♥ Site recommended story ♥
Repeat of this hot male caning fiction by Rod Cayenne.
Author’s note: with special thanks to Jim for some bright ideas!
The air was heavy with smoke, and not all of it from straight tobacco. The four lads were having a great time, the cans of lager slipping down their noisy throats to the accompaniment of roars of laughter. The four were enjoying a game of poker, using an explicit deck of cards.
“Your Dad wouldn’t like us doing this, would he?” Gavin observed.
“No he’s a bit of a prude. Not sure he’d know what to do with a naked woman, although I suppose he did father me!” joked host Bernie. “He’s just as religious as ever. A church warden and the way he hangs around the vicar gives me the creeps. He’s quite strict about booze and gambling. He’s OK with fags though as he still smokes a pipe himself.”
“My God, how the fuck does she get that in there?” asked Lance staring with disbelief at one of the cards on the table.
“The bitch is on heat!” roared Bernie.
“Must use a lot of lube!” replied Rickie. Gavin just smiled and belched.
“I heard all that!” barked Bernie’s father as he stormed into the room, having returned from business almost a whole day earlier than expected. “What the devil is going on here? Bernie, you know I forbid alcohol in the house. And gambling too! And these cards, let me see them now! Well, they are truly debauched, disgusting, and probably illegal! Urgh, I feel sick! Right, hand those cards over, I am confiscating them right now!”
“Dad, you can’t confiscate them! I’m not a schoolboy. I’m 24!”
“24 indeed! And with no job. And wasting your money on alcohol, cigarettes and this disgusting deck of cards. As I said, I am confiscating the cards. I will burn them, they look like something from the fires of Hades anyway. And as for treating you like a schoolboy, that’s a very good idea, son! It just so happens I found my old cane the other day. I’m sure you remember it? I am going to thrash you with it, right now!”
“Dad, I’m 24, too old for the cane! Give me a break!”
“Oh you’ll get a break alright! Stay here while I go and get the stick.”
It was just as well that Bernie’s father, Gilbert Preston, was so inexperienced in the ways of the modern world. Otherwise, he might have wondered what was in the fat cigarette lying on the table. The other three lads all got up, and were in the process of putting their coats on to beat a hasty retreat, when father returned with the cane.
“Oh my, it really is a cane!” exclaimed Rickie.
“It’s a real school one, knobbly and with the curved handle bit,” observed Lance.
“Yes it is, boys. And I would guess you’ve never seen one in action, am I right?” asked Mr Preston. The lads shook their heads, to a man, as it were. “Then I’d be obliged if you would stay as spectators. Feel free.”
“I couldn’t,” stated Lance.
“Me neither,” said Rickie.
“I’ll watch!” exclaimed Gavin. The thought of seeing his friend caned appealed to him enormously. In fact, the very notion was turning him on somewhat. In truth, he’d always had a bit of a gay crush on Bernie’s father, Gilbert Preston. The tall, distinguished dominant man was just his type!
Bernie’s eyes were misting over. His head was spinning in slightly drunken confusion. How could he get out of this? Well, one thing was clear. He couldn’t! Mr Preston was slicing the cane through the air. It made an entrancing swishy, whipping sound. Visitor and eager witness Gavin felt his cock stiffen as he took it all in. This was going to be hot!
“I’m sorry Gavin. If the other two are unwilling to watch, you will have to go too.”
Suddenly, Rickie changed his mind, saying, “Bernie did lead us astray a bit, Mr Preston. Perhaps I’d better stay.” That just left Lance. The other two guests stared at him. He nodded in silence.
“Good! I knew you’d see sense!” said Mr Preston, clearing the table and rolling up his shirt sleeves purposefully. “Bernard Preston! Bend over the table! The scene of the crimes!”
Sheepishly, Bernie did as he was told. At least he was able to keep his sweatpants on! And they were reasonably thick, as were his rather old cotton briefs. So maybe the caning wouldn’t hurt too much?
“ARGH!” cried Bernie as the first cane stroke sunk in. It was bad, really bad. It was almost as if his father had been taking lessons in effective punishment techniques! The pain was really quite overwhelming and the alcohol just seemed to make things worse. In the past, when Bernie had been caned, he had been stone cold sober. This was worse, much worse! The cane sliced down again. Gavin was admiring the action. The cane seemed to be a blur as it cut through the air, almost like the flash of a kingfisher swooping on its prey. He admired Mr Gilbert’s hairy arms and stern manner. He was captivated by this vision of castigation.
“I hope you’re learning your lesson, Bernard! I will not have gambling in my house! Never, ever. Under no circumstances whatsoever!”
