♥ Site recommended story ♥
A repeat of this short story from 2015. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!
The Man Behind The Cane by Rod Cayenne
Ah yes, the man behind the cane. What makes him tick? Why is he so driven? Why the cane in particular? Well now, he’s obsessed with my discipline, and it’s not as if I’m a bad young guy. Generally. You’d think I was too old for it at the ripe old age of 22, wouldn’t you? But, oh no! He’s quite adamant. I need keeping in line, and I need to be reminded of that regularly. It seems that these days, that’s at least once or twice a fortnight or so.
My Uncle George has taken me under his wing. I live in his town house, just a few minutes from the temptations of the city centre. He’s very strict, and I am forbidden more than an hour on the internet every day, and there’s no alcohol or chewing gum allowed in the house. And under no circumstances am I allowed to come home smelling of cigarettes or cigar smoke.
Uncle cuts a sleek, dapper figure, often dressed in shiny-buttoned blazer and chinos. His thinning mousey hair is Brylcreemed in a traditional parting, and one of many colourful, nay flamboyant silk cravats usually adorns his neck. Even if you didn’t know his background, there was definitely a nautical air to him.
We got on well at first, and I was happy to put up with his rules. The rent was reasonable, and the house was clean, warm and welcoming. But as I gradually began to rebel, I soon learnt that there was a distinctly cold and less welcoming part of the house. It was his study cum office, a rather old-fashioned room. There were bookcases lined with heavy and worthy tomes, while other shelves were graced by a veritable flotilla of model ships, and the walls were decorated with ancient maps and charts. There was an old oaken desk, and expensive, plush olive green leather buttoned seating. He would lean back in the swivel chair behind his desk lecturing me about my faults and oversights. I grew tired of this routine, gazing at my feet or ceiling until my frequent dressing-downs had finished. Then, one day, three years ago, he kind of lost it with me!
“Look at me when I’m talking to you James! I’ve had enough of your evasiveness!”
“Sorry, Uncle,” I replied, slightly worried that he was going to blow his top completely, “Very sorry!”
“Bringing vile pornography into my house is beyond the pale, young man!”
“I know. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, Uncle! I promise you.”
“It had better not! I know you lads like this sort of explicit filth, but it’s not what I expect to find lying around in my bathroom!”
“Sorry, Uncle. I should have remembered to take it with me when I’d finished in there.”
“Yes, no doubt about that. What if a visitor had found it? Yes, indeed you should have removed it. But I imagine your hangover didn’t help your memory or your judgement, did it?”
“No, Uncle. I must cut down on the drinking.”
“Indeed, you must!”
“Instead, I was left to find this filth defiling my bathroom. I hope you weren’t masturbating in there in the poop deck as it were?”
“Oh no, Uncle. Just flicking through it, my headache was too bad for anything else.”
“I’m not sure that I believe you!”
“Believe me, Uncle, please. I am sorry.”
“You’ve said you’re sorry so many times James, that I’m almost inclined to believe you.”
“Thank you, Uncle.”
“But I don’t! Listen to me lad! Such depravity! When I was on the ships, this sort of selfish behaviour would have resulted in a sound caning from one of the senior crew!”
“Really, Uncle? Ha, that’s barbaric!”
“Not so much, really my boy. I soon learnt to behave myself. A crew is only as strong as the weakest link you know.”
“I suppose so.”
“No suppose so about it, my boy! A jolly hard thrashing or two from the ship’s Chief Engineer soon sorted me out.”
“Gosh, I bet.”
“And it just so happens that I have two ship’s canes here!”
With that, Uncle George placed two supple looking rattan rods on the gold inlaid and finely tooled leather desktop. One cane had a crook handle, the other was basically straight, though one end was slightly bent, perhaps through wear.
“There, they don’t look so barbaric, do they?”
“No, Uncle. But gosh, they must have hurt back in the day, though.”
“Yes they did. And they still can. Still plenty of life left in these beauties! Now, how about six of the best to make amends, James?”
My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe it! He was suggesting that he caned me! No way, was my immediate thought. But then almost as soon as that idea had gone, it was replaced by a bizarre fascination to find out what the cane was like. To see whether I could take it or not! I was also full of remorse for leaving the jizz mag in the bathroom. So it was that I soon found myself nodding silently and shamefully.
“That’s the spirit lad! Admirable! We’ll make a good crew member of you yet!”
Suddenly, I was worried again. Was this some strange re-enactment of his seafaring days I was indulging him with? Yes, it probably was.
The old seadog soon had me bending over the arm of one of the leather chairs in his study. My trousers were down to my knees, but he had allowed me to retain my modesty by still having my briefs on. He pushed me into position, and I dutifully stuck my bum out for him to do his worst. I soon felt the tap-tap of the cane as he lined it up against my blue underpants.
Crack! The cane lashed down on my arse for the very first time. The pain kicked in and it was overwhelming. I must have gasped or shouted or something. I can’t remember, but I was surprised at just how much I’d been hurt by the whippy stick fresh out of retirement!
Crack! A second punishing blow followed soon after. The intense heat and pain spread all over my bottom, merging with the blazing caress of the first stroke. I squealed. Oh boy! Did it ever hurt? And why on earth had I agreed to it?
“Learning your lesson, lad?” he suddenly asked as he swished the cane through the air a few times.
“Certainly Sir!” I replied, not knowing quite where the ‘Sir’ had suddenly come from.
Sir didn’t ease off as he laid the third stroke on. It was the worst yet, and despite myself I yelped. Then I heard him changing canes, I think. The fourth stroke landed in almost exactly the same place. It was sheer agony.
“Quiet lad!” he exclaimed.
The fifth landed with an almighty crack, accompanied by a squeal from me. I couldn’t help myself, and was ashamed of the unmanly noise I’d let out.
“I said quiet!” he admonished. Again and again, he flexed and swished the cane through the air before it hit me one final time. This time I squealed again and then half choked as I was well and truly winded by the vicious stroke.
“Very well. That makes the full six. You can pull your trousers up now, young James.”
“Sorry Uncle, Sir. I didn’t take it very well did I?”
“No you didn’t! And all that noise was most undignified, I must say. Dear, dear. Well, I still remember my first time. I’m afraid I was much like you. Still, at least you stayed in position. And anyway, welcome aboard!” he said, shaking my hand earnestly, and at that very moment I decided that he was completely mad! Stark, staring mad! “We may yet make a fine crew member of you, lad!”
I wasn’t so sure, as beneath my trousers and pants my scarred and welted flesh throbbed and ached like never before. My eyes were moist and I rubbed the cheeks of my arse like mad. Nothing though would take away the intense stinging, burning pain! If this was a taste of crew life, I’d be applying for extended shore leave at the first opportunity!
Those two canes became regular features in my life. As I moved into my twenties, he upped the ante more than somewhat. Six stroke canings became rare, and eight, nine, ten and then twelve strokes became the norm. Somewhere along the line he had me bare my arse for some of the beatings. This he told me was a “proper Captain’s punishment” but I wasn’t convinced this wasn’t all stuff he’d made up as an excuse to beat me on the bare. I have been meaning to research it on the internet, but being allowed only an hour a day on there, I usually have more urgent things to look at! Perhaps I shouldn’t have agreed to the bare arse beatings, but I’ve found it best not to argue with the man behind the cane.
Story © MMXV by Rod Cayenne
D I S C L A I M E R
All characters appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or businesses, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Diese Geschichte ist hier auf Deutsch.
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