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A brand new spanking and caning story by your host, Rod Cayenne. With special thanks to Jim for his ideas. All the characters are age 18 or older. This story is currently exclusive to The Canery and is only suitable for adults!
We still felt like freshmen at the time. We were both almost 19. I supped at the pint and gazed over at Charles. The beer was good and hearty. The college bar was packed with sweaty bodies and the air was thick with dense clouds of tobacco smoke. He was miles away, in thought.
“Well, he we are then. Well into Trinity Term already. Doesn’t time fly?”
“It certainly does. It certainly does.”
It was then that I noticed something strange about my pal. He wasn’t smoking his pipe anymore. I tackled him about it.
“Oh that. Bit of a sore point, that. Well, a very sore point. My father took great exception to the pipe. Said it was pretentious and that I must have money to burn – his money that he topped my grant up with. So he snatched the pipe off me and crushed it underfoot. Stamped on the bloody thing with his Army boots. Needless to say, it’s history now. Of course, he was right. It was pretentious of me; an affectation. Smoking is such a waste of money, too. Yes sadly, the pipe was totally destroyed and I certainly won’t be buying a replacement.”
“And that’s not all, he made his displeasure obvious in no uncertain terms,” Charles said, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “as he gave me a bloody hard thrashing too.”
“Wait! He did what?”
“He thrashed me. He made sure I got the message not to take up the pipe ever again. My smoking days came to a very violent end. Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it, but you’ve heard it now. Family matters.”
“It’s OK,” I said, “I understand. But you got a beating? Sheeeesh.”
“Well, I know, I know. Kind of old-fashioned for 1968, isn’t it?”
“Well, Dad’s a military man through and through. I think they use the cane on the bad apples among the new recruits. On the rookies; on the squaddies. In the glasshouse, maybe. All very unofficially, of course. And not something the upper echelons know too much about. Military families are much the same, I’ve found. The cane is very much alive and well.”
“Gee. A cane, eh? Those fuckin’ hurt, I know from bitter experience at school. When you said about a thrashing, I’d imagined a strap.”
“Ah. Indeed. He’s got one of those, too. But I seem to have outgrown that, somehow. It’s always the cane now. You know, I think he likes doing it. It’s a power thing for him. The truth is, he’s a bit of a sadist.”
“Shit, Charles. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to probe.” I decided to probe further. “It must be embarrassing. Do you get it often?”
He avoided my last question completely, “It’s OK. I’m over it and I think the marks have just about gone. Want another beer?”
“Yes, please. Same again would be good. The ale is slipping down well tonight.”
While he was gone getting the refills, I pondered on what he’d said. It was strange, I’d always found corporal punishment fascinating. So did my penis, which was now rock hard in my briefs. Yes, there was something exciting and wicked and taboo about the subject. I had to find out more, as I found it rather reassuring that at least one fellow student was still spanked at home. At the same time, my memory of corporal punishment at school was still fresh. In those far-off days it was hardly an exceptional experience.
The following morning I was a bit hungover but we’d got the cricket nets booked for some overdue practice. We were changing into our flannels when suddenly Charles flashed his bare arse at me, saying, “I think the cane marks have just about gone, haven’t they?”
“I don’t know. I can’t see from here. I’d need to have a closer look, and I’m sure that you wouldn’t want me to do that,” I replied, although actually I was desperate to leer at his bare bottom. Strangely, he agreed to my inspection and thrust his naked arse my way. “There are still faint marks,” I revealed, gently but boldly tracing the outline of one with my index finger, “That must have been a hard thrashing for the marks to still be showing.”
“Yes it was. Hardest ever. Ten strokes. On the bare.”
I whistled with admiration, all the time willing a burgeoning erection to disappear. “Wow! Bare, eh? And ten strokes! That sounds over the top, frankly. Your Dad doesn’t do things by halves then?”
“No, he doesn’t. He’s a mean bastard. I’d have happily settled for half the number of strokes.”
“I’m sure you don’t mean happily,” I laughed.
“Well the first couple of strokes are bearable. Stimulating almost. It’s the last few which pile on the pain. The effect is cumulative. It’s fucking agony by the end.”
