I Could Smell The Man On My Hands (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A hot new tale by your host, Rod Cayenne. All the characters are aged 21 or over. Strictly adults only!  This story is exclusive to The Canery.

I thought I’d washed thoroughly in the showers before leaving the gay sauna. But somehow the smell of the young man lingered on my hands. Musky and masculine, with just a hint of funk and condom rubber, the smell was unmistakably him and not me.  I cursed the soap gel dispensers at that sauna, which always seemed to be half-empty, and difficult to use.  A lot of guys there took their own toiletries, I’d noted.  It seemed a rather French thing to do, but I resolved to do the same in future.  Still, I sniffed nostalgically at my hands as I walked down the historic Rue des Artistes.  Maybe I’d been too busy washing my head hair, as somehow or other, I’d accidentally managed to get a large dollop of lube in it.  Then I remembered what fun we’d had.  I’d spanked him for ages in a private room, le vice anglais indeed, and then we’d shagged each other senseless in front of an eager cosmopolitan audience in the cinema room.  The feeling as his thick bell-end eased and probed its way into my tight tunnel was just exquisite. Mmmm, such happy days!

Just a couple of weeks later I found myself cutting through the leafy park on my way to the car dealers.  The sun shone like molten gold on the boating lake as I stopped and sat myself down on one of the green-painted metal bench seats.  The ducks were quacking merrily and I could almost hear Debussy in the air.  Instead, I heard the purposeful exclamation of my erstwhile lover from the sauna, muscled young Henri, “Jim, it’s you!  I can’t believe it’s you!  I had assumed you were a tourist!”

“Oh no, Henri!  I’m no tourist, I live and work here!”

“In that case we have something to celebrate, Jim!  Hey, why don’t you come back to mine?  Now!”

“I’d love to but I can’t.  Car trouble.  Got to pick it up.  They’ve fixed the main problem but I’ve got to take it back again in another couple of days.  So much for fucking French engineering!”  Indeed, my locally-sourced Citroen had turned out to be a bit of a citron.

“Pfft!  Always whingeing, you Little Englanders!  Here, let me give you my number.”  He tore a page from a diary or some kind of French Filofax thing and scribbled away with a chewed blue BiC ballpoint pen.  I took the paper from his beefy hand and gave him a sly wink.

With indecent haste, just a couple of days later I was over at his apartment.  It was located off a swish and swanky little mews not so far from me.  He greeted me like a long-lost friend, kissing both my cheeks like many foreigners and the French always seem to do.  We sat down on a leather chaise, cuddling and kissing as the prelude to our hot afternoon.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a glass-topped table displaying a martinet and a beastly-looking riding crop.  Clearly my friend had a taste for corporal punishment games.

“Yes, my good friend,” he said, “They will both see some use today, don’t you suppose?”  I nodded and was just about to say how much I agreed, when he interrupted excitedly, “I have something else here that may interest you.  Something quintessentially British!”  He wasn’t wrong.  He was right.  He picked up the item from behind the sofa and waved it at me saying, “Look dear boy, it’s a cane!”

“I can see that!  Give it to me!” I bent the thing almost double before scything it through the Parisian air and whipping it down on a nearby plump cushionette, saying, “Where on earth did you get this?  These fucking hurt, you know!”

“So I’ve heard, my friend.  But I don’t really believe it.  More Little Englander exaggeration.”

“We’ll see about that!  Anyway, you haven’t answered my question about where you got it from,” I snapped testily back at him.

“I bought it at a sex shop, of course.  Where else?  It was – how you might say – an under the counter item.”

“I doubt that!”

“They had a few for sale.  Some straight and some, like this one, with that funny curved handle thing.”

He’d chosen well, I decided as I bent the rattan again, saying, “Come on then, bare your arse for me!”  He dropped his pale blue slacks and his burgundy underpants.  He looked faintly ridiulous standng there in just his Sasha Distel-stylee polo neck top.  So I ordered him to take that off too, and totally naked bent him over a chair near the window.  He had to stand on tiptoes due to the high back of the chair.  “Six strokes is traditional,” I informed him.

I whipped the rattan down with venomous intent.  The poison took immediate effect as my French friend gasped with undisguised horror.  “Quelle horreur!” he must have thought to himself.  Absolutely nothing prepares a virgin for that first stroke of their first caning!  Still, I wasn’t going to dwell on that thought, after all I had another five strokes to deliver.  I whacked the second one down, just below where the first one had landed.  “No!” he cried.  I feigned complete deafness as I raised the cane again. I aimed lower still, landing a real beauty on his naked flesh.  “No more, Jim!  Please!” he pleaded.  I chuckled inside with sadistic delight, for I had this French Fancy just where I wanted him.  He should have known better than to have so flippantly underestimated the power of the cane.

“Half way,” I said to him, but in truth I was half way to paradise.  My cock was twitching and straining in my trackies as our CMNM scene progressed.  His hairy arsehole was intermittently on view as he squirmed about.  It wasn’t the target area but it sure was enticing.  There was the promise and allure of more wild sex treasure there, for sure.  I lashed the fourth stroke down, laughing with delight at his undisguised misery.  He groaned loudly and muttered something foreign that I just couldn’t catch.  After all, I wouldn’t recognise the French word for “bastard” now would I?

I was half-tempted to make the final couple of strokes diagonal ones, but I didn’t want to blow it by being too sadistic.  That could keep for another time!  Right then, I landed two bracing parallel stripes on his French flesh.  He jumped up and jigged around, rubbing his bottom vigorously.  His member was half-erect, and open to admiration.

“That’s enough of that, Henri,” I admonished, “Now be a good boy and fetch me the martinet.”

“Oh, Jim.”

“Just do it!” I barked in my best military tone.

He duly presented the martinet to me.  It was a strange item to these English eyes.  Often referred to as a dog whip, this particular one was a rough and cheap item.  The handle was poorly fashioned, but the leather lashes were rather more professionally finished.  I really had no idea how to use it, but figured it couldn’t be that difficult.  I led him back to the chair, and bent him over.  The cane weals were now really prominent.  I couldn’t resist feeling them.  They were very hot to the touch and Henri groaned as I felt them all over.  I was a little disappointed that I couldn’t feel the weals throbbing, but I guessed that was a pleasure only the caned could enjoy.  I spat on my finger and rubbed the wetness on his arsehole as a tease of pleasure to come.  I then rubbed the handle of the martinet around the same enticing area.  I thought about pushing the tip of the handle in but instead decided to lash the martinet down on the waiting cheeks.  I did it again and again.  I was enjoying the moment as the leather strands whipped all around his arse, also filling in any gaps between the cane weals.  I could feel my cock stiffening as I brought the whippy lashes down again.  What an intriguing implement I though, and so quintessentially French!  Henri was now mewing, perhaps with pleasure but certainly with discomfort.  I threw the martinet down and picked up the riding crop.  Now, the crop was a real old favourite implement.  I scythed it through the air.

“Time for the crop, Henri.  I’m going to beat you like an animal!”

“No Jim, please.  Fuck me instead.  Please!”

Well, that was certainly an option.  My cock was rigid and its head was straining against my tracksuit bottoms.  But I really wanted to beat him hard with that crop first.  I was crazy with lust, desire and sadism.  The horse-whip was rather different to the dog-whip I mused as I cracked a first stroke down on top of flesh already scarred by the cane and the martinet.  Henri bucked with pain immediately.  I really didn’t care as the animal beastliness in me had taken over, and I crashed a second and a rapid third stroke down, enjoying the sound, feel and vision of the punishment.  I determined to make it just nine strokes of the crop, so I lashed the final six rapid-fire style and he gasped and complained throughout.

