Sideboard Of Memories (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!

 

Sometimes I couldn’t work the old sod out. Dad said he was downsizing, for no particular reason.  Consequently he offered me some surplus furniture. Four oak dining chairs. A drop-leaf table which didn’t quite match them but was too good to refuse. A serviceable coffee table. The sideboard where he used to keep his cane along with all sorts of bric-a-brac. Being fairly broke at the time, I took the lot.

Of course, I could only fit the chairs and coffee table in my Mini. Even then I had to make two trips. For the big table and sideboard I had to call a local man with a van. His name was Sean and I’d used him before. He often brought a hired hand with him to move particularly bulky items, like the second-hand leather sofas he delivered for me a while back. He offered a discount if the customer was able to help move the items himself. So that was the option I went for this time.

Sean was hunky. A big muscled young man, always in fashionable long board shorts, today with just the merest hint of a Hawaiian pattern on them. His face always beamed a friendliness, though I did wonder about a scar on his forehead. I’d always got on well with him, and always gave him a big tip despite my precarious financial situation. I think he could sense my lustful feelings. He invariably crushed my hand when he shook it. That was actually quite often as we both frequented the local German discounter. He was always there with his leggy wife, but he always had time to stop for a chat, and to slap me on the back while crushing my hand!

Dad was out when Sean arrived in his grubby white unmarked van. I helped Sean load the table and sideboard. It wasn’t particularly easy task, as once again Sean had crushed my hand. I resolved to mention it when we set off, and indeed I did.

“Ha! Don’t be such a wimp, Jonathan!” he laughed at me. “You managed to move the stuff just fine, didn’t you? And those were bloody heavy items.”

“Yes, but my hand’s still throbbing!” I stated in my defence, “You know it’s a wonder your customers can assist with the removals after you’ve crushed their hands.”

“Nonsense, they all love it! They all love me.”

I sighed and reflected to myself that I was one of his customers who really did love him, for all his faults.  Yes, I loved him and I loved his sexy Irish accent. Anyway, he was off talking at a tangent, about music, James Brown and the power of the riff. He soon lost my attention as I dreamt about his muscles.

A near miss on the road woke me from my daydreaming, “You fuckin’ English git!” screamed Sean at the hapless female driver ahead of him. He was so annoyed that he tossed his mobile phone aside and actually started driving with both hands on the wheel. He soon calmed down, and was talking to me again. “So Jonathan! I can tell a lot about my customers from their handshakes,” he said cheerfully, “Characters and secrets are revealed. You I think are a little submissive, am I wrong?”

He was right, though I wasn’t going to admit it to him. I blushed and resolved to slash the value of the tip I was going to give him. Yes, I had to change the topic of conversation urgently. Fortunately another incident of road rage spared my modesty, and then we were at our destination, my grassy drive.

“Shit, this is muddy!” he complained as he backed the van up. “All this mud and shit is going to spoil my pristine paintwork. Needs a bit of TLC, your drive, I’d say.” With that he handed me the business card of a friend of his who specialised in tarmac work. He grabbed the handbrake roughly and the van skidded to a stop.

“Do you mind if I have a quick vape?” he asked, “The Mrs won’t let me smoke in the van and I’m gagging for one.”

Maybe she was the one who wore the trousers after all, I chuckled to myself while he puffed away. I looked at him as nebulous clouds of white aromatic smoke washed around his beefy physique.

Soon we were unloading the table. By this time, my hand was beginning to recover from the handshake from hell. The table was a big and bulky item but we managed to steer it into the front parlour. I opened the drop leaves out and placed my chairs around it. It looked good. I felt sure that Dad would be pleased with the set-up when he called round.

“Stop fannying around and give me a hand!” Sean shouted from the rear of the van. I ran out to help him, almost slipping on the mud as I did so. Maybe he did have a point about my drive! Gradually we eased the sideboard out of the van and then into the same room as the table. We pushed the sideboard up close to the rear wall.

“You know, there’s something rattling around in here,” said Sean, “I do hope I haven’t broken anything.”

“Yes I heard it too,” I said, “Maybe it is broken, because I’m pretty sure Dad and I emptied all the junk out of it.”

Sean opened the doors of the sideboard and then the drawers. In the big bottom drawer he found something, “Oh, it’s a cane!  Wow!  How long has it been since I’ve seen one of those?  Looks like a good one too.  Wow!  Just wow!”

“Oh gosh! That was my father’s. He used to use it too. Right up to my twenties,” I said as I rubbed my bottom to emphasise my point.

“I see. Well it looks like he decided you should have it again, you naughty boy! Fancy six of the best then?”

“No! Definitely not. Especially not from a brute like you!” I laughed.

“Mmmm. Maybe from a boyfriend then?” he teased.

“Leave it out!” I replied playfully.

“How about six of the best from me instead of me charging you for cleaning all the mud off me van?” Sean teased as he flexed the cane purposefully.

“No!” I asserted, but then I thought, it had been a long time, and a caning from Sean, well it might be madness, but it could be kind of exciting. I heard myself saying, “Well, OK, OK.  Just six and no charge for the mud now, promise?”

“Scout’s honour!” he laughed, which was a strange reply, but one I took to be a yes. “Looks like I was right about you.  Can we do it upstairs? This room’s a bit exposed.”

“Oh, I suppose, yes.” He was calling the shots and I was a bit confused. Perhaps my lust for him was clouding my judgement.

We made our way up the steep bare stairs and I led him to my bedroom. “My God! What an unholy shit tip!” he exclaimed. Well, my room was a bit untidy but I was unused to having guests up there.  “I haven’t finished yet. I think that the state of this room deserves some extra punishment, don’t you? Now, tell me, did Daddy bare your arse for you?”

“Yes, he insisted on it. Even in my twenties.”

“Hmmm.  I bet he did!  Now then, let’s have your arse in the air.  Jeans and pants down!”

“Bare?” I queried.

“Yes, of course.  It’s your family tradition, isn’t it?”

I wasn’t going to argue with Sean, at least not while he had the cane handy.  I dropped my jeans reluctantly, and tugged my briefs down, placing myself over a pillow on the bed to raise my bottom for the attention of the cane.

The first stroke wasn’t too bad.  Sean evidently hadn’t quite got to grips with the rod.  But he soon got the hang of it as he lashed strokes two and three down quite forcefully.  My poor bottom was on fire!  “Arrgh!” I cried as stroke number four cut across the earlier ones.  A fifth cracked down noisily, causing me untold agony.  He tapped the cane on my sore rump a few times, before raising the stick high and slashing it down in the sadistic climax of the sixth stroke.

“Owww!  No!” I cried.

He just laughed and swished the cane some more.

“Now there’s just the matter of this messy room.  I’ve seen tidier teenage dens!”

“Oh do leave it out, Sean!” I said, feeling angry, bruised and humiliated.

“That’s enough!” Sean reprimanded me.  “Six more for your cheek and slovenliness!”

I’d reckoned on just a couple more strokes, but it wasn’t to be.  His muscled arm whipped the cane down rapid-fire style, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve!  Waves of agony consumed me, I was so sore and defeated.  I fought back tears, only just successfully but I couldn’t help grunting and gasping as the fiery pain monopolised my attention.

Sean moved nearer, saying, “Right.  All done.  Let me have a look, now.  Phewee!  Needs a bit of TLC, your arse, I’d say.”

I was half-expecting him to hand me a business card of a friend who specialised in sore arses, but he didn’t. “Yes, you’re right there, it is a bit raw.  A bit sore.” I confessed.

“Of course, but never mind, I’ve got some hand cream in the van.  It should be good enough for your arse as well!  You stay there while I go and get it.”

He was soon back and massaging the white cream into the sore weals and ridges the harsh caning had left me with.  It was heaven and hell at the same time, soothing yet also stimulating fresh jabs of pain.  He was controlling me, alternating pleasure and pain as his beefy hands massaged the cream softly and then harshly.  Suddenly I felt the cream being worked into my crack and then into my arsehole.  That was an alltogether nicer feeling but I was surprised at the attention he was giving that area, as it had avoided the cane and so wasn’t sore at all.  But I was being young, foolish and naive.  Of course my hole wasn’t sore, it was being prepared for his thick meaty cock to enter me!  And he did.  He mounted me forcefully, pushing my legs high in the air like for the missionary position, and he was soon thrusting in and out rapidly.  This was going to be a quickie, of that I was sure, but I hadn’t reckoned on him forcing his tongue into my mouth as he began kissing me frantically.

“Play with me nipples, play with me nipples!” he urged.  I tweaked and teased them, then pinched them not too gently.  Evidently it did the trick as he gasped and came heavily.  He was laid on top of me, puffing for breath, sort of vaped-out I guess you could say.

“Shit that was good!  Wow!  Nice,”  Sean said.  I had to agree, silently.  A quiet minute later he whispered, “Anyway, I can see you again a fortnight Friday, say 8 in the evening.”

“But I don’t have any more items to move,” I protested.

“No, no, not for removals, silly!  It’s so I can cane and shag you again, Jonathan!”

“Oh, I see.”

“Yes, as well you might, my submissive friend,” he said as he picked up and flexed the wicked cane again.  He was still naked, and a final bead of cum dropped from his wilting penis.  “Now be a good lad and take care of this cane until next time.” He tossed the rattan rod down on the bed.

That old cane. That bloody old cane. That glorious old cane. Dad had obviously wanted me to have it. But why? And had he arranged my thrashing with Sean?  Maybe he had, just maybe.  Of one thing I was certain.  Sometimes I couldn’t work the old sod out.

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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 © MMXVIII by Rod Cayenne.  All rights reserved.

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

What’s Going On In There? (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥
A repeat of this hot caning fiction by special guest author 11plus – strictly over 18s only!

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It had been quite a day at the Sixth Form.  All those sexy bodies had teased me into a lust-filled frenzy.  Now that I was home, I was turned on like never before.  Faster and faster, and ever more franticly, I wanked at my cock.  I grunted and groaned and sighed.  I was edging ever closer to a real corker of an orgasm.  I loved doing it there, sat on the pristine white toilet seat.  Suddenly, there was a loud rapping on the bathroom door.

“Hey!  What’s going on in there?  Gerald!  Hurry up, I need the bog!”

Shit!  It was my brother, Dan.  He was home early and I hadn’t heard him arriving.  Just a few years older than me, hunky and bearded, he had been tasked with looking after me while our dad was on tour overseas.

“Hurry up, hurry up!  I need to dump!” he shouted.

“OK, OK, just coming!” I replied, quickly composing myself, flushing the toilet, shoving my cock back into my trunks, pulling up my jeans, and zipping myself back into decency.  Only my belt remained undone, to save time.  “Sorry!” I said as I emerged from the smallest room.

“We’ll talk in a minute!  Right now, I’m busy!”

He barged me out of the way, slammed the door and locked it.  I could sense that he knew what I’d been doing in there.  No doubt my blushed facial features and slightly confused air would have confirmed it to him.  Still and all, at least I had warmed the seat for him, a tender mercy on a bitterly cold day like that day.

While he was busy, I laid on my bed.  I was worried that I had been rumbled.  I did up my belt, hoping against hope that I wouldn’t have to undo it again very soon.

A long while later he emerged, followed by the manly smell of at least one big log sent downstream.  The muscled hunk headed off for his bedroom, leaving me to wonder if there would be repercussions from my selfish occupancy of the bathroom.  I didn’t have to wonder for long though, as he soon appeared at my door with dad’s cane in his hand.

“Oh Dan!  Not the cane again!”

“Yes, the cane again,” he said sternly, rolling up his sleeves, exhibiting his finely muscled arms.  “You never learn, do you?  I’ve told you before about wanking in the bathroom.  It’s strictly verboten.  That’s why I put this bolt on your bedroom door, so you could do it in here in peace.”

“Yeah, I know.  I told you I’m really grateful for that.  Let me off please, I was just in the bathroom when the urge took me over.  Surely you remember what it’s like to be eighteen?  At least I warmed the seat for you.”

“And I’m going to return the favour by warming your seat for you!”

“Oh Dan!”

“I think, as you keep disobeying me, ten strokes would be appropriate.”

“Ten?  Ten?  No, you can’t!  Dad said never more than six strokes.”

“That was before you were eighteen.  I don’t think he’d object if he found out what you’d been doing in his bathroom.  In fact, maybe I’ll call him now.”

“No, no, don’t do that!  Please.  Please.  Alright, ten it is.  You can do it on the bare.”

“I know I can, so hurry up and get your pants down, and get over the bed!”

I scrambled onto the bed, and hitched my jeans and underwear down for him.  It was most undignified.  The icy blast of the cold winter air left me in no doubt that my bare bottom was being offered to him for suitable chastisement once again.

“Ten then, Gerald.  Try to keep the noise down.  Coming now.”

The first stroke is, in many ways, always the worst.  It’s always such a shock to the system.  My calm, only mildly excited state of mind was immediately jolted into a firestorm of hellish pain.  Shit, shit, shit!  I knew he would be admiring the cane’s signature red stripe, and probably my hairy arsehole, cock and balls too.  Such are the perils of having an older brother.  Yes, a brother some seven years older, and schooled in the use of the cane by my father.

The second stroke cut down on to my tender flesh.  The burn and sting spread rapidly, mating with the pain of the first stroke.  It was all I could do to keep from crying out.  Dan had asked me to keep the noise down, but I felt sure he would break me.  The most I’d ever had off Dad had been eight strokes, but my brother was promising me more.  I was hoping against hope that it was one promise he wouldn’t keep.

The third stroke whipped down viciously.  Indeed, it felt more like a whip than a cane to me, but that was probably my imagination running riot.  Anyway, running riot seemed to be what Dan was doing with that damned cane!  He slashed it down again and again.

The sixth stroke brought new misery.  It hurt really badly, but the worst thing about it was my awareness that this was where a normal caning would have finished.  I fidgeted nervously.  Dan placed his hand on my lower back, pushing me back into position gently.

“Just four more, brother.  You can take them.  You’re doing really well.”

He seemed to be trying to be nice to me, which was a fairly ridiculous notion, as he had the wicked cane to hand.  Anyway, I didn’t like him speaking to me like that at all.  In fact, I felt well and truly patronised.  The seventh stroke was a real killer, causing me to slump down on the bed with a loud howl of pain.  Right on cue, Dan cackled with undisguised delight.  What a bastard!

“Get back up!  I spoke too soon, didn’t I Gerald?”

“Sheesh, yes you did!  Do you have to do it so hard?”

Dan cackled again as he lashed the cane down again, saying, “There’s your answer!”

The bastard hurt me really badly and he knew it.  He cracked the final two strokes down much more quickly.  I wasn’t sure whether that was a mercy or sheer sadism.  My arse was criss-crossed with fire from the rattan cane.  I sobbed quietly and slumped down again.  I wanted him to go.  I hoped he wouldn’t say anything else, but of course, that was a hope in vain.

“That’s your lot.  Don’t do it again or it will be at least a dozen.  I expect you want to finish off now, don’t you?  This time, try to remember to bolt the door.”

I was so, so ashamed.  He could read me like a book.  Of course I would want to climax!  I had been so close before, but he had interrupted me.  I’d leave it a few minutes, though. My red raw arse was in serious need of some massage before I could move my attention round to the front.  That had been one hell of a caning, but I was now beginning to enjoy the afterglow as I laid tummy down on my single bed.

Later on as I masturbated, I forgot about my school friends and instead thought about my brother caning me.  I fantasised that he also kissed me long and hard.  I imagined my face becoming sore from prolonged contact with his bristly beard.  Then I imagined him caning me hard once again.  I pictured his muscled arms and the cane gripped tightly in his large right hand.  I wondered when he had last been caned.  I wondered whether he had enjoyed it.  I felt sure that he enjoyed caning me.  After all, it seemed to happen every week or so.  I wondered to myself why it seemed as if I enjoyed being caned.  Did I want more?  Did I want it harder?  My cock was rock hard and seemed thicker than ever before.  I was peaking and I came noisily.  Thick spurts of hot white cum splashed onto my chest and my bed.  Then I remembered that I hadn’t bolted the bedroom door!  Oh no!

