Beach Buggy (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot caning fiction by your host Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2014 – strictly over 18s only!

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Back then in the early ’80s Peter had a bright red Beach Buggy.  It had a fibreglass body and an air-cooled VW Beetle engine.  Nowadays, it would probably seem a bit naff, but it pulled the girls!  His folks had bought the car as his 21st birthday present.  He felt really spoilt, and he was to a certain degree.

His folks indulged his every whim.  They even allowed him to shag his regular girlfriend Linda in his room, as long as he locked the door and one of them took precautions.  He asked his Dad one day about why they were so indulgent.

“I’m probably over-compensating.  You see your grandparents were really strict with me.  I didn’t dare do anything.  They were much harsher times.  Dad had a cane, and I got it at school too.  Sometimes my bottom seemed like it was permanently scarred.  It wasn’t, but it was all over the top as I was a well-behaved lad on the whole.  A lot like you.”

“Oh, I had no idea.”

“No, well, it’s not something I like to dwell on.  The past is gone, thankfully.  Anyway, that’s why we chose a school for you that didn’t allow the cane.”

“Gee, thanks Dad.”

“No need to thank me.  Your mother felt the same way.  You know, just before he died, Dad gave me his old cane.  He said I might be needing it as you got older.”

“Never!”

“Oh yes!  Well, your mother and I agreed that we wouldn’t ever use it and that I should cut it up.”

“Good one, Dad!  I expect you enjoyed destroying it?”

“Well son, I’m not really the destructive kind, as you know, but I placed in the vice with great glee, I can tell you.  And then I got a hacksaw and was just about to cut it when the doorbell rang.  It was the police, asking about some hoodlums.  They had been trashing the allotments just down the road.  I remember old Mr Wiggin nearly crying about the damage they’d done the day before.  He was a war hero and really deserved better.  I found myself agreeing with the coppers about the virtues of the birch.  And after they’d gone, I really couldn’t face cutting up that cane.  Don’t tell your mother, but it’s still in the garage.”

“Really?  I’d better watch my step then!  Gosh, a real cane.  I’ve never even seen one.  Dad?”

“Yes Peter?”

“Can I see it?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know really.  It’s family history of a sort, I suppose.”

“Well yes, that’s true.  It is family history.  I’ve got the scars to prove it!”

“Really?”

“Not, not really.  They always healed up.  But mental scars, yes, I still have some of those.”

“OK, forget it then.  I don’t want to upset you.”

“No, it’s OK.  This would be a good time to show you it, as your mother’s out paying the gas bill.”

So the two generations of the Appleton family headed for the double garage.  From a dusty cupboard at the back, Peter’s father extracted the school cane.  It had that classic, crook-handled shape.  Peter had only seen canes in trashy comics.

“Doesn’t look up to much, Dad,” said Peter with a trace of disappointment in his voice.

“Don’t be deceived.  It’s a real killer.  Hurts like mad.  Believe me.”

“I do, I think.  Still, it does look a bit weedy.”

“And before you ask, no you can’t try it.”

“I wasn’t going to…”

“Yes you were!  It’s written all over your face.  It’s no toy or game, I can assure you.  No fun at all.  Let’s cut it up now!”

“No!” said Peter with uncharacteristic vehemence.  “No, that wouldn’t be right, would it Dad?  Family history, like you said.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” said Dad swishing the cane through the air.  “Alright, let’s put it away.  I still don’t like to see the bloody thing.”

Days later, Peter was chatting to his mother about things, when the topic of the cane came up unexpectedly.

“Your father’s still got that cane, you know.  I found it in the garage when I was poking around, last summer it was, I think.  Yes.”

“I know.  He showed me it.”

“He did?  He was meant to cut it up.  He didn’t though.  I hope he hasn’t gone all kinky on me.”

“Kinky, how so?”

“Oh you must know, Peter.  A bit of slap and tickle, you know. “

Peter was a bit embarrassed, but carried on, “I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about there, Mum.  He seemed to be a bit in awe of that cane.”

“Yes, I bet,” said Mum sighing and shaking her head.  She was in another world.  She too had ample experience of corporal punishment back in its heyday.  “I’d be happier if your father had cut it up like he’d promised.”

“No, mum.  It’s family history.”

“If you say so, Peter.  Really that thing belongs in a museum.”  They would have to disagree on that one.

Some days, Peter would think about that cane.  He’d think about it a lot.  He’d wonder what it felt like to be beaten, and whether he could cope with the pain if he were ever to receive such a caning.  At other times, he wondered about his father being on the receiving end.  Had he cried?  Was it given on trousers?  Was it given on pants?  He didn’t like to dwell on the thought, but perhaps it was even given on the bare!  Now, that would have been scary!  Scary but exciting, perhaps?  Actually, he did dwell on it a bit.  Well, a lot.  Especially when masturbating.  And at his age, Peter often masturbated several times a day, despite having the lovely Linda available.  Sometimes it seemed as if Peter enjoyed masturbating to thoughts of the cane rather more than he enjoyed Linda’s warm and welcoming body.

Now and then, Peter would mention the cane to one or other parents.  They conferred about this and were both disturbed by his thinly-disguised interest.

“Perhaps I should give him a quick whack and be done with it?” Dad suggested.

“No, I don’t think so, dear.  We should get rid of that stick.  It’s what we agreed.  Besides, he’s 21 now, an adult.  We can’t start whacking him now.  He never messes up anyway.”

But he did mess up.  Bigly.  The Beach Buggy wasn’t a total write-off, but it was battered as it rolled off the road after an altercation with a Ford Capri.  Worse still, Linda bashed her head in the accident and was kept in the local cottage hospital overnight for observation.  Her father, a prominent magistrate, demanded she saw no more of Peter and in a frosty phone call to the parents prescribed ‘a good whipping’.  It didn’t happen, of course.

Peter was badly shaken up for weeks after the accident.  He became morose and withdrawn and missed Linda badly.  She had dumped him, at her father’s insistence.

There was only one solution, Peter decided.  One Tuesday evening, while his mother was at a WI meeting, he went to the garage.  Opening the dusty cupboard he saw the golden yellow cane.  It was what he needed and craved.  Perhaps it would clear the air and break the circle of unhappiness Peter was trapped in?

Back in the lounge, Peter’s father was astounded to see his son holding the cane.  He switched off the old colour set and sighed.  There wasn’t much conversation, as the two men understood the situation instinctively.

“Are you sure?  It’s got to hurt, you know,” Dad said gently…

Peter just nodded.  He handed his father the cane.

“Right!  We’ll do this properly or not at all.  That means a bare bottom, I’m afraid, Peter!”

“Oh.  I wasn’t expecting that, Dad.”

“Well, that makes you a little naive then, doesn’t it?  Drop your jeans, over the arm of the settee.  Jockeys down too, please.”

Reluctantly, Peter bared his youthful buttocks.  He felt the cool air of the room on his naked flesh.  He also felt the first stirrings of an erection.  That was something he didn’t want his father to see.

Dad flexed the cane and swiped it through the air.  It felt good to have the cane in his hands.  It would probably be the one and only time he would get to beat the boy.  He was determined to make it hurt, to make it count, to purge his son’s guilt.  He would approach the beating as a solemn ritual, almost a religious rite.  There would be no telling off, no verbal correction.

With a sudden swish-crack the first stroke landed.  It had begun!  Peter’s first caning had begun!  The lad was excited but then the shock of the pain coursing through his body brought him to his senses.  The throbbing and burning in his bottom was awful, just awful!  He’d never experienced anything like it.

As a vicious second stroke landed, Peter wondered whether he’d made a mistake in volunteering for the caning.  The burn from that stroke was even worse in its intensity.  He couldn’t help but let out a loud groan.  Yes, he had definitely miscalculated.

Dad flexed the cane and sighed with contentment.  He’d never been on this end of the cane before and could now understand the appeal!  It really was gratifying to use.  The sound of the cane in use was terrific.  This time there was a more noticeable physical reaction as Peter’s pert bottom flinched with pain.  Soon, however, the son was sticking his bottom out submissively again, signalling that he was ready for the next onslaught.  Father was determined not to go easy.  A caning had to hurt, after all, didn’t it?

Another harsh stroke sliced into Peter’s buttocks.  He sighed and groaned heavily.  This was really too much!   Dad wasn’t so sure, though.  He admired his son’s striped bottom.  How gorgeous those red marks were!

It was time to add another red beauty.  The golden cane slashed down fiercely and bounced back ready for more action.  Peter was sniffing and shuffling, not quite crying, but clearly upset.

“Keep still, Peter.  It will all be over more quickly if you do,” his father said quietly.

After the sixth stroke, the boy made to get up.  His father was having none of it!  He pushed his lad back down roughly and then proceeded to give him four rapid fire strokes which had the lad gasping and writhing.

“Two more!”  Father announced, with some regret as his sadism was surfacing and demanding even more.  Peter was simultaneously relieved and anxious as the remaining tariff was announced.  It would make twelve cane strokes in all.  A harsh beating for a first timer.

The eleventh stroke hit home with a sickening crack.  It was the hardest stroke yet, as Father was still exploring his technique.  Peter yelped and then gasped like a naughty schoolboy.

“Last one, son.  Brace yourself!”

Peter did brace himself.  He gritted his teeth and did his best to clench his sore, sore buttocks together.  He was willing his father on, hoping for a rapid conclusion to his beating.  However, Peter’s father couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease his son by slicing the cane through the air several times, and making the boy wait.  It was deliciously sadistic making his son endure the waiting.  Peter was overcome with anticipation, willing the final stroke on.  When it came it fell a bit flat.  It wasn’t as hard as he’d expected.  Both men decided, independently, that there would have to be another caning, one with a more satisfactory ending.

