A Taste Of Sweden (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A brand new short story by your host, Rod Cayenne.  This story is currently exclusive to The Canery and is only suitable for adults!

By the time I was nineteen, I trekked around airfields and air shows around the country on my trusty old Triumph motorbike.  The shows were spectacular, with an unmistakable and enticing sexual undercurrent.  I used to love chatting to the other male planespotters.  The fat ones, the thin ones, the married ones, the ones that still lived with their folks and the lonely old perverts.  But in another league were the hunky aircrew at the shows.  I’d hang around the metal barriers like a groupie hoping to catch the attention of a sexy pilot or navigator.  I had a particular liking for the angular beauty of the Swedish planes and their dishy, dreamy Nordic pilots.  They always gave a good display, in more ways than one!

Show day was inevitably a sweltering hot day.  I could feel my skin burning under the punishing rays of the sun.  Sweat poured off my brow and my armpits were on overdrive.  I leant over the barrier and caught the lanky blonde pilot checking me out.  I think.  Well, I was certainly checking him out.  It felt like mutual attraction.  He took his Aviator shades off, walked over and stared at me with his piercing electric blue eyes.  He had a gorgeous tan, and chiseled Viking looks.  I couldn’t begin to guess his age, he had a few lines and the first signs of gentle crow’s feet around the corners of his eyes.    “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I, boy?” he asked me.

“Yes, you may have done.  I love the Swedish planes.”

“And their pilots, too, unless I’m mistaken?  Well, well.  You are gay, I suppose?”

“A little, Sir.”

“A little?  No-one is a little gay!  And I bet you don’t have a little penis, eh, my boy?”

I blushed and stammered, “Oh, you know…”

“I know I like English cock,” he whispered, “Welsh cock, Scottish cock, Irish cock.  Hot, throbbing United Kingdom cock.  Come and see me in my hotel room tonight.  Here are the details, go on, take it.  You do have a car?  The damned hotel’s in the middle of nowhere.”

“I’ve got a bike.”

“Aha, hence the leather trousers?”

“Err, yes.”

“Well, that’s very good.  I like a bit of leather.  Or a lot of leather,” he laughed.  “Now, piss off!  I’ll see you later.”

What an extraordinary guy with a strange bedside manner, I thought to myself as I walked away studying the hotel card he’d given me.  He’d scribbled his name on it, Curt, Room 8.  He was certainly curt with his words.  So he liked a bit of English cock?  I told myself I was going to get to fuck him, for sure.  What a treat that would be!

I stayed on until the end of the show.  It was good to see the Arrows again.  Then back on my bike, I was able to overtake the stationary queues of sad family cars as I headed out to the country hotel. 

I had to negotiate past a grim dragon of a receptionist.  She stared at me scornfully through her horn-rimmed specs as I said, “I’m here to see Curt from the Flygvapnet.”  She stared at the ceiling, and then at me.  It was like I was asking for someone from an alien planet. 

At last I was on the threshold.  I rapped on the door.  He opened it sharply.  He was wearing only a hotel robe and his hair was still damp.  He burped.  He pulled me in and slammed the door shut.  Here was a man who knew what he wanted, I told myself.  His robe fell open, and I could see that he was blonde down there, too.  “Suck it!” he ordered.  I sank to my knees and soon had him hard as my tongue teased and tossed his uncircumcised cock.  I wiggled my tongue in between his foreskin and his helmet.  He groaned with pleasure and then pushed me down on the over-sized bed and rammed his stiff member down my throat.  It hurt and I had to summon all my willpower not to gag several times.  He was rough and dominant.  I was surprised, and unsurprisingly, I was turned on by this beastly Viking of a man.  He tasted great as he fucked my mouth urgently.  Suddenly he told me to stop.  “I don’t want to cum just yet,” he said.  I was relieved as my throat was kind of sore.

“Now time for some leather fun, my boy,” he announced.  I had visions of him in skintight gear, but it wasn’t to be.  “Open that drawer,” he ordered.  I walked over to the bedside table and opened the drawer.  There, on top of the King James bible, laid a leather spanking strap.  I’d seen something similar in a sleazy shop in Soho, London, but I was stunned.  I knew it wasn’t my scene at all.

“You are a very naughty boy!  One hundred lashes, for you, I think.”

He pulled my leather keks and sweaty pants down, baring my arse.  I attempted to struggle.  The leather strap cracked down like a thunderbolt on my soft teenage flesh.  Ten, twenty, thirty, that fuckin’ thing ripped and tore my skin.  In the event, it was nothing like a hundred, but I was lying face down on the bed, ashamed and fighting back salty tears.

“That was fun!  Now, I think you English boys like the cane?  It happens that I have a nice stick here.”  It wasn’t a nice stick at all.  It was a nasty stick.  I suspect that it was a birch rod rather than a cane.  It was short but demonic.  He lashed my cheeks with it.  I writhed and cried out at that first stroke.  I bucked and gasped at the second.  By the third I felt tears could not be far off.  And then after eighteen manly strokes he dropped the cane.  At last there was some relief as his tongue licked my weals and wounds gently.  That was nice.  I could feel his stiff rod pressing against me as he soothed the damage he had so lustily inflicted on me.  God, that had hurt but my my own cock was now perky and rearing up for action.  How I wanted to fuck him.  And then I felt the unmistakable coldness of lubricant on my manhole as he got ready to board me and pilot me into the wild blue yonder.  And he did.  Sheesh, that man could fuck for Sweden.

We lay together on the bed afterwards.  He offered me a malt, saying, “Mmm, this is the finest Scottish whisky, so hard to find and so very expensive in Sweden.  Yet here they have it in all the shops and supermarkets.  Strange.  Only a small one though, I’m flying again in 18 hours.”

I’m ashamed to say I choked on the scotch, just like I had on his cock.  It was strong stuff, just like the relentless beating he had given me.

“You will stay the night.” 

