♥ Site recommended story ♥
A hot new caning story by very special guest author JOELSTRAP. This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are 18 or older. WARNING: ADULTS ONLY!!
The Old-Style Teacher’s Desk by Joelstrap
“But I don’t want to go into town,” I protested. “I was going round to hang out with Torquil.”
“You don’t need to see him,” said dad. “Far better you come with me.”
“Why? What’s wrong with Torquil?” I demanded irritably.
“What kind of a name is Torquil for a boy?” asked dad.
“It’s his name! What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Something odd about a boy with a name like that,” said dad darkly.
“Odd? There’s nothing odd about him. Do you think he’s got three tits? Or square balls?” I snapped angrily.
“One more comment like that, my lad, and you’ll spend the next three weekends in the house, Julian,” dad warned grimly.
Furious, I subsided, satisfying myself with glaring rebelliously at dad’s back as he unlocked the car.
“Get in!” he ordered abruptly.
I dropped into the passenger-seat and slammed the car-door.
“Maybe you’d prefer four weekends in the house?” enquired dad sweetly. “Would you?”
“No,” I replied shortly.
“Then remove that mutinous expression from your face and stop behaving like a spoiled child. You’re eighteen, for goodness sake.”
I rolled my eyes and then tried to look co-operative. Dad sighed and started the engine. Fifteen minutes later we drew up at the second-hand furniture store.
“This shouldn’t take long,” said dad. “Come on.”
I followed him into the building and waited while he hunted down the owner. Dad was in charge of props and furnishings for the local amateur drama group and an old-fashioned school-desk was required for the next production. Apparently dad had phoned up and ascertained that the store may have had the kind of thing which might be suitable. Dad returned with a small, bustling guy, bald as a coot except for a ring of light-brown hair, which made him look like a tonsured monk. I trailed along gloomily in their wake through a maze of ancient furniture until we reached a section with a number of old school desks. I looked idly at large, hefty desks of wood and iron, joined together in pairs with seats which could be raised. I lifted lids and peered into graffiti-scored interiors. Initials were the most common feature; but more interesting comments such as Latin killed the Romans, and now it’s killing me were also to be found. I liked If violence is bad, why did I get caned?
“Julian. Where are you?”
I started at dad’s voice and hurried to catch him up. It appeared that he wasn’t after the kind of desk I’d been looking at, but wanted an old-style teacher’s desk. He and the baldie-guy were standing by a tall, narrow desk with a high stool behind it. The surface of the desk-top was sloping I guessed that it opened like a pupil’s desk. Dad seemed delighted and I listened, impressed in spite of myself, as he skilfully negotiated a good deal and left the poor salesman looking decidedly dejected. I was left to guard the desk while dad and the sales-chap went off to see to the payment; not that there was anyone to guard against. I tried to lift the lid of the desk, but it was locked and there was no key. I gave it a shake but there was no sound and so I concluded that there was no exciting secret inside. When dad returned I pointed out the lack of a key, but he didn’t seem bothered. There was, he told me, no need to open it anyway, as it just needed to stand there for a teacher to sit behind during a part of the play. Dad picked up the stool and left me to carry the desk. It was quite heavy and an awkward shape and I struggled as I tried to manoeuvre it through the narrow passage between the furniture and out to the door.
“What kept you?” demanded dad as I eventually emerged, slightly dishevelled and decidedly sweaty.
I rolled my eyes at him and made no attempt to help while he put down the back-seats of the car, lifted the hatch-back, and then graciously decided to help me to load the desk by lifting one end while I slid the monstrosity into the car. I got into the passenger-seat and then fumed to myself while he fussed around for ages, tying the hatch-back as far shut as it would go and affixing a yellow hanky to the protruding foot of the desk. At last, he got in and drove us home where we deposited the desk in a corner of the garage.
“So, can I go and meet Torquil now?” I asked sulkily.
“If you must.”
Aware that my weekends were at risk, I bit back a cheeky retort and stalked off down the road. I might be newly eighteen, but as long as I lived at home, I knew I had to abide by dad’s rules and accept his discipline.
My summer-job at the museum, where I welcomed visitors and issued tickets, started at 2p.m. and lasted until eight, with a brief break in the middle. It was mind-numbingly boring most of the time, and I was usually relieved when I could lock up for the night. Trying to get the final stragglers out of the building for eight o’clock was a challenge sometimes, but I could normally be home not long after eight-thirty.