Peter rose slowly, and his hands immediately sought to comfort his ravaged arse cheeks.   No amount of rubbing or kneading would make a significant difference as it had been a thorough punishment.  Slowly he pulled his white Y-fronts and blue jeans back up.  Peter’s father was enjoying the spectacle.  The two men smiled at each other and then father winked at his son.

“Room!” Dad commanded, pointing to the door with the crook-handled cane.

As Peter made his way up the stairs he felt a pleasant tingling in his penis, and a warm glow spreading all over his beaten bottom.  He would have to masturbate!

In the lounge, Peter’s father poured himself a stiff one.  He’d enjoyed dishing out that caning.  He resolved again that it would not be the last.  He rationalised this to himself by deciding that Peter would have benefited from his punishment.  Although a good lad in general, he would need further guidance in future.  Next time, Dad thought, he would have to make the young man’s bottom the same overall bright red as the Beach Buggy!  Oh yes!

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Peter’s mother returned from her meeting.  She was tired and thirsty, but decided to slump on the settee for a few minutes.  She was more than a little surprised to find that she was sat next to the old cane.  It rather looked as if the men of the household had worked something out.  Perhaps that was no bad thing?  Well, boys will be boys!

The cane had weaved more than one spell that evening.  Peter’s parents enjoyed a wild session in bed that night, their best for many a year.

 

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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Story © MMXIV by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved.

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Comments welcome – please use link at top of the story

Comments from the original 2014 post are here

Uncle’s Den (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!

“Marvels of miniature engineering, these.” My uncle coughed and wheezed as only a failed ex-smoker could.  The N-gauge locos sped around the track in the large room, known to all and sundry as “Uncle’s Den”.  There were bookcases of detective stories, railway and wildlife books.  A small collection of classical CDs filled another small bookcase. Talking of which, some jaunty baroque ensemble playing  could be heard when the trains weren’t drowning it out.

I looked around again and then did a double take. Strangely, on the back of the door hung a school cane. Of course I had to ask him about it.

“Oh that sweet old thing! That’s there as a deterrent.  One of my friends drives the trains too hard sometimes.  He really canes them.  If he causes a derailment, he gets a sound six of the best from me.  Seems fair.”

“You’re joking?”

“I’m not!”

“It hurts?”

“So I’m told.  Often quite loudly!”

“Where did it come from?”

“The jungles of Malaya, I should imagine.”

“No, no Uncle!  That’s not what I meant at all.  I mean, how did you come by it?”

“It must have been exported from Malaya to dear old Blighty at some stage.  Then, no doubt an Educational Supplies company must have cut it to size and steamed on the crook handle, and then sold it on to the school I worked at.”

“Wait!  You never told me you were a teacher.”

“You never asked!  I didn’t teach for long.  I didn’t have the knack or the calling for it.  So I only did three terms.  Almost a year.  That was enough.  That was enough.”

“Enough to convince you that you weren’t cut out for it?”

“No, no!  Enough for me to learn how to cane most effectively.”

“Oh wow!”

“Yes, and that cane is one of a handful I liberated when I left the profession.  The rest are under my bed.”

“You stole it?”

“No, I borrowed it and a few others, I like to think.  After all, abolition was nearing and the canes weren’t seeing nearly enough action.”

“Abolition?”

“Yes, abolition of corporal punishment by the Conservative government of the time.”

“The Tories?”

“Yes, that woman!  Don’t get me started.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Anyway, let me tell you a secret. Promise not to tell?  Well, my friend gets it bare.”

“Eh?”

“He gets the cane on his bare bottom.”

This revelation made me nervous. Clearly there was more to my mild-mannered uncle than I’d ever imagined.  I gazed into his brown, slightly bloodshot eyes, and could feel my face reddening with embarrassment.  It was hard to imagine this friendly, paunchy fellow as a strict disciplinarian.

Later that afternoon, I was playing trains with my uncle.  I’d forgotten what fun it could be, and yet after a good hour or so, a sense of devilment took me over and I cranked the controller well into the red.  The sad maroon diesel couldn’t cope, spinning off the tracks just by the points before the tunnel.

“My fucking Warship!  The pride of my hydraulic fleet!  You little bugger!  Ah well, it doesn’t look like there’s any damage.  But you can fetch me the bloody cane!  I’m going to damage your arse, all the same.”

Like a zombie, and shocked by his language, I walked towards the door.  I unhooked the cane from its resting place.  I’d expected it to feel like a serious combat weapon, but instead I was struck by its light featherweight form.

Uncle seemed really annoyed with me.  This meant trouble, of that I could be sure. He said, “Six of the very best for you!  We’ll do it here in the den,” and then his attitude softened momentarily, “After all, only the very naughtiest boys get to visit Uncle’s bedroom.”

I didn’t pay much attention to the meaning of those words, as I bent submissively over the back of a chair as instructed.  The whippy cane lashed down on my thin Adidas shell suit trousers.  They offered little protection from the burning sting of the stick.  A second stroke followed.  It was harsher, and yet somehow quite invigorating.  Uncle was certainly a master at this, I reflected as the unbridled agony of the third and fourth strokes hit me.  I was just recovering a bit when the fifth stroke landed, unleashing new waves of pain. The sixth stroke was late.  I think he was teasing me by delaying it.  I tried to focus on the baroque music, but it wasn’t easy to do as the throbbing in my arse consumed nearly all my attention.  Eventually the final stroke crashed down, seemingly re-awakening the weals from the earlier strokes.  The pain peaked and then rose again and again.

At home that night, I examined the six crisp lines adorning my bottom.  They looked angry and sore.  But that’s not how I felt.  The pain had been awful but it had been a real turn-on.  I masturbated several times in my bunk bed that night.  In the end, I fell asleep, drained of spunk and energy.  Then I awoke and after examining my bottom again, my right hand was soon gripping my cock for another frantic wank.

It was just a fortnight later that I found myself round at my uncle’s house again. We played with the model railway again, and then because of more reckless train driving we were suddenly teacher and pupil again!  This time, he insisted I dropped my trousers and pants for a bare bottom caning.  I loved it, and I’m pretty sure he did too. After all, I had a real peach of a teenage bottom.  He probably hadn’t seen anything quite like it in years!  This time as well as the six of the best, he awarded two extra strokes for ‘excessive wiggling and general disobedience.’  Now, they really hurt!

“Well, how was that, young Wayne?” he asked as he hung the cane back up.

I had to be honest with him, “Actually, although it hurt, I did quite enjoy it. Well, actually I enjoyed it a lot, I’m ashamed to say.”

“Aha!  It seems that we have a young masochist in our midst then, doesn’t it?  You enjoyed it, eh?  Tut, tut.  In that case, in future there’s no need to go crashing my expensive trains just to secure a sore bottom!  If you want a caning, just ask me for it.  Is that clear?”

“Yes, Uncle!  Perfectly clear!”

“Yes, good.  I’m sure we can find some other pretext for it.  Let’s see now, you’re nineteen, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.  Nineteen and a half, in fact.”

“In that case, I’m sure that every week I can cane you for excessive masturbation and dirty thoughts, can’t I?  Well, come on now, am I right or am I right?”

“You’re right, Uncle.  Of course,” I confessed.  In truth, wanking was my favourite pastime.  So it seemed that we had an understanding.  No longer would I have to cause trouble on the tracks to get my whacks!

 

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters and businesses 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 © MMXVII by Rod Cayenne

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

 

A Tale From The Toilet Seat (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Erotica by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2013. 

All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!

Maybe I shouldn’t have provoked him? It had been a good three years since he’d last caned me. Let’s see. Yes, I was just nineteen at the time. I’d been slacking at University and it had come to my father’s attention. Despite getting a full grant, I relied on my parents to help out financially as living in the city was really expensive.

It had been one of my ‘mates’ who’d told him. I never did find out which one shopped me, though there were a couple of prime suspects. I’d let slip to the gang that my father was a schoolteacher and a firm believer in the cane. They had obviously thought it was a laugh to grass me up. Still, it did buck up my ideas and I went on to achieve a respectable 2.1, better than some of the other gang members.

Well, here we were three years later. A dozen red raw cane stripes were decorating my bottom. They hurt me badly as I sat down on the toilet seat. I could have hovered, I suppose, but that would have been just too demeaning. The hot stripes throbbed on the cold, cold toilet seat.

I’d imagined fondly that my father would have thrown that beastly cane away, at least by the time I’d graduated. I was wrong! It had been hibernating in the extra-wide desk drawer it had always been kept in. He told me that he oiled it regularly with finest linseed oil. I thought that was a rather strange revelation, as I bent over the desk, lowering jeans and pants submissively. It was almost as if he’d been planning to use it in anger again. The beating when it came was hard, relentless and shaming.

So what had brought this on? Well, drink was to blame, no doubt about that. That and my own stupidity. I’d got up to use the bathroom at about 5 in the morning, and had left a Kleenex full of spunk on the side of the bath accidentally, instead of flushing it away. Fortunately, mother was on an overnight shift at the hospital, so the next person to use the bathroom was my father. Of course, he discovered my carelessness.

That fateful day he was ‘working from home’ in his study. He summoned me in and produced the offending item, which had pretty much dried out by then. He held it in a pair of tweezers as if it was infected, or some piece of forensic evidence. He made me feel so ashamed.

“What on earth would have happened if your mother had found this?” he asked. “She might have thought I’d been jacking off in the bathroom when all along it was yours!”

It was a good point. I hadn’t left it on purpose, of course. In fact, I’d been so drunk while I was masturbating that I was surprised I’d been able to cum at all. Anyway, his face was red with anger, and mine was red with embarrassment.

