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By popular request, a follow-on story to “Key To A Caning”, by very special guest author JOELSTRAP. This story is exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are 18 or over. WARNING: ADULTS ONLY!
Martin And The Cane by Joelstrap
Martin gave me permission to tell the story of how his great-uncle came to dish out a severe caning to Phil and Simon. Some readers have, perhaps understandably, asked the question about whether or not Martin himself had ever been on the receiving-end of his great-uncle’s cane. The fact that he knew about it and knew that his great-uncle liked to use it, certainly gave rise to natural speculation as to how Martin knew what he knew.
I decided to ask Martin; and although he was reluctant, and indeed evasive initially, he did eventually tell me the story. I’ve written it down as if he himself were telling it, with a short section from great-uncle Clive’s perspective, and have tried to convey something of the drama of the situation as they described it. Martin hasn’t actually given me permission to pass it on to you, but I’m hoping that he won’t mind.
Great-uncle Clive was one of my favourite relations. He was gran’s brother and I used to see him two or three times a year when our family went to see gran. He’d turn up one day for lunch while we were there and was great fun as well as being extremely generous, usually slipping me a tenner as he left. He retired when I was eighteen and, his wife having died the previous year, chose to come and live nearer to his daughter and her family, who were only a few miles away from us.
I saw a lot more of him after that as his bungalow, almost opposite Simon’s house, was only a couple of minutes’ walk from my own home. In spite of the age-difference, or possibly because of it, we got on very well together and he was a frequent visitor to our house; and we began to watch football or go fishing together. If you’re wondering why I didn’t tell the other guys, like Simon and Phil, it was because I was a bit embarrassed. I mean, I could just imagine what they’d say if I said I enjoyed going to see a match with a guy in his late sixties! I’d never hear the end of it!
It was a few weeks after he’d moved in and after he’d got rid of the decorators who were sprucing up his new home, that he asked me for tea one Saturday. The summer holidays were coming up and I was due to leave school before starting a college course in the autumn. He asked me if I’d like to put his car in the garage. I stared at him, wondering what the hell he was on about.
“I’ve only got a provisional-licence,” I said, “but I’m getting lessons. But why can’t you just do it yourself.”
“It’s tricky,” he replied, “and I need some assistance. Promise me that you’ll help, Martin?”
“Sure,” I agreed. “I promise. Just don’t blame me if you lose a wing-mirror!”
After tea, we went outside and I pulled open the large front-door of the garage – to be confronted with a wall of boxes to almost chest-height and stretching back into the darkness.
“Ah,” I said. “Now I see why you said it would be tricky.”
“But you promised to put the car into the garage.”
“You crafty old sod! I’ve been done!” I protested.
“That’s no way to speak to your revered great-uncle,” he said.
“That’s no way to treat your kind and respectful great-nephew,” I retorted.
“All the same, you’d better keep your word or I’ll take my cane to you.”
“Cane you. Like I used to do to the boys in my early teaching days, before corporal punishment was abolished.”
“Cane me? You can’t cane me!” I protested.
“You’re eighteen; old enough to decide for yourself.”
“Yeh; well I’ve decided there’s no way you’re gonna be taking a cane to my bottom.”
“So, you’ll be keeping your word and helping me get the boxes into the house and emptied, and all the stuff put away in cupboards or in the attic?”
“Yeh, sure. I’ll do it; but not because I think you’d cane me if I didn’t. I’ll do it because I keep my word; and I like you, even though you’re a manipulative old codger,” I informed him with a grin.
I spent a good chunk of the next day carrying boxes into the bungalow, a few at a time, and then emptying them while he put the contents away where he wanted them. A number of them had to go into the attic because he said they contained books and papers and things he wouldn’t be needing access to very often. Since the only way into the loft was via an extending-ladder, I lay face-down on the attic-floor and he carried the boxes half way up the ladder and passed them up to me. Hefting them into the loft was hard work and by the time all was done, I was hot and sweaty. A couple of cold-lagers helped revive me and I promised him I’d be back the next Saturday to continue the task of getting the garage cleared.
Thus it was that I found myself the following Saturday kneeling on the floor and emptying a box of photographs in frames. I admired pictures of him in graduation-gown many decades earlier; pictures of his wedding and of various events in his family. There were also some pictures of the private-school where he’d spent most of his teaching-career; and of classes of well-behaved-looking boys. I took out the last of these and then stopped and stared. Right at the bottom of the box, lay a school-cane.
I lifted it out and eyed it warily.
“Ever seen one of these before, Martin?”