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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 © MMXV by 11plus, used here by very kind permission

All rights reserved

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Comments welcome, please use link at top of 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

____________

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.

_____________

 Comments welcome

Pick Your Own (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot, brand new fiction by special guest author JOELSTRAP.  This story is currently exclusive to The Canery!

 

“Look! That’s what the bugger did to me!”

Dane yanked down his shorts to reveal a pair of beautifully-formed buttocks, across which six neat red tramlines stood out against his lightly tanned skin, five in parallel and one cross-cutting most of the others. Zak looked.

“Shit! Did they hurt?”

“Well of course they bloody hurt, you moron! You don’t think he put welts like that on my arse by giving me a few gentle taps, do you?”

Zak, untroubled by his friend’s burst of temper, reached out his hand and felt his way over the cane-marks. Dane quivered but made no protest. His penis swelled and rose swiftly to the perpendicular.

“You liked it?” asked Zak, eyeing his mate’s arousal with some admiration. “That’s some boner you got there.”

“No, I didn’t like the bloody caning,” snapped Dane, “but I do like you stroking my bare arse.”

“Yeh? That’s what got you hard as a rock? What would happen if I licked your welts for you?” enquired Zak.

“You wanna do that?”

Zak made no reply, but dropped to his knees, placed a hand on each side of Dane’s waist, and proceeded to run the tip of his tongue along the highest welt on his mate’s bottom. Dane put his head back and moaned. Zak moved down to the next weal. Dane twisted his hips in ecstasy. Zak delivered a sharp slap to his friend’s bottom and Dane winced.

“Keep still,” ordered Zak.

“How can I….?”

Zak slapped him again.

“You gonna keep still?”

“Ow! Okay; just stop skelping me like that.”

Zak resumed his licking and Dane made a supreme effort to remain still while powerful waves of erotic pleasure swept through his body and his rigid cock strained for the sky. By the time Zak had licked the length of the sixth welt, Dane’s penis was oozing pre-cum and he was standing, eyes closed, panting gently, a red flush on his chest and a sheen of sweat on his skin.

“And it all began with raspberries, huh?” asked Zak.

“What? Yeh; but never mind that now. I’m on the edge here. Are you gonna bring me off or do I have to do it myself?”

“Patience, Dane,” said Zak, sliding a hand through between his pal’s legs from behind and pressing firmly on his perineum. “There? That help you to hold it for a bit?”

“But I don’t wanna hold it,” protested Dane. “I wanna cum like a fountain.”

“And you will; once you’ve told me how you got yourself caned.”

“Can’t I cum first and then tell you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I say so.”

Zak rose to his feet and slid his lithe body round Dane so that he stood facing him. The two young men were centimetres apart.

“Now tell me,” commanded Zak.

“How the hell can I tell you when you’re standing so close that I can smell your boy-scent and feel your boner through your shorts and want to cum so much I’m almost crying?” demanded Dane.

Zak looked deep into his eyes and took pity on him.

“Right, let’s lie down over there on the river-bank and then you tell me.”

Reluctantly Dane allowed himself to be led to the grassy bank and the two boys lay down side-by-side on their stomachs, their bare shoulders touching. They cradled their heads on their forearms and faced each other. Dane took a deep breath.

“I was hiking along,” he said.

*******************

____________)

Streamers of wispy white clouds streaked the summer sky, but made little impact on the temperature. Dane was hot, sticky, sweaty and thirsty. He’d finished the last of his water almost two hours before and felt a swift burst of hope as he spied the farm-buildings up ahead. Across a hedge to his right he could see a huge raspberry-field, rows of canes stretching in neat lines into the distance. As he approached the farm-gate, he saw a large sign which read: PYO Raspberries. Dane was baffled. He tried to work out what PYO might signify. Pink, Yellow and Orange? It seemed unlikely. As far as he knew, raspberries were red and always had been. Plenty Years Old? That appeared even less likely. He was fairly sure that raspberries should be fresh. Picked Young and Often? That just might make more sense; but surely you could only pick each raspberry once? Dane shook his head and turned in at the gateway.

As he approached the farm-building, a young man, perhaps in his late twenties, came round the corner and Dane stopped and looked for the sheer enjoyment of looking. Just short of six feet with a beautifully-proportioned body, broad of shoulder and slim of waist, the guy wore his animal-sexuality like a garment. His shorts were close-fitting around muscly thighs and revealed rather than concealed a pair of delicious buttocks. His t-shirt was designed to show off his musculature, and indeed it appeared to be struggling to contain him. His arms and legs and face were tanned deep brown by the sun and beneath a close-cropped cap of black hair a pair of dark-blue eyes sparkled in the noon sunshine. He noticed Dane and stopped.

“Can I help you?” he enquired politely.

“Er, I was wondering if I could fill my water-bottle?” asked Dane.

“Sure,” said the young guy cheerfully. “Come round here.”

He led Dane to a small room with a sink and invited him to make use of the tap. As he filled his bottle, Dane enquired about the PYO Raspberries sign.

“I was trying to work out what it meant,” he said and told the young man about his attempts at finding words to match the initial letters.

The young guy stared at him.

“You trying to make fun of me, mate?” he demanded.

“No, of course not. Plump Young Ordinary raspberries, maybe?” he hazarded hopefully.

“I should tan your plump, young arse, mate. Now fuck off and stop messing me about!”

“But I’m not……..”

He stopped as the young man had turned on his heel and stalked out. Dane paused to adjust things in his shorts, since the guy was even more erotically-appealing when angry, and Dane’s eighteen-year-old body responded eagerly and swiftly to a sexy male. He went outside and looked round the buildings and behind a shed came upon a large car-park. People were heading out into the raspberry-fields and some were returning to their cars, bearing bags and boxes of berries. Dane approached a middle-aged woman and enquired diffidently where she got her raspberries.

“I picked them, of course,” she said, looking uncertainly at him.

“Oh, I see,” said Dane, who still didn’t.

“If you want to pick your own,” she continued, “go and tell the man over in the office there.”

She pointed to an open door across the car-park and Dane thanked her before making for the office.

Bloody obvious when you know, thought Dane to himself. Pick Your Own Raspberries!

He decided that he’d like some rasps and got a basket from the office before making his way out among the raspberry-canes. The berries were plentiful, ripe, full and juicy, and even although quite a few went straight into his mouth, Dane soon had a good quantity gathered. It was hot in the midday sun, though, and so he sat down in the shade of the hedge at the side of the field and drank from his water-bottle and scoffed rather a lot of the rasps he’d picked. He then took a nap he hadn’t intended to take before picking up the remaining rasps and ambling slowly towards the gateway out of the farm.

“Oi! You!”

Dane turned.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

The speaker was the sexy young man whom Dane had so admired earlier.

“I’m going out to the road,” said Dane carefully, as if explaining things to a backward child, “and then I’ll be on my way back to my camp-site.”

“With those raspberries,” said the young man.

“Yes,” admitted Dane, puzzled as to what was upsetting the guy now.

“I suppose you do the same at a supermarket,” accused the young guy. “Pick things up and then walk out without paying?”

“Huh? Of course not! What’s your problem, mate?” demanded Dane, getting annoyed in his turn.

“My problem is that I don’t like nasty thieves,” stated the young man unequivocally.

“Thieves?”

“You’re stealing those raspberries,” he said.

“No, I’m not. Someone told me that PYO meant Pick Your Own; so I did.”

“I can see that. And you think we just grow whole fields of rasps so that people like you can come along and help themselves?”

“But your sign says to Pick Your Own,” protested Dane.

“But you’re supposed to pay for them, you fucking moron!” shouted the young man angrily.

Dane tried to get his head round this.

“I have to pick them myself but I still have to pay for them?” he enquired. “If I went to the supermarket I could just pay for them without having to do all the work first.”

“Are you trying to provoke me, mate?”

“No. I just don’t…..”

“Are you thick or something? Mother dropped you on your head when you were a baby? Sneak-thief came into your tent last night and stole both your brain-cells? Busy wanking yourself off so that you missed out when they handed out the common-sense?” enquired the young man sarcastically. “You get the rasps a lot more cheaply here than in the supermarket because you pick them yourself. But you still have to pay for them!” he shouted.

The penny dropped and a look of understanding spread across Dane’s face.

“Oh! I get it. Yeh, of course. I guess I’m being a bit stupid. How much for these then?”

He held up the basket. The young man snatched it from him and marched off to the office where he put it on a pair of scales.

“Two pounds forty,” he announced.

“But I’ve only got eighty-five pence,” said Dane in dismay. “I left my wallet with my mate back at the camp-site. He twisted his ankle and has to rest it for a couple of days. I guess I’ll have to just leave the berries then.”

“Have you been here for the last three hours, since that first time I saw you?” asked the young man.

“Yeh.”

“And this is all you’ve picked?”

“I ate some.”

“You must’ve eaten a hell of a lot!”

“I don’t think it was that much; but I was a bit hungry, because I haven’t had any lunch.”

“So that’s a lot of free rasps you’ve scoffed as well as trying to walk out with what’s here; and the basket,” added the young man. “You’re in trouble, mate.”

“What? But, here, no, I didn’t………”

“Come through here.”

The young man led Dane into a short passage and through to a courtyard off which was a stable. He took Dane in there.

“Right. I’m gonna give you a choice, chum. In fact, I’m gonna give you three choices; and you’ve gotta choose one of them. Okay?”

“Okay,” agreed Dane uncertainly. “What if I don’t want any of them?”

“Then I’ll make the choice for you.”

“Oh.”

“Choice one is that I call the police and report you for stealing.”

“You can’t! I wasn’t stealing! I got hold of the wrong end of the stick, that’s all. I’ve given back the rasps and the basket.”

“And all the ones you ate?”

“You want me to puke them out on the floor here for you?” demanded Dane angrily.

The young man ignored him.

“Choice two is that you pick rasps here for the next three hours for us as a way of paying off your debt.”

“Three hours! That’s bloody slave-labour! What are you paying? Eighty pence an hour?”

“So that leaves the final choice,” continued the young man.

He walked over to a door at the far side of the stable and disappeared for a few moments before returning with something in his right hand. Dane stared in disbelief. What the young man was carrying was a school-cane. Dane had read about the corporal-punishment regime of earlier years, but his young bottom was untouched by cane or belt or even slipper. Not even a parental heavy hand had sullied his smooth buttocks with chastening intent.

“You….you wanna beat me with that?” Dane gasped incredulously.

“That’s the third choice,” the young man informed him. “I should say that if you don’t make a choice, I’ll go for option one and call the police.”

Dane’s mind was racing. He knew he didn’t want to be reported for theft. He really didn’t fancy three hours picking rasps in the hot sun and then still have the long trek back to the camp-site, starving and weary. He didn’t much like the idea of being beaten with a cane either; but there was a small part of him which was curious. He wondered what a cane actually felt like across a boy’s bottom. His penis was definitely interested in the idea; and of course the sexy young man who would beat him added an extra element to the affair.

“How many strokes would I get?”

“Six of the best used to be the traditional number, so I’ve heard.”

Dane nodded agreement. He was familiar with the expression and had read in older school stories about boys getting six of the best.

“So it’s like Pick Your Own punishment?” said Dane.

“You got it.”

Dane made up his mind.

“Okay. I’ll take the cane,” he said, wondering a little at himself all the same.

The young man suddenly sent the lithe rod whistling through the air with a sound which made Dane wince.

“Reckon you’ll feel that?” the young man asked with a hint of a smile.

Dane swallowed.

“I guess I will,” he said quietly. “So, can we just get on with it?”

“Sure. Drop your shorts and pants and bend over that hay-bale.”

“Drop my…..no! You can’t cane me on the bare!”

“Listen, mate, I’m not wasting my energy trying to get down to your arse through two layers of clothing. You’ll take it bare or I call the police.”

Dane scowled at him, but obediently dropped his clothing revealing a pair of neat, fully-rounded buttocks. The young man eyed them appreciatively.

“You got a brilliant arse on you,” he said unexpectedly.

“Er, thanks,” replied Dane, unsure how to respond to what sounded like an unlikely compliment.

“Bend over then; and stay in position until I tell you to get up. Got that?”

“Yeh, yeh, I got it.”

Dane bent over and presented his virgin behind for corporal punishment for the first time in its life. The young man flexed his limber cane and gave a few practice-strokes which made Dane flinch in anxious anticipation. A few seconds later and he felt the cool rod touching his bottom. The young man tapped the flesh a few times as if assessing where to land the first stroke. He slid a hand surreptitiously into his own shorts and rearranged his massive erection before he began the caning. He was already enjoying it and he hadn’t even begun to thrash those exquisite buttocks. Dane waited and felt the cane lifted away, heard the whine as it descended and the snap as it sliced cleanly and very hard into his waiting rump. A lash of fire seemed to score his behind and he gasped aloud as a fierce sting challenged his ability to maintain his position.

The young man examined the welt on the boy’s bottom and smiled happily. Bugger felt that more than he thought he would, he told himself. And he’s going to feel this one even more.

He swung the cane and brought it down again, whipping it smartly across Dane’s quivering rear just a few centimetres below the earlier cut. Dane uttered an outraged yelp of pain and gripped the edges of the bale tightly, forcing himself not to reach back and rub his flaming bottom. The line of fire pulsed with a steady, intense burning for several seconds before it began to ease. The young man licked his lips, rubbed the front of his shorts, and raised the cane once more. His aim was good and the third stroke landed neatly just a little lower and parallel to the first two. Dane bucked and snarled and sank his teeth into the straw-bale. The young man watched intently as Dane clenched and relaxed and then re-clenched his shuddering buttocks. The long, sun-browned legs were taut, the toes braced on the wooden floor of the stable, and a sheen of sweat glistened on Dane’s back in a shaft of dusty sunlight.

The young man did a practice-stroke and smiled to see Dane’s instinctive wince. No, not this time, mate, but next time you’ll get something to wince about!

He swung the cane and drove it hard into Dane’s waiting behind, delivering a brutal explosion of pain to the boy.

“Fuck!”

The expletive was forced violently from Dane as he fought desperately to maintain control of his body and stay down. There was a slight tremor in his bottom now, which he couldn’t quite control, and his rump was throbbing with bruising pain. Dane swallowed hard and tensed his body in readiness for the penultimate stroke. It came swiftly and viciously hard, full on his crease. A lightning-stroke of savage fire seemed to rip his bottom open, furrowing the flesh with searing heat. Dane squealed and his right hand flew round to scrub in desperation at his tortured skin.

The young man closed his eyes as his penis pulsed and he was aware of his pre-cum making a damp patch on the fabric of his shorts. He took a deep breath and lined up his cane with Dane’s bottom for the final time. The traditional method was to deliver the last stroke at an angle and to try to reignite the fires in earlier welts while excoriating the flesh with a new and excruciating sting. He eyed the target carefully, swung the cane and drove it in hard and accurately. The crack rang out across the stable, and like an echo came Dane’s agonised howl of pain. He writhed powerfully, his buttocks clenching and re-clenching, every body-muscle stretched to rigidity, as he fought the searing fires in his rear.

The young man’s self-control had gone and his tumid penis was spurting out copious quantities of potent spunk into the front of his shorts. He threw his head back and moaned in ecstasy. Dane, too busy wrestling with his own agony, didn’t even notice. Slowly the appalling fires grew less intense and his ragged breathing steadied. He waited for the command to get up. The young man admired the results of his efforts with the cane and decided that he was definitely good at this.

“Get up,” he ordered curtly.

Dane rose carefully to his feel and at once began to explore his buttocks with wondering fingers.

“Fuck!” he panted. “I’m all ridged!”

“Yup. I reckon I’ve done a good job. You won’t rub that sting out for a few hours; and you’ll have marks for the rest of the week. Think you’ve learnt your lesson?”

Dane, still caressing his throbbing bottom, eyed the young man carefully.

“Yes. I got the message.”

“Looks like you’re kind of enjoying it a bit now too, huh?” said the young man, giving a meaningful nod in the direction of Dan’s semi-erect cock.

Dane went red in the face.

