Heating Engineered (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A first repeat of this hot caning story by your host, Rod Cayenne.  All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!

It had been a long and tiresome day for heating and ventilation engineer Dave.  Call after call, and hassle from the office.  Now, as he drew up the works van on his gritty gravel drive, he knew he had to complete the paperwork for all the site visits, before he forgot all the details.  How he hated filling in the multi-part carbon forms, ticking the boxes and recording comments.  A decent firm would have issued him with a laptop, or a tablet computer, but, oh no, he had to scratch away at the forms on a vinyl clipboard using a company-branded ballpoint pen.  All in that dreadful corporate green colour.  And the mobile phone he had been issued was real turn-of-century stuff, well not quite, but definitely dumb rather than smart.  Still, it was good to be home after a tiring day.

Up in his bedroom, Dave stared lovingly at the whipping cane stored in the wardrobe.  Its lithe and slender form seemed to beckon him.  The thin coating of varnish glistened in the remnants of the early April sunshine.  Despite his love for the very latest technology, this relic from a bygone age was perhaps his favourite possession.  He unhooked it carefully from the wardrobe’s brass hanging rail.  He flexed the whippy cane and scythed it through the air, landing it in a vicious blow on his bed.  Dustclouds rose and fell in the shafts of spring sunshine.  He’d done this many times before.  It was frustrating, for what he really wanted to do was to use that cane in anger.  Oh how he would love to beat Marcus, his drunken handful of a son, with it!  But it was not to be, for quite simply, he couldn’t face doing it.

Fortunately, he had a new neighbour.  A mixed-race gay policeman named Vince.  He was quite a picture and on this occasion had his full uniform on.  He was happy to tell Dave, “Yes, I’ll do that for you.  I’d enjoy doing it.  It would be a pleasure.”

“Oh!”

“Shocked?  Well, you shouldn’t be.  So many of us police are into crime and punishment.  We have a sadistic side which rarely gets exercised in a controlled manner.  We get to be thuggish, but not disciplinarians.  A beating for your boy Marcus sounds ideal.  And even if it turns me on a little, I promise not to take advantage.  He will be thrashed, but that’s all.  Promise.  He’s 18 isn’t he?”

Dave nodded and Vince laughed, adding, “High time he had a good whipping then.  Now, show me the cane!”

Dave climbed the stairs to his bedroom.  With mixed emotions, he collected the cane.  Back in the spacious lounge-diner, he handed his treasured posession to Vince, saying only, “Here it is.”

“Oh yes!  I say!  It’s a beauty, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I’ve always thought so.”

“The handle has a beautiful curve.  Just perfect.  Lovely.  Obviously made by a true artisan.  And it’s never been used?”

“Never!”

“Well, that’s a crying shame.  Let’s rectify that right now.  Drop your trousers and pants for me!”

“What?”

“Well, you can hardly expect me to use an untested cane on your boy, can you?  That wouldn’t be fair at all, now would it?  No, we’ll have to try it out on you first.  Just to make sure everything’s alright.”

“Well, I don’t know.  I wasn’t expecting this.  And my pants, too?”

“Yes, pants too.  Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you.”

“Really?  Promise?  Well, if you’re sure it’s really necessary?”

“Never been surer.  Now, get that bottom bare.  It’s the only way.”

“I suppose.”

Feeling somewhat stupid but also rather excited, Dave bent over the back of a dining chair, as instructed by Vince.  It didn’t cross Dave’s mind until much later that he had been tricked into taking a beating.

Vince raised the cane and slashed it down.  It caught Dave right across the middle of the arse, causing a gasp and some involuntary fidgeting.  A second stroke followed through, this time bringing a yelp and causing Dave to jump up, rubbing frantically at his scorched cheeks.

“Very poor, Dave.  I’m sure even young Marcus wouldn’t do that!  Get back down and take your beating like a man.  Right down and bottom up!”

“Sorry Vince.”

“Don’t call me Vince!  Call me Sir!  The man with the cane in his hand is always Sir, is that clear?”

“Yes Sir, sorry Sir!”

“Make sure you don’t forget or it will be all the worse for you.”

The authoritarian talk was beginning to turn Dave on.  Something of a masochistic urge hidden inside had been awoken.  The pain of the cane strokes was now turning into a pleasant, warm glow.  He thrust his bottom out ready for the next stroke.

“We’ll restart.  From the beginning.  Six hard strokes for you, my boy.”

History repeated itself for the first two strokes, only this time Dave didn’t dare stand up! Vince seemed to land those strokes right on top of the earlier ones.  Somehow though, it was an exquisite agony that Dave felt.  He felt he was in his natural place, subservient to a cruel master.  Still, the third stroke was hard to take, hard to bear, hard not to cry out loudly about. And then a brace of cutting strokes caused Dave to squeal out with shock.

The final stroke crashed down, causing Dave to gasp at its intensity.  But it wasn’t over!  Oh no, Vince had other plans!

“And one extra for luck, I should think,” Vince announced before laying the hardest stroke yet into Dave’s soft, fleshy bottom.

“Shit!” Dave cried out.

“No shit!” exclaimed Vince before chuckling loudly and throwing the cane down on the deep pile carpet.  “Now stay where you are.  Sir is going to inspect his handiwork.”

Vince’s hands explored every bit of Dave’s arse.  Not just the nasty weals the cane had left, but also the milky white surrounds which had escaped the rattan’s stinging caress.  The hands gently stimulated the anus, before moving on to play with Dave’s thickening cock and meaty balls.

Suddenly Dave felt the wet slobbering of Vince’s tongue in his left ear.  It was disgusting, but it was a turn-on all the same.  Soon they were kissing passionately and heading for Dave’s bedroom.  The wardrobe door was still open; the cane not returned.  Dave rummaged in his bedside drawer for a condom and some lubricant.  He was about to be taken by the copper, not to the station, but to the stars.  It was a wild and prolonged fuck with the dark-skinned cop riding his white neighbour masterfully.  Dave eventually fell asleep in his new lover’s arms. After an hour or so Vince extracted himself from Dave’s dozy embrace and slipped out of the house.  Dave didn’t wake, as he was exhausted from his caning and the lovemaking. He was truly beaten.

Young Marcus almost tripped over the school cane when he returned home.

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Story © MMXVII by Rod Cayenne

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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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Comments welcome.  Comments are here.

Comments from the 2017 post are here.

Packing Heat (M/M)

 

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot caning fiction by your host, Rod Cayenne, originally from 2019. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!

Packing Heat by Rod Cayenne

It was Autumn, 1967.  Hippies with flowers in their hair were everywhere, except in the once-noble village of Nether Bumming.  Down at the half-timbered Fox And Hounds, Jim Rodgers played with his fresh pint.  He tried to blow the froth off the top off the bitter ale.  It wasn’t shifting, so he sliced it off with a sticky, dog-eared and discoloured cardboard beer mat.  That was not something he’d have done had he not been well on the way to inibreation.  Anyway, clearly he was distracted; miles away.

“Just what’s up, Jim?” asked his young friend PC Steve Churlington.

“Nothing’s up.  Really, nothing.  Nothing at all.”

“Don’t give me that!  You’re brooding about something or other.  It’s that lad of yours I’ll warrant, what’s his name again?”

“Oh, you mean Peter?”

“Yes, Peter.  Tell me now, what’s he been up to?  I thought you and I had no secrets.”  The cop winked at his close friend.

Jim gazed at his pint, tracing a pattern in the condensation on the outside of the glass with his grubby finger.  He sighed and smiled and looked his friend straight in the eye, before revealing, “Well, you’re right.  Of course.  He’s been a real handful since his mother ran off with that low-life estate agent.  I may have mentioned it before.  He and I seem to be jostling to be head of the household all the time.  Which is ridiculous, as it’s my place, after all.  Now the little sod’s bought an air rifle, a gun.  Can you believe it?”

“Oh I see.  What’s the problem, then?  He’s old enough to own one, he’s seventeen isn’t he?”

“Eighteen and a half, actually.  It’s just, it’s just…”

“What exactly, Jim?”

“Well, it’s just that I asked him not to buy one.  I begged him not to buy one.  I told him not to buy one.  I forbade him from buying one.”

“You didn’t want him to buy one then?” laughed his friend the cop, supping ale with a twinkle in his eye.  The froth from the beer decorated the cop’s moustache briefly before his beefy hand wiped it away.

“Shit, Steve.  No, I didn’t want one in the house but the little sod is earning now and has got a mind of his own.”

“I suppose that’s the danger at his age.  But he’s not 21, so you are still in charge.  He’s testing you, as you hinted.”

“Oh maybe, maybe not.  Yes, definitely maybe.”

“A very tricky situation then.  And let me guess, his father’s reluctant to leather him?”

“Yes, rather.  Although, I suppose it’s just what he needs and deserves.”

“Hmmm.  I agree.  Totally.  You know, I see this all the time.  The young generation disrespecting their parents, their teachers even.  Thank God the schools have the cane.  It would be chaos without, especially with all this hippy, Summer Of Love nonsense at the moment.”

“Shove the Summer Of Love!” said Jim, and then “Cheers!” as the two men crashed their glasses together, laughing and supping their ales.  Jim belched loudly and “A Whiter Shade Of Pale” played on the distant jukebox.

Later, as the evening wore on, PC Steve leant over towards Jim, and put his hand on his friend’s knee, saying conspiratorially, “You know I could deal with Peter.  As an officer of the law, I’m sure I could find a way of giving the boy a really sore arse.”

“Oh, would you?” implored Jim, “Could you?”

“Leave it to me!” said PC Steve conspiratorially.  “But I do need some background.  He’s had the cane before? And a good slippering?”

“Yes, quite a lot, when he was younger.  It was noted on his reports.  By the Headmaster.  He was a bad lad then, alright.”

“You didn’t follow it up ever, then?”

“Oh no, no.  Isobel wouldn’t wear it.”

“Hmmm, seems to me that she wore the trousers in that relationship!”

“Mmmm.  That’s tired old territory though, Steve.  And I was happy to leave it to the Head, who could be an unforgiving bastard at times, to be perfectly frank.”

“Well, Peter’s obviously a lad who needs a firm masculine hand.  The smack of discipline!  The bite of the cane!  Don’t you think?”

“You won’t be too hard on him, will you?”

“I said to leave it to me, but I certainly won’t go off half-cock!  Let’s just say I have some experience with this sort of thing.  He’s in safe hands. Or safe-ish hands!”

And so it was that PC Churlington put his plan into action.  With inside information from the concerned father, he’d staked out the likely venue for young Peter to be practicing mayhem with his air rifle.  He soon spied the lad and his mate, Rowan Knight, shooting at cans and the bark of trees on the edge of the medieval forest.  There was just the one gun, which Peter was allowing his friend to use now and then.  After a short but purposeful toot on his whistle, PC Steve bellowed, “Oi!  You two!  What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Crikey!  It’s the cops!” cried Rowan with amazing powers of perception, before he scarpered away, his fat teenage thighs working harder than they ever had before.  Peter was left holding the baby, or rather the gun.  Suddenly the rifle seemed very heavy in his sweaty grip as he stared into the penetrating blue eyes of the constable.

“It’s all legal, Officer!” exclaimed Peter.

The policeman grabbed the lad firmly by his ear, “Oh no it’s not!  Not in a public place like this, and this PC says a licence is needed under new legislation.  Have you got a licence?  My diligent research suggests that you have not.”

“What?”

“The new 1967 legislation requires a licence!  Use of firearms especially in forested areas is strictly controlled, you know.”

“What new legislation?  They didn’t mention that at the shop when I bought the gun.  With respect, I reckon you’re pulling my leg, Officer!”

“Oh no I’m not, sonny!  And that’s enough of your lip!  Now, we can deal with this down at the station, with all the paperwork and publicity in the local papers.  The Echo loves to print this sort of stuff.  Right next to all the reports about the dirty importuners.  Would you like all of that?”

“Errr, no.  No.  I wouldn’t.”

“No, I bet you wouldn’t!  Neither would your parents, I’d imagine.  Well in that case, I could deal with this at my place.  Off the record.  Unofficially.”

“Eh?  What do you mean, deal with it?”

“I mean some corporal punishment for you my lad.  A sore arse.  A good hiding.  I’m sure you’ve had one before?”

“Yeah, but those days are gone.  Gone when I left that bloody tyrannical school.  Long gone.  Thank God!”

“Well it’s up to you.  If that’s your decision, I’ll just get the handcuffs from the patrol car.  I should warn you that you’ll be sharing a cell.  We’ve just arrested a particularly nasty bunch of Rockers and some Mods.”

“Oh.  No, wait. Wait, please Officer!  Surely there’s another way?”

“I’ve already told you.  It’s back to mine, or take your chances down the station.”

“But that’s no choice at all!”

“Of course it’s a choice!  Now which is it to be?  Hurry up, I don’t have all day.”

“OK, your place then.”

“You mean, thank you, Officer, I’ll come with you.”

“Thank you Officer, I’ll come with you.”  Adopting a submissive tone seemed somehow appropriate.

“That’s better,” said the constable as he pointed to the car.  He opened the boot, and Peter stashed the air rifle carefully away, as instructed.  The car soon left the forest way behind, with Peter sat in the back.  The constable eyed his uneasy companion in the rear-view mirror and chuckled quietly.  His devious plan was working and his naive prey had been well and truly captured.

The car skidded to a halt outside the ramshackle building that the policeman shared with his bachelor landlord.  The two men stepped out, with Peter retrieving his air rifle.  “Upstairs!” ordered the cop.

In his bedroom, as Peter watched, PC Steve laid out two crook-handled rattan canes, a favourite leather strap, some soothing cream balm, and he prised the lid off a small tin of Vaseline, just so he’d be ready instantly for any golden opportunity that presented itself.  Peter blushed at the disturbing array as it was gradually unveiled before his disbelieving eyes.

“Just how old are you?”

“Errr, I was eighteen in March.”

“In that case, we’ll start with eighteen strokes of the strap!  One for each year of your age.  Seems more than fair to me.  So there will be six on your slacks, six on your underpants, and six on the bare.  Now, bend over the end of the divan for me.”  The burnt umber leather strap soon started to crack down purposefully, and punishingly.  Whack after whack inflamed,  irritated and distressed the cheeks of the cheeky teenager.  The pain intesified of course as the layers of clothing were shed.  After the beating, Peter was grateful when he was allowed to stand and rub his sore buttocks, but it was only a temporary respite.

Next it was time to reinforce the lesson with the bite of the rattan.  The cop flexed the cane menacingly only a few inches from the teenager’s nose.  He scythed it through the air a few times.  The sound took Peter back to the helplessness he’d felt during his school punishments.  “Lie down flat on the bed.  I think at least eighteen strokes with my beautiful canes.  You’re lucky to receive this care and attention.  Make sure you count out loud after each stroke.”

“Yes Officer, thank you Officer.”

Peter braced himself for the onslaught.  Nothing could have prepared him for the pain of the first stroke which was delivered with considerable heft by the fit young policeman.  It was worse, far worse, than any caning at school.  After the leathering, this was real agony.  The second stroke followed after a lengthy pause.  It was a gentler stroke, but still with a bite.  PC Steve alternated heavy and milder strokes, but he suddenly stopped after the eighth.  “You forgot to count.  We’ll have to start back at one, I’m afraid.  Now, pay attention and do as you’re told.”

Peter groaned at his own stupidity in forgetting to count.  How foolish he had been!  Indeed, he’d had a most stupid day all round.  He felt the tell-tale tap of the cane, before it was raised high in the air for the first of the repeat strokes.  As it crashed down, Peter was properly prepared this time, “One!” he cried.

“No, no, no!” said the cop, “That won’t do at all.  I expect respect from you and ‘One, Sir’ or ‘One Officer’ or ‘One, Constable’.  Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir!  Sorry, Sir!”

So the caning and the counting resumed.  This time the only pause was when the cop decide to swap from his “Bruiser” cane to “The Stinger” in the hope of getting more vocal reactions from his victim.  With each solid whack the lad’s arse bobbed up and down just like a fairground horse ride.  Yes, he was bobbing and lifting to meet the cane just in time for each painful disciplinary stroke.  Maybe it was involuntary, or just some kind of a natural submissive reaction to the rhythm of the punishment.

He gasped and groaned, and writhed and turned.  The switch to “The Stinger” had worked!  Peter became more frenzied and then suddenly at around twenty strokes the gasps became pleas for more!  That cruel cane had rekindled something within him.  Clearly the lad was experienced, and was well on his way to developing a taste for the discipline.  PC Steve had found himself a masochist!  The two were well-matched.