“Not for real. I’ve seen pictures. Wow! It’s surprisingly lithe and springy.”
I stood up and did a practice-swing and the air winced.
“Shit!” I muttered.
“I mean, yeh, this would sting. Not half. No wonder the boys in the photos are so well-behaved,” I said.
“Oh, yes, it was very effective. I never had any discipline-problems.”
“I bet you didn’t,” I agreed, laying the cane on a table and kneeling down beside the next box.
For some reason that cane fascinated me. While he was making us some lunch, I went back and picked it up and examined it again. I ran my finger along it and bent it into an arch. I tried to imagine how it would feel on my arse, but didn’t really have much idea. I even tried using it on myself but that wasn’t very successful.
Shortly before I went home, I couldn’t resist returning to handle the cane once more and was aware of a powerful reaction in the front of my jeans. I was standing holding it in both hands, bent into a smooth arc, when great-uncle Clive came in suddenly.
“Yes,” he said softly, as if answering my unasked question. “It hurts like hell.”
“Er, yeh. Well, I best be going. I’ll be back tomorrow to finish off. See you about ten o’clock.”
“At ten; not about ten. If you’re late, you won’t be holding the cane in your hands. You’ll be feeling it across your bottom.”
“That’ll be right,” I riposted with a grin as I laid the cane down and then made my way home.
That cane intruded into my thoughts for the rest of the day. I was out with some of the guys that evening, having fun, enjoying the banter; but my mind kept returning to the slender rod and its potential for pain. Later, lying in my bed, I wondered. Was great-uncle Clive offering me a chance to feel the cane? Was he actually serious in saying that if I was late he’d cane me? It put the choice very firmly in my hands, because if I wanted to find out how the cane felt, all I needed to do was turn up a good bit after ten tomorrow morning. Assuming he was serious of course. I might turn up at ten thirty and he’d not say a word. That would be a relief; or would it? Would it really be a disappointment? Twisting and turning my thoughts, I drifted into sleep.
I awoke next morning remarkably sure. It was as if sleep had sorted out all my uncertainties. I was going to turn up at great-uncle Clive’s house at ten twenty; and see what happened. It would then be up to him; but I knew now that if he said he was going to cane me, I’d take it.
He didn’t! When I arrived he just sent me out to bring more boxes in from the garage and we set about emptying them. As I knelt there, handing out ornaments which I’d unwrapped from newspaper, I decided that I was relieved. Who wants a cane to be wielded viciously across his behind after all? There was, however, an insistent little voice which told me that I was disappointed. The cane still fascinated me and I felt a need to know more about it.
After some lunch, I brought in the final three boxes and we soon had them emptied and the contents put away as my great-uncle wished. I took the opportunity while he was away briefly when the ‘phone rang, to examine the limber cane yet again; and once more I experienced a powerful reaction in the front of my jeans.
“So,” said my great-uncle, “have you kept your promise and done as you agreed, Martin?”
“Yup. No boxes left; all done,” I replied.
“You remember what I said I’d do to you if you didn’t keep your agreement, don’t you?”
“Er, yeh. You said you’d cane me.”
“You’d better go and bring me the cane then,” he said.
“What? But I’ve………”
“Look out of the window, Martin. What do you see there?”
“It’s your car,” I said, giving him a baffled glance.
“I promised to put the car in the garage,” I replied, “and I haven’t.”
“I get the cane?”
“You get the cane. Hard.”
I swallowed, a mixture of excitement and anxiety surging through me. He nodded towards the room where the cane still lay. I went through, picked it up, and took it to him. He slashed it through the air with a whistling sound and I flinched.
“Bend over, Martin, hands at your ankles.”
I complied and waited, tense and nervous while he rapped my behind several times with the cane before he hit me firmly across the centre of my bottom. I felt a sharp sting; and a jolt of pleasure in my balls. He meted out a second stroke with similar results.
“Stand up,” he ordered. “Good; now you know what it feels like, you’re ready to be punished. Jeans and pants down.”
“What? But I thought that was it!”
“Don’t be silly, Martin. You hardly felt that.”
“I did! It stung,” I protested.
“It’s going to do a lot more than sting on your bare buttocks, my lad. Now, do as you’re told and then bend over with your hands on that chair.”