“Well I bloody well didn’t enjoy it when you were beating me,” he complained. “You didn’t have to hit that hard!”

“Oh yes I did,” said the young man, “so that I could get the best orgasm out of thrashing you.”

Dane followed the young man’s eyes to the large, spreading wet patch at the front of his shorts.

“You got off on caning the shit outta me? That’s gross!”

“And you getting harder by the second now it’s over, and you can feel the welts I’ve put on that fantastic arse of yours, isn’t gross?”

“Well, yeh, okay, I guess caning is a bit of a turn on; but fuck, it hurts like hell and then some!”

“Get your self covered up,” ordered the young man and while Dane pulled up his pants and shorts, flinching as the fabric was drawn across his beaten flesh, he returned the cane to where he’d got it from.

“Okay, mate, debts all cleared,” said the young man. “And if you ever want your arse caned again, just come back and ask me. I’ll be delighted to oblige.”

“I bet you will! But I don’t think I’ll be coming back.”

*******************

____________)

“So that’s how you got a caned arse,” said Zak. “And you kinda liked it, huh?”

“Only after it was over. While he was beating me it was horrendous.”

“You won’t be going back for more then?”

“No, I don’t think so. Anyway, we’re only here for a few days and I sure don’t want to be caned again any time soon!”

“Maybe you’d rather be spanked?” suggested Zak.

“Spanked?”

“Yeh. I’ll put you across my knee and spank your bare bottom long and hard and then, when I’m ready, I’ll fuck the living daylights outta you. How’d you like that, Dane?”

“Yeh,” said Dane thoughtfully as he raised himself to accommodate his swiftly growing penis, “I think I might like that a lot. Now, are you gonna bring me off? I’ve told you how I got myself caned and you said I could cum after I’d told you.”

“Sure. You want me to spank you first, Dane?”

Dane considered.

“Maybe just a little bit? Carefully, you know. I’m kinda tender.”

Zak hoisted his mate across his lap and pulled down his clothing.

“Just hard enough to get the fires burning for you again, Dane,” he said softly.

He began to spank the red mounds steadily and methodically. Dane winced and squirmed a little, but made no protest. Soon the building heat was making him thrust forward with increasing eagerness against Zak’s thigh and before long the floodgates burst open and Zak was aware of spurt after spurt of Dane’s warm spunk streaming across his bare leg.

“So how did you feel about having to pick which choice you wanted, Dane?”

“That was okay. I knew what I didn’t want: being reported or having to slave in the sun for three hours. So I picked the cane. It hurt like hell, but it seems to have brought us closer together somehow. Yeh. It was the right choice. I’m a great believer in PYO punishment!”

___________)

Story © 2018 by Joelstrap, used here by very kind permission.  Please leave a comment by using the link at the top of the story.

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

Not A Bad Old Stick (M/M) r e p e a t

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot caning fiction by your host Rod Cayenne, repeated by popular request. Strictly over 18s only! 

 

That fateful morning, I scowled across the table, picking at my breakfast. “He’s not a bad old stick, after all,” my father said. I wasn’t so sure. OK, the guy was a family friend and had been for years, but I remembered him as a total tyrant in the classroom. In truth, he was always fairly kind to me as I was a teacher’s pet really, but several of my contemporaries had incurred the wrath of his plimsolls and canes. In consequence, I remained wary of him. “Anyway,” father continued, “He has invited you to stay for a fortnight at his new place in the National Park. It was such a generous offer that I accepted immediately, on your behalf.”

“Oh, thanks a bunch, Dad!”

“Well, I’m sorry Adam. I wasn’t aware of your reservations. He is a friend of the family, after all. I think he’s feeling a bit overwhelmed and lonely.”

“Well, that’s not my problem! Of course he’s feeling lonely, that’s because he’s not very likeable!”

“Adam, you’re going! I’m not having you wasting the whole summer here before you start at college. I told you, you should have got a summer job. Besides, your mother and I need some time together.”

“Oh so, that’s it! I’m being packed off so you can shag yourselves silly!”

“ADAM! HOW DARE YOU?” Dad banged his fist down on the table, and I stormed out.

So it was that a week or so later, I found myself being dropped off at Jim Masterson’s new abode, a charming chocolate box cottage down a leafy cul-de-sac right on the edge of the forest. He had done well for himself, I thought as I eyed the wisteria-draped walls.

He greeted me with a hearty handshake and a big grin. I felt reassured and almost instantly at home. The cottage was tiny inside, with the thick walls reducing the floor space significantly. He took me upstairs to the small bedroom that was to be mine for two weeks. It was in need of a lick of paint, and maybe some fresh curtains, but the bed was generous for a single, and seemed warm, dry and welcoming as I sat down on it to unpack my belongings.

However, my happy mood disappeared as soon as I started to hang my clothes in the oak wardrobe. For there, hanging on the dull metal hanging rail, was a school cane. I almost shat myself with fear! What was it doing there? It held out a bitter promise, and there I was stranded with it, a tyrannical teacher downstairs, and miles from civilisation!

That afternoon we went for a walk and ended up at a picnic place in a clearing within the National Park. We sat down and enjoyed a warm cuppa from a flask and a few biscuits.

“Adam, you seem tense. Is there a problem?” Jim asked, and placed his hand on my knee, fleetingly.

“Err, no. I don’t think so. No, I don’t think so.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Quite! Except…”

“Yes?”

“There’s a cane in my wardrobe! What’s it doing there? It’s not very welcoming is it?”

“Oh that! Yes. It is one of my old school canes.”

“Well, yes, obviously. Still, as I said, a strange welcome.”

“Well. Well, Adam. I was talking to your father and he said you’d been a bit surly and lippy lately. I can see what he was driving at, in a way. Anyway, it was his idea to put it there. Just to wind you up, really. I’m sorry.”

“To wind me up? Well, that’s certainly worked!”

“Hmm. You do seem a bit overwrought, my lad.”

“Well! I got through school without ever being caned by behaving myself.”

“Wait a minute! That’s quite an achievement, Adam. Really it is. Eighteen and never been thrashed, eh? That’s quite unusual even in these modern times. No wonder you’re upset at the prospect.”

“What prospect?” I asked with alarm.

“Well, not really a prospect. Your father thought you should offer to take a caning. He told me what you’d said, you know.”

“Oh!”

“Yes, frankly, I’m appalled. I expect better of my pupils. Really, I do.”

“I’m not one of your pupils any more.”

“Technically not. But I am dismayed. And your smartarse remarks aren’t helping any.”

“Perhaps I’d better go home?”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option. Your parents have plans.”

“Well then, what are my options, Sir?” I decided to call him Sir as it seemed appropriate at that moment.

“Well, as I see it there are two. You can stay with me and there will be a bit of an atmosphere. Or you can stay with me, take a caning, and the air will be cleared.”

“That’s not much of a choice, is it?” I said.

“Well, that’s the way I see it, Adam my lad. Do you have a different perspective?”

“No. Alright, you win. How many will I get?”

“Well six is traditional. It might be enough to do the trick, especially as this will be your first taste of the cane.”

“First and last!” I exclaimed, hardly able to believe what I was agreeing to. I was well and truly trapped, and by my own stupidity, really.

“Yes. Alright then, first and last. Unless you feel afterwards that the air still hasn’t been fully cleared!”

“Oh don’t worry about that, Sir. I’m really sorry for my behaviour already.”

“Well, I’m not going to let you off just because you’re feeling sorry for yourself. Believe me, you’ll be truly sorry after a caning.”

“I suppose I will,” I said, “Will it hurt terribly?”

“Yes, I’ll make sure it does. But don’t worry it won’t kill you and the residual soreness and marking will clear up after a few days.”

“A few days?”

“Yes. That’s just a guess, of course. I am guessing that your hide is soft, a few canings toughen a lad’s flesh, but that’s one advantage you don’t have.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, this is all sounding a bit morbid, but as I say it won’t kill you. It will toughen you up, which is just what you need.”

I wasn’t convinced, and I dragged my feet rather petulantly as we headed back to the cottage. I became more agitated as the place came back into view.

“We’ll do it now. Get it out of the way. It wouldn’t be fair to make you wait until bedtime, would it, my lad?”

I didn’t much care for the term bedtime, or being called a lad. I did feel like a kid. A scared and frightened little kid, just at that time. He marched me in through the back door.

“Alright, trousers and pants down!”

“What?”

“Yes! Sixth formers get it that way.”

“But I’m not a sixth former!”

“No, you’re not! But there it is. Just get them down while I go and fetch the cane.”

He soon reappeared, slicing the stick through the air.

“Good lad. Now bend over, hands on your knees. That’s it. Stick your bottom out for me.”

It was so degrading. Stick my bottom out indeed! Still, I couldn’t argue. I’d agreed to it, and how bad could it really be?

CRACK! The first stroke caught me unawares. The pain soon followed, it was excruciating! My flesh immediately felt as if it had been blowtorched! Shit, that was hot!

The second stroke followed rapidly and hurt my delicate teenage flesh badly. The pain mingled with that from the first stroke. I was struggling to retain my composure and my submissive position. My head was spinning, feeling dizzy. He stopped and sliced the cane through the air a few times before speaking.

“Not very nice, eh?”

“No, Sir!” I replied.

“Just what the doctor ordered! Long overdue! I should have taken you down a peg or two when you were my pupil. You wouldn’t have dared speak to your father like that!”

“No, Sir!” I replied again, thoroughly humiliated.

“And you wouldn’t have dared use obscene language,” he said, simultaneously slicing the cane down for a wicked third stroke. Boy, did that one hurt! It seared and throbbed and burnt.

“Can I get up for a minute, Sir? I feel a bit light-headed.”

Suddenly he was alarmed. He placed his hand on my forehead, checking my temperature. He sighed, and then spoke, “I hope you’re not playing for time, my lad. I’m not going to let you off, you know. Perhaps you’d better bend over one of these dining chairs?”

It was a good idea. I placed my hands flat on the seat of the wooden chair, and stuck my aching bottom out submissively.

“Just the job. Good stuff. Good lad. You’re taking this well.”

If that was a compliment, I was a bit surprised. I pushed my bottom out further awaiting a further stinging rattan caress. It came with a loud whipping sound and a wave of intense pain. I gasped and screwed up my face. This was hard to take. How ever did schoolboys manage to take it, I wondered?

A fifth stroke lashed down. I squealed and leapt up, rubbing my sore arse with my hands.

Mr Masterson tutted, “That’s not allowed you know! I suggest you get back into position straight away. Unless you want me to make it a round dozen?”

I’d never moved so fast in my life! I bent over, thrusting my naked cheeks provocatively at my tormentor. I wanted it over. I wanted it over and to be just the original six strokes.

“That’s better! Last one, then. Coming now!”

And it did come! And then some. Later on as I examined the damage, it was apparent that this last stroke had been aimed diagonally. It fucking hurt, that was for sure.

I stood up and hoisted my Y-fronts and trousers back into place. The material rubbed against my injured flesh. All the same, it was a not unpleasant sensation. I felt cleansed. I smiled at Mr Masterson and sighed, “Thank you, Sir. I needed that, didn’t I?”

“You certainly did lad, you certainly did. Has it done the trick?”

“Oh, I think so, thank you, Sir. I do feel I’ve paid my dues.”

“Good. Well, let me know if it hasn’t cleared the air and I’ll do it again for you.”

I thanked him sincerely, much to my amazement. Why would I ever ask for more? Even if I were to feel some residual guilt?

“Right then! You’d better return the cane to its home. We’ll know where to find it if it’s needed again then, won’t we?”

I took the cane from him. It felt light and innocuous. I walked up the narrow stairs acutely aware of the sore throbbing in the rear of my underpants. I hung the cane back on the rail in the wardrobe and stared at its lithe form. Unconsciously, I was rubbing my scorched bottom cheeks. That thing certainly packed a punch!

By the time I went downstairs, Mr Masterson was on the phone, evidently talking to my father.

“He took it like a man. Yes, that was good as I didn’t go easy on him. Just six. That’s usually enough, I find. Anyway, I’m going to do you another favour. No, no, I insist. At the end of the holiday, I’m going to send the lad home with a cane for you to use. Use it good and often! No, there’s nothing to it. You’ll soon get the hang of it. The cane does all the hard work. No, really, I know what I’m talking about. Regular reminders do a college lad no harm at all.”

The colour drained from my face. Shit, he was giving dad a cane to use on me! But I was 18 and bound for college! Shit! Much too old for the cane, surely? Then I reflected on my own stupidity, for how could I claim to be too old after what I’d just submitted to?

I got on really well with Jim, Mr Masterson, for the rest of the holiday. We didn’t talk about the cane much until the last evening I was there.

“Well young Adam, a memorable break for you, then?”

“Yes, thanks! It’s been a real tonic here in the forest. Thank you for having me. Although my bum’s not so sure!”

“Ah yes, your bum, as you like to call it. In the staff room we call that part of the anatomy your seat of learning! Have you learnt your lesson, Adam, or do you need a reminder before you go home?”

I really don’t know why, but I agreed to another caning! It just felt so right. I was making up for lost time in so many ways. It was another six of the best and that caning was just as hard as the first. I found it just as cleansing, and almost an enjoyable challenge. That night, I masturbated furiously as I wriggled my sore bottom against the bed sheets, imagining first Mr Masterson and then Dad caning me. Well, that was a sweet fantasy and the reality is a story for another day, don’t you think? As I fell asleep I was minded to think of the cane as an old friend of the family, and not a bad old stick after all.

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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 and selfie picture © MMXV by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved

___________)

Comments welcome

The Crop Circle (M/M) repeat

Short erotic equestrian fiction by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2012.

My riding instructor cut a handsome figure in his tweed jacket, jods and shiny black Aigle boots.

“You seem to be a little too fond of the whip, my friend!” he admonished.  “Please cut down its use on the horses.  If you have a sadistic streak, you should take it out on the stable lads or lassies.  They are used to the riding crop and dressage whip on their haunches.”

“Really?” I laughed as I dismounted and tied the horse.  “Don’t tempt me.”

“Aha, another enthusiast, if I’m not mistaken.  I’m not shocked.  Your interest is quite common.  Are you really keen?  If so, I may be able to help.”

“Really?” I asked again.  I stared into his blue eyes.

“Yes, really.  There is a flogging group hereabouts.  Interested?”

“Yes, rather!  Tell me more please,” I added, more than intrigued.

“It’s called The Crop Circle.  Get it?”

“Oh, how very droll.  Sounds right up my street.”

“Well, don’t get too worked up about it just yet.  Let me tell you a bit more about it.”

“Thank you,” I added, trying to seem humble and at the same time trying to will away an erection from forming in my jodhpurs as I thought about beating stable lads and lasses.

“Alright then.  I’ll be honest with you.  It started off as a spin-off from an occult group.”

“Oh, wicked!” I said, somewhat childishly.

“Quite.  But then quite a few of us realised we were more interested in the floggings than the witchcraft.”

“I see.  I understand.”

“Of course, some of the traditions have followed on.  There is an initiation.  Which will be painful for you…”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.  I can handle that.”

“Don’t be so sure about that.  Most likely it’ll be be a birching.  With rods you’ve collected yourself from the sacred forest.”

I gulped a little.  It’s true I was less keen suddenly, although I was aware that I had a masochistic side too.  We went into the stables where he showed me the fine collection of crops and whips, which were prominently on display.  I picked a crop and admired its beautiful craftsmanship and leatherwork.  I placed it back with a shudder.

“I’ll get the Circle Master to contact you.  Of course, I cannot guarantee anything.  He is choosy.  There is the initiation and you have to prove yourself worthy.  There are dominant and submissive members of the group.  And of course, some who like a little of both sides of the coin.  Tell me frankly, where would you see yourself fitting in?”

“Well, to be honest, I do like a bit of variety in all things.”

“I see.  At least, I think I do.  You want some give and some take?”

“Yes. Yes, to be honest, that’s what I really want.”

“Good!  In that case I think a preliminary thrashing right now would be appropriate.”

“What?”

“Yes, just think of it as a pre-initiation.  After all, I could forget to mention your interest to the Circle Master.”