“Now, let’s fuck!” I laughed as I entered him roughly and started pumping for dear life. I slapped his arse a few times, relighting the barely-dormant flames of my sadism.  I was already close to cumming.  I pulled at his lanky black head hair as I gave a couple of final thrusts.  Hot spurts of cum gushed from my cock right inside his young arse.

Later that sunny afternoon, we swopped roles and he beat and serviced me.  Well, it only seemed fair and my gosh, what fun we had!  As I walked back home sore arse through the park I noticed I could smell him on my fingers again.  It made me horny again and I laughed out loud to no-one in particular.  Well, I had to really, didn’t I?

 

 

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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Story © MMXIX by Rod Cayenne.  All rights reserved.

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

Intensive English (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot caning fiction by our new special guest author Clifton Castigo.  All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly for adults only!

José pushed the doorbell and waited at the green door of the semi-detached house in the leafy London suburb.

The door opened and a man in his early forties dressed in a tweed jacket, shirt and tie greeted him warmly. “Hello there! You must be José, I’m Mr McCann, pleased to meet you!” He extended his hand and José shook it and carefully said, “Nice to meet you!”

José was 19 years old and was a student of Sports Medicine at a University in Southern Spain. He was a handsome boy of medium height and athletic build, he had an olive complexion typical of Andalucía. He was in England because he knew that English would be important to his future career and he wanted to sit the advanced exam in English that would prove his level to potential employers. His Grandmother had kindly paid for him to go to England for the Summer to help him achieve his goal. He had found his tutor Mr McCann on an English Learning website, his profile supported by excellent reviews.

Mr McCann ushered José into the house and to his back reception room which he had set up as a study and classroom.

The first day of studying was spent evaluating José’s level. Mr McCann discovered the usual creases to be ironed out in his English – Overuse of articles, incorrect use of prepositions and others. He developed a suitable syllabus to address these, and give José the knowledge he needed to pass the exam.

The first week progressed well, although Mr McCann did have to admonish José on two days for not doing his homework. It seemed that José was staying in a shared apartment and was going out with his flatmates several times a week, which did not leave much time for homework.

It was during the second week that José noticed the three canes hanging from the top of the notice board on the wall behind the desk. He asked Mr McCann what they were. “Oh, they’re school punishment canes. They were used in schools before the 1980s to punish poor behaviour. A friend of mine bought me them as a sort of joke.” He did not tell José that he often used the canes on his friend and occasionally had his friend use them on him.

He took the canes down and showed them to José. “They used to cane boys on the bottom, the thinner one is a junior model and the other two are senior.” He took one of the seniors and swished it through the air.

When José returned to his apartment, he couldn’t get the canes out of his head. He declined his flatmates offers to go out but instead stayed in with his laptop. He looked up all he could find in relation to caning. Eventually he found an adult website dedicated to caning and paid for a video with a roleplay in which a teacher administered a caning to a boy who seemed to be 18 or 19. The boy was dressed in a traditional school uniform and received the caning, gradually removing layers until the last strokes were laid on to his bare bottom. José watched in fascination as welts formed on the boys bottom and wondered what it might be like to receive such a beating. He watched again and again and became more and more excited, before bringing himself to a sticky climax.

Over the next few lessons Mr McCann couldn’t help noticing José’s glances at the canes. He decided not to mention it until one day when José had yet again failed to do his homework. He was admonishing him when he noticed that José looked sheepishly towards the canes. Mr McCann decided to take a chance. He stood up and took down one of the senior canes. He pointed it at José ” You were asking about these the other day. This is a perfect example of when they would be used. With the amount of homework you’ve missed, it seems like a caning would do you a lot of good. Do you want to be caned?”

José thought for a moment, he was both excited and afraid, but the excitement won out and he mumbled, “I deserve it.”

“What was that boy?” said Mr McCann.

“I deserve it,” said José this time loudly and clearly.

Mr McCann pulled out a chair and said, “Bend over”. With the summer heat José was wearing khaki shorts. As he bent over the shorts went taut around his buttocks presenting them as a perfect target for the cane. He felt his skin tighten too, compressing his muscles and nerves and ensuring that each stroke of the cane would be fully absorbed and appreciated. “Listen carefully boy! This is going to hurt, but however much it hurts I don’t want you to take your hands off that chair until I say so. If you do, the previous stroke won’t count. I am going to administer three sets of six strokes. Six on your shorts, six on your pants and finally six on your bare buttocks. Is that clear?

José said, “Yes.”

“Yes what?” said Mr McCann.

“Yes sir!” said José.

Mr McCann swished the cane a few times. Although he had two senior canes, one was a Kooboo cane and the other a Dragon cane. With a novice he would normally use the less severe Kooboo. As he looked at José though, he appraised his athletic build and thought that he could take the Dragon which would also be better at producing marks on his olive complexion. He returned the Kooboo and swished the denser Dragon a couple of times. Finally he took aim tapping the cane across the centre of José’s bottom before drawing it back and bringing it down forcefully with a SWISH and resounding CRACK!

When the cane struck, for a moment, José was disappointed, he didn’t feel anything beyond the impact of the cane. It took a moment for an intense sting akin to a burn to emerge and as it did it seemed to penetrate deeply into his buttocks. The pain intensified and just as it seemed to peak he heard the swish and felt the impact of the cane a second time.

It is funny that there is a language of pain as every bit as unique as regular language, as the strokes continued José expressed the pain using the ayyeee of his native Spanish rather than the ahhhh, owww or ouch of English.

José imagined the boy in the film, which by now he had watched dozens of times. The pain was much worse than he imagined, but it still excited him, and although with the pain his erection had waned somewhat, he reminded himself that he wanted this and deserved it.

Once the first six had been administered, Mr McCann allowed José a moment to recompose himself before asking him to lower his shorts. José was wearing white boxers and Mr McCann was able to see welts forming through the fabric and could roughly aim the strokes to areas that were as yet unblemished.

The unrelenting punishment continued. The thin layer of cloth from his boxer shorts provided little protection from the cane and each stroke seemed to intensify José’s agony, causing him to gasp. Nevertheless he did not let go of the chair which he gripped as though his life depended on it.

When asked to lower his boxer shorts for the final six, José’s erection had recovered and sprung from his boxers . Mr McCann now had an unobstructed view of José’s bottom and he used the cane to ensure that every inch of José’s Buttocks from the crown to the crease where they joined the thighs were welted with the ridged red lines left by the cane. Mr McCann had to be severe, for he knew that the satisfaction from a caning came afterwards and he wanted José to be able to see evidence of the caning later and feel the cane when he sat down for the next few days.

During the last six José struggled to maintain position. On each stroke he wriggled and rose on his tiptoes. This movement seemed to help make the pain tolerable. For the last couple of strokes Mr McCann was striking him diagonally, overlapping previously caned flesh, and the pain was excruciating. By the time the final stroke was administered José felt as though he had sat on a hot griddle.

Mr McCann kindly suggested an interactive lesson going around the shops, so José was spared the discomfort of sitting that morning. That said, José was not allowed any relief in squeezing or touching his bottom.

When José arrived back at his shared apartment the pain had subsided somewhat to give way to a warm glow. He used the mirror to examine his bruised and welted buttocks and took a photo with his phone. He lay back on his bed and looked at the photo while stroking his raging erection. When he reached climax he ejaculated copious amounts of spunk, more than he had ever before.

