Mailspank (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

New to The Canery is this hot spanking story by very special guest author JOELSTRAP.  This story is exclusive to The Canery!  All the characters are 18 or over. WARNING: ADULTS ONLY!

Mailspank by Joelstrap

 

I was dreaming about a tall, blond guy, athletic and well-muscled, who had jumped the back-garden fence in pursuit of the football which had just rolled to rest at my feet. I picked up the ball to hand it to him and our eyes met. He was stunning and I just knew that he’d fallen head-over-heels for me. As he reached for the ball, our fingers touched and I felt the shock surge through me. We both held the leather orb and our faces drew slowly closer and closer, my heart thudding as the kiss approached. Trumpets were sounding, drums booming, violins singing, a rising crescendo of deliriously-thrilling sound, a euphony which drove us towards the climax of touching lips.

The bell was incongruous, harsh and insistent, ruining the joyous surge of music which enclosed us. Even as I reached over the last millimetres to touch his mouth, the dream was rudely shattered as I became aware that the ringing was an alien factor, no part of the tender fantasy conjured by my sleeping brain. I opened my eyes and concentrated. Front door-bell. I cast aside the duvet and stumbled down the stairs. Registering that I was clad only in my boxers, I glanced through the hall window to see who was there; but it was only the postman. I opened the door.

“Parcel for you, mate,” he said cheerfully. “Cor! You look rough. Still in bed at twenty-past-eight in the morning, eh?”

“It’s early,” I protested grumpily.

“Nonsense, mate. I’ve been up since five,” said the irrepressible postman. He was actually quite good-looking, but I wasn’t really awake enough to care much.

“Bully for you,” I said rudely and slammed the door.

I went into the kitchen, threw the parcel down on the table and switched on the kettle. While it was boiling I glanced at the rest of the mail but there was nothing for me. I was about to place the letters on top of the parcel when, to my astonishment I noticed that it had my name on it. I picked it up and looked hard at it as if that would tell me what was inside. It wasn’t anywhere near Christmas, nor was it my birthday, nor had I sent for anything; so why was there a parcel addressed to me?

The boiling kettle distracted me and I slowly made a mug of coffee before turning my attention back to the mysterious package. It was quite light, oblong in shape and postmarked locally, my name and address printed in neat capitals. I shook it, but it didn’t rattle. I decided that it probably wasn’t a bomb.

Come on, you stupid bastard; just open the bloody thing!

I sat down, took a sip of coffee, and then began to rip off the brown paper. Inside was a cardboard box, sealed with sticky-tape. This I removed with some difficulty and then I slowly lifted the lid. I took out a mass of bubble-wrap and clawed my way through it to eventually remove from the protective layers…….

What the hell? It can’t be! But who would…? And why would anyone…?

I sat, stunned, staring in disbelief at what I held in my hands. This had to be some kind of sick joke; but why? I scrabbled around in the bubble-wrap, in the box, in the wrapping-paper, but found no trace of a letter or even a note of explanation. I sat and drank my coffee slowly while my brain churned. I reached for my mobile and called Terry, my best friend.

“Hi!” he said sleepily.

“Terry, can you come round?”

“Er, sure. What time is it?”

“About eight-thirty,” I replied.

“God! It’s the middle of the bloody night, mate,” he protested.

“It’s important.”

“Okay, give me half an hour.”

He rang off and I laid down the phone. I sat for a moment and then trotted upstairs and returned shortly after, washed, shaved and dressed in shorts and tee-shirt. I made my way out to the back-garden and sat on a bench in the warm morning sun to await Terry’s arrival. I knew him well enough not to expect him to rush, and it was fully half an hour before he appeared at the back gate. I said nothing, but just took him into the kitchen. He plonked himself down on a chair.

“Got any cereal, mate?”

I poured him a big bowl of cornflakes and handed him the milk-jug. A few seconds later he was munching noisily.

“I got a parcel this morning,” I began.

“Mmmmmfffshshnghh!” said Terry languidly.

“I just don’t understand it. No note or anything.”

Terry spread his hands and raised his eyebrows.

“This is what was in it,” I said, lifting the lid of the box and handing him the contents.

“Chhhnnngggg!” spluttered Terry, spraying me with milk and cornflake crumbs. “What the bloody hell is that?”

He took it from me and examined it silently for a moment.

“Why the hell would anyone send you a fucking cane?” he demanded, looking at me as if it was my fault.

“How the hell should I know? It’s bloody bizarre.”

Terry resumed eating his cornflakes and I stared at him in growing exasperation.

“Well, what do you think?” I asked irately.

“Dunno. You upset somebody recently?”

“Don’t think so. Anyway, even if I had, why would they send me a cane?”

“Maybe they think you need your arse thrashed,” suggested Terry with a grin. “Punish you for behaving badly.”

“But I haven’t misbehaved,” I objected. “And how’s sending me a fucking cane going to achieve anything? I’m hardly going to tan my own hide, am I?”

“Maybe he hopes I’ll cane you,” said Terry, whipping the slim rod through the air with a vicious whine. “Fuck! You’d feel that!”

“Who?” I asked.

“How would I know? The guy you’ve pissed off I suppose.”

“But I haven’t pissed anybody off,” I protested angrily. “And why would you cane me anyway?”

Terry shrugged.

“Might be fun,” he suggested.

“Oh, sure. Great fun; getting my bum lashed with that thing,” I riposted furiously. “You’re no bloody help at all.”

“I’ve offered to cane you,” said Terry. “What else can I do?”

“I don’t want to be fucking caned,” I snarled, feeling myself going red in the face. “I want to know who sent the bloody thing and why.”

“Well, it wasn’t me,” said Terry.

“Very helpful,” I said sarcastically.

“What else do you expect me to say, mate? If you’ve got no idea, why should I?” he asked reasonably.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I know it’s not your fault.”

“Why are you so worked up about it anyway? It’s not important.”

“But it’s….it’s……..unexplained,” I ended lamely.

“So’s the bloody cosmos,” remarked Terry complacently. “Could I have some more cornflakes?”

“What? Oh sure, help yourself,” I told him, pushing the packet towards him.

I watched in rising annoyance as he calmly poured out another bowlful and sloshed on milk. He soon had the spoon in action again.

“Will you take this seriously,” I shouted at him, slamming my fist into the table in frustration at his apparent lack of concern. The bowl bounced and splashed him with milk.

“Mate,” he said calmly as he wiped his arm and shirt, “if you do that again, I’m going to use that cane for the purpose for which it was made; and your bottom’s going to be on the receiving-end.”

“I’d like to see you try,” I retorted, still angry with him.

Terry rose swiftly to his feet, picked up the cane and lashed it down on the table-top with a crack which shook the window. He was a big, strong guy. He looked interrogatively at me. I gulped.

“Sorry,” I said quietly.

Terry laid down the cane, resumed his seat and proceeded to engulf cornflakes in silence. I watched him without saying any more. When he’d finished, he sat back and looked me in the eyes.

