♥ Site recommended story ♥
Repeated from 2015, this extra hot fiction is by very special guest author 11plus. All the characters are 18 or over. Strictly for reading by Adults Only!
“Dad, this may sound weird, but I want you to try corporal punishment on me.”
“Eh? You what? Damn right, son, that does sound weird!”
“Dad, listen to me. I’m incredibly lazy. We both know that. I need some serious motivation if I’m going to get through University.”
“Maybe, maybe, but it’s out of the question.”
“It’s not like you can stop my pocket money. Gran’s inheritance has left me a lot better off than my mates.”
“True, but really, the very notion is preposterous and out of the question. Let’s move on, silly!”
“No Dad! I’ve thought about this a lot. It’s taken me a lot of courage to raise this, you know. I need something unpleasant to motivate me.”
“Listen Peter! You don’t know what you’re asking for. I imagine we’re not talking a hand smacking here? I was thrashed regularly at your age, eighteen, and let me tell you, it’s no laughing matter!”
“Exactly, Dad. No laughing matter, that’s just what I need. I’m lazy and devious with it, you must know that?”
“Of course, I recognise that. But we all have our crosses to bear. You’ll just have to learn some self-discipline. Listen, what you’re suggesting borders on sadomasochism, and I want no part in it. If you ask me, you need to see a doctor, this is just so sick! But if you’re serious, you’ll have to find someone else, perhaps a girlfriend…”
“Oh not that girlfriend business again, Dad!”
“Yes, again! You need to sort yourself out! That much is self-evident!” Father banged his clenched fist down on the hard wood of the kitchen table, to reinforce the point. Peter realised he was getting nowhere; his father was quite adamant.
It was about a week later when the two men were sat at the same table. Father puffed on his cigar, while son coughed as he smoked a more modest cigarette.
“How’s your hangover, son?”
“Not too bad, thanks, Dad. A little bit headachey, but I’ll get over it.”
“I heard you come back, you fell up the stairs.”
“Did I? Gosh, sorry Dad.”
“And I heard you throw up in the loo. About 4 or 5 in the morning, I think.”
“Yes, sorry Dad. I did clean up the mess.”
“Yes, as well you might!”
“Sorry, Dad.”
“I had a bad night, because of you. You really can be most thoughtless.”
“Dad, what more can I say, other than that I’m really sorry?”
“It’s just not good enough, my boy!”
“Dad…”
“Now, listen to me! As I tossed and turned last night, trying to get back to sleep, I was thinking about what you said about corporal punishment. It could indeed be just what you need, Peter.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Peter, who had cooled to the idea ever since his father seemed to be vehemently opposed to the idea.
“Yes, a short, sharp shock is just what you need.”
Peter groaned. Suddenly, his headache seemed to be getting worse. His father continued, “Yes, a good thrashing might sort you out. But I can’t bring myself to do it.”
“Right Dad, good,” said Peter, immediately feeling somewhat relieved.
“So, I’ve called in an old favour,” the older man said, with a sly grin.
“How do you mean?”
“I’ve had a word with old Charlie Churchman at number 73. You know, the old teacher from St. John’s.”
“What?” asked Peter, with a feeling of dread.
“He will provide you with some discipline, he seemed happy to help!”
“Dad! Please no! That’s way beyond strange.”
“Well, you asked for it, son. In more ways than one. I went over to his place for a chat first thing. I imagine you were still out for the count at the time. Now, listen. You will report to his house this morning at 11.30 sharp! Wearing your running kit. Is that clear?”
“Dad, no! I’m not having some old stranger spanking me!”
“It’s too late for that. We can’t back out now. If you want, I will walk up to his house with you. At least that way, I can be sure you won’t back out of it. And I doubt he will spank you. He’s more used to using the slipper or cane.”
“Shit, Dad!”
“Language, Peter!”
“Sorry, Dad. Whatever have I let myself in for?”
“I don’t really know. But if it cures you from getting blind drunk and selfishly disturbing me, then I’m all for it.” The older man laughed heartily. “Now, how about you go and freshen up?”