“It’s time you got yourself a nice girlfriend and settled down, instead of playing with yourself like some teenager. Now then Vincent, what are you going to do to make it up to me?” Dad had asked. He wasn’t angling, I think. It was a kind of rhetorical question. I could tell that he was annoyed with me, as that was the only time he ever used my unabbreviated name.

Somewhat foolishly, and still hungover, I’d said to him, “It’s a shame you don’t have a cane any more. That would have cleared the air.” It must have been the association of his study with past canings that had made me blurt this out.

It was just at that time that he produced the old cane from its hiding place. My jaw dropped as he said, “What a good idea!”

My fate was sealed. It had been a long time. He swished the cane menacingly but with a big grin on his face. Right then, I’d like to have slapped it, but I was the one in for a stinging caress. It was almost as if he was going to enjoy it! When I was a lad, he’d always carried out my beatings with the most grim of expressions. Now, there was a sickening grin, which was even more humiliating, strangely enough. It was as if he’d trapped me, but in truth my downfall was all my own fault.

The dozen strokes he dished out hurt like hell. It was the most savage beating I’d ever had from him. Maybe he’d decided to make it harder to cut through my hangover and make a real impression? Believe me, twelve vicious strokes was ample! However, as I sat on the white plastic toilet seat a little later, a not unpleasant glow spread around my buttocks. Perhaps it hadn’t been so bad after all? In fact, perhaps it had been a little bit pleasurable? My cock stirred and forced itself into my waiting hand. Yes, I told myself, it hadn’t been too bad, and it was a bit of a turn-on! As I wanked away, I promised myself I’d get another caning off him. If all else failed, I could always leave another Kleenex in the bathroom to secure some more discipline! My mind was racing, and I resolved to talk to him. I left it until the following day, just to be sure my feelings hadn’t been clouded by the hangover.

He was in his study, packing his briefcase. Obviously, that day he was going to be heading to his city office at some stage.

“Dad, we need to talk. Thank you for caning me yesterday. It was embarrassing and it really hurt me, but I deserved it for being so stupid and so, so thoughtless. I don’t want you to feel guilty or to worry that I’m too old for discipline. My friend Joe still gets it from his father and he’s twenty-five!” Of course, what my father didn’t know was that my friend was a figment of my imagination.

Dad didn’t seem to mind my suggestion at all, as that grin of his reappeared.

“I understand, son. At least, I think I do. So that gives me three years or so to knock you into shape, then?” he laughed.

I nodded. He leant back in his chair, opened a drawer and pulled something out.  He placed it on the tooled leather top of the desk. It wasn’t the cane though. It was a can of linseed oil.

 

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Story © MMXIII 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 – please use link at top of story

The Heavens Cry Out For The Return Of The Cane (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

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

It was the middle of the Harvest Festival celebrations in the sleepy village.  Sun streamed in through the church’s ancient stained glass windows.  The intoxicating aromas of incense and the festival flowers wafted all around the building. The balding vicar peered over the golden eagle lectern, tapping the microphone to make sure that it was working, and to get the congregation’s attention.  Unfortunately, he accidentally gave the mike a harder swipe too, and after a howl of feedback it stopped working all together.  Blast! That’s what comes of having a sherry or two so early in the day, he thought.  He would now have to shout out his sermon, aided only by the boomy, resonant acoustics of the historic Norman church.

“Today I wish to address the important issue of discipline.  Personal discipline, and resisting devilment and base urges to misbehave.  Family discipline, self-discipline, respect, behaviour…”  On and on he droned, “The bible is quite clear on this matter…We must never spare the rod…Although one must regret any institutional brutality, who here does not agree that society is missing the undeniable benefits of the crack of the leather, birch and cane?”

Murmurs of hearty agreement emerged from the unusually healthy numbers of men in the congregation.  The regular prim and frumpy ladies nodded affirmatively too.

“In short…” he continued at length, “It is God’s way.  The will of our good, good Lord.  Verily, the Lord demands it.  The heavens cry out for the return of the cane!  The wrath of God’s almighty hand!  Hymn number 364, ‘We Plough the Fields and Scatter.'”

Later on, at lunchtime in “The Shepherd’s Rest”, the vicar was accosted by Bernie Smith, one of the congregation that day.  Bernie was universally popular and a famous local businessman.  He tugged at the vicar’s sleeve, saying, “Can I get you a little something Vicar? I enjoyed your sermon today, very thought-provoking.”

“Really?  Thought-provoking?  High praise indeed!  That doesn’t happen often.  Bless me, no.  Thank you, I’ll have a sherry, please.”

“Yes, my pleasure.  A sherry for the vicar, please landlord.  And make it a big one please.  Anyway, back to your sermon.  It was about what you appeared to be advocating.  I was wondering whether you thought my 21-year-old was too old for a taste of discipline?  The little bugger swore at me.  The C word.”

“Oh bless me!” said the vicar, ignoring the businessman’s use of the B word, “How very awful for you.  Too old?  Good Lord, no!  It sounds to me like that lad needs a jolly sound caning.”

“Really, do you think so?  Really?  Still, it must be hard to find a cane these days.  I suppose a riding crop…”

“Actually, they’re not so hard to find.  The beauty of a good rattan cane is that it will last and last for years and years.  Years and years of tears, a less charitable fellow might say.  Let me let you into a dirty little secret of mine.  You see, I have a fine collection of canes left from the days when choristers were kept firmly in line.  The canes are still in good shape and very serviceable.  In fact, they don’t get nearly enough use nowadays.  Why not bring your boy round tomorrow and we’ll see if together we can’t knock some sense into him.  I’m in all day.”

“Are you sure, vicar?  I mean, are you suggesting that you’ll give him a hard caning for me?”

“Well no, I think we should both give him a good caning.  But we do need to be very careful in this day and age.  What I suggest is that I give him a stern telling off, and a bit of the old hellfire stuff as well, so that he actually asks for a caning himself.  I’m sure the good Lord would approve of some swift retribution.  In a merciful way, of course.”

“Of course.”

“We’ll do it and you can see what you think.  Whether it’s effective on not.  But surely, you’ll find it’s the former, yes, you’ll soon agree that a caning is most effective, I’m sure.”

So it was that on the very next day that father and son found themselves seated on the visitors’ side of the vicar’s desk in his dusty old study.  On the desk laid a whippy rattan cane, its artisan-crafted crook handle and beautiful finish clearly indicating that this was no garden item.

“So, swearing and disrepect, was it?  I hope I’ve made my displeasure clear.  Can you suggest a way to make amends for your awful behaviour, Larry?” asked the vicar as he picked up and then flexed the cane with his bony hands.

“You’re not suggesting…” said Larry, his voice trailing off with disbelief as he stared at the cane being flexed right before his very eyes, “But it’s 2016, no-one gets caned these days. Not the cane.  Not the cane.”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Larry.  You are the one that’s been wholly abusive to your dear, loving father.  The guilt is all yours.  It’s up to you to offer suitable penance.  The cane would seem to fit the bill, as I see it.  Now, what’s it to be, sonny?”

“Not the cane.”

“Yes, the cane!”

“Alright, alright!  I give in.  Maybe you’re right.  Perhaps I do deserve it.  You can do it if you must.  You won’t tell anyone else will you?”

“No, it will just be the three of us who know.”

“And not too hard!” demanded Larry.

“A caning has to be hard to be a real penance.  But I’m a merciful man, so six of the best should suffice.  Let’s get this over with,” the vicar sighed before barking, “Bend over the desk!  NOW!”

Bernie Smith pushed his chair back a few feet as his son duly draped himself over the vicar’s desk.  From his new position, Bernie would have a prime view of the imminent punishment.

“Stick your bottom out for the cane!” ordered the vicar.  The first stroke sliced down rapidly.  The pain soon hit young Larry, who for the life of him couldn’t believe the resulting heat and agony.  Despite this he managed to keep quiet and still.

The second stroke was harder and showed real determination from the vicar.  Larry cried out with shock, and the pain seemed to multiply, adding a vicious bite on top of the first stroke.

The third stroke was the killer.  It cracked down noisily, causing Larry to yelp and leap up clutching at his throbbing, scorched arse cheeks.

“Get back down!  Right now!” It was the vicar making the demands now.  “Your father will take over now.  I will make myself scarce as I believe he may wish you to drop your trousers and underwear for that little infringement.  I’ve no wish to see your flesh.”

“What?”

“Yes, bare I’m afraid,” Bernie informed his son.  The vicar for once was telling it like it was.  He only liked the most smooth, hairless bottoms and he felt sure Larry’s would be a disgusting, hairy specimen.  With the vicar out of the way, it was Bernie’s turn to make the demands.  “I SAID BARE!” he shouted.  Larry hurried to comply, pushing his chinos and briefs right down to his ankles.

The cane felt funny in Bernie’s hands.  He swiped it through the air, enjoying both the sound and the menace it promised.  The cane was so light and supple and it seemed like it could almost be gentle.  But stroke four soon disabused both father and son of any such notion.  Bernie sliced the cane down even harder than the experienced disciplinarian vicar had done.  The resultant thwhack sound was most gratifying, although Bernie was less pleased when his son exclaimed, “Fuckin’ Hell!” (for it was truly a cane stroke from Hell).

A fifth stroke was delivered with the same skill and determination, and rather more physical effort.  “Arrrghh Shit!” exclaimed Larry as the pain hit.

Stroke six crashed down almost immediately afterwards, accompanied by Larry shooting up from the desk, muttering “Fuck, fuck fuck!” and rubbing frantically at the wounded area.

Bernie Smith pushed his son back down over the desk, “You clearly haven’t learnt your lesson yet, Larry.  You are still swearing, and here in the good vicar’s house too!  I’m giving you three more strokes as a penalty!”