“Well, I don’t know…”

“That was an order, not a request!” he laughed and slapped my thigh extra hard.  A scorching red imprint of his palm and fingers was clearly visible.  “Now be a good boy, and ride my cock good and hard, otherwise I’ll get my wicked friend Håkan to come over and thrash you as well!”

Much as I’d have liked a threesome, I really couldn’t face any more punishment, assuming Curt wasn’t playing a game with his threat.  And I never did get to fuck him.  But he did fuck me, fuck yes, he fucked me a lot and almost all night long.  What with one thing and another my arse was really fucking sore on the bike saddle as I headed back to my digs, sober and randy in the early morning sunshine.  I resolved to be a bit more careful in future.  After all, I’d expected to be on top, but I ended up a very sore bottom.  Still and all, back in my lonely room it was high time for some hand relief.

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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 © MMXXI by Rod Cayenne.  All rights reserved.

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

 

 

I Drink The Blood Of Sixteen Virgins (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Classic caning fiction by special guest author 11plus. Repeated from 2016 by popular demand. All of the characters are aged 18 or over!  Suitable for adults only.

“This is really rather good.  You should try to get it published.  I could type it up for you, if you like,” said Julie Smith, as I gazed into her blue eyes.  Of course, it was her knickers I really wanted to gaze into.

“Have you got a typewriter at home then?” I asked, “After all, I’m not sure you should type it up here at school.”

“Mum’s got a fancy new electric typewriter.  She doesn’t mind me using it.”

“Well, that’s a very kind offer,Julie.  Thank you.  I’d like that very much.  And do let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, won’t you?”  So it was that I left the smudgy manuscript of ‘I Drink The Blood Of Sixteen Virgins’ with her.

The following day, I found myself waiting in the gloomy corridor outside the headmaster’s polished oak door.  I was nervous and scared.  I wasn’t sure what the problem was, but he seemed terribly angry with me.  He’d told me to report to his study ‘within the hour’.  But he wasn’t there.  What did he want to see me about?  Eventually, he came ambling along, smoking, with a chipped mug of tea in his hand.  He ushered me into the room, followed me in and then asked me to close the door. He dripped tea over the floor.  The stink of stale and fresh cigarette smoke was overwhelming.

It was then that I saw two things that horrified me.  On his desk was the manuscript I’d given to Julie.  And then right next to it was a crook-handled school cane!  It wasn’t hard to put two and two together, and end up with six of the best!  Even a poor Maths scholar like me could see the inevitable conclusion.

The headmaster picked up my work, saying, “Not very bright of you to autograph this, Hughes!  How dare you write this filth, and then bring it into school!  And to leave it lying around in the sixth form girls’ study.  Surely you know that’s out of bounds, even to senior boys?”

“I’m sorry Sir.  I lost track of it.  I’ll take it home.  It was meant as a fun piece.  Not so much a novella, more of a bodice ripper, Sir!”

“A bodice ripper, eh?  What a quaint term.  However, this is clearly a satanic effort, Hughes.  And this is a Christian school, I hardly need to remind you.  Clearly, I need to beat the devil out of you.  With my bottom ripper!”

“But Sir…”

“Listen lad!  I know what you’re going to say.  Let me guess now.  You’re too old for the cane.  You’re 18, an adult.  However, I’m a firm believer that no-one, let alone an upper sixth former, is too old for the cane!  Now then.  I’ve had a look at your record.  Never been beaten before, I see.  That’s commendable in some ways.  But how long has this filthy story been festering away in your mind?  Eh?”

“Errr.”

“Lost for words?”

“Yes, Sir.  Sorry Sir.”

“Hmmm.  Well, really I’d like to give you sixteen strokes of the cane, one for each virgin defiled in your filthy story.  But I’m not allowed to impose that many.  So, perhaps half, that is to say eight would be appropriate.”

“Oh Sir!”

“However, if you agree to me destroying this filth, I will reduce the sentence to six of the best.  Six of the very, very best.  I’m being lenient.  Well, what do you say?  Well?  Hurry up!”

“Thank you Sir.  Please destroy it.”

“Good!”  With that he tore the A4 pages in half, top to bottom.  He then proceeded to rip the paper into smaller pieces.  Once he had finished, he chuckled and piled the scraps into his large glass ashtray.  Then to my astonishment, he lit up another cigarette and then used the match to burn the paper scraps.  I was worried that the maniac would set the study on fire, but he monitored the smouldering scraps carefully, stubbing out the fires with the tip of his cigarette.  He soon lost interest, and left the charred scraps alone.  “I feel better already,” he said, leering menacingly at me, “I could let you off I suppose.  Yes, I could.  I could, but I won’t.  You need to be taught a lesson!”

With that, he picked up the cane and started swishing it through the air.  I didn’t like the sound of that at all.  “Right lad.  Take your jacket off, hang it over there.  That’s it.  Then over the chair!”  He pointed to the grey leather chair.  “Lean over the back.  That’s it.  Right over.  Up on your toes.  Stick your bottom out more.  Hold still!  Here it comes now!”

With an almighty crack the cane landed on my thin grey trousers at lightning speed and with an unbelievably venomous sting.  The chair moved with the force of the blow.  That sting!  Oh, so this was what a caning was like.  It was hell!  Strangely, I felt my bottom willing me on, so I thrust my arse out, goading the sick old man to do his very worst.  Which he did, landing a crisp and cutting second stroke in almost the same place as the first one.  The pain multiplied, as I gasped with disbelief at the havoc the old man was wreaking, and yet my bottom soon raised up for the next stroke.  Thankfully this one landed a little lower, although still blazing away like a wildfire.

Suddenly, he stopped.  We were half way through.  Waves and waves of pain lapped all over my arse.  I was in agony.  I was regretting ever having taken pen to paper and vowed to never write anything in the horror genre again.