As Mr McCann intended, every time José sat on a hard surface for the next couple of days, he felt twinges from his beating which frequently reignited the fires in his loins. Coincidentally Mr McCann swapped his cushioned chairs for traditional classroom chairs.

During the Summer it seemed that there was rarely a time José didn’t feel twinges of the cane on his bottom from those hard chairs. He didn’t seem to learn his lesson with the homework. That said, under Mr McCann’s tutelage his English improved tremendously, but even so, José felt sure that he would need to return the following summer as now he most definitely wanted to go beyond Advanced and do the Proficiency level exam!

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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Story © MMXIX by Clifton Castigo, used here by very kind permission of the author.  All rights reserved.

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

School Disco (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot caning fiction by new special guest author Clifton Castigo.  All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly for adults only!

It was Gareth’s idea. We were all members of the Young Entrepreneurs Association – for entrepreneurs between 18-25. Some of us were still at University with a side business, and others had started their ventures after leaving school. The association selected a charity to support each year, and this year we had decided to hold a school themed disco to raise money for the good cause. We had split off into groups of five to come up with and put in practice an additional fundraising idea.

In our case our group of five lads had gone down to the pub to get inspiration.

“What about a raffle?” Said Paul

“Nah, I heard one of the other groups talking about that, maybe a tombola?” said Dan.

“Sounds more like a church fête than a disco” said Gareth, “We should do something in keeping with the school theme.”

“Maybe a kissing booth?” Said Mike.

“Who’s going to pay to kiss your ugly mug!” said Dan laughing, “Anyway, I’m pretty sure the girls will come up with something like that.

Gareth suddenly perked up and said “I know something we could do which is school themed!”

“What?” we all asked in unison.

“A sponsored caning! Think about it! It doesn’t require us buying anything other than a couple of canes and should be pretty easy to organize. Even better, once it’s over we can enjoy the disco while everyone else is busy selling their raffle tickets and manning their kissing booths.”

“Won’t it hurt though?” said Dan.

Gareth looked pensive for a moment and replied, “It can’t be that bad, they used to use it in schools, didn’t they?”

“Where shall we buy the canes?” I asked

Gareth quickly replied “on eBay”, a little too quickly.  I suspected that he knew more about the subject than he was letting on, although I had to admit that the idea intrigued me.

A few searches later on a smartphone determined that it was indeed possible to purchase canes on eBay.

Dan was browsing the various options “Which one should we go for? I guess we should get the senior ones. But what’s the difference between Kooboo and Dragon?

“Go for the Dragon” said Mike, “ Sounds cooler and it’s a little more expensive so it must be better quality. Don’t want it breaking!”

“Dragon it is, I’ll order two so we have a backup.”

I then brought up the other matter of logistics, “Who’ll do the caning, I mean we can’t do it ourselves in our school uniforms, we need a teacher.”

Gareth piped up, “I have a neighbour I’m sure would help, it’s for a good cause, I used to cut the lawn for him and my brother still does. He looks the part and I think he was a schoolmaster for a time, so he probably even has experience in caning.”

Gareth, who lived five minutes away from my house, looked at me and said, “Let’s go and see him on Sunday.”

Sunday came and I joined Gareth on the doorstep of Mr Waters, his neighbour. He pushed the doorbell and I heard a barely perceptible ring from somewhere deep within the house. A short time later the door was opened by an imposing man in his 60s wearing a blazer, shirt and tie.

“Ah, my boys, come in, come in. I was just making a cup of tea. Won’t you join me?”

He led them into a living room decorated in a traditional style and subdued colours which would not have been out of place many decades ago. He served them tea and a slice of battenburg cake each and then sat down.

“What can I do for you young gentlemen?”

Gareth explained their fundraising concept.

Mr Waters smiled and said “I would be delighted to help you. I must say I think it is very admirable of you all to do this for your cause. I’ll make sure your Sponsors get their money’s worth. I still have a mortar board somewhere so I’ll look the part as well. And who knows? Maybe a little discipline will do you all good.”

We continued talking for a while and finally Mr Waters bade them a fond farewell.

A week before the event Dan sent us all a message to say that the canes had arrived. We arranged to meet up that evening at his flat (he was the only one of us with his own place) to look at the canes and for a takeaway from the Chinese and off-licence.

When we had finished eating we were sitting around enjoying a beer and Dan said “I´ll get the canes out so we can have a look.”

He left the room for a moment and returned with a long flat package printed with Fragile – do not bend. He opened the flap and produced two crook ended shiny yellow canes a little more than a metre long. He put one down and took the other by the crook end and swished it through the air. Everyone jumped at the noise when he gave a stroke of the cane to the armchair. SWISH CRACK! He gave a few more, SWISH CRACK! SWISH CRACK! Everybody looked at each other and I got the impression from their looks that they were thinking that having listened to Gareth wasn’t such a good idea.

Dan pointed to Gareth with the cane and said “It was your idea, you can try first. Bend Over!” Gareth tried to stutter a reply, but Dan was having none of it. “Bend Over!” Gareth bent over, he was wearing jeans, as we all were, and as he bent over the jeans tightened and hugged his buttocks. Dan swished through the air with the cane a few times and Gareth flinched. Then Dan tapped the cane across the centre of his bottom, drew the cane back and brought it back across Gareth’s bottom with considerable force. There was a SWISH CRACK! Similar to that from when he had being hitting the armchair before. A moment later Gareth let out an anguished AHHHH and stood up, cupping his buttocks with his hands.

“Thought it wouldn’t be that bad!” I said. Gareth looked at me and gasped, “I was wrong.”

Dan said “Well, to reach our fundraising target, we all have to take 12, so we all better have a try so we know what to expect.” He pointed the cane at me, “You next, bend over!”

I reluctantly took Gareth´s place bending over the armchair. I felt the cane tapping across the centre of my bottom as Dan aimed and then a moment later I heard the SWISH and both felt and heard the CRACK. For a moment it didn´t seem too bad but then an incredible burning sting surged across my buttocks causing me to let out an involuntary gasp much the same as Gareth had. The pain seemed to penetrate right to the bone and spread out in waves across my arse. I also stood up and like him cupped my buttocks to try and alleviate the pain. I felt a tear forming in the corner of my eye.

Dan pointed at Mike and barked “Bend Over!” What followed was a similar performance to Gareth and I. The cane cracked across his bottom, he let out a yell and then stood up nursing his sore bottom. Paul followed with an identical performance.

By this time, Gareth had recovered somewhat and took the cane from Dan and said, “Now your turn. Bend Over.”

Dan said “No Problem! I´m not like you cry babies! I´ll take it like a man!” He bent over and Gareth took some time to aim and drew back the cane, lashing it forward with all the force that he could muster. Contrary to his proclamations, Dan did not take it like a man, but instead screamed louder than any of us and jumped up and down as if trying to jump away from the pain while clasping at his ravaged bottom.

“We can’t go through with this!” gasped Dan.  He pointed at Gareth, “Look at the mess you’ve gotten us into! Thought it couldn’t be that bad!”

Gareth said, “I´m sorry, I didn’t think that anything could hurt that much!”

We all stood around standing up looking at each other, still suffering in silence.  Mike was the first to break the silence. “We have to go through with it! We have all of the sponsors now and it’s too late to do something else.”

Paul then had the genius idea “Why don’t we just put a magazine down our boxers to protect us. That way everyone gets their show, we get the fund raising money and nobody’s the wiser.”

We all breathed a collective sigh of relief. It was a great plan and would be easy to get away with. We continued drinking beer and played a few games of cards, albeit sitting a little more gingerly than we usually would.

When I got home I looked at the single stripe across the centre of my bum. As I thought of the cane my cock got harder and I wanked myself off thinking of the caning.

