A Cane Is Purchased (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A hot and brand spanking new caning story by very special guest author JOELSTRAP.  This story is exclusive to The Canery!  All the characters are 18 or older. WARNING: ADULTS ONLY!

A Cane Is Purchased by Joelstrap

Cabbage Corcoran grabbed me by the ear and twisted hard, so that I uttered a little yelp of pain as I lowered my head.

“Let’s see what your father has to say about this,” he said grimly as he yanked me through the ragged gap in the hedge from his garden to mine.

“Let go of my ear!” I protested angrily. “I’m not a little boy! I’m eighteen. I’m not gonna run away.”

“Damn right you’re not, boy,” Cabbage retorted; and he gave my ear another vicious twist as he dragged me to the door into the kitchen.

“Are you there, Andy?” he called; and my father replied, “In the lounge, Charlie.”

I was unceremoniously manhandled into the lounge where to my horror I found that dad wasn’t alone. Seated on the other side of the fireplace was my former maths teacher, Lanky Logan. I thought I’d seen the last of him a few months earlier when I’d left school for good, although I knew that dad and he were acquainted.

“Aha,” he said with a smile like that of a sadist contemplating a victim on his torture-table, “still as badly-behaved as ever I see.”

I scowled furiously. Lanky Logan’s cane and my bottom had become very familiar indeed with each other over the years as he tried to eradicate what he considered to be unacceptable behaviour on my part. Things like whispering to a mate in class, omitting to hand in homework on time, writing rude limericks about him on the blackboard, failing to pay attention, and flicking bits of my rubber at him when his back was turned, along with numerous other peccadillos, had all resulted in swift but painful retribution.

“He was troublesome, was he?” enquired dad. “He didn’t tell me that.”

“Oh, yes. I’m afraid that I had to cane him rather frequently, but it seemed to be effective in that most of the faults weren’t repeated; alas, he was remarkably inventive in coming up with new ways to offend. Quite a talent he had,” observed Lanky Logan.

“Indeed,” said dad, looking intensely interested. “I’ll need to have a talk with him about all this; but it looks as if he’s in more trouble now. What’s he been up to, Charlie?”

“This young vandal has just smashed a hole in the hedge, destroyed two ornamental planters full of petunias, decapitated a gnome, tipped my wife off her sun-lounger into a bed of marigolds, up-ended a garden-table, traumatised my dog, and eaten a pork-pie,” he said.

“I didn’t eat the pork-pie,” I objected hotly. “I told you. The pie flew off the table and your bloody dog wolfed it down.”

“Craig! Don’t you dare swear in here!” shouted dad.

“Okay! I’ll go out in the garden and swear if he’ll let go of my ear!” I retorted furiously.

“That’s enough, Craig! Hold your tongue!” ordered dad.

Aware that I’d overstepped the mark, I retreated into a sullen silence.

“Well,” interposed Lanky Logan, “he seems to have become a lot more imaginative in his bad behaviour since he left school.”

“At least you’ve got rid of him,” said Cabbage Corcoran. “I’ve got to live next door to the destructive young bugger.”

“Dad?” I appealed, since it seemed to me that if I wasn’t allowed to swear, it was hardly fair that anyone else should be; but dad ignored me.

“You’ll need to do something about him, Andy,” continued Cabbage. “Pork pies don’t grow on trees.”

“Why are you so obsessed about the pork-pie?” I asked.

“Obsessed? You’re the one who’s obsessed, boy; obsessed with mindless destruction of other people’s property,” he retorted and gave my ear another fierce twist so that I yelped, bent almost double.

“Will you let go of my ear!”

“What have you got to say for yourself, Craig?” asked dad.

I remained silent.

“I’m waiting.”

“And I’m saying nothing until he lets go of my ear.”

Dad nodded at Cabbage and with obvious reluctance he released me. I straightened up and scrubbed at my throbbing ear, feeling the heat in the ferociously-squeezed skin.

“Please sit down, Charlie,” invited dad; and he duly took a chair.

I made to sit down as well but dad intervened with a sharp, “You stay on your feet, my lad,” which was barked out with such authority that I hastily sprang upright again.