“No Dad, please!”

At that moment the vicar strolled back in, somewhat surprised to see Larry’s naked buttocks still being displayed.  “Oh sorry!  I thought you’d finished as I felt sure I’d heard three more strokes.”

“You did, but he’s been swearing again, vicar.  So he needs to learn the hard way, I’d say.  I’m giving him three more strokes.”

“Oh, I see.  Well, in the circumstances, you do seem to be doing the right thing.  I’d better go.”

“No, I’d be grateful if you’d stay vicar.”

The vicar stayed on, as invited.  How he studied Larry’s pert arse!  Six red cane lines adorned the flesh.  And the bottom on display was much more delightful than he’d imagined, with hardly a hair in sight.  That B word from the previous day crossed his mind, for some reason.  He watched avidly as young Larry raised his bottom submissively, ready for a first encore courtesy of the rattan cane.

This time, his father tapped the cane on the bottom playfully before raising the rod high.  The cane thrashed down viciously.  Larry squirmed but remained silent.  He would not swear!  Or curse!  Or sigh!  He would take it like a man, he resolved.  If he could!

A second encore landed in exactly the same place, and this time the young man could not help but squeal in helpless abandon.

The final stroke cracked home with absolute authority and absolutely no mercy.  It was over.  Larry gasped a “Thank you,” as he gently raised himself from the desk.  He pulled his stripey briefs over his striped arse, and the the buff chinos followed.

“Well done, good man!” the vicar said.  In a mistaken moment, young Larry thought he was talking to him to start with.  But it was his father being congratulated with a hearty handshake and slap on the back.  The vicar reached across to his sherry decanter and poured a stiff one for himself and one for Larry’s father.

“I’m so grateful, vicar.  What a wonderful thing that cane is.  Truly a blessing.”

“Yes indeed.  I’d like you to keep that cane.  Keep it at home, displayed prominently.  Now, for it I only ask a small donation towards the church roof appeal fund.”

Mr Smith duly produced a crisp note from his moth-proof wallet.

“Oh no, my good man, not that small a donation!” the vicar exclaimed and winked slyly at the businessman.  The donation was duly augmented and the sherries were downed in celebration of a most successful time.  “Make sure you get your money’s worth, now.  Don’t spare the rod!”  The vicar beamed as he eventually saw his guests off the premises.

“Oh, you’ve no worries there, Vicar.  I will get every last penny’s worth.”

Larry was dismayed.  Obviously the cane would see more use if he wasn’t very, very careful.  How embarrassed he was to walk back through the village with his cane-bearing father and with a throbbing arse.  He rubbed and rubbed at his sore bottom and resolved to never, ever swear again.  Despite this, he felt he had to pull a sulk, moaning to his father, “I don’t wanna see that fusty, musty old fool ever again!”

“You should have more respect for him after today’s events!  Anyway, you won’t need to see him again now that I have this wonderful cane.  I really don’t know how I managed without one before.  It is truly a gift from God,”  Bernie chuckled and resolved to himself that from now on he would cut his son absolutely no slack at all.  The cane would reinforce this resolution.  He decided to place the cane on the dresser on the landing.  That way his son would see the cane every single time he left his bedroom, whether to go to the toilet or bathroom or just to go downstairs.  The threat of the cane would be there all the time.

(__________

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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Story © MMXVII by Rod Cayenne

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

The Boss’s Son (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot and brand spanking new fiction by very special guest author Charles Hamilton the Second .  This story is currently exclusive to The Canery!  All the characters are aged 18 or over.

The boss’s son

By Charles Hamilton II

People round here think because I’m the boss’s son I’ve got it made. In a year or so I’ll be on the Board and raking in the profits from all their hard work. I wish it were true. If they only knew the half of it.

Dad is a self-made man. He worked from the age of fourteen on a barrow in the street market and hauled himself up by his bootstraps. Or, so he’s always telling me. But the past is a foreign country; you couldn’t do something like that today. The self-made men (and women) of today are all sitting at computer screens.

Dad does want me to be part of the business, but I have to work my way up from the bottom. And, funnily enough that’s literally what’s happening to me.

I confess, I am not the hardest worker in the world. It’s nothing to do with having a wealthy dad, I would be lazy if my old man worked at Tesco’s. Dad knows this and when he set me to work at one of the regional offices of his global empire, he gave the guy who was to be my local boss strict instructions.

I had to stand there in the office and listen when dad told Mr. Furlong, “If he’s any trouble. Any trouble at all. I want you to take him across your knee and spank his backside for him. Hard.” Mr. Furlong’s face lit up and he cracked a broad smile. “I’m not joking, man,” my dad barked. “I mean it. I’ll be checking. If he doesn’t buck his ideas up and make some improvements with himself, I’ll know who to blame.” His eyes darkened. He was a hard taskmaster. Mr. Furlong knew exactly what dad meant – his job was on the line.

I was set to work doing routine tasks in the purchasing department, chasing orders and such like. Tedious. I couldn’t concentrate and spent a lot of my time skiving out of the office. I’ve always been like this. Whenever I could I avoided work; even at school. I had to get a lot of help with my A-level coursework or else I’d never have passed the exams.

I worked at a large industrial plant set over several acres, and it was very easy to find places to skive away from work. One trick I devised was to lie to my supervisor that I had been asked to run a message for one of the bosses and then disappear for an hour or so. There were many places to hide. A favourite I and lazy juniors hung out at was a disused basement room. Nobody ever went near the place, so we were undisturbed smoking cigarettes and reading sports magazines.

It was a different kind of magazine that got me into trouble. I was at another of my hiding places; a piece of open ground behind the main administration centre. Well let’s just say I have no self-control and overcome by the pictures of naked bodies in the magazine, I soon had the front of my trousers open and worked away at my todger until I came.

Only later in the day, did I learn the horrible truth. Every gasp and grunt had been filmed on a closed-circuit television camera. It was George, the security guard, who told me. “So, laddie, do you want this uploaded to YouTube for everyone to see?”

I crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath. George, fearing I was having a fit rushed to the phone and called the medical emergency number. Minutes later I was in the sick bay; calm now. It was only a panic attack the nurse assured me. I would be all right now, she said. But she was wrong.

As I sat sipping hot sweet tea, Mr. Furlong strode down the corridor in a fury, clutching a thick heavy ruler in his fist. He barged into the medical room. I mistook the look of anger on his face for one of concern. “It’s all right Mr. Furlong. I’m fine. It was nothing,” I chirruped.

Mr. Furlong’s face glowered dark red. “It is not all right and it is not fine!” he blasted. George had told him everything. In detail and with great relish.

“What a tosser! Hah! Hah! Hah!” he had guffawed. “Trousers round his knees! Wanking away! Too stupid even to see the camera. Hah! Hah! Hah!”

“You come with me!” I was startled by Mr. Furlong’s ferocity. “Now!”

Alarmed and uncertain about what was happening, I remained seated.

“I said…” Mr. Furlong did not finish his sentence. He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me from the room. Then prodding me all the time in the back, he frog-marched me down the corridor.

Within seconds he pushed me through the door of an empty office. We stood facing one another, each breathing heavily.

“You … you …” Mr. Furlong could not quite find the words. Eventually, he regained his power of speech. I was a moron, he told me, masturbating at work, in front of the camera. Did I not realise how he had made a fool of myself? More than that: everyone knew he was the boss’s son; and I had made Mr. Furlong look a complete

As his temper grew and the pitch of his voice rose, he brandished the heavy ruler in my face.

“You know what your father instructed me to do.” He was sweating heavily, although the room was quite cold. “What do you think he will say when he hears about this?”

God no! He must never find out. Nor must my older brother Kevin; I’d never hear the end of it.

“You know what!” Mr. Furlong was becoming increasingly hysterical. “I’m going to give you the hiding of your life!”

I gaped. Had dad really been serious when he said Mr. Furlong should throw me across his knee and spank my bum? “But … but… you can’t,” I started to protest, but words failed me.

Mr. Furlong looked around the room, eyes searching for something. Then he found it. A heavy office chair with no arms and a straight back. “This will do perfectly,” he seemed to be talking to himself. He walked the length of the office and picked up the chair. It was quite a weight but he manoeuvred it into an open space. He stared wild-eyed across the room at me. “Come here,” he brandished the ruler and when I stayed rooted to the spot, he barked, “Now!”

Mr. Furlong was probably in his forties. He was not yet middle aged, but he was on the slide. His hair was thinning and his waist thickening. He wore a conventional business suit and I could see his belly hung over his belt. He waved the ruler once more. “Get here, now.”

We stared at one another for ages. I was starting to panic. Could I make a break for the door and run for it? I seriously considered it; but I also knew the reality of my situation. Dad had given Mr. Furlong his instructions and had made darned sure that I knew my boss was in total charge of me. If Mr. Furlong said I must be spanked than spanked I assuredly would be.

Mr. Furlong smacked the ruler into his left hand. “Now, I think we should get started. I haven’t got all day. Some of us have got work to do.”

I could not take my eyes from the ruler that at any moment would smack into my buttocks. It was a solid piece of wood, twelve inches long and about an inch wide. It was maybe a quarter-inch thick. It could pack a wallop, but surely with my trousers and pants on, I’d hardly feel a thing. It was absurd that a twenty-year-old man was being ordered to take a spanking, but I resolved not to make a fuss. If I didn’t take my medicine now there would be hell to pay when dad found out.

I slouched across the room and stood by Mr. Furlong. He sat on the chair and spread his legs a little. His thighs were flabby and as I stared down at them I found myself thinking what a perfect platform they would make for my prostrated body. He tapped his left palm with the ruler. It seemed we were ready to go. I started to lean forward to bend over his knees.