“I think we just got to wait,” he said slowly. “It could just be a daft joke and you’ll hear no more; but I’ve a feeling that maybe this is just the beginning.”

“What do you mean, the beginning?” I demanded anxiously. “Terry, I don’t like this.”

“I don’t think there’s anything to be scared of.”

“It’s not your bum that’s being threatened,” I retorted.

“Why do you think your bum’s under threat?”

“Well, what else can it mean? It’s a bloody cane; and that’s what it’s for; thrashing a boy’s backside.”

“So you think somebody’s sending you a message saying you need to get your arse caned?”

“Don’t you?”

“Could be. I wonder who it is.”

I shook my head, baffled. Terry picked up the cane again and whipped it enthusiastically through the air. I winced.

“So,” he said, arching it thoughtfully, “how’d you like to taste it, Greg?”

“No way.”

“Go on. I’d like to try out this little toy.”

“That bloody thing’s no toy,” I objected. “It’d hurt like hell. You’re supposed to be my best mate. Why do you want to cane me?”

Terry shrugged.

“Just thought it might be interesting to find out how it feels. You can give me a taste too. Fair’s fair.”

I considered. The idea of tasting corporal punishment did have a kind of perverse appeal since it was so alien to all my experience in my eighteen years; and there was a definite attraction in the idea of meting out a couple of strokes to Terry’s well-rounded bottom.

“Okay,” I agreed. “Just a couple of strokes; and don’t go over the top,” I warned.

Terry grinned.

“Bend over, boy!” he ordered and slashed the cane viciously so that both I and the air flinched.

I bent over, my arms resting along the kitchen table, feet apart, body tense. Nothing happened. I glanced round. Terry was standing just behind me, flexing the limber rod slowly in his hands. I knew what he was up to. He was making me wait for it. I decided not to play his game and ask him to get on with it. I breathed deeply and waited. After what seemed like an eternity, during which my cock unaccountably rose to full stretch, Terry touched the centre of my buttocks with the cane. My denim shorts fitted closely and, bent over like this, the fabric was stretched taut across my globes. The cane rapped my bum a few times and then was withdrawn. There was a long, expectant pause during which I held my breath, every muscle tensed, and then I heard the whine of the descending cane, felt the impact as it connected hard and fast with my bottom; and a split second later, I registered the sting. I clenched my buttocks and breathed out slowly. Unbelievably, the intensity of the burn increased; yet my penis strained upward. Terry wielded the cane a second time and etched another fiery streak across my rump, making me quiver.

“So, how was it?” he enquired.

I swallowed, stood up straight and massaged my behind carefully.

“Stings like a nest of scorpions,” I informed him. “Boy, that sure is no toy!”

“I could have hit you a lot harder than that,” said Terry seriously.

I was perfectly well aware that Terry had held back a fair bit, because he was a strong guy and I knew him and his powerful body from the many times we’d wrestled together.

“I know; but that was about right for finding out how it feels,” I admitted. “You ready for yours?”

He nodded and, handing me the cane, bent over the table, displaying his attractive mounds for discipline. I stroked his behind a few times, withdrew the cane and then rapped his bottom twice, just to make him nervous. I too held back a good bit, but I made sure he felt the two strokes, as he’d have expected me to do, and there was something of a dark thrill in seeing his body react to the cane.

“Fuck!” he panted as he stood up and rubbed at his backside, “You’re right. That’s one hell of a sting.”

We were sitting carefully at the table, drinking coffee when the back-door banged and dad burst in.

“Hi, boys! Forgot my keys for the shop-safe. I think I left them somewhere over……….where the hell did that come from?”

His gaze rested on the cane lying beside the debris of box and wrapping on the kitchen-table. I told him what had happened.

“Very odd,” he said, picking up the cane. “You got an enemy, Greg?”

“Don’t think so. We’re both a bit baffled. I mean, it’s kind of weird.”

“Yeh. Now where did I leave those keys….”

Dad was clearly distracted and had no intention of pursuing the conversation.

“Got them,” he announced, fishing his keys out from under a pile of newspapers. “Don’t forget to get some ice-cream like your mum told you, Greg. Okay?”

“Sure. I’ll remember. No sweat.”

Dad dashed out again.

Terry and I spent the rest of the morning loafing around the park before going to spend four hours in the afternoon stacking shelves in a local supermarket, the only job we’d been able to get for the summer before we started college.

Back home, I’d happily engulfed a huge helping of mum’s pasta and was sitting back feeling pleasantly replete when she went to the freezer. I watched idly, oblivious to my impending doom.

“Greg!” she screeched. “Where’s the ice-cream you brought from the supermarket?”

“Oh, shit! I forgot,” I confessed.

“Watch your language, Greg,” said dad, glaring at me. He’s such a nag.

Muttering to herself, mum rummaged in the cupboard and got to work with a tin-opener and then plonked three plates of rice-pudding down on the table.

“Bloody rice-pudding? You know I hate rice-pudding, mum,” I wailed. “It’s horrible; like frog-spawn. Makes me want to fucking puke!”

“Greg! You will not speak to your mother like that! Go to your room!”

“But I….”

“Don’t you dare argue with me, lad. Room, now!”

Mumbling imprecations, I slouched out and trailed upstairs. I knew I’d behaved badly; but rice-pudding? Yeuch! It was fully twenty minutes before dad came up and I was staring uneasily out of the window. I’d had my mobile temporarily confiscated for rudeness a few weeks ago and wondered vaguely if that’s what would happen again. Dad came in and I turned to face him.

“Well, Greg?”

“I’m sorry. I was out of line,” I mumbled sulkily.

“And you think that puts everything right, do you?”

I shrugged.

“Well, I don’t. You’ve been getting decidedly insolent lately and I need to teach you better manners. So, your computer’s going off for a fortnight and I’m taking your mobile away for the same period,” decreed dad grimly.

I gave a horrified gasp.

“Dad, you can’t! I’ll lose all my mates. I won’t be able to talk to anyone. I’ll be an outcast. I’ll be…….”

“A spoiled little boy, bawling for his toys?” suggested dad.

I scowled furiously at him.

“You think that kind of behaviour is acceptable, Greg?”

“No,” I admitted sullenly.

“So what do you expect me to do? Pat you on the head and tell you not to do it again? Is that what you’d do in my shoes, Greg?”

I shrugged.

“Is it, Greg?”

“Okay! Okay! I know I was rude and I’ve said I’m sorry; but dad,” I pleaded, “I need my mobile and the ’net. Can’t you just…just…”

My eyes fell on the cane, lying where I’d left it on my chest-of-drawers.

“……just cane me,” I said rashly.

Dad stared and then his eyes followed mine.

“That’s what you want, Greg?”

“It’s the lesser of two evils,” I replied.

“You sure about that?”

“Well, no; but I’ve told you. I need to be in contact with my mates.”

“Right. But don’t get any silly ideas that this is an easy option. You’ll feel it. I got caned at school and it hurts; a lot. I know.”

“Yeh. Me and Terry tried out a couple of strokes each and it stung like fu…like fire.”