As I looked at the three of them sitting there, I felt as if I was on trial. Dad clearly angry and wanting to know a lot more detail; Lanky Logan quietly enjoying the whole scene and no doubt wishing he could give me a sound caning; and Cabbage Corcoran, decidedly aggrieved and probably hoping dad would beat the living shit out of me.

“Well?” asked dad in a menacingly quiet tone.

I swallowed, feeling the red tide of embarrassment sweeping up my face.

“Dad! Can’t we just deal with this, you and me? I’m not trying to get out of anything; but it’s our business. Please, dad?”

“It sounds as if it’s very much Mr. Corcoran’s business,” replied dad, “and since Mr. Logan has some experience of your bad behaviour in your school years, I think he may have some helpful advice.”

I glowered. Dad stood up and ordered me to approach him. I did so warily.

“Remove that expression from your face now, Craig,” he said quietly.

“What expression?” I asked in what I knew was an insolent tone, but which came out anyway.

Dad’s palm connected very hard with my left cheek, making a crack which resounded across the room. I made an effort and resisted the urge to rub the blazing skin. I also made an effort to look more co-operative. I really didn’t want another slap as hard as that.

“Ready to tell me now, Craig?”

“Yes,” I replied softly.

Dad sat down and I began my explanation.

“It was the motor-mower,” I said. “It was a bit heavier than I realised and it kind of got away from me. I tried to stop it, but I accidentally made it go faster and somehow it was making for the hedge and I couldn’t do anything about it.”

“What were you doing with the motor-mower?” demanded dad.

I’d feared that would come up, but I’d hoped it wouldn’t. Lanky Logan was looking highly expectant. I took a deep breath.

“You told me to cut the grass, but the blade of the push-mower snapped when it hit a stone, and so I had to……”

“There aren’t any stones in the lawn,” interposed dad.

“Er, well, you see I had to cross the path to get to the bit of lawn on the other side, and the mower hit an edging-stone.”

“And how have I always told you to get the mower across the path?” enquired dad.

“Carry it,” I admitted reluctantly, wishing he’d give me a break.

“And then you decided to use the power-mower. Why?”

“You told me to cut the grass.”

“And what have I told you about the motor-mower?”

Shit! Isn’t he going to let up even a little bit?

“I was only to use it under your supervision as I wasn’t used to it,” I muttered irritably.

“Yet you used it anyway?”

“Yeh! Okay! I made a bloody mistake! It’s not the end of the world!”

“And you’re still swearing,” observed dad.

“It was the end for my pork-pie,” interjected Cabbage Corcoran.

I lost it.

“I’ll buy you another fucking pork-pie!” I yelled angrily.

“Craig! That’s enough. Go to the corner, face the wall, and don’t say a word.”

Sullenly, giving Cabbage a vicious glare, I went.

“Fascinating,” observed Lanky Logan. “Absolutely fascinating.”

“So, what do you think I should do about him?” asked dad.

“Flog him!” said Cabbage at once. “Make a whip out of leather-bootlaces, strip him, string him up by the wrists, and give him a hundred lashes. That would sort him out.”

“I think that might be a bit extreme,” dad replied.

“Okay,” conceded Cabbage reluctantly. “Make it fifty lashes.”

“Perhaps,” interrupted Lanky Logan, “a good, hard caning is what he needs. It did seem to cure him at school, although he kept finding new things to do wrong. His inventiveness in terms of bad-behaviour is truly astonishing; and today’s escapade is a superb example. Do you have a cane, Andy?”

“No. I usually just slipper him.”

“Hmm. At eighteen he needs something that will get through his tough young hide. You know Bounderbies, the department store? They sell punishment-canes. Get yourself down there and buy one and then give the young hooligan the thrashing of his life.”

“Do you know,” said dad, “I think I might just do that.”

The sadistic bastards, sitting there discussing how to punish me; and dad actually agreeing to buy a cane and give me a beating! He’ll never do it though. I’m too old for the cane now that I’ve left school.