I don’t think I’d ever felt so trapped in my life before!

“Can I keep my jods on please?”

“No, no, no!  That won’t do at all!  It wouldn’t be a proper initiation if it wasn’t on the bare, would it?”

“But this is just the pre-initiation,” I tried to plead.

“Don’t split hairs and don’t try to be funny with me.  The stable hands get it bare, and they are a lot younger and less tough than you are.  Get your bottom bare now and get over the bale.  I’m going to beat you for excessive use of the whip.  Isn’t that fair?”

“Yes, I suppose so.  Although I didn’t mean any harm by my use of the whip.”

“Tell that to your mount!  But don’t worry, because I won’t mean any harm by my use of the whip on you.  To make it fair, I’ll use your own whip on you.  Give it to me please.”

I handed the crop over.  It was a cheap item, not as impressive as those in the display, and I was seriously doubting that it was that severe.  However, my opinion soon altered as it thrashed down on my naked haunches!

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

I gasped as lines of fire lit up my backside.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

It was humiliating.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

It was even worse that I was being beaten with my own crop.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

I resolved to go easy on the horses in future.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

The flames began to subside just a little as the crop was thrown down beside me.

“I think we’ll complete your schooling with a final half-dozen with the dressage whip!”

I wanted to say no, more than anything in the world.  But I was under the instructor’s spell, and the word just wouldn’t come out.  He pushed me further into the bale with his shiny boot.

That dressage whip was even worse! It cut and flailed and reduced me to tears.  It was agony.  Agony and ecstasy.  I loved it!

 

There were to be several more sessions over bales, fine leather saddles and in a bedroom back in the farmhouse once the weather got really cold.  But I didn’t hear from the Circle Master in all that time.  Had I been tricked, or was I just not worthy?  I didn’t want to press it with the instructor as our sessions were so intense and enjoyable.  No, I didn’t want to jeopardise the good thing we were sharing.

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Story © MMXII 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.

Photography © by Jonathan, R.I.P.

Comments please

Spanked Over The Butcher’s Apron (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A hot tale from your host, Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2016.  All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!

It was week four of my new job as one of the butcher’s boys.  It was going well.  I liked my uniform of white shirt, grey trousers and the traditional striped blue apron.  At least I didn’t have to wear a straw boater hat like my boss, Mr. Smith, always did.  I suspected he wore it to hide his rather generous bald patch. Anyway, a hat like that would cause havoc with my heavily-gelled spikey hair.  Another thing I liked was that now and then I got to ride the shop bike to deliver fresh cuts to customers all over the town.  What I didn’t like was dealing with difficult members of the public.

“Silly bitch!” I muttered as the troublesome customer left the premises.

“Joel!  Apart from that being not a good time for your runny nose to be dripping into the ground beef, that was the lady of the manor!  She expects to be treated with respect, and to be called Ma’am. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Mr. Smith, err Sir!”

“Sir, eh?  I like that, young Joel.  I like that a lot.  Come and see Sir in his office after work, will you?”

“Err, yes, Mr. Smith.  Sir!  But how come she doesn’t send one of the servants to pick up her supplies?”

“Servants!  Don’t make me laugh!  She does engage domestics but they never last long.  She’s too demanding.  Even for the East Europeans.  Anyways, she’s got a good eye for the best cuts, that one.  Likes to choose everything herself.  Now, on with your work please!  Get mincing!” he laughed heartily and slapped my arse playfully as he went down the back of the shop, and then upstairs to his office.

It was soon five o’clock, closing time, and my fellow assistant, Robbie, wished me luck as he left.  Disturbingly, he winked as he said it.  I watched as he made his way past my rusty Ford Fiesta to the bus stop.  He was quite a hunk, I thought to myself as I duly made my way up the creaking staircase to see the boss.

The less than hunky Mr Smith was sat in his tatty swivel chair facing the window when I entered.  He turned around slowly to look disdainfully at me.  I fidgeted as I gazed at his desk, trying to avoid eye contact in my usual shy way.

“Look at me, Joel!  That’s better.  My, what a handsome lad you are, to be sure.  Now, you’ve been here a month, haven’t you?”

“Yes, Mr. Smith, Sir!”

“Mmmm.  Now, on the whole you’re doing well.  Very well.  But I could do without you being cocky with the customers.  Especially the rich ones!  I can’t afford to lose even one customer.  They deserve your respect.  Times are hard, and there are rumours of a supermarket moving in.  That means every single customer is precious.  Our livelihoods, and your job, depend on treating them well.   Now, look at the window.  What does the gold lettering say?”

“Traditional Family Butchers, Sir.”

“Indeed.  Traditional.  Family.  Two of my favourite words, son.  Tradition.  Family values.  Respect.  Decency.  Tradition.”

“Err, yes.”

“Yes, and now I find your lack of respect for customers in general and for one of the town’s finest families absolutely appalling!  I suggest a traditional remedy!  A good, sound smacking!”

“Whaaat?  You’re joking?”

“Oh, I’m not.  Oh no.  Not the sort of thing I joke about, at all.  Oh no.  And if you don’t want me to show you the door, you’ll get over here over my lap this instant!”

He grabbed my arm and I gave way.  He hauled me over his lap, right over his blood-stained navy blue pinstripe apron.  Urgh!  He spanked me merrily over my thin grey trousers, it hurt like mad and then he made me drop my trousers.  Then he spanked my skimpy pants like his life depended on it, and then OMG!  He ordered me to remove my briefs.  I was going to get some more on the bare!  Slap after slap. He created merry hell.  The fires of merry hell.  At first it wasn’t so bad, but boy, did he have a thorough technique!  His hand felt tough and leathery as it crashed rapidly into my young flesh.  Every inch of my arse was deep burning red by the time he’d finished.  What was worse was that he was obviously enjoying it, chuckling away while admonishing me.  I think he had a boner, too.  Unless there was a penknife or something in his apron pocket.

After a final fast round of slaps, he finished and grunted.  His hands stayed in contact with my bare bottom, however.  He started rubbing it better, which was really nice for a while but then his fingers strayed towards my arsehole.  I flinched.

“Don’t be shy, young Joel.  I know all about you!  One of my friends told me he’d seen you down the gay sauna!”

“What gay sauna?  What is a gay sauna even?”

“Don’t give me that!  You know damn well the one I mean.  Down by the station, down the big town.”

“OK but no, no, he must be mistaken!”

“Don’t lie to me boy!  He told me about this tattoo!” he said as he lifted my shirt up further, revealing my wicked Chinese dragon ink.  He traced the design with his finger.  “Nice!” he said.

“Well, alright it was me.  One of my friends works there, handing out the towels and taking the cash.”

“Really?  A towel-folder, eh?  What’s his name?  Gideon?” he laughed, “I hear you’re a regular there, even wearing flip-flops like the old hands.  Be careful not to be too regular there or you might bump into someone else you know.  Me, for instance!”

“You!  But you’re married!”

“True, true.  But then so are a good half of the guys there!  And they are always on the lookout for young, fresh chicken.  Like you!  Still I’m sure I can rely on you to keep my secret, just as you can rely on me to keep yours.  Now be a good boy, get up and suck my cock for me!”

“What?!”

“Just do it, lad!  You know you want to.”

Well as a young tart, how could I refuse?  I unzipped his trousers, rummaged in his pants and found what I was looking for with no trouble!  I slurped away at his engorged meaty column and he sighed contentedly.  My tongue probed under his foreskin and teased around the piss slit.

“Good, good.  I shall expect you to swallow, my boy.”

“Yes boss, err Sir.  Of course.  It’s the only way!”

“Indeed.  Indeed.”

He grunted, sweated and moaned and then came suddenly, jets of hot spunk splattering inside my mouth.  It tasted great, really great.  No, I mean really, really great.  You’ve no idea.  I began to think I could develop a taste for old men’s sperm.

“Now, that’s better.  I’m pleased to see you can be a good boy.  But I’m warning you, any more nonsense and you’ll be feeling this!”  With that he slapped a brown leather spanking strap down on his desk, right before my eyes.

“Shit!” I exclaimed.

“More like shit hot!  Bespoke, made especially for me by my good saddler friend down the road.  You wouldn’t believe how much it hurts!  He’s bi too, by the way.  And a regular down the sauna.”

I wondered whether his saddler friend was the one who had tipped him off about my frequent trips to the sauna. In truth, I was becoming rather addicted to the anonymous casual sex on offer there.  I then wondered whether my colleague Robbie had felt Mr. Smith’s hand in anger, or even that leather strap?  I rather thought he had, as that would have explained the wink.  But I wondered if he’d ever sucked the boss’s cock?  I hoped not as I felt Mr. Smith had taken rather a shine to me, all of a sudden.  I had one final thought.  Maybe a pay rise could be on the cards?

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Story © MMXVI 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.

_______________

Comments welcome

The Vicar Was A Cunt (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

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

The village had grown and grown, I guess you’d say. Some really old thatched cottages lined London Road, while a fair few council houses were added post-war, principally in an area know as The Paddocks. It was in one of those generously-sized new red brick homes that Mum and I lived. Father had run off with another woman soon after I was born, but fortunately our tenancy had already been secured.

Mother was quite religious and gradually fell under the spell of our shadowy vicar, Reverend Tony Swindenholme-Janes. The vicarage was adjacent to the imposing Gothic church of St. Bede. The vicar was a grey-haired, bespectacled old fellow. He’d started as a teacher, but the calling of the cloth caused a change in career later in life. Mother apparently let him know that I was aiming for a degree at the local Polytechnic, and such aspiration was quite a rarity among The Paddocks community.

The vicar and my mother had hatched a plan between them, or so I was led to believe. To get my A level grades, and to achieve my place on the degree course I would need some old-fashioned encouragement. I was to report to the vicar every month, on or about the first of the month. He would review my school-work and assess it. If he felt it wasn’t up to standard, then corporal punishment would be applied. I was appalled! They had the cane at school, but it was very rarely used and I had managed to escape it with ease.

The first time I went to see him was with my mum. He reviewed my school work, thumbing through my essays and noting my teachers’ comments. He then moved on to my most recent school report. He shook his head several times, tutting annoyingly and he whistled with disbelief at one point. It was a good act he put on, he really should have been on the stage! Of course the conclusion was inevitable. He and mum decided that more effort was needed, and that I was deliberately coasting. Punishment was inevitable. He pulled open a drawer and extracted a vicious-looking brown leather strap. He nodded to my mother who made herself scarce. In fact, she went home via the corner shop, gossiping to elderly proprietor Mr. Arnold about my failings and the solution she had found.

“Ten strokes of the strap, young Michael,” the vicar announced, “To help motivate you with your studies. This is a tariff I have agreed with your mother. You may keep your trousers on, but if we have to do this again, they will be coming down; right down. Is that clear?”

Shit, I didn’t fancy that at all. But I couldn’t argue. I was outvoted, and they were right, no doubt. I had been slacking, or coasting as he had called it. There was a real risk that I would not get the grades I needed.

The strap lashed down. I was bent over his desk in the study of the vicarage. The crack was phenomenal, and the pain on my left flank was a real shock. He whacked the next stroke down. It landed firmly on my right buttock, jolting me and making me gasp. Indeed, each and every one of those ten strokes caused me to gasp, yelp or cry out. It was such a humiliation. I was fighting back tears, with limited success, by the time the tenth and last whack crashed down. My arse was alight, I was beaten and in some kind of shock. How could a religious man be so cruel, I asked myself.

Later, back in my room at home, I nursed the tender teenage flesh of my bottom. I’d found some hand cream of mum’s and applied a generous layer all over the inflamed areas. It seemed to help that night, but I couldn’t repeat it as mother might not have approved of my nicking her cream to ameliorate the effects of the punishment she had initiated. I didn’t dare risk upsetting her or that damned vicar.

Later that same night, I had to masturbate myself off to sleep. It was the only way I could process the pain and the shame of the events of the day. I did manage to cum, and was duly relieved. I was careful not to spill my seed onto my striped pyjamas, as again I didn’t want to incur mum’s wrath, or that of the vicar, for masturbation was undoubtedly a sin back in those days. Fortunately, I had “borrowed” a few sheets of toilet roll to mop up my warm sperm. Come the morning I found I had to do it again. In fact, as it was a bank holiday weekend, there was an awful lot of wanking to be done!

I came to the conclusion that the vicar was a cunt. A total cunt, if you ask me. Which you probably weren’t going to do! I immediately hated his guts, but I wanted to keep Mum happy, and I did want to get to Polytechnic, so I suppose I couldn’t begrudge the extra motivation, however unpleasant it was. Unfortunately, the ante was soon upped. The proposal for monthly assessments was abandoned in favour of a fortnightly review. This was bad news as I always ended up being thrashed, meaning my bottom was sore, bruised and tender for most of the start of my eighteenth year. The trousers had started coming down, and then the underpants, and the strap was quickly replaced by the cane. He had learnt to cane hard and to cane well while he was a teacher, so he was a real expert. The cane on bare flesh was almost impossible to take. Somehow I managed it though. I wouldn’t say I built a tolerance for it, but I was reluctant to show him how much it hurt. I made a point of not telling mum about my thrashings, but I had a feeling the vicar did tell her about them, and in lurid detail. As far as I was concerned, I had to learn how to hide my feelings, and I had to learn how to study hard.

With time, I found a strange excitement in my canings. I still hated them, but made the best of a bad situation by mooning the vicar quite flagrantly as I prepared for a beating, and made a point of sticking my bottom out to meet the stick each time it prepared to lash me. After a caning I would rush home to masturbate, even if mum was around. It was a simple job to lock my bedroom door, drop my pants, feel the weals and pump my penis. Mum didn’t seem to notice the vast amounts of peach-coloured toilet tissue I was getting through!

It was the time he caned me in church, rather than in the vicarage, that upset me most. I’d failed to make the grades I needed! I would have to stay on at school until Christmas to do my re-sits! It didn’t seem right to bare my arse in the holy, sacred surroundings of St. Bede’s. Although in another way, it did. Perhaps it was like a holy penance? Anyway, that day I got a full twelve strokes on the bare, bent over a wooden pew. At first, I thought he’d lost count as six or eight was the usual tariff but then I realised the horrific truth as the rattan continued to bite and slice into my flesh. Perhaps doing it in the church brought out the worst of the sadist in him?

Anyway, it was my belief that the vicar got his rocks off beating me and a few other lads with misguided, over-trusting parents. Most paid him visits to atone for misbehaviour, but with me it was laziness and lack of motivation that resulted in literally dozens of canings, which continued even after I started my studies at Polytechnic. I couldn’t tell whether he had an erection hidden by his black robes and his paunch when he caned me, but I assume that he did. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? Yes, the vicar was a cunt, but I suppose in a funny way he did help me get where I wanted to be.

EPILOGUE

It was in 2002, some thirty years later, that I suddenly fancied going to see the “old cunt” again. I tracked him down to a bungalow in the village. At almost 80, he was delighted to hear from me, and as I skirted around the subject, he mentioned that he still had a couple of canes and his old leather motivator. I got to feel them used in anger again, on several occasions. OK, so he wasn’t as angry as when I was a teenager, or my bare arse was far more resilient than it used to be! Either way it hurt, but we were both bachelors and there was pleasure to be taken. My cock responded well every time I visited. I also used to suck the vicar’s penis for him. He seemed to like that. I even got to share his bed. Whatever would my dear old mum have made of all of that?

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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.

(_____________

Story © MMXVIII by Rod Cayenne.  All rights reserved.

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

Bitter Tears On The Gold Coast (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Brand spanking new fiction by your host, Rod Cayenne, with special thanks to Jim for his considerable input. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!

All around the liberal world same sex marriage arrived suddenly. Australia was no different. The country that had once been a part of the British empire had embraced many of the motherland’s traditions, from the monarchy to cricket to caning. The traditions had travelled the globe, to the West Indies, to India, to the Commonwealth. Now, the new vogue for gay weddings passed seamlessly into Australian law. A plebiscite voted in favour and was followed by the Marriage Amendment (Definition and Religious Freedoms) Act 2017, passed the Australian Parliament on the 7th December 2017. Royal assent was given by the Governor-General the following day. Yes, things had changed, and changed for good.