“Wait there.  I want another cigarette,” he informed me.  I was about to protest but soon realised that might not be the smartest of ideas.  I heard him light up.  I just wanted him to get on with my thrashing, but I could hear him puffing away contentedly.  I stuck my arse out ready for the next stroke, but the bastard was making me wait and wait.  I wiggled my arse, trying to ameliorate the pain as I did so, but he just told me to keep still.  Eventually I heard him stub out the ciggie, probably on the remnants of my manuscript.

“Ah, now that was a fine, fine cigarette,” he said, “Nothing more satisfying than the combination of a manly smoke and a good, hard caning!”

He laid into my arse again.  The stroke was the lowest yet, cutting into the tender flesh just where arse met thighs.  I squealed with shock and pain, utterly humiliated by my bastard headmaster.  I wanted it over, but he had stopped again.  Surely, he wasn’t going to light up again?  I thrust my bottom out provocatively, positively begging for the final two strokes and to bring on the conclusion.  It must have worked as I heard the swish and crack of the cane again, releasing new agony and another helpless yelp from yours truly.

I waited and waited for that final stroke.  Eventually it came, cracking my grey flannels and causing me to gasp loudly.  I shed a few tears too, most embarrassingly.

“Right, you can get up now.  I shall be keeping a close eye on you in future, Hughes, my boy.  You can expect a fresh, hard caning if you cross my path again!  What can you expect boy?”

I couldn’t believe it!  As well as humiliating me by caning me black and blue, he now wanted to shame me into repeating his threat!  I gave in though, saying, “A fresh, hard caning Sir!”

“Quite so, quite so!  Now watch out or it will be with your trousers down next time.  Dismissed!”

“Thank you, Sir,” I said submissively, grabbing my blazer from the hook.  As I left, I saw that he was filling in the punishment book.  I shuddered and was sure that I didn’t want a second entry in there.

I made my way to the toilets and locked myself in a cubicle.  I found a biro in my blazer, and was soon adding to the graffiti on the walls.  B-A-S-T-A-R-D I wrote, feeling all rebellious.  I then dropped my trousers and pants and felt the ridges the cane had left on my arse.  An overwhelming urge to masturbate came over me and my rock-hard cock was soon spunking into some toilet paper.  The cum was creamy and hot, but not as hot as my arse.  Immediately feeling a bit better, I flushed the evidence away and then wrote the words C-A-N-E-D H-A-R-D T-O-D-A-Y on the painted wooden door.  My experience duly recorded for posterity, it was time to move on!

The lessons that afternoon were hard to concentrate on.  My arse throbbed and ached.  The hard extruded plastic chairs in the classrooms were harshly unforgiving.  There was no comfort to be had, at least not until I got home, I thought.  I fancied a cool bath and then maybe another wank or two.

Julie caught up with me as I walked home.  She had heard about my caning.  You could count on bad news and schadenfreude spreading quickly around the school.  She grabbed my arm and asked how I’d got on.  “It did hurt, Julie.  I can’t deny it.  I’d never been caned before and wouldn’t want it again.  My bum is so, so sore.  The bastard tore up my story too.  I’m not sure how he got his hands on it in the first place.”

“Oh, that’s my fault.  I must have left it in girls’ study.  I’m such a scatterbrain.  I’m so sorry.  And I’m sorry you got the cane.”

“It’s alright.  I’m lucky not to have been caned before, I reckon.  Some of the things I’ve got away with!” I was talking my bad boy image up, hoping to impress the sexy minx with my bravado.  “I should have had more sense than to bring the story into school in the first place, I suppose.  Still, I’ve got the last laugh as I made a carbon copy as I wrote the bloody thing.  If you’re still offering, I’d be grateful if you could type it up for me.  And as I said, if you do, just let me know if there’s anything I can do in return.”

“Of course I can type it up for you.  It’s the least I can do, and actually, there is something you can do for me.”

“Sure.  Anything.”

“You can show me the cane stripes on your bottom.”

(____________

Story © MMXVI by 11plus

Photograph of and © Jonathan, R.I.P.

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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Other stories by 11plus are here and here

Comments welcome

Countdown To A Valentine Spanking (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

New to The Canery is this exciting spanking story by very special guest author JOELSTRAP.   All the characters are 18 or older. WARNING: ADULTS ONLY!

Countdown To A Valentine Spanking by Joelstrap

February 10th

Simon picked up the post from behind the door of the flat and dropped it on the breakfast-table. He took a mouthful of cereal and then reached for the mail to see if there was anything for him, but Tiger snatched it from beneath his fingers and flicked swiftly through it.

“Bills!” he muttered, and then, “Oh! Wonder what this is?”

Simon sighed and began to open the brown envelopes containing the bills. Tiger ripped open the large white envelope and pulled out a Valentine-card.

“That’s a bit early, isn’t it?” observed Simon.

Tiger opened the card.

“What the…..!”

Simon looked a question and Tiger pushed the card under his nose. Inside there was a large red heart and in neat capital-letters in the centre of it had been written the words: You’ve got a fantastic arse.

“Who do you think it’s from?” asked Simon.

“Search me! Obviously someone with a good eye for a boy’s bum.”

“Funny to send it four days early,” remarked Simon.

Tiger wasn’t listening. “I guess it could be Jack,” he opined as he ran a thoughtful hand through his thick, striped hair.

Simon eyed the hair admiringly. Tiger’s nickname came from the tawny streaks which ran through his mane of dark hair; streaks which were regularly re-done to maintain their startling look. Tiger stood just over six feet tall with an athlete’s build and a handsome face. Nature had endowed him generously with an animal sexuality, and he attracted longing looks from both girls and boys. His trichological glory just made him stand out all the more. Simon ran a hand absently through his own soft, brown curls and silently scolded himself for his feelings of envy. Simon was a couple of inches short of six feet and slim as a birch-sapling. From an attractive face, framed by the luxuriant curls, his large brown eyes looked out on the world with a permanently startled expression, as if each day was a new surprise.

