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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?”
“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.
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.
Story © MMXXI by Rod Cayenne. All rights reserved.
Comments welcome, please use the link at the top of the story.