This enabling legislation brought a whole lot of new relationships into being. We’re not talking about the obvious ones here: men marrying men and women marrying women. No, we have in addition new sets of in-law relationships.

Among the first to get married were Tom and Jack, two handsome young guys both in their late 20s. The wedding was in Perth, Western Australia, and was a most convivial affair. Both families got on well with each other, there was no awkwardness and absolutely no drama, although wine flowed liberally and there were sore heads the following day.

After a wet honeymoon in Amsterdam exploring all the gay dens and vices that the city had to offer, the lads returned home to the Great Southern Land and arranged to spend some time which each family just to get everyone settled into the new arrangements.

First they went to Tom’s family in Perth and had a very agreeable two week holiday. Nothing was too much trouble for Tom’s parents, Barry and June, and their extended family of children, grandparents, aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews.

Soon it was time to visit Gold Coast, Queensland to stay with Jack’s dad, also for a couple of weeks. Everything seemed hunky dory, although Tom soon picked up on an undercurrent of sadness in Jack’s dad, perhaps coming from his widower status. He could be fun, but he could also be fierce. Jack had never mentioned to Tom that when he was back home his dad had always insisted on the old house rules being enforced just as they were when he lived at home, right up until he had finished university. Failure to comply had always resulted in a session with the rattan cane which his dad had kept handy.

Not long after their arrival Jack’s dad asked his son, “I assume you’ve told Tom about about my rules?”

Jack didn’t think too much about it, or that the cane part would still apply now that he’s a married man. Jack just shrugged, saying, “Yes, sure, whatever.”

“Good, because I don’t want any disruption. I’m a creature of habit, as you know. Curfew is still strictly 11.30.”

Jack didn’t give it much thought. The following night the two lads headed to a bar, where some of Jack’s erstwhile mates were waiting to continue the wedding celebrations. The happy couple left in good time at around 11. They had no key to the house, but the drunken allure of the beach led to a change of plan. In the heat of the summer, and despite the light of the moon and the crashing of the waves, the two lovers were soon asleep on the sand. Jack awoke with a startle and looked at his watch, saying, “Shit, Tom! It’s almost 1 am. Dad’s gonna be furious.”

Tom didn’t realise there was a problem until Jack explained that his Dad never, ever gave him a key. “Oh well,” Tom said, “We’ll just have to wake him.”

Jack was annoyed. Annoyed with himself, and even more annoyed with his new husband’s ‘couldn’t care less’ attitude. Tom didn’t know what Jack’s dad was capable of!

And so it was that Jack’s dad was indeed distinctly unimpressed to be woken in the early hours. He was a man of few words, but he did warn his son, “Drinking! Heavily! Strewth, go to bed now. I will see you both in my office at 8. I think you know what to expect, Jack.”

Jack’s worst fears were indeed coming true. He knew exactly what to expect, otherwise why would they have been summoned to the office? It had been the scene of so many salutary canings over the years. He didn’t tell Tom about the cane. He felt sure that he would be on the receiving end of a severe cane burning in the morning. What he couldn’t be sure of was his dad’s attitude to Tom, the new son-in-law. Surely, he would escape the rattan retribution?

The boys were up and showering soon after seven. In fact, they were up and showering together in the surprisingly generous en suite. The soap and the shower gel slipped enthusiastically around their hunky masculine bodies. The urge for buggery in the shower was resisted however, as both had throbbing heads from their excessive drinking only a few hours before.

By 7:45 Jack’s nerves were playing up. By 7:50 he was heading for the loo. By 8:00 both he and Tom were stood in the office. Dad was sat behind the desk, looking slightly amused. Tom was aghast when he noticed the curved handled cane lying on the desk. He’d never seen one in real life before. He felt sure no-one had one these days, but the evidence before him indicated otherwise. Surely it wasn’t going to be used?

Father smiled at the boys, saying, “Good morning lads. I hope your heads aren’t too sore? Now, Tom, I don’t like being woken up once I have turned in. Do you understand?”

“Errr, yes, we’re really sorry about that. Aren’t we Jack?”

Jack didn’t answer. There was no point. He knew what was coming, and there was no point in begging for clemency.

Father continued, “Jack will tell you what happens when he screws up big time at my place, won’t you Jack?”

“Oh Dad! Must I?”

“Yes, you must.”

“Well, Tom. Dad canes me. That’s all there is to it. He canes me hard on my bare bottom.”

Tom gasped. He had thought as much, of course. Why else would the cane be displayed on the desk? Still, it looked fearful and he hoped that it wouldn’t get used on Jack, or on himself, for that matter! Crikey!

Father resumed, “Let’s get it over with then. Jack, over the caning stool. And drop your trousers. I reckon a good twelve strokes to make amends. Tom, you will stay and watch and learn!”

Tom didn’t want to watch. He couldn’t bear to see his new husband being hurt in this way. He watched Jack lower his trousers, and then his underwear. Obviously, that was part of the routine, although the old man hadn’t actually asked for it. Despite his best intentions, for a moment Tom was transfixed. He perved at the nuddy hairy buttocks of his better half, which were now displayed most obscenely. He then looked over at his father-in-law, who was busy rolling up the sleeves of his pale blue shirt. Strong muscled arms were revealed. Yes, that man sure was built like a brick shithouse.

The cane was raised in anger and then smacked down terrifyingly. “Boy!” his father spoke and then cracked the cane down again, “Listen boy!”

The cane cracked down a third time, “Take your medicine like a man.”

A fourth stroke, “Have some consideration for others.”

A resounding fifth, “Never disturb your father after bedtime.”

Sixth, half way there, “Keep to your curfew.”

Crack! “Learn some manners!”

Crack! “Respect!”

Crack! “Self-discipline!”

Crack! “DISCIPLINE!”

Crack! “Consideration!”

Crack! “Is that clear?”

It couldn’t have been any clearer! Jack’s pert arse was now covered in the angry red marks that the rattan rod had donated, free at the point of use. Tom had been horrified as the beating had progressed. The impact sounds were alarming, and the gentle whimpering of his husband had been chilling. Despite this, Tom was experiencing a stiffy. Something about the whole caning had been very stimulating and bizarrely sexual. His unexpected arousal made him feel quite ashamed and guilty.

As Jack rose, and pulled his clothes back up, Father turned towards Tom and said, “Well, Tom. What did you make of that then? As my new son, I think you’re due some of the stick too!”

Tom was frightened. This was exactly what he’d feared. A hard caning on his bare arse! He wouldn’t be as stoic as his husband had just been, he felt sure. He couldn’t see a way out of it though. He was trapped! He’d have to take the cane. It might help with the guilt he was now feeling, though. Guilt for his part in the post-midnight disturbance, and guilt at his arousal.

“I’m not a cruel man,” the cruel man said, “I’m your father too now, y’know. I need to take you under my wing, Tom, just like I have looked after Jack for these past twenty-eight years. I’m going to cane you, but as it’s your first time we’ll limit it to just eight strokes. You ever had the cane before, son?”

“Err, no. No. Never had the cane before. Never. I suppose it’s only fair that I get some too. Give me twelve please, the same as Jack. It’s only fair.”

“What? Twelve? Is my new son a complete fool? Or maybe you’re just a brave lad? Alright, twelve it is! Same strength as I gave Jack then. They will hurt, my boy. Get over the stool, drop them and brace yourself.”

Tom was wearing board shorts. He tugged them down. They snagged momentarily on his still semi-hard cock. Jack watched with amazement and disbelief. Surely his foolhardy husband hadn’t volunteered for twelve strokes, four more than sentenced? But yes, he had. Tom pulled his briefs down too, mounted the stool and raised his arse submissively, willing the cane to do its worst.

Crack! The cane lashed down. “Argh!” cried Tom as the pain built.

“DISCIPLINE!” Father shouted.

Crack! A second burning lash made Tom gasp.

“RESPECT!” Father shouted.

Crack! Tom howled with pain as a third stroke cut into his peachy arse.

“MANNERS!”

Crack! The rattan swished down, adding a fourth sore red cut to the lad’s arse. “No!” cried Tom, to no avail.

“I am your father now!”

Crack! “ARRGH!” cried Tom.

“I am in charge!”

Crack! Tom was sobbing quietly, yet mysteriously his bottom kept raising to meet the cane, like a true submissive.

“I AM THE BOSS!” Father shouted again, with a note of glee in his commanding voice. Jack had heard it all before, but the strict words were a revelation to Tom. He’d never met a man with so much authority before.

Crack! Crack! Two fast strokes winded Tom. He hadn’t expected them. The pain was intolerable. His cock had shrunk as the beating progressed. This was no turn-on. This was hell. But this time there were no harsh, sadistic words from father, who just paused to admire his handiwork.

Jack too was admiring the eight red marks adorning his lover’s flesh. How many times had he fucked those welcoming cheeks, he wondered? Yet never had the arse looked quite like this – so pert, so inviting, so raw and so disciplined. He could just make out his husband’s arsehole, partly hidden by a mass of dark hairy fur. Yes, it would be good and novel to shag a freshly-caned arse he thought to himself. Yet only eight strokes had been delivered. The original sentence had been completed. Now there were just the extra strokes to come, the ones requested in folly or bravado.

Father flexed the cane and swished it through the air a couple of times. He approached his son-in-law and whispered in his ear, “Enjoying it?”

“No, Sir! No way.”

“Good! That’s the way it should be. Let’s carry on then. Time waits for no man. I’m tired and I might have a kip once we’ve finished.”

Crack! A ninth stroke was delivered, the first of a fresh salvo. “OWWW!” cried Tom as waves of incandescent pain consumed him.

“Now you know what to expect if you upset your new father, don’t you?” It was a rhetorical question, of course, and if the old man was tired, his caning arm wasn’t showing it.

Crack! “ARRRGH!”

“You can expect the cane any time you upset me, is that clear?”

“Yes Dad, oh yes Dad!” replied Tom, with more than a hint of desperation in his voice. He wanted it over. He wanted it over and he wanted it over now, and yet for a little masochistic moment he kind of wished that the caning would last forever. Yes. It was true. There was some satisfaction in among the pain.

Jack stared over at the scene. His own cock was now fully erect, and he was enjoying the spectacle before him. It sure was mighty fine entertainment, despite the residual intense flashes of pain from his own caning. He would have to thank his father at some point, probably when Tom was out of earshot!

Dad delivered a brace of strokes, and with no admonishments. He liked that unpredictability when punishing a boy. And so it was over. Twelve hard strokes delivered. Tom remained over the caning stool, his thrashed and trashed buttocks on display to husband and to father-in-law.

As he laid the cane down on his desk, father reflected on the morning’s events. He’d never delivered twenty four strokes before. How immensely satisfying that had been. And he had to admit there was pleasure in dealing with a fresh bottom for a change.

“Tom! Get up and get out of here, my boy. Unless you want some more?” Father cackled.

Tom turned his head round to look through misty eyes at his father-in-law. He was quite a hunk as older guys go, he thought to himself. He was beaten and conquered. How masterful his new father had turned out to be. And then with some annoyance he could see Jack in the background smirking and smiling. Tom raised himself slowly from the caning stool, and pulled up his shorts. His arse was on fire, but despite this he thanked his punisher and shook the hand that was duly offered, with “no hard feelings.”

Up in their guest bedroom, Tom thumped Jack on the arm. “Hey! What’s that for?”

“That’s for getting me into trouble, tosser! Shit, that cane sure fucking hurts! I still can’t understand why your dad thought he could just go ahead and cane me though,” said Tom nursing his very sore bottom.

“Don’t be so dim. You are his son now, just like I am. He’s your dad.”

“I’ve got a dad already thanks. One without a fucking cane.”

“He’s your new dad. The kind of dad you never had. Anyway, you could have got away with eight strokes. Are you a masochist? What madness made you take a dozen?”

“Oh, I dunno. Solidarity, I suppose. I wanted to support you.” Tom was thoroughly confused after his beating. Yes he had hated it. But yes he had loved it too. And yes he was glad he’d taken the full dozen. Just then a small tear rolled down his cheek.

“Come here, stupid!” said Jack giving his husband a big hug. Then the two guys stripped off, got on all fours on the bed and with some difficulty compared their caned arses in the dressing table mirror.

“They’re quite well matched,” observed Tom, “He certainly knows what he’s doing with a cane.”

Jack smiled inwardly. Yes, his father was a devil with the cane. Just then he felt some twinges in his arse, and then he rubbed his sore arm. Tom shouldn’t have hit him there. He’d be bruised, no doubt. For a bit of revenge, Jack determined there and then to ask his father to cane Tom again. He felt sure that between him and his father they could come up with a reason, however flimsy. He would also ask his dad where he could buy a cane. After all, it would be handy to have one at home.

As forecast, Dad had decided to hit the sack again. He wasn’t as tired as earlier but he did have a stonking big erection to deal with.

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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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Story © MMXVIII by Rod Cayenne.  All rights reserved.

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

A Spring Awakening (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥
Smouldering hot new spanking fiction by special guest author and good friend  Sukemnsee – strictly over 18s only!

After months of unseasonably cold weather and much rainfall, suddenly a second day dawned with the prospect of sunny cloudless skies and temperatures above 20C (70F). This was enough for me to throw on the nearest pair of shorts and a top, and I went out to walk and exercise and relax in the open space near the reservoir. It was lovely. I felt really warm and eventually sat down and spread out sitting on a bench, enjoying the warm rays of sunshine.  Aside from a few dog walkers, there were not many people about.  There were more than the previous week when paths were boggy, and raging torrents of rainwater had coursed down them.

An older man aged around 50 came up close.  He lingered and seemed to be staring.  That was nothing new to me, as I often get looks being a fit and muscled 25-year-old.  I could handle it.  I was manspreading unashamedly.  Feeling bold, I spread my legs even wider, and then casually looked up at him. He finally spoke, “Not taken you long to get your legs out, sonny!  A bit unusual to see tailored charcoal grey shorts worn informally though.”

I looked down to see which pair of shorts I was wearing, “Oh yes, these!  I have not unpacked my main summer wardrobe yet!  Must have picked up these naughty boy shorts as I did not want to wear full trackies.”

He was quiet for a moment but I was sure he was eyeing me up, looking for any interest from me, “Still very quiet out here, nice to have company for a change. Are you around here often?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “Sometimes I think I am the only one around! In recent weeks while the paths have been terrible I could go more than half an hour before seeing anyone, even a cyclist. I come out this way a lot.”

He smiled and said, “When it dries a little more I shall go down to the little paths near the water’s edge. You can see a lot of wildlife there. Fancy walking in the wood right now?”

“Go on then, let’s have a wander before I get too stiff sitting here.”

I accompanied him as we turned into a path that went through a patch of nearby woodland. He delighted in pointing out features of spring growth, especially the wild clumps of bluebells. Along the way we passed a pensioner with his video camera on tripod. I knew this man well as he was obsessive about recording birdsong.  He claimed he used the recordings as lullabies to help him sleep.  A harmless fellow.

We turned into a narrower path, past some big bushes and then we found ourselves in a clearing, on a carpet of dry leaves.  He then asked the question he had probably had on his mind for a good while, “Why did you say ‘naughty boy’ shorts?  It does not strike me as ‘yoof speak’, and they’re not exactly everyday wear, are they?”

“There are times I go to a place, a club, and some people there like to see me in these, matched with other suitable, er, school clothes.  Come on now, I’m sure you know the score.”

If he did, he didn’t let on straight away.  After a bit of hesitation he suddenly made for a large fallen tree at the far end of the clearing. There he sat down on the trunk and faced me, “Come here boy!  Right now!  You know that it is time I dealt with you.”

His change from casual conversationalist to dominant instructor hit all my buttons at once.  I walked over to him.  I was stood motionless by his side.  He told me that I knew what to do. Seconds before I bent over his lap I shared a concern, “We can’t do this here. It is way too open!”