“Hmm.  Looks like you enjoyed that.  Just look at the state of your penis!”  A silvery string of pre-cum was dripping from the rock-hard teenage erection.  “Make sure you sell the gun, now.”

“Oh I will, I will.  Whatever you ask, Officer.”

“You can call me Steve.”

Suddenly they kissed passionately.  Peter had never kissed a man before, moustached or not!  He loved it, and what followed.  He became a frequent visitor to PC Steve’s lonely garret.  The lad received the cane regularly and they indulged in many other activities which may or may not have been legal at the time, and about which even the editor of the Echo would have been too embarrassed to publish.

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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 or businesses, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Story © MMXIX by Rod Cayenne.  All rights reserved.

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Comments welcome.  Comments are here.  Comments from the original 2019 post are here.

Behind The Beaded Curtain Of A Sleazy ’70s Sex Shop (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot all-male erotica by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2013 by popular request. All the characters are aged 18 or over.  Strictly Adults Only!

 

The air was heavy with cigarette smoke.  The two men were chatting behind the counter, waiting for the flood of punters who would arrive as soon as the city offices closed.  It was unmistakably a sex shop.  The windows were blacked out, there were tacky neon signs and entry to the shop was via a beaded curtain.  There were rows and rows of magazines, ranging from the tame to the explicit, though the latter were censored due to the Obscene Publications Act.  It hadn’t been that long since the last police raid on the premises…

Proprietor Rick, 35, lanky, greasy and bearded, puffed on his long cigarette.  Boyish runaway Peter, just 21, gazed naively at the contents of the shop.  He’d only just got the job, which was proving to be quite an education for him.

“Is there a lot of demand for this homo stuff?” Peter asked Rick.

“Yes, it sells pretty well.  Mainly to married men.  City gents.  Public school types.”

“I don’t really understand any of this stuff, it does nothing for me.”

“Don’t worry my boy.  Later tonight, I’ll show you some proper uncensored stuff.  Some of the gay stuff is pretty hot.”

“Well, if you must.  I just don’t get it at all.”

“It’s taking off, Pete, my mate.  Zig has been the spur, all that bisexuality stuff.  It’s the future, I’m sure of it.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes, trust me, mate.”

“Yes, I do, Rick.  And what about this stuff, the spankers as you call them?”

“Ah yes, the spanking mags.  Our best sellers, they are.  The English are just mad about the stuff, especially the caning mags.  It’s lost on most of the tourists, of course.”

“I had the cane at school.  I can’t see the attraction.  It bloody hurt, and wasn’t sexy at all.”

“Ah.  Pleasure from pain.  Yes, that’s a bit harder to explain.  Very popular, all the same.  There’s a good margin on spanking stuff and the cops don’t always seize it.  Of course, a lot of them are into it.  In a big way.  Caning especially!” he laughed.  Rick went on to explain the fine details of the bondage, S&M and fetish magazines and accessories stocked in the shop.

“So, going back to the police.  Got any tips for me when we do get raided?”

“It doesn’t happen very often, Pete.  Hopefully I’ll be here.  But if not, just don’t let them near the ‘under the counter’ stuff.  And be polite, for Christ’s sake. “Yes, Officer, No Officer, Three Bags Full, Sir”.  I think they cream off some of the stuff for themselves, the wank mags, the spankers.  Just make sure you do as they say.  Otherwise I’ll be taking a cane to your sorry arse!”

“You wouldn’t dare!  Anyway, I bet you haven’t got a cane.”

“You’re right.  I haven’t got a cane.  I’ve got several!  We used to sell them, but the cops kept nicking them.  Arseholes!”

“Shit, I’d better behave myself.”

“Yes, lad.  You better had.  You’re never too old for the cane, I always say.”

Peter gulped and decided to change the subject a little, “These blow-up dolls are a bit crap, aren’t they?”

“Ah yes, the Roxys, as I like to call them.  A bit sad, but they’re good sellers.  They’re crap, as you say.  I certainly wouldn’t fuck one of them!”

“No, me neither, I’d rather wait for the real thing,” said Peter eyeing the masturbation aids.

Suddenly, the influx of customers arrived.  There were older men in raincoats, and a few younger guys, all  looking for wank fodder.  Of course, some had guilty expressions, red faces and others had indulged in some Dutch courage.  Peter enjoyed flirting with the older punters, as he slipped their purchases into discreet brown paper bags.  Trade was brisk that evening.

“I think you’re good for sales, young Peter.  Maybe I won’t cane your arse just yet,” Rick laughed.

That night young Peter was shown a lot of uncensored material, and ended up sleeping with Rick upstairs in the damp flat above  the shop.  It was a night that Peter would never regret.  The two men became regular sexual partners.  The arrangement suited young Peter as he could never pull the girls.  For Rick, it was just lust for the 21-year-old’s youthful arse and tight hole. Both were curiously dispassionate about their affair and it never really developed into love.

A few months later, there was a police raid on the premises.  Rick was absent, so young Peter had to handle things alone.  A substantial amount of magazines was seized.  Rick was furious but at least none of the more, ahem, specialised material was found by the coppers.  Peter couldn’t help but feel guilty for the upheaval, though in truth he was blameless.  The following few days at work he was completely downcast.

“Don’t worry, Peter.  It’s not your fault we were raided.  I’ve been in touch with the law, and they have said they might return some of the stuff as it has been cleared.  I’m pretty matey with some of the lads down the station these days.  Our paths cross a lot, as it were.  I sometimes slip them a few spankers to keep them sweet.  They’re only doing their job, after all.”

“You bribe them with spanking magazines?”

“That’s a very strong word, Peter.  I just like to oil the cogs of the machines of justice, as it were.”

“Well it hasn’t worked, has it?  They’ve not returned the stuff have they?”

“Not yet, but they will, my boy, they will.”

“You think!”

“No, I know.  Now bite your lip, unless you want a good hard caning from your boss?”

“No thanks, Rick,” said Peter, although he did wonder if such a thrashing might purge his overwhelming feelings of guilt.  His mind was in turmoil following the raid, and about his relationship with Rick.  He was even beginning to feel guilty about working in the shop and how it would impact on his life and career.

A few days later, two policemen turned up at the shop at closing time.  They had brought many of the seized magazines back with them, so Peter was tasked with unloading them from the Austin panda car.  Soon the car was emptied, and the police sergeant sent the driver on his way.

“Drink, Mark?” Rick asked the sergeant.

“Well, I shouldn’t really, I’m still on duty.  But if you insist.”

“I do, I do.  Come upstairs for a beer, you too Peter.”

Peter was reluctant to join the two men.  The presence of Sergeant Mark was making him nervous.  After all, he was the cop who had fronted the raid on the premises.  However, soon all three men were enjoying cans of frothy Watney Truman bitter while a Roberts transistor radio piped an offshore pirate station around the flat.

“Sorry about the raid, Rick.  It was orders, of course.”

“It’s OK Mark, I understand.”

“The Super’s been ordering a crackdown.  We’ll try and leave you out of the next round.”

“Cheers, Mark.  I think the raid terrified young Peter here.”

Peter nodded and blushed.

“Well, he certainly could have been more helpful.”

“Really?  PETER, IS THIS TRUE?” barked Rick.

Peter wasn’t sure how to react, so he just shrugged his shoulders.

“Yes, he wasn’t very cooperative,” said the sergeant, frowning.

“Well, I’m sorry Mark.  I had no idea.  Perhaps the lad should have a taste of my cane?  He must learn to help the rule of law!”

“Yes, Rick, a good caning would teach the lad some respect!”

“In fact, Mark, maybe you could do the honours?”

Peter’s jaw dropped as events started to move rapidly.  Soon Rick returned from the bedroom with a swishy rattan school cane in his hands.  He gave it to the sergeant.

“A fine specimen!” the policeman exclaimed, “Just like the ones at my old school.  Err, Peter, it has to be bare, I’m afraid.”

Rick pulled a wooden chair into the middle of the room, commanding Peter, “Over!”

Peter complied reluctantly.  He was scared.  Scared of the sergeant, and scared of Rick.  More than anything, he was scared of that cane.   He’d always assumed Rick was joking about having some canes.  Evidently not!  He hadn’t had the cane for several years, and now he was going to get it from the big, burly policeman!  He decided to comply to the letter, in the hope of some clemency or maybe a reduction in the number of strokes.  Sighing, he let his jeans fall, and then his less than clean string pants followed.

The sergeant was enjoying the view, as was Rick.  Their plan was working perfectly.  Peter had been set up!  The sergeant flexed the cane enthusiastically.  He was going to enjoy this!

SWISH-CRACK!  The policeman sliced the whippy rattan down hard on Peter’s unblemished buttocks.  A deep red line appeared.  It was a good cane.  It was a very good cane!  Rick already knew it was a very good cane, as he sourced all his canes direct from the importer.  The importer was only to happy to supply the sex shops with the finest of punishment implements. After all, they gave a higher profit than the school trade.

SWISH-CRACK!  Sergeant Mark whipped a second stroke down on Peter’s arse.  The cheeks gave way as the cane sliced like a hot knife through butter.

SWISH-CRACK!  Peter gasped and wriggled as the assault continued.  He was told to keep still by the sergeant, “unless he wanted extra!”  He didn’t!  Of that, Peter was sure!

SWISH-CRACK!  “YEEEOW!” Peter cried, just like a schoolboy. How gratifying that sound was.

SWISH-CRACK!  A fifth stroke slashed down.  What an expert tormentor the sergeant was proving to be!

SWISH-CRACK!   A sixth stroke and Peter felt sure that would be the final one.  But he was wrong!  Very, very wrong!

SWISH-CRACK!   The seventh was a real corker, cracking and burning into Peter’s soft posterior.

SWISH-CRACK!   The eighth was the worst so far, searing and unforgiving. Peter bucked and writhed but by now Mark was almost in a trance, slashing the cane down without thought as he rejoiced in his own sadism.

SWISH-CRACK!  SWISH-CRACK!  SWISH-CRACK!  The beating carried on relentlessly. From a distance, Rick admired the red stripes adorning his lover’s youthful buttocks.

SWISH-CRACK!  The twelfth surely was the last?  Yes, it was!  It hurt like the blazes, but Peter was pleased to hear the cane clatter on the floor as the sergeant threw it down with a grunt.

Peter’s ordeal wasn’t over yet, however.  The sergeant dragged him off to the bedroom saying, “We won’t be long!” to Rick.

“There’s some lube in the top drawer!” Rick shouted, just as the bedroom door slammed shut.  Soon the sounds of the two males at it could be heard by Rick, after he’d switched Radio Veronica off!  It all reminded him of when he was younger, when Mark had given him much the same treatment.  Yes, Mark liked some “chocolate on his biscuit” as he had so charmingly referred to it.  But Mark only liked them young.  He had lost interest in sex with Rick once Rick had reached the ripe old age of twenty-five.

The frantic mating noises didn’t last long, just as the copper had predicted.  Evidently, Mark had delivered his payload and soon emerged from the bedroom zipping up his police trousers.

“Take some pictures of Peter for me, will you Rick?” Mark asked with a grin on his face.  Rick nodded and later that night duly snapped Peter with his Praktica.  The lad’s shagged and caned arse featured heavily in the resulting portfolio.  Rick knew exactly what Mark wanted in the photos, and had them processed by a trusted photolab just around the corner from the sex shop.

Over the next few days and weeks, Peter couldn’t decide if he’d enjoyed the sex and caning he’d endured courtesy of hunky cop Mark.  Sometimes, he felt as if it had been terrific.  Other times, he felt used and dirty.  Eventually, his mind settled on the positive and he confided in Rick that he’d like to see Mark again.  It happened!  And it so happened that there were also threesomes where Peter’s bottom entertained both Rick and Sergeant Mark. There were no more raids on the shop for another four years or so.

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Story © 2013 by Rod Cayenne

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Due to circumstances beyond the control of Team Canery, comments are disabled for this story.  Comments from the original post are here

A Strict Father-in-law (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A first repeat of this red hot caning fiction by very special guest author Baddlad17.  All the characters are over 18.  Strictly Adults Only!

A Strict Father-in-law by Baddlad17

I married my wife Alison after a whirlwind romance. She was still at University, while I worked in a garage close by. I did not meet her father until a few days before the wedding. I was immediately in awe of him. Robert Black, a police sergeant, a well-built man around six foot tall and weighing sixteen stone with not an ounce of fat on him; he was solid muscle. He unnerved me as his cold blue eyes penetrated me. I felt he disapproved of our relationship and was not very happy that I would be taking his daughter away from him. He was very overbearing and on that first meeting, although I was polite, was secretly pleased that I would have very little to do with him.

My wife is the middle of three children and the only girl. Her brothers, Mark and Gary were twenty three and eighteen respectively when we married, while Alison and I were twenty. Her brothers were as tall as their Father though built more slightly. Their mother had left many years before leaving all three in their Father’s care. Although Robert loved his children dearly he was very strict and the boys received regular discipline whenever they disobeyed him; even when they were no longer boys. At the wedding I could tell both were very wary of their Father, though at the time I had no idea why.

It was almost a year after we were married when things suddenly changed. Alison had finished her degree just as I lost my job. However as a motor mechanic it would be reasonably easy for me to find another one. Alison longed to return to her hometown to be closer to her family. After much debate and quite a few arguments we decided to give it a go. Her Dad was insistent we moved in to the big house with him and the boys while we saved up enough money to buy a place of our own. So somewhat reluctantly I agreed. We gave notice on our rented flat and moved back to my wife’s home town and family home.

Robert greeted us at the door, throwing his arms around Alison; he was so pleased to have the apple of his eye back home. While clear he was pleased to have his daughter back, my reception was between cold and frosty. At dinner that evening we sat down with the boys to enjoy a full roast which had been prepared by the daily, Mrs Wilkinson, who had worked for the family for many years. Gary and Mark were polite and respectful to Alison and me. It was obvious that my wife and her father adored one another and they dominated the conversation until we started on pudding. Robert suddenly turned to Gary.

You and I need to have a talk in my study after dinner. Come up at eight thirty son.

Yes sir, he said, bowing his head. Mark also put his head down and for a few minutes the conversation went quiet. I had no idea what was going on but there seemed to be some tension over the upcoming meeting.

After dinner we went into the lounge while her Father made his way upstairs. The boys were nowhere to be seen so as we relaxed on the sofa, I asked Alison what was going on and why Gary seemed so nervous at meeting his Dad.

Oh, he will be getting a caning, she said matter of factly. My eyes nearly popped out of my head.

What! You are joking right? He is nineteen years old, not nine.

The boys have always been punished by my father in that manner. Even Mark still bends over if he does anything wrong. You had better watch out darling! He might want to put a few stripes on your bottom if you are naughty.

At that moment I heard a thwipp and crack followed by a howl. I realised she was not joking. Gary was actually being caned. I had been over the Heads desk at school on a few occasions so the experience was not uncommon to me. What I could not get my head around was that Gary was a grown man, not a boy.

I listened to the strokes landing, with each succeeding one the cries became more vocal. After the tenth stroke it stopped, and a few minutes later I heard two doors close before it all fell silent. Alison seemed totally unperturbed at the evenings action, but my mind was in turmoil. What I could not understand though, was why the event had turned me on! My cock was rampant, so shortly after we went to our room, stripped down and Alison and I made passionate love.

As I thrust in and out of her tight juicy quim, the image of her Father wielding a cane across my arse went through my mind. Soon my loins emptied inside her and we both moaned in ecstasy as our lovemaking reached its inevitable climax. Lying beside her in the warm afterglow I brought the subject back to Gary’s caning and the evening’s events.

Darling, anyone would think it had turned you on! Do you like the idea of being caned? Maybe I could get daddy to cane your naughty bottom for you Jamie, she said teasingly.

Just the thought of it got me excited, so very soon I was ready again, thrusting my rampant cock deep inside her.

The following morning I came out of our bedroom and caught a glimpse of Gary going into the bathroom. He was naked, so from the back I got a full view of his black and blue backside. The stripes were livid and swollen, it looked so sore. He turned to close the door and spotted me standing there. He was really embarrassed, quickly went and closed the door. He was obviously angry I had seen him like that.

The incident stayed in my memory for a long time; hearing the cane striking, the howls, and the sight of his arse the next morning. For some reason I began to find my father-in-law attractive. He was big and strong and the thought of him wielding the rod of correction really gave me the horn. The image of him thrashing me in his police uniform would really send me over the edge.