“Not so fast, Buster,” Mr. Furlong pushed me so I was forced to resume a standing position. My quizzical look got an immediate answer. “Trousers down. Pants too.”

I am sure my face reddened; both with shock and embarrassment. Go over his knees for a bare-bottomed spanking. Me, a twenty-year-old man. Could you imagine such a thing? My mouth dried and my temples started to throb. I was aware of blood rushing through my whole body. It was getting a little difficult to breath properly.

Mr. Furlong sneered, “Come on, laddie. Trousers down.” The look of contempt on his face turned to something quite different. It took me a second or two to decipher. He was enjoying this.

I closed my eyes tight and tried to pretend this wasn’t happening. It was all a dream. I had to go through with this, that was for certain. Even though I despised the old man sitting in front of me clutching a wooden ruler in his fist, I had absolutely no choice but to submit myself to him. My hands trembled as I gripped the buckle of my belt and unfastened it. Soon fumbling fingers had loosened the trousers of my smartly-tailored suit. Once I opened them and let go they fell at speed to the floor. The tail of my shirt covered most of my boxer shorts.

“Those too,” Mr. Furlong nodded at my underwear. “And be quick about it,” he rasped.

I hitched my thumbs into the waistband of the shorts and pushed them towards my feet. I was thankful that the shirt hid most of my manhood.

“Lift up your shirt,” Mr. Furlong face contorted. I’m certain he smirked when he saw my expression of horror. “Away from the buttocks, c’mon now.”

With shaking hands, I lifted the rich cotton shirt an inch or two higher.

“Doh!” Mr. Furlong spat as he slapped my hands away and grabbed my shirt and lifted it to half way up my stomach. Then, with great strength he pushed me in the small of the back until I toppled forward. I had to quickly take evasive action with my arms to stop me crashing into the hard, wooden floor.

I was winded by the unexpected ferocity of Mr. Furlong’s action. As I caught my breath, he tucked my shirt further up my back, ensuring my bared buttocks were now fully exposed. I felt him “saw” the wooden ruler across the centre of my bum. He was getting his aim. Then the ruler flew through the air in a wide arc to land with a resounding crack across my bum. My buttocks wobbled with the impact and then clenched and spasmed. The ruler was a surprisingly fearsome weapon and I couldn’t help myself groaning as the stinging pain travelled from my rear down the back of my legs.

With each painful swipe, my legs jumped and my feet kicked. My buttocks rolled slowly from side to side, clenching and writhing as the heavy wood turned my white creamy round buttock cheeks into a mass of painful stripes.

Apart from a few noisy gasps, I did not cry out at first, but as swipe after swipe connected with my bottom, I could control myself no longer. Tears flowed down my face and my sharp yelps turned to full-throated yells as my bum become red and swollen. I clung to the leg of the chair for dear life. Some instinct told him I had to suffer this. I must take everything Mr. Furlong had in store for me. No matter what, I needed to get through this. Somewhere deep inside myself I knew I had screwed up royally and I deserved all that I was getting.

I wasn’t counting the strokes. Mr. Furlong whacked the heavy ruler into my bare buttocks over and over again until every square inch of the flesh was covered by thin welts. He went from the top of the cheeks where they meet the spine, across both fleshy globes and into the under curves, the sensitive sit-spot where the buttocks and the thighs met.

My tears flowed freely and snot covered my mouth and chin. I was sobbing uncontrollably, but still I hung on to the chair.

When there was no flesh unscathed by the ruler, Mr. Furlong stopped.

“Up!” It was a curt command. I was engulfed with pain. I jumped up and did a merry dance, hopping around and rubbing my bottom, very conscious that my cock was flopping up and down in front of Mr. Furlong’s face. He was unable to resist staring at it. I don’t blame him – it is a whopper.

I pulled my trousers and shorts up while Mr. Furlong waited patiently. I was in control of myself now. I had stopped crying and my breathing was easier.

Mr. Furlong looked at his watch like he needed to be somewhere important. Without saying a word, he left, leaving me to nurse my swollen buttocks. I couldn’t return to my work station. Not yet. I still had important work to do. I had to find George, the security guard, and get that CCTV recording.

He seemed to know – or to have guessed – that Mr. Furlong had given me a seeing too. He oozed smugness. He would let me have the recording on one condition.

“No,” I replied a little too haughtily. “I don’t do deals with security guards.”

“Hah,” he snorted dismissing me as if I were something he had found on the sole of his shoe. “Please yourself. Enjoy watching YouTube.”

He had a point. Okay, I had to concede. What was his condition?

“Simple,” he started to unbuckle his wide leather belt. “Trousers, pants down. Bend over the chair.”

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

http://charleshamiltonthesecond.wordpress.com/

Story © 2017 by Charles Hamilton the Second, used here by very kind permission of the author.

Photo © 2013 by Jonathan, R.I.P.   Model: Rod

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are over 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Comments welcome!

Please use comments link at top of story

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are at www.charleshamiltonthesecond.wordpress.com

Remembering The Spanking Vicar (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot and brand spanking new fiction by very special guest author Charles Hamilton the Second .  This story is currently exclusive to The Canery!  All the characters are aged 18 or over.

Remembering the spanking vicar

By Charles Hamilton II

It happened forty years ago. Forty years; I can scarcely believe it. Almost to the day too. It could never happen today. The world is an entirely different place. Even as I start to write this down I wonder if it really happened. Was it just a dream?

I wasn’t quite twenty-one years old and I was studying for a business degree. We had to spend an entire year working in industry and my college sent me to a small company in a town not far from London. I needed somewhere to live and digs were hard to come by, but a colleague called Simon said he knew of a place in a village nearby where they could give me a room.

Was there a glint of devilment in his eye when he told me this? I can’t be certain, but later I was damned sure he knew more than he was letting on.

We drove to a small village about four or five miles into the countryside. It was a typical English village of the time; a shop, two pubs and a church. The church came with a vicarage attached. It was a large rambling pile and far too big for the vicar to live there on his own. I’ll call him Rev. Jones, because, in fact, that was his name. He was well into his fifties at the time and I know he shuffled off to meet his maker some years ago (so I’m safe from the lawyers).

He was a large man, tall and despite advancing years he stood like a ram-rod. He had once captained his county at rugby union, apparently, and was still as strong as an ox. The afternoon Simon and I arrived, he was busy in the kitchen baking bread if the aroma that wafted throughout the house was any clue. He left us in a room he called his study while he went and turned the oven down or what not.

It was an imposing room; bookcases lined two walls and an open and unlit fire dominated another. The fourth wall was an impressive glass sliding door that opened out into a well-mown law and flower beds.

I perched on the edge of a large leather Chesterfield couch. I had never been in such a room. I had been brought up in a small council flat in London and had lived in a tiny room in the students’ halls of residence since going to the polytechnic. Simon, who I knew to be a former public school man, strode the room as if he owned it, peering at the books.

A broad smile split his face and he plucked a volume from a shelf. He was about to tell me about his find when the door flew open and Rev. Jones strode in. Sheepishly, like a small boy discovered with his fist in the cookie jar, Simon replaced the book.

“Well Richard,” Rev. Jones picked up his jacket from the back of a chair and struggled into it as he spoke, “You probably know that Andrew, another boy who worked at ______, lodged here,” I nodded agreement, although it was the first I had heard of this.

“Yes, a very good boy was Andrew,” Rev. Jones seemed wistful, “I rather miss him …” he trailed off.

He sat in a plush leather chair opposite me and stretched his legs wide. The armchair seemed dwarfed by his size. He told me about the house and the other two lads who were also his tenants. I hardly heard a word, I was mesmerised by the reverend’s deep blue eyes, peering at me over the top of his half-moon glasses. I could imagine him as a schoolmaster quelling twenty-five noisy boys with a single glare.

“Well, Richard,” he leaned forward and grasped my knee and held his hand there for what seemed an eternity. “Shall I give you the grand tour?” He climbed from the chair, flexed his shoulders and headed for the door, fully expecting me to trot along at his heels.

“Well, Richard, this is the kitchen …” He had the annoying habit of calling me by name at the start of nearly every sentence. “Richard this; Richard that.” I had told him when I telephoned for an appointment that my name was Ricky. I hated being called Richard. I thought Ricky made me sound more interesting. More American, perhaps.

We toured the house, the room that could be mine was huge. The rent was low. A match if I might venture to say so, made in Heaven. I agreed to move in the following day. Simon, I noticed, beamed brightly when I announced my decision.

My two housemates were at the door to greet me when I arrived. Ian was my own age and worked in a bank in town. Colm was a year or so younger and a labourer on a nearby farm.

“He’s alright when you get used to his ways,” Colm ventured an unsolicited opinion.

Ian blushed deeply.

“Just don’t break the rules, thas-sall,” Colm said as he disappeared up the stairs carrying one of my suitcases, leaving me standing in the hallway a little puzzled at his remark.

The very next day I got more than an inkling of what he meant.

We had breakfasted and I was heading back to my room when I heard a strange thud noise. I paused and sniffed the air. Thud. There is was again. It seemed to be coming from the study. Thud. This time followed by a slow hissing sound, rather like a snake.

Intrigued, I moved closer to the study. The door was slightly ajar. Thud. Thud. Thud. I could contain my curiosity no longer, so I inched it open. I can’t be sure if my mouth did literally gape wide open. If not literally, then at least figuratively. I had never seen anything remotely like it before in my life.

My new pal Ian was dressed in a white singlet and tight red football shorts. He was bent across the back of a straight-backed wooden chair. I had the perfect view of his muscular buttocks as Rev. Jones whacked what looked like a block of wood into them with some vigour. The teenager winced each time the punishment paddle connected with his bum. Air escaped his tightly closed mouth, but other than that he made no sound.