He did not respond at first.  Eventually he lifted his legs and swivelled over the trunk so that he was now seated facing away from the clearing.  He told me to come over to that side and I too climbed over the trunk and within a short time was stretched out over his lap.  The first few slaps of his hand were nothing special and just as I was mentally dismissing him as a lucky opportunist he suddenly changed gear and started delivering a thorough spanking that soon had me squirming. The blows were not massively heavy but they landed well on target.  He was heating up the whole of my rear effectively. I was told to stand and remove the shorts, which I did.  I placed them further along the trunk then doing as he beckoned and went back over in my ‘tighty whities’.

I have endured many spankings but nothing ever seems to quite prepare you for the change in impact when that vital thicker outer layer of clothing is taken down.  Every new slap of his hand was felt especially as he now seemed to concentrate on one patch repeatedly before moving on to another.  I was soon squirming again and in fact it was fairer to call it bucking as my body arched more in response. From time to time he seemed to check his progress as I could feel the hem being lifted and moved.  Inevitably he told me to stand up and remove my briefs.  I did as I was told and threw my underwear over by my shorts. He also had me remove my rugby top and that went the same way.  This left me standing naked apart from my footwear.  I went to go back over his knee but he had me wait and stand before him.  My bottom was smarting as it absorbed the pain of so many smacks.  Instinctively I placed my hands on my head and adopted a more comfortable stance with my feet placed wide apart.  This pose highlighted my muscles, and I stood there on display for a good few minutes.  I suspected that he was gazing at more than my trim stomach.  In response I felt my quite small testicles tighten as my joystick lengthened and firmed and adopted a ‘reach for the sky’ pose all of its own.  I wondered maybe if he smiled at this in his silence.  Soon he encouraged me back over his lap and he spanked me further.

Maybe it was the wait or just his skill but I really felt every time his hand rained down on my bare skin, and of course the sound was different when each blow was not deadened by a layer of clothing. As an experienced spanko, it must be said that I have a lot of physical endurance, gained through years of painful experiences.  Mentally though in these situations I am soon helpless with no resistance and I take meekly what I deserve. As I wriggled and jumped about, his other hand gripped me firmly from underneath.  I quickly found that if I moved too much then he applied a painful squeeze on my member, a bit like the tightest of tight cockrings.  The thorough spanking had left my bottom truly red.  This had been a thorough spanking.

He had me stand up again and he pulled my flimsy leather belt from the loops of my shorts. He told me he wanted me bent over the trunk for this and I complied without question. From time to time I had worried about little noises I’d heard.  However, I could see no one as I checked around the clearing before I bent over the hard bark of the tree, head faced down. The lengthy spanking had dampened my ardour and with no erection I had no difficulties getting settled in position.  My bottom was still ablaze but had I reached that point where I somehow welcomed the fact that he would be land that belt on me before he was through.

He lashed at me some six or seven times with the belt and each time I felt the flash of searing pain.  To be fair it was not a heavy duty piece of leather.  I reckoned that I could probably withstand it for quite a while before I was forced to cry out. I could sense that he was not satisfied. He told me to wait there for a few minutes and I heard him move off further into the woods.  I did as I was told but as the minutes passed I was tempted to get up from my vulnerable position and head off home to nurse my sore, sorry arse.  Just then I heard a crunch underfoot, not for the first time.  He was back!  He told me I really deserved a good caning but he had not come prepared.  He had therefore improvised.  He showed me a length of sapling freshly cut, that had little bulges where buds were forming.  This was to be his substitute. I think some refer to it as a switch. He promised me six to start with, and I readied myself.   I was hoping that the thin rod was not too wiry and that it would beat rather than lacerate.

There was a little whistle through the air, not the same intense note that a cane makes, but the impact was terrific. Stinging like the most flexible cane it seemed to create a line of fire right across my already tender bottom. I gritted my teeth knowing the next one would be just as intense; and it was. The third one was aimed much lower, hitting a fleshier part of my arse.  I gasped wildly with disbelief.  I never liked the cane no matter how much I knew I needed it, and this substitute was no more welcome.  In fact I would have preferred the cane, as I knew what it was like and what to expect.  Two more times he laid that vicious sapling into me.  I hoped against hope that the branch would snap into pieces, like a birchrod might, but it was not to be.  I couldn’t control the anguished noises I was making.  The sixth stroke surpassed the others, every part of my bottom sent signals to my brain and I screeched and I panted.  It was that intense. There was silence after my outburst.

After a period of silence after my little outburst, I heard him discard the stick, saying, “I don’t expect to have to teach you this lesson again! You know full well how to behave and you may expect a far more severe caning if I have to deal with you again this summer.”

With that, he left.  He’d told me to lie still over the trunk a while longer to let the pain ease a bit.  I guess he was right as I knew I would feel some pain when I got dressed.  I lay there quite a few minutes till I heard the leaves crunch again.  I hoped not to get any more lashes!  Instead I felt fingers feeling my bottom, tenderly caressing but lingering on the ridges recently created. I suddenly realised this was way too tender touching to be the old man.  It was delightful, though.  I spun my head round to find it was a youth.

“Hey, are you old enough to touch me like this?” I asked, ever mindful of legal boundaries. He said that he was.  He was young-looking, actually eighteen years old.  I was enjoying his touch. He confirmed when asked he had seen virtually all my treatment from just before I removed my shorts. The older man, who had gone, had probably not seen him.

The youth said was fascinated by the way I had taken my beating, and by my very fit hunky body.  He asked if it hurt to get a spanking.  A stupid question, perhaps, but he had no idea.  He knew it featured in all types of internet porn and in olden days in education and in homes.  I told him that of course it hurt to be spanked or worse but that was the idea of it.  It was a reminder for correction, it could be bearable even when uncomfortable. It was not a torture.

Luckily I am a bit of a naturist or exhibitionist and I was not phased by standing there naked talking to the youth.  He told me his name was Joey.  I know he looked me all over and my body as ever was responding.

He gingerly asked, “Would you give me a bare bottom spanking please? I think I want to try it. I don’t want the belt or worse and I don’t want a long build up so could you do me now, bare, please?”

I found myself agreeing all too quickly.  I do like to spank others at the clubs and he had a cute innocence about him. I told him there was a bit of role playing needed.  I was to be his coach and he was to be my sports student. We would start by him doing naked pressups in the clearing in front of me.  He did as he was told but had to be coaxed to do it without sagging, to use his arms to get really low and then to hold the upper pose for a few seconds.  He did quite well for a beginner but it was obvious to me that he would need a lot of practice to get it right.  I occasionally slapped his bottom with odd strikes if he was not holding a good position. I threatened him that if he did not try hard enough I would use my belt until he got it right. This spurred him on to more effort.

After some minutes I sat down on the trunk, facing the clearing, and guided him over my bare knees.  I made sure his hands were firmly planted on the floor, although it left his legs flailing. I started quite gently but it was obvious this was all new to him and he moaned constantly. I then tapped repeatedly on his right cheek in one place but increased the pressure until he was wriggling in discomfort before doing the same to the other side.  I told him that as he wriggled too much we needed another position. I made him lie flat on his back, his shoulders just ahead of my feet and flipped him over so his weight was on his shoulders and a pair of bongo bottom cheeks awaited my rhythm.  He said this was a strange new position and I told him it was good for auto fellatio, explaining that it meant sucking his own cock or shooting into his own face.

Although I was now reddening his cheeks steadily, I wanted him to get pleasure as well as pain, so in this position I could finger and squeeze his teenage cock until he was engorged and gasping from this excitement as well as the little squeals as I continued to let him taste a spanking good time for the first time.  By the time I ceased spanking him, I had awoken a spring of emotion in him.  We will draw the veil there on that day of unexpected adventures.  We were both of us satisfied and Joey was definitely ready for more.

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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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Story © MMXVIII by Sukemnsee and used here by very kind permission of the author.  All rights reserved.

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

The Moped Gang (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot spanking fiction by Charles Hamilton the Second  and Rod Cayenne.  This story is new to The Canery!  All the characters are aged 18 or over.

 

The headmaster leaned forward in his chair, rested his arms on his desk, clasped his hands together and stared intently at the five sixth-formers standing before him. His unkempt moustache bristled as he sneered, Well, well, well, Gentlemen, welcome! I seem to have convened an impromptu meeting of the Moped Gang!

All five eighteen year olds stared blankly, trying with varying degrees of success to look unconcerned. It would be a lecture, of course. Mr Lynch would lambast them about their behaviour and send them on their way. Maybe with an essay to write, Why I should be a credit to the school, something like that.

The headmaster shook his head wearily. The five lads from my school who have been terrorising the neighbourhood. Juvenile delinquents, he told himself. They were mighty fortunate not to be up before the Magistrates’ Court. Out loud he said, You have been inflicting your loutish behaviour all over the neighbourhood.

He paused, waiting for a reaction. When none came, he carried on. You have been riding those infernal mopeds disturbing all and sundry. He suppressed a smile. Mopeds; bicycles with hairdryers for engines. Hardly the Hells Angels. Nonetheless the good name of the school was at stake. You have been smoking and drinking and, the headmaster shuddered at the thought, urinating in most inappropriate places. The churchyard and the gardens of the Masonic Hall, I hear. And often you are foolish enough to do this in school uniform! You are a disgrace!

Mr Lynch hauled himself to his feet. He was a stout man, some would say he was running to fat. At six feet, he was taller than any of the boys standing in his study. Five pairs of eyes watched him intently as he shuffled across the room towards a bookcase. It ran most of the length of one wall and had glass doors. The shelves were stacked with history text books. Mr Lynch liked to keep his hand in in the classroom. A tall thin cupboard divided the bookcase. He fumbled in his pocket for barely a moment before bringing out a key. His hand trembled as he inserted it in a lock and opened the cupboard. His body obscured the boys’ view but an unmistakable rattling sound revealed its contents.

Mr Lynch turned to face the delinquents. It’s a shame that you are all eighteen and so too old for this cane of mine. Isn’t that so, Smith? The headmaster held the rod between his hands and flexed it.

Err, yes, Sir, Smith blustered.

The headmaster swiped the cane through thin air. Too old for this cane, Passey?

Yes, Sir. Passey stared intently at the cane. It was a little over three feet long with a curved handle.

Swish! The cane flew again. Too old, Wilkinson?

Yes indeed, Sir, the lad coughed nervously, sensing some kind of trap.

Mr Lynch took a step forward, leaning into a thin, lanky boy. And how about you, Jenkin, just turned eighteen, I believe, so too old for this cane of mine?

Yes, Sir, Mr. Lynch, Sir. Jenkin returned the headmaster’s gaze. He wished he would just get on with it. An essay. A detention even. He wanted to get away, the Moped Gang had a meet that evening.

Mr Lynch swivelled on his left heel. And finally, we get to you, Davies.

Yes Sir? a short, stocky boy narrowed his eyes. He didn’t understand the tone in the headmaster’s voice.

You’re a little bit different from the others here, aren’t you?

I am, Sir? He felt his cheeks flush, what was the Old Man talking about?

Oh yes! You may be eighteen like the others here, but I understand that your father beats you regularly. With a cane just like this! He swiped it twice through the air for emphasis. He told me all about it when we were at the Model Railway Club. We are both members, you see. He’s the life and soul of the club, old Deltic Davies, you know. He often tells us he’s had to get his cane out.

Jenkin suppressed a snort. The cane, from his dad, he thought. Wait until he told the other sixth-formers. Davies’ face reddened with embarrassment and shame. He felt no shame being up before the headmaster, but for the Old Man to know he was caned at home; that was unbearable. And now, the shame that his friends had just found out about it too.

But there was more. The shame that his father played trains! Diesel trains too. And Dad was friends with headmaster. That had to be the worst! No, wait! Did the headmaster know that Davies had his trousers at his ankles and his underpants at his knees as he bent across the dining room table for lashes from Dad’s cane across his bared bottom?

What if all of that became public? It would be the end for Davies. How could he remain leader of the Moped gang? Davies stared at his scuffed shoes. He couldn’t look the headmaster in the eye. Neither could he look at his mates. He knew inwardly they were smirking. He wouldn’t hear the end of it once the headmaster released them from his study.

Mr Lynch flexed his cane some more, he tapped it gently against his right leg, then he swished it through the air again. He knew he was an old ham. This was supposed to intimidate a boy. Usually it worked. But maybe not this time, he thought. Davies’ face was scarlet, but the other four seemed unconcerned.

So we’re all agreed that you are all too old for this cane of mine? Mr Lynch’s moustache quivered as he bared his yellow teeth in a smile. There was a murmur of agreement from the boys. Davies sighed a little too loudly and the headmaster shot him a withering look.

I have decided, the headmaster continued, that you are right. At eighteen, you are all much too old for this cane. For this junior cane. He swiped it through the air again. It made a terrific Whoosh! as it travelled. No, what you lads need is the senior cane. Just right for your sturdy rumps! Jenkin! Go and ask Miss Glossop for the senior cane. Here, you can take this junior one back with you.

Wilkinson had been right, the headmaster had been playing them for fools, and they were trapped in his game. Jenkin took hold of the cane. It was surprisingly light. He had never seen a cane up close before. Brocklehurst Grammar was a traditional school – traditional curriculum, uniform, sports, religion and above all traditional discipline. And, that meant the whippy, crook-handled rattan cane. Could there be any boy in the sixth-form who had not offered his stretched backside to a master for a stinging six-of-the-best at some time during his school career? Jenkin was an exception; he had only joined the school the previous year after his father moved to the town with his job. This would be Jenkin’s first caning; an experience he did not relish.

Miss Glossop, the headmaster’s secretary, sat in an anteroom perched over her typewriter. Her long, thin nose and shiny black hair made her look like a crow. Jenkin shuddered as he handed the cane over. He didn’t use it then? I’m surprised! she barked disdainfully. If she had her way all five boys would be in front of a school assembly bent across a long table while the headmaster flogged their naked buttocks. And, she, Miss Glossop, would be seated in the front row.

He was very annoyed. Is he going to expel you? she asked.

No, no, nothing like that. At least I hope not. He told me to ask you for the senior cane.

Ah, of course! Absent-mindedly, she ran the tip of her tongue across her bottom lip, leaving behind a trail of spittle. That makes sense. He really is annoyed with you then. The senior one is reserved for the wickedest of the wicked. You bad lads!

She rose from her swivel chair and sashayed to a tall metal locker at the far end of the room. Jenkin watched mesmerised as her bottom wiggled suggestively. She unlocked the locker and withdrew the cane. Just as the headmaster had done, she flexed the rod between her hands. Blood rushed to Jenkin’s cock. A sudden vision of himself bent across Miss Glossop’s desk, trousers and pants at the floor, made the cock stiffen. Hurriedly he clasped his hands together and held them in front of his balls.

Here it is then. The senior model. Extra painful. Miss Glossop narrowed her eyes and handed the stick over. Be sure to tell the headmaster that there are a couple more in stock in case this one breaks.

Err, will do Miss Glossop, he blustered. He took the cane, unsure how to handle it. It was a little longer and thicker than the junior cane. At first he took it be the curved handle and let it fall by his side. It was long enough to touch the ground and reminded him of a walking stick. That didn’t seem right, so then he gripped it half way down. It was a sturdy rod with notches every four inches or so along its length. It was awesome; it would pack one heck of a punch. For one absurd moment he thought of Charlie Chaplin and how the clown would twirl his cane in the silent movies.

You’d better be getting back, Miss Glossop said grumpily. Jenkin jerked back into life, tucked the cane under his arm rather like a sergeant-major did and returned to the headmaster’s study.

…

You four, the headmaster waved his arm, stand and face the bookcase. He watched as the teenagers shuffled into place, no longer unconcerned. Jenkin, he pointed with the cane to a worn armchair. Bend over. Manufacturers called these chairs comfy or comfortable chairs but Mr Lynch was determined that Jenkin’ visit would be anything but comfortable. The chair was old and worn. The material on the apex of the back was shiny with age. How many boys had contributed to that, Jenkin wondered.