The night came, we were all dressed as schoolboys with our grey shorts, white shirts with striped ties, and school caps. At the door of the community centre where the disco was taking place we mingled with the arriving attendees and persuaded a few last minute sponsors to sign up for the good cause.

Mr Waters then arrived and we gave him the canes and installed him in a seat close to the bar with a drink. At one end of the hall there was a small stage where the DJ booth was located. We had arranged with the DJ to introduce us and he provided a cordless microphone headset for Mr Waters to use. We helped Mr Waters to put this on and told him that we would be on in ten minutes. We then all ducked into the toilets and put our magazines in place.

At the appointed time the DJ announced “Hello boys and girls!” there was a roar from the crowd. “I am sorry to tell you that we have some naughty boys here today. Don´t worry though, we have the headmaster with us to make sure that they get their dues. He is going to publically cane them. It’s all in aid of our good cause and they are sponsored for every single stroke. If they reach their target they will have raised over £400!” Another roar of approval rose from the audience.

Mr Waters and the five of us got up onto the stage where a chair was placed in the middle. Mr Waters took over from the DJ and addressed the crowd. “I have seen some disgraceful behaviour here this evening! Boys kissing girls, people imbibing the devil’s vomit – What is the world coming to?” The audience laughed at his performance. “We have to keep up the standards here in this school and I will not allow such behaviour to go unpunished!” He pointed at us with the cane, “These young rascals are the worst troublemakers of the lot. What do you think? Should I be hard on them? Or soft?” The crowd roared back, “HARD!“

“So be it.”  He pointed at Gareth, “You first, Perkins.”

Gareth bent over the chair. The material of the grey shorts tightened. The outline of the magazine was clearly visible. I hoped that neither the audience nor Mr Waters would notice.

Mr Waters addressed the crowd again, “Now, I have decided to give these naughty boys twelve strokes each. I need you all to help me count”

He tapped the cane in the centre of Gareth’s bottom, drew it back and lashed it down with considerable vim. The crowd shouted “ONE!” Mr Waters frowned and looked at Gareth’s bottom. He addressed the crowd again and said, “I think we have some skulduggery at work.” He reached inside Gareth´s waistband and after a moment pulled out a copy of a men’s magazine, “What is the meaning of this boy? Not only are you trying to avoid punishment but I find you in possession of this filth!” He dangled the magazine at arms length in disdain, the crowd laughed. “Two extra strokes, and of course the first stroke doesn’t count. Let’s start again. Bend over!”

Gareth bent over again. This time the grey shorts snugly hugged his buttocks, their rounded form clearly visible through the fabric.  Mr Waters commenced the caning as we all looked on in horror, contemplating our own impending doom.

SWISH CRACK! Went the cane, “ONE.” shouted the crowd.

SWISH CRACK! “TWO.”

Gareth let out an AAARGH with each stroke.

SWISH CRACK! “THREE!”

At the third stroke Gareth straightened up and started to rub his bottom. The audience laughed. Mr Waters barked at him, “Stay in position boy! If you get up again you’ll get extra strokes.”

Gareth bent over again his knuckles white gripping the sides of the chair for dear life.  The caning continued and Gareth somehow made it through the fourteen strokes.

He straightened up and caressed his bottom but Mr Waters was having none of it, “Get your hands on your head boy, and get back in line.”

Next was Dan. Mr Waters again discovered a magazine with the same resulting penalty of two strokes.  Each of us came forward to a similar performance, nobody escaped the detection of our subterfuge.

My turn was last, unfortunately Mr Waters was not losing any energy, indeed the enthusiasm of the crowd was appearing to encourage him to keep up the energy of his caning if not add to it.

By this time Mr Waters knew we all had magazines and asked me to produce mine before bending over.

I bent over the chair feeling the shorts mould around my buttocks. I felt the cane tapping and a moment later the first Whack. “ONE.” shouted the crowd. That burning sting zipped across both cheeks, as it was reaching its peak the second stroke came down with a new line of fire.

As the strokes continued I felt welts forming, throbbing against the tightness of the shorts.

After stroke eight, each stroke was landing on spots that had already been caned. This reawoke the pain of the original stroke and added its own new pain. I struggled to maintain position. It took all my will to stay down but I made it through to the end of the fourteen strokes.  My arse was on fire. I couldn’t believe that an innocuous stick like that could produce such agony.

Mr Waters sent me back to the line with my hands on my head.

As Mr Waters was giving a final address to the crowd, praising our bravery after our initial cowardice and outlining the money earned for the good cause, I noticed that I was starting to get an erection. I looked at the crotches of my companions and noticed that Gareth and Dan were already swelling against the grey shorts.

Finally we left the stage. Mr Waters gave Gareth back the canes and said, “I’m sure you’ll continue to make good use of these.” He then winked at him and bade us all farewell.

Paul and Mike stayed at Disco but Gareth and I went back with Dan to his flat.  We were all standing around drinking beer and admiring at the results of the caning. Each of us had sets of red parallel stripes across our bottoms and where the strokes had doubled up there was darker colouring in deep red and blue.

“Wow that really hurt!” said Gareth

“It did.” said Dan, “But afterwards it kind of turned me on. What about a couple of extra whacks?”

And so it came to be that on many a Friday night the canes did get good use in Dan’s flat and often provided the precursor to other forms of entertainment.

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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Story © MMXIX by Clifton Castigo, used here by very kind permission of the author.  All rights reserved.

__

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

 

Packing Heat (M/M) NEW!

 

♥ Site recommended story ♥

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, you mean Peter?”

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

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

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

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

“What exactly, Jim?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t follow it up ever, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

“Errr, no.  No.  I wouldn’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But that’s no choice at all!”

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

“OK, your place then.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Just how old are you?”

“Errr, I was eighteen in March.”

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

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

“Yes Officer, thank you Officer.”

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

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

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

“Yes, Sir!  Sorry, Sir!”

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

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

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

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

“You can call me Steve.”

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

_____________

D I S C L A I M E R

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

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Story © MMXIX by Rod Cayenne.  All rights reserved.

__

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

Chess Club Was Never Like This (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot all-male erotica by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2013 by popular request. Over-18s only!

I was eighteen at the time.  I’d dropped out of school and straight into some warehouse work, which I really enjoyed.  I was still living with my parents, as I was saving up with a view to renting a place with a friend.  They were away on holiday, so I had promised to look after the place and keep the garden tidy.  In fact, I was in the conservatory looking at the long grass as I played idly with my stiff penis that morning.  I pulled my foreskin back and teased the glans with my fingertips.

I hadn’t expected to be scared shitless by a family friend, but that’s exactly what happened.   My parents had asked Mr Atkinson to keep an eye on me while they were away.  He had been a teacher at my school, but I was never in his class.  My main contact with him had been at the after school Chess Club that he ran.  I was a fair to middling player, but with his avuncular encouragement, I’d improved my game considerably.  He had a bit of a reputation for strictness, but for being firm but fair.  A few of my contemporaries had been slippered by him.  Apparently, an appointment with his punishment plimsoll was not easily forgotten.

Anyway, that day he must have slipped into the garden, and catching me at it, he had banged on the glass of the conservatory.  I nearly leapt out of my skin!  I hurriedly shoved my stiff member back into my pants and went to let him in.

“Just what do you think you are doing, Justin?” he asked.  Well, it was obvious what I’d been doing.  I’d been masturbating.  I thought in those days, the ’80s, that everyone accepted that it was a normal and healthy thing to be doing.  Not Mr Atkinson, though!  He was really pissed off with me.  I’d never heard him shout so much, and he was shaking with rage.