“Give it here then, Greg.”

I went to my chest and picked up the slim rod, already wondering if I’d just agreed to something I was going to seriously regret. I eyed it nervously, remembering the sting it had delivered in Terry’s hands earlier, and then handed it to dad.

“Right. Shorts down!”

“What!?”

“You heard me, Greg. Hurry up!”

“But you can’t…..not on the bare……no, please, dad.”

“Do as you’re told, Greg!”

Sullenly I dropped my shorts and then glanced at dad.

“I don’t suppose I can keep my pants?” I suggested without much hope.

Dad shook his head. I dropped them reluctantly. I felt decidedly vulnerable and not a little uneasy.

“Bend over and grab the end of your bed,” ordered dad and I complied. “Let’s see if you’re a boy or a man.”

I took that as a challenge. I’d show him that I could take my licks. He stroked the cane across the centre of my buttocks and I felt the cool wood on my hot skin. I wondered if the marks from the two Terry had given me that morning were still visible. He withdrew the cane and then laid it again across my bum. I wished he’d just get on with it. I wasn’t so daft as to think he’d hold back as Terry had done. This was punishment and dad would do it properly. I had a vague thought that it might be rather insulting if he didn’t. The cane was lifted from my body again and then I heard it descend fast. The crack of wood on bare boy-flesh echoed round the little room and I clenched my teeth and my glutes as a ferocious sting lashed across my bottom. I groaned as the burn intensified in the seconds after the impact.

The cane stroked my behind a little lower down and then snapped across me again, delivering another line of fire. I gripped the bed-end very hard indeed. Lower still came number three and my breath was expelled in an audible gasp while my backside quivered and new flames licked my flesh. The fourth caught me on the crease and I failed to stifle a yelp of pain. I could feel scalding tears prickling behind my eyes. I’m not sure what he did with the fifth one but he seemed to whip the cane savagely round my bottom across the lower three welts and I bucked violently and moaned in desperate pain. He did something similar with the sixth, and my buttocks were a raging inferno of searing fire. It took all my will-power to endure until the worst of the heat died down.

“I’m pleased to see that you’re a man,” observed dad quietly and I felt a ridiculous sense of pride in spite of my agony. “Get your pants and shorts back up.”

I straightened slowly, keeping my back to him so that he wouldn’t see the somewhat unmanly wetness on my cheeks. I deliberately resisted the temptation to massage my pulsating bottom and carefully drew up my clothes, flinching as the fabric closed on my beaten flesh. I took out my hanky and blew my nose and managed to swiftly dry my face in the process.

“You know what you have to do now, Greg?”

“I’m going.”

I went down and found mum.

“I’m really sorry, mum. I was way out of order and I promise I’ll not be rude like that to you again.”

“All right. Apology accepted. Why are you walking that funny way, Greg?” she asked.

I flushed and told her.

Mum raised her eyebrows.

“It was my idea,” I assured her. “I didn’t want to lose my mobile or access to the ’net. Dad can’t half use a cane though,” I admitted, giving my behind a rueful scrub. “But don’t tell him I said so.”

Mum placed a hand on my chest, reached up and kissed me on the cheek.

“Mum!”

I made my way slowly back upstairs and repeated my apologies to dad who accepted them, shook my hand almost formally, and went out. I lay face-down on my bed and thought. For some reason I didn’t feel any resentment towards dad; on the contrary, I felt a kind of grudging respect for him. I’d no idea who’d sent the cane, but it did occur to me that it might be a more acceptable way of getting my punishments in future. As I caressed my throbbing behind, my penis began to stiffen swiftly. It was very odd.

I went round to Terry’s house to collect him next morning for a trip to the barber. It was well after ten o’clock and he was munching toast and yogurt.

“Toast and yogurt, Terry?”

“It’s good, I’m telling you,” insisted Terry. “How’s tricks, mate?”

“Got caned by dad last night,” I said nonchalantly.

“Yeh. I guess……hey! Back up! You what?”

“Dad caned me for swearing in front of mum,” I elucidated, enjoying the expression of incredulity on Terry’s face.

“You mean? That cane you got in the parcel? He caned your arse with it? Hard?”

“Oh, he did it hard all right,” I assured him. “Those two you gave me were just a fairy-tickle compared to what he did to my backside.”

“And you just, you know, let him do it?” asked Terry.

“It was my idea. Better’n not getting to use my mobile or the ’net for yonks.”

“Yeh?” said Terry sceptically, unconsciously rubbing his behind. “Let’s see the marks then.”

I obligingly dropped my jeans and pants and displayed my “war-wounds” to Terry’s gaze.

“Fucking hell, Greg. You weren’t kidding!”

He came over and looked more closely and then began to count the welts, touching the first one with a finger.

“Get your hands off, you pervert,” I protested, pushing him away.

“Aw, stop being such a baby! Let me count them.”

He traced the length of the first with a finger and then the second and worked his way through all six.

“Boy! I bet these hurt when you sit down.”

“They do.”

“Well, at least you know now what to expect when the mystery parcel-sender catches up with you,” opined Terry. “Assuming he only gives you six,” he added ruminatively.

“You,” I said, pulling up my pants and jeans, “are a sadistic bastard.”

Terry grinned happily and ruffled my hair.

It was exactly a fortnight later that I was awakened by the doorbell. I glanced sleepily at the clock; nearly eight-thirty. I stumbled downstairs in my birthday-suit and glimpsed the postman through the hall window. I did a quick detour into the cloakroom, grabbed a towel and slung it round my waist, keeping hold of it with one hand as it was barely large enough to go right round me. I opened the front door a little way.

“Morning, mate,” shouted the postman cheerily. “Having another long lie, eh? Parcel for you.”

He thrust a package into my hand and set off down the path whistling merrily. I watched him go, idly admiring the fully-rounded buttocks which amply filled his black trousers, and then, dropping the towel en route, headed for the kitchen.

Insolent bugger, I muttered to myself as I switched on the kettle.

I had a look at the parcel and did a double-take. I was sure that was the same neat writing which had been on the package containing the cane. Now what? I was about to rip off the paper when I decided to get Terry along to witness the event. It took a while for him to answer and he sounded mildly annoyed as he said “Hi.” He seemed to cheer up when I told him why I’d called him.

“Be right over,” he assured me. “Be a mate and pour out some cornflakes, will you?”

You should pay for all these bloody cornflakes, I thought to myself as I filled a large bowl and then made myself some coffee. Some time later, the back door banged and Terry strode in.

“Hello, it’s Greg in his birthday-suit, showing off his goolies,” he declared with a grin.

“Oh, fuck. I’d forgotten. Just be a minute”.

I dashed upstairs and donned shorts and a tee-shirt. When I returned to the kitchen Terry was already well through the huge bowl of cereal. I pushed the parcel towards him.

“It’s another one,” I said unnecessarily.

Terry nodded and swallowed some cornflakes.

“So aren’t you going to open it?”

“I suppose so. What if it’s another cane?”

“What if it is?”

“Well, what will we do?”