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

Once the other two had gone, I was summoned from the corner and dad and I set about repairing what damage we could to the hedge and in Cabbage’s garden; and went out and bought replacements for what I’d broken – using my money! I even went and apologised to Cabbage’s wife, although privately I felt that if anyone deserved to be tipped out of a sun-lounger, she was the one. Once all that was accomplished, dad said he’d give some consideration to the matter of how to punish me and try to ensure no repeat of my behaviour. I was about to protest that my meagre savings had already taken some severe punishment, but on seeing the expression on dad’s face, I decided to keep quiet.

On Saturday morning, dad told me we were going into town. It was only as we approached Bounderbies and dad turned towards the entrance that a nasty suspicion leapt into my mind.

“Dad! You’re not……..”

“Excuse me,” said dad to the elderly, smartly-dressed guy on duty at the door, “can you tell me where to find punishment-canes?”

“Punishment canes, sir?” repeated the guy in the loud voice of the hard-of-hearing. “Certainly, sir. Third floor, sir.”

Several people turned to look and I cringed, feeling my face turning scarlet.

“Dad!” I protested.

“Come on, Craig. Don’t dawdle.”

He strode off towards the lifts and I followed reluctantly. Emerging on the third floor, I tried again.

“Dad, you can’t cane me. I’m too old now. And you can’t buy a cane with me right here with you. Please!”

“Why not?”

“It’ll be embarrassing,” I pleaded.

“I’m not embarrassed,” said dad.

“I didn’t mean you!” I hissed furiously.

Dad strode on and asked a question of a young lady, who directed him across to the far side of the sales-floor where there was a counter. A middle-aged man nodded as dad asked about a cane and I tried to hide behind a stand of umbrellas.

“Gordon,” called the sales-assistant, “would you bring out the range of canes, please?”

“Please, dad, don’t do this to me. If you really want to buy a cane, at least let me go somewhere else.”

“You stay right there, my lad.”

He turned back towards the counter and I shot him a murderous look, aware that my face was once again bright red. A couple of seconds later things became much, much worse. From a room behind the counter there emerged, carrying a bundle of canes, Gordon Blackaby, a guy from my year at school. His eyebrows rose as he saw me and then, as it dawned on him what was happening, a broad grin spread across his face.

“Would it be this young man here who’s in need of some discipline?” asked the salesman.

“It certainly would,” said dad. “What do you recommend?”

“A senior cane, definitely,” said the assistant.

“Maybe this one,” interjected Gordon eagerly, holding up a slim rod which looked as if could impart a considerable sting. “Would you like to handle it, sir?”

Dad took the cane and arched it before slashing it through the air. It whined and I winced.

“He’d feel that,” remarked Gordon smugly.

While dad and the salesman were looking the other way, I gave Gordon a vicious obscene gesture. He grinned even more broadly.

“Yes,” announced dad. “I think this will do. I should be able to get through to him with it.”

“Aim carefully and hit hard,” advised the salesman.

“And on his bare bottom,” added Gordon.

Dad and the salesman looked at him.

“Well, you don’t want to waste effort getting through his clothes,” explained Gordon.

Dad paid for the cane and the salesman put it in a bag and handed it to him; and he passed it to me.

“You carry it, Craig,” he said. “It’s for you.”

Scarlet to the roots of my hair, I took the bag and headed off as fast as seemed decent. Dad caught up with me at the lift.

“Do you realise that was the most embarrassing experience of my life?”

“I thought you didn’t look too happy,” dad admitted. “The salesman and the young lad were both very helpful though, weren’t they?”

“That young lad, as you put it, was in my year at school,” I snapped angrily. “He was enjoying every fucking second of that.”

“I beg your pardon, Craig?”

“Sorry. It just slipped out because I’m upset. He’s gonna tell everybody, dad! By tonight, there won’t be a boy from my year who won’t know that my dad took me to buy a cane to tan my hide with. My life’s over. I’ll have to move away; probably emigrate!” I declared dramatically.

“Tch!” replied dad. “They’ve surely seen you getting the cane at school? What’s the difference?”

I was speechless. The lift arrived and I plunged in, desperate to get out of the store and back home.

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

Dad sent me to my room with the cane.

“Look at it,” he said. “Get used to how it feels in your hands; and think about how it’s going to feel across your bare bottom.”

I bent the rod into a smooth arc and let go of one end so that it sprang swiftly back to quivering straightness. I lashed it through the air and winced at the sound it made. For some reason my penis hardened, but I feared the pain to come.