With that, young Peter made his way up to the bathroom. His head was spinning, but this time not from an excess of alcohol. No, this time it was dread, fear and yes, a little excitement too! As he sat on the toilet, head in hands, he contemplated his fate. Well, his father was right. He had asked for it. But now the prospect was all too real. Perhaps he should have left things until he started at University? Normally, there was nothing he liked more than a leisurely dump, but today he fidgeted around on the seat. His pert teenage bottom was pale and unblemished but for how much longer? He wriggled around restlessly on the toilet seat. How much would it hurt? Would it be bare? Was dad pleased? All of these thoughts flashed through his mind as he flushed and cleaned the toilet diligently.
Peter stared at his teenage face in the mirror as he scraped away with the blunt Gillette. A pale and worried lad stared back. He washed away the blood from the razor cuts, and rinsed away the foaming residue. He listened idly for the gurgle as the last few drops of water drained away down the plughole. Yes, he normally enjoyed his morning routine and ablutions, but today he was preoccupied. Today was the day he would be thrashed!
The lad then made his way to the walk-in shower. As he did so, he became acutely aware of the rank but manly BO of his armpits. In truth, there was nothing he liked more than the erotic smell of sweat, even his own, but he knew that it was not socially acceptable, and so it would have to be washed away. Soon he was basking under the refreshing hot jets of water, working the white bar of soap carefully around his armpits. Then he made his way down to his cock. He had a gentle, short golden piss, as he’d become aware that he had not fully emptied his bladder earlier. He then took the soap and smothered his whole penis is soapy lather, pulling back the foreskin and washing every little detail of the wrinkly member. But as he did this, he became aroused, the cock stiffening and throbbing as the soap was worked on it. He masturbated with joy and relieved some of the tension that had been building up. Suddenly, as he thought about his imminent punishment, thick cum spurted from his piss slit, splashing onto the white ceramic tiles. Gosh, that had been fun! But at the same time, like so many teenage masturbators, he also had some feelings of guilt.
Peter carefully washed his penis again, this time removing all traces of his creamy sperm. He moved the soap around to the protuberant cheeks of his pert teenage bottom and washed thoroughly. As he did so, he reflected that his bottom could soon be a very different, reddened colour. He washed and washed, and became excited again as he thought about what his punishment could be. The soap worked a foamy lather into his hairy arse crack, and he spent extra effort on the beautiful puckered rose arsehole that was hidden among the hairy bush. He wanted to be extra clean around there, just in case in his punishment was to be on his bare bottom! Soon he was shampooing his hair, and then massaging shower gel into his teenage flesh.
As he dried himself, Peter again reflected on his unblemished, peachy bottom. Standing on tiptoes he looked at his arse in the mirror. He pulled his cheeks apart and looked at his own arsehole. He was beginning to feel a little disgusted with himself. What a young pervert he was becoming! Just then he heard his father banging on the door with a curt instruction to hurry up!
And so it was that at 11.15, Father and son left the house. Father was dressed in what you might call casual smart, with a cord jacket and cravat. Son Peter was dressed in some running gear – black nylon shorts with a jockstrap underneath, and a white T-shirt. The contrast between the smart father in his timeless brogues and the teen in his trendy trainers was marked. They soon arrived at Churchman’s house. After some brief handshakes, father left son to the tender mercies of the retired teacher.
“So!” said Charlie Churchman gazing at the teenager before him. “As I understand it, we have a boy here who needs some motivation to combat his habitual laziness. Is that right?”
“Err, yes. Yes, Sir!”
“And a boy who comes home drunk, waking his father, and so on?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And has a bit of an attitude in general?”
“Maybe, Sir.”
“THERE’S NO MAYBE ABOUT IT, LAD! Your father has told me all about it. Excessive masturbation too, I’m told! You need a girlfriend lad!”
Peter groaned, “Not the girlfriend bit again! You really have been talking to dad, haven’t you?”
“Well, of course. You wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t!”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Are you stupid, boy?”
“No Sir,” said Peter on the verge of defeat, “But to be fair, I probably do need some stupidity thrashed out of me.”
“Yes! Good! Progress!”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Well then, a thrashing it shall be!”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
“How old are you?”
“Just eighteen, Sir.”
“So an adult then?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Eighteen years old, so I think eighteen strokes of the cane would be appropriate.”
“Eighteen! That sounds a lot! I was expecting a hand spanking, not the cane.”
“Really? Really? How naive! Hand spankings are not for adult males. No, the young adult male bottom can take much sterner treatment. Let me see your bottom. Bend over a minute.”