“Yes, Dad, sorry Dad,” Bernie sniffled as the third stroke was lined up by his father. It cracked down, and was accompanied by a loud squeal from its victim. Lance and Rickie were a little bit scared by the whole thing, while Gavin’s raging hard-on was straining against the zipper of his Levis.
A fourth stroke hit the lad and again a most unedifying squeal followed! In truth, Mr Preston was finding some comfort in his son’s discomfort. It was high time the lad was brought down a peg or two!
Gavin was enjoying every second of friend’s misfortune and punishment. The caning was so sexual, surely the others could see it? Or maybe not, maybe Gavin thought he was just a young pervert after all.
“No more Dad, please!” squealed Bernie as the fifth stroke hit him.
“Quiet Bernard! Next one coming.”
And come it did! Gavin almost came too! By now Bernie was in absolute agony.
“Right, Bernard! You asked me to give you a break?”
“Yes, Dad,” said Bernie through misty eyes and a swimmy head.
“Right you can have one minute break before the cane deals with the bringing of alcohol into my home!”
“Whaat? Oh Dad, you can’t be serious! I’ve had enough already! I’m sorry, I really am!”
“You will be really sorry by the time I’ve finished with you!”
The three witnesses shuffled uneasily.
“Alright lads? Happy to stay for round 2?” asked Mr Preston. He didn’t wait for an answer though. He tapped his son’s bottom gently with the cane, saying, “Right. Back over the table, Bernard. This time you can drop your trousers, too.”
“No, Dad! Please!”
Impatiently and roughly, Mr Preston tugged at his son’s sweatpants and pulled them down to his ankles. Pale grey briefs with a hint of skidmark were revealed. He raised the cane and sliced it down viciously.
“ARRGH!” Bernie squealed. His briefs offered little protection from the retribution of the cane. The knotty stick was a severe one that his father had acquired from an antique dealer acquaintance many years ago. It cut and bruised as a matter of course. It was far more severe than a standard school rattan, but the four lads were completely unaware of that as the cane had fallen from favour in all schools and in so many families. Such was progress, after all.
“These ones are for bringing the demon drink across my threshold. Never again!”
Gavin was so excited he was worried he would cum in his pants. What exquisite torture was unfolding before his eyes! How he lusted after Mr Preston!
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! The ante was truly upped as a fast volley of cane strokes sliced into Bernie’s buttocks. By now he was crying quietly and in shame.
“Right! Another break then we will deal with these obscene picture playing cards!” Mr Preston picked up the deck and leafed through it. “Absolutely disgusting. Those poor women. Defiled for the base gratification of you lot!”
The three spectators were alarmed at being blamed for the cards. After all, they were Bernie’s property. Well, they had been until they’d been confiscated! Their collective unease deepened as Mr Preston sliced the cane through the air several times while staring at his audience.
“Right Bernard. Last six! For the sins of the flesh, it’s only appropriate to remove your underwear too.”
“Oh, Dad, please no! Not in front of the guys!”
“Hurry up, Bernard. I’m sure your friends have seen a bare bottom before! I’d pull them down, but those pants don’t look particularly clean to me.” The three spectators guffawed at this.
“They were clean on the other day,” said Bernie as he lowered them.
“Back in position. Bottom right out. I see I’ve made a few marks already.” That was the understatement of the year, for Bernie’s arse was covered in red, angry cane lines. It looked really sore and no doubt it really was sore!
How Bernie squealed and writhed as the final six strokes landed on his naked buttocks! The knobbly cane seemed to bounce with enthusiasm each time it landed. The new strokes just agitated the existing marks, producing a blurred and wide scarlet band right across his arse. But at last, it was over!
“Stay where you are Bernard!”
Mr Preston placed the cane down on the table next to his son. What a spectacle it had all been! As if to verify that, the old man suddenly produced a small Samsung smartphone from his shirt pocket, and snapped a couple of pictures with it.
“Right! Show’s over. I hope you have all learnt your lesson!”
Gavin cleared his throat, and said, “Yes, sorry Mr Preston. You are right to be annoyed with us. We should have discouraged Bernie. I feel terribly guilty, especially now that Bernie has been thrashed.”
“Well, he deserved it, didn’t he? Although that’s not to say you don’t. If you’re really feeling guilty, perhaps you should accept a caning too! It will purge your sin, I can assure you. Perhaps six of the best for you?” he suggested as he picked up the cane once again. Gavin nodded, much to the astonishment of Bernie, Lance and Rickie. Even more astonishingly, he took Bernie’s place at the table and promptly pulled down his own jeans and pants. Little did Mr Preston realise that this was a turn-on for the lad, who lusted after the old man and desperately wanted to be beaten by him. It was a strange thing to wish for, but then the world is full of sadists and masochists. Gavin definitely had a masochistic streak, and while the religious Mr Preston felt that he was doing the right and just thing, maybe there was sadism in the old man, too.