My mornings were free and I tended to lie long, have a late breakfast and generally potter about until it was time for lunch. Torquil’s job at the swimming-pool, where he acted as a life-guard, was from eight in the morning until late afternoon, so we usually met only at weekends or occasionally for a drink in the late evening.
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A few days after we’d brought the old desk back to the garage, I was mooching around the house about half an hour before lunch, both my parents being out at work, and feeling bored. Outside, the rain was streaming down and my hopes of going for a run were dashed. I enjoyed running, but not in torrential rain. I wandered into the garage through a door from the utility-room and eyed the old desk. I tried again to get it to open, but it was definitely locked. I couldn’t say why I was so keen to open it, but something just pushed at me to do so. I tried to slide a knife-blade under the lid to prise open the lock, but that didn’t work. I tried a few old keys which were lying in a drawer in the garage; but none fitted. Frustrated, I gave the desk a violent shake; and something rattled inside. I shook it again and once more there was a rattling-sound. It seemed that I’d dislodged something.
Now I was all the more eager to get the thing open. A screw-driver didn’t work, and so I got a hammer and chisel and worked carefully at the lock. A wasp buzzed past close to my face and gave me a fright and I put a lot more pressure on the chisel than I’d intended. There was a cracking, splintering sound and the lock burst free of the wooden desk-top. The desk was open, but the damage was impossible to conceal. I laid down the hammer and chisel and lifted the lid. Inside, partly curved so that it fitted the space, was a cane.
I lifted it out gingerly, as if afraid that it would bite. It was slender and lithe and bent easily into a smooth arc when I held each end in my hands. I did an experimental stroke and the air whistled.
“Shit,” I muttered to myself, as I plunged a hand into my jeans to rearrange my swiftly-hardening penis.
The cane fascinated me. I began to fantasise about using it on a boy’s bottom in class; and then to imagine Torquil using it on my bottom. My erection was solid and throbbing urgently. I tried it out on my own buttocks, but couldn’t get any force behind the strokes and gave it up. I ambled back into the kitchen and sat at the table with a bowl of soup and wondered about what it felt like to be caned. Lunch over, it wasn’t long before I was lying on the sofa in the sitting-room, the cane beside me, bringing myself to a stunning climax as I fantasised about a naked Torquil thrashing me hard with the cane. The room spun for a few seconds as my boy-cream spurted strongly over my shoulder, and I experienced an almost unbearable explosion of pleasure. Deeply content, I drifted off to sleep to be awakened abruptly by the telephone. I leapt to my feet and plunged into the hall to answer breathlessly. It was the warden of the museum, saying it was ten past two and where the hell was I?
Horrified, I paused only to put on my trainers and dashed out of the house. I arrived, breathless and profusely apologetic more than twenty minutes late. It wasn’t until I’d been politely welcoming visitors for over an hour that there was a pause and I could think again about the cane. It was then that the appalling truth hit me like a sledge-hammer. I’d left the cane lying on the sofa in the sitting-room; and both mum and dad would be home from their work long before I was.
I approached the house warily, unsure of what kind of reception I was going to get. It wasn’t so much the cane itself which bothered me, as the fact that I’d damaged the desk in order to force it open. I took a deep breath and went into the sitting-room. My parents looked up questioningly. On the coffee-table, the cane still reposed where I’d left it.
“So,” began dad, “would you like to explain?”
I realised that I didn’t yet know if he’d discovered the damaged desk; or indeed if he’d made a connection between the cane and the desk. I didn’t want to talk myself into unnecessary trouble, not least because I thought that there might still be a chance that I could patch up the damage to the desk.
“Explain what?” I enquired innocently.
“A ruddy cane lying on the table in the lounge,” replied dad. “A little surprising to come home to, don’t you think, Julian?”
“Oh, that! I found it in that old desk. Sorry, I’ll take it away and………”
“Leave it alone and sit down!”
Reluctantly, I sat.
“How did you get it out of the desk?” asked dad.
My heart sank. I was sure now that he knew about the damage.
“Well, I tried a few keys and, when they didn’t fit, I tried a chisel; and it sort of slipped and burst the whole thing open; and this was inside. It’s a real school cane,” I went on, hoping to distract him from the desk with detail about the cane. “Look at how slim and pliant it is. I bet it hurt!”