So Peter bent over. His shorts stretched tightly across his bottom, while the white fabric of the jockstrap was hidden by the thin shiny black nylon fabric. Mr Churchman gently felt the cheeks, and then pinched the flesh sharply.
“Ouch! Do you mind?” cried Peter.
“Quiet lad! Just seeing how fleshy your bottom is. It’s quite well padded. My expert view is that it can take a good beating. Right then. Perhaps six with the riding crop on these shorts.”
“Oh, thank you Sir!”
“Followed by twelve with my finest school cane on your bared bottom.”
“Oh, Sir!”
“It’s not a lot, trust me, lad. At your age, and with that fleshy bottom of yours, you should be able to take it with ease, if not comfort!” The man laughed heartily, “Now stay here while I go and fetch my crop and a cane.”
Peter considered running away as he surveyed the musty living/dining room. However, he knew he had nowhere to run, even though he had his running kit on! He was just considering his options when Mr Churchman returned. He had a school cane and a purple riding crop stashed under his arm, almost up to his armpit. His stiff, purposeful almost military gait assured Peter that he was in for a hard time.
“Very well then,” the old man announced as he pulled a dining chair over and plonked himself down on it. “Crop first. Over my lap! Come here.”
Peter placed himself down on the lap, his hands and toes resting on the shabby beige carpet. Charlie Churchman slowly smoothed out the wrinkles in the lad’s shiny shorts before slashing the crop down violently on the cheeks. Rapid fire-style, the other five strokes landed indiscriminately on Peter’s buttocks. Peter grunted with each strike as the most unpleasant burning sensation lit up his flesh. He wriggled and writhed as each blow struck home.
“Stand up!”
Peter dutifully shuffled to his feet, and his hands immediately flew to squeeze and massage away the pain. But Churchman was having none of it, “NO RUBBING WITHOUT PERMISSION! Right, hands by your sides. That’s better! Right. Shorts down!”
As Peter edged his shorts down, he heard Churchman put the crop down and then pick up the cane. He whipped it through the air with determination. “Take your jockstrap off. How I dislike those modern things! And with their tacky branding. That’s it. Might as well strip off completely. That’s it! You really are quite a handsome lad, aren’t you? Lost your voice? Now, let’s have you bent over the back of this chair. Good. Now, stick your bottom out for the cane. It’s important that you show your proper submission by offering yourself to the stick. That’s it! I’m beginning to think that you’re a natural!”
Peter’s bottom was offered meekly to the cane. Already marked with six vivid red crop stripes, it was about to feel the force of a rattan wielded in anger. And it was a very angry first stroke indeed. It sliced down right across the middle of Peter’s bottom cutting and burning almost immediately. Peter let out a deep grunt.
“Stick your bottom out for the next stroke, Peter, you’re doing very well!” It was the first time that Churchman had used the lad’s forename. Peter’s bottom bobbed up dutifully for the next stroke which landed in almost exactly the same place as the first one had.
“ARRGH!” squealed Peter, caught by surprise by the viciousness of the two strokes merging into a single stripe of immense pain.
“QUIET!” directed the retired teacher, as he waited for the buttocks to raise in preparation for the third stroke. Almost as if on autopilot, they did. And also as if on autopilot, the cane lashed down again.
After six strokes, Churchman announced, “Time for a break. Stay in position. No rubbing. I need to check how your bottom is bearing up.”
The retired teacher’s hands gently felt the scarred buttocks. He massaged and probed, his fingers straying not only to the crack and arsehole but also to the cock and balls. Peter wasn’t sure what to make of it all. It was an exquisite torture, but it was an indecent one. He felt violated, and yet somehow almost turned on. Churchman was impressed by the lad’s compliance and also by his cleanliness. Only a soft sheen of sweat betrayed the ordeal the boy was in the middle of enduring.
“Right! Six more! Bottom up further, legs wider apart. Wider. Wider!”
Peter’s bottom was now on offer even more, a most unusual and provocative position. His arsehole was clearly displayed, much to the gratification of his tormentor. Duly provoked, the cane slashed a seventh stroke, an eighth and a ninth. By now Peter was wriggling his bottom, to the left and then to the right, in a vain attempt to avoid the sting and bite of the rattan.
“Keep still! Don’t spoil things, you were doing so well, Peter!”