About two weeks after Gary’s caning I came home from my new job and caught sight of the next incident. That afternoon I had finished early, as I had to go and register with a new GP. The first thing I heard as I entered the house was the swish and crack of the cane echoing down the stairs. I took off my shoes and made my way slowly upstairs. As my eye line reached the top step I had a clear view into the office which was straight ahead and the door was only half open. I could barely believe the sight before me. This time Mark was over the desk, his big hairy backside was on full display, trousers and underpants bunched around his ankles, his shirt halfway up his back and his buttocks proudly displaying a set of livid stripes which were starting to swell, across the exposed skin. As I watched I saw my father-in-law line up the cane and strike again. The buttocks quivered as they absorbed the stroke and Mark yelled out in agony. I counted the stripes; he was sporting eight burning welts.

I watched a further four strokes land across the already sore buttocks. I was shocked; but excited. My cock was swelling rapidly as I drank in the sight before me. As the last stroke burned its angry way across Mark’s arse Robert turned round and spotted me looking.

Enjoy the show did you young Jamie? Watch out, that one is for free. If I catch you spying again I will have you in here for some of this, he said, flexing the cane.

I quickly rushed off to my room. I should have been really annoyed at that statement but instead my cock was dripping pre cum as I thought of what I could be in for. I lay on the bed and took my prick out giving it a few pulls till my sack emptied into the tissue I had ready. Feeling relieved I replayed what I had just witnessed in my mind’s eye. I don’t know why, but I knew it was only a matter of time before I would be bending over for that cane. The thought of it got me really excited.

Over the coming weeks I thought more and more about Robert caning my arse. It was becoming an obsession. At dinner one night he announced that Gary was due another meeting in the study. Alison was out with her friends. I waited till I heard the first swish then slowly made my way upstairs. Once again the door was open, with Gary bent over the table his bare arse in full view. Two vicious welts were swelling across his cheeks while the cane was being lined up for the third. I made my way to our bedroom and could not wait to get my cock out. I listened to the swish and crack of the cane while I masturbated furiously. On the ninth stroke my cock exploded, shooting semen all over the bed sheets. I lay there spent as I heard the door close. Gary’s room was next to ours and through the wall I could hear him gently sobbing. Suddenly, the door burst open and Robert stood looking at me as I lay there my cock still dripping cum.

Enjoy that Jamie did you?

I quickly grabbed my pants to cover up but Robert just smiled and said, I think we need to have a discussion in my study young man. Be there in five minutes. He turned and left.

Once he had gone I got off the bed and covered up properly, my cock still moist with semen. I straightened my hair then slowly slipped my jeans back down before turning my back to the mirror to examine my still lily white cheeks which I knew would soon be inflamed and striped by the cane. I was already getting excited at the thought of it.

I pulled them up and crossed over to the study. The door was open and my father-in-law was sitting behind his desk, on top of which lay a slender punishment cane, similar to the one I had felt at school years back.

Right now young Jamie, we need to have a little discussion about your general behaviour. You live under my roof now and over the last few weeks you have shown little appreciation of my generosity. As you are well aware, when Mark or Gary overstep the mark they get to feel this across their backsides. It is quite amazing really how this changes a young man’s arrogant behaviour. As my son-in-law I see no reason why you should not be dealt with in the same way as my sons.

He went on, Your attitude has been rather surly and you have behaved in a less than courteous manner to both me and your wife. And as for your masturbating whenever you see one of the boys caned, words fail me! So, the choice is yours. Drop your trousers and get over this desk or I will have to tell Alison about your dirty little habit. Which is it to be?

But she is going to see the stripes anyway, what am I going to tell her?

You can tell her that your general attitude has been less than expected, unacceptably so. As such I gave you a choice; a caning or to move out. You agreed to take the cane rather than lose your home. She will believe that.

My stomach was doing somersaults as I contemplated the next few minutes. It had been almost seven years since I had last bent over for the cane in my Headmaster’s office. I had always wanked afterwards; but on this occasion my prick was already swelling! I unbuckled the belt before slipping my jeans down to my ankles. My underpants followed the southward journey landing in a heap on top of my jeans. I slowly bent over the desk and stretched across the surface taking a grip of the far edge.

Robert was behind me tapping my naked cheeks with the cane.

I think eight strokes as this is your first time, Jamie. In future you can expect the full dozen.

I heard the cane swish then felt it crack across my arse. I lost my breath as the white heat of the first stroke zipped across my buttocks. The cane was tapping again before I heard the second swish. This time my voice returned and I let out a yell. As the strokes lashed across my bottom leaving line after searing line of agony my eyes filled with water and began to fall down my face. I had always thought my Headmaster knew how to lay on a cane; compared to my father-in-law he must have been an amateur. The sixth stroke landed right in the crease causing me even more misery. I felt him change direction and tap diagonally, my cheeks were already aflame. Suddenly I felt the lash, crossing all the previous welts, he changed direction again lashed the last one in the opposite direction leaving a large X over the first six stripes.

I laid over the desk sobbing as he put the cane down.

You can stand up Jamie.

I stood up and reached round to feel the swollen ridges across my poor bottom, unable to let go of my inflamed cheeks.

Right then Jamie, from now on you know what to expect if your attitude or behaviour is unacceptable. I hope you will learn to control your attitude and urges. Now go to your room.

I pulled my underpants over the scalded flesh and gently raised my jeans just high enough to allow me to waddle from the room. Taking shorts steps, everyone an agony, I somehow managed to make my way back to our room. As I opened the door I realised Gary was watching me from his doorway. He turned around dropped his pants and gave me the full moon, showing his own ridged buttocks. I was amazed to find that despite the fire burning fiercely I was getting hard. Despite what had happened earlier I whipped out my prick ready to play with it when I heard the front door shut. Alison was home.

Within a minute she burst into the room a big smile on her face.

Hi Baby, have you had a pleasant evening?

She saw the pain etched across my face as she closed the door. She beamed at me.

Has Daddy smacked your bottom for you? I know that look well enough; I have seen Mark and Gary with that expression many times in the past.

I nodded.

So he has finally caned you! Daddy always does what I want.

What!

Yes Jamie, it has been quite obvious that you wanted him to cane you. I saw how you reacted when Gary was caned, and then daddy told me you were excited as you watched Mark take his punishment the other week. Let me have a look at the stripes.

I was lost for words, in a trance I turned over,wincing in pain. She peeled my undies down to examine the marks.

He is still pretty good, but he does get plenty of practice.

Alison reached into the drawer and suddenly I felt some cold cream being gently applied to the wounds. Her tender touch and the cooling cream quickly got me turned on. Within a minute I was fully erect and gagging to go for it.

Not yet darling, she purred, let me relieve you first. We can make love later.

She gently took my manhood between her lips and began to caress the tip, teasing and gently blowing me. I was in ecstasy, my erection rock solid. Soon I reached the point of no return and within a minute I blew my load deep down her throat. The relief was immense. In spite of the soreness in my arse I was feeling very horny.

About ten minutes later we made love, as I thrust my rampant cock deep inside her she moaned with pleasure. We made love twice more that night, then again in the morning. Despite my arse being raw the memory of the caning had awoken something inside me. Something I needed. Alison knew this, and so did her father.

We lived with the family for several months before finally we had enough money to move into our own place. Robert caned me often when he felt I deserved a sore backside and on every occasion our lovemaking was far more intense. Even after we moved out I still returned from time to time to have my faults caned off. Each time Robert was happy to oblige and Alison enjoyed our more energetic lovemaking.

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Story © MMXIV by Baddlad17, used here by very kind permission

All rights reserved

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Comments welcome, please use the link at the top of the story.

Comments from the original posting are here

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Charlie Alpha November Echo (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot fiction from 2016 by Rod Cayenne.  With special thanks to Jim for inspiration – where are you Jim?

Over-18s only.

It wasn’t easy being the rookie cop in the big concrete police station.  Jim kind of dreaded the others, and the rough horseplay he saw there in the locker room.  He buffed up the shine on his black police boots with the brown wooden brush, and sighed heavily.

“Here, let me have look, lad,” said Tom, one of the older bobbies, the duty Sergeant.  Jim passed him a boot to inspect.  “Hmm.  When all’s said and done, this is not very good.  Give it some elbow grease, lad.  This needs a lot more shine, a proper mirror-finish.  You can barely see the reflection of my beard in this one.”

His beard!  Oh yes, his beard.  His masculine, greying, sexy beard.  Jim had lusted after it and the man behind it ever since he first clapped his eyes on Tom.  The beard, the white starched shirt, the blue eyes, his thick leather belt and his bushy eyebrows.  The man was a total dream!

Tom pulled the rookie to one side and whispered in his ear, “You’re going to have to do a lot better than this.  Watch out for Charlie Alpha!”

Charlie Alfa?  Charlie Alfa?  He’d heard the name a few times.  Who was this bloke the others spoke about in hushed terms?  Before he had a chance to mull over it more, Tom the Sergeant was outlining the day’s schedule.

“We’re pulling a gang of teens in this afternoon.  They’ve been a right fucking nuisance to some good people so we’re going to put the frighteners on them.  Clap them in the cells for a few hours.  Probably not a job for you to get too involved in.  Then tonight we’re staking out a cottage.  The loos in the Jubilee Gardens.  I don’t really approve of such harassment any more.  I’m not, err you know, but the fact is that there are quite a few of us coppers who sometimes like a bit of variety, if you know what I mean.  In fact, I think you maybe one of us, am I right lad?  But the Chief Super is a bit old-fashioned in many ways and wants us to crack down, arrest and ruin some married men.  But I don’t think so somehow!  So we’ll go and watch the action and then conveniently forget to book anyone.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jim laughed, his tenseness relieved by the frank and friendly banter of the duty Sergeant.

As it happened, it did all go to plan, Jim, Tom and a colleague had a wonderful, voyeuristic time, no animals were hurt, and no arrests were made.  However, the Chief Superintendent was not amused.  He’d wanted a scalp or two, but nothing had been delivered.

Jim was to discover all about the Chief’s displeasure at his first quarterly performance review.  It started well, with gushing praise for much of his conduct.  There were problems though, outlined as the Chief paced up and down his spacious office, “Persistent lateness and cocky attitude.  I was also disappointed with the stake-out at Jubilee Gardens.  I do hope Tom hasn’t corrupted you with his strange beliefs?”

“Err, no Sir.  We were just unlucky.  We had this fella lined up for cuffing, and then he just disappeared into the night.”

“Is that so, is that so?  I am detecting a pattern here.  A good policeman let down by negligence, tardiness, complacency and too cock-sure for his own good.  What you need, my lad, is a good taste of my Charlie Alpha November Echo!” the older man smirked.

“Eh?” Jim asked stupidly.

“That’s ‘Eh Sir?’ or ‘Eh, Chief Superintendent?’ to you lad!  Where are your manners? Do I have to spell it out to you? Charlie Alpha November Echo! C…A…N…E.  The cane!  Six of the best, should do it.”

“But Sir!  You can’t do that!”

“Dereliction of duty, lateness, cocky attitude.  I can do it, lad, and I will do it.  I think we’ll make it eight strokes, in fact!  You’ve had the cane before?”

“Yes Sir.  My father…”

“Your father, eh?  Hmmmm.  Very good.  Perhaps I’ll call him later!”  With that, the Chief Superintendent sat down and reached under his desk.  He produced a cane which he laid on the desk top, right in front of Jim who proceeded to go pale.

“Aha!  Do I detect some familiarity with this?”

“Well, it’s very similar to my father’s.”

“Is that so?  I doubt he got his from the same place as mine!”

“How so, Sir?”

“I picked this beauty up in a raid of a brothel in the City.  You could say she’s a metropolitan model, but I’ve named her Charlie Alpha.”

In fact, it was a pretty standard school cane.  A pretty cane!  A punishment cane, with a perfectly-curved crook handle.  Just like the one Jim’s father had used to use.

“Alright then lad!  Stand up!  Over the back of the chair please.  No, no, you can keep your trousers on.  Unlike some round here, I am not a lover of naked male flesh.”

The Chief Superintendent was not a lover of male flesh indeed, but he was a sadist.  A semi-secret sadist.  How he enjoyed whipping his juniors with a rattan rod!  A rod he affectionately named Charlie Alpha!

Jim’s police trousers were stretched tightly as he bent over the back of the chair.  So tightly that the outline of his Y-fronts could be seen, offering a gratifying target for the Chief, as he flexed the cane purposefully.

The Chief didn’t hang about as he landed not one, not two but three fast strokes.  Jim hadn’t expected that, being used to his father’s more leisurely ways of punishment.   The heat and pain was immediate and intense.  Jim gasped, overwhelmed by his superior’s sadism.

The Chief paused, “I hope you can see that I mean business, young James!”

“Yes, Sir!” Jim replied dutifully.  He pushed his bottom out, ready for the next stroke.  It came with a loud crack, Jim feeling as if his trousers, underpants and the flesh beneath were being ripped to shreds.  A fifth stroke followed rapidly, causing a squeal from Jim.

“Quiet Constable!  Take your medicine like a man!”

The sixth and seventh strokes followed rapidly again, and despite the Chief’s direct command, Jim could not help yelping as each one landed on target.  The young constable was embarrassed at his weakness, yet consumed by overwhelming pain at the same time.  The last stroke landed accompanied by a loud “AAARGH!”

At least it was over, Jim consoled himself.  It had been quite a beating, so rapid and so painful.  He’d try to avoid the Chief and Charlie Alpha in future!

“You can get up now,” the Chief smirked.  “I hope you won’t need a reminder in the near future.  I expect only the very best from my PCs.  Otherwise they get the best of this!” he said throwing the whippy cane down on the desk.  “Off you go!”

Jim left silently, closing the door gently.  Outside the office, his hands flew to his meaty backside.  He clawed and kneaded at the flesh, desperately trying to ameliorate the intense, throbbing pain.  He loosened his belt by a couple of notches, but it didn’t seem to help any.  As he walked down the winding staircase, he caught Tom’s eye, for the sergeant was manning the reception desk.

“Ah.  A painful gait, I see.  I’d guess that your review ended with an introduction to Charlie Alpha.  Am I right?”

“Shit, yes, Tom!  Eight fuckin’ introductions!”

“Eight, ho ho, he must have been annoyed!  Most new recruits get four to six at most to start with.  Sounds like you hit the jackpot!”

“Jackpot!  I should be so lucky!  I guess that Sergeants are immune?”

“From Charlie Alpha?”

“Yes.”

“Of course lad, we’ve paid our dues.  Charlie’s reserved for kids like you.”

“Cheers, Tom.  I mean Sarge!  I’m off home now, think I’ll have a bath, see if that helps.”

Jim made his way home on the service bus.  His bottom ached and throbbed as it bounced around on the poorly-padded bus seat.  He felt every austerity pothole as the bus rattled and clattered down the neglected A-road.  Alighting at the stop, he nipped into the shelter to compose himself before he faced his parents.  He didn’t want to give the game away, so smartened himself up, tightening both his belt and tie to look his best.

As it happens his father was waiting to greet him at the door, “Hello son!  How was work today?”

“Oh hi, Dad.  Work?  Oh, you know, same old, same old!”

“That’s not what I heard!  The Chief Superintendent rang me.  He told me about your caning.  I didn’t know the Police went in for that sort of thing at all!”

“No, neither did I Dad!” said Jim rubbing his backside ruefully.

“Well now.  I approve.  Wholeheartedly.  He told me what a cocky fool you’ve been.  I’m not surprised.  We’ve noticed it at home too.  Far too frequently.  I’ve sent your mother out.”

That could mean only one thing to Jim.  ‘Sending his mother out’ was his father’s code for “I’m going to cane you!”

“Dad, you can’t mean…”

“I do indeed!  I bet you thought I’d got rid of the good old cane, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes, I’d rather hoped, as I’m 21 now…”

“Never too old for a caning while you’re under our roof!  You’ve brought shame on us, James!  I made the Chief Superintendent a solemn promise.  That I’d take care of your discipline between his quarterly reviews.”

“Dad, you can’t!  Besides, it’s quarterly review day today, hardly between reviews!”

“Don’t get clever with me!  I can see what your boss meant about your cockiness.  As long as you live under this roof, you are a boy as far as I’m concerned.  So before I deal with you, you can have a shower and shave off that ridiculous, cocky moustache too.  You’re too young for it!  When it’s gone you can report to my study in your pyjamas!”