“Or it might be Ralph,” murmured Tiger as if to himself. “He was ogling my arse in the showers after footie the other day. And there’s Barry, of course. Him and me had a bloody good snog at the party last week. Maybe he noticed my gorgeous rump, eh Simon?”

Simon had gathered up the empty envelopes and was staring at the one from which Tiger had taken the card.

“Simon?…..Simon!”

“Huh?”

“Maybe it was Barry.”

“It’s not addressed to anybody,” said Simon, waving the white envelope. “Just the flat’s address. Why did you think it was for you?”

“Who else would it be for?”

“I live here too.”

“Who’s gonna admire your arse? I could almost shove one of you down each leg of my shorts,” said Tiger rudely.

“Size isn’t everything,” said Simon sententiously.

“Yeh, right,” replied Tiger.

February 11th

There was only one letter that morning and it was another white envelope bearing only the flat’s address but no addressee’s name. Simon waved it in Tiger’s direction and Tiger reached out for it; but Simon held it beyond his reach.

“I’m opening this one,” he said. “It could be for me.”

“Balls!”

Simon ignored him and tore open the envelope, before extracting another Valentine-card. He opened it and saw inside a red heart. Neatly inscribed within were the words: Can’t wait to get my hands on those amazing buns!

“Well,” demanded Tiger impatiently. “which part of me is he admiring this time?”

“Same part,” Simon told him, and then added, “but it might be my buns.”

“Of course it’s not your bloody buns,” snapped Tiger, grabbing the card and reading it for himself. “Playing footie’s given me buns of steel.”

“I run,” said Simon. “My glutes are pretty taut.”

“Yeh. They need to be taught how to be real man-buns!”

“Very funny!”

February 12th

Tiger was standing by the window chomping on a slice of toast and keeping an eye out for the postman, while pretending to be watching a couple of cats fighting in the garden of a house across the road. Simon, who knew perfectly well what Tiger was doing, quietly tidied away the rest of the breakfast things and began to pack his bag in readiness to set off for his first class of the day.

“Where the hell’s that postman?” demanded Tiger angrily.

“What do you want with the postman?” enquired Simon innocently. “I thought you were watching a cat-fight.”

Tiger flung him a dirty look. “I want to see if there’s another of these cards,” he admitted. “You wanna make something of it?” he asked, striding across the room and looking down on Simon.

Simon smiled at him. “You gonna tan my hide?” he enquired mildly.

“I should.”

“Why?” Simon asked, his eyes wide and an expression of injured innocence on his face.

“Because I fucking feel like it!”

“It’s not my fault you haven’t seen the postman,” said Simon.

“If the lazy bastard doesn’t hurry up, we’ll have to leave before he comes.”

“He’s not gonna come now,” Simon said.

“Like you know!”

“I do know.”

“Oh, yeh? How?”

“Because he came just before you came out of the bathroom.”

“What? Why the hell didn’t you say so, you twerp?”

“I didn’t know you were watching for him,” replied Simon gently. “You said you were watching a cat-fight.”

“Did he bring another card?” demanded Tiger loudly.

“Card? Er, now, I’m not sure…maybe he…”

“Right! That does it!”

Tiger grabbed Simon by the collar of his shirt and pushed him roughly over his knee and began to administer a series of hard, stinging spanks to his small, neat, fully-rounded buttocks. Simon’s denims fitted closely and revealed the pleasing contours of his behind as well as providing a lot less protection from Tiger’s heavy hand than a looser pair of jeans would have given him. As Tiger spanked hard and fast, delivering a fusillade of smacks across the whole surface of Simon’s rump and well down onto the tops of his legs, Simon squirmed and winced, an expression of ecstatic delight on his face. Tiger felt Simon’s powerful arousal pressed against his thigh, matching his own excitement as he rained down the stinging swats. He gave Simon half a dozen really hard spanks on his inner thighs, eliciting squeals of outrage and pleasure, and then desisted. Simon stood up, rubbing at his burning bottom.

“That the best you could do?” he enquired, his eyes shining.

“You’re asking for it,” Tiger accused, “but there’s no time just now. Get me that flaming card!”

Simon gave him a cheeky grin, dodged a slap aimed at his left cheek, and retrieved the envelope from where he’d concealed it behind the radio. Tiger snatched it from him, noticed that Simon had already opened it, and removed the card. Inside, within a red heart were the words: I can’t wait to kiss every inch of those fantastic globes.

“Shit! This is hot! I just wish I knew who the guy is! I tried dropping hints to Barry and Ralph and Jack, but if it was any of them, they’re not saying.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” asked Simon.

“What?” returned Tiger suspiciously.

“The cards might be for me,” replied Simon sweetly. “Maybe some sexy guy wants to kiss my bare bottom.”

“The only kisses your bare bottom’s gonna get are from my trainer when we get home this evening, if you don’t shut up,” warned Tiger. “I’ve told you. I’m the one who gets his arse ogled; and some guy wants to do more than ogle it.”

“Ooooh! I love it when you’re brutal,” retorted Simon, snatching the card and setting it on the table beside the other two. “Come on or we’re going to be late for college.”

February 13th

That morning’s post arrived just as Simon was pouring coffee, and Tiger dashed to the door to collect it. He tore open the expected white envelope and eagerly extracted the Valentine card. His eyebrows rose as he read the message.

“Listen to this! When I’ve got your neat buttocks bare under my hands, we’ll both be in man-paradise. Wow! He’s one sexy bugger, whoever he is.”

“Yeh, and he wants me,” interjected Simon. “I’m the one with neat buttocks. Yours are big and hairy.”

“They’re a man’s buttocks,” said Tiger. “Yours are a boy’s buttocks; and he says we’ll be in man-paradise. This guy’s got his eye on a real man.”

“I’m eighteen, the same age as you,” Simon protested. “You don’t have to be a hairy-arsed troglodyte to be a man.”

“Hairy-arsed troglodyte? Are you wanting another spanking?”

