The Heavens Cry Out For The Return Of The Cane (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A first repeat of this devilish tale by your host, Rod Cayenne.  All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!

It was the middle of the Harvest Festival celebrations in the sleepy village.  Sun streamed in through the church’s ancient stained glass windows.  The intoxicating aromas of incense and the festival flowers wafted all around the building. The balding vicar peered over the golden eagle lectern, tapping the microphone to make sure that it was working, and to get the congregation’s attention.  Unfortunately, he accidentally gave the mike a harder swipe too, and after a howl of feedback it stopped working all together.  Blast! That’s what comes of having a sherry or two so early in the day, he thought.  He would now have to shout out his sermon, aided only by the boomy, resonant acoustics of the historic Norman church.

“Today I wish to address the important issue of discipline.  Personal discipline, and resisting devilment and base urges to misbehave.  Family discipline, self-discipline, respect, behaviour…”  On and on he droned, “The bible is quite clear on this matter…We must never spare the rod…Although one must regret any institutional brutality, who here does not agree that society is missing the undeniable benefits of the crack of the leather, birch and cane?”

Murmurs of hearty agreement emerged from the unusually healthy numbers of men in the congregation.  The regular prim and frumpy ladies nodded affirmatively too.

“In short…” he continued at length, “It is God’s way.  The will of our good, good Lord.  Verily, the Lord demands it.  The heavens cry out for the return of the cane!  The wrath of God’s almighty hand!  Hymn number 364, ‘We Plough the Fields and Scatter.'”

Later on, at lunchtime in “The Shepherd’s Rest”, the vicar was accosted by Bernie Smith, one of the congregation that day.  Bernie was universally popular and a famous local businessman.  He tugged at the vicar’s sleeve, saying, “Can I get you a little something Vicar? I enjoyed your sermon today, very thought-provoking.”

“Really?  Thought-provoking?  High praise indeed!  That doesn’t happen often.  Bless me, no.  Thank you, I’ll have a sherry, please.”

“Yes, my pleasure.  A sherry for the vicar, please landlord.  And make it a big one please.  Anyway, back to your sermon.  It was about what you appeared to be advocating.  I was wondering whether you thought my 21-year-old was too old for a taste of discipline?  The little bugger swore at me.  The C word.”

“Oh bless me!” said the vicar, ignoring the businessman’s use of the B word, “How very awful for you.  Too old?  Good Lord, no!  It sounds to me like that lad needs a jolly sound caning.”

“Really, do you think so?  Really?  Still, it must be hard to find a cane these days.  I suppose a riding crop…”

“Actually, they’re not so hard to find.  The beauty of a good rattan cane is that it will last and last for years and years.  Years and years of tears, a less charitable fellow might say.  Let me let you into a dirty little secret of mine.  You see, I have a fine collection of canes left from the days when choristers were kept firmly in line.  The canes are still in good shape and very serviceable.  In fact, they don’t get nearly enough use nowadays.  Why not bring your boy round tomorrow and we’ll see if together we can’t knock some sense into him.  I’m in all day.”

“Are you sure, vicar?  I mean, are you suggesting that you’ll give him a hard caning for me?”

“Well no, I think we should both give him a good caning.  But we do need to be very careful in this day and age.  What I suggest is that I give him a stern telling off, and a bit of the old hellfire stuff as well, so that he actually asks for a caning himself.  I’m sure the good Lord would approve of some swift retribution.  In a merciful way, of course.”

“Of course.”

“We’ll do it and you can see what you think.  Whether it’s effective on not.  But surely, you’ll find it’s the former, yes, you’ll soon agree that a caning is most effective, I’m sure.”

So it was that on the very next day that father and son found themselves seated on the visitors’ side of the vicar’s desk in his dusty old study.  On the desk laid a whippy rattan cane, its artisan-crafted crook handle and beautiful finish clearly indicating that this was no garden item.

“So, swearing and disrepect, was it?  I hope I’ve made my displeasure clear.  Can you suggest a way to make amends for your awful behaviour, Larry?” asked the vicar as he picked up and then flexed the cane with his bony hands.

“You’re not suggesting…” said Larry, his voice trailing off with disbelief as he stared at the cane being flexed right before his very eyes, “But it’s 2016, no-one gets caned these days. Not the cane.  Not the cane.”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Larry.  You are the one that’s been wholly abusive to your dear, loving father.  The guilt is all yours.  It’s up to you to offer suitable penance.  The cane would seem to fit the bill, as I see it.  Now, what’s it to be, sonny?”

“Not the cane.”

“Yes, the cane!”

“Alright, alright!  I give in.  Maybe you’re right.  Perhaps I do deserve it.  You can do it if you must.  You won’t tell anyone else will you?”

“No, it will just be the three of us who know.”

“And not too hard!” demanded Larry.

“A caning has to be hard to be a real penance.  But I’m a merciful man, so six of the best should suffice.  Let’s get this over with,” the vicar sighed before barking, “Bend over the desk!  NOW!”

Bernie Smith pushed his chair back a few feet as his son duly draped himself over the vicar’s desk.  From his new position, Bernie would have a prime view of the imminent punishment.

“Stick your bottom out for the cane!” ordered the vicar.  The first stroke sliced down rapidly.  The pain soon hit young Larry, who for the life of him couldn’t believe the resulting heat and agony.  Despite this he managed to keep quiet and still.