I counted a further three swipes before the vicar commanded, “You may stand,” and Ian shot to his feet. He turned and faced Rev. Jones. I saw his face was scarlet (I bet his bum was too) and his hair was wringing in sweat. I could tell he desperately wanted to rub away the sting from his buttocks but he was too proud to show he was hurt.

Suddenly, he looked over the vicar’s shoulder and saw me standing at the door. The vicar saw his look of humiliation and swivelled on his feet to see what had caused it.

“Richard!” he trilled. I didn’t wait to hear more. I turned on my heels and didn’t stop running until I was a hundred yards from the vicarage.

All day I couldn’t figure it out. What had I seen? Ian had allowed the vicar to spank his backside with a paddle – very hard indeed. Why? What had he done to deserve that? What right did the vicar have to whack him?

I couldn’t get the image of Ian submissively bent across the chair in very tight shorts and gleaming white singlet; his muscular buttocks absorbing the sting of the paddle.

Instinctively, I knew I had not heard the last of this. Rev. Jones was wild when he saw me snooping. I would have to answer to him when I returned to the vicarage that evening.

Simon came to my office, “How are you getting on with the vicar?” a Cheshire cat could not have grinned so widely. That was when I realised that he knew. Had he set me up? I never found out, since Simon left the company that week to return to his own studies and I never saw nor heard from him again.

Of course, Rev. Jones was ready to pounce the moment I walked through the door.

“My study. Now,” he snapped.

He made me stand on the carpet and he sat behind a rather grand desk. I felt every inch the naughty schoolboy up before the headmaster. His blue eyes stabbed me. All rational thought drained. I couldn’t hear the words he spoke, my heart thumped like it wanted to escape through my chest.

His voice wafted through the room as if they were part of a rather poor shortwave radio broadcast. I caught something about rules and there was a little about setting objectives. Rev. Jones stood and walked from behind his desk until he stood directly in front of me. I could smell stale tobacco on his breath.

Another voice spoke. I was astounded when I realised it was my own. “I was late back to work at lunchtime,” I was saying, “I stayed too long at the pub.” There was a hanging silence. I filled the void, “I do it quite often.”

His penetrating eyes narrowed perceptively. “I see Richard. This will not do at all.”

He moved across the room and picked up the chair I had seen Ian bent across that morning. While he did this, I tried to fathom why I had told him such a silly lie.

He put the chair down in the centre of the room. Then, without saying a word, he sat down and spread his legs wide. Instinctively, my eyes went to his crotch. I was no connoisseur of men’s cocks, but even hidden under a generous layer of cloth, his seemed larger than average.

He gestured that I should stand directly in front of him. I did.

“Richard, put your hands on your head.” I did that too.

He reached forward and expertly unbuckled the wide leather belt around my waist. We wore enormously-flared trousers with high waistbands in those days. He had to undo six buttons before the front of my trousers flapped open. This gave me more than enough time to punch him in the mouth and make my escape.

I did no such thing. I stared over his left shoulder at the bookcase behind him. I saw the book Simon had found the other day. My eyesight was good when I was twenty-one. I could read the title, “The history of corporal punishment.”

I felt a draught against my thighs when the vicar pulled my trousers to my knees. The weight of the belt and gravity took them to nestle in a puddle over my platform shoes. Still, I gazed at the bookcase. I had no courage to look my punisher in the face.

He spoke no words. What was there for him to say? I knew what he was intending to do. I knew also that I could prevent it at any moment. I was twenty-one and he was an old man. True, he was strong, but I needn’t look to beat him to a pulp. All I had to do was pull my trousers up and run from the house.

I gasped audibly when he took hold of my mustard-coloured briefs and gently pulled them down. My cock flipped over the elasticated waistband. I remember, even after forty years, that absurdly I wondered how much smaller my dick must be compared to Rev. Jones’.

“Richard,” the vicar spoke gently, “Bend over my knee.”

Of course, I hesitated.

“Richard, please do as you are told.” He spoke more sternly now. It was important to him that I show my subservience. I must in effect say, “Yes please Rev. Jones. Punish me. I have been a naughty boy. I deserve to be spanked by you.”

I said none of these things. Instead, I took up position a yard from the vicar’s right thigh and gently lowered myself across his lap. I had never been spanked before, nor had I seen it happen to anyone else, but I suppose some kind of instinct took over from me. Was it primeval? Do all young men by nature know how to be submissive to an older man?

I stretched my hands in front of me and placed my hands palms down into the thick pile carpet. My shoes had five-inch heels and a two-inch sole and felt remarkably heavy as my legs dangled in mid-air. My bare bottom was raised across Rev. Jones’ thigh. It was, I was soon to learn, in a perfect position to receive the punishment he intended to deliver.

He took the tail of my shirt and calmly folded it once, then twice, so that it was clear of his target area. I felt his palm caress my right cheek. My buttocks clenched. It was a reflex action. He smacked me gently.

“Richard, relax,” he purred.

I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was headed for unchartered territory. I had no notion what to expect. I was bent across an older man’s knee, bare-arsed. He could see right into my crack and up my hole, if the mood took him. Is it possible for a young man to be in a more humiliating position?

He cupped his palm and petted and patted both cheeks. When he was done doing that, he turned his attention to the backs of my bare thighs. It was surprisingly soothing.

What happened next was far from that. A searing storm of spanks thundered into my bum at great force and high speed. Within seconds not a square inch of flesh was left untenderized. He whizzed across the peaks of my mounds, into the most sensitive under-curves and across the top near the spine. Over and over and over again.

I twisted and turned this way and that. My legs kicked out behind me. It was like I was trying to swim away from his lap. He gripped my middle with his left arm and with his right hand he continued his assault.

At first my bum felt warm, rosy even. But, that glow quickly intensified into hot throbbing. I felt like I had sat in a bath of too-hot water. My flesh was scolding.

My hair was drenched with sweat, blood rushed through my body; my ears hurt so badly I was sure the drums would burst.

I have no idea how long the spanking continued. Looking back, I don’t suppose it was more than a minute or two: his hand must surely have been hurting as much as my bum. To me it felt like hours. At last he stopped. He released his grip on my body and I slithered from his knees onto the floor. I was winded, but in seconds I had scrambled to my feet and tugged my pants and trousers up. I daren’t look at the vicar and concentrated on getting all the buttons in place.

It took an age. While I did this, Rev. Jones lectured me.

“Richard, I hope you understand why I felt the need to punish you.”

I truly did not, but felt it wise not to argue the point.

“Richard,” he continued as I stared intently at my feet, “I am sure that I can help you to become a fine young man. But, you need to learn to obey the rules. If you are unable to do so. You must be punished.”

The pain in my bum had almost completely vanished by now. My head was clearing. I just wanted to get out of that study.

“Richard,” the vicar was about to finish. “I hope you feel able to accept my rules and I would very much like you to stay. But, if you cannot, then I’m afraid you must leave the vicarage.”

I nodded sagely and without a word, I returned to my room.

I sent much of the next year admiring at close quarters the carpet in the vicar’s study and sniffing the leather of his Chesterfield couch; I suppose you would have to conclude that I wasn’t very good at obeying the rules.

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

http://charleshamiltonthesecond.wordpress.com/

Story © 2017 by Charles Hamilton the Second, used here by very kind permission of the author.

Photo © 2013 by Jonathan, R.I.P.   Model: Rod

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are over 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Comments welcome!

Please use comments link at top of story

The Quest For A Bigger Penis (M/M) repeat

Explicit fiction entertainment by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2013.  Adults only.

I knew I was in big trouble as soon as Dad called me into his little office. He stood there with one of his many canes in his hands. I gulped with fear, for I had never been able to take his canings stoically. No, there were always tears, cries and desperate pleading and wriggling under the lash of the cane. I had hoped now that I’d turned eighteen, that the canes might be retired. It seemed not.

“Peter, you were sick in bed this morning. You hadn’t been drinking again, I hope?”

“No Dad. Sorry. It was nothing like that.”

“Good! Otherwise this beauty would be teaching you a lesson.”

I didn’t share his view of what constituted beauty. In fact, I would have classified that whippy cane as a beast! As one of those rare strict Methodists, I knew he didn’t like me touching alcohol.

“So, what did make you sick then, lad?”

I didn’t feel like lying. It wasn’t really in my nature. I thought it best to confess, so I pulled the blister pack of blue pills out of my leather jacket. I handed them to my father. I could tell that he thought they were drugs.

“It was these that made me sick Dad, they taste awful!”

He read the lettering out loud, “Vigorlon Penis Enlargement Pills! I don’t believe it! These things are just a con! I can’t believe that a son of mine was so stupid as to fall for one of these scams!”

I stood there embarrassed, and red-faced.

“I’m sorry Dad. It was just a whim when I bought them.”

“Over the internet, I suppose?”

I nodded.

“With your card?”

I nodded.

“You stupid boy! So this is what you waste your allowance on! You’ll probably have to cancel your debit card too. I wonder what else you’ve been looking at on the internet, you haven’t been looking at pornography?”

I couldn’t lie. My Methodist upbringing had taught me that lying was a most serious sin. Of course I’d been looking at porn.

Again, I nodded at Dad.

“Well, that’s good,” he laughed. “Most men do.”

I was amazed when he said that, so I just nodded again, this time with a little smile. I was even more amazed when he put the cane down on the desk and offered me a chair. He poured me a glass of water from his cut-glass decanter.

“Well, well, well,” he said eventually, “I really don’t know what to make of you, young Peter. You’re at a difficult age, aren’t you? Part man, part boy, I’d say. Maybe more boy.”