Jim was dismayed.  No moustache!  No dignity!  And a very, very sore arse.  And those pyjamas!  His mother insisted on them while he lived at home, although Jim would far rather sleep in the nude.  He’d have to ask for a room at the Section House, this was all much too much!

Father meanwhile was happy.  He’d take the lad down a peg or two, for sure.  He’d felt the urge to discipline his cocky young adult son for some time.  Rather stupidly, the lad had furnished him with just the right excuse!

Upstairs in his en-suite, Jim hacked away at his moustache with some disdain.  He’d grown to like it, feeling that it gave him the authoritarian air so appropriate for a police officer.  But now that contrived gravitas was gone.  He gazed at the fresh-faced 21-year-old in the mirror.  Why hadn’t he argued it out with his father?  It was a question that buzzed around his head time and time again as he massaged his sore arse cheeks under the warm water of the walk-in shower.

“I’m waiting!”  Jim’s father barked.  Jim duly dropped his pyjama trousers.  The old man lifted the tail of the pyjama top to inspect his son’s beaten bottom.  The Chief had done an excellent job, with eight crisp but haphazardly-placed weals clearly on display.

“Another eight then, I think.  Just to reinforce the displeasure of your mother and I!  Don’t let us down again, son.”

With that father landed the first purposeful stroke.  Jim had to gasp, for it cut across much of the Chief’s earlier handiwork.  And so it continued.  A second, harder stroke.  A yelp from the young man.  A third, leisurely delivered but excruciatingly painful.  A squeal from Jim.  A whippy fourth, a violent fifth.  A teasing sixth, a scorching seventh.  Cries and grunts.  A valedictory eighth.

Jim got up slowly, pulling up his pyjama bottoms ruefully.  He was holding back the tears, but had to speak, “Thank you father.”

“You’re welcome!  Anytime!”  He meant it too.  At last, with great pleasure, he had tamed his cocky son!

Come the next shift, Jim made his way into the police station cautiously, trying to walk as normally as his well-beaten bottom would allow.  It was just his luck to find his new friend Sergeant Tom on the reception desk.

“Hey, Jim lad!  Where’s your moustache gone?  My, you look so much younger without it.  Just like the  naughty boy you are.  Now, tell me, how’s your naughty bottom?”

“Don’t bloody ask!  My Dad gave me a thrashing too!  The Chief had rung him, so Dad decided to give me the same with his cane.”

“Wait!  Your Dad has a cane too?  Blimey, you’ve been unlucky!  How many did he give you?”

“Another eight!”

Tom whistled with disbelief, “Anyway, how about after the shift you come back to my place?  I’ll make you feel better.”

Tom did eventually comfort Jim, but only after giving him another caning too!

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Story © MMXVI by Rod Cayenne

Photographs © by Rod Cayenne

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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.

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 Comments welcome – please use link at the top of the story

How I Got Into Corporal Punishment Games (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot and explicit true story by David Stewart, repeated from 2012.  All the characters are 18 or over.

I’ve always felt that I wanted to be spanked, and I’m not sure why.

It was always ladies I fantasised about until I was about 22, when I made a friend who would introduce me to the world of adult discipline.

To set the scene here, I was a young police officer.  I met John, who was 59 and a retired teacher (or so he told me).  I had been schooled in Scotland and he had taught on both sides of the border.  I met him as a result of a call to assist with some children that were causing a nuisance.  We had a chat over coffee about ‘the kids of today’ and so on.  Over  a few visits the story was always the same, about people lacking discipline nowadays and eventually I guess we both learnt that each other was more than interested in the topic.  He did ask me if I was disciplined at home and in school, and did I think I was better for it.  In hindsight, nowadays he would be called a pervert, but there you are and remember this was the late ’70s.

He made an unusual comment one visit, asking, “Do you ever miss the way a spanked bottom or tawsed hands dealt with an issue and then it was over?”  I answered, “I suppose so, in a strange way.”

As I left that night John made his move and said, “You know David, if you ever felt the need to revisit those days of a spanked bottom, then you only need ask me to do it for you.”

Well I left, and I gave my cock a thorough workout later that day.  The following day I called him and spoke nervously about the comment.  Not wanting to make a complete fool of myself if I got it wrong, I asked,  “What did you mean last night when I left, about if I ever felt the need or something?”

“David, I know some adults still miss that old fashioned spanking thing and as a friend if you felt you needed it, then I would do it for you.”  It was a s simple as that, but it had taken about six visits before he asked.  I said that I thought I did and he said, “Well if you do David, bring your PE kit to change into and we will see to it!”

Two days later I turned up in uniform along with a bag with shorts and vest in it, and we had a coffee. “Did you bring anything with you today, David?”, he asked.  Nervously I showed him the plastic bag and then its contents.  John then went on to try to relax me, which was impossible.  He told me he had friends who he spanked, and not to think I was unusual in any way.

Eventually he said something about “So should we go and deal with you then?”  We stood and went to what was a small study.  It had a desk with leather chair, a hard-backed chair in the corner, and a small cupboard on one wall.

“So how should I deal with you, David?” 

I said, “Just like my father would, Sir.”  There had been no request to call him Sir, it just felt right.

“I will leave you to change then into your shorts and vest.” 

When he returned some five minutes later I was stood there with an erection in my PE shorts.  He smiled and pulled the hard-backed chair out, told me to go over his lap and then he spanked me over my shorts for a while.  I left that night disappointed, to be honest.

 

The next time I visited, we chatted about it.  I had brought my kit again.  He asked me how it had been.  I suddenly blurted out that “It was not quite as I expected.”  Asked why, I said, “Well I was always spanked on the bare bum and it always really stung.  I always felt as if I had been punished then.”

John looked at me, smiled, and said “Ah David, so you want a proper spanking do you, pants down, over my knee and one that teaches you a lesson?”

“Well yes, Sir,” I stuttered. “It’s just that I always thought spankings should be like that.”

As a result, a few minutes later I was at John’s side and having my shorts and pants pulled down.  This caused my erection to stick out (and be ignored by John).  I was then pulled over and I got the hardest spanking I could remember.  I recall yelling out “Oh Sir, I am so sorry!” 

After the spanking, I was made to stand in the corner, bottom bare and hands on head.  That was the way it went for a few months until one day I turned up without my kit.  Over coffee we were chatting about spanking and I said, “It makes me regret forgetting my kit today.”  John smiled and said, “Well David, I think, if you don’t mind, and as I have seen most of you anyway, we can do without the PE kit from now on, if you want.”

We went up to the study and John for the first time stood watching me and said “Right David I want all your clothes off today.”  I was soon stood naked and erect as he gazed at me.  “Does it excite you that I am going to spank you David?”

“Yes Sir!”

“Do you usually have a wank afterwards, thinking of me spanking you?”

“Yes, usually Sir!”

He moved closer to me. “Do you ever think of me touching your cock David, or does that thought never enter your head?”

“I do Sir, sometimes.”

His hand started to move towards my cock.  He touched it and it stood even more erect.  He pulled back and then had me over his knee, spanking that erection out of me.  It was a harder than usual spanking and I nearly cried.  Afterwards he put his hand between my cheeks and made me erect again.  So it was that I was wanked for the first time by another guy.  That became the norm and I would visit for a spanking at least twice a week and I started to visit him on my days off.  It was only a short while before I started to wank him off as well.

picture by Jonathan

After about six months he re-introduced me to the tawse.   In doing so, he revealed his love of tawsing.  The norm then became for me to have to take six of the tawse along with any spanking.  Normally, this was after the spanking, as he liked my hands to be warm when I touched him.  After a tawsing, they were really hot! 

 

It was a year before I got caned and I was warned how sore that experience would be. We had discussed it before, but I was still rather unaware of the pain a cane could cause.  I recall being told that the cane would be applied next time I came and to make an appointment on a day off.  He promised me a real ‘six of the best’ and I got that, for sure.

It was six days later.  I visited him nervously.  This time, John was very different. “Come in boy!” was his command and I was taken directly to his study.  A a cane lay on the desk.  He lectured me and told me I was to be caned, six strokes and if I stood up  or touched my bottom that stroke would not count and he would add another.

Naked, I stood waiting and Sir said to me in a softer tone, “Now remember David, you asked for this and I need to give you it as I would if it were a real punishment.  It is going to hurt like nothing you have experienced before, but I have explained all that already, haven’t I?”

“Yes Sir”, I said.

“And you still want to find out what a real caning is like?”

“Yes Sir, please Sir.”

His attitude changed suddenly, “Right boy!  Over the desk, and grip the far side.”

The cane was tapped a few times before it thrashed down.  The sound felt delayed, as if it came after the hit .  There was a distinct moment when I felt nothing, but then a fearsome pain cut through me!  I stood up and grabbed my bum, only to hear a very unsympathetic, “Get down boy!  I expected better!”

The next stroke elicited a real yell from me followed by a third then a fourth which both did the same.  It was true agony and I had to wait for the fifth stroke.  The sixth cut deep into my cheeks and then Sir spoke, “Now you have to be given the first stroke again and then one extra.  Are you ready boy?”

“Sir, please no more!  I’m so sore!”, I whined.

“You wanted a real caning, now take the last two like a man, David!”

“Yes Sir!”

Almost immediately the cane delivered the penultimate stroke, followed shortly by the eighth, final stroke.  In tears, I stood up and Sir cuddled me, and then made me stand in the corner.  After a while the flames of pain diminished.  He led me to the bedroom where he undressed and we got into bed.   In the end, I stayed the whole night after being taken out for a curry.

 

Our relationship lasted for over six years and during that time my bottom was constantly spanked and caned.  My hands were tawsed so often that I lost count!  It was the only time I have had a long relationship with another guy.  Believe it or not, the reason we stopped was because by then I’d met my wife.  The marks were too conspicuous to have.  She became my chastiser.  I have however, always retained a desire to be spanked by another older guy and especially to be hand tawsed by one.  I have met a few guys who can tawse school-style and are happy to spank a naughty lad like me.

So that’s the true account of how I came to be into spanking.

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 Story text © 2012 by David Stewart

Tawse photo and multiple implement photo © Jonathan, R.I.P.

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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I hope you’re going to comment on this one – please use link at top of story

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Comments from the original 2012 post are here

In The Strawberry Fields (M/F, M/M)

 ♥ Site recommended story ♥

Erotic fiction by Rod Cayenne, repeated by popular demand…

All the characters are aged 18 or over.  Suitable for adults only.

Sergeant Dexter couldn’t believe his eyes. The tip-off had been correct. Through his binoculars he could see a young couple, as naked as jaybirds, fornicating in the strawberry fields for which the village was famed. Although we were in the enlightened late 1950s, this was an outrage even by the prevailing modern, progressive standards.

He watched as the young man’s naked bottom bobbed up and down as he serviced his willing female companion. When to interrupt? Now, mid-flight as it were? Or afterwards, as the young lovers came back down to earth?

He decided to watch a little longer, as he was impressed by the young man’s technique. Indeed, the Sergeant was learning that his own skills were perhaps a little dated as he watched the youth driving and thrusting into the maiden. Suddenly, they swapped, and the girl went on top, sliding the man’s erect penis into her. The man massaged her ample breasts and then the lovers kissed passionately.

The Sergeant admired the lilly white feminine buttocks as they bounced around. They begged for a spanking, and were quite a contrast to the hairy male ones he had been watching only a few moments earlier. Indeed, our policeman was finding all of this a most rare and entertaining spectacle. His own penis was rising to the occasion, and for a brief moment, he considered masturbating right there and then in the Austin patrol car. He decided against, as it would be undignified, and there was also a slim chance he could be caught himself. He’d never live it down!

It was a lengthy session of lovemaking. Obviously, the young man had very good control, something again that the Sergeant could only dream of. Eventually, the lovers climaxed and fell into each others arms. Now was the time to strike!

The Sergeant gathered his notebook, pencil, truncheon and handcuffs. He slammed the door of the patrol car noisily, causing the lovers to stir from their post-coital embrace.

“Caught you!” announced the Sergeant. He recognised both of them, “George Trevose and Susan Waterman, whatever will your parents say?”

“Sergeant, we’re both eighteen, don’t tell them please,” requested young George, “You don’t have to tell, do you?”

“Yes I do! You’re not even twenty-one, yet here you are disgracing yourselves in the open air. Get dressed! We’re going down to the station.”

He bundled the hastily-clothed pair into the patrol car and they drove off to the police station, which was located in the local market town. There he read his copious notes out loud to a couple of his colleagues, as the lovers squirmed with embarrassment.

The policemen huddled in conspiratorial conversation behind the reception desk. Suddenly, there was raucous laughter! George and Susan wondered what on earth was going on. Eventually, Sergeant Dexter called them over and announced that they were to join him in the interview room.

In the room, the Sergeant picked up the bakelite receiver of the telephone. He then rang the local chairman of magistrates, Colonel R C H Smith (retd.). They spoke at length about the incident, while across the interview table, the lovers held hands tenderly.

“Yes, totally naked. Unofficial punishment, you say? If the parents agree? I suppose so. Yes, yes. We do have a selection of canes here. Yes, nice and whippy. Sting like the devil. Good idea. I quite agree, Sir. I’ll put it to the lad. I’ll keep you informed, yes, of course.”

Young George wasn’t stupid. He knew what was coming from the half of the conversation he had heard. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what was to happen to his partner in crime, Susan Waterman.

The Sergeant spoke, “The chair of the magistrates is most annoyed with you two. If it weren’t a bank holiday weekend, a special court might have been convened. He’s a great believer in swift justice. So he’s suggested unofficial punishment, if you agree. It will be a caning for young Trevose, and I’ll talk to your parents, Susan, about what we are to do about you. Are you both agreeable? You’re getting off very lightly, considering. I understand that this naked exhibitionism has been happening on a regular basis. Well, do you both agree?”

The lovers nodded dejectedly.

“Right then! Here’s what’s going to happen. I will cane Trevose. Eighteen hard strokes. One stroke for each year of his age, as prescribed by the magistrate. The caning will be on the bared posterior, of course. After the caning, he can walk home. I will drive Susan back home, and talk to her parents.”

“So I don’t even get a lift back to the village? Shit!” said George.

“Watch your tongue, young man!” admonished the Sergeant. Meanwhile, tears of shame and fear rolled down Susan’s face. Her father would be furious! He might even withdraw her meagre allowance.

“Let’s get on with it then. Susan, you will remain here. WPC Green will arrive in a minute to keep an eye on you. George, you will accompany me next door for your punishment. Try to keep the noise down, as Susan will hear otherwise.”

As it transpired, it was all too easy for the sounds from the adjacent room to be heard. The Sergeant had left the door wide open deliberately, and the WPC did the same with the interview room door.

The first crack of the cane on the naked flesh of George Trevose was wickedly loud and accompanied by a pitiful “Owww!”

A second stroke seemed even louder and from the room the order from the Sergeant for Trevose to keep still could be heard. A third and a fourth stroke lashed down.

The fifth stroke must have been extra hard as the victim shrieked loudly and was admonished by the Sergeant, “Shut up and take it like a man!”

The caning was worse than anything George Trevose had experienced at his school. The next five strokes were lashed down quickly.

In the interview room, Susan’s eyes were filling with tears again as she listened to her lover being thrashed by the brute of a policeman. The WPC offered her no support, just a cold, steely stare, occasionally punctuated by a smirk when a hard cane stroke broke the silence.

There was a long gap before the eleventh stroke. The Sergeant was admiring his work. How pleasing the buttocks looked now that they were covered in the vicious red tramlines donated by the cane. It was quite a contrast to the unmarked but hairy bottom the Sergeant had watched in the strawberry fields.

With a sigh, strokes eleven and twelve cut into the naked flesh causing a loud squeal from Trevose. Again, the Sergeant stopped and admired the sight before him. What a pity there wasn’t more sanctioning of this sort of unofficial punishment, he thought to himself. In truth, it was dying out slowly and this would be one of the last occasions that the Sergeant would enjoy what was becoming something of a passion for him.

“Shit!” the Sergeant muttered, annoyed that so few disciplinary opportunities were available to him. He sliced the cane down hard again and again until the full sentence of eighteen strokes had been delivered. The painful payload had caused George Trevose to slump exhausted over the chair which had been bent over.

“Get up! Get dressed and get out!” the Sergeant instructed. Next door, WPC Green admired his masterliness. He’d have made a wonderful headmaster she reflected, as she ejected Susan from the interview room, gleefully aiming a slap at the miscreant’s pert bottom.

The Sergeant drove Susan back to the village. On the way they passed a dejected George Trevose walking home.