“You don’t know, Julian?”
“How would I know? I’ve never been caned.”
“Maybe I should remedy that?”
“What! Dad, no! You can’t cane me! It’s abolished! It’s illegal!”
“You’re eighteen, Julian. If you agree to it, you can be caned this very evening.”
“Of course I don’t agree to being caned,” I protested.
“Maybe I should have explained that the alternative is the next six weeks staying indoors all weekend, every weekend,” said dad.
I gasped aloud in horror and, “You wouldn’t!” I panted.
“I would.”
“But I didn’t mean to damage the desk. It was an accident. Honest. I’m sure I can patch it up; and from a distance, when it’s on stage, nobody will notice anyway.”
“I don’t think it’s going to be as easily mended as you seem to think. And the fact that the damage may not be visible when it’s on stage is missing the point. You did the damage because you were doing something you had no business doing. Isn’t that right, Julian?”
“Yes, okay. I was wrong,” I admitted sullenly.
“Right. Take the cane, go up to your room, and have a good think about whether you want six weeks’ grounding or six of the best with the rod. I’ll be up in twenty minutes and you can tell me your decision.”
I picked up the cane and looked at dad.
“You’re actually gonna beat me with this?” I asked, still struggling to believe it.
“If that’s what you choose. Off you go.”
I went.
Up in my room, I bent the cane into a smooth arc and then did a full-power practice-stroke on my pillow. I tried to imagine how much it would hurt to have my bottom hit that hard, six times. I winced at the thought. I realised that I had no idea how much it would hurt. I was fairly sure though that it would be a lot. I squirmed inwardly as I tried to decide, but eventually concluded that opting for the cane was too much of a leap into the unknown. Reluctantly, I told dad I’d accept six weekends of being grounded.
Torquil, when I told him, was furious with me.
“What the hell did you think you were doing?” he demanded. “We don’t get much time together during the week because of the way our jobs are; and then you go and get yourself gated for six bloody weekends!”
“I’m sorry. I just…..”
“And to make it worse, you didn’t even have to! You got an alternative; a beating that’s over in a few minutes and then you’re free. What’ve you got between your ears, Julian? Semolina?”
“But that cane looked vicious. I tried it carefully on my arse, and it still stung. Imagine it used with full force; and six times over!”
“Yeh, well. It’s just a bit of pain. You could take that. You’re not exactly a scrawny little runt, are you? You got a fantastic arse on you and you could surely have taken a few hard licks on it.”
I sighed and urged him to come down to the park for a kickabout before it got dark, but he was still miffed with me and said he was going home.
Over the following days things settled down, and we met in the late evenings after I’d finished work at the museum. Occasionally things were a bit strained as we approached a weekend, but we had a strong enough relationship to get us through.
It was on the Saturday of the fourth weekend of my grounding that events conspired to cause a major upset. The production in which the desk was to be used was due to begin a week later and it needed to be delivered to the hall where the play would be put on, so that the final week of rehearsals could take place on the stage with all furnishings in place. Mum had been called away to care for her mother who had had a fall and needed someone to look after her for a week or two; and dad intended to put the desk in his car on Saturday afternoon and take it to the hall. I’d done a bit of repair-work on it and, although it was obvious close-up that the lock had been broken and the surrounding wood damaged, nothing would be visible from the audience.
I was mooching about sulkily just after lunch when the phone rang, and dad returned from answering it to tell me that there was a crisis at work and he’d have to go into the office.
“You’ll have to get the desk to the hall,” he said to me. “They need it for late afternoon and I’ve got to go now and it sounds like I won’t be back for several hours.”
“But I can’t carry that great big thing all the way to the hall,” I protested. “And besides, I’m not allowed out, remember?”
“In the circumstances you are allowed out for the sole purpose of getting the desk to the hall. Put it on the garden wheelbarrow and you’ll get it down there easily enough; and then come straight home.”
Dad dashed off and I went out sullenly to the shed to fetch the wheelbarrow. I managed to load the tall desk on to it, but it was pretty unstable and unwieldy. I pondered for a minute or two and then called Torquil, who arrived eagerly shortly after.
“Licence to go out,” he said with a grin.
“Yeh; but not to see you at the weekend. I just need some help to keep this thing steady while I wheel it down the road.”