“You dirty, dirty boy.  If I’d caught you doing that at school, you’d have tasted my slipper or the head’s cane!  Shouldn’t  you be mowing the grass anyway?”

I nodded with embarrassment.  How I wished my parents hadn’t encouraged him to pop around to make sure all was well.  My parents!  Suddenly, it dawned on me that he might tell them.  I had to beg him not to.

“Yes, Rob and Dawn wouldn’t be best pleased would they?  Such depravity!  If you really can’t control your urges Justin, you should do it in private behind a locked door.  Surely your father must have warned you about this sort of thing?”

“Actually, no.  He was too embarrassed to ever talk to me about it.”

“That no excuse but it explains a lot.  And I suppose he never smacked you?”

“No, not really.  Neither did you, Sir.”  It seemed like a good moment to use his old title.

“No indeed, but I rather wish I had done now.  Would have sorted you out.  Just what you needed.”

Rather foolishly, I nodded, adding, “It’s not too late.”

He looked at me strangely.  For I had spoken an unspoken truth.  At eighteen, I was very much still the schoolboy to his teacher figure.  He shook his head.  Then after a short silence, he shook it again.  “Come with me!” he demanded.

I locked up, placing the keys in a pocket of my Wranglers and I followed him up the footpath, rather like an obedient dog.  He lived up the far end of our road.  On his own.

“In!” he ordered as we reached the threshold.  His place was vaguely familiar, for it had a similar floor plan and feel to our family home.

“Sit down a minute,” he said, as he disappeared upstairs.  I sat down on the grubby orange dralon sofa.  I was sweating profusely, worried sick.  He soon came downstairs, carrying a dirty white plimsoll and a crook-handled cane.

“Oh, not a smacking then?” I asked naively.

“I hardly think so, Justin.  Your have earned something a little harsher, I feel.  Don’t you?”

“Well, couldn’t you just smack me on the bare?  There’s no need for those barbaric things.”

“Don’t worry, Justin.  Your punishment will be on your bare bottom.  But I think a hard thrashing with this cane is what is warranted.  The slipper’s not going to teach you to keep your penis in your jeans, is it?” he said, throwing the plimsoll down on the deep pile carpet.

“Oh, Mr Atkinson!”

“Jeans and underwear down please.  Bend over this pouffe.”

Submissively I did as I was told.  My arse seemed like it was on offer, raised provocatively on the brown leatherette.  I felt quite exposed and almost giddy with fear, or was it excitement?  At that particular moment I felt as if I was fulfilling some destiny.  It was as if my arse had  always been meant to be chastised by him.

With an almighty crack the first stroke landed.  I’d never felt pain like it, and immediately cried out.  He laughed at me, which made me feel about one foot tall.

“Just what you need, Justin.  We’ll have to make it twelve if you don’t want me to tell your parents what you were up to.”

I groaned.  A dozen seemed an awful lot.  I wasn’t sure I could stand the pain.  In fact, I was sure I couldn’t.  Just then the second stroke cracked down.  It was even worse than the first one.  I could feel tears forming in my eyes.  I didn’t want to cry, but this was going to be a difficult situation from which to emerge with any dignity intact.

The third swished down, and then another.  And another.  And another.  Halfway!  Halfway to hell, it seemed.

He stopped.  I could hear him swishing the cane through the air.  He was enjoying this, I felt sure.  What a bastard…

“You know, Justin, you have a very caneable backside!  What a shame your father never took a stick to it.  I could lend him one, I suppose.”

I choked with shock.  Surely he was joking?  My thoughts were interrupted by the seventh stroke, which demanded my full attention.  Shit, it did.  My poor fucking arse!

“Yes, Justin.  He can borrow this very cane!”

“I thought you weren’t going to tell him?” I asked, in a panic.

“Shut up boy and take your medicine like a man,” he admonished.  All the medicine in the world wouldn’t have convinced me that I wasn’t a very sick patient by that stage!  My arse felt like it was being ripped apart as the eighth and ninth strokes landed painfully.

The tenth stroke wasn’t so bad, but I think he was playing games with me as the last two were incredibly intense, red-hot and sheer agony.

I started to recover my composure a little, though I remained bent over submissively.  His hands were feeling my buttocks, and then he probed around my crack.  It was a nice sensation.  Chess Club was never like this.

(____________

Story © MMXIII by Rod Cayenne

Photo: © Jonathan, R.I.P.

All rights reserved.

______________

D I S C L A I M E R

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

_______________

Comments welcome

I Masturbated in My Brother’s House (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Beat the meat with a work of almost total fiction by Rod Cayenne, repeated here by popular request. Strictly Over-18s only!

I’ve always had a funny relationship with my brother Patrick.  He always called me “kid” which was guaranteed to piss me off big time.  That and the fact that he was a good ten years older than me.

A few years back he purchased his first house.  In a less than desirable suburb of the city, he really thought he had arrived.  It was a Victorian terrace, with a big railway viaduct down the bottom of the garden.  Being a bit of a gricer, I took pleasure in telling him that it was the line the nuclear waste trains ran along.  That freaked him out briefly!  His green credentials were seriously dented.  Yes, we were siblings with the traditional rivalry.  Even so, I was happy to help him move in and decorate as I was waiting to start a new term at University.  I stayed for a few days.

Towards the end of my stay, I was enjoying a fine brew of tea and a crafty cigarette as my elevensies break.  My brother had taken the train into town to sort out some things.  I was a bit bored and tired as I gazed idly out of the kitchen window.  I picked up the previous day’s evening paper and scanned through it as I puffed on my fag.  Suddenly, I spat tea out of my gob with disbelief as I started to read an article about corporal punishment and the cane in particular.  It was a hot piece alright, on a subject I’d always had an unhealthy interest in.  In fact, it was so hot that I soon whipped Mr Cock out of my trousers and began to masturbate furiously.  Unfortunately for me, my brother returned just at that moment, unheard by me. Perhaps the radio had drowned out the noise of him opening the front door?

“What the fuck are you doing, kid?” he boomed at me.   “Wanking in my kitchen!  What if the neighbours have seen?  They might think it was me.  Their new neighbour is a wanker indeed!  Shit, I hope they haven’t seen you.  You little sod!  What are you wanking off to anyway?”

He snatched the rag from me.  I blushed a deep red as the penny dropped.

“So, into spanking, are you?”

I thought it best to say nothing at that point.  I mean, what could I say?  My mind raced, and I remembered a few smacked bottoms he’d given me when we were younger.

“I can see that you need a good hard spanking now, kid!”

“Don’t be daft,” I replied, “I’m twenty!”

“Shut up!  Go to your room and wait for me.”

Reluctantly, I made my way up the stairs to the small bedroom I’d been sleeping in.  The fresh magnolia paint gave the room a sunny air.  The window was open to allow the paint smell to dissipate.   I sat down on the bed, feeling for all the world like a guilty teenager.  Soon my brother appeared, smiling a sinister smile.  He unlaced his Green Flash trainers and slipped them off silently.  The meaning was clear.  He was going to beat me with them.

“Such depraved behaviour, kid!  Demands punishment, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” I agreed submissively.

“Better bare your bottom for me, then.  It’s traditional, after all.  Then bend over the bed.”

“Patrick, is all this really necessary?” I asked, in one last forlorn attempt to avoid a beating.

“Oh yes, I’d certainly say so!  That’s it, nice and bare now.”  I slipped my jeans and pants down.  “Tut, tut, carrying a bit of extra weight on your buttocks these days, I see!”