“I bet he’s got one sore arse,” the Sergeant guffawed. His bawdy and sadistic comment fell on deaf ears. Susan was more concerned with her own fate. Whatever would her parents say? Her father would be devastated, she felt.

That night, the WPC and Sergeant enjoyed a wild session of lovemaking in his rented house. Somehow, Dexter’s technique had suddenly improved, and WPC Green ended up more satisfied than ever before. He had learnt a lot from the folly of youth, well, from George Trevose anyway.

Two days later, the Sergeant was cycling from the police station back to the village. Tied with string to the frame of his trusty Raleigh bike was a school cane. Reluctantly, Susan Waterman’s father had agreed that she should be thrashed for her indiscretions. He had begged Sergeant Dexter to carry out the distasteful task. Little did he suspect that the policeman possessed almost indecent flagellant enthusiasm for the task he had been given.

Neighbours peered from behind net curtains as the policeman propped his cycle near the front gate and carefully untied the string holding the cane in place on the frame. The Sergeant had oiled the cane, to increase its suppleness and to protect it from the elements. What a figure he looked in his handsome uniform! The cane he carried made him look quite formidable.

The Watermans hadn’t seen the Sergeant arrive, although he had been expected. He knocked purposefully on the door. Susan’s father duly appeared, looking a bit sheepish.

“Are you sure about all of this, Sergeant?”

As he crossed the threshold, Dexter reminded him, “I saw the whole thing, Mr. Waterman. Quite a disgusting exhibition. No shame at all, these kids.”

“Yes, I suppose so. I was thinking no more than six strokes. Cup of tea, Sergeant. Or something stronger?”

“I’d love a bitter, but I’d better not. I’m on duty still. So yes, a tea would be most welcome.”

Waterman shouted up the stairs, “Susan, the Sergeant’s here. Make us a pot of tea please, honey.” Just then Waterman’s wife joined them. She had asked for tea too and sat down with her husband and the policeman.

“Well,” said the Sergeant, “I don’t think six strokes is enough for the disgusting display I endured. Remember, at least one other person in the village must have seen them at it before now. After all, it was a tip-off that alerted all of us at the station to the problem. No, six strokes isn’t enough. Hardly worth me taking the trouble to come over. I’d recommend eight or ten as a minimum. What do you think Mrs. Waterman?”

“Oh, I don’t know officer! I’m thoroughly ashamed of her. I can’t believe they weren’t taking any precautions either! The stupid girl! I don’t want to be a grandmother just yet, thank you very much! Eight strokes seems entirely reasonable to me.”

“The lad took eighteen,” the Sergeant reminded them, “Really, she’s getting off very, very lightly. Eight will suffice, then. Now, one delicate matter to discuss. The lad took his on his bared posterior. How do you feel Susan should get hers?”

“She can have them bare too,” interjected Mr.Waterman. Perhaps more surprisingly his wife nodded silent agreement.

Just then, Susan opened the door, carrying a silver tray with the tea, crockery, milk, sugar and some home-baked cakes on. Her hands were shaking a little, causing the cups to rattle.

“Ah Susan, we were just discussing your punishment,” said her mother. “A caning, just like George’s. On your bare bottom, eight strokes. The Sergeant will do the honours.”

“Not bare, surely? Oh Mum!”

“Yes, talking of which, you can be mother, as it were, and pour us the tea.”

Soon the tea was being sipped, and all eyes were on Susan. Except her own, which were on the cane Sergeant Dexter had brought with him. Strangely, she felt quite excited and was looking forward to showing the officer her bare bottom. She was really quite incorrigible!

“Let’s get on, shall we?” asked the Sergeant taking control. “Skirt up, knickers down, over the arm of the sofa. Hurry up girl!”

Mrs. Waterman admired the masterful way he took charge. Must be trained that way, she mused. She found it quite a turn-on all the same. If only her own husband were made of sterner stuff!

All eyes were now on Susan who bent submissively, flipping her skirt towards the heavens, and gently eased her knickers down. The target was revealed. Dexter licked his lips, and flexed the cane. Mr. Waterman was more embarrassed, and was wondering about the wisdom of the whole set-up.

Swish-crack! The first stroke landed on the girl’s milky-white flesh, causing an angry red line. She gasped, as did her mother. The sting was bad, but somehow Susan forced herself to stick her bottom out ready for a second stroke.

Swish-crack! The second was a little harder, and right on target, causing the girl to writhe with discomfort. She rubbed her thighs together, then relaxed a little, revealing her treasures to the Sergeant. Something was stirring in his police trousers.

Swish-crack! A third forceful stroke almost sent the poor girl flying, as she cried out with pain. Her parents were finding this a suitable punishment for their daughter’s lewd behaviour. Mrs. Waterman in particular had a satisfied grin as she surveyed the red stripes adorning her daughter’s naked bottom.

CRACK! Stroke four was loud and hard. Susan squealed with pain. Her mother’s excitement was mounting as she witnessed the comeuppance her daughter so deserved.

Swish-crack! The fifth landed low, right on the crease and caused the girl to leap up.

“GET DOWN IMMEDIATELY!” Sergeant Dexter shouted. “That will incur a penalty stroke, I think.”

“Oh yes!” cried the girl’s mother supportively, “And make it a hard one!”

Mr. Waterman was astonished by his wife’s whip-lust. He sat nervously on his hands as the Sergeant raised the cane high once again.

Crack! CRACK! Two rapid strokes again caused the girl to cry out in torment. Her mother was sat on the edge of her chair willing the officer to beat Susan as hard as humanly possible.

Swish-crack! The eighth stroke was slightly more restrained, but it still caused Susan some distress, as she gasped and wriggled under the cane’s stinging caress.

The ninth stroke was now due. It was the penalty one for jumping up earlier.

“Sergeant Dexter, please make this last one extra hard,” Mrs. Waterman requested. “Susan must be taught to behave herself in public and also to take her punishment with dignity.”

The officer adjusted his trousers and raised the cane before whipping it down viciously. The noise of this final stroke was incredible and resounded all around the poky living room.

“AARGH!” cried Susan as the pain hit home. She started to cry. She was utterly humiliated.

Mrs. Waterman clapped her hands together. “Ah! A most satisfactory lesson for the little minx, I feel. Thank you ever so much, Sergeant. Oh, one thing…”

“Yes, Mrs. Waterman?”

“I wonder whether you could be persuaded to leave the cane here? Perhaps in return for a donation to the Police Benevolent Fund?”

“Of course, of course! You can keep it. After all, you never know when it may come in handy again,” he winked. “And a contribution really isn’t necessary. Times are hard, aren’t they? I’ll just book it as a breakage.”

“Tim, take the cane up to our bedroom,” Mrs. Waterman commanded her husband. She gazed longingly at Sergeant Dexter, her new hero.

Susan was recovering slowly from her beating. Carefully, she slipped her knickers back on. She noticed that the Sergeant wore no wedding ring. She wondered whether perhaps, he didn’t have a girlfriend? Perhaps she should force herself on him?

The Sergeant said his goodbyes and made his way back to his bicycle. It had been a good day, and the sunshine made it feel even better. Before heading back to the police station, he was minded to stop off to masturbate in the strawberry fields.

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Story © 2013 by Rod Cayenne

Comments welcome – please use link at top of story

The Perils Of Piracy Parts 1 and 2 (F/M and M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot caning fiction by Rod Cayenne. All the characters are aged 18 or over.  This erotica is for ADULTS only!

Part One:

“Well lads, this is very serious.  Radio piracy is an offence under the Marine Broadcasting Offences Act, 1967.  You could all be going down for this!”

The three 21-year-olds surveyed their surroundings.  Their poky little studio with the twin turntables, and a pile of 45s.  The pegboard on the walls, with egg boxes to provide some acoustic insulation.  A valve amplifier and a rudimentary transmitter.

Sergeant Westlea and his two constables examined the pirate treasure with some disdain.  The Sergeant picked up a Deep Purple single and snapped it in half.

“Oops!  Well, that’s forever hushed!” laughed the Sergeant.  “Fortunately for you three, I am under strict instructions not to arrest you straight away.  If you know what’s good for you, you will accompany us to the police station where the Chief Superintendent wishes to interview you.   Why he is so interested in small fry like you, I have no idea.  The van’s outside, I suggest you all get in it before I change my mind and cuff the lot of you.”

Soon Bill, James and Hugh found themselves in the plush surroundings of the office of Chief Superintendent Walker.  All three were sat in front of his large oak desk.  He was reading the case file silently.  Now and then, he would look over his half-moon spectacles, gazing at the three miscreants.  He puffed on a large Churchillian cigar.

“Well, gentlemen.  It’s taken us three years to track you down.  You have led us a merry dance.  A dance to the music of time, you might say!  During this time, I have listened to your station a lot on my trusty Roberts.  I must say I have enjoyed a lot of your output.  Particularly that Cream bootleg you keep playing.”

To the three friends, this was the first sign of any relief from their predicament.

“I have studied the case file, and I must warn you that a judge might impose custodial sentences.  This is really a most, most grave offence in terms of the law.  However, here at the station, we tend to view this as a less serious offence.  I see from our research that you are all ex-pupils of St. Stephens…”

“Yes Sir!” said James, who was evidently the leader of the pirate gang.

“So am I,” laughed the Chief Superintendent.  “Not strangers to the cane then, lads?”

All three shook their heads.

“Mmmm.  Just as I suspected.  Now, listen to me!  As a prefect I used to cane naughty lads such as yourselves, back then.  It seems to me that an unofficial caning could be just what you lads need, instead of a spell in prison.  Something to wake your ideas up!  Well, lads?”

James spoke up, “If you’re suggesting we take a caning, I’m sure all three of us would be happy to accept that, Sir!”  The other two nodded enthusiastically.

James was thinking how much he hated the cane.  In the past, Bill hadn’t found the cane too bad if he felt he’d deserved it.  Hugh however, had a masochistic streak and loved being caned.  The Chief Superintendent was also very fond of the cane…

“Good.  Some common sense from you three at last.  I was thinking of six of the best.  Six strokes for each one of the years you evaded us.”

The lads gasped.  Eighteen strokes each!

“Don’t worry lads.  I was thinking of three sessions of six strokes each, say a week apart.  Just to drive the lesson home.  On the bare, of course.”

James spoke up again, “Of course.  Yes Sir, that seems very reasonable in the circumstances.”

“Now there is one problem.  My right arm is recovering from an injury sustained just recently.  I can’t cane you myself, although I feel I must witness your punishments.  Which leaves me with a couple of alternatives.  I could ask Sergeant Westlea…”

“We don’t like him, Sir.  He deliberately snapped one of our records!”

“Not the Cream bootleg, I hope!” exclaimed the Chief Superintendent.

“No, no it was a 45 of ‘Hush’ by Deep Purple,” said Bill.

“One of my favourites!” said the Chief, shaking his head.  “Well, I can’t trust the brute not to snap my cane then, can I?  It’s my last one.  Which brings me to the other alternative.  Mrs Walker!”

“Your wife, Sir?”

“Yes, my wife.  She’s an experienced caner.  Do you have a problem with that?”

“No, Sir.  Not really, but bare bottom Sir?” asked James.

“Good point, boy.  I’ll have to ask her how she feels about that.  She might want you to keep your underwear on.  In which case, perhaps more strokes might be appropriate.”

“Oh, Sir!” said James, the one who feared the cane the most.

“Well, Gents.  Maybe we’ll leave it at six each session.  I’m a reasonable man and Mrs Walker will see reason too.  It will hurt you, but it won’t kill you.  Have we got a deal?  Smith?”

James nodded, “Yes Sir, thank you.”

“Williams?”

“Yes, Sir!”

“Prentice?”

“Yes, yes thank you.”

“Very good.  I want you all to call around to my house on Friday evening.  Well after ‘The Archers’.  Say eight o’clock.  Here’s the address.”

The three lads trooped out of the station with mixed feelings.  They passed Sergeant Westlea, who looked astonished to see them walking free without so much as a caution.

Back in the office, the Chief Superintendent leant back in his leather chair.  Yes, this would be a most gratifying spectacle.  Three naked, prime rumps being caned by his disciplinarian wife.  Something for the weekend!  In bed that night he shared his wicked plan with his wife.  She mounted him eagerly and came heavily as he described his plans in detail.

“Well Charles, you have really excelled yourself this time.  I’m almost tempted to cane you now as a reward!”

“Thank you darling, but don’t you think you’d be better off resting and waiting for the weekend?”

“Well no, my arm’s not the one that’s weak at the moment is it?  Be a dear and fetch the cane…”

Despite the hot lovemaking he had just enjoyed, Charles Walker was regretting mentioning his plan.  His wife switched on the bedside lamp and took the cane from him.

“Eighteen strokes, I think!  Seems appropriate.  Unless you’d prefer twenty-one?”

“Oh, Lynn, surely that’s too many?”

“Well, let me have a look at your bottom.  Hmmmm.  No signs of recent caning or trauma.  Arse is looking meatier than ever.  Too many trips to the canteen at work, I’d say.  Eighteen!”

Charles placed a couple of pillows in the middle of the bed, and bent submissively over them.  His wife could hardly contain her delight.  How she loved caning this all-powerful copper!

CRACK! The first hard stroke from the whippy cane lashed down on the chunky, hairy cheeks.

CRACK! The second stroke was just as hard.

CRACK!  She wasn’t playing as a third fiery stroke hit him just above the crease.

CRACK!  Indeed, this was no love caning.  This was punishment!

CRACK!  The whippy, crook-handled cane bit into his bottom again.

CRAAACK!  A harder stroke caused him to gasp.

CRACK!  A satisfying sharp stroke.

CRACK!

“AAARGH!”  Charles could no longer contain his pain.

CRAACK!  His sadistic wife chuckled as the cane lashed down again.

CRACK! CRACK!  She was truly in her stride now.

“OWWWWW!”

He felt his cock springing to life again.  What magic the cane worked!

CRAAAACK!  The cane broke clean in half!

“SHIT!” they both cried.

“What are we going to do now?  We’ve got your boys coming on Friday and nothing to cane them with,” Lynn sighed.

“I know, I know.  It’s so hard to find a decent cane these days.  Those canes from school were top quality.  I’ll have to get the lads at work to find me a supplier.”

“Well, you don’t have long, Charles.  Don’t fail me or it will be very bad news for you!  How about Soho?  Or a whorehouse?”

“No, I don’t think so, love,” he got up from his submissive position, semi-erect, “the school might be a better bet.  They still use the cane at St Stephens…”

Part two:

“Where the hell have you been?” asked Chief Superintendent Walker.

Sergeant Westlea threw two whippy, crook-handled canes down onto the Chief’s oak desk.

“I’ve been at your old school.  I had a devil of a job persuading the headmaster to part with these canes, although he had at least two dozen in stock.”

“Why was he so reluctant to give you them?  I’d have expected him to have responded favourably to our unofficial law and order campaign.”

“Well, it was my fault in a way.  I let slip that there was no caning at my secondary school. So then he said he was only happy to hand over the canes to someone who knew what the cane was like…”

“Carry on, Sergeant.”

“Well, it was difficult Sir.  I didn’t want to disappoint you by returning empty-handed.  So I suggested he gave me a few strokes there and then.”

“You did what?”

“I took six of the best, Sir.  So that you wouldn’t be disappointed.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“I do Sir!  My arse is throbbing like mad.”

“He caned a uniformed officer?”

“Not exactly uniformed, Sir!  I had it bare bottom!”

“Well, it’s the only way…”

“Yes, that’s what he said too, Sir.  Must be a Saint Stephens thing.”

“Quite so, quite so.”

“I’m really sore!”

“Of course you are!  Still, it’s no more than you deserve.  I’ve been disappointed in your behaviour lately, Westlea.  Snapping that record at the pirate station was the last straw!”

“But Sir, those hippy lads have broken the law.  They ought to be banged up and have all their equipment and records confiscated.”

“No, no.  You’re wrong on two counts there, Westlea.  I am the law around here, and I have decided that the offence was not too serious.  The lads will be caned instead, but not here.  You will replace the record you destroyed, is that clear?”

“But Sir, it’s not fair!”

“The law never is fair, Westlea.  You have a lot to learn.  I’ll be taking you under my wing, so that I can keep an eye on you.  Now about these canes…”

“Yes, Sir?”

“One will remain here at the station.  For unofficial punishments and to keep delinquent constables and sergeants in line.  The other will go to my house, as that’s where those boys will be thrashed.   Now, we seem to have a junior and a senior cane here.  Which was used on you?”