“Why should we do anything? It might be useful. If your dad breaks one when he’s trying to beat some sense into you, he’ll have a spare one to use to finish off the thrashing,” suggested Terry.

“Oh, it’s a great joke, me getting my bum caned, isn’t it?” I said sarcastically. “Ha-bloody-ha!”

“Look, just open the damned thing,” ordered Terry irritably.

I ripped off the paper and revealed a well-taped box, just as before. I tore into it and pulled out the bubble-wrap which I yanked apart to reveal…..

“What the fuck….?” ejaculated Terry, spraying milk and cornflake fragments across the table in a repeat performance of the day the cane had arrived.

In my hands I held a thick leather strap about twenty inches long and slit into two thongs for about half its length.

“What the hell is it?” I gasped.

Terry took it from me and examined it.

“Well, I’d guess it’s some kind of punishment implement,” he decided confidently. “I should think a few hard slaps with these thongs across your bare arse and you’d be paying attention. This baby means business.”

“But why? What the hell is all this about? Why’s someone sending me punishment implements with no explanation?”

“Search me. You sure you haven’t committed some heinous crime, Greg?”

“Of course I haven’t. Terry, it’s kind of unnerving, getting things like this sent to me. Maybe some demented guy has got evil designs on my bum.”

“You mean apart from your dad?”

I grabbed him and for several minutes we fought silently on the kitchen floor until I subdued him and he submitted. We got to our feet, panting and happy.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Wanna feel it?”

“Like we did with the cane you mean?”

“Yeh. Two each on the arse; not full force though; just like last time.”

“Okay. I’m up for it.”

Terry picked up the strap, flexed it menacingly and told me to bend over. I’d barely taken up the position when he lashed the twin leather thongs across the seat of my shorts and I felt the band of heat and the vicious sting of the thong-tips as they curled round and bit into the flesh of my thigh. I flinched hard and let out my breath in a rush. There was a brief pause and then he wielded the belt again, slightly lower down and delivering a considerable burn. I stood up, scrubbing at my seat.

“Boy! That hurts,” I admitted.

“Yeh? Go on then. Let me feel it.”

He handed me the strap and bent over the table. I meted out two fairly hard strokes and watched with some satisfaction as each elicited a powerful wince.

“Felt them, huh?”

“Definitely,” Terry agreed, rubbing his bottom.

Unable to think of anything else to do, I put the strap with the cane in my drawer. I decided not to tell dad about this latest parcel. I didn’t want him making me choose between it and the cane for some future punishment.
The next time the door-bell rang and roused me from sleep was only five days later. It caught me out as there had been a fortnight between the first two parcels and Terry and I had planned that he’d come and stay the night a fortnight hence so that he’d be on the spot if another package arrived. Exactly what we hoped to achieve by this, neither of us could say, but it did make me feel less vulnerable. I hauled on a pair of briefs and took the stairs two at a time. It was the cheeky postman again.

“Still not up with the lark?” he shouted cheerily. “You’re missing the best of the day. Set your alarm for six and take a cold shower and you’ll be on top of the world.”

“Yeh, thanks. I’ll think about it,” I muttered.

He handed me a parcel along with the rest of our mail and strode off. I watched him go once more. He was tall, broad in the shoulder, narrow in the waist and with a crown of unruly light-brown hair which framed a young and handsome face. I guessed he was maybe in his early twenties. Great pair of buttocks too, I thought to myself, as I watched him head out the gate and along to the next house. I gave myself a shake and went into the kitchen. The parcel had on it the same writing as the first two. I called Terry. It was barely twenty-past-eight.

“Greg, mate! It can’t be morning yet!”

“Yes, it is! Get your lazy arse out of your smelly pit and come and see what’s in this new parcel. Honest, Terry, you miss the best of the day lying in bed at this hour.”

I felt only ever-so-little guilt about that last remark and I assuaged it by pouring Terry an extra-large bowl of cornflakes and topping them off with a few strawberries left over from last night’s dinner. When he arrived, he seemed pleased and wolfed half of them greedily before letting me open the parcel. The pattern was the same and when I cast aside the bubble-wrap…..

“Cor!”

“This is getting bloody ridiculous.”

In my hands I held a thick, hefty wooden paddle made apparently of highly-polished oak and perforated with a group of holes. I slapped it against my palm.

“Phew! This thing packs some sting,” I said.

I hit my palm again, a good bit harder and saw that it was bright red. Terry took it from me and smacked his thigh with it.

“Yow! You’re not wrong. This hurts!”

He turned the paddle over in his hands and then froze.

“Er, Greg?”

“What?”

“You noticed these holes?”

“Sure.”

“But have you really looked at them?”

Baffled, I took the paddle back from him and examined it closely.

“Oh, fuck!”

The holes formed the shape of a capital “G.”

“Looks like that’s one spanking with your name on it,” said Terry with what I thought was uncalled-for glee.

“It’s not funny,” I protested, annoyed at his levity.

“What am I supposed to say? We’re still no further forward.”

He took back the paddle and examined it again and then stood up and took it over to the window where he peered at the handle.

“What?” I demanded irritably.

“See here, Greg. In tiny letters on the handle.”

Nervously, wondering what new scary revelation was about to disturb my peace of mind, I took the paddle and looked closely.

Callipygian Greg, I have to be frank;
You are the boy whom I want to spank.

“Oh, God, Terry! What’s going to happen? And if you say that I’m going to get spanked, I’ll beat the living shit out of you,” I threatened fiercely.

Terry spread his hands and said nothing. He sat down and resumed eating. I glared at him.

“And what the hell does calli-whatsit mean anyway?” I demanded.

“How should I know? Probably means you’re a sexy bugger,” suggested Terry.

I gave him a furious glare and went to locate a dictionary. The word wasn’t listed.

“Probably need a bigger dictionary,” said Terry, “if it’s an obscure word.”

I sighed and headed to dad’s study where the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary sat smugly in two massive volumes. I wondered vaguely how many volumes constituted the full sized one. I took the first volume through and plonked it on the kitchen-table.

“Hell’s bells, mate! Where’d you get that monster?”

“Never mind that. C….ca….call….ip….got it! Having well-shaped or finely-developed buttocks.”

Terry snorted so explosively that milk and fragments of cornflakes came down his nostrils.

“It’s not fucking funny,” I shouted. “Who’s been sizing up my bottom?”

“I don’t think it’s illegal to admire a lad’s behind,” said Terry pacifically.

“Oh, it’s fine for you. Nobody’s promising to come and spank the fuck out of you just because you’ve got attractive buns, are they?” I snapped angrily.

“Maybe mine just aren’t in the same league as yours,” said Terry, standing up and placing a hand on my shoulder so that he could turn me round.

He slid his other hand over the curves of my behind.

“Hmmm!”

“What?”

“They’re pretty impressive, you know. I could imagine any red-blooded sadist wanting to get his belt in about them,” observed Terry.

“If you’re not going to take this seriously, just go away!” I shouted angrily at him and wrenched myself free of his hand. “And leave my backside alone, you pervert.”