The second stroke was harder and showed real determination from the vicar.  Larry cried out with shock, and the pain seemed to multiply, adding a vicious bite on top of the first stroke.

The third stroke was the killer.  It cracked down noisily, causing Larry to yelp and leap up clutching at his throbbing, scorched arse cheeks.

“Get back down!  Right now!” It was the vicar making the demands now.  “Your father will take over now.  I will make myself scarce as I believe he may wish you to drop your trousers and underwear for that little infringement.  I’ve no wish to see your flesh.”

“What?”

“Yes, bare I’m afraid,” Bernie informed his son.  The vicar for once was telling it like it was.  He only liked the most smooth, hairless bottoms and he felt sure Larry’s would be a disgusting, hairy specimen.  With the vicar out of the way, it was Bernie’s turn to make the demands.  “I SAID BARE!” he shouted.  Larry hurried to comply, pushing his chinos and briefs right down to his ankles.

The cane felt funny in Bernie’s hands.  He swiped it through the air, enjoying both the sound and the menace it promised.  The cane was so light and supple and it seemed like it could almost be gentle.  But stroke four soon disabused both father and son of any such notion.  Bernie sliced the cane down even harder than the experienced disciplinarian vicar had done.  The resultant thwhack sound was most gratifying, although Bernie was less pleased when his son exclaimed, “Fuckin’ Hell!” (for it was truly a cane stroke from Hell).

A fifth stroke was delivered with the same skill and determination, and rather more physical effort.  “Arrrghh Shit!” exclaimed Larry as the pain hit.

Stroke six crashed down almost immediately afterwards, accompanied by Larry shooting up from the desk, muttering “Fuck, fuck fuck!” and rubbing frantically at the wounded area.

Bernie Smith pushed his son back down over the desk, “You clearly haven’t learnt your lesson yet, Larry.  You are still swearing, and here in the good vicar’s house too!  I’m giving you three more strokes as a penalty!”

“No Dad, please!”

At that moment the vicar strolled back in, somewhat surprised to see Larry’s naked buttocks still being displayed.  “Oh sorry!  I thought you’d finished as I felt sure I’d heard three more strokes.”

“You did, but he’s been swearing again, vicar.  So he needs to learn the hard way, I’d say.  I’m giving him three more strokes.”

“Oh, I see.  Well, in the circumstances, you do seem to be doing the right thing.  I’d better go.”

“No, I’d be grateful if you’d stay vicar.”

The vicar stayed on, as invited.  How he studied Larry’s pert arse!  Six red cane lines adorned the flesh.  And the bottom on display was much more delightful than he’d imagined, with hardly a hair in sight.  That B word from the previous day crossed his mind, for some reason.  He watched avidly as young Larry raised his bottom submissively, ready for a first encore courtesy of the rattan cane.

This time, his father tapped the cane on the bottom playfully before raising the rod high.  The cane thrashed down viciously.  Larry squirmed but remained silent.  He would not swear!  Or curse!  Or sigh!  He would take it like a man, he resolved.  If he could!

A second encore landed in exactly the same place, and this time the young man could not help but squeal in helpless abandon.

The final stroke cracked home with absolute authority and absolutely no mercy.  It was over.  Larry gasped a “Thank you,” as he gently raised himself from the desk.  He pulled his stripey briefs over his striped arse, and the the buff chinos followed.

“Well done, good man!” the vicar said.  In a mistaken moment, young Larry thought he was talking to him to start with.  But it was his father being congratulated with a hearty handshake and slap on the back.  The vicar reached across to his sherry decanter and poured a stiff one for himself and one for Larry’s father.

“I’m so grateful, vicar.  What a wonderful thing that cane is.  Truly a blessing.”

“Yes indeed.  I’d like you to keep that cane.  Keep it at home, displayed prominently.  Now, for it I only ask a small donation towards the church roof appeal fund.”

Mr Smith duly produced a crisp note from his moth-proof wallet.

“Oh no, my good man, not that small a donation!” the vicar exclaimed and winked slyly at the businessman.  The donation was duly augmented and the sherries were downed in celebration of a most successful time.  “Make sure you get your money’s worth, now.  Don’t spare the rod!”  The vicar beamed as he eventually saw his guests off the premises.

“Oh, you’ve no worries there, Vicar.  I will get every last penny’s worth.”

Larry was dismayed.  Obviously the cane would see more use if he wasn’t very, very careful.  How embarrassed he was to walk back through the village with his cane-bearing father and with a throbbing arse.  He rubbed and rubbed at his sore bottom and resolved to never, ever swear again.  Despite this, he felt he had to pull a sulk, moaning to his father, “I don’t wanna see that fusty, musty old fool ever again!”

“You should have more respect for him after today’s events!  Anyway, you won’t need to see him again now that I have this wonderful cane.  I really don’t know how I managed without one before.  It is truly a gift from God,”  Bernie chuckled and resolved to himself that from now on he would cut his son absolutely no slack at all.  The cane would reinforce this resolution.  He decided to place the cane on the dresser on the landing.  That way his son would see the cane every single time he left his bedroom, whether to go to the toilet or bathroom or just to go downstairs.  The threat of the cane would be there all the time.

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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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Story © MMXVII by Rod Cayenne

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