“I’m not sure, Sir.”

“Only one way to find out then.  Show me the marks!”

“Sir?”

“Bare your bottom for me, Westlea.  Hurry up, unless you want another dose?”

The Sergeant undid his thick black leather belt, and let his trousers fall to the ground.  His white Jockeys followed.

“Wow!  Those look bad, Westlea!”

“They certainly hurt badly, Sir!”

“I’m not sure that they were done with either of these canes.”

“Well, I couldn’t really see, Sir.  I was bent over his caning stool, at the time.  Do you think I should have him for assault or GBH?”

“No, that wouldn’t be advisable.  Just think what the press could make of it.”

“Yes, you’re right of course, Sir.”

“Yes I am.  Now keep still a moment.  I need to check those ridges.”

And so it was that Sergeant Westlea had his naked bottom felt all over by Charles the Chief Superintendent.

“Oh, Sir!”

“Shut up, Westlea.  You’ll live.  Now, pull your trousers up.  Tomorrow you will go to the record shop and order a replacement copy of that record.  Here are the details.  No messing about now.  You will give the record to me.  Don’t let me down or it’ll be the cane for you!”

“Yes, Sir!”

Their relationship had changed forever.

________________)

(________________

“Where the hell have you been?” Lynn demanded as Charles came through the front door, cane in hand.

“Getting this cane, of course!”

“Those boys will be here in less than an hour.  I’ve hardly got time to fit your caning in first!”

“Eh?”

“We are going to redo your eighteen strokes before the boys get here.  After all, I need some practice with this new cane.  Into the front room, now!”

Charles was glad he’d chosen the junior cane to bring home.  It would sting like the blazes, but neither he nor the radio pirates would be badly bruised.  However, the police staff back at the station might benefit from the biting caress of the senior cane!

In the front room, Lynn had arranged the room around a chair for her victims to bend over.  She pointed at the chair with her cane and Charles meekly climbed onto it, lowering his uniform trousers and pants ready for a serious thrashing.  Once again, his meaty, hairy cheeks were offered submissively to his wife.

SWISH-CRACK!  It hurt, it really hurt!

SWISH-CRACK!  It was a damn fine cane.

SWISH-CRACK!  She smiled.

SWISH-CRACK!  He grimaced.

SWISH-CRACK!  It stung like only a cane could.

SWISH-CRACK!  She was loving every minute.

“Let’s stop for a minute, Charles.  Tell me a little bit more about these boys.”

“Well, they’re all 21-year-olds.  One of them’s a bit tubby, but should be a nice target for your cane.  I want to watch, of course.”

“Do I know any of them, or their parents?”

“No, I don’t think so.  They all arrived as the town and school expanded.  All from down the road in London, I think.  All ex-GLC pupils.  All no strangers to the cane, at least when they were at St. Stephens.”

“This is only a junior cane, though Charles.  I was hoping for something a bit firmer.”

“Yes, sorry, Westlea let me down a bit.  I’ll have to visit the school again myself.  And not just for old times sake.”

“Bend it a bit more Charles.  These will be extra hard ones.”

SWISH-CRACK!  She wasn’t joking!

SWISH-CRACK!  That cane could pack quite a punch, even for a junior.

SWISH-CRACK!  “Aaargh!”  Suddenly Charles had found his voice.

SWISH-CRACK!  “Owww!”

SWISH-CRACK!  “Shut up, Charles.  Unless you want extras?”

SWISH-CRACK!  He was silent, but his bottom was stinging terribly.

She left for the kitchen.  She poured herself a glass of milk.  This was thirsty work!  Charles remained bent over submissively, allowing his hands to comfort his bottom briefly while Lynn was out of the room.

“Get those hands off there!” she ordered as she arrived back in the room.  She placed the tumbler of milk on the sideboard.

“Six left!”

SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!  “AAAARGH!”

SWISH-CRACK!  “OWWW!”

“That was fun!” she announced.  “I wish those lads would hurry up.  You’d better get up and pull your trousers back on.  You are keeping your uniform on for the main event, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes, darling.  I am the semi-official witness.”

“And a very naughty boy, too!” she added, pointing the stick at him.  “You might be getting some more later.  I’m really in the mood this evening!”

Charles rubbed his bottom nervously.  His wife was so sexy when she was like this.  His first erection of the evening was straining in his trousers.

_________________)

Story © MMXII by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved

D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

(___________

___________)

Comments welcome, please use the link at the top of the first part of the story…

Packing Heat (M/M) NEW!

 

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Brand spanking new fiction by your host, Rod Cayenne. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!

It was Autumn, 1967.  Hippies with flowers in their hair were everywhere, except in the once-noble village of Nether Bumming.  Down at the half-timbered Fox And Hounds, Jim Rodgers played with his fresh pint.  He tried to blow the froth off the top off the bitter ale.  It wasn’t shifting, so he sliced it off with a sticky, dog-eared and discoloured cardboard beer mat.  That was not something he’d have done had he not been well on the way to inibreation.  Anyway, clearly he was distracted; miles away.

“Just what’s up, Jim?” asked his young friend PC Steve Churlington.

“Nothing’s up.  Really, nothing.  Nothing at all.”

“Don’t give me that!  You’re brooding about something or other.  It’s that lad of yours I’ll warrant, what’s his name again?”

“Oh, you mean Peter?”

“Yes, Peter.  Tell me now, what’s he been up to?  I thought you and I had no secrets.”  The cop winked at his close friend.

Jim gazed at his pint, tracing a pattern in the condensation on the outside of the glass with his grubby finger.  He sighed and smiled and looked his friend straight in the eye, before revealing, “Well, you’re right.  Of course.  He’s been a real handful since his mother ran off with that low-life estate agent.  I may have mentioned it before.  He and I seem to be jostling to be head of the household all the time.  Which is ridiculous, as it’s my place, after all.  Now the little sod’s bought an air rifle, a gun.  Can you believe it?”

“Oh I see.  What’s the problem, then?  He’s old enough to own one, he’s seventeen isn’t he?”

“Eighteen and a half, actually.  It’s just, it’s just…”

“What exactly, Jim?”

“Well, it’s just that I asked him not to buy one.  I begged him not to buy one.  I told him not to buy one.  I forbade him from buying one.”

“You didn’t want him to buy one then?” laughed his friend the cop, supping ale with a twinkle in his eye.  The froth from the beer decorated the cop’s moustache briefly before his beefy hand wiped it away.

“Shit, Steve.  No, I didn’t want one in the house but the little sod is earning now and has got a mind of his own.”

“I suppose that’s the danger at his age.  But he’s not 21, so you are still in charge.  He’s testing you, as you hinted.”

“Oh maybe, maybe not.  Yes, definitely maybe.”

“A very tricky situation then.  And let me guess, his father’s reluctant to leather him?”

“Yes, rather.  Although, I suppose it’s just what he needs and deserves.”

“Hmmm.  I agree.  Totally.  You know, I see this all the time.  The young generation disrespecting their parents, their teachers even.  Thank God the schools have the cane.  It would be chaos without, especially with all this hippy, Summer Of Love nonsense at the moment.”

“Shove the Summer Of Love!” said Jim, and then “Cheers!” as the two men crashed their glasses together, laughing and supping their ales.  Jim belched loudly and “A Whiter Shade Of Pale” played on the distant jukebox.

Later, as the evening wore on, PC Steve leant over towards Jim, and put his hand on his friend’s knee, saying conspiratorially, “You know I could deal with Peter.  As an officer of the law, I’m sure I could find a way of giving the boy a really sore arse.”

“Oh, would you?” implored Jim, “Could you?”

“Leave it to me!” said PC Steve conspiratorially.  “But I do need some background.  He’s had the cane before? And a good slippering?”

“Yes, quite a lot, when he was younger.  It was noted on his reports.  By the Headmaster.  He was a bad lad then, alright.”

“You didn’t follow it up ever, then?”

“Oh no, no.  Isobel wouldn’t wear it.”

“Hmmm, seems to me that she wore the trousers in that relationship!”

“Mmmm.  That’s tired old territory though, Steve.  And I was happy to leave it to the Head, who could be an unforgiving bastard at times, to be perfectly frank.”

“Well, Peter’s obviously a lad who needs a firm masculine hand.  The smack of discipline!  The bite of the cane!  Don’t you think?”

“You won’t be too hard on him, will you?”

“I said to leave it to me, but I certainly won’t go off half-cock!  Let’s just say I have some experience with this sort of thing.  He’s in safe hands. Or safe-ish hands!”

And so it was that PC Churlington put his plan into action.  With inside information from the concerned father, he’d staked out the likely venue for young Peter to be practicing mayhem with his air rifle.  He soon spied the lad and his mate, Rowan Knight, shooting at cans and the bark of trees on the edge of the medieval forest.  There was just the one gun, which Peter was allowing his friend to use now and then.  After a short but purposeful toot on his whistle, PC Steve bellowed, “Oi!  You two!  What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Crikey!  It’s the cops!” cried Rowan with amazing powers of perception, before he scarpered away, his fat teenage thighs working harder than they ever had before.  Peter was left holding the baby, or rather the gun.  Suddenly the rifle seemed very heavy in his sweaty grip as he stared into the penetrating blue eyes of the constable.

“It’s all legal, Officer!” exclaimed Peter.

The policeman grabbed the lad firmly by his ear, “Oh no it’s not!  Not in a public place like this, and this PC says a licence is needed under new legislation.  Have you got a licence?  My diligent research suggests that you have not.”

“What?”

“The new 1967 legislation requires a licence!  Use of firearms especially in forested areas is strictly controlled, you know.”

“What new legislation?  They didn’t mention that at the shop when I bought the gun.  With respect, I reckon you’re pulling my leg, Officer!”

“Oh no I’m not, sonny!  And that’s enough of your lip!  Now, we can deal with this down at the station, with all the paperwork and publicity in the local papers.  The Echo loves to print this sort of stuff.  Right next to all the reports about the dirty importuners.  Would you like all of that?”

“Errr, no.  No.  I wouldn’t.”

“No, I bet you wouldn’t!  Neither would your parents, I’d imagine.  Well in that case, I could deal with this at my place.  Off the record.  Unofficially.”

“Eh?  What do you mean, deal with it?”

“I mean some corporal punishment for you my lad.  A sore arse.  A good hiding.  I’m sure you’ve had one before?”

“Yeah, but those days are gone.  Gone when I left that bloody tyrannical school.  Long gone.  Thank God!”

“Well it’s up to you.  If that’s your decision, I’ll just get the handcuffs from the patrol car.  I should warn you that you’ll be sharing a cell.  We’ve just arrested a particularly nasty bunch of Rockers and some Mods.”

“Oh.  No, wait. Wait, please Officer!  Surely there’s another way?”

“I’ve already told you.  It’s back to mine, or take your chances down the station.”

“But that’s no choice at all!”

“Of course it’s a choice!  Now which is it to be?  Hurry up, I don’t have all day.”

“OK, your place then.”

“You mean, thank you, Officer, I’ll come with you.”

“Thank you Officer, I’ll come with you.”  Adopting a submissive tone seemed somehow appropriate.

“That’s better,” said the constable as he pointed to the car.  He opened the boot, and Peter stashed the air rifle carefully away, as instructed.  The car soon left the forest way behind, with Peter sat in the back.  The constable eyed his uneasy companion in the rear-view mirror and chuckled quietly.  His devious plan was working and his naive prey had been well and truly captured.

The car skidded to a halt outside the ramshackle building that the policeman shared with his bachelor landlord.  The two men stepped out, with Peter retrieving his air rifle.  “Upstairs!” ordered the cop.

In his bedroom, as Peter watched, PC Steve laid out two crook-handled rattan canes, a favourite leather strap, some soothing cream balm, and he prised the lid off a small tin of Vaseline, just so he’d be ready instantly for any golden opportunity that presented itself.  Peter blushed at the disturbing array as it was gradually unveiled before his disbelieving eyes.

“Just how old are you?”

“Errr, I was eighteen in March.”

“In that case, we’ll start with eighteen strokes of the strap!  One for each year of your age.  Seems more than fair to me.  So there will be six on your slacks, six on your underpants, and six on the bare.  Now, bend over the end of the divan for me.”  The burnt umber leather strap soon started to crack down purposefully, and punishingly.  Whack after whack inflamed,  irritated and distressed the cheeks of the cheeky teenager.  The pain intesified of course as the layers of clothing were shed.  After the beating, Peter was grateful when he was allowed to stand and rub his sore buttocks, but it was only a temporary respite.

Next it was time to reinforce the lesson with the bite of the rattan.  The cop flexed the cane menacingly only a few inches from the teenager’s nose.  He scythed it through the air a few times.  The sound took Peter back to the helplessness he’d felt during his school punishments.  “Lie down flat on the bed.  I think at least eighteen strokes with my beautiful canes.  You’re lucky to receive this care and attention.  Make sure you count out loud after each stroke.”

“Yes Officer, thank you Officer.”

Peter braced himself for the onslaught.  Nothing could have prepared him for the pain of the first stroke which was delivered with considerable heft by the fit young policeman.  It was worse, far worse, than any caning at school.  After the leathering, this was real agony.  The second stroke followed after a lengthy pause.  It was a gentler stroke, but still with a bite.  PC Steve alternated heavy and milder strokes, but he suddenly stopped after the eighth.  “You forgot to count.  We’ll have to start back at one, I’m afraid.  Now, pay attention and do as you’re told.”

Peter groaned at his own stupidity in forgetting to count.  How foolish he had been!  Indeed, he’d had a most stupid day all round.  He felt the tell-tale tap of the cane, before it was raised high in the air for the first of the repeat strokes.  As it crashed down, Peter was properly prepared this time, “One!” he cried.

“No, no, no!” said the cop, “That won’t do at all.  I expect respect from you and ‘One, Sir’ or ‘One Officer’ or ‘One, Constable’.  Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir!  Sorry, Sir!”

So the caning and the counting resumed.  This time the only pause was when the cop decide to swap from his “Bruiser” cane to “The Stinger” in the hope of getting more vocal reactions from his victim.  With each solid whack the lad’s arse bobbed up and down just like a fairground horse ride.  Yes, he was bobbing and lifting to meet the cane just in time for each painful disciplinary stroke.  Maybe it was involuntary, or just some kind of a natural submissive reaction to the rhythm of the punishment.

He gasped and groaned, and writhed and turned.  The switch to “The Stinger” had worked!  Peter became more frenzied and then suddenly at around twenty strokes the gasps became pleas for more!  That cruel cane had rekindled something within him.  Clearly the lad was experienced, and was well on his way to developing a taste for the discipline.  PC Steve had found himself a masochist!  The two were well-matched.

“Hmm.  Looks like you enjoyed that.  Just look at the state of your penis!”  A silvery string of pre-cum was dripping from the rock-hard teenage erection.  “Make sure you sell the gun, now.”

“Oh I will, I will.  Whatever you ask, Officer.”

“You can call me Steve.”

Suddenly they kissed passionately.  Peter had never kissed a man before, moustached or not!  He loved it, and what followed.  He became a frequent visitor to PC Steve’s lonely garret.  The lad received the cane regularly and they induldged in many other activities which may or may not have been legal at the time, and about which even the editor of the Echo would have been too embarrassed to publish.

_____________

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 or businesses, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

(_____________

Story © MMXIX by Rod Cayenne.  All rights reserved.

__

Comments welcome, please use the link at the top of the story.

Charlie Alpha November Echo (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot fiction by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2016, and with special thanks to Jim for inspiration.  

Over-18s only.

It wasn’t easy being the rookie cop in the big concrete police station.  Jim kind of dreaded the others, and the rough horseplay he saw there in the locker room.  He buffed up the shine on his black police boots with the brown wooden brush, and sighed heavily.

“Here, let me have look, lad,” said Tom, one of the older bobbies, the duty Sergeant.  Jim passed him a boot to inspect.  “Hmm.  When all’s said and done, this is not very good.  Give it some elbow grease, lad.  This needs a lot more shine, a proper mirror-finish.  You can barely see the reflection of my beard in this one.”

His beard!  Oh yes, his beard.  His masculine, greying, sexy beard.  Jim had lusted after it and the man behind it ever since he first clapped his eyes on Tom.  The beard, the white starched shirt, the blue eyes, his thick leather belt and his bushy eyebrows.  The man was a total dream!

Tom pulled the rookie to one side and whispered in his ear, “You’re going to have to do a lot better than this.  Watch out for Charlie Alpha!”