My humiliation was almost complete.  He picked up one of his green and white tennis shoes and slapped it down hard on my naked arse.  An almighty thundercrack seemed to accompany it and a wave of pain engrossed my body.  Rapidly, a second, third and fourth stroke struck home.  Already the pain was overwhelming me.  If my brother was worried about the neighbours seeing me wanking, why wasn’t he worried about the noise from my spanking?   Surely it was drifting out of the open window?  I needn’t have worried though, as just then two expresses passed on the viaduct, drowning out the sounds of my beating.

“AAARGH!” I cried as further strokes lashed my naked behind.  I was close to begging him to stop, but really I was so ashamed of my behaviour that I felt I really had to just grin and bear it.  As further strikes hit me though, this became harder and I soon felt silent tears rolling down my face.  Again and again he hit me, sometimes with the left tennis shoe,  sometimes the right.  My arse was aglow, bright red and throbbing.  Certainly the beating had cured my urge to masturbate.  Eventually it was over.  Patrick slapped my arse gratuitously with his hand a couple of times as I staggered to my feet.

“Don’t think I’ve finished with you yet, kid,” my brother said.  “This afternoon you and I will take the train into town where you will buy a cane, seeing as you have such an interest in them.  You will pay for it and I will use it on you.  Clear?”

I almost forgave my brother later as he cooked us the most sensational Italian lunch.  However, my arse was sorer than sore as I sat on the hard wooden seat of the refectory-style table.  As we enjoyed a cold ice cream dessert from the freezer I wondered whether it might not have been better used to cool my inflamed cheeks.

After lunch, Patrick dragged me off into town on the train.  That was a bit of a treat in a way, but our eventual destination bore heavily on my mind.  A place that sold canes?  Surely there were no such places any more?  Then I remembered I’d seen some pretty feeble-looking canes in a local sex shop.  My brother grinned at me as we passed over some uneven points and I grimaced as my bottom was bounced around on the seating.

Eventually, we got to town and emerged from the station.  Almost opposite was our destination, a rather old-fashioned looking shop.  It specialised in umbrellas, hiking and walking sticks and “canes”!  I followed Patrick in, the door causing a loud bell to sound as it was opened.  I was immediately hit by a slightly musty smell as I surveyed the dingy surroundings.  A wizened old gentleman appeared and offered us assistance.

“I’m looking for a punishment cane.  Probably a senior model, preferably with a crook handle,” Patrick informed the man.

“Ah.  Right, sir.  Not much call for those these days, I’m afraid.  Yes, a great shame.  But we do keep a few in stock for connoisseurs and enthusiasts.  Come and have a look.”

Patrick duly inspected a variety of canes, and I blushed every time he swished one through the air.  The stock was rather more extensive than we’d been led to believe, and my brother didn’t seem to be in a great hurry, unfortunately for me.  Eventually, he selected a golden brown specimen, with a quite beautiful curved handle.  It looked as if it was straight out of an ancient comic.  Somehow I knew that it would be no laughing matter, however.

“The boy will pay for it!”  Patrick announced.  I duly scraped the necessary together, which was humiliating, but at least it gave me the chance to ask the assistant to wrap the cane for me.  And so it was that we left the shop, with me carrying a lightweight package wrapped in brown parcel paper!  On the train ride back, Patrick winked at me a couple of times.  Was he enjoying my humiliation, or was he, as I was beginning to suspect, a bit of a spanko himself?

Back at the house, Patrick ordered me upstairs again, “And this time change into your pyjamas.  You will be sent to bed after your caning!”

“But I don’t have any pyjamas with me!”

“What?  No pyjamas?  I suppose you sleep in the nude, do you?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I do.  Except when I’m at Mum and Dad’s.”

“I see.  More lewd behaviour!  Extra strokes for that, kid.”

I walked up the stairs with my tail between my legs.  Well, not really as I don’t have a tail.  And, even if I had, I felt that Patrick would have beaten it off in next to no time!

I was sat on the bed again when Patrick came in.  He was taking the wrapping off the cane.  It’s full majesty was soon revealed.  He cut it through the air a couple of times.  I really wasn’t looking forward to this.  Although caning had been a major fantasy for me, I was pretty sure I didn’t want one in real life.

“I thought I told you to get ready for bed?” Patrick reminded me.

“But I told you, I sleep in the nude!”

“In that case you will be caned in your bed clothes, that’s to say stark bollock naked!  See to it!”

Reluctantly, I stripped off.  I could smell my sweat.  If only his shower had been working.

“Right, bend over brother.  Six for masturbating in my house, and four extra for sleeping nude in my house!  And two more for a general lack of respect for me and my house!  How many does that make?”

“Twelve, Patrick.”

“No!  It makes twelve of the very best!  Stick that bottom out more!”

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!  Three shockingly hard strokes landed on my already tender arse.  The sting of that cane was unbelievable.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!  It was all too much.  This time tears and snot fell down my face.  I had hoped that the cane from that tired old shop would have been past it, but it was full of youthful vim and vigour.  Shit!

“Oh please Patrick, no more!  I’m sorry.  Haven’t I done a good job for you here?”

My brother paused.  Perhaps I had struck a chord?

“Well, Wayne…”

I was amazed.  He’d used my first name!  That was the first time for ages.  Surely a good sign?

“You have done some really good work on the house and with helping me move in.  Thank you.  I shall of course reward you for that.  However, your inappropriate behaviour does still need to be punished!”

He flexed the cane and slashed it down on my naked arse once more.  It wasn’t quite such a harsh stroke, and neither were the other five that followed on.  So maybe I had six of the very best and six close to the best?  Anyway, I couldn’t help sobbing a little by the time he threw the cane down.

“That was fun!” he laughed.

I wanted to call him a bastard but I thought better of it.  And then, he didn’t send me to bed after all.  I think that was because he wanted me to do some more work on the house for him.  I was glad to be standing up as I painted, for my bottom was way too sore to do anything requiring sitting down!

At the end of the stay, he did give me an envelope stuffed with cash.  It certainly helped out over the following term, so I did feel grateful to him.  Despite this, for a while I was reluctant to visit him again.  I was wary of his punishments.  However,  eventually I had to admit to myself that it had all been very exciting, if a tad painful.  So, I did spend a few weekends and holidays in his tender care!  The cane and slipper were used a lot, but only because we both wanted it that way.

THE END

D I S C L A I M E R

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

________________

Story © MMXIV by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved

_______________

Comments welcome, please use link at top of the story

Comments from the original 2014 post are here

Afterburner (M/M)

 

♥ Site recommended story ♥

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

“Hello Tim, how much studying have you done tonight?”

“Not so much, Dad.  Hardly any.  Well, next to none.”

“You mean precisely none?”

“Yes, none, sorry Dad.”

“And just remind me how much studying you did over the weekend, please.”

“Err, sorry Dad, that was none too.”

“And just remind me how long it is until your A Level exams.”

“A term, or so, Dad.  I’m sorry, it’s not my fault.  It’s this new video game.  It’s so absorbing.  You play as this really cool character…”

“I don’t want to hear about it!  Of course it’s your fault that you’ve done no studying!  It’s not my fault is it?  It’s not that new game’s fault either.  It’s time you faced up to your own failings and lack of self-discipline.  Now, I told you there would be serious consequences if you didn’t buck your ideas up, didn’t I?”

“Yes, Dad.  But please.  One more chance please.  Please don’t take my console away!”

“That’s not what I had in mind, son.”

“Oh thanks, Dad.  Now can I get on please?”

