Uncle’s Den (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A repeat by request of this popular caning story. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!

Uncle’s Den by Rod Cayenne

“Marvels of miniature engineering, these.” My uncle coughed and wheezed as only a failed ex-smoker could.  The N-gauge locos sped around the track in the large room, known to all and sundry as “Uncle’s Den”.  There were bookcases of detective stories, railway and wildlife books.  A small collection of classical CDs filled another small bookcase. Talking of which, some jaunty baroque ensemble playing could be heard when the trains weren’t drowning it out.

I looked around again and then did a double take. Strangely, on the back of the door hung a school cane. Of course, I had to ask him about it.

“Oh that sweet old thing! That’s there as a deterrent.  One of my friends drives the trains too hard sometimes.  He really canes them.  If he causes a derailment, he gets a sound six of the best from me.  Seems fair.”

“You’re joking?”

“I’m not!”

“It hurts?”

“So I’m told.  Often quite loudly!”

“Where did it come from?”

“The jungles of Malaya, I should imagine.”

“No, no Uncle!  That’s not what I meant at all.  I mean, how did you come by it?”

“It must have been exported from Malaya to dear old Blighty at some stage.  Then, no doubt an Educational Supplies company must have cut it to size and steamed on the crook handle, and then sold it on to the school I worked at.”

“Wait!  You never told me you were a teacher.”

“You never asked!  I didn’t teach for long.  I didn’t have the knack or the calling for it.  So I only did three terms.  Almost a year.  That was enough.  That was enough.”

“Enough to convince you that you weren’t cut out for it?”

“No, no!  Enough for me to learn how to cane most effectively.”

“Oh wow!”

“Yes, and that cane is one of a handful I liberated when I left the profession.  The rest are under my bed.”

“You stole it?”

“No, I borrowed it and a few others, I like to think.  After all, abolition was nearing and the canes weren’t seeing nearly enough action.”

“Abolition?”

“Yes, abolition of corporal punishment by the Conservative government of the time.”

“The Tories?”

“Yes, that woman!  Don’t get me started.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Anyway, let me tell you a secret. Promise not to tell?  Well, my friend gets it bare.”

“Eh?”

“He gets the cane on his bare bottom.”

This revelation made me nervous. Clearly there was more to my mild-mannered uncle than I’d ever imagined.  I gazed into his brown, slightly bloodshot eyes, and could feel my face reddening with embarrassment.  It was hard to imagine this friendly, paunchy fellow as a strict disciplinarian.

Later that afternoon, I was playing trains with my uncle.  I’d forgotten what fun it could be, and yet after a good hour or so, a sense of devilment took me over and I cranked the controller well into the red.  The sad maroon diesel couldn’t cope, spinning off the tracks just by the points before the tunnel.

“My fucking Warship!  The pride of my hydraulic fleet!  You little bugger!  Ah well, it doesn’t look like there’s any damage.  But you can fetch me the bloody cane!  I’m going to damage your arse, all the same.”

Like a zombie, and shocked by his language, I walked towards the door.  I unhooked the cane from its resting place.  I’d expected it to feel like a serious combat weapon, but instead I was struck by its light featherweight form.

Uncle seemed really annoyed with me.  This meant trouble, of that I could be sure. He said, “Six of the very best for you!  We’ll do it here in the den,” and then his attitude softened momentarily, “After all, only the very naughtiest boys get to visit Uncle’s bedroom.”

I didn’t pay much attention to the meaning of those words, as I bent submissively over the back of a chair as instructed.  The whippy cane lashed down on my thin Adidas shell suit trousers.  They offered little protection from the burning sting of the stick.  A second stroke followed.  It was harsher, and yet somehow quite invigorating.  Uncle was certainly a master at this, I reflected as the unbridled agony of the third and fourth strokes hit me.  I was just recovering a bit when the fifth stroke landed, unleashing new waves of pain. The sixth stroke was late.  I think he was teasing me by delaying it.  I tried to focus on the baroque music, but it wasn’t easy to do as the throbbing in my arse consumed nearly all my attention.  Eventually the final stroke crashed down, seemingly re-awakening the weals from the earlier strokes.  The pain peaked and then rose again and again.

At home that night, I examined the six crisp lines adorning my bottom.  They looked angry and sore.  But that’s not how I felt.  The pain had been awful but it had been a real turn-on.  I masturbated several times in my bunk bed that night.  In the end, I fell asleep, drained of spunk and energy.  Then I awoke and after examining my bottom again, my right hand was soon gripping my cock for another frantic wank.

It was just a fortnight later that I found myself round at my uncle’s house again. We played with the model railway again, and then because of more reckless train driving we were suddenly teacher and pupil again!  This time, he insisted I dropped my trousers and pants for a bare bottom caning.  I loved it, and I’m pretty sure he did too. After all, I had a real peach of a teenage bottom.  He probably hadn’t seen anything quite like it in years!  This time as well as the six of the best, he awarded two extra strokes for ‘excessive wiggling and general disobedience.’  Now, they really hurt!

“Well, how was that, young Wayne?” he asked as he hung the cane back up.

I had to be honest with him, “Actually, although it hurt, I did quite enjoy it. Well, actually I enjoyed it a lot, I’m ashamed to say.”

“Aha!  It seems that we have a young masochist in our midst then, doesn’t it?  You enjoyed it, eh?  Tut, tut.  In that case, in future there’s no need to go crashing my expensive trains just to secure a sore bottom!  If you want a caning, just ask me for it.  Is that clear?”

“Yes, Uncle!  Perfectly clear!”

“Yes, good.  I’m sure we can find some other pretext for it.  Let’s see now, you’re nineteen, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.  Nineteen and a half, in fact.”

“In that case, I’m sure that every week I can cane you for excessive masturbation and dirty thoughts, can’t I?  Well, come on now, am I right or am I right?”

“You’re right, Uncle.  Of course,” I confessed.  In truth, wanking was my favourite pastime.  So it seemed that we had an understanding.  No longer would I have to cause trouble on the tracks to get my whacks!

 

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters and businesses appearing in this story are over 18 and 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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