Charlie Alfa?  Charlie Alfa?  He’d heard the name a few times.  Who was this bloke the others spoke about in hushed terms?  Before he had a chance to mull over it more, Tom the Sergeant was outlining the day’s schedule.

“We’re pulling a gang of teens in this afternoon.  They’ve been a right fucking nuisance to some good people so we’re going to put the frighteners on them.  Clap them in the cells for a few hours.  Probably not a job for you to get too involved in.  Then tonight we’re staking out a cottage.  The loos in the Jubilee Gardens.  I don’t really approve of such harassment any more.  I’m not, err you know, but the fact is that there are quite a few of us coppers who sometimes like a bit of variety, if you know what I mean.  In fact, I think you maybe one of us, am I right lad?  But the Chief Super is a bit old-fashioned in many ways and wants us to crack down, arrest and ruin some married men.  But I don’t think so somehow!  So we’ll go and watch the action and then conveniently forget to book anyone.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jim laughed, his tenseness relieved by the frank and friendly banter of the duty Sergeant.

As it happened, it did all go to plan, Jim, Tom and a colleague had a wonderful, voyeuristic time, no animals were hurt, and no arrests were made.  However, the Chief Superintendent was not amused.  He’d wanted a scalp or two, but nothing had been delivered.

Jim was to discover all about the Chief’s displeasure at his first quarterly performance review.  It started well, with gushing praise for much of his conduct.  There were problems though, outlined as the Chief to paced up and down his spacious office, “Persistent lateness and cocky attitude.  I was also disappointed with the stake-out at Jubilee Gardens.  I do hope Tom hasn’t corrupted you with his strange beliefs?”

“Err, no Sir.  We were just unlucky.  We had fella lined up for cuffing, and then he just disappeared into the night.”

“Is that so, is that so?  I am detecting a pattern here.  A good policeman let down by negligence, tardiness, complacency and too cock-sure for his own good.  What you need, my lad, is a good taste of my Charlie Alpha November Echo!” the older man smirked.

“Eh?” Jim asked stupidly.

“That’s ‘Eh Sir?’ or ‘Eh, Chief Superintendent?’ to you lad!  Where are your manners? Do I have to spell it out to you? Charlie Alpha November Echo! C…A…N…E.  The cane!  Six of the best, should do it.”

“But Sir!  You can’t do that!”

“Dereliction of duty, lateness, cocky attitude.  I can do it, lad, and I will do it.  I think we’ll make it eight strokes, in fact!  You’ve had the cane before?”

“Yes Sir.  My father…”

“Your father, eh?  Hmmmm.  Very good.  Perhaps I’ll call him later!”  With that, the Chief Superintendent sat down and reached under his desk.  He produced a cane which he laid on the desk top, right in front of Jim who proceeded to go pale.

“Aha!  Do I detect some familiarity with this?”

“Well, it’s very similar to my father’s.”

“Is that so?  I doubt he got his from the same place as mine!”

“How so, Sir?”

“I picked this beauty up in a raid of a brothel in the City.  You could say she’s a metropolitan model, but I’ve named her Charlie Alpha.”

In fact, it was a pretty standard school cane.  A pretty cane!  A punishment cane, with a perfectly-curved crook handle.  Just like the one Jim’s father had used to use.

“Alright then lad!  Stand up!  Over the back of the chair please.  No, no, you can keep your trousers on.  Unlike some round here, I am not a lover of naked male flesh.”

The Chief Superintendent was not a lover of male flesh indeed, but he was a sadist.  A semi-secret sadist.  How he enjoyed whipping his juniors with a rattan rod!  A rod he affectionately named Charlie Alpha!

Jim’s police trousers were stretched tightly as he bent over the back of the chair.  So tightly that the outline of his Y-fronts could be seen, offering a gratifying target for the Chief, as he flexed the cane purposefully.

The Chief didn’t hang about as he landed not one, not two but three fast strokes.  Jim hadn’t expected that, being used to his father’s more leisurely ways of punishment.   The heat and pain was immediate and intense.  Jim gasped, overwhelmed by his superior’s sadism.

The Chief paused, “I hope you can see that I mean business, young James!”

“Yes, Sir!” Jim replied dutifully.  He pushed his bottom out, ready for the next stroke.  It came with a loud crack, Jim feeling as if his trousers, underpants and the flesh beneath were being ripped to shreds.  A fifth stroke followed rapidly, causing a squeal from Jim.

“Quiet Constable!  Take your medicine like a man!”

The sixth and seventh strokes followed rapidly again, and despite the Chief’s direct command, Jim could not help yelping as each one landed on target.  The young constable was embarrassed at his weakness, yet consumed by overwhelming pain at the same time.  The last stroke landed accompanied by a loud “AAARGH!”

At least it was over, Jim consoled himself.  It had been quite a beating, so rapid and so painful.  He’d try to avoid the Chief and Charlie Alpha in future!

“You can get up now,” the Chief smirked.  “I hope you won’t need a reminder in the near future.  I expect only the very best from my PCs.  Otherwise they get the best of this!” he said throwing the whippy cane down on the desk.  “Off you go!”

Jim left silently, closing the door gently.  Outside the office, his hands flew to his meaty backside.  He clawed and kneaded at the flesh, desperately trying to ameliorate the intense, throbbing pain.  He loosened his belt by a couple of notches, but it didn’t seem to help any.  As he walked down the winding staircase, he caught Tom’s eye, for the sergeant was manning the reception desk.

“Ah.  A painful gait, I see.  I’d guess that your review ended with an introduction to Charlie Alpha.  Am I right?”

“Shit, yes, Tom!  Eight fuckin’ introductions!”

“Eight, ho ho, he must have been annoyed!  Most new recruits get four to six at most to start with.  Sounds like you hit the jackpot!”

“Jackpot!  I should be so lucky!  I guess that Sergeants are immune?”

“From Charlie Alpha?”

“Yes.”

“Of course lad, we’ve paid our dues.  Charlie’s reserved for kids like you.”

“Cheers, Tom.  I mean Sarge!  I’m off home now, think I’ll have a bath, see if that helps.”

Jim made his way home on the service bus.  His bottom ached and throbbed as it bounced around on the poorly-padded bus seat.  He felt every austerity pothole as the bus rattled and clattered down the neglected A-road.  Alighting at the stop, he nipped into the shelter to compose himself before he faced his parents.  He didn’t want to give the game away, so smartened himself up, tightening both his belt and tie to look his best.

As it happens his father was waiting to greet him at the door, “Hello son!  How was work today?”

“Oh hi, Dad.  Work?  Oh, you know, same old, same old!”

“That’s not what I heard!  The Chief Superintendent rang me.  He told me about your caning.  I didn’t know the Police went in for that sort of thing at all!”

“No, neither did I Dad!” said Jim rubbing his backside ruefully.

“Well now.  I approve.  Wholeheartedly.  He told me what a cocky fool you’ve been.  I’m not surprised.  We’ve noticed it at home too.  Far too frequently.  I’ve sent your mother out.”

That could mean only one thing to Jim.  ‘Sending his mother out’ was his father’s code for “I’m going to cane you!”

“Dad, you can’t mean…”

“I do indeed!  I bet you thought I’d got rid of the good old cane, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes, I’d rather hoped, as I’m 21 now…”

“Never too old for a caning while you’re under our roof!  You’ve brought shame on us, James!  I made the Chief Superintendent a solemn promise.  That I’d take care of your discipline between his quarterly reviews.”

“Dad, you can’t!  Besides, it’s quarterly review day today, hardly between reviews!”

“Don’t get clever with me!  I can see what your boss meant about your cockiness.  As long as you live under this roof, you are a boy as far as I’m concerned.  So before, I deal with you, you can have a shower and shave off that ridiculous, cocky moustache too.  You’re too young for it!  When it’s gone you can report to my study in your pyjamas!”

Jim was dismayed.  No moustache!  No dignity!  And a very, very sore arse.  And those pyjamas!  His mother insisted on them while he lived at home, although Jim would far rather sleep in the nude.  He’d have to ask for a room at the Section House, this was all much too much!

Father meanwhile was happy.  He’d take the lad down a peg or two, for sure.  He’d felt the urge to discipline his cocky young adult son for some time.  Rather stupidly, the lad had furnished him with just the right excuse!

Upstairs in his en-suite, Jim hacked away at his moustache with some disdain.  He’d grown to like it, feeling that it gave him the authoritarian air so appropriate for a police officer.  But now that contrived gravitas was gone.  He gazed at the fresh-faced 21-year-old in the mirror.  Why hadn’t he argued it out with his father?  It was a question that buzzed around his head time and time again as he massaged his sore arse cheeks under the warm water of the walk-in shower.

“I’m waiting!”  Jim’s father barked.  Jim duly dropped his pyjama trousers.  The old man lifted the tail of the pyjama top to inspect his son’s beaten bottom.  The Chief had done an excellent job, with eight crisp but haphazardly-placed weals clearly on display.

“Another eight then, I think.  Just to reinforce the displeasure of your mother and I!  Don’t let us down again, son.”

With that father landed the first purposeful stroke.  Jim had to gasp, for it cut across much of the Chief’s earlier handiwork.  And so it continued.  A second, harder stroke.  A yelp from the young man.  A third, leisurely delivered but excruciatingly painful.  A squeal from Jim.  A whippy fourth, a violent fifth.  A teasing sixth, a scorching seventh.  Cries and grunts.  A valedictory eighth.

Jim got up slowly, pulling up his pyjama bottoms ruefully.  He was holding back the tears, but had to speak, “Thank you father.”

“You’re welcome!  Anytime!”  He meant it too.  At last, with great pleasure, he had tamed his cocky son!

Come the next shift, Jim made his way into the police station cautiously, trying to walk as normally as his well-beaten bottom would allow.  It was just his luck to find his new friend Sergeant Tom on the reception desk.

“Hey, Jim lad!  Where’s your moustache gone?  My, you look so much younger without it.  Just like the  naughty boy you are.  Now, tell me, how’s your naughty bottom?”

“Don’t bloody ask!  My Dad gave me a thrashing too!  The Chief had rung him, so Dad decided to give me the same with his cane.”

“Wait!  Your Dad has a cane too?  Blimey, you’ve been unlucky!  How many did he give you?”

“Another eight!”

Tom whistled with disbelief, “Anyway, how about after the shift you come back to my place?  I’ll make you feel better.”

Tom did eventually comfort Jim, but only after giving him another caning too!

(__________

Story © MMXVI by Rod Cayenne

Photographs © by Rod Cayenne

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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.

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 Comments welcome

Behind The Beaded Curtain Of A Sleazy ’70s Sex Shop (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot all-male erotica by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2013 by popular request.

The air was heavy with cigarette smoke.  The two men were chatting behind the counter, waiting for the flood of punters who would arrive as soon as the city offices closed.  It was unmistakably a sex shop.  The windows were blacked out, there were tacky neon signs and entry to the shop was via a beaded curtain.  There were rows and rows of magazines, ranging from the tame to the explicit, though the latter were censored due to the Obscene Publications Act.  It hadn’t been that long since the last police raid on the premises…

Proprietor Rick, 35, lanky, greasy and bearded, puffed on his long cigarette.  Boyish runaway Peter, just 21, gazed naively at the contents of the shop.  He’d only just got the job, which was proving to be quite an education for him.

“Is there a lot of demand for this homo stuff?” Peter asked Rick.

“Yes, it sells pretty well.  Mainly to married men.  City gents.  Public school types.”

“I don’t really understand any of this stuff, it does nothing for me.”

“Don’t worry my boy.  Later tonight, I’ll show you some proper uncensored stuff.  Some of the gay stuff is pretty hot.”

“Well, if you must.  I just don’t get it at all.”

“It’s taking off, Pete, my mate.  Zig has been the spur, all that bisexuality stuff.  It’s the future, I’m sure of it.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes, trust me, mate.”

“Yes, I do, Rick.  And what about this stuff, the spankers as you call them?”

“Ah yes, the spanking mags.  Our best sellers, they are.  The English are just mad about the stuff, especially the caning mags.  It’s lost on most of the tourists, of course.”

“I had the cane at school.  I can’t see the attraction.  It bloody hurt, and wasn’t sexy at all.”

“Ah.  Pleasure from pain.  Yes, that’s a bit harder to explain.  Very popular, all the same.  There’s a good margin on spanking stuff and the cops don’t always seize it.  Of course, a lot of them are into it.  In a big way.  Caning especially!” he laughed.  Rick went on to explain the fine details of the bondage, S&M and fetish magazines and accessories stocked in the shop.

“So, going back to the police.  Got any tips for me when we do get raided?”

“It doesn’t happen very often, Pete.  Hopefully I’ll be here.  But if not, just don’t let them near the ‘under the counter’ stuff.  And be polite, for Christ’s sake. “Yes, Officer, No Officer, Three Bags Full, Sir”.  I think they cream off some of the stuff for themselves, the wank mags, the spankers.  Just make sure you do as they say.  Otherwise I’ll be taking a cane to your sorry arse!”

“You wouldn’t dare!  Anyway, I bet you haven’t got a cane.”

“You’re right.  I haven’t got a cane.  I’ve got several!  We used to sell them, but the cops kept nicking them.  Arseholes!”

“Shit, I’d better behave myself.”

“Yes, lad.  You better had.  You’re never too old for the cane, I always say.”

Peter gulped and decided to change the subject a little, “These blow-up dolls are a bit crap, aren’t they?”

“Ah yes, the Roxys, as I like to call them.  A bit sad, but they’re good sellers.  They’re crap, as you say.  I certainly wouldn’t fuck one of them!”

“No, me neither, I’d rather wait for the real thing,” said Peter eyeing the masturbation aids.

Suddenly, the influx of customers arrived.  There were older men in raincoats, and a few younger guys, all  looking for wank fodder.  Of course, some had guilty expressions, red faces and others had indulged in some Dutch courage.  Peter enjoyed flirting with the older punters, as he slipped their purchases into discreet brown paper bags.  Trade was brisk that evening.

“I think you’re good for sales, young Peter.  Maybe I won’t cane your arse just yet,” Rick laughed.

That night young Peter was shown a lot of uncensored material, and ended up sleeping with Rick upstairs in the damp flat above  the shop.  It was a night that Peter would never regret.  The two men became regular sexual partners.  The arrangement suited young Peter as he could never pull the girls.  For Rick, it was just lust for the 21-year-old’s youthful arse and tight hole. Both were curiously dispassionate about their affair and it never really developed into love.

A few months later, there was a police raid on the premises.  Rick was absent, so young Peter had to handle things alone.  A substantial amount of magazines was seized.  Rick was furious but at least none of the more, ahem, specialised material was found by the coppers.  Peter couldn’t help but feel guilty for the upheaval, though in truth he was blameless.  The following few days at work he was completely downcast.

“Don’t worry, Peter.  It’s not your fault we were raided.  I’ve been in touch with the law, and they have said they might return some of the stuff as it has been cleared.  I’m pretty matey with some of the lads down the station these days.  Our paths cross a lot, as it were.  I sometimes slip them a few spankers to keep them sweet.  They’re only doing their job, after all.”

“You bribe them with spanking magazines?”

“That’s a very strong word, Peter.  I just like to oil the cogs of the machines of justice, as it were.”

“Well it hasn’t worked, has it?  They’ve not returned the stuff have they?”

“Not yet, but they will, my boy, they will.”

“You think!”

“No, I know.  Now bite your lip, unless you want a good hard caning from your boss?”

“No thanks, Rick,” said Peter, although he did wonder if such a thrashing might purge his overwhelming feelings of guilt.  His mind was in turmoil following the raid, and about his relationship with Rick.  He was even beginning to feel guilty about working in the shop and how it would impact on his life and career.

A few days later, two policemen turned up at the shop at closing time.  They had brought many of the seized magazines back with them, so Peter was tasked with unloading them from the Austin panda car.  Soon the car was emptied, and the police sergeant sent the driver on his way.

“Drink, Mark?” Rick asked the sergeant.

“Well, I shouldn’t really, I’m still on duty.  But if you insist.”

“I do, I do.  Come upstairs for a beer, you too Peter.”

Peter was reluctant to join the two men.  The presence of Sergeant Mark was making him nervous.  After all, he was the cop who had fronted the raid on the premises.  However, soon all three men were enjoying cans of frothy Watney Truman bitter while a Roberts transistor radio piped an offshore pirate station around the flat.

“Sorry about the raid, Rick.  It was orders, of course.”

“It’s OK Mark, I understand.”

“The Super’s been ordering a crackdown.  We’ll try and leave you out of the next round.”