“No, and don’t be so cocky!  Turn it off.  Right now!  I want your undivided attention for a minute.  I’ve got an appointment with your headmaster, Mr Crudge, first thing in the morning.  I’m not happy about having to discuss your laziness with him.  Not one bit.  I’m a busy man and I will be late in for work.  Fortunately my boss was very understanding when I told him what I was going to do.  In fact a lot of it was his idea.”

Tim wasn’t scared of ‘Thrasher’ Crudge.  The old man had lost his edge ever since corporal punishment had been banned, or maybe even a bit before.  He could give a mean tongue-lashing, but now there was no bite to back it up.

The following day, Tim’s father was ushered in to see Mr. Crudge.  The old headmaster sat listening intently as the boy’s failings were recounted.  It wasn’t an entirely new story.  There seemed to be a malaise of laziness spreading throughout the nation’s youth, and by now it had even infected the offspring of the burghers and citizens of the small market town.  The older man spoke, “I hope you don’t mind, but I feel compelled to speak frankly.  I’m inclined to think a lot of this is your own fault, as the boy’s father.  Did you or did you not buy him this video game console thing?”

“Well yes, I did headmaster, he was most insistent.”

“Hmm, I bet he was.”

“It’s not that simple though.  The kids of today, a lot of them have much more money than you and I did as lads.  He is 18 and he’d have bought himself one if I hadn’t.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.  But you must have agreed to him having a television set in his bedroom in the first place.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Most unwise, if I may say so, most unwise.  Now, how can I help?  Have you decided to take away the TV and games console?”

“No, I can’t bring myself to do that.  That would be cruel.  What I was wondering was.  I was thinking, perhaps…”

“Come on man, spit it out!”

“Well I was talking to my boss down the factory.  In the office.”

“Indeed?”

“Well, he was saying that it’s not that long since corporal punishment was abolished.  He’d heard that some headmasters did home visits to get around the new rules.”

“What?  What?  Am I understanding you correctly?  Home visits to carry out punishments that a father could and should do himself?  The very idea!”

“Oh, I see.  You’re not one of those select few then?”

“A self-selecting few I should imagine!  No, no, no!”

“I just thought a short, sharp shock, like I used to get in this very office, would be much kinder in the long run than taking Tim’s stuff away.”

“Wait!  You were thrashed here?  By my predecessor I take it, Mr. Bloom?”

“Yes, Basher Bloom we used to call him.”

“Yes, I’d heard.  Most disrespectful, if I may say so.  Anyway, we’re drifting.  You could give your lad a slippering, you know.  A good hot dozen or so.  Or 18 to match his age.  Yes, that’s what I’d recommend, off the record, of course.”

“Of course.  I could, headmaster, that’s very true.  But you and I both know that the cane is in another league, don’t we?  I think I’ve left it a bit late for a tap or two with the slipper.  I was thinking of an old-fashioned six of the best with the cane.  Like I used to get from old Mr Bloom.  Yes, six of the very best from an experienced disciplinarian.  Something that will make a real impression. So, I’m afraid that I hardly qualify.”

“Well, yes, you’re right. The cane is not that easy to master. There is a certain technique to it.  You’d find it difficult to start with, it’s true.  It’s a dying skill, of course.  Sadly.  I’m not convinced that abolition represents progress.  Anyway, it just so happens that I do still have some canes here.  I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away.  Would you like to see them?”

“Err, yes please.  I’ve never seen one close up.  Though I certainly remember the sting!”

“Yes, I’m sure.  Not easily forgotten, eh?  Now, take a look at these fine specimens,” said the headmaster as he produced four dusty canes from out of nowhere.

Tim’s father surveyed the canes before him, “Actually, they look a bit old to me. And lifeless.  Are you sure they’d still be up any good? Are they up to the job?”

“Most definitely I’m sure! Is that a challenge? All right, you’re on! Your lad’s going to confirm that they’re up to it!”

The conspiracy was on!  A date was fixed. A time was fixed. Teenager Tim was transfixed.  He uttered that most stupid of questions, “Is that a cane?”

Crudge smiled at him, “Yes it’s a cane, my lad.  I like to think of it as my very own Afterburner.  Or a kind of Beat ‘Em Up!”

Tim groaned inwardly at the headmaster’s puns, but couldn’t take his eyes off the rattan cane.  He’d never, ever seen one before.  It looked old and wicked, just like the headmaster.  He gazed at the crook-handled cane in the old mans hand.  His eyes misted over.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you!” said Crudge as he flexed the cane menacingly, “Too much playing and not enough working.  Disgraceful! Now, the Boss will take you to the next level.  Bend over this chair for me.”

So it was that Tim obeyed ‘Thrasher’ Crudge.  The atmosphere was electric as the lad bent over the dining chair.  The old man wasted no time, whipping down a first stroke that caught the teen by surprise.  A second stroke followed, causing Tim to yelp with pain and alarm.  A third stroke landed with a resounding thwack.  By now a wildfire seemed to be burning beneath Tim’s trousers and underpants.  “No more, please! Dad! Help!” the teenager cried out, losing all dignity, and started to rise from the chair.

“Get back down! Right now! Don’t you dare move again,” chided the headmaster.

“Sorry son, this is long overdue. Now, do as Mr Crudge says and take your medicine like a man!” Father chipped in.

Crudge resolved to get the thrashing over quickly to avoid further outbursts.  He hadn’t told the lad that it would be six strokes, but he lashed the final three down rapidly.  Tim could bear it no more, standing up and shouting, “Bloody Hell!”

The headmaster frowned, and used his cane to point at the teenager, saying,  “Well, that’s a surprise!  I do believe you’ve earned a bonus round.  I told you to stay down, and you disobeyed me, didn’t you?  And swearing as well.  Tut, tut.  Two strokes extra!”

By now Tim’s father was wondering if he’d made a mistake in inviting the headmaster over.  Eight strokes was a bit excessive, he began to think. As his son bent over, father could only imagine the pain he must be in.   His mind flashed back to canings he’d received all those years ago. The pain, the weals, the ridges, the bruising, the teasing of his classmates and the shame.  And yes, the tears.

Father was brought back to the present with a loud awakening.  It was the crack of the seventh stroke of the cane, which caused his son to yell out furiously.  Savouring the moment, Crudge lined the whippy old cane up for a final excruciating stroke. It had been a long time, he thought.  Too long.  Landing the stroke right on target, it cracked loudly against the lad’s fleshy arse. Tim gasped and sobbed but at last it was over.  He was instructed to rise, and then to his surprise and that of his father, he shook Mr Crudge’s hand firmly, as if he was sincerely grateful for the lesson imparted.

It was to be the first, but not last time that Mr Crudge was invited over to discipline Tim.  And in the end, the old headmaster got a taste for making such home visits.  Tim’s father was given a substantial pay rise by his boss. And Tim?  Well, he got in to a very good University, quite easily.

 

 

_

D I S C L A I M E R

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

__________________

Story © MMXVII by Rod Cayenne

____________

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

Delta Blow (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Repeat of this hot male caning fiction by Rod Cayenne.

Author’s note: with special thanks to Jim for some bright ideas!

The air was heavy with smoke, and not all of it from straight tobacco. The four lads were having a great time, the cans of lager slipping down their noisy throats to the accompaniment of roars of laughter. The four were enjoying a game of poker, using an explicit deck of cards.

“Your Dad wouldn’t like us doing this, would he?” Gavin observed.

“No he’s a bit of a prude. Not sure he’d know what to do with a naked woman, although I suppose he did father me!” joked host Bernie. “He’s just as religious as ever. A church warden and the way he hangs around the vicar gives me the creeps. He’s quite strict about booze and gambling. He’s OK with fags though as he still smokes a pipe himself.”