The first stroke landed on Gavin’s meaty arse. The sound it made was more rounded, richer and more satisfying than the multiple strokes awarded to Bernie’s scrawnier buttocks. Gavin gasped, but barely audibly. There was pain alright, but there was also satisfaction. Although Gavin’s erection had disappeared as soon as he bent over, his sexual excitement was just as present as it had been earlier. Rickie was scared, he couldn’t bear to look, so he gazed at his trainers.
The second stroke brought much the same almost quiet reaction. Gavin thrust his bottom out further, willing Mr Preston and his cane on, to maybe hit even harder! A third stroke brought another gasp, or was is a contented sigh? The lad was certainly benefiting from the beating, but perhaps not in the way Mr Preston had envisaged!
The next stroke was somewhat harder, and landed on almost the same spot as the third one. Intense heat and pain flooded Gavin’s senses, but again he was stimulated sexually, thrusting his striped arse out further for the benefit of his chastiser.
Mr Preston was finding this a more satisfying beating to administer. He liked the way the lad was taking his punishment, and the way the hairy buttocks seemed to will the cane on. Of course, there was also the novelty of dealing with a lad other than his own son. Well, not so much a lad as a young man! A 25-year-old, if Mr Preston recalled correctly.
Soon Gavin’s six strokes had been delivered. It had been a sound thrashing. Now it was Mr Preston’s turn to sigh with contentment. He really couldn’t help himself – he gently touched the hot backside and then delivered couple of hearty smacks to the raw flesh! “Two more, I think,” he announced suddenly before whipping the cane into the lad’s arse again. After that, the final stroke was even more intense and punishing.
Gavin rose slowly, pulling underpants and jeans back up. Although incredibly sore, the lad felt both fulfilled and cleansed. He had taken eight severe strokes in total. As he rubbed his bottom, he wondered idly whether Mr Preston would like a lodger! After all, the house was very large and was occupied just by Mr Preston and Bernie, who must have rattled around the place. So much better than his cold and lonely bedsit. And there would always be the opportunity for another sexy thrashing from the old man!
Just then, Mr Preston fished out his phone again. This time he started dialling. Being an older user, he hadn’t fully got to grips with how the phone and its options worked. Consequently, there was an irritatingly loud beep each time he pressed a key. He was ringing an old friend, Warren, who just happened to be Lance’s father.
“Hello Warren, Gilbert here. Not so bad thanks! How’s Jean? Yes. I remember. And the dogs? Of course! Anyway, bit of a problem here. Lance has been here with Bernie and friends. Playing a drunken game of pornographic cards. Absolute filth! Stomach-turning stuff, some of it. Anyway, I just caned Bernie. First time in three years, I think. Let me send you the picture! I think Lance should have the benefit of some of the same medicine. I’m happy to do it. Text me back if you agree. No, no, you’d better check the picture first, I was quite severe with Bernie. Text me! Bye!”
It was fair to say that Lance was shitting himself with fear. Well, not literally, of course! The lad looked distinctly worried. Mr Preston paced around the room, holding the cane in one hand and the phone in the other. Soon, there was the tell-tale buzz of an incoming text. Sure enough, Warren had agreed to everything, although Gilbert Preston was alarmed by his choice and unholy language of “Hit the bugger hard!” He showed the message to Lance, who was not impressed.
“If you think for one minute that you’re hitting me with that bloody cane, you’re very much mistaken! I’m 29 for Christ’s sake!”
“I’ll thank you not to blaspheme in my house, sonny!”
“I’m not your son, and I’m not a kid, I’m 29, like I told you!”
“29 and still living with Mummy and Daddy. No wonder you are acting like a big kid! Your daddy wants me to beat you and hard!”
“Be quiet, Lance! Get over the table and present yourself like Gavin did. Now, he took it like a real man!”
Those words cut Lance like a knife. For Gavin, they caused immense pride, and stiffened his resolve to broach his lodging idea, perhaps in a day or two, and when sober. Bernie was smirking at all this, while Rickie was getting distinctly worried, in a slightly dopey, drunken way.
There could only be one victor in the ensuing stand-off. It was Gilbert Preston, the Lord’s warrior and self-appointed chastiser! Slowly Lance eased himself into position over the table. He undid his leatherette belt and allowed his beige slacks to fall to the ground.
“Can I keep my pants on, Mr Preston? I really don’t like the idea of showing my everything to you all.”