“Cheers, Mark.  I think the raid terrified young Peter here.”

Peter nodded and blushed.

“Well, he certainly could have been more helpful.”

“Really?  PETER, IS THIS TRUE?” barked Rick.

Peter wasn’t sure how to react, so he just shrugged his shoulders.

“Yes, he wasn’t very cooperative,” said the sergeant, frowning.

“Well, I’m sorry Mark.  I had no idea.  Perhaps the lad should have a taste of my cane?  He must learn to help the rule of law!”

“Yes, Rick, a good caning would teach the lad some respect!”

“In fact, Mark, maybe you could do the honours?”

Peter’s jaw dropped as events started to move rapidly.  Soon Rick returned from the bedroom with a swishy rattan school cane in his hands.  He gave it to the sergeant.

“A fine specimen!” the policeman exclaimed, “Just like the ones at my old school.  Err, Peter, it has to be bare, I’m afraid.”

Rick pulled a wooden chair into the middle of the room, commanding Peter, “Over!”

Peter complied reluctantly.  He was scared.  Scared of the sergeant, and scared of Rick.  More than anything, he was scared of that cane.   He’d always assumed Rick was joking about having some canes.  Evidently not!  He hadn’t had the cane for several years, and now he was going to get it from the big, burly policeman!  He decided to comply to the letter, in the hope of some clemency or maybe a reduction in the number of strokes.  Sighing, he let his jeans fall, and then his less than clean string pants followed.

The sergeant was enjoying the view, as was Rick.  Their plan was working perfectly.  Peter had been set up!  The sergeant flexed the cane enthusiastically.  He was going to enjoy this!

SWISH-CRACK!  The policeman sliced the whippy rattan down hard on Peter’s unblemished buttocks.  A deep red line appeared.  It was a good cane.  It was a very good cane!  Rick already knew it was a very good cane, as he sourced all his canes direct from the importer.  The importer was only to happy to supply the sex shops with the finest of punishment implements. After all, they gave a higher profit than the school trade.

SWISH-CRACK!  Sergeant Mark whipped a second stroke down on Peter’s arse.  The cheeks gave way as the cane sliced like a hot knife through butter.

SWISH-CRACK!  Peter gasped and wriggled as the assault continued.  He was told to keep still by the sergeant, “unless he wanted extra!”  He didn’t!  Of that, Peter was sure!

SWISH-CRACK!  “YEEEOW!” Peter cried, just like a schoolboy. How gratifying that sound was.

SWISH-CRACK!  A fifth stroke slashed down.  What an expert tormentor the sergeant was proving to be!

SWISH-CRACK!   A sixth stroke and Peter felt sure that would be the final one.  But he was wrong!  Very, very wrong!

SWISH-CRACK!   The seventh was a real corker, cracking and burning into Peter’s soft posterior.

SWISH-CRACK!   The eighth was the worst so far, searing and unforgiving. Peter bucked and writhed but by now Mark was almost in a trance, slashing the cane down without thought as he rejoiced in his own sadism.

SWISH-CRACK!  SWISH-CRACK!  SWISH-CRACK!  The beating carried on relentlessly. From a distance, Rick admired the red stripes adorning his lover’s youthful buttocks.

SWISH-CRACK!  The twelfth surely was the last?  Yes, it was!  It hurt like the blazes, but Peter was pleased to hear the cane clatter on the floor as the sergeant threw it down with a grunt.

Peter’s ordeal wasn’t over yet, however.  The sergeant dragged him off to the bedroom saying, “We won’t be long!” to Rick.

“There’s some lube in the top drawer!” Rick shouted, just as the bedroom door slammed shut.  Soon the sounds of the two males at it could be heard by Rick, after he’d switched Radio Veronica off!  It all reminded him of when he was younger, when Mark had given him much the same treatment.  Yes, Mark liked some “chocolate on his biscuit” as he had so charmingly referred to it.  But Mark only liked them young.  He had lost interest in sex with Rick once Rick had reached the ripe old age of twenty-five.

The frantic mating noises didn’t last long, just as the copper had predicted.  Evidently, Mark had delivered his payload and soon emerged from the bedroom zipping up his police trousers.

“Take some pictures of Peter for me, will you Rick?” Mark asked with a grin on his face.  Rick nodded and later that night duly snapped Peter with his Praktica.  The lad’s shagged and caned arse featured heavily in the resulting portfolio.  Rick knew exactly what Mark wanted in the photos, and had them processed by a trusted photolab just around the corner from the sex shop.

Over the next few days and weeks, Peter couldn’t decide if he’d enjoyed the sex and caning he’d endured courtesy of hunky cop Mark.  Sometimes, he felt as if it had been terrific.  Other times, he felt used and dirty.  Eventually, his mind settled on the positive and he confided in Rick that he’d like to see Mark again.  It happened!  And it so happened that there were also threesomes where Peter’s bottom entertained both Rick and Sergeant Mark. There were no more raids on the shop for another four years or so.

____________)

Story © 2013 by Rod Cayenne

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Comments welcome

Comments from the original post are here

Charlie Alpha November Echo (M/M) repeated

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot fiction by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2016, and with special thanks to Jim for inspiration.  

Over-18s only.

It wasn’t easy being the rookie cop in the big concrete police station.  Jim kind of dreaded the others, and the rough horseplay he saw there in the locker room.  He buffed up the shine on his black police boots with the brown wooden brush, and sighed heavily.

“Here, let me have look, lad,” said Tom, one of the older bobbies, the duty Sergeant.  Jim passed him a boot to inspect.  “Hmm.  When all’s said and done, this is not very good.  Give it some elbow grease, lad.  This needs a lot more shine, a proper mirror-finish.  You can barely see the reflection of my beard in this one.”

His beard!  Oh yes, his beard.  His masculine, greying, sexy beard.  Jim had lusted after it and the man behind it ever since he first clapped his eyes on Tom.  The beard, the white starched shirt, the blue eyes, his thick leather belt and his bushy eyebrows.  The man was a total dream!

Tom pulled the rookie to one side and whispered in his ear, “You’re going to have to do a lot better than this.  Watch out for Charlie Alpha!”

Charlie Alfa?  Charlie Alfa?  He’d heard the name a few times.  Who was this bloke the others spoke about in hushed terms?  Before he had a chance to mull over it more, Tom the Sergeant was outlining the day’s schedule.

“We’re pulling a gang of teens in this afternoon.  They’ve been a right fucking nuisance to some good people so we’re going to put the frighteners on them.  Clap them in the cells for a few hours.  Probably not a job for you to get too involved in.  Then tonight we’re staking out a cottage.  The loos in the Jubilee Gardens.  I don’t really approve of such harassment any more.  I’m not, err you know, but the fact is that there are quite a few of us coppers who sometimes like a bit of variety, if you know what I mean.  In fact, I think you maybe one of us, am I right lad?  But the Chief Super is a bit old-fashioned in many ways and wants us to crack down, arrest and ruin some married men.  But I don’t think so somehow!  So we’ll go and watch the action and then conveniently forget to book anyone.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jim laughed, his tenseness relieved by the frank and friendly banter of the duty Sergeant.

As it happened, it did all go to plan, Jim, Tom and a colleague had a wonderful, voyeuristic time, no animals were hurt, and no arrests were made.  However, the Chief Superintendent was not amused.  He’d wanted a scalp or two, but nothing had been delivered.

Jim was to discover all about the Chief’s displeasure at his first quarterly performance review.  It started well, with gushing praise for much of his conduct.  There were problems though, outlined as the Chief to paced up and down his spacious office, “Persistent lateness and cocky attitude.  I was also disappointed with the stake-out at Jubilee Gardens.  I do hope Tom hasn’t corrupted you with his strange beliefs?”

“Err, no Sir.  We were just unlucky.  We had fella lined up for cuffing, and then he just disappeared into the night.”

“Is that so, is that so?  I am detecting a pattern here.  A good policeman let down by negligence, tardiness, complacency and too cock-sure for his own good.  What you need, my lad, is a good taste of my Charlie Alpha November Echo!” the older man smirked.

“Eh?” Jim asked stupidly.

“That’s ‘Eh Sir?’ or ‘Eh, Chief Superintendent?’ to you lad!  Where are your manners? Do I have to spell it out to you? Charlie Alpha November Echo! C…A…N…E.  The cane!  Six of the best, should do it.”

“But Sir!  You can’t do that!”

“Dereliction of duty, lateness, cocky attitude.  I can do it, lad, and I will do it.  I think we’ll make it eight strokes, in fact!  You’ve had the cane before?”

“Yes Sir.  My father…”

“Very good.  Perhaps I’ll call him later.”  With that, the Chief Superintendent sat down and reached under his desk.  He produced a cane which he laid on the desk top, right in front of Jim who proceeded to go pale.

“Aha!  Do I detect some familiarity with this?”

“Well, it’s very similar to my father’s.”

“Is that so?  I doubt he got his from the same place as mine!”

“How so, Sir?”

“I picked this beauty up in a raid of a brothel in the City.  You could say she’s a metropolitan model, but I’ve named her Charlie Alpha.”

In fact, it was a pretty standard school cane.  A pretty cane!  A punishment cane, with a perfectly-curved crook handle.  Just like the one Jim’s father had used to use.

“Alright then lad!  Stand up!  Over the back of the chair please.  No, no, you can keep your trousers on.  Unlike some round here, I am not a lover of naked male flesh.”

The Chief Superintendent was not a lover of male flesh indeed, but he was a sadist.  A semi-secret sadist.  How he enjoyed whipping his juniors with a rattan rod!  A rod he affectionately named Charlie Alpha!

Jim’s police trousers were stretched tightly as he bent over the back of the chair.  So tightly that the outline of his Y-fronts could be seen, offering a gratifying target for the Chief, as he flexed the cane purposefully.

The Chief didn’t hang about as he landed not one, not two but three fast strokes.  Jim hadn’t expected that, being used to his father’s more leisurely ways of punishment.   The heat and pain was immediate and intense.  Jim gasped, overwhelmed by his superior’s sadism.

The Chief paused, “I hope you can see that I mean business, young James!”

“Yes, Sir!” Jim replied dutifully.  He pushed his bottom out, ready for the next stroke.  It came with a loud crack, Jim feeling as if his trousers, underpants and the flesh beneath were being ripped to shreds.  A fifth stroke followed rapidly, causing a squeal from Jim.

“Quiet Constable!  Take your medicine like a man!”

The sixth and seventh strokes followed rapidly again, and despite the Chief’s direct command, Jim could not help yelping as each one landed on target.  The young constable was embarrassed at his weakness, yet consumed by overwhelming pain at the same time.  The last stroke landed accompanied by a loud “AAARGH!”

At least it was over, Jim consoled himself.  It had been quite a beating, so rapid and so painful.  He’d try to avoid the Chief and Charlie Alpha in future!

“You can get up now,” the Chief smirked.  “I hope you won’t need a reminder in the near future.  I expect only the very best from my PCs.  Otherwise they get the best of this!” he said throwing the whippy cane down on the desk.  “Off you go!”

Jim left silently, closing the door gently.  Outside the office, his hands flew to his meaty backside.  He clawed and kneaded at the flesh, desperately trying to ameliorate the intense, throbbing pain.  He loosened his belt by a couple of notches, but it didn’t seem to help any.  As he walked down the winding staircase, he caught Tom’s eye, for the sergeant was manning the reception desk.

“Ah.  A painful gait, I see.  I’d guess that your review ended with an introduction to Charlie Alpha.  Am I right?”

“Shit, yes, Tom!  Eight fuckin’ introductions!”

“Eight, ho ho, he must have been annoyed!  Most new recruits get four to six at most to start with.  Sounds like you hit the jackpot!”

“Jackpot!  I should be so lucky!  I guess that Sergeants are immune?”

“From Charlie Alpha?”

“Yes.”

“Of course lad, we’ve paid our dues.  Charlie’s reserved for kids like you.”

“Cheers, Tom.  I mean Sarge!  I’m off home now, think I’ll have a bath, see if that helps.”

Jim made his way home on the service bus.  His bottom ached and throbbed as it bounced around on the poorly-padded bus seat.  He felt every austerity pothole as the bus rattled and clattered down the neglected A-road.  Alighting at the stop, he nipped into the shelter to compose himself before he faced his parents.  He didn’t want to give the game away, so smartened himself up, tightening both his belt and tie to look his best.

As it happens his father was waiting to greet him at the door, “Hello son!  How was work today?”

“Oh hi, Dad.  Work?  Oh, you know, same old, same old!”

“That’s not what I heard!  The Chief Superintendent rang me.  He told me about your caning.  I didn’t know the Police went in for that sort of thing at all!”

“No, neither did I Dad!” said Jim rubbing his backside ruefully.

“Well now.  I approve.  Wholeheartedly.  He told me what a cocky fool you’ve been.  I’m not surprised.  We’ve noticed it at home too.  Far too frequently.  I’ve sent your mother out.”

That could mean only one thing to Jim.  ‘Sending his mother out’ was his father’s code for “I’m going to cane you!”

“Dad, you can’t mean…”

“I do indeed!  I bet you thought I’d got rid of the good old cane, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes, I’d rather hoped, as I’m 21 now…”

“Never too old for a caning while you’re under our roof!  You’ve brought shame on us, James!  I made the Chief Superintendent a solemn promise.  That I’d take care of your discipline between his quarterly reviews.”

“Dad, you can’t!  Besides, it’s quarterly review day today, hardly between reviews!”

“Don’t get clever with me!  I can see what your boss meant about your cockiness.  As long as you live under this roof, you are a boy as far as I’m concerned.  So before, I deal with you, you can have a shower and shave off that ridiculous, cocky moustache too.  You’re too young for it!  When it’s gone you can report to my study in your pyjamas!”

Jim was dismayed.  No moustache!  No dignity!  And a very, very sore arse.  And those pyjamas!  His mother insisted on them while he lived at home, although Jim would far rather sleep in the nude.  He’d have to ask for a room at the Section House, this was all much too much!

Father meanwhile was happy.  He’d take the lad down a peg or two, for sure.  He’d felt the urge to discipline his cocky young adult son for some time.  Rather stupidly, the lad had furnished him with just the right excuse!

Upstairs in his en-suite, Jim hacked away at his moustache with some disdain.  He’d grown to like it, feeling that it gave him the authoritarian air so appropriate for a police officer.  But now that contrived gravitas was gone.  He gazed at the fresh-faced 21-year-old in the mirror.  Why hadn’t he argued it out with his father?  It was a question that buzzed around his head time and time again as he massaged his sore arse cheeks under the warm water of the walk-in shower.

“I’m waiting!”  Jim’s father barked.  Jim duly dropped his pyjama trousers.  The old man lifted the tail of the pyjama top to inspect his son’s beaten bottom.  The Chief had done an excellent job, with eight crisp but haphazardly-placed weals clearly on display.

“Another eight then, I think.  Just to reinforce the displeasure of your mother and of me!  Don’t let us down again, son.”

With that father landed the first purposeful stroke.  Jim had to gasp, for it cut across much of the Chief’s earlier handiwork.  And so it continued.  A second, harder stroke.  A yelp from the young man.  A third, leisurely delivered but excruciatingly painful.  A squeal from Jim.  A whippy fourth, a violent fifth.  A teasing sixth, a scorching seventh.  Cries and grunts.  A valedictory eighth.

Jim got up slowly, pulling up his pyjama bottoms ruefully.  He was holding back the tears, but had to speak, “Thank you father.”

“You’re welcome!  Anytime!”  He meant it too.  At last, with great pleasure, he had tamed his cocky son!

Come the next shift, Jim made his way into the police station cautiously, trying to walk as normally as his well-beaten bottom would allow.  It was just his luck to find his new friend Sergeant Tom on the reception desk.

“Hey, Jim lad!  Where’s your moustache gone?  My, you look so much younger without it.  Just like the  naughty boy you are.  Now, tell me, how’s your naughty bottom?”

“Don’t bloody ask!  My Dad gave me a thrashing too!  The Chief had rung him, so Dad decided to give me the same with his cane.”

“Wait!  Your Dad has a cane too?  Blimey, you’ve been unlucky!  How many did he give you?”

“Another eight!”

Tom whistled with disbelief, “Anyway, how about after the shift you come back to my place?  I’ll make you feel better.”

Tom did eventually comfort Jim, but only after giving him another caning too!

(__________

Story © MMXVI by Rod Cayenne

Photo © by Rod Cayenne

Handcuffs image: Creative Commons

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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.

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 Comments welcome