“And you never thought about a quick snog or even a foray into my pants afterwards?”
“Well…..”
“Randy bugger!” declared Torquil happily. “Is that cane back in there?”
“No. It’s still in my room.”
“A warning to a bad boy that he’d better behave himself, huh, Julian?”
“Come on; let’s get this done.”
We set off and found that even with two of us it was difficult.
“Hey! If we go down Merryhell Lane, we’d cut off almost half the distance,” suggested Torquil.
“But there’s a flight of steps at the far end of the lane,” I objected.
“So? I’ll go backwards in front, holding the desk steady and you bump the barrow down the steps carefully. It’ll be a piece of cake,” he averred confidently.
I had some doubts, but the prospect of reducing the distance by a huge chunk won me over. We eventually reached the top of the steps and Torquil held the desk with both hands and felt his way backwards down the steps while I guided the barrow slowly over the edge of each step and down with a bump to the next one. We were almost half way down when a cat raced out of a gateway and almost tripped Torquil. The desk wobbled and the barrow threatened to tip over. With an effort, we steadied things; and then a dog pelted out in pursuit of the cat and Torquil, jumping to one side to avoid being hit by the animal, lost his footing and tumbled to the ground. The barrow swayed and I made a grab for the desk as it slid off the front edge; but that just made me lose complete control of the barrow and as I watched helplessly the desk crashed to the ground and then slid with increasing speed down the flight of steps. Torquil made a vain attempt to stop it as he staggered to his feet again, but it was too late. The desk, bumped and slid its way to the bottom and landed with a crash which made the lid jump open and then come away completely.
Horrified, I dashed down to find that the front of the desk was badly damaged too by a long split in the wood. Torquil came up beside me and began to dab at a grazed knee with his hanky as we surveyed the mess. There was nothing else to do but to go on and deliver the desk to the hall, where I explained what had happened and said that my father would be in touch when he got home. Torquil and I returned to my house.
“You may as well be here when dad gets back,” I said, “because you were seen with me at the hall and so he’ll know you were there too. Anyway, I think I might need some moral support when the storm breaks.”
“Sure. I’ll help to explain that it was an accident; and that you needed help to get the thing to the hall. The only thing that might be a bit tricky is explaining why we went by the steps. You reckon your dad might think that was a bit irresponsible?”
“Yes,” I retorted sourly. “I do.”
“Never mind,” said Torquil. “It might not be as bad as you think.”
“Or it might be even worse.”
Torquil kissed me and after a while I relaxed and just enjoyed being intimate with him again. We went up to my room and had some fun and then he noticed the cane and picked it up. He ran a finger along it and slashed it through the air.
“Wow! You’re right. It is a vicious thing. Just think of boys a few years younger than us getting this across their arse. Must’ve been tough little bastards,” he said.
At that moment I heard the sound of a car-door slamming shut, and realised that dad was home. We went downstairs to face the music. When he saw Torquil, dad’s immediate reaction was to order him out of the house.
“No, dad; please. I’ve got something to tell you first. Just listen to me, please.”
He glared at Torquil but sat down and looked interrogatively at me. I told the whole sorry story and then sat and waited. As I’d feared, dad homed in on the one aspect of the incident which was definitely blameworthy.
“Did it not occur to you that to take a large, hefty piece of furniture on a wheelbarrow down a flight of steps was just asking for trouble?”
“Yes,” I replied miserably. “I thought we’d manage it; but I was wrong.”
“And what’s he doing here?” demanded dad, nodding towards Torquil.
“I asked him to come and help me because it was difficult to manoeuvre the barrow and desk myself. It might have fallen off and got damaged.”
Dad raised his eyebrows.
“Yeh, yeh, I know; that’s what happened anyway, but it wasn’t meant to. And his name’s Torquil,” I added.
“Very well, Torquil,” said dad, saying the name as if it was an unfamiliar word which he was struggling to pronounce, “you can go now. I need to deal with Julian’s bad behaviour.”
“It was my bad behaviour too, sir,” said Torquil with careful politeness. “In fact the idea to go down the steps was mine.”
“Yes; well, I can’t ground you for the next six weekends,” retorted dad, “so please go.”
“You could beat me,” said Torquil quietly, “if I consent; and I do.”
“Torquil!” I gasped.
“Beat you?” dad asked.