“Certainly not! Stop mucking about. Here, I’ll pull them down. At least they look nice and clean!” They were white and starched and unbranded. And with a quick yank, they were down! Another fine male posterior was revealed, quite beautiful in its masculine glory. So much more fleshy than Bernie’s and not dissimilar to Gavin’s. Could it be that Mr Preston was beginning to be corrupted by these naked visions? Certainly not! God forbid! He spoke to Lance, “Yes, now I happen to think your father would be happier with eight strokes rather than six.”
Lance decided to remain quiet, although he was finding Mr Preston’s manner really grating and patronising. He was also very conscious of his bare bottom, revealed to the old man and his three friends. He looked over at Bernie, who was engaged in some heavy duty bottom rubbing. He was annoyed with his friend who had brought all this trouble on him. And he was worried what his father would say when he got home.
CRACK! The first stroke broke into Lance’s flesh. He couldn’t believe the pain and shot bolt upright!
“What are you doing, Lance? Get back down right away!”
“I don’t think I can take it, Mr Preston, I really don’t!”
“Nonsense! The other two did. And they are younger than you! You need toughening up! Bend over right now or I’ll ring your father and tell him what a coward you are being!”
That did the trick! Lance bent over submissively, thrusting his naked bottom towards Mr Preston. The old man decided to make the strokes as hard as possible in case it was not possible to deliver the full beating.
CRACK! A second stroke sliced into Lance’s rump. It was lower than the first stroke and even more painful.
“OWWW!” shouted Lance. “Please, please, no more! ARRGH!” he squealed again as a third stroke whipped him.
“Really, a most immature display!” observed Mr Preston, lining up a salvo of fast strokes, four, five, six!
“OH! OWWWCH!” Lance cried out. He really wasn’t taking this at all well. Gavin watched with fascination. His friend was being a wimp, but the action was turning Gavin on, all the same.
“Last two coming up, Lance. Try to take them with some dignity, please,” Mr Preston said, flexing the cane, and winking at Lance’s friends.
“ARRRRRGH!” Lance cried as the seventh stroke hit him, and then “SHIIIIT!” as the eighth and final stroke landed.
“GET UP! VERY POOR! Think yourself lucky I’m not giving you extras for swearing! Now, RICKIE!”
Poor Rickie was the only lad there not to have been beaten yet. He’d watched in silence as the cane had done its wicked work. He was scared. “Do I have to?” he asked, “I don’t want the lads at rugby to see my arse covered in marks!”
“Well, I can’t cane you and not leave marks, can I?”
“No, I suppose not, but can’t you let me off?”
“That’s not fair on the others, now is it? Well, perhaps I should call your father?” Mr Preston reached for his mobile again.
“No! No! That’s not necessary. I’ll take it, I’ll take it, although it will take some explaining in the changing room. And the showers.”
“Come, come, surely you rugby players have seen it all?”
“Well, I don’t know…” Rickie replied, moving towards the table. He lowered his trousers and boxer shorts, revealing a fine, muscled rugby player’s arse. Gavin was beside himself with lust. What an evening this was turning out to be!
With a swish-crack the cane landed right on target, delivering a strong blow with a wicked bite. The sting penetrated the whole of the lad’s arse. He grunted loudly with discomfort. “OWWWW!” he cried as the second stroke hit home. The third had much the same effect, with the burly rugger bugger taking his beating really badly. The fourth, fifth and sixth were like a bombing run on the field of flesh, scarring and burning all around. The lad was crying bitter tears and writhing. He clenched his arse cheeks together and unclenched them, in an attempt to ease the pain. But it was no good. Despite repeated clenching and unclenching, nothing was going to reduce the pain.
Mr Preston paused, as had become his style, after the sixth stroke. “Well, another disappointing performance! I hope you do better on the pitch, my lad. Come on, stick that bottom out for me!”
The raid on the arse continued, the seventh stroke cutting a diagonal, crossing previous damage and multiplying the pain. “OWW! I’ve had enough! PLEASE!” the lad cried in his distress.
Bernie’s father was having none of it. Rickie should have known from the previous beatings that any pleas for mercy would fall on deaf ears. The old man looked at Rickie with disdain, bordering on disgust. That lad had been a huge disappointment, and he launched the eighth stroke with all the force he could muster. The cane sliced down with venom. It seemed to spring back with extra life. It was done. Rickie cried out again, slumping to his knees, clutching his battered arse. Gavin was blushing with ill-disguised sexual excitement.
It was almost a week later that Gavin was able to proposition Gilbert Preston with his lodging offer. He was quite brazen about it when he added, “And I’d expect the cane to be used to keep this lodger in line, Sir.”
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 © MMXV by Rod Cayenne
All rights reserved