Reluctantly I obeyed and stood feeling scarily vulnerable as I waited to be beaten. Now he hit hard. It wasn’t just that I had no clothing between my skin and the cane; he was also using the rod with considerably more power. I flinched and tightened my grip on the chair. Two more strokes followed, each a little lower than the previous one and each delivering a searing streak of fire to my rump. The fourth landed just where my bottom merged into the top of my legs and I yelped as pain blazed across my flesh. I was still trying to steady my quivering rear when the cane landed again, lower still, and once more forced a squeal from me as I clenched my glutes desperately, fighting the pain. I was breathing hard as I awaited number six; and he made me wait. He even did a couple of practice-cuts, making me wince as I heard the cane whine. The stroke crossed the first three welts at an angle and inflicted the most intense burn yet as I writhed and squirmed.
“Well taken,” observed great-uncle Clive; and that gave me a sudden buzz of pleasure.
I stood up and explored my thrashed bottom with both hands. I could feel raised welts and a noticeable heat in my skin. My cock seemed to like it and was rising swiftly.
“What did you think?” asked my great-uncle with a smile.
“It bloody well hurts,” I told him, “but……..I know it maybe sounds daft…….but I liked it.”
“So did I.”
I stared at him.
“You enjoyed beating me?”
“Definitely. I hope you’ll want me to do it again, now that you know how it feels.”
“Not for at least a week,” I said, scrubbing ruefully at my still-burning behind.
“Next weekend then,” he said, “and don’t be late or you will be caned for it!”
“But you’re going to cane me anyway!”
“If you’re late, I’ll give you extra. Understand, Martin?”
“Yeh. I understand. I’ll be on time.”
Most weekends after that I went to him for six of the best on the bare, until I went off to college; but as soon as I returned for the holidays, I was back. The revelation in the Easter holiday that Simon and Phil had got themselves spanked and were keen to experience a real caning, was a surprise. I always like to help my mates though, so I hatched a swift plot and went to see great-uncle Clive.
“Leave a key under the third planter; and then drive off for a few hours and come back later in the evening and you should catch them. I can’t guarantee they’ll take a caning, but I’m pretty sure they will, because they really seem to want to feel one. I’ll pretend I once saw you getting a key from under the planter when I was walking past; and that I checked and it’s still there. What do you think?” I asked him.
“It’s worth a try. You know how I like to use my cane.”
“Tell me about it!”
“Right. Now there’s just one thing. You are in serious trouble, young man.”
“Me? How? I’m trying to do you all a good turn.”
“And I’m furious at your bare-faced insolence in daring to suggest that a sensible guy like me would ever do anything so foolish as to leave a key permanently hidden under a planter by my front-door,” he declared.
“But it’s just a story to give a way to get them into your house, you idiot! I know you wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh, er, sorry; that was a bit rude. But come on, I can’t be in trouble for………..”
“Go and get the cane, Martin.”
I gave him an exasperated look and turned to go to the other room to fetch the cane, gasping as my swiftly-hardening penis caught on my briefs. He gave me a knowing wink.
Here’s my great-uncle Clive’s account of what happened:
“Whoof!” panted Martin as he straightened up and pressed his hands to his blazing bottom.
I flexed my cane slowly and admired my handiwork. Across Martin’s taut young buttocks nine fiery horizontal welts stood out from the skin in a band from the centre of his behind down to his crease; while three equally vivid welts cross-hatched them at an oblique angle. I nodded gently in approval and continued to watch the freshly-beaten lad as he stood with his naked body arched in a long bow, feet and head back, stomach and chest forward. His eyes were closed and on his face was an expression of pain and ecstasy. His splayed fingers moved carefully over his caned rump and then he opened his eyes and glanced at me.
“Thanks,” he said. “That was sheer hell.”
“Yes, I thought I was getting through to you,” I said complacently. “You certainly looked like you were feeling it.”
“I dunno how you can hit so hard,” replied Martin, shaking his head.
“I trust you’re not complaining,” I said.
“No way! I know better than to complain,” he responded with a rueful grin. “You’d just beat me again, even harder.”
“You’re learning,” I told him. “And by the way, if Simon and Phil don’t go for a caning, I’ll be giving you a double-caning instead. I won’t let you away with building up my hopes and then having them dashed.”
“Why, you sadistic ba…brute!” he retorted.
At least that was one caning I didn’t get, because Simon and Phil chose the cane anyway and my great-uncle was cock-a-hoop. He even managed to give them a second caning before they returned to college; and they appreciated my part in arranging things for them.
So now you know how Martin came to be aware of his great-uncle’s interest and how he himself experienced the cane. Only one thing bothers me. Martin doesn’t seem to think that I should have told you all this, because he hadn’t given me his permission. I got a text from him saying that he had borrowed his great-uncle Clive’s cane. I don’t know if Martin has ever dished out a caning before, or if he’s any good at it; but I’ve a nasty feeling that I may very shortly find out.
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.