Bend over, lad, the headmaster had had his little joke with the boys, now he was anxious to get on with it; the sixth-formers less so. Jenkin stood a foot or so away from the back of the chair. How exactly was this done? He took a deep breath rubbed the palms of his hands together and reluctantly fell forward, rather like a diver going into an icy pond. Jenkin was so small and the chair so tall, that his stomach rested easily on the top of the chair’s back. He felt his pale-grey trousers ride up his buttocks. He couldn’t see himself, but he was sure the material had separated his cheeks.

Legs further apart. Up higher. It was a calm command and Jenkin obeyed without question and struggled to get into the requested position. Head nice and low, please. Now, his bottom was resting at a perfect angle to receive a thrashing from the headmaster. Jenkin gripped the seat cushion and closed his eyes. He had never been caned before and nor ever spoken to a boy who had been. His previous school had been quite liberal and corporal punishment was unheard of. His buttock cheeks clenched. He had not meant to do this, it was as if his body was trying to find a natural way to protect him from the pain ahead.

Relax lad. Relax. The headmaster sawed his cane across the underside of Jenkin’s now upturned bottom. He was finding his spot, taking his aim. Jenkin’s firm bottom stretched his now very tight grey trousers, a point the headmaster was careful to observe as he positioned himself behind him.

Stick your bottom out more, lad, hollow your back. Mr Lynch knew this was Jenkin’s first caning and he intended it to be memorable. Jenkin when I cane I make sure it hurts. There is no point in giving a boy a beating if it doesn’t. I won’t lie to you, your backside will be on fire and you will be sore for a few days. The marks will last about two weeks but you will live.

It had the desired effect and tears started to dampen Jenkin’s eyes before the first stroke had cracked against his tight backside. He gripped the chair cushion so tightly his knuckles ached.

The headmaster grasped the cane and took two steps away. To calm down he took a few air shots before finally returning to stand to Jenkin’s left. Then, with his arm outstretched he lay the cane tip half way across the cheek of the teenager’s further buttock. Jenkin flinched slightly as the rattan touched the middle of his bum. The headmaster raised it slowly then brought it whistling down. It landed with a satisfying thwack right across the cheeks.

Oww! Gosh, oww! Jenkin yelped, trying to keep his scorching bottom still after his first ever stroke of the cane.

The study was again filled with the sound of the cane swishing through the air, followed by that awful crack that signalled another searing bout of pain across his already sore bottom. The headmaster drew the cane back for another stroke. Jenkin arched his back and screwed his face up as he experienced the smarting of yet another assault to his now red-raw bottom.

Despite the shocking pain, Jenkin resolved to take the caning bravely and silently; he didn’t want to show himself up in front of his mates. But when slash number three connected with the seat of his trousers he lost all control, his feet beat a frenzied tattoo, as his hips twisted and squirmed. He desperately wanted to jump up and run from the study clutching his buttocks in both hands, but some schoolboy instinct kept him down. He was grateful that he had the chair cushion to grip, even though his hands were now grasping it so tightly his fingernails dug deeply.

The next swipe was greeted with a howl and Jenkin was now audibly muttering: No! and Please! But there was to be no mercy in the study that afternoon. Mr Lynch stood back, took aim again and the cane flashed through the air with a whoosh and the resulting blow snapped into Jenkin’s waiting backside with venom.

A river of tears cascaded down Jenkin’s face as he waited, heart thumping madly, for the final crack which the headmaster put right across the middle of his buttocks, angled, so that it crossed about three of the other cuts.

It took some time after the last stroke for Jenkin to realise the ordeal was over. Yes, the headmaster sighed. That concludes your punishment, Jenkin. I hope you have learned your lesson.

Like so many thrashed schoolboys before him, Jenkin remained slumped across the back of the chair, just trying to absorb the line of fire across his bum. Nothing had prepared him for the pain or for the feeling that his bottom had being cut into slices and then set on fire.

Up lad! the headmaster commanded, We haven’t got all day. With great difficulty, Jenkin’s hands scrabbled for the arm of the chair and he pushed himself upright, panting and sobbing. He danced on the spot, clutching the seat of his trousers. Even through the material he could feel the six vivid and very painful stripes decorating his hindquarters.

Stand and face the bookcase, the headmaster intoned. Wilkinson, take his place.

….

Thirty minutes later Owen Davies steered his moped through the gate of a large detached house. Home. The intense pain from his caning had dissolved into a dull ache, but the hard seat of his Honda had set the welts on his bum throbbing. He kicked the stand on his bike and left it standing by the door of the house. The Moped Gang were meeting later.

He opened the front door to find his brother Dai standing, waiting for him in the hallway. A supercilious grin slit the twenty-year-old’s face. Who’s been a naughty little boy then? he chirped in the sing-song voice of a child as he swished an imaginary cane through the air. Owen grimaced. This was the last thing he needed.

I got a phone call from your headmaster, Dai’s grin broadened. He wanted to speak to Dad, but I told him he was at that toy train convention until Saturday.

Owen moved towards the stairs, intent on ignoring his annoying brother. He wanted to get to his bedroom for a close look at his bum.

So, Dai blocked his brother’s way, he told me all about you and your Moped Gang. Six-of-the-best, eh? He swiped the imaginary cane again. You naughty, naughty little boy.

Piss off, Owen sneered. He hated his brother. Always had done. Owen was the bright boy in the family. Dai wasn’t clever enough to go to grammar school. He left Gumshoe Lane Secondary Modern aged sixteen. How Owen despised him. Thick as two short planks. A waste of space.

Of course, Dai jeered, When Dad finds out you’ll get another caning. His arm flew through the air again. And, Dai was enjoying himself and he wanted his little brother to know it. What was it Dad said last time? He poked the underside of his chin with an index finger, pretending that he was thinking. Oh yes, I remember. Owen clenched his fists, for two pins he’d sock his brother on the jaw. He knew what Dad had said.

He said if you got into any more trouble on that phut-phut he’d confiscate it and sell it. Then where would you be little brother? Dai reached out and ruffled Owen’s hair. You’ll be on the bus like the rest of the kids.

Owen stood devastated. Dai was right. That was what Dad had said. He would do it too. A bare-arsed caning and no moped. That bike was his life. He was the leader of a gang. It made him feel really important. The other guys actually looked up to him. Now what would happen? He knew only too well; no bike, no gang, no life.

Of course, Dai spread his arms wide like a market trader offering a bargain to passers-by, Dad need never know. He grinned and stared intently at his little brother. Dai had a plan. One that he would really enjoy putting into action. What d’ya say little brother?

Owen sucked in air. What the hell was Dai talking about? Why did he have to behave like an idiot all the time?

What the fuck are you talking about? he spat. He hated his brother. Owen couldn’t wait until the autumn when he could leave the house and go away to university. His imbecile brother would probably have to live at home the rest of his life.

Dai shrugged his shoulders and showed Owen the palms of his hands. A little plan, dear brother, he said in a mocking accent that made his brother’s skin crawl.

Owen hated himself for doing it, but he asked none-the-less, What plan?

Ha, Dai spoke in that mocking voice again. Now, he wants to know. Now, he asks me: What is the plan?

Oh, for fuck’s sake, I want to go out, Owen pushed past his brother and started toward the stairs. Fearful, he might have missed his chance Dai said in a rush, I won’t tell Dad your headmaster called. I’ll cane you instead. Owen stopped in his tracks and turned. The surprised expression on his face asked What?

Dai took a deep breath, You’ll get to keep your moped.

The room span. Owen gripped the banister rail for support. His mouth opened, but before he could tell his brother once more to fuck off he shut it tight. He should not be too hasty. That bike was his life. There was only one way for him to keep it. His head spun. This could not be happening. If he let his brother cane him he got to keep the bike.

Thinking about it later, Owen could hardly believe he spoke the next words, You promise you won’t tell Dad? Dai’s cold blue eyes blazed, Scout’s honour, he said and waved two fingers in the air. All right, Owen whispered.

Good-oh! Dai smiled broadly. We must do it now, my shift at the Wimpy starts at five-thirty. Gingerly Owen rubbed his fingertips across the seat of his trousers. His bum still ached from the headmaster’s caning. Now, he had to let his obnoxious brother beat him on the bare bottom. He would rip it to shreds. He grimaced. You couldn’t make it up, he thought.

Owen watched Dai rush up the stairs and fling open the door to Dad’s bedroom and enter. Moments later he came out crestfallen. The wardrobe’s locked. He let the importance of his message hang in the air. Owen needed no explanation. Dad kept his canes in that wardrobe, if they couldn’t get it open there was nothing to beat him with. He would lose his moped after all.

Owen sighed, Can we get a cane someplace else?

Dai snapped his fingers to indicate a thought had come to him. Of course, let’s go round the neighbours and ask if anyone can lend us a cane, he said sarcastically.

Owen sneered. All right, but there must be a way round this.

Dai did the snapping of the fingers thing again. This time he was serious, It doesn’t have to be a cane. I can spank you. When Owen looked doubtful, he added, You know, over the knee, like a little boy.

Owen blanched. It would have been mortifying enough to go over the dining room table for a caning, but over-the-knee to have his bare bottom spanked; that was too much. Dai read his brother’s mind. He wasn’t about to let this chance to thoroughly humiliate his brother pass. You’ll get to keep the moped, he reminded him.

That was enough. It was the only way. With his heart pounding and temples throbbing, Owen nodded his assent.

Good-oh, Dai brightened up. Go wait in the sitting room. I’ll fetch something. Sorrowfully, Owen trudged across the hallway. Seconds later Dai bounded down the stairs brandishing a heavy wooden clothes brush. He bounced into the sitting room, noting with delight the gloomy expression on his kid brother’s face. He picked up a large armless chair that lay against a wall and plonked it down in the centre of the room. He sat down, spread his legs wide and, waving the brush wildly, called across to Owen. Come here you naughty little boy.

Owen grimaced. How he would like to smash his fist into Dai’s smug face. He stood and glared. Dai’s smirk was undisguised. Come on, let’s get on with this. He snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot on the carpet close to his right knee. Stand there. Owen refused to look at his brother as he shuffled the three paces it needed to take up the position.

Dai sucked in a lungful of air. His eyes sparkled. Trousers down, little man. Trousers down. Owen avoided his brother’s gaze and instead concentrated his attention on the far wall. He had never really noticed the painting that hung there before. Some modern art thing. All oranges and reds. It looked like the artist was having a fit when he painted it. Owen stared hard at the picture as he reached for his belt buckle. He was surprised how little his fingers fumbled as they loosened the belt, popped the button at the waistband and pulled the zipper. His pale-grey trousers slid down his thighs unaided and snagged at his knees.

Ha! Dai smirked, White Y-fronts, I forgot your snob school made you wear those. Do they do a pants inspection every morning? He laughed aloud. Owen sucked on his cheek, determined not to raise to his brother’s bait. Pants down. All the way, Dai pointed at Owen’s feet. The eighteen-year-old closed his eyes tight. Think about the moped, he said to himself. If you let him do this you keep the bike. He tucked his thumbs under the elasticated waistband of his pants and guided them south.

Dai tapped the brush against the palm of his left hand. Bend over my knee, you naughty boy. I’ll get you for this one day you bastard, Owen told himself as he guided himself across his brother’s lap. Owen was short and squat while Dai was tall and lanky and the boy fitted perfectly. He spread his arms wide and placed his palms flat into the deep-pile carpet. Behind him his toes merely brushed the ground. His bottom was raised against Dai’s right thigh, at a perfect angle for the brush. A cool breeze from the open window behind him caressed his naked legs.

Owen felt his brother pull the tail of his shirt up the small of his back until it bunched at his shoulders. Woweee! Dai exploded with glee. Implanted across his brother’s bared buttocks were six distinct welts. Your headmaster has given you a good set of marks. He put the index finger of his right hand into his mouth and soaked it in saliva. Then, carefully he traced along each cut with the fingertip. Owen shuddered as the pain in each welt reignited. Dai cupped his hand and roughly rubbed it first across the left buttock and then the right. It feels like corrugated cardboard back here. He didn’t try to hide the fun he was having.

Owen shut his eyes. He couldn’t see, but he guessed his brother had a perfect view of his crack and could even see up his hole. He could die from embarrassment. This will soon be over, he reassured himself. Then I can go out on my moped and lead a gang who respect me.

Dai tested the brush in his hand for weight. It was about a foot long with an oval-shaped head three inches wide. It’s primary purpose was to keep clothes clean but it also made a splendid spanking implement. Dai tapped the brush against the centre of Owen’s left buttock so that it fell across three of the cane marks. This should set them on fire again, he grinned as he smacked the wood down hard. There was a dull thud as the brush connected with Owen’s firm flesh, followed by an elongated hiss of air escaping through pursed lips; it sounded like a steam train settling down. Owen’s body shook; he raised himself an inch off his brother’s lap and his legs flailed. No you don’t buster, Dai gripped Owen around the waist. You’re not going anywhere. Satisfied his younger brother was firmly secured he hammered the brush across Owen’s bum. It was like machine gun fire. Rat-a-tat-tat; rat-a-tat-tat. Within seconds every square inch of Owen’s bottom was on fire, from the top of the curves, across the mounds themselves and into the ultra-sensitive underside, the part of the bum that connected with the chair when you sat down.

Even without the cane wounds this would have been a severe spanking. The relatively small area of shiny polished wood attacked his tender buttocks. Owen wriggled and writhed; he waved his arms around; he kicked his legs; his head flailed to left and right and then up and down (just like a horse does when he neighs) as his brother pounded away. The agony in his backside was intense. He gave up and gave in completely, hanging and dangling over his brother’s knees, his squalling taking over, as he gasped, choked, sobbed, and shook. He felt the fiery blistering on his bottom driving him to still deeper wailing and weeping.

This encouraged Dai to renewed vigour. Owen’s legs thrashed about so much he kicked his trousers across the room and the struggle continued so greatly that long before his brother had finished the bare-bottomed spanking the white briefs dangled from his left ankle.

Owen wrestled to escape the relentless torrent of increasing pain that had set his buttocks ablaze. He fought to escape from the very firm grip of his brother’s left arm around his waist. He pleaded, begged, promised and threatened endlessly between his gulps and his gasping for breath. But to no avail.

Dai hadn’t known he possessed such strength: not only was he able to pin his rowdy eighteen-year-old brother in place across his knees, face down, bared bottom high, he continued to batter his buttocks with the brush. He pounded away at the boy for almost another five minutes, Owen struggled and pleaded but his brother continued; he was having too much fun to stop just yet.

He was so engrossed in his task and Owen so overcome with pain and indignity that neither heard the gentle burr outside in the drive. Four moped riders stared in astonishment through the open window. They saw that their gang leader had just had his second humiliating beating of the day.

__________

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.

____________

More stories from Charles Hamilton the Second are at Male on Male Spanking Stories:

http://charleshamiltonthesecond.wordpress.com/

Story © MMXVIII by Charles Hamilton the Second and Rod Cayenne, used here by very kind permission of the authors.

Comments welcome – please use link at top of story.

Father’s Favour (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Repeated from 2015, this extra hot fiction is by very special guest author 11plus.  All the characters are 18 or over.

 

“Dad, this may sound weird, but I want you to try corporal punishment on me.”

“Eh?  You what?  Damn right, son, that does sound weird!”

“Dad, listen to me.  I’m incredibly lazy.  We both know that.  I need some serious motivation if I’m going to get through University.”

“Maybe, maybe, but it’s out of the question.”

“It’s not like you can stop my pocket money. Gran’s inheritance has left me a lot better off than my mates.”

“True, but really, the very notion is preposterous and out of the question.  Let’s move on, silly!”

“No Dad!  I’ve thought about this a lot.  It’s taken me a lot of courage to raise this, you know.  I need something unpleasant to motivate me.”

“Listen Peter!  You don’t know what you’re asking for.  I imagine we’re not talking a hand smacking here?  I was thrashed regularly at your age, eighteen, and let me tell you, it’s no laughing matter!”

“Exactly, Dad.  No laughing matter, that’s just what I need.  I’m lazy and devious with it, you must know that?”

“Of course, I recognise that.  But we all have our crosses to bear.  You’ll just have to learn some self-discipline.  Listen, what you’re suggesting borders on sadomasochism, and I want no part in it.  If you ask me, you need to see a doctor, this is just so sick!  But if you’re serious, you’ll have to find someone else, perhaps a girlfriend…”

“Oh not that girlfriend business again, Dad!”