There was the sound of footsteps on the stair and I froze, tense, waiting. Dad entered and told me tersely to strip. He took the cane and did some experimental strokes on my pillow while I undressed, making me flinch each time the cane hit. Soon it would be my arse under that rod. He ordered me to stand in front of him, hands behind my back, like I was a kid. I was ram-rod hard and couldn’t hide it so I stared brazenly into his face and wondered if he could still get a stiffie like mine. I was about the same height as he was now at eighteen, although he was broader and heftier and I still had the slenderness of youth.

A lengthy lecture ensued during which my various sins were relentlessly enumerated, ranging from disobedience, which had been the root-cause of the disaster with the lawn-mowers, through an unacceptable attitude, swearing and rudeness, to the general tendency to get myself into trouble at school in recent years; which he’d just found out about courtesy of that bastard Lanky Logan.

“This beating has been a long time coming, Craig,” he said quietly, “and I should have done it some time ago, probably repeatedly, and we might not be in this situation today. Do you understand that you deserve this?”

“Yes,” I admitted softly; because I knew that I did.

He ordered me to bend over, legs well apart, hands on my bed, head down. I felt the cane exploring my bottom, sliding over the skin, tapping here and there. My mouth felt dry and I tensed in nervous anticipation of what lay ahead. For all the times I’d been caned at school, nothing had quite prepared me for this.

The cane moved back and forward several times just below the crown of my buttocks. That’s where he was aiming. A trickle of sweat ran down my chest. I waited. The stroke was hard and drove in with full power sending a fiery streak of pain burning deep into my flesh. I clenched my buttocks firmly and absorbed the sting. A pause and then it came again, a little lower, just as fierce and forcing me to clench even harder. He seemed to be working his way steadily downwards and was approaching more sensitive flesh. The third carved its way into my behind and I gasped as torrid heat lashed me in a slim, blazing line. The one which he delivered just below it burned so ferociously that my right hand flew round to rub urgently at the tortured skin.

“Get your hand back on the bed, Craig. I’ll repeat that stroke.”

You bastard!

I tried to steady myself but the repeat came before I was ready, again low on my behind, and it forced a squeal of agony from me as I sank my teeth hard into the bedding and twisted my lower body. I could feel myself quivering as I waited, desperately wondering how much more of this I could take. The rod was probing lower still and I knew the pain was going to get even more intense. An expectant pause and then he lashed the cane viciously hard into the tender flesh where my bottom merged into my upper legs. With a snarling howl, I writhed as I bit deeper into the bedding and grasped it with my hands as if my life depended on it. No way was I going to risk another repeat-stroke by trying to rub my buttocks.

I eased my teeth from the fabric and breathed hard, aware that hot tears were running down my face. The cane was already exploring my behind for the sixth stroke, not including the repeat. It didn’t come at an angle as I’d expected but was delivered once more low down where I was most sensitive; and to judge by the savage intensity of the pain, which ripped like a lightning-blast through my flesh, it landed right on top of the welt left by the previous stroke. I writhed and kicked and even the bedding filling my mouth didn’t fully stifle the yell which was forced from me.

For what felt like a long time, I remained bent over while the pain slowly eased like the ebbing tide. I relaxed the grip of hands and teeth on my bedding and blinked scalding tears from my eyes. I breathed long and deeply and to my surprise felt a tentative response between my legs.

“Well, you might behave like a boy,” said dad, ruffling my hair, “but you can take a caning like a man.”

A wave of gratitude swept over me for that, and when he told me to stand up, I did so carefully but with a growing confidence that I hadn’t shamed myself. I stood once again, hands behind my back and with a determinedly rising penis, and looked dad in the face. I knew he’d been ashamed of my behaviour but I detected the beginnings of a pride in my ability to take my dues like the young man that I now was. He arched the cane before my eyes and asked me if I had anything to say.

“I’m sorry, dad. I’ll really try to behave better in future.”

“You’d better, Craig, because the cane is going to stay here in your room, not hidden away, but out where you can always see it, as a reminder of what you can expect if things don’t improve dramatically. Am I understood?”