A tenth stroke landed unexpectedly quickly after that admonishment, causing Peter to squeal and gasp, “No more, please Mr Churchman, Sir!”
But the lad’s plea fell on deaf, un-receptive ears. Already the old man was lining up a penultimate diagonal stroke which proceeded to cause a further yelp from the startled lad.
“Last one coming up, Peter. Keep still and keep quiet!”
But it was impossible, the final stroke seemed to be the worst, causing another unmanly squeal. Churchman tutted and threw the cane down on the nearby settee.
“A patchy performance, Peter. Regular canings would do you no harm at all, in my opinion! I’ll be telling your father that I am on call twenty-four hours a day, if you ever need a refresher. Is that clear? Well?” The lad just nodded, sniffed and wiped away a tear as he dressed slowly. “On your way now, Peter. Run along to the park. Your father will be waiting for you by the bandstand.”
“He will?”
“Yes, that’s what he told me. And make sure you give him some respect. Otherwise you can expect a return visit here. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, you do, Sir! I don’t want a repeat visit, thank you.”
“Very well. I didn’t think you would for one minute. Now, make sure you don’t then. And remember, respect!”
Peter dressed hurriedly and rushed out of the front door as quickly as he could, slamming it carelessly and running towards the park at the end of the avenue. Though his buttocks felt like they were on fire, he was able to make quick progress and was soon through the Victorian cast-iron park gates. He made a beeline for his father who was sat on one of the green metal seats, puffing contentedly on a cigar, almost predictably.
“You survived then?” Peter’s father asked sarcastically, “Bet it hurt though?”
“Too right! Six on these thin shorts with the riding crop. Like I was a fuckin’ horse or some other animal!”
“Language, Peter!”
“And then twelve with the cane on the bare!”
“Aha! About the same as I used to get when I was your age. Right, son! We’re going into the Gents and you are going to show me your freshly caned bottom. Before the marks disappear.”
“I don’t think the marks are going anywhere soon, Dad! No, no, no! If you must look, couldn’t we wait until we get home?”
“Do as I say, son, or we’ll be calling in to Mr Churchman’s on the way home. And if that happens, I will watch your punishment.”
Crestfallen, the lad followed his father as he made his way into the toilets. The loos were surprisingly well-lit, but the smell of stale urine and disinfectant assaulted their nostrils as soon as they entered. Two other men were there, apparently masturbating furtively at the stainless steel trough urinal.
Father waved them an all-clear thumbs-up signal, and then spoke, “Don’t mind us, I’m just inspecting my boy’s thrashed bottom!”
Of course, the two men didn’t mind at all. As father bent his son over, they turned round, cocks sticking out prominently, as they watched the boy’s shorts come down. One of them whistled loudly as the red tramlines were revealed on the boy’s naked flesh, neatly framed by the jockstrap. Father smiled at the men. He knew them by sight. Since the divorce from his wife he had become a daily user of the toilets, and indeed, that’s where his friendship with retired teacher Charlie Churchman had first blossomed. He smiled and then landed a meaty slap on his son’s bottom, saying, “Pull them up, son. And then wait outside for me. I need to use the facilities.”
Outside the Gents, Peter paced around impatiently. His bottom throbbed and ached from the thrashing. He suddenly realised that his father was taking an awfully long time to relieve himself. Must be a big job and washing and drying his hands, he thought. Just then he heard loud laughter from the red brick toilets, and soon after his father emerged, looking a little flustered.
Father and son strolled home slowly, with little small talk. As they approached No.73, Peter grew a little agitated. And as they passed by, he thought he saw the net curtains twitch a little, but he couldn’t be sure. Was Mr Churchman having a crafty look at father and son? Peter rubbed at his very sore bottom involuntarily just at that minute. What a day!
Only a few days later, Peter and his father were sat at the kitchen table again. Peter’s bottom had recovered from the ravages of Churchman’s crop and cane. Peter coughed and wheezed noisily and announced, “I’m just going to nip down to the shops to buy some more fags.”
“Oh no you’re not, son!” said father, puffing on his cigar, “Smoking is such a dirty habit. Mr Churchman and I have decided that you are giving up.”
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Story © 2015 by 11plus, used here by very kind permission of the author. The full list of stories by this author is available here.
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D I S C L A I M E R
All characters appearing in this story are over 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Caning & Spanking @ The Canery 