorcher.  This time I held my tongue, but as I rose I felt I had to hold my bottom too!  God, how it stung and ached, and all after only two strokes!

“Well, what did you think of that little beauty?” he smiled.

“Yes, that would certainly teach him a lesson!  I’d forgotten how much a cane can sting,” I admitted, adding “But I’m worried about doing it.  I mean, do I just whack him?”

“No there’s a definite technique to it.  Watch me!”  With that he whacked some cushions and then let me try to do the same.  I soon got a feel for the power of the rattan stick and how to handle it.  Encouraging me, he said, “You have to aim for the middle of the buttock cheek furthest away from you.  Of course what you really need is a real person to practice on.”

“Yes, well that’s not going to happen, now is it?  Come on!” I said

“Don’t be so cocky, Kemp!  Or I’ll give you some more.”

“Sorry, Sir,” I said, feeling a bit worse for wear after our drinking session, and with those two cane weals throbbing under my trousers.

“You may be surprised to hear this, but I’m not averse to taking a few strokes myself.  You can practice on me!”

I was astonished.  He couldn’t be serious, could he?  But he was, and then to cap it all, he promptly dropped his trousers and underpants and took my place bending over the dining table.  I shuddered and hesitated as I gazed at the bare male flesh before me.

“Well, get on with it lad!  I don’t have all day!” he ordered.

I lashed a first strike down.  It landed spectacularly, right on the manly, naked target and with a most satisfying crack.  He grunted, and then said, “Good!  You’re a natural!  Carry on.”  The second stroke was less successful, too tentative evidently, as he admonished, “Harder!”  With determination, I then landed four crisp, harder strokes as instructed.  My God, what fun it was!  Moreover, I was strangely turned on, my rigid cock straining within my Falmers slacks.

I was so grateful for that cane he gave me.  I was even more grateful for our friendship.  We met up regularly for caning sessions.  One thing led to another and we ended up bedding each other.  Yes, we became the most unlikely of lovers.

So did I cane my son?  You bet!  Only a few times, sadly, as he became a pretty well-behaved senior teen, on the whole.

I eventually confided in Mr Kumar that I’d caned young Robert.  He just smiled, and then said, “Unfortunately, I don’t think it has cured him, Mr Kemp.  He’s been buying even more of the spanking magazines.  And some of these homosexual ones too!”  He pointed out titles such as Zipper, Him and Vulcan.  I was shocked speechless and then he added, “Forgive me, I didn’t want to cause more trouble.”  But you know, I rather think he did.

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Story © MMXVI by Rod Cayenne

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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Comments welcome