I’d been looking at my feet while he spoke, but now I raised my eyes to look into his face again and “yes, sir”, I said quietly.

“Mr Logan seemed to think that his canings had some effect on you, although he was constantly surprised at the new ways you appeared to find for getting into trouble. I wonder if the problem was that he didn’t cane you hard enough; and admittedly he wasn’t allowed to cane you bare. Perhaps I’ve persuaded you not to get into trouble in other ways in future, eh Craig?”

I almost thought that I detected a smile as he spoke. I swallowed and rubbed carefully at my throbbing bottom.

“Dad, every caning Mr Logan gave me added together didn’t hurt me half as much as that one did. I dunno where you learned to use a cane, but if caning was an Olympic-sport, you’d get a gold, no questions asked.”

“So?”

“So, if the alternative to behaving well is another session like that, I’m gonna pull out all the stops to behave myself. I’m sorry if I’ve made you ashamed of me; but I’ll do my best to make you proud from now on.”

“Good. And the cane will stay here,” said dad, placing it on top of my chest-of-drawers, “just to remind you.”

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

That afternoon, bottom still decidedly tender, I ambled slowly through the local park. I was about to sit on a bench to soak up the sun by the duck-pond when I decided that maybe I didn’t really want to sit down on a hard seat after all. I rested a hand on the back of the bench and gazed at the tranquil water.

“Arse too sore to sit down, huh?” said a voice; and I turned to see Gordon grinning knowingly at me.

“Fuck off, you sadistic bastard!” I snapped.

“It’s okay. I’m just doing some after-sales-service. At Bounderbies we like to know that customers are satisfied with our products. That was a good-quality cane that your dad bought; so, did it do a good job?”

“If you don’t fuck off right now, I’m gonna do a good job of smashing your face!”

“Oooh! Briefs too tight on your cane-welts and making you a bit tetchy, huh? Seems the cane did do a good job.”

I launched myself at him, but he dodged out of the way.

“Hey! Cool it! I was just teasing you; like in the store,” said Gordon, raising his hands, palms outward.

“Did you see me laughing? That was bloody embarrassing in the store; and you didn’t help, grinning like a Cheshire cat and enjoying every minute of it,” I riposted.

“Okay, okay; I’m sorry. Seriously; did your dad really give it to you good?”

“Yeh. It hurt like hell and then some; satisfied?”

“Worse than getting caned by Lanky Logan? We’ve both had a good few beatings from him, and he knew what he was doing.”

“Far worse.”

“Yeh?”, asked Gordon, scepticism dripping from his voice.

“You wanna see?” I demanded angrily.

“Could I? But you can’t bare your arse here.”

“Come back to my place and I’ll show you,” I replied irritably. “Maybe then you’ll get it. Come on; my parents are out.”

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

I followed Gordon up the stairs to my room and found myself admiring his neat arse, snugly filling his jeans. He looked round the room and, “Hey! I like it! You like boys, huh, Craig?” he asked, nodding at the pictures of young males in various states of undress which adorned the walls.

“Yeh! And if you dare…….”

“I like boys too,” said Gordon. “Is that the cane?”

He picked up the rod from my chest-of-drawers and bent it into a smooth arc before slashing it down on my bed.

“Feels good,” he murmured.

“Not when you’re on the receiving-end,” I retorted sourly. “Look!”

I dropped jeans and pants and turned my back to him. There were several seconds of total silence and then he uttered a breathless: Fuck!

“Believe me now?”

“Hell’s bells, Craig! That looks horrendous. It must have really hurt.”

“You think?”

He bent to look more closely and said, “You got six; no, seven. That’s a funny number.”

“I rubbed my arse after the fourth one; so he did it again,” I said coldly.

“I’m sorry I teased you,” said Gordon. “And that I didn’t believe you. Can I make it up to you by rubbing some cream on your welts?”

My penis, already unaccountably perky, soared.

“You wanna put cream on my bum?” I asked carefully, keeping my back to him.

“Only of you’d like me to.”

“Okay. There’s some in the top drawer there.”

While he fetched the cream, I lay quickly face-down on the bed, concealing my erection. Gordon came and sat beside me and began to massage the cold cream carefully into my caned behind. So thrilling was the touch of his hands on my bare skin that I had to fight back the urge to give a few thrusts and reach an orgasm.