“I bet. The most I ever got was six. Six of the best. At school. I can tell you all about it later, if you want?”
He was clearly non-commital. Despite this, I sensed that to some degree perhaps he shared my interest in corporal punishment and maybe his father’s belief in firm discipline. The moment had gone, however, although I was determined to find out more as soon as I could. Opportunity soon presented itself in another trip to the college bar.
I came out with it as soon as we sat down, “How’s your arse, then?” I chuckled, although I was being a complete bastard.
“Oh please Garry, not that again! I’ve paid the price and I don’t need to be reminded.”
“Sorry,” I lied, “I just wondered whether your father was a smoker?”
“Oh yes. He smokes alright. Ciggies, cigars, sometimes even a pipe. So the double standards were shocking. What’s worse is that he lit up before he thrashed me.”
“Yes, I know. He’s got these annoying little rituals too. He took out an expensive-looking paisley handkerchief and wiped the cane down before starting. Quite unneccessary, and all for show. Then he lit up a cigar. The hypocrisy was breathtaking. Just another of his many power games, I suppose. That cigar really stank, too.”
Down in my pants, my own cigar was stirring. The thought of my friend being on the receiving end of the cane was fascinating, no titillating, no alright, a huge turn-on!
Eventually, I found Charles more forthcoming about that beating and previous ones. We shared our interest, and became frank with each other about it. Eventually, and quite illegally at the time, we became lovers. The sex was phenomenal and we spanked each other as part of our passion.
We were often discreet in our activities, but perhaps not nearly consistently enough. For that summer, I accepted an invitation to spend the week at Charles’s place. Charles had a twin-bed room which was ideal, and his widower father didn’t seem to mind. I took quite a shine to the handsome military man and enjoyed the very masculine atmosphere of the house.
I’d arrived on the Saturday and immediately fell in love with the coastal town. However, by the Tuesday, it had all gone horribly wrong.
Charles and I had decided to go cottaging, that is seeking casual sex with men in the seafront toilets. It was the height of folly. We were caught in a police “sting” operation and hauled off to the station. After gruelling and embarrassing interviews, we were locked in the cells. Rescue came in the form of Charles’s father who came to bail us out, although I gathered that no money changed hands. He turned up in his sparkling British Racing Green Land Rover to pick us up. He seemed particularly annoyed with me, barking “Hands out of your pockets and get in the car. Sharpish!”
Back at the house, the atmosphere was icy. We were told to freshen up and then to report to Mr Jackson’s study. Charles told me that could only mean one thing. The cane and bloody hard!
The lecture soon started. “IMPORTUNING! GROSS INDECENCY! Flashing your bottoms and cocks at all and sundry. You disgust me. Plus, it would be all over the local paper. You’re lucky that the desk sergeant is a very close friend of mine. I was able to convince him to let you both off. In exchange for young Charles here receiving the soundest of thrashing of his life from me.”
“If Charles is getting a beating, then I should too,” I announced, surprising myself somewhat. In truth I fancied that man something rotten. His ample, beefy frame, his moustache, the camo trousers and the olive green jumper with the cloth shoulders. He was a real hunk, and he was was bringing out the latent submissive in me. He seemed surprised at my willingness.
“Yes, you should, but I could only do that with your father’s permission. I could telephone him, I suppose,” he headed for the old-fashioned bakelite phone on his desk, “What’s his number?”
“No, no, please Mr Jackson, don’t involve him! Just thrash me please. I’m old enough to make that sort of decision myself.”
“Hmmm. Well, I’m not sure about that, Garry. You’re only 19, I believe. Seems a bit irregular. What do you think, Charles?”
“Me? Does my opinion matter?”
“No, perhaps not. Very well, I will thrash you too, Garry. You had better watch Charles, so that you know the procedure. Charles, get ready.”
I was excited. I was going to see my boyfriend caned hard on his bare bottom. Although I was embarrassed, I could sense my penis getting more and more excited by the second. I couldn’t wait.
But when the beating came, it was truly terrifying. Mr Jackson had Charles bend over a sort of carving chair. He had to grip the handles and thrust his naked arse up for punishment. Jackson opened a long thin drawer and extracted the crook-handled cane. It looked exactly the same as the school models I had experienced in painful visits to my housemaster’s study.