“Yes, again!  You need to sort yourself out!  That much is self-evident!”  Father banged his clenched fist down on the hard wood of the kitchen table, to reinforce the point.  Peter realised he was getting nowhere; his father was quite adamant.

It was about a week later when the two men were sat at the same table.  Father puffed on his cigar, while son coughed as he smoked a more modest cigarette.

“How’s your hangover, son?”

“Not too bad, thanks, Dad.  A little bit headachey, but I’ll get over it.”

“I heard you come back, you fell up the stairs.”

“Did I?  Gosh, sorry Dad.”

“And I heard you throw up in the loo.  About 4 or 5 in the morning, I think.”

“Yes, sorry Dad.  I did clean up the mess.”

“Yes, as well you might!”

“Sorry, Dad.”

“I had a bad night, because of you.  You really can be most thoughtless.”

“Dad, what more can I say, other than that I’m really sorry?”

“It’s just not good enough, my boy!”

“Dad…”

“Now, listen to me!  As I tossed and turned last night, trying to get back to sleep, I was thinking about what you said about corporal punishment.  It could indeed be just what you need, Peter.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Peter, who had cooled to the idea ever since his father seemed to be vehemently opposed to the idea.

“Yes, a short, sharp shock is just what you need.”

Peter groaned.  Suddenly, his headache seemed to be getting worse.  His father continued, “Yes, a good thrashing might sort you out.  But I can’t bring myself to do it.”

“Right Dad, good,” said Peter, immediately feeling somewhat relieved.

“So, I’ve called in an old favour,” the older man said, with a sly grin.

“How do you mean?”

“I’ve had a word with old Charlie Churchman at number 73.  You know, the old teacher from St. John’s.”

“What?” asked Peter, with a feeling of dread.

“He will provide you with some discipline, he seemed happy to help!”

“Dad!  Please no!  That’s way beyond strange.”

“Well, you asked for it, son.  In more ways than one.  I went over to his place for a chat first thing.  I imagine you were still out for the count at the time.  Now, listen.  You will report to his house this morning at 11.30 sharp!  Wearing your running kit.  Is that clear?”

“Dad, no!  I’m not having some old stranger spanking me!”

“It’s too late for that.  We can’t back out now.  If you want, I will walk up to his house with you.  At least that way, I can be sure you won’t back out of it.  And I doubt he will spank you.  He’s more used to using the slipper or cane.”

“Shit, Dad!”

“Language, Peter!”

“Sorry, Dad.  Whatever have I let myself in for?”

“I don’t really know.  But if it cures you from getting blind drunk and selfishly disturbing me, then I’m all for it.”  The older man laughed heartily.  “Now, how about you go and freshen up?”

With that, young Peter made his way up to the bathroom.  His head was spinning, but this time not from an excess of alcohol.  No, this time it was dread, fear and yes, a little excitement too! As he sat on the toilet, head in hands, he contemplated his fate.  Well, his father was right.  He had asked for it.  But now the prospect was all too real.  Perhaps he should have left things until he started at University?  Normally, there was nothing he liked more than a leisurely dump, but today he fidgeted around on the seat.  His pert teenage bottom was pale and unblemished but for how much longer?  He wriggled around restlessly on the toilet seat.  How much would it hurt?  Would it be bare? Was dad pleased?  All of these thoughts flashed through his mind as he flushed and cleaned the toilet diligently.

Peter stared at his teenage face in the mirror as he scraped away with the blunt Gillette.  A pale and worried lad stared back.  He washed away the blood from the razor cuts, and rinsed away the foaming residue.  He listened idly for the gurgle as the last few drops of water drained away down the plughole.  Yes, he normally enjoyed his morning routine and ablutions, but today he was preoccupied. Today was the day he would be thrashed!

The lad then made his way to the walk-in shower.  As he did so, he became acutely aware of the rank but manly BO of his armpits.  In truth, there was nothing he liked more than the erotic smell of sweat, even his own, but he knew that it was not socially acceptable, and so it would have to be washed away. Soon he was basking under the refreshing hot jets of water, working the white bar of soap carefully around his armpits.  Then he made his way down to his cock.  He had a gentle, short golden piss, as he’d become aware that he had not fully emptied his bladder earlier.  He then took the soap and smothered his whole penis is soapy lather, pulling back the foreskin and washing every little detail of the wrinkly member.  But as he did this, he became aroused, the cock stiffening and throbbing as the soap was worked on it.  He masturbated with joy and relieved some of the tension that had been building up.  Suddenly, as he thought about his imminent punishment, thick cum spurted from his piss slit, splashing onto the white ceramic tiles.  Gosh, that had been fun!  But at the same time, like so many teenage masturbators, he also had some feelings of guilt.

Peter carefully washed his penis again, this time removing all traces of his creamy sperm.  He moved the soap around to the protuberant cheeks of his pert teenage bottom and washed thoroughly.  As he did so, he reflected that his bottom could soon be a very different, reddened colour.  He washed and washed, and became excited again as he thought about what his punishment could be.  The soap worked a foamy lather into his hairy arse crack, and he spent extra effort on the beautiful puckered rose arsehole that was hidden among the hairy bush.  He wanted to be extra clean around there, just in case in his punishment was to be on his bare bottom!  Soon he was shampooing his hair, and then massaging shower gel into his teenage flesh.

As he dried himself, Peter again reflected on his unblemished, peachy bottom.  Standing on tiptoes he looked at his arse in the mirror.  He pulled his cheeks apart and looked at his own arsehole.  He was beginning to feel a little disgusted with himself.  What a young pervert he was becoming!  Just then he heard his father banging on the door with a curt instruction to hurry up!

And so it was that at 11.15, Father and son left the house.  Father was dressed in what you might call casual smart, with a cord jacket and cravat.  Son Peter was dressed in some running gear – black nylon shorts with a jockstrap underneath, and a white T-shirt. The contrast between the smart father in his timeless brogues and the teen in his trendy trainers was marked.  They soon arrived at Churchman’s house.  After some brief handshakes, father left son to the tender mercies of the retired teacher.

“So!” said Charlie Churchman gazing at the teenager before him.  “As I understand it, we have a boy here who needs some motivation to combat his habitual laziness.  Is that right?”

“Err, yes.  Yes, Sir!”

“And a boy who comes home drunk, waking his father, and so on?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And has a bit of an attitude in general?”

“Maybe, Sir.”

“THERE’S NO MAYBE ABOUT IT, LAD!  Your father has told me all about it.  Excessive masturbation too, I’m told!  You need a girlfriend lad!”

Peter groaned, “Not the girlfriend bit again!  You really have been talking to dad, haven’t you?”

“Well, of course.  You wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t!”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Are you stupid, boy?”

“No Sir,” said Peter on the verge of defeat, “But to be fair, I probably do need some stupidity thrashed out of me.”

“Yes!  Good!  Progress!”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Well then, a thrashing it shall be!”

“Yes, Sir.  Thank you, Sir.”

“How old are you?”

“Just eighteen, Sir.”

“So an adult then?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Eighteen years old, so I think eighteen strokes of the cane would be appropriate.”

“Eighteen!  That sounds a lot!  I was expecting a hand spanking, not the cane.”

“Really?  Really?  How naive!  Hand spankings are not for adult males.  No, the young adult male bottom can take much sterner treatment.  Let me see your bottom.  Bend over a minute.”

So Peter bent over.  His shorts stretched tightly across his bottom, while the white fabric of the jockstrap was hidden by the thin shiny black nylon fabric.  Mr Churchman gently felt the cheeks, and then pinched the flesh sharply.

“Ouch!  Do you mind?” cried Peter.

“Quiet lad!  Just seeing how fleshy your bottom is.  It’s quite well padded.  My expert view is that it can take a good beating.  Right then.  Perhaps six with the riding crop on these shorts.”

“Oh, thank you Sir!”

“Followed by twelve with my finest school cane on your bared bottom.”

“Oh, Sir!”

“It’s not a lot, trust me, lad.  At your age, and with that fleshy bottom of yours, you should be able to take it with ease, if not comfort!”  The man laughed heartily, “Now stay here while I go and fetch my crop and a cane.”

Peter considered running away as he surveyed the musty living/dining room.  However, he knew he had nowhere to run, even though he had his running kit on!  He was just considering his options when Mr Churchman returned.  He had a school cane and a purple riding crop stashed under his arm, almost up to his armpit.  His stiff, purposeful almost military gait assured Peter that he was in for a hard time.

“Very well then,” the old man announced as he pulled a dining chair over and plonked himself down on it.  “Crop first.  Over my lap!  Come here.”

Peter placed himself down on the lap, his hands and toes resting on the shabby beige carpet. Charlie Churchman slowly smoothed out the wrinkles in the lad’s shiny shorts before slashing the crop down violently on the cheeks.  Rapid fire-style, the other five strokes landed indiscriminately on Peter’s buttocks.  Peter grunted with each strike as the most unpleasant burning sensation lit up his flesh.  He wriggled and writhed as each blow struck home.

“Stand up!”

Peter dutifully shuffled to his feet, and his hands immediately flew to squeeze and massage away  the pain.  But Churchman was having none of it, “NO RUBBING WITHOUT PERMISSION!  Right, hands by your sides.  That’s better!  Right.  Shorts down!”

As Peter edged his shorts down, he heard Churchman put the crop down and then pick up the cane.  He whipped it through the air with determination.  “Take your jockstrap off.  How I dislike those modern things!  And with their tacky branding.  That’s it.  Might as well strip off completely.  That’s it!  You really are quite a handsome lad, aren’t you?  Lost your voice?  Now, let’s have you bent over the back of this chair.  Good.  Now, stick your bottom out for the cane.  It’s important that you show your proper submission by offering yourself to the stick.  That’s it!  I’m beginning to think that you’re a natural!”

Peter’s bottom was offered meekly to the cane.  Already marked with six vivid red crop stripes, it was about to feel the force of a rattan wielded in anger.  And it was a very angry first stroke indeed.  It sliced down right across the middle of Peter’s bottom cutting and burning almost immediately.  Peter let out a deep grunt.

“Stick your bottom out for the next stroke, Peter, you’re doing very well!”  It was the first time that Churchman had used the lad’s forename.  Peter’s bottom bobbed up dutifully for the next stroke which landed in almost exactly the same place as the first one had.

“ARRGH!” squealed Peter, caught by surprise by the viciousness of the two strokes merging into a single stripe of immense pain.

“QUIET!” directed the retired teacher, as he waited for the buttocks to raise in preparation for the third stroke.  Almost as if on autopilot, they did.  And also as if on autopilot, the cane lashed down again.

After six strokes, Churchman announced, “Time for a break.  Stay in position.  No rubbing.  I need to check how your bottom is bearing up.”

The retired teacher’s hands gently felt the scarred buttocks.  He massaged and probed, his fingers straying not only to the crack and arsehole but also to the cock and balls.  Peter wasn’t sure what to make of it all.  It was an exquisite torture, but it was an indecent one.  He felt violated, and yet somehow almost turned on.  Churchman was impressed by the lad’s compliance and also by his cleanliness.  Only a soft sheen of sweat betrayed the ordeal the boy was in the middle of enduring.

“Right!  Six more!  Bottom up further, legs wider apart.  Wider.  Wider!”

Peter’s bottom was now on offer even more, a most unusual and provocative position.  His arsehole was clearly displayed, much to the gratification of his tormentor.  Duly provoked, the cane slashed a seventh stroke, an eighth and a ninth.  By now Peter was wriggling his bottom, to the left and then to the right, in a vain attempt to avoid the sting and bite of the rattan.

“Keep still!  Don’t spoil things, you were doing so well, Peter!”

A tenth stroke landed unexpectedly quickly after that admonishment, causing Peter to squeal and gasp, “No more, please Mr Churchman, Sir!”

But the lad’s plea fell on deaf, un-receptive ears.  Already the old man was lining up a penultimate diagonal stroke which proceeded to cause a further yelp from the startled lad.

“Last one coming up, Peter.  Keep still and keep quiet!”

But it was impossible, the final stroke seemed to be the worst, causing another unmanly squeal.  Churchman tutted and threw the cane down on the nearby settee.

“A patchy performance, Peter.  Regular canings would do you no harm at all, in my opinion!  I’ll be telling your father that I am on call twenty-four hours a day, if you ever need a refresher.  Is that clear?  Well?”  The lad just nodded, sniffed and wiped away a tear as he dressed slowly.  “On your way now, Peter.  Run along to the park.  Your father will be waiting for you by the bandstand.”

“He will?”

“Yes, that’s what he told me.  And make sure you give him some respect.  Otherwise you can expect a return visit here.  Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, you do, Sir!  I don’t want a repeat visit, thank you.”

“Very well.  I didn’t think you would for one minute.  Now, make sure you don’t then.  And remember, respect!”

Peter dressed hurriedly and rushed out of the front door as quickly as he could, slamming it carelessly and running towards the park at the end of the avenue.  Though his buttocks felt like they were on fire, he was able to make quick progress and was soon through the Victorian cast-iron park gates.  He made a beeline for his father who was sat on one of the green metal seats, puffing contentedly on a cigar, almost predictably.

“You survived then?” Peter’s father asked sarcastically, “Bet it hurt though?”

“Too right!  Six on these thin shorts with the riding crop.  Like I was a fuckin’ horse or some other animal!”

“Language, Peter!”

“And then twelve with the cane on the bare!”

“Aha!  About the same as I used to get when I was your age.  Right, son!  We’re going into the Gents and you are going to show me your freshly caned bottom.  Before the marks disappear.”

“I don’t think the marks are going anywhere soon, Dad!  No, no, no!  If you must look, couldn’t we wait until we get home?”

“Do as I say, son, or we’ll be calling in to Mr Churchman’s on the way home.  And if that happens, I will watch your punishment.”

Crestfallen, the lad followed his father as he made his way into the toilets.  The loos were surprisingly well-lit, but the smell of stale urine and disinfectant assaulted their nostrils as soon as they entered.  Two other men were there, apparently masturbating furtively at the stainless steel trough urinal.

Father waved them an all-clear thumbs-up signal, and then spoke, “Don’t mind us, I’m just inspecting my boy’s thrashed bottom!”

Of course, the two men didn’t mind at all.  As father bent his son over, they turned round, cocks sticking out prominently, as they watched the boy’s shorts come down.  One of them whistled loudly as the red tramlines were revealed on the boy’s naked flesh, neatly framed by the jockstrap.  Father smiled at the men. He knew them by sight.  Since the divorce from his wife he had become a daily user of the toilets, and indeed, that’s where his friendship with retired teacher Charlie Churchman had first blossomed.  He smiled and then landed a meaty slap on his son’s bottom, saying, “Pull them up, son.  And then wait outside for me.  I need to use the facilities.”

Outside the Gents, Peter paced around impatiently.  His bottom throbbed and ached from the thrashing.  He suddenly realised that his father was taking an awfully long time to relieve himself. Must be a big job and washing and drying his hands, he thought.  Just then he heard loud laughter from the red brick toilets, and soon after his father emerged, looking a little flustered.

Father and son strolled home slowly, with little small talk.  As they approached No.73, Peter grew a little agitated.  And as they passed by, he thought he saw the net curtains twitch a little, but he couldn’t be sure.  Was Mr Churchman having a crafty look at father and son?   Peter rubbed at his very sore bottom involuntarily just at that minute.  What a day!

Only a few days later, Peter and his father were sat at the kitchen table again.  Peter’s bottom had recovered from the ravages of Churchman’s crop and cane.  Peter coughed and wheezed noisily and announced, “I’m just going to nip down to the shops to buy some more fags.”

“Oh no you’re not, son!” said father, puffing on his cigar, “Smoking is such a dirty habit.  Mr Churchman and I have decided that you are giving up.”

 

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Story © 2015 by 11plus, used here by very kind permission of the author.

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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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Photographs © 2015 by Rod Cayenne

Cane by http://www.quality-control.co.uk/

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