Terry shrugged.

“Hey! Don’t get your goolies in a guddle. I’m as straight as they come and I’d rather get my hands on a female arse any day. I’m not interested in yours. I’m just telling you that it’s very well-made. You’ve obviously got a secret admirer who’s noticed. If I were you, I think I’d be kind of pleased. You’re needing a proper boyfriend.”

“Yeh, well, I don’t want a boyfriend who’s got plans to beat the hell out of my bum. My backside’s fine the way it is, unmarked; and that’s the way it’s staying. I’m not letting anyone leather it or cane it.”

“You let your dad cane it.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“He’s dad; and it was punishment. I fucked up and I got what I deserved.”

“But you didn’t have to get caned. You could’ve just lost your mobile and computer for a bit.”

“The cane’s quicker.”

“Are you going to let him cane you next time you fuck up, Greg?”

“None of your bloody business.”

“I’ll take that as a ’yes’. So you’re not really that averse to getting those gorgeous buttocks of yours thrashed, are you? Who knows, Greg? Maybe you’d actually like to have a sexy young stud leathering your bare tail with that strap-thing before he……”

I raised the paddle warningly.

“One more word, Terry, and I’ll see how much you like getting your tail tanned,” I threatened furiously.

Terry bent over the table, presenting his denim-clad buttocks to me.

“Go on then. Let’s feel how much it stings.”

I didn’t even pause to think. I just hit him as hard as I could right across the lower half of his bottom. The crack echoed round the kitchen and Terry actually jumped, both feet leaving the floor together for a second. He gasped aloud and stood up, rubbing his behind.

“Bloody hell, what did you hit me like that for?”

I felt a sudden pang of regret.

“Sorry, mate. I shouldn’t have done that. I was just annoyed and….look, I’m really sorry. Are you okay?”

Terry grinned.

“I think I’ll live; but I might need a coffee and some biscuits.”

I duly provided. We then fell to discussing seriously what we should do, but seemed to get nowhere.

“The trouble is,” said Terry, “since we don’t know who the guy is, we can’t spy on him. The next move’s up to him. We could report it to the police, but what could they do, even if they actually believed you?”

“I know. I won’t be letting any strangers into the house.”

“I guess,” said Terry slowly, “that the guy knows something about you and would come in the morning when you’re at home but your parents are out; but what can he do? He can hardly smash his way in, tie you up and beat the shit out of you without you putting up some resistance and yelling the place down. You know, he maybe genuinely believes you’ll want it and you’ll submit.”

“I suppose so. Must be a bloody weirdo. He might be dangerous.”

“Could be; but I think he’s just obsessed with your bottom and desperately wants to spank you, nothing worse than that.”

“Oh, I see. Getting my arse caned and leathered and paddled black-and-blue isn’t anything to worry about, is that what you’re saying? I should just let the guy in, make him coffee and then invite him up to my room, strip naked and tell him that my bum’s his?” I yelled sarcastically.

“Keep your hair on. I just meant that he probably doesn’t want to murder you,” said Terry pacifically.

“Probably? But suppose he does?”

“Beat his brains out with the paddle and then dial 999,” suggested Terry.

“You’re such a help,” I said.

“It could be your dad,” said Terry thoughtfully.

“What? How could it be him? If he wanted to give me a choice of a caning or taking away my mobile and all that, he could just have done it. He wouldn’t need to go through all this shit.”

Even as I said it, however, it occurred to me that I might have automatically rejected any such choice, not least since dad had never used corporal punishment on me in my life before now. Perhaps just having the cane there made it more of a live-option; and dad was devious enough to manoeuvre things so that I was nudged towards a choice I might not otherwise have considered. Why would he do that though? I knew I’d been increasingly difficult in recent months; moody, rude, uncooperative. I was fairly sure too that, at root, the problem lay in my own insecurity and frustration.

I’d finally accepted that I was gay nine months earlier and had taken the daring step of coming out; but although I’d got plenty of support from my mates and from my parents, I hadn’t immediately bounced into a great relationship with a boyfriend as I’d naively imagined would happen. I’d had one or two mild flings, but nothing which seemed anything like the relationships most of my pals, like Terry, had with their girls.

The basic unhappiness caused by all this had leaked through into my behaviour at home and I hadn’t been treating my parents with the respect they deserved. I’d known that for some time but couldn’t seem to do anything about it. Maybe dad had resorted to a mixture of psychology and old-fashioned spanking to sort me out. If I was being honest, the caning he’d given me had definitely been a wake-up call in terms of how I behaved towards mum and dad; had given me that powerful push to make much more of an effort to change my attitude, regardless of my inner turmoil. All this flashed through my brain in the few seconds before Terry responded to what I’d actually said out loud.

“True,” agreed Terry, nodding slowly.

An idea struck me.

“Of course, it could be you.”

“Me? I told you before it isn’t me. How do you work that out?”

“Maybe you’ve got a secret desire to thrash me,” I suggested.

“Well, if I did,” replied Terry emphatically, “I’d just have asked if you’d let me tan your hide. I wouldn’t have gone through all this nonsense either.”

“I guess not.”

“So, just as a matter of interest, would you?”

“Would I what?”

“Would you let me tan your hide?”

“Why? Did you get turned on caning me the other day?” I asked, curious at the direction the conversation was taking.

“A bit,” Terry admitted without any visible sign of embarrassment. “I wouldn’t mind giving your bare behind a good thrashing. But I’d rather spank Leanne. That really gets me going.”

“You spank your girlfriend?” I enquired, astonished.

“Sure. She likes it.”

“Yeh, well, right,” I said, unsure how to respond to this revelation.

We made more coffee. Just as we’d finished and were about to go into town, Terry spoke:

“Hey! I never got to give you a swat with that thing.”

“Er, no, neither you did,” I admitted.

I’d hoped he hadn’t realised, but it appeared that my hope was destined to be disappointed. I sighed, handed him the paddle and bent over the table. He hit hard and fast and I yelped as a ferocious explosion of pain savaged my bottom. I stood up, my body arched, head and feet back, and my hands rubbing desperately at my behind.

“That fucking hurt!” I shouted.

“It was meant to,” said Terry. “You didn’t hold back with the one you gave me.”

“I never hit you that hard,” I grumbled sulkily. “You’re stronger than me. Boy, it’s still stinging!”

“Aw, quit complaining and grow up,” scolded Terry. “Come on, I’ll buy you a latte in town.”

“You’re on,” I said, somewhat mollified.

As we walked, I glanced occasionally at Terry. In spite of his denials, he did seem to have some unexpected interest in tanning my behind and I started to wonder if perhaps it was indeed he behind the mysterious parcels, gradually building up my readiness to bare my bottom and submit to a good thrashing. Being totally honest with myself, I wasn’t completely against that idea, whatever I might say outwardly to Terry. He was a good-looking, sexy guy in a big, tough, but good-natured, kind of way; and there was no doubt in my mind that he was straight. Nonetheless, that didn’t stop me from admiring him and wishing sometimes that I could be more than just friends with him. Getting spanked by him just might be a pretty acceptable second-best. Would Terry go about it in such a roundabout way; or was he telling the plain truth when he said that if he’d really wanted to tan my hide, he’d just have asked? We entered a café, plonked ourselves down on a wooden bench, and then we winced simultaneously. As we caught each other’s eye, we grinned.