Then the silken handkerchief was produced, just as Charles had mentioned. Mr Jackson slowly wiped the shaft of the cane with it, in a repeated motion that seemed almost as if he was masturbating the cane. How strange. Suddenly, the first stroke cracked down with a wicked retort. Charles grunted but barely moved. He didn’t dare. The second stroke seemed harder but Charles took it in stoic silence. A third followed rapidly, and again my lover was quiet. My friend was a tough man, of that I could now have no doubt. My admiration for him was growing, as was my cock. Stroke four landed and Charles gasped. Now he was really feeling it. His father upped the pace slashing strokes five, six and seven with real venom. The eighth followed and Charles was now gasping and groaning.
“I think a couple more to drive the message home, Charles. Prepare yourself!”
“Yes, father. Aaargh!”
Yes indeed, the ninth stroke was landed diagonally, relighting earlier strokes and spreading pain all over the naked flesh. Almost inevitably, the final stroke was a matching diagonal on the other flank. It must have been agony!
“You can get up now, son.”
Slowly, Charles rose up. He drew his briefs and trousers up, wincing as the garments made contact with his battered behind. He shook his father’s hand and simply said, “Thank you father.”
“Think nothing of it,” Mr Jackson replied before he directed his gaze at me. “Now then, Garry. What are we to do with you? You’ve had the cane before, I take it?”
“Yes, Sir I have. A few times.”
“Good, good. Every lad should experience its discipline. But I’m not sure I can give you as hard a beating as Charles has just had. And certainly not bare arse.”
I was shocked by his colourful language, and by the viciousness of the beating I’d just witnessed. But I had something to prove to Mr Jackson, and to my lover. “I should have exactly the same, and on the bare too.”
“I think not. We can bare you, of course but I think a warm-up of four with the strap and then six of the very best with the cane. That will suffice.” I was in no position to argue or negotiate. “Trousers down!” he barked.
I stood there in my crisp white briefs, with a huge erection. I made to pull them down but Jackson intercepted and pulled them down roughly for me, momentarily snagging them on my rampant manhood. I was so embarrassed as I made to bend over the carving chair.
“I don’t think so, Garry! Over my lap!”
Oh God, I had to bend over his lap, my stiff teenage erection pressing hard against his leg. I thought I was going to die of embarrassment, as he couldn’t have failed to notice my predicament. I couldn’t catch Charles’s eye, but he must have seen my cock too.
“Just four then to warm this flesh for the cane,” he spoke softly before lashing the leather hide down on my cheeks. The stinging burn of that first stroke was instantaneous and I felt sure I heard the bastard laugh quietly. Shit, it hurt. A second, third and fourth followed in a steady but punishing rhythm. I cried out as each stroke hit home. As beatings go, it was ample. I certainly didn’t need the cane on top. And yet still, my erection was holding firm. Mr Jackson tossed the strap down on his dark wooden desk. He picked up the cane, only to start wiping it down rhythmically, as before. He pointed to the carver chair and I took the same position as Charles had.
“Stick your arse out more,” he commanded, and my shame was total. What a bastard he was, I thought to myself. Finally, my cock was losing its excited state, which was something of a relief.
With an almighty crack the first cane stroke landed, dead centre of my arse. Jackson caned me five more times. He was taking it much more slowly than he had with Charles. It was almost as if he was testing me, enjoying my suffering and this unique opportunity to deal with me. I made it through the beating, though by the time I rose, I was wiping bitter salty tears from my eyes. It had been a hard old thrashing, that was for sure. I pulled up my trousers and pants, and we shook hands, following the established protocol.
“Right now. We’re done here,” his tone suddenly switched from authoritarian to something a lot friendlier, “The slate’s wiped clean, but for heaven’s sake you two, do be more careful in future. Now, I shouldn’t really do this, but as a favour, here’s some ointment you might wish to apply at some stage. And here’s a spare tin of Vaseline, but keep the noise down.” He winked at us as our jaws dropped.
D I S C L A I M E R
All characters appearing in this story are over the age of 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or businesses, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Story © MMXXII by Rod Cayenne. All rights reserved.
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