“Julian told me about the cane he found in the old desk; and that you gave him the choice of a beating or grounding when he smashed the lock. I know he chose to be grounded, but I’d go for the cane any day,” asserted Torquil firmly.
“You?” asked dad with a strong note of incredulity in his voice.
“Me,” replied Torquil softly but clearly.
“At eighteen I guess you’re old enough to make your own decision and I don’t need your parents’ permission, but you’re not my responsibility. Julian is and he’s the one I’m going to ground for another six weeks.”
“He’d rather be caned,” said Torquil.
“Torquil!” I hissed angrily.
“So, since we both deserve to be punished, and we do; and since we both agree to take a beating, and we do, all you need to do now is to cane us both,” continued Torquil.
Dad stared in amazement at him and then turned to me and asked, “Would you rather be caned this time, Julian?”
In spite of the feeling that Torquil had bounced me into it, I felt that I did prefer to go for the cane this time. I’d almost completed one six-weekend grounding and didn’t want to embark on another.
“Yes,” I replied quickly, before I could change my mind.
“Right. Go up to your room and wait there, both of you. I’ll be up shortly,” said dad tersely.
In my room, I turned to Torquil.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” I said. “He’s not gonna go easy on us. Oh, bloody hell!”
“What?”
“Do you think he’ll make us take it bare?”
“Well, we’re eighteen, so I should think he probably will,” opined Torquil. “What’s his problem with me, Julian?”
“I dunno. I know it sounds silly, but I don’t think he can quite believe that anybody called Torquil is a real boy.”
“He’ll soon see that I’m a real boy if he canes me bare,” observed Torquil. “And if he thinks that I’m going to bawl the place down when I’m being beaten, he’ll need to think again.”
“I wish I was so sure I wasn’t gonna yell blue murder when he’s caning me,” I confided.
“Just think of all the weekends you’d have lost if you hadn’t taken the cane,” Torquil advised. “It’ll soon be over.”
“I wish he’d just come and get on with it. I hate this waiting.”
As if in response to my wish, we heard dad’s footsteps on the stairs. I glanced uneasily at the cane and then turned to the door. Dad came in and picked up the cane, arching it menacingly as we watched.
“Changed you mind, Julian?” he asked; but I shook my head.
“And are you still up for it, Torquil?” he enquired, again putting a curious stress on the name as if he didn’t take it seriously.
To my dismay, Torquil reacted angrily: “Look, what’s your problem with me?” he demanded. “I didn’t choose my name; but it’s nothing to do with who I am. I’m gay, like Julian, but I guess you know that; and I’m not a namby-pamby kid who can’t take his punishment when he’s messed up. I’ve said that I’ll take a beating and I will.”
Dad arched the cane some more and we both watched him uneasily; and then he said, “Fair enough. Maybe I’m doing you an injustice. Anyway, we’ll soon see how tough you really are. Now hold your tongue or I might see fit to give you some extra strokes.”
I breathed a sigh of relief when Torquil remained silent. I’d been scared that dad might send him away and leave me to take the cane alone.
“Right, Julian; let’s get this done. Jeans and pants off and then bend over with your hands on that chair.”
Reluctantly, I bared myself as ordered and was surprised to find my penis almost horizontal. I quickly made sure I had my back to dad and bent over the chair. He told me to get my feet further apart and then rapped the cane several times on my behind. It felt cool on my rather nervous, hot skin and I started to think it might not be too bad. I tensed as I felt the rod being raised and then heard a sharp snap followed almost at once by a fierce sting along the centre of my buttocks, as if someone had laid a red-hot poker on my flesh. I clenched my glutes and gritted my teeth. Dad tapped my rump with the cane over and over and over again, making me wait, before he inflicted the next stroke. Slightly lower, it incised another blazing welt on my bottom. I swallowed and steadied myself, but the third cut, coming almost immediately and with no warning-rap, forced a barely-stifled yelp from me as searing fire lashed my rear.
There was a pause. I wondered if he was finished and even felt my cock starting to rise again. Part of me hoped it was over but, curiously, a small part of me wanted him to go on. Six was the traditional number of strokes in a caning, so I’d read, and somehow I thought that I needed to experience six. The cane was exploring my rump once again and I tensed; because whether I wanted it or not, it seemed that there was more to come. The next stroke felt as if it landed, by accident or design, right on top of the weal left by the previous one and I gasped aloud and gave my behind a swift rub. I was told tersely to get my hand away.