I was nervous over the next few days, but nothing untoward occurred. I was dosing contentedly when the door-bell rang loudly and wakened me rudely from my slumbers. I leapt out of bed and peeped out of the bedroom window to see the top of the postman’s head.

Oh, shit! Another of these parcels.

I pulled on my shorts and went to the door.

“God, but you’re a lazy bugger,” observed the postman breezily. “Need someone to throw a bucket of cold water over you and waken you up proper in the morning, that’s what you need, chummy,” he continued.

“Ha-bloody-ha!”

“Need your signature for this one, mate.”

“Er, okay. You got a pen?”

“Sure….er, well, oh heck! I’ve lost the bloody thing.”

“Come into the kitchen,” I said. “There’s a pen there.”

I led the way in and found a pen.

“Lots of parcels you seem to get, eh mate? Always ringing your bell I am and getting you up out of bed. So what are they? Sexy films, eh?”

“Of course they’re not,” I responded automatically. “They’re…something else.”

The postman winked at me.

“Ah, say no more. If you need things to help you in, er, that department then…”

“I don’t need help in any department,” I snapped angrily.

“Okay, okay, keep your hair on. Just making conversation. So, you going to open it?”

“Later,” I said.

I signed his pad with shaking hand. He looked at me uncertainly.

“You okay, mate? Got a hangover, eh?”

“What? No, I haven’t got a bloody hangover!”

“Fine. You just look kind of pale and unsteady and, well just not quite right.”

“Look, it’s none of your fucking business how I look,” I yelled, losing my rag with him. “You’ve got your signature; now get out!”

He raised both hands in placatory fashion as he edged backwards towards the door.

“Okay, okay. I’m going. Sorry for being concerned,” he said in a resentful tone.

A stinging pang of guilt streaked through me.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you; and I shouldn’t have been so rude. I’m just kind of jumpy.”

“No sweat, mate,” replied the postman, looking relieved. “So, er, what you so jumpy about?” he enquired tentatively. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he added quickly. “I’m Phil, by the way.”

“Greg,” I said, taking his proffered hand.

I sighed. My eyes rested on his shock of light-brown hair and his dancing eyes which looked as if the sun-spangled waters of the river were captured within. For a moment his beauty distracted me from my nervous fears before I refocused on the business of the parcels. If it hadn’t been for them, I could have made a play for him right there and then.

“Sit down and I’ll tell you,” I said, feeling I owed him an explanation for my rudeness.

He sat, and I told him what he’d been delivering for the past few weeks. He listened intently, an expression of growing disbelief on his handsome features. I began to feel annoyed with him again. I grabbed today’s parcel and began to rip into it savagely.

“I’ll show you,” I panted as I wrestled with the sticky-tape, “what I’m getting sent. You’ll see. Probably a fucking whip this time,” I muttered. “Shit! Shit! SHIT!”

I stared furiously at a vicious cut along the side of my hand caused by the stiff card of the box as I tried to rip it apart.

“Hey, steady, mate. You got any plaster?”

I sucked at the blood on my hand and nodded towards a drawer near the sink. He opened it and pulled out a box of sticking-plaster.

“Over here,” he said and drew me unresisting to the sink where he rinsed my hand with cold water before dabbing it dry with a paper towel and then applying a plaster.

“Thanks,” I said, rather shyly, because he was still holding my hand and I liked it.

“No bother,” he answered, flashing me a devastating smile which made my legs quiver. “So how about a knife to open it safely, huh?”

I extracted a knife from a drawer and opened the box easily before rummaging in the bubble-wrap to find……….

“It’s a bloody photo,” I said unnecessarily.

“Not a whip after all, then?” said the postman, his tone decidedly sceptical.

“No, no. But it was a cane and a leather strap-thing and a fucking paddle with holes which formed my initial before,” I insisted vehemently.

“Sure, mate,” he said pacifically; but I was certain that he didn’t believe me. I wanted to hit him. “So what’s the photo?” he enquired.

“Nothing,” I said quickly, holding it against my chest.

“Oooh! That kind of photo, eh? Big boobs?”

“It’s not big boobs,” I shouted.

“Oh, well. Never mind. Maybe next time,” said the postman in consolatory tones. “But she’s naked, right?”

“There’s no bloody”she“about it,” I snapped. “Oh, see for yourself!” I added angrily and slammed the picture down in front of him. He picked it up and looked.

“Oh!”

“Yes. Fucking”oh!“mate,” I said brutally.

The photo showed a well-built young male sitting on a chair with a wooden paddle in his right hand, raised as if to deliver a stinging swat. It was impossible to tell who the figure was, because he was wearing a black hood over his head and only a pair of eyes shone through.

“Right,” said the postman, apparently at a loss.

“Believe me now?” I demanded sulkily.

“It’s just a picture,” said the postman.

I leapt to my feet and suppressed an urge to jump him. For some reason I had a flashing thought that assaulting a guy engaged in delivering Her Majesty’s mail might end in execution; probably in a tower after a flogging; slowly.

“Wait!” I ordered and pounded up the stairs to my room, wrenched open the drawer and took out the cane, belt and paddle. I raced back down, dived through the door into the kitchen and skidded to a halt. Blood thundered in my head. My heart thumped like I’d just come face-to-face with a hungry tiger. The implements fell from my hands to clatter on the floor. For a moment I thought I was going to stop breathing.

I drew in air in a huge gulp and let my heart settle a little while I stared in appalled disbelief at the young man sitting on a kitchen chair, a black hood covering his face while his right hand patted his lap. It had happened. He’d somehow got in and was right there in my own house, waiting to spank me!

“No,” I panted.

“Come on,” invited the young guy from under the hood; and the voice was that of Phil the postman. “You know you want to, Greg.”

“What the….? Phil? But…I don’t understand.”

Sweat was trickling down between my shoulder-blades. He pulled off the hood and picked the paddle off the floor.

“Of course you understand, Greg. You’ve been looking forward to this moment for weeks.”

He slapped the paddle against his palm.

My heart was beginning to thud more steadily, but I was still nervous, and kept eying the doors, assessing escape-routes. I might know who he was now; but I still wasn’t clear what all this was about, nor how much danger I might be in.

“Looking forward to it? Do you know how worried you made me, you bastard? And what the hell makes you think you can just waltz in here and tell me to bend over for a fucking spanking?” I demanded in gathering wrath.

“I’m not telling you to bend over. I’m inviting you. You can always say”no“. I’m not forcing you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“Well, I don’t want to be spanked,” I said.

“You absolutely sure about that, Greg?”