“I’m always hot for a spanking,” replied Simon. “And only a real man is confident enough about himself to submit to getting his hide tanned.”

“Balls!”

“Besides, I think it’s Ivor, and he’s got his sights set on my neat arse,” continued Simon.

“Who the hell’s Ivor?”

“He moved into the flat upstairs about a month ago. He’s got short brown hair, eyes that seem to see right through you, a great body and one hell of an arse. He wears super-tight jeans and they show off every single curve of his behind. He must have to get up extra early every day just to give himself time to get into them.”

“I didn’t know there was anybody new upstairs. How do you know him?”

“We’ve met in the laundry-room and when we’re putting rubbish in the bins,” said Simon. “I think he likes me. He’s definitely checked me out a few times.”

“How come I’ve never met this guy?”

“Because you’re too busy lazing around here like a hairy-arsed troglodyte while I do all the work. I bet you don’t even know where the laundry-room is!”

“I don’t need to when I’ve got you to do my washing for me,” retorted Tiger dismissively. “You’re good at doing these things, so I let you do them.”

“Let me do them? Bloody cheek! I’m not your slave!”

“I wish you were; for then I’d take a whip to you and get a hell of a lot more work out of you,” warned Tiger.

Simon gasped aloud as his penis rose sharply.

“Little pervert!” muttered Tiger.

Simon rubbed his bottom thoughtfully and wondered seriously if he should try to provoke a spanking. He decided that there wasn’t time for Tiger to spank him properly, and Simon hated to have a good spanking spoiled by rushing. Tiger watched him.

“You want me to tan your hide, don’t you?”

“Yeh, but there’s not time.”

“See? You like going over my knee for a spanking. You’re a boy, not a man.”

“I’m just as much a man as you,” Simon defended himself hotly. “Just different. That’s how the world is.”

“The world is where men are men and boys are beaten,” said Tiger. “You get beaten, ergo you’re a boy.”

“You’re incorrigible,” sighed Simon.

February 14th

The post clattered through the letter-box on Saturday morning and Tiger made a leap for the door before Simon could put down his coffee-mug. He watched expectantly as Tiger impatiently cast aside a few letters and eagerly tore open the one in the large white envelope.

“Flaming hell! Maybe the cards are for you after all!”

Simon looked up from his toast with a questioning expression on his face.

“See?”

Simon took the card and looked at the now-familiar red heart inside; and then he read the words inscribed therein: I’m gonna spank that gorgeous bottom until it’s redder than this heart.
At the foot of the card was written: Be ready for me to collect you at 8 p.m. tonight.
Simon rubbed the strong erection in his jeans and looked at Tiger.

“You scared of a spanking?” he enquired.

Tiger bristled as he retorted, “Course I’m not scared of a bloody spanking! I’m just not a pervert like you who gets off on having his arse tanned.”

“So when the guy turns up this evening, you want me to go off with him?” asked Simon.

“If he’s gonna tan anybody’s arse, then, yeh; it’s you.”

“What if he says the cards really were for you; and he’s drop-dead gorgeous and sexy as a randy stoat and you can’t resist him?” asked Simon mischievously.

“If he wants to spank me, I can resist him,” asserted Tiger. “I’ll let him have you to spank.”

“I’m not yours to hand over to strange guys to spank,” objected Simon. “Besides, he might not want to spank me. Maybe he only spanks hairy-arsed troglodytes.”

“Are you wanting a spanking right now?” growled Tiger.

“Nah. I’ll save my bottom for this evening,” Simon replied as he picked up the rest of the mail. “Oh, bugger. There’s one here for Ivor upstairs, stuck between these two of ours. I’d best take it up to him.”

Simon finished his coffee and toast, took the letter and headed up to the next floor where he approached door 4B. On a small card above the door-bell were the names “B. Morton. I. Broadley.” Simon paused. He’d assumed that Ivor lived alone in the flat as he’d never heard him mention anyone else; and had vaguely thought that he might be gay as Simon was sure he had seen him more than once checking him out when they met in the laundry. He sighed. Maybe Ivor had a girlfriend. Giving himself a shake, Simon pressed the bell. There was a silence and then the sound of approaching feet. The door was pulled wide open and a tall young man stood there, naked except for a pair of very brief briefs which barely concealed his generous endowment. His hair was black and very short and extended down his jaw and along his chin, giving him a slightly menacing, almost brutal look. Well-developed pectoral and abdominal muscles were matched by powerful arms and legs, while the broad shoulders and narrow waist gave him the classic V shape. Simon gazed, stunned.

“Oh,” said the young god. “It’s Simon. I wasn’t expecting you; well, not yet anyway.”

“Sorry?” panted Simon, struggling to find his voice and feeling slightly confused. “This letter for Ivor was delivered to us by mistake, so I just brought…..”

“Oh, I see!” said the young man as an expression of understanding crossed his face. “You’d best come in. Ivor’s in here.”

Simon entered and closed the door behind him before following the vision of male beauty through the hall and into the sitting-room. Simon gasped aloud. Ivor was standing bent over a chair, his hands on the seat, completely naked, and with five clear red streaks across his bottom. On the table nearby lay a lithe cane.

“Simon’s got a letter for you, that was delivered to his flat by mistake.”

Simon looked helplessly from the young man to Ivor and then to the cane; and no words came.

“It’s okay,” said Ivor, rising upright, “we just….”

“Did I tell you that you could get up?” demanded the young man sharply.

Ivor immediately resumed his position with a muttered, “No, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Now,” said the young man. “I’m Bruce. You stand over there, Simon, and keep out of the way, while I finish dealing with Ivor. He’s due one more stroke; but I’m going to give him an extra two for moving out of position just now. He should know better than that; but sometimes he just needs to be reminded.”