Once again, I found myself nodding in agreement. Experience had taught me never to argue with Dad once we were in his small home office. I drank the water nervously. It was refreshing, as I was still dehydrated after being sick. Things were looking good. He picked up the cane and placed it back in the brass umbrella stand, where it was kept along with several other rattans and a rather faded gents umbrella. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was too good to last, however.

“NOW LISTEN TO ME!” Suddenly, his tone became fierce. “I am quite insulted that you feel that the penis your mother and I gave you at birth isn’t big enough! The Lord moves in mysterious ways, you know.”

Here we go, I thought to myself. My bottom started to tingle.

“And! Let there be no doubt in your mind that I am very, very unhappy that you have spent money, the hard-earned allowance money I’ve given you, on this rubbish!”

He waved the strip of pills at me. Slowly, he popped each of the remaining blue tablets out of the blister pack. He counted the pills out loud. There were fifteen. I just knew where this was leading.

“Fifteen pills, fifteen strokes!” he announced. He reached behind him and selected a more severe rattan with a crook handle.

“But Dad, I’m eighteen now!”

“Good point, Peter. We’ll make it eighteen, then. Over the desk, trousers down!”

I wasn’t going to argue. I bent over submissively and the first cane stroke hit home. Oh, it was a hard one, for a first stroke. He was really angry, I could tell. He’d been hiding it well, but now the cane was letting him vent his full fury. That was reinforced by the second and third strokes which were straight out of the fires of Hell.

“Underpants down! Fifteen strokes on the bare for the fifteen pills.”

I wasn’t going to argue, as I lowered my pale blue Jockeys. I certainly wasn’t going to tell him that it was a hundred pills I’d ordered!

Stroke four sliced into my naked flesh. I was gasping, close to hyperventilating. I cried out loudly. I knew that would amuse him. For a religious man, he had a streak of sadism. Yes, there was a lot of cruelty within him.

I took the fifth quietly, and then the sixth much the same. He moved things up a gear as the seventh was by far the hardest yet. By now I was squirming under the cane’s vicious caress. My bottom was writhing, first in one direction, then the other in a vain attempt to avoid the blows of the cane. Eight! Nine! Ten! I was counting them quietly under my breath, while silent salty tears streamed down my face. This was a hellish beating!

He stopped and grunted. Suddenly, his hands were feeling the cane ridges on my bottom. He’d never done that before, and it was so humiliating, especially as he barked at me to keep still. He changed canes.

“Number Two cane to finish off, Peter.”

In all my years, and through numerous beatings, I could never fathom out the significance of the numbering system of his canes. Perhaps there wasn’t one, and this was all part of a sadistic game? All I knew was that Number Two cane was named appropriately, as it hurt like shit.

“AARRGH!” I cried as the eleventh stroke slashed down, quickly followed by a twelfth, landing just below.

Dad laid thirteen and fourteen diagonally, which was agony. The final four strokes were aimed at the tops of my thighs, his speciality, and they stung like mad. Strangely, all I could think about was that I wouldn’t be wearing my Speedos down on the beach for a while!

I wasn’t crying heavily, but my face was covered in snot. Dad offered me a tissue. I’d been trying not to say thank you, as an act of defiance, but it just sort of slipped out. He grinned when I said it. At times like that I really hated him. My only consolation was that my mother and sister were out shopping, so my beating had been a private, man thing.

That evening, I was over at my friend Andrew’s house. Somehow the story of the day’s events came out. I’d been trying to hide it, as I knew my friend had an unhealthy interest in my beatings. He managed to worm every little detail out of me this time. Nonetheless, he asked if he could see the marks, almost as if he didn’t believe me.

“Pervert!” I accused.

“No, really, I just want to understand. Although I could put some cold cream on them, I’m sure my mum’s got some in the bathroom.”

Reluctantly, I agreed. Andrew traced each and every mark with his forefinger. I’d found the day pretty confusing all round. My head was far from clear. Maybe it was another side-effect of those blue pills?

Andrew came back from the bathroom with a jar of cream. Gently, he massaged it into my bottom. My cock suddenly burst into life! It was rock hard. We gazed into each others eyes and knew we were going to have to take things further. No erection pills would be required! This time he put his forefinger into the jar of cream and then shoved the finger up my arsehole. His lips caressed my cock. He worked that cock for all it was worth. I came heavily in his mouth.

We lay exhausted on his bed for a few tender minutes. I offered to reciprocate. He just laughed.

“Not likely, mate. I’m not sticking my todger in there. Those pills have dyed your tongue blue. They could be poisonous, you know. Chinese, were they? I don’t want a blue cock, you know!”

I was really turned on by then. I offered him anal instead. I wanted it myself, but was a little reluctant only because my arse was still sore after the caning (and despite the cold cream massage). Andrew couldn’t believe his luck. Fortunately, he had a condom, and with the help of the cold cream we were soon at it. He thrust and thrust into my willing, striped arse. The knobbing felt even better than his forefinger had. It wasn’t long before he shot his load. It had been a short fuck alright, but we were both satisfied.

We lay in each others arms again, gently petting. He whispered in my ear, “Could you sneak out one of your dad’s canes? I want to try it.”

It seemed a strange request at first. But as I laid there in the afterglow, it seemed to make sense eventually. After all, it was a caning that had brought us together and I knew just which cane to smuggle out. It would have to be Number Two.

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* IMPORTANT – DISCLAIMER *

This is a work of fiction.  The author does not participate in substance abuse or condone it.

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

__________________

Story © 2013 by Rod Cayenne

Comments always welcome – please use link at top of story

The Understairs Cupboard (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!

The understairs cupboard is my favourite part of Uncle’s house, for it is there that the three canes are kept.  Well, I say three, but sometimes when I look there are only two canes there. And just once, there was just one.  I’m not sure why the number there should vary, although Uncle once said something about oiling them.  Maybe he takes them away to be oiled?  I know one of his friends is an engineer, after all.  Anyway, I am always caned over the desk in the big bay window, after the blinds have been closed to keep prying eyes away and to preserve some modesty.  Not that I deserve it!

I like to look at the canes when Uncle’s not around.  But when Uncle tells me to “Fetch the canes,” I never really know whether there will be two or three there.  It’s part of the thrill for me.  I’m sure that he doesn’t know that, although today he caught me playing with his canes.  He wasn’t best pleased, or maybe he was?

“What’s going on here?  Fascinated with the canes are you, lad?  Well now.  Well, aren’t you a bit old for the cane now, my lad?”

“Oh no, Sir, not at all!”  At disciplinary times, he always insists that I call him Sir rather than Uncle or Uncle Ian.

“Are you sure?  I mean really sure?  I hope you’re not deriving some strange pleasure from these occasional punishments?”

“Oh no, Sir, not at all!”

“You’re repeating yourself lad!  Very well, very well.  Oops!  There I go repeating myself too.  Must be catching.  Get in the front room and sort out the blinds, and just to be sure you’re not enjoying yourself, I think we’ll have you drop your trousers this time.”

“What?  You can’t!”

“I can.  Get them down.  Now!”

“Oh, Sir!”

“That’s it.  And now to complete the set, as it were, your briefs can come down too!”

“No!”

“Don’t argue with me lad!  In fact, I’ll take them down for you!”

“Oh!”

“Oh indeed!  Oh ho, perhaps.  Yes, all is revealed isn’t it?  I see that you have a tattoo.  Ugly things, I always think.”

“You do, Sir?”

“Yes, I do.  Most inappropriate for a mere 18-year-old.”

“Almost 19, Sir!”

“Be that as it may, whatever were your parents thinking? It’s just as well they’ve let me take you under my wing.  What a gross object that tattoo is, and there it is spoiling your posterior.  Well, never mind, I will be spoiling your posterior some more.  Let’s cane that ghastly tattoo off!  At least it will give me something to aim at.  Now, just let me select a stick.  Aha, I don’t think you’ve had the pleasure of this one before, have you, lad?”

“I’m not sure.  I’m afraid I’m not a cane connoisseur.”

“Oh don’t worry lad, you will be by the time I’ve finished with you!  Especially if you make a habit of looking at the canes when I’m not around!  Now, this cane was sourced for me very recently by a very good friend of mine who lives on the coast.  He tells me that this cane is the legendary Beast Of Bognor!”

“The Beast Of Bognor?”

“Don’t scoff, lad.  This cane really deserves its reputation.  Note the ridges on the shaft.  Don’t tell me that you hadn’t noticed them?”  Actually, I hadn’t.  “Now, let’s have your bottom presented properly for punishment.  That’s it.  Bottom up and out a little bit more.  That’s it.  Yes, good.  Offer it up for the cane.  Here it comes!”

“Oh Christ!”

“He won’t help you now.  Offer it up again!”

“Jesus!”

“I said he won’t help you.  Offer it!  Offer it!”

“Arrgh!”

“Yes, you’re marking nicely.  Tell me, is the Beast truly beastly?”

“Oh yes, Sir.  It’s beastly alright!  It’s the worst one you’ve got by a long way.”

“Good!  There you are then, I told you’d become a cane connoisseur.”

“Yes, you did Uncle, I mean Sir.”

“Very well.  We’ll keep that cane for another day.  Let’s swap it for something a little less severe.  I don’t want you badly marked today.  We’ll award you another five strokes.  Five crisp strokes with one of the standard canes. Making a total of just eight strokes today.  I’m being exceptionally lenient, I’d say.  Now then, prepare yourself!”

The fresh cane crashed down on my naked arse.  I groaned, as the relief caused by use of a less severe cane was really only marginal.  Barely noticeable, in fact.  Ouch!

Again it lashed into me.  I felt sick and confused.  The pain peaked and then seemed to return in waves.  Oh God!