Something curious was happening. My penis was stiffening as I gazed at the gorgeous young man, holding the paddle, the paddle with my initial on it, inviting me to bend over his lap and submit to being spanked. He was very sexy and for some reason he looked even sexier as he showed his dominance, slapping the paddle menacingly against his palm and patting his lap in an unmistakeable invitation. Unbelievably, there was a small but insistent part of me which wanted to accept that invitation.

To delay things a little, I asked him:

“Why? Why do you want to spank me? Why all…..all…this?”

I picked the leather strap and cane off the floor and laid them on the table.

“I’ve seen you out on your bike, or with your pal and I tell you, chummy, I never seen a pair of buttocks like yours. They’re pure fucking magic, mate; sheer bloody perfection; and they need spanked; really spanked; long and hard and very, very sore. So I decided to send you the parcels to get you interested and to wind you up so you were ready for it when the time came. And you are ready, aren’t you? You want to be spanked hard. Isn’t that right, mate?”

I stared at him, momentarily speechless, as I caressed my buttocks.

“You….er…you like my buns?” I enquired, somewhat taken aback at his enthusiasm for my bottom, and feeling both flattered and baffled.

“Mate,” the postman assured me with all the fervent intensity of a pilgrim sighting Jerusalem, “like doesn’t begin to do it. They just got to me. I couldn’t get them out of my head. I dreamed about them; I fantasised about them; I…”

“How?” I interrupted, unwisely.

“I just wanted to spank them, see them turn bright red, caress them, part them, get in between them and screw you rigid,” replied Phil, making things quite plain.

“Right,” I panted, lost for further words.

“So, you ready to get yourself across my knee like a good boy? Hand-spanking first.”

To my own astonishment, I walked slowly towards him, drawn by an impulse so deep inside me that it was beyond my comprehension. All the fears which had assailed me as the parcels arrived in the preceding weeks vanished like morning mist under a rising sun. The monster whom I’d feared was the local postman. The spanking I’d feared was now imminent and instead of trying to avoid it, I was about to submit. I stopped right in front of him and hesitated uncertainly.

“Best lose the shorts,” said the postman.

In a kind of dream, I slid down my shorts and stepped out of them, exposing my naked buttocks and my now bounding erection.

“Boy, but you are ready to be spanked, aren’t you?” said the postman. “Come on, Greg. Over you go.”

I bent down and slipped awkwardly over his lap while he manoeuvred me into the position he wanted.

“Ever been spanked before, Greg?”

I shook my head silently. He gave a soft laugh. A broad palm and strong, young fingers caressed my behind, sending sensations of exquisite delight surging through me. My heart beat faster, my breathing-rate increased. I closed my eyes and even as I did so he delivered the first spank. It stung pleasantly as did the following one on the other side.

His hand continued to fall steadily and inexorably and in my bottom a warmth built into heat and then into a burning sensation, so that I flinched and gasped and yelped a bit as the spanks just kept on coming. Rigid beneath me, trapped against the postman’s thigh, my cock maintained its steady approval of events. I wasn’t entirely surprised to become aware that, pressed against my side, his cock too was rock-solid.

The spanking ceased and the burning cooled slowly to a pleasant heat, tingling with tiny stings like I’d been thrashed with nettles.

“Just a few with the paddle to finish you off, Greg, and then we’re done – for now.”

I snapped my eyes open and looked along my side at him.

“What? No! Getting hand-spanked’s one thing. That fucking paddle’s another. My mate gave me one with that and I felt it!”

“Sure you did,” agreed the postman. “You didn’t think I’d send you a paddle that couldn’t do the job, did you? This thing’s mean to sting like hell. Now keep still.”

“No! But you can’t ……… OW!”

The paddle cracked hard across my flaming bottom and a powerful sting seared its way deep into my lower buttocks. I knew I’d feel that when I sat down. Hardly had the sting begun to ease than he slammed the paddle into me again. I reached back and scrubbed feverishly with my right hand at my throbbing bum. He grabbed my wrist, twisted my arm across my waist and smashed me a third time with the paddle. I writhed and tried to wriggle off his lap, but I was trapped. Thrice in swift succession, one on top of the other on the tender flesh where my behind ended and my legs started, the paddle was applied with expert power. I yelled and kicked and then bit hard into the wooden-spar under the chair.

The vicious sting eased to a steady, burning pulse of flame. I breathed deeply, forcing myself to calm down and, even as I did so my cock, which had beaten a hasty retreat at the first of the final triplet, began to rise again. The postman helped me to my feet and I saw that he was sporting a broad grin. I stood before him, scrubbing at my bottom while feelings of outrage and of delight fought a battle within.

“You liked it, eh Greg? I just knew those buns of yours needed to be spanked.”

“That fucking hurt!” I snarled.

“Bloody right it did,” concurred the postman. “You do realise that it’s supposed to, don’t you, Greg?”

“It’s not funny!” I said sullenly.

“Funny? Who said anything about it being funny? It’s bloody sexy though. You’re not half desirable standing there rubbing your spanked arse.”

Confused, my thoughts whirling like clothes in a spin-drier, I just lost it with him.

“Who the hell do you think you are, coming in here and spanking my behind as if you’re my fucking dad or something? I’m not a fucking kid you know! My arse is mine, get it? MINE! So you keep your fucking hands off it or I’ll beat the shit out of you; and I mean it!”

For some reason which passed my understanding, I felt hot tears prickling behind my eyes and I turned away from him, furious with myself and still seething with baffled fury. There was absolute silence. I got myself together and swallowed, hoping he’d say something. I heard him rise from the chair and, with an effort, I didn’t turn round.

“Greg?”

I knew he was standing right behind me. I could feel his presence; and I could feel something else with a sense I hadn’t realised that I possessed. I could feel his dominance.

“Don’t you dare touch me!” I hissed.

Nothing happened; but he was there. At some point he was going to touch me. I knew that; and paradoxically I also knew that I wasn’t going to stop him. I suspected that he knew it too. A wave of emotion rose in my chest and I clenched my fists as I fought to control myself. I became acutely aware of the pulse of heat in my bottom and slowly slid my hands round to press them, fingers splayed, to the spanked flesh. He was still there, silent, waiting.

“Turn round, Greg,” he said softly and his voice was a caress which set my skin tingling.

Very slowly, I obeyed, revolving on the spot until I was looking into his face. He gazed at me for several seconds and then raised his right hand and brushed the pads of his fingers along my cheek. A shudder thrilled through me, as if I’d been doused in chill water and brought to a sudden awakening. My penis throbbed and my bottom seemed to radiate more heat into my palms. At first I thought it was fear but then I knew that I was wrong. I wasn’t afraid. I was excited. I was on the verge of something beyond my experience and I was in the young postman’s hands.

His finger-tips remained on my face and then slipped round to pass along my lips with a gossamer touch which made me draw in breath and had my cock bouncing. For a brief time after he’d spanked me, I’d thought I had regained control of the situation; but I knew now that I hadn’t. Phil was in control; and, like a word which has remained long-poised on the tip of the tongue and suddenly comes to mind, in a moment of vivid insight I understood that I wanted it so.

“Come here, Greg.”