When he’d dealt with each welt, he paused and asked if I’d like him to do them again; and I said that I would. So he did. Looking sideways at him, I saw that he had a massive swelling in the front of his jeans. Things were moving scarily fast, but I had to take them further. Taking a deep breath, I asked him, “Would you like to deal with my front too?”

There was a pause and then he replied in a careful voice, “If you like. Roll over.”

I turned on to my back and revealed my huge stiffie. He gave a low whistle and I felt myself flushing. Next moment one of his hands was cupping my balls and the other was moving expertly up and down my throbbing shaft. I gasped and moaned as he brought me to the brink and then suddenly pressed firmly on my perineum to stave off the eruption. After the third time of him doing that, I burst out, “If you don’t let me cum, I swear I’ll take that cane and put so many welts on your arse that you’ll not sit down before Christmas!”

In response his hand moved faster on my cock and in a few seconds I was sounding the bass-strings of delight as spurt after spurt of my boy-cream soared towards my face. Gordon massaged the semen into my chest and then looked at me.

“So; you gonna be a selfish bugger?” he asked with a grin.

In reply I unbuckled his belt and pushed him down on the bed on his back; and then I yanked off his jeans and pants and enjoyed the sight of his bounding erection above a couple of large balls, nestling snugly in a thick, dark fuzz of hair.

“Cor! You’re a big boy!”

“Think you can handle it, Craig?”

“Hold tight, you cheeky sod; I’m gonna send you into orbit.”

I did; but not until I’d held him back until he was pleading with me to release him.

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

The following week was bliss as we explored and got to know each other. It was the next Saturday morning and we were ambling hand-in-hand by the river in the sun when we came face-to-face with Cabbage Corcoran and Lanky Logan. I tried to snatch my hand away quickly from Gordon’s, but he held on tightly and refused to let me go.

“Well, well,” said Lanky Logan, “did your father buy a cane as I recommended?”

“Yes,” I replied shortly.

“And did he use it on you?”

“Yes.”

“I hope it hurt,” said Cabbage nastily. “After what you did to my garden, it looked as if Attila The Hun had been rampaging through it.”

“That was an accident,” I said coldly, “and I paid for the damage and replaced the broken things. And yes, it bloody well did hurt. No offence, Mr. Logan, but your canings were a fairy-tickle by comparison with what dad gave me last weekend.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. Maybe you’ll be more obedient and more careful in future.”

“Still not been cured of swearing though, I notice,” added Cabbage.

I glowered at him.

“And I wonder what your father will think when I tell him that you’re out walking holding hands with another boy? I should think he’s going to need to use that cane again later today; maybe even harder than last weekend,” Cabbage continued.

“You’re gonna tell his dad he’s out with me?” asked Gordon.

“Of course. Perverted behaviour like this has to be stamped on hard or it will get out of control.”

“We’re not perverted you silly old duffer,” I snapped angrily; and then stopped as Gordon dug his nails very hard into my hand.

“Good morning,” said Gordon politely as he dragged me in his wake along the path.

Behind us, I heard Lanky Logan remark, “Astounding. That boy always finds some new way to get into trouble. You’d almost think that he wants to be beaten.”

“I doubt if he’ll want the thrashing his father’s going to give him when I tell him what we’ve seen this morning,” retorted Cabbage sourly as we rounded a bend and they faded from earshot.

“Do you think he’ll tell your dad?” asked Gordon, giving me an anxious look.

“Oh, yeh. Definitely. But dad knows I’m gay; well, you’ve seen my room. He’s okay with it. He’s not gonna beat the shit outta me for being gay.”

“That’s a relief,” said Gordon.

“But he’s probably still gonna cane me for disobedience.”

“Disobedience?”

“He’s always told me that I mustn’t do things like kissing or holding hands in public, because although times are changing and it’s not illegal, people are still getting used to it.”

“And you think you’ll get the cane for holding hands with me where that sadistic old pair of goblins could see us?”

“Probably,” I said gloomily.

“Hell! I’m sorry, Craig. That was my fault. You tried to pull your hand away and I didn’t let you.”