Simon stood to one side as instructed and slid a hand into his jeans to rearrange his swiftly-rising penis. He noticed that Bruce’s penis was protruding well above the waist-band of his briefs; and that Ivor’s organ was also fully extended. Bruce took up the cane and whipped it through the air. Both Simon and Ivor flinched involuntarily. Simon saw Ivor tense his body as the cane was rapped several times on the skin and then sent flying down with a whine to make contact with a sharp crack on Ivor’s bare buttocks. A groan came from the caned youth as his glutes tightened and his bottom quivered. Slowly from the skin there emerged a sixth fiery-red welt. Bruce lined up the cane and hit again, this time seeming to land, whether by accident or design, right on top of an earlier weal. Ivor bucked and a squeal escaped him. Bruce held the cane against Ivor’s skin, low on his crease and Simon saw the tension in the boy’s body as he waited for the stroke. Bruce made him wait, the seconds stretching out like elastic until Simon wanted to scream at Bruce to get on with it. The cane flew, scythed down and lashed hard and accurately on that most sensitive part of a guy’s behind. Ivor yowled and his body twisted as he processed the vicious burn. Bruce turned to Simon.

“Hopefully he’ll remember that and stay in position until he’s told he can move,” observed Bruce. “Do you think he will, Simon?”

“I don’t think he could ever forget it,” gasped Simon, staring in horrified awe at Ivor’s cane-welted rump.

Bruce motioned him to sit down and began to make coffee. Simon glanced at Ivor, still bent over the chair. Ivor grinned at him and winked, his eager penis bouncing energetically at full length beneath him. Simon felt a sense of relief that the beating clearly hadn’t dampened Ivor’s cheerful disposition; and that he actually appeared to be decidedly perky about it, at least in retrospect.

“What did you get beaten for?” whispered Simon, keeping a wary eye on Bruce.

“Knocked his toothbrush into the toilet-pan by mistake.”

“You got caned for that?”

“He came in while I was finishing giving it a quick dry on his towel and putting it back on the shelf.”

“Oh, yuck!! No wonder he blasted your arse open,” said Simon.

“Just as well he doesn’t know it’s not the first time I’ve done it,” grinned Ivor.

Bruce had finished making the coffee and the boys fell silent as he came over and handed Simon a mug, placed one on the floor, and himself sat down opposite Simon with a third mug in his hand. Bruce nodded at Ivor and the youth straightened up and came and sat on the floor between Bruce’s feet, wincing as his caned behind came into contact with the carpet. He picked up the mug from the floor and took a long drink. Bruce turned to Simon.

“So, you got the Valentines, huh?” he enquired. “And you’ve worked out they came from us?”

“Well, yeh; I thought they maybe came from Ivor, and were for me; but Tiger thought they were for him. He’s got a string of guys after him so he couldn’t work out who they might be from.”

“Tiger?”

“My flat-mate. He’s called Tiger on account of the tawny streaks in his hair.”

“Ah. I guess that’s my fault,” said Ivor. “It’s kinda embarrassing, but I couldn’t remember your name. I know you told me the first time we met in the laundry room, but I just forgot; and then I didn’t like to ask again, ’cos it seemed kinda rude not to have remembered.”

“It was unpardonably rude,” interjected Bruce, “and he got caned hard for it.”

“Er, yeh. That really hurt,” Ivor admitted; “but I haven’t forgotten your name since,” he added. “Anyway, I’ve seen Tiger once or twice coming up the street, but his arse isn’t a patch on that neat, taut, fully-rounded one of yours, so I thought it’d be obvious who the cards were for.”

“He thinks he’s got a much better arse than I have,” said Simon. “A real man’s arse, so he says. He thinks mine’s a boy’s arse,” he added.

Bruce shook his head vigorously.

“No way. You got a man’s arse all right, Simon. Firm, compact, muscular, lean and steel-hard.”

Simon winced as his penis tried to force its way violently out of his denims. He adjusted things and looked at Bruce.

“So I guess it’s you who sent the cards; and you who wants to spank me?”

“Er, no, not quite,” replied Bruce. “Ivor’s the one who wants to get into your pants…I mean who wants you as his Valentine. But I’m the one who wants to spank you.”

“But I don’t get it,” protested Simon. “Which of you….?”

“It’s like this,” explained Bruce gently. “Ivor here is eighteen, loves getting his hide tanned, and needs a boyfriend. I’m five years older than he is and I love having a young lad like him to control and discipline. We suit each other that way; but we’re not in love with each other. I’ve got a mate round the corner and we have a fantastic sex-life. I want to move in with him, but before I go, I want to get Ivor here set up with a boy his own age, who likes getting his arse warmed, and who can share his bed; and I’ll come round every day to see to the discipline.”

Simon stared before he muttered, “Right. I get it. I think. It’s…it’s a bit weird, huh?”

“Perfectly natural, if you ask me,” said Bruce. “So, when I come to collect you this evening, I’ll bring you up here and spank you; and we’ll see how you get on. Having a fantastic arse is one thing, but wanting to get it spanked is quite another. I don’t suppose you got spanked as a kid?”

Simon shook his head. “No, but Tiger spanks me sometimes.”

Both Bruce and Ivor looked at him.

“Yeh; that’s what we thought. I was passing your flat one day and I was sure I heard the sound of someone getting spanked. That’s why I hoped you’d be the guy I was looking for. Do you like it when Tiger spanks you?” asked Ivor breathlessly.

“I think it’s brilliant,” said Simon with a dazzling grin.

“Looks like we’ve maybe hit the jackpot,” observed Bruce to Ivor. “But what about Tiger?”

“What about him?” asked Simon.

“Well, are you and Tiger……”

“Oh, no! We’re not an item. He was looking for a new flatmate a few months ago and that’s how I ended up here. I’m not Tiger’s kind of boy. He’s got boyfriends by the barrow-load and he loves to play the field. If I moved out, he’d soon get another flatmate.”


They chatted for several minutes longer and then Simon felt he had, albeit reluctantly, to return to Tiger, as he might be wondering where he’d got to. Bruce placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You got a pair of shorts, Simon?”