Barely a step separated us, but I took that step and stood, my face within centimetres of his. He slid both hands round my head, holding it steady, and then his mouth approached mine and I was ready and willing. Deep in the subterranean recesses of the planet it seemed to me that a mighty surge of power drove upward, thrusting through the earth beneath my feet and driving into every cell of my body as Phil’s kiss brought me to a new and vibrant life. Inside my head it felt as if new stars were being explosively born in the crucible of fiery galaxies; my senses whirled and I felt myself falling; and then was dimly aware of Phil stroking my neck and looking down at me.

I registered that I was sitting on a kitchen chair and Phil was standing above me, smiling. I made an effort to clear my brain.

“Did I faint?”

“Just for a moment. It’s my kissing. It’s so powerful, guys can’t take it.”

I snorted.

“That’ll be right. Got a great opinion of yourself, haven’t you?” I said; but I didn’t really want to contradict his assessment of his kissing-ability.

He just smiled again.

“You got spanked,” he said.

“And I liked it,” I added dutifully.

“You mean that, Greg?”

“Yes,” I replied confidently. “I really liked it.”

“I hoped you would.”

“Would you have been disappointed if I hadn’t?”

“Yes. Bitterly.”

My eyes fell on the cane and leather strap on the table.

“Phil?”

“You’ll be spanking me more in future, yes?”

“You bet! I’d like to give you a little taste of the strap right now. I’ll keep the cane as a treat for another day.”

“Treat for who?”

“Both of us,” replied Phil

“I don’t think I want the cane, Phil.”

“You will. I know how to use it. You’ll lap it up.”

“I don’t know. Dad punished me with it. It hurt like the fires of hell and then some.”

“I’m not your dad and I won’t be punishing you. That makes all the difference. Trust me. Now, just bend over the table while I give you something to remember me by until we meet again.”

He picked up the leather strap and flexed it slowly. I swallowed. I glanced at my shorts and looked a question at him. He shook his head. Still not fully comprehending why I was doing this, I bent across the table, my forehead resting on my arms, and waited to get my bare bottom leathered.

The belt stung furiously. Twin bands of fiery heat were left by the two thongs and ended in a deeper, throbbing pain where the tips of the tails curled round my haunch. I moaned and clenched my buttocks. The leather hit me again and then a third time, low on my crease, so that I yelped and scrubbed at the vicious sting at the top of my right leg. I was breathing hard. I wanted him to stop and at the same time I wanted him to continue. I stayed in position.

“Up you get, Greg.”

Slowly I straightened and turned to look at Phil as he stood there, gently stroking the thick, leather belt. Blood pulsed in my cock. He was gorgeous and he was…….masterful.

“Now, I gotta go. Her Majesty doesn’t like her mail being held up and you’re making me hellish late.”

“Me? You’re the one who started all this. You’re the one who came in here and spanked my bum and kissed me and leathered me and…and….”

I fell silent, unable to express in words what he’d really done; for the various events had combined to give me an experience which was greater far than the sum of the constituent parts. Phil stood me up and put his arms around me and then touched his lips to my ear.

“Listen very carefully indeed, Greg, for you’ll be coming round to my house tomorrow night and this is what I’m going to do with you.”

He spoke in a whisper as gentle as a susurration of summer breeze in the long grass. His lips touched my ear as they moved to form words; and the words dropped into my brain like the velvet petals of a dying rose falling silently to the earth. Scarcely could I hear what he said, so soft was his tone, yet I missed not a single syllable; and as he told me in exquisite and intimate detail precisely what he was going to do, my cock soared and he took it firmly and held it. I felt myself thrusting within his grasp as each revelation of his erotic intent seared into my consciousness, until I could contain myself no longer and burst forth in an exuberant explosion of semen which sprayed itself across my chest.

Phil massaged the semen into my skin, kissed me, his tongue like a writhing fish-out-of-water in my mouth, and then was gone, leaving me breathless, stunned, awed, spanked; and deliriously happy. I was still standing in a daze when there came a knock at the back door. I shook my head and went to answer it. Terry was standing on the step.

“Waaaheey! It’s Greg letting the neighbours see his assets,” he bawled cheerfully.

“Shit!”

I glanced at my naked nether regions and hauled Terry in with one hand while slamming shut the door with the other. Terry sniffed at me and a smile spread across his face.

“So that’s what you’ve been up to, you randy young buck. Good one was it? No wonder you were standing there like you weren’t on planet-earth.”

“What the hell are you on about?” I demanded irately.

“Spunk,” said Terry succinctly, nodding at my chest.

“Oh! Right. I’ll just go have a quick shower,” I said, feeling slightly embarrassed.

“Any cornflakes before you go, mate?”

I turned to the cupboard and reached for the cereal-packet.

“Well, I’ll be fucked!”

I looked interrogatively at Terry.

“Who roasted your arse for you, mate? The big, bad monster get in and leather your tail, eh? If it wasn’t near nine o’clock I’d have said that was the sun-rise.”

I scowled at him.

Terry continued to stare at me. I saw the expression on his face slowly change.

“He…he did get to you?” he gasped as understanding dawned. “But how? Who is it? Why did you let him do it? Greg?”

I plonked a plate and spoon on the table and reached into the fridge for some milk.

“Eat your cornflakes,” I said, pouring a generous mound into the bowl.

Terry picked up the slim cane from the table.

“If you don’t tell me what the hell’s going on, mate, I swear I’ll take this across your bum until it’s hot enough for me to make my toast on it,” he threatened, arching the rod menacingly.

I gave him an insolent grin and bounded out of the room.

“After I’ve showered,” I called back.

When I returned, Terry had made toast and smeared it with lemon-curd. I shook my head and told him the whole story of the morning’s events.

“The fucking postman? And you liked it? Awesome!” declared Terry.

“That’s it? Eight words? After all that’s happened and everything I’ve told you just now, that’s all you’ve got to say?” I demanded in a rising temper.

Terry laid down his toast and gave me a look of exasperation.

“What’s the matter with you? I don’t need to say anything! You’ve been moaning on for weeks about being scared of this tough guy who’s gonna come and roast your arse; so he comes and he roasts your arse for you; and you bloody want more because you loved it. And he’s going to do all sorts of fantastic things to you which are so intimate you won’t even tell me what they are,” he accused. “What’s not to like?”

“I guess,” I said, my anger deflating. “It’s just so…odd. And, Terry, he wants to use the cane on me.”

“So?”

“Well, it’ll hurt. After dad used it on my arse, I know.”

“So?”

“Do you think he will? Cane me, I mean?”

“Bound to,” said Terry through a mouthful of toast.

“Why?”

“’S’obvious. He’s a postman,” said Terry.

“But I don’t see….”

“He delivers,” said Terry with a huge grin, “and you, you lucky bastard, are gonna get the whole damn package!”

And I did!

THE END

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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 ©MMXII by Joelstrap, used here by very kind permission.

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Joelstrap’s excellent earlier stories for The Canery are available here.  Further great stories by Joelstrap may be found at this external link