“He’d probably seen anyway,” I replied. “Don’t worry about it.”

We continued our walk, had ice-cream with a couple of mates and then made our way back to my house in the hope that mum would let Gordon stay for lunch; which she did. She liked Gordon. We were in my room after lunch, listening to music, when dad knocked on the door. He looked serious when he came in. I turned off the music. He said that Cabbage had been round to talk to him. I explained what had happened that morning and admitted that I’d been disobedient in holding Gordon’s hand in public.

“You know I’m not going to punish you for being gay, whatever that old fogey Corcoran thinks,” said dad, “but I am going to cane you for your disobedience. Understand?”

I nodded and he asked if I wanted Gordon to leave; but I said it was okay if he stayed, provided he wanted to; which he did. I looked forward to some intimate comfort from him once the caning was over. I was told to strip and take up position bent over my bed and a few seconds later the cane was probing my bare behind.

“I’ll only give you four,” said dad, “but you’d better learn from them, or it’ll be eight next time. Do you hear me, Craig?”

“Yes, dad.”

I tensed myself and held firmly to the bedding. The cane whistled and lashed across my behind like a whip of fire, driving a gasp from me even as I sank my teeth into the sheets. Barely had I got myself together when it came again a little lower, almost on my crease. I squirmed and bit harder. The third was angled slightly so that it cross-cut the first two welts and raised the pain-level ferociously. I uttered a snarling squeal into the bedding and writhed from the hips, desperately clenching as my buttocks blazed. The final lash also cross-cut the initial pair of weals and delivered a lightning-blast of agonising fire which once more had me writhing.

I eased my hands and teeth carefully from the bedding and took several deep breaths; and then on dad’s order, stood up slowly. I was still processing the sting when I became aware of Gordon, naked beside me. He bent over the bed and turned his head to look at dad.

“I was the one who stopped Craig from letting go of my hand when Mr Corcoran and Mr Logan approached,” he said. “If he gets caned, I get caned.”

“I’m not your father,” said dad.

“I’m eighteen. I can make my own decisions and my dad’s got nothing to do with it. If I want to take a caning from you, I can; as long as you’re willing to do it. I deserve it, sir, and I should be treated the same as Craig. I know it probably sounds daft, but please, will you cane me, sir?”

There was a pause and I began to speak, but dad silenced me.

“You absolutely sure about this, Gordon?” enquired dad. “It will hurt a lot.”

“I’ve just seen how much it hurts. I don’t want it, but I need it.”

“Very well. Keep still; and if you attempt to touch your bottom with your hand during the caning, I’ll repeat the stroke. Is that clear, Gordon?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dad motioned me back out of the way and I saw Gordon grip the bedding hard. I felt a curious, excited desire to see Gordon’s gorgeous buttocks being caned, and dad certainly didn’t disappoint. The first stroke landed neatly across the top of the lower half of Gordon’s bottom and the second, parallel to it, nearer to his crease. Each elicited a little yelp of pain and a desperate clenching of his gluteal-muscles. I gazed, fascinated, as the twin, fire-red welts rose from the skin.

Watching dad perform, I could appreciate the power he was putting behind each stroke and understood just why my first caning from him had been so devastatingly agonising. He’d intended to really get through to me; and he had. Now Gordon was getting the benefit of that same power, because dad wasn’t holding back. Delivered at an oblique angle so that each of the earlier weals was lashed across, the third stroke forced a full-throated cry of pain from Gordon, swiftly muffled as his teeth sank into the bedding. His lower body twisted and then eased down into a steady quivering. My cock was in my hand, but was so hard that I dared not rub lest I came.

Dad flexed the cane a few times and did a vicious-sounding practice-stroke which elicited a violent flinch from Gordon before he steadied himself in preparation for the final one. It was given hard and fast, slicing its way deep into the flesh, brutally firing the first two welts for a second time and making Gordon kick wildly with his right leg before writhing powerfully as he fought the searing burn.

Dad allowed him a short time to recover himself and then patted his shoulder, said “well done” and told him to stand up. I watched as he straightened up and then felt his way across his behind with both hands, an expression of wonder and disbelief on his face.