He landed a couple of strokes in quick succession.  The pain!  Oh how I just wanted it to be over.

“Last stroke for today!” he announced with amusement in his voice.  He cracked the cane down hard on me.

“Shit, that bloody hurt!” I exclaimed, jumping up from the desk.  I clutched and massaged my wounded bottom, and then slowly pulled my white briefs up, covering the cane marks and the offensive tattoo.

“Hmmm.  Bad language on top of blasphemy, now is it?  I’ll remember that for your next caning.  I can see that I need to keep a closer eye on you, young Colin.  You can sleep with me in my bed tonight.  In the meantime, be a sport and hang the canes back where you found them.”

“Yes, Sir!”

So it was with some residual excitement and maybe some reluctance that I hung the three canes back up on the tarnished brass hooks inside the door of the understairs cupboard.  As I did so, I wondered why he wanted me to share his bed tonight.  It would mean I’d have to forgo my customary nighttime and morning masturbation.  Perhaps I could fit a quick wank in now?  Although right at that moment, my arse was throbbing horribly.  Anyway, I just hoped he’d let me wear my pyjamas when I joined him in his over-large bed.  After all, if I had to sleep in the nude, ugly cane weals and that tattoo he didn’t like would be visible to Uncle. That would never do.  I only wanted him to see me at my best.  I was worried too, as I was sure Uncle slept in the nude.  I only ever saw him in a towel robe, with nothing underneath apparently.  I’d often admired the curly tufts of thick, bushy black chest hair that poked out of the top of his striped robes. How strange then, that he insisted I wore pyjamas in my single bed.  Then I remembered a particularly vicious ten stroke caning he’d given me for having excessive semen stains on my pyjama trousers.  He’d made me wear the offending clothing as he thrashed me.  At the time I’d felt it was really unfair as I’d only been masturbating while thinking about the canes in the understairs cupboard.  Yes, he really could be a beast at times.

I can’t help but wonder if I am the only one.  The only lad in Uncle’s life.  Or whether there is another lad.  Or man.  Actually, come to think of it, that could explain the disappearing canes, possibly.  All the same, I couldn’t help but wonder also what the night would bring.

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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This bonnie wee snippet © MMXVII by Rod Cayenne

Could be the start of something big

Thanks to Col for the initial inspiration, xx

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

Heating Engineered (M/M) – NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

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

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

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

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

“Oh!”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I’ve always thought so.”

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

“Never!”

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I suppose.”

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

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

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

“Sorry Vince.”

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

“Yes Sir, sorry Sir!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit!” Dave cried out.

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

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

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

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

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Story © MMXVII by Rod Cayenne

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

_______________

Comments welcome

Blue Light Brigade (M/F, F/M) repeat

Erotic entertainment by Rod Cayenne, not to be confused with earlier story “Blue Rinse Brigade”

They were just off duty, though still in uniform. In the secluded part of the pub garden, they were enjoying a drink together, watching the boaters on the river. “This is good stuff, Sarge!” said WPC Rose Hill as she puffed on the spliff.

“Yes, young Rosie, it certainly is the finest in the city. There’s a dealer in my block,” Sergeant Jon Radcliffe replied. “Of course, I should really bust him, but he’s a mate, really. A really nice guy. He sees that I am looked after.”

“With dope I suppose?”

“Yes,” said the sergeant, “And a pound or two of flesh.” It was his turn to have a draw on the dope.

“Flesh? You mean like a hooker?”

“Not exactly, Rosie. I like a bit of bottom spanking, and he provides me with a willing victim now and then.” Obviously the dope had loosened the sergeant’s tongue and inhibitions.

“Oh, I had no idea. You shouldn’t really be telling me all this, should you? Although a lot of us cops are into S&M.”

“Yes, indeed. Most of us, I’d say. You definitely are, Rosie!”

“Sarge?”

“I’ve seen the log of your internet usage. Clearing the cache isn’t enough, you know. You really shouldn’t be looking at that sort of thing. Especially at work. I’ve seen it all on your log – spanking, caning, paddling, bare bottoms and cheeks galore.”

“Oh, Sarge!”

“Yes, Rosie! Sarge here knows all about it.”

“But Sarge, it was research!”

“Research, my arse!”

“Oh, Sarge!”

“Yes, you’ve been a very naughty and very stupid lass, haven’t you Rosie?”

“Yes, I suppose I have.”

“Yes, there’s no supposing about it at all. Now, I can be forgiving. How about you come back to my flat so that we can conduct some in-depth research together?”

“Have I got much choice?”

“No, not really,” he said puffing on the oversize spliff, “I think you know that you really do need to come back with me.”

“But what about my mum?”

“Well, you can’t bring her as well!” cackled the sergeant, as swirls of smoke engulfed the pair of them.

“No, I didn’t mean that, silly! I meant, what am I going to tell her?”

“Just tell her you’re on a hot date with your boss. It’s the truth, after all. Tell her not to wait up.” He winked at Rose as she picked up her mobile.

Strangely, she repeated his words verbatim to her mother. Now it was Rose’s turn to wink at him.

They walked hand in hand back to his flat. She trusted him implicitly, although she was sure she was going to get a very sore bottom very soon. Yes, she was sure about that alright. She was almost looking forward to it!

Back at the flat, the coffee was freshly ground and almost intoxicating. There was no messing about with Sergeant Jon. He knew exactly what he wanted. He wanted her bottom, and he had carefully engineered the whole evening around his kink. Already her trousers were at half mast.

“Knickers down, Rose.”

She started to protest, but he reminded her that she had been viewing bared bottoms in police time. She felt that she had to oblige and so she slipped down the delicate white lace panties.

“Oh yes! Very nice indeed. What a delightful bottom you have, young Rose.”

Her hands covered her front, but her bottom was exposed. The pretense was over. She knew what she had to do. She draped herself over his lap. Beneath her, his cock began to stir. He raised his right hand and slapped it down on her bare bottom. Not too hard, but not terribly gently either. She gasped audibly, and then his hand slapped down again and again.

SMACK!

SMACK!

SMACK!

SMACK!

SMACK!

They were both enjoying it. She wriggled like a minx on his lap, while his sadistic urges were making him stiffer by the second. His hand smacked down again and again on her beautiful bottom, which was turning redder and redder. It was most satisfying, and he continued for a while longer. Then suddenly he pushed her off his lap, saying, “I think perhaps sterner measures are called for!”

He headed into his bedroom, and came back with a black leather studded strap.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured her, “It looks fierce but it’s not as bad as it looks.”

He showed her it. Across the front the word POLICE had been embossed.

“That’s never official issue, Jon!” she exclaimed.

“No, it’s not. I just had that added as a customisation. I was thinking of having E II R stamped on it as well. Some of my spankees really like the thought that it’s a police punishment strap.”

“That’s a laugh, isn’t it?” she smiled. “They must be pretty naive.”

“Yes, indeed. Almost as naive as you have been with your less than secret surfing habits. Over my lap again!”

He gave her about thirty stinging strokes with the leather. It was a warm, caressing pain that she felt as it hit home relentlessly. There was a delightful crack each time it landed. By the end she was quite sore, but also quite turned on.

“Take my trousers off!” he ordered. Slowly, she unbuckled his thick leather belt, and gently unzipped him. His genuine police-issue trousers fell to the ground.

“Now get my pants off!” he commanded. She edged them down, revealing his proud erection.

“You can give that a bloody good suck in a minute, but first there’s something else I need from the bedroom.”

He returned with a crook-handled rattan school cane. He whipped it through the air, with a broad grin on his face.

Rose was stood in front of him, gently rubbing her soundly spanked bottom. She couldn’t manage a grin at all. In fact, she looked quite crushed and crestfallen.

“Oh Jon, I don’t think I can take any more, my bottom’s really sore now! Not the cane. Please.”

“Now who’s being silly?” he asked, “This is for my bottom. The cane is for men. Real men and naughty boys like me! Are you going to cane me then, Rose?”

“Oh yes! Thank God. Yes please!”

“Good lass. Thank you. I deserve it. I’ve been a very naughty boy. I’ll just bend over the dining table for you. Don’t hold back now, I can take a lot!”

SWISH-CRACK! The first stroke landed with venom, and how Rose smiled as the red stripe appeared on his hairy, naked bottom. She was going to enjoy this!  It was revenge for her own still smarting, chastised bottom.

SWISH-CRACK! The second stroke was harder, for little did the sergeant know, Rose was an experienced caner. She had enjoyed an outrageous affair with a female flatmate who had introduced her to the delights of the rattan rod. Right then, she didn’t want to disabuse the sergeant of his notion that the cane was for males only.

SWISH-CRACK! She was going for gold alright!

SWISH-CRACK! She desperately wanted to hurt and punish him.

SWISH-CRACK! This was such a turn-on for her.

SWISH-CRACK! Six strokes had been delivered but she sensed that he wanted more, and could take them.

SWISH-CRACK! His bottom seemed almost defiant as the marks of the cane seemed to fade fast, as if by magic.

In the end, he did take a lot. 24 strokes on his bared bottom. Rose didn’t hold back at all. She relished every whippy stroke that she inflicted. His meaty, male arse was made for the cane. She’d caned him hard. Harder than she’d intended. Towards the end of his beating, the marks left by the cane strokes had become more prominent and persistent. She took the opportunity to feel the damage. And afterwards, she did suck his stiff cock as though her life depended on it. They ended up in bed, and were married a year later. At least half the station attended the reception at the Police Club.

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Story © 2012 by Rod Cayenne

Comments welcome

* IMPORTANT – DISCLAIMER *

This is a work of fiction.  The author does not participate in substance abuse or condone it.

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