The rod probed my bottom, sliding repeatedly over the skin where buttocks merge into upper legs and I knew that was where the next stroke would probably be intended to land. It did, whipping viciously hard into sensitive flesh and making me kick violently as a squeal escaped me and I writhed from the hips, my gluteal-muscles screamingly tight as I fought the pain. The final stroke was even lower, branding the top of my legs with a gut-wrenching blast of fire which forced me to buck and twist and sink my teeth into the wooden edge of the chair.
“Up you get, hands on your head, and go and stand facing the wall, Julian,” instructed dad. “Torquil; buttocks bare and bend over the chair.”
I straightened up slowly and, placing my hands obediently on my head, moved over to the wall as Torquil removed his clothing. He flashed me a swift grin of sympathy as I passed him; and I noticed that he was more than half-way erect. I had a swift glance back as I took up my stance at the wall, and saw him bend over and grip the chair-edges tightly.
I didn’t risk turning after that as I feared that if dad saw me, I might get more. My full focus was on listening and I heard dad take up position; and then a lengthy pause ensued before I heard the whistle of the fast-descending cane and the clean snap as it made violent contact with Torquil’s waiting bottom. There was no other sound. A few seconds later the cane was wielded again, but the sharp crack on impact with the boy’s skin elicited no answering sound from him. After the third stroke I heard a slight gasp, and following the fourth I surmised that Torquil had bucked quite determinedly, because I heard the sound of the chair moving a little.
There was a pause and I held my breath, knowing that the final two were almost certainly going to be aimed low, like mine, and would be the most painful. The low snarl and the sound of the chair again moving a little, were enough to tell me that number five had really got through to Torquil. I could hear him breathing hard in the silence as dad lined up the final stroke. A sound like a rifle-shot followed cane and bare boy-flesh being brought into brutally-hard contact and, like an echo came a brief yelp. After that the only sound was Torquil breathing hard again.
“Get up; hands on head; face the wall beside Julian.”
I heard Torquil rise and a few seconds later he was by my side, facing the wall. We glanced anxiously at each other and exchanged watery smiles. As we stood there, our penises rose steadily until they were both pointing resolutely towards the ceiling. Dad left us standing there was several minutes before telling us to get our pants and jeans back on. Both carefully keeping our backs to him as much as possible, we complied and then stood in front of him.
“Lesson learned, boys?”
“Yes, sir,” we responded quietly in unison.
“You both took it well,” observed dad and I felt a ridiculous sense of achievement. “And you, Torquil,” he continued, saying my pal’s name in a perfectly normal way, “are certainly no softie. I’ve possibly misjudged you.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Torquil. “That was hell.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” said dad wryly.
“It was,” said Torquil, rubbing his bottom.
“And you, Julian?”
“I think that you should keep the cane,” I said carefully. “It got through to me better than a few weekends of grounding would have done and I don’t want it again soon. Like Torquil said, it was hell; but I’ll take it again if I deserve it,” I added, slightly to my own surprise.
A few minutes later, Torquil and I were lying naked, face down on my bed, comparing notes on our first experience of being caned. After that was done, we caressed and licked each other’s cane-welts; and then we fucked like sex-starved rabbits.
“So you’re gonna go for the cane when you mess up in future, huh, Julian?”
“Yeh! I know it was pretty horrendous, but it was so quick compared with grounding; and…..and…..”
I hesitated. Torquil grinned at me.
“And you kinda liked it, didn’t you?” he asked.
“No! I didn’t like it; but it did get me hard. I don’t understand why; and that fucking-session we just had was the best ever. Looks like a pair of soundly-caned arses make for white-hot sex.”
“Yeh; that was really champion,” agreed Torquil. “Maybe,” he suggested daringly, “we could cane each other?”
“Or even misbehave so that dad canes us?” I added even more daringly.
Torquil got up, fetched the cane, and we sat leaning against the head of my bed, side-by-side, with it lying across our bare thighs.
“Mmm,” said Torquil thoughtfully, “that sounds good too. Know something, Julian?”
“What?”
“I reckon you unlocked more than just the cane when you burst into that old desk. I think you unlocked a whole new world for us.”
I gazed at our penises, each straining resolutely for the ceiling.
“Yeh,” I concurred, “and it looks as if our bodies agree.”
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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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