“Lesson learned, boys?” asked dad; and he got a fervent, yes, sir from each of us.

He laid the cane down on the chest and went out.

“Oh boy! How the hell can he make it hurt like that?” demanded Gordon.

“He hits bloody hard, that’s how,” I said; “and he gives it to us on the bare.”

“And that was just four! I dunno how you took seven,” marvelled Gordon. “Your dad is quite something,” he added in what were, to my surprise, tones of open admiration.

“So how about some post-punishment comfort?” I suggested; and within a few seconds we were naked on my bed and writhing together in pain-and-testosterone-fuelled ecstasy until our balls were pumping out spunk like there was no tomorrow.

“Thanks for taking it with me,” I said as we lay in a satisfied state. “You didn’t need to do that.”

“Yeh, I did. Getting caught holding hands in public was really my fault, and if you were getting beaten for it, then I had to as well.”

We indulged in some passionate kissing and then suddenly Gordon asked, “Craig, remember what Lanky Logan said about it almost seeming like you wanted to be caned sometimes? Was that right?”

“Sort of. In the last couple of years I found I often got hard when I got the cane and I kind of liked it; so I did ask for it sometimes. But not the kind of caning dad gives,” I added.

“No,” agreed Gordon, “that’s the kind of caning you take when you absolutely have to; and try your damnedest to avoid in the first place. So I guess that means no holding hands or kissing when anyone might see us,” he said.

“Agreed.”

Gordon looked thoughtful for a few seconds before observing, “So I guess a really good caning works, huh?”

“That one certainly worked for me. I’ll be keeping all my shows of affection for you strictly private in future.”

Gordon rubbed his bottom.

“Know something? I think you’re right!” he opined with a rueful grin.

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

It wasn’t something that I had to do, but I felt that I should, and I took Gordon with me. The matter of Cabbage Corcoran’s pork-pie had been troubling me and so I went and bought one and we approached his door to give it to him.

“I dunno why you want to give him a pie,” said Gordon. “The bugger reported us to your dad when he saw us holding hands and got us a hell of a caning.”

“I put right the other things; the hedge and the gnome and the planters; and said sorry to his wife. I just think I need to deal with the pie to finish the whole matter.”

“Why do you call him Cabbage anyway?” asked Gordon.

“A letter for him got delivered to our house by mistake not long after he moved in; and I was sent round to put it in his letter-box. I noticed that the letter had his full name, including his middle name – which was Cubbage. Ever since I’ve called him Cabbage; but not to his face of course. If I did that, he’d tell dad and I’d get tanned.”

“Well, let’s make sure we don’t so much as bump against each other on his doorstep,” said Gordon. “I’m sure the sadistic bastard would accuse us of unseemly, intimate behaviour, and just love to have something else to report to your dad; and I’m not ready for another dose of that cane from him yet.”

“Me neither; not yet, maybe not ever,” I concurred as I rang the bell.

“What do you want?” demanded Cabbage abruptly; and I explained before handing over the pork-pie.

“You haven’t laced it with arsenic, have you?” he enquired suspiciously.

“Of course not!” I riposted, slightly riled at his attitude. “I wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

“I hope not. Your father would probably give you the caning of your life if you did.”

“Yeh, he probably would.”

“But it might be worth it,” muttered Gordon sotto voce.

Unfortunately Cabbage had excellent hearing.

“None of your insolence, you young thug! Now off you go, the pair of you; and keep your hands off each other!”

We turned tail and headed down the path.

“He might at least have said thank you,” said Gordon softly. “Have you noticed how good boys like us end up getting our tails thrashed while bastards like him get away with murder?”

“What did you say, boy?” shouted Cabbage, whirling round to look at us as we approached the gate.

Unfortunately for him, he lost his balance and as he made a grab for the door-post to stop himself from falling, the pork-pie slid from his grasp. Barely had it hit the ground than his dog came round the corner of the house like a streak of lightning and gobbled up the pie in a couple of gulps.

“I’ve also noticed,” I said as we strode off laughing down the road, “that occasionally good boys like us don’t get our arses caned, and bastards like Cabbage get exactly what they deserve!”

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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Story ©MMXXI by Joelstrap, used here by very kind permission.  Please leave a comment here or 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