“Yeh; but I don’t wear them in February. Too bloody cold!”

“Wear them tonight.”

“But I…..”

Bruce’s eyebrows rose steeply.

“Yes, sir,” said Simon and, behind Bruce’s back, Ivor gave him a broad grin and an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

“No underpants or briefs; t-shirt on top, nothing else; bare feet. Understand, Simon?”

“Yes, sir,” panted Simon as he doubled over, stabbed by a spasm of discomfort from his straining, protesting, struggling penis.

Outside the door of his own flat, Simon stood for several minutes steadying his breathing and allowing his bounding erection to subside at least partially, before he went in. Tiger demanded to know where he’d been.

“Watching Ivor getting the cane,” said Simon.

“What?!”

Simon explained while Tiger listened in increasing disbelief.

“Balls!” he said when Simon had finished. “You been reading far-fetched stories on that Malespank site again, Simon?”

“It’s all true,” Simon protested while Tiger rolled his eyes.

*********************

Well before eight o’clock that evening, Simon was attired in a tight white t-shirt, very short and close-fitting shorts, which revealed the full contours of his exquisitely-rounded bottom, and nothing else at all. Tiger eyed him.

“You sure this Bruce guy isn’t gonna have you for dinner?” he asked.

Simon shook his head.

“These shorts are just begging for a horny guy to get inside them,” warned Tiger.

“I’ll be fine,” Simon assured him, “and I’m just up the stair. If you hear me screaming, you can come up and rescue me.”

“If I’ve got to come and rescue you, the first thing I’ll do when I get you back here is give you the longest, hardest spanking you’ve ever had in your life,” Tiger threatened grimly.

“Maybe I’ll scream for you to come and rescue me even if I don’t really need rescued,” suggested Simon.

“If you do that, I’ll have a beer after you’ve had your spanking, and then I’ll give you another one; longer and harder!”

Simon went up to Tiger and placed a hand on his chest. “You’re the best flat-mate ever,” he said.

“Silly bugger,” muttered Tiger; but Simon knew that he was pleased.


Spot on eight o’clock the doorbell rang and Simon found Ivor waiting. He took him in and introduced him to Tiger.

“I can see why Simon likes you,” Tiger said. “Have a great time,” he added to Simon. “Enjoy the spanking.”

“He will,” Ivor assured him and he led Simon out of the flat and up the stairs to where Bruce was waiting.

“Very nice,” said Bruce approvingly as his eyes slid over Simon’s revealing attire. “You look exactly like a boy who can’t wait to get a Valentine’s day spanking.”

“Is a Valentine spanking different from an ordinary spanking?” enquired Simon curiously.

“There’s lots and lots of love in it,” Ivor informed him. “You’ll feel.”

Simon wondered about the unusual expression, instead of the more normal you’ll see. Bruce told the boys to stand face to face and to look into each other’s eyes. Two eager young cocks rose swiftly as they obeyed.

“Okay,” said Bruce. “Now kiss each other.”

Shyly at first, wary of causing any offence, they touched lips and withdrew and then touched again before tongue-tips darted out to explore further; and before long a pair of passionate mouths were joined and a pair of lively tongues were probing deep and hard. The boys felt Bruce’s hands in their hair, prising them firmly apart.

“Good. Looks like you’re compatible. Okay, Ivor. Strip.”

Simon watched wide-eyed, heart thumping, blood throbbing between his legs, as Ivor obeyed and stood fish-naked in front of him, his hands behind his back, his massive arousal leaving Simon in no doubt as to Ivor’s appreciation of his sexual attractiveness. Simon himself was then ordered to strip and soon he too stood, just as excited, before Ivor. Bruce sat on the sofa and gently but firmly pulled Simon across his knees. Bruce’s bare thigh rubbing against his pulsing cock was a stimulus almost too much to bear. When Bruce began to caress his buttocks with both hands, Simon could feel a wetness beneath him; and it seemed Bruce was aware of it too.

“Steady, boy,” said Bruce. “It’s your responsibility to keep yourself under control. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Simon panted as he tried desperately to remember how to do quadratic-equations.

Bruce began to spank him with slow, firm slaps which drove Simon half crazy with excitement; but as the spanks built up, covering his whole bottom from waist to crease, from thigh to thigh, the sting slowly started to get through to him and he began to wince pleasurably. Bruce spanked harder and suddenly Ivor was at his head, caressing his shoulders, stroking his hair, kissing his neck. Simon moaned and settled into the spanking, while revelling in the exquisite sensations of delight being delivered by Ivor. As the minutes went by and still Bruce’s broad, heavy hand fell inexorably on Simon’s now burning and tender skin, he began to pant and squirm and kick a little, clutching at Ivor with his hands as he fought to process the increasing level of pain. Ivor’s mouth closed on his and as sensations of unutterable pleasure surged through him he found himself embracing the pain in his bottom so that it and Ivor’s kisses seemed one.

The spanking stopped and Ivor pulled gently away.

“Almost done,” said Bruce quietly; and he suddenly and unexpectedly flipped Simon over on to his back across his lap and held his legs in the air with his left hand while resuming spanking him with his right. Ivor meantime grasped Simon’s towering erection with one hand and squeezed his nipples firmly in turn with the other while he drew him into a passionate kiss which made stars explode in Simon’s head. Bruce spanked deep into Simon’s exposed cleft, setting the tender skin there aflame and as Ivor worked with both hands and his sensuous mouth, Simon climaxed so powerfully that the whole room seem to whirl. He regained full consciousness, panting with exhaustion and fulfilment, and opened his eyes to see a grinning Ivor looking into them. He glanced down at his chest and saw it streaked with copious streams of viscuous spunk.

“You got a great pair of balls,” Ivor told him, “and they can’t half produce the goods. You could fill a mug with that lot!”

Simon went red and smiled shyly at Ivor. Bruce interrupted.

“Okay, Simon. You’d best milk Ivor or he’s gonna feel left out.”

Simon slid on to the floor on his knees and took Ivor’s cock and balls in his hands, enjoying the feel of them before he set expertly to work and had the boy spurting semen up into his own face in a cataclysmic orgasm.

“Lick each other clean,” ordered Bruce, “and I’ll get some wine.”

The boys complied and then both sat on the floor at Bruce’s feet and drank the wine which he gave to them.

“Tiger never spanked me like that,” said Simon. “That was awesome.”

“Still one stage to go,” said Bruce, and Simon looked up interrogatively at him; but Bruce said no more.
They drank wine and talked contentedly for about half an hour before Bruce got them on their feet.

“Ivor’s been caned today,” said Bruce, “so he’s not getting any more; but you need to feel the cane, young Simon. If you’re coming to live here with Ivor you’ll be subject to the cane, same as he is, so you best learn how it feels.”

“Cane? Me? But I’ve never been caned! It looked horrendous! Ivor’s still got marks on his bum!”

“I should hope so,” retorted Bruce. “I’d not be doing much of a job with the cane if the marks had faded just twelve hours later. The Valentine story involves pain and sacrifice as well as love; so you get kissed by the cane as well as by Ivor’s lips in a Valentine spanking.”

“Right,” said Simon, and Ivor ruffled his hair encouragingly.

Bruce fetched his cane from a cupboard and showed it to Simon who gazed in a mixture of curiosity and apprehension at the slender, lithe rod. His penis rose sharply and Bruce smiled.

“You want it, eh Simon?”

“My body seems to,” Simon admitted. “My head’s not so sure.”

“Bend over the chair; and stay in position until I tell you to move.”

Simon obeyed and felt the cool touch of the cane on his still-hot behind. Bruce slid it slowly over the skin as if exploring every inch of his quivering mounds. Fierce kisses, he told himself; that’s what they’re going to be. I can take that. The cane was raised and a second later whipped down hard. A fiery streak of pain blazed a path across the centre of Simon’s bottom and he gasped aloud. He steadied himself and grasped the edges of the chair more tightly. The cane was tapping his behind and he knew another stroke was imminent. He tried in vain to relax his bottom as he felt the punitive rod lifted away and then heard the whistle as it descended. A snap, a burst of searing fire, a half-stifled yelp, and then Simon was breathing hard and tensing and relaxing his glutes. The cane lashed across him again and he bucked and grunted as he dealt with the ferocious sting. Barely had he regained control of his body when a fourth stroke bit hard into his flesh and made him jerk and twist from the waist. There was a slightly longer pause while the cane traversed the tender skin where his buttocks merged into the tops of his legs. Simon knew from being spanked that this was a sensitive area and realised that if that was where the cane landed, the stroke would be particularly painful. He tensed himself in readiness but the vicious blast of pain as the cane whipped hard into the vulnerable flesh took him by surprise and he bucked violently, the chair rocking.

“Fuck!”

The expletive was forced from him as he absorbed and reacted to the savage burn. Bruce took him by the hair and twisted his head round so that Simon was looking up into his face.

“No, Simon,” said Bruce firmly. “That is not acceptable.”

“I’m sorry. I know it’s not. I couldn’t help it.”

Simon knew as soon as he’d uttered those last words what Bruce’s response was going to be; and it was.

“You can help it; and you will. I’m going to give you that stroke again to help you remember. Understand, Simon?”

Simon blinked hard and muttered a submissive yes, sir. Bruce released his hair and returned to his position behind and to Simon’s left side. Once more the cane probed the quivering, bruised flesh before snapping down hard at a slight angle so that it cross-cut three of the previous welts. Simon stifled a yell and squirmed as pain coursed through his body.

“That was the punishment-stroke,” said Bruce softly. “Last of the six coming up. Don’t move until I tell you. You remember what happens if you move out of position, don’t you, Simon?”

Simon saw vividly before his inward sight Ivor writhing under the two penalty-strokes he’d received that morning for moving out of position.

“I remember,” Simon assured him fervently. “I do.”

The wait for the final stroke seemed to Simon like an eternity and when it came the cane burned a furrow of searing pain low across his throbbing buttocks, forcing a violent bucking and a high-pitched yelp out of him. He clung desperately to the chair and screwed his eyes tightly shut, concentrating everything he’d got on processing the brutal pain. Gradually he won his battle, forcing the agony into retreat. He felt Bruce’s hands moving reassuringly across his behind.

“That was impressive,” Bruce assured him. “Stand up.”

Simon rose stiffly and began to explore his thrashed bottom carefully with wondering hands. Beneath his finger-pads he felt ridges, heat, and swollen, throbbing skin. Ivor approached and kissed him softly on the mouth and his penis rose so fast that he gasped.

“Okay, Ivor,” said Bruce, “he’s your responsibility now. He needs comfort and he needs love. I’ll be asking him tomorrow morning if he’s satisfied; and if he’s not, I’ll be blasting seven shades of hell out of your young arse with my cane!”

“He won’t have anything to complain about,” Ivor reassured him.

“I won’t, sir. Honestly, I won’t,” said Simon, horrified at the prospect of Ivor getting another beating with that searing cane.

Bruce smiled. “Off you go, then,” he said; and Ivor took Simon by the hand and led him to his bedroom.

There Ivor kissed and licked and caressed his cane-welts before making love to him with such passion and tenderness that Simon wept hot tears of joy. Far into the night they writhed in ecstasy together and dawn saw them lying entwined in each other’s arms, their hearts as inextricably entwined as their bodies. Wakening sleepily in the morning light, Simon gazed adoringly at Ivor as he slept; and he knew with gratitude deep inside that he had been given the gift of Valentine; the gift of love.

 

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Story ©MMXIX by Joelstrap, and used here by very kind permission of the author.

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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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Please leave a comment by using the link at the top of the story.

 

Joelstrap’s excellent earlier stories for The Canery are available here.  Further great stories by Joelstrap may be found at this external link