“My God, how the fuck does she get that in there?” asked Lance staring with disbelief at one of the cards on the table.

“The bitch is on heat!” roared Bernie.

“Must use a lot of lube!” replied Rickie. Gavin just smiled and belched.

“I heard all that!” barked Bernie’s father as he stormed into the room, having returned from business almost a whole day earlier than expected. “What the devil is going on here? Bernie, you know I forbid alcohol in the house. And gambling too! And these cards, let me see them now! Well, they are truly debauched, disgusting, and probably illegal! Urgh, I feel sick! Right, hand those cards over, I am confiscating them right now!”

“Dad, you can’t confiscate them! I’m not a schoolboy. I’m 24!”

“24 indeed! And with no job. And wasting your money on alcohol, cigarettes and this disgusting deck of cards. As I said, I am confiscating the cards. I will burn them, they look like something from the fires of Hades anyway. And as for treating you like a schoolboy, that’s a very good idea, son! It just so happens I found my old cane the other day. I’m sure you remember it? I am going to thrash you with it, right now!”

“Dad, I’m 24, too old for the cane! Give me a break!”

“Oh you’ll get a break alright! Stay here while I go and get the stick.”

It was just as well that Bernie’s father, Gilbert Preston, was so inexperienced in the ways of the modern world. Otherwise, he might have wondered what was in the fat cigarette lying on the table. The other three lads all got up, and were in the process of putting their coats on to beat a hasty retreat, when father returned with the cane.

“Oh my, it really is a cane!” exclaimed Rickie.

“It’s a real school one, knobbly and with the curved handle bit,” observed Lance.

“Yes it is, boys. And I would guess you’ve never seen one in action, am I right?” asked Mr Preston. The lads shook their heads, to a man, as it were. “Then I’d be obliged if you would stay as spectators. Feel free.”

“I couldn’t,” stated Lance.

“Me neither,” said Rickie.

“I’ll watch!” exclaimed Gavin. The thought of seeing his friend caned appealed to him enormously. In fact, the very notion was turning him on somewhat. In truth, he’d always had a bit of a gay crush on  Bernie’s father, Gilbert Preston. The tall, distinguished dominant man was just his type!

Bernie’s eyes were misting over. His head was spinning in slightly drunken confusion. How could he get out of this? Well, one thing was clear. He couldn’t! Mr Preston was slicing the cane through the air. It made an entrancing swishy, whipping sound. Visitor and eager witness Gavin felt his cock stiffen as he took it all in. This was going to be hot!

“I’m sorry Gavin. If the other two are unwilling to watch, you will have to go too.”

Suddenly, Rickie changed his mind, saying, “Bernie did lead us astray a bit, Mr Preston. Perhaps I’d better stay.” That just left Lance. The other two guests stared at him. He nodded in silence.

“Good! I knew you’d see sense!” said Mr Preston, clearing the table and rolling up his shirt sleeves purposefully. “Bernard Preston! Bend over the table! The scene of the crimes!”

Sheepishly, Bernie did as he was told. At least he was able to keep his sweatpants on! And they were reasonably thick, as were his rather old cotton briefs. So maybe the caning wouldn’t hurt too much?

“ARGH!” cried Bernie as the first cane stroke sunk in. It was bad, really bad. It was almost as if his father had been taking lessons in effective punishment techniques! The pain was really quite overwhelming and the alcohol just seemed to make things worse. In the past, when Bernie had been caned, he had been stone cold sober. This was worse, much worse! The cane sliced down again. Gavin was admiring the action. The cane seemed to be a blur as it cut through the air, almost like the flash of a kingfisher swooping on its prey. He admired Mr Gilbert’s hairy arms and stern manner. He was captivated by this vision of castigation.

“I hope you’re learning your lesson, Bernard! I will not have gambling in my house! Never, ever. Under no circumstances whatsoever!”

“Yes, Dad, sorry Dad,” Bernie sniffled as the third stroke was lined up by his father. It cracked down, and was accompanied by a loud squeal from its victim. Lance and Rickie were a little bit scared by the whole thing, while Gavin’s raging hard-on was straining against the zipper of his Levis.

A fourth stroke hit the lad and again a most unedifying squeal followed! In truth, Mr Preston was finding some comfort in his son’s discomfort. It was high time the lad was brought down a peg or two!

Gavin was enjoying every second of friend’s misfortune and punishment. The caning was so sexual, surely the others could see it? Or maybe not, maybe Gavin thought he was just a young pervert after all.

“No more Dad, please!” squealed Bernie as the fifth stroke hit him.

“Quiet Bernard! Next one coming.”

And come it did! Gavin almost came too! By now Bernie was in absolute agony.

“Right, Bernard! You asked me to give you a break?”

“Yes, Dad,” said Bernie through misty eyes and a swimmy head.

“Right you can have one minute break before the cane deals with the bringing of alcohol into my home!”

“Whaat? Oh Dad, you can’t be serious! I’ve had enough already! I’m sorry, I really am!”

“You will be really sorry by the time I’ve finished with you!”

The three witnesses shuffled uneasily.

“Alright lads? Happy to stay for round 2?” asked Mr Preston. He didn’t wait for an answer though. He tapped his son’s bottom gently with the cane, saying, “Right. Back over the table, Bernard. This time you can drop your trousers, too.”

“No, Dad! Please!”

Impatiently and roughly, Mr Preston tugged at his son’s sweatpants and pulled them down to his ankles. Pale grey briefs with a hint of skidmark were revealed. He raised the cane and sliced it down viciously.

“ARRGH!” Bernie squealed. His briefs offered little protection from the retribution of the cane. The knotty stick was a severe one that his father had acquired from an antique dealer acquaintance many years ago. It cut and bruised as a matter of course. It was far more severe than a standard school rattan, but the four lads were completely unaware of that as the cane had fallen from favour in all schools and in so many families. Such was progress, after all.

“These ones are for bringing the demon drink across my threshold. Never again!”

“Owww!”

Gavin was so excited he was worried he would cum in his pants. What exquisite torture was unfolding before his eyes! How he lusted after Mr Preston!

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! The ante was truly upped as a fast volley of cane strokes sliced into Bernie’s buttocks. By now he was crying quietly and in shame.

“Right! Another break then we will deal with these obscene picture playing cards!” Mr Preston picked up the deck and leafed through it. “Absolutely disgusting. Those poor women. Defiled for the base gratification of you lot!”

The three spectators were alarmed at being blamed for the cards. After all, they were Bernie’s property. Well, they had been until they’d been confiscated! Their collective unease deepened as Mr Preston sliced the cane through the air several times while staring at his audience.

“Right Bernard. Last six! For the sins of the flesh, it’s only appropriate to remove your underwear too.”

“Oh, Dad, please no! Not in front of the guys!”

“Hurry up, Bernard. I’m sure your friends have seen a bare bottom before! I’d pull them down, but those pants don’t look particularly clean to me.” The three spectators guffawed at this.

“They were clean on the other day,” said Bernie as he lowered them.

“Back in position. Bottom right out. I see I’ve made a few marks already.” That was the understatement of the year, for Bernie’s arse was covered in red, angry cane lines. It looked really sore and no doubt it really was sore!

How Bernie squealed and writhed as the final six strokes landed on his naked buttocks! The knobbly cane seemed to bounce with enthusiasm each time it landed. The new strokes just agitated the existing marks, producing a blurred and wide scarlet band right across his arse. But at last, it was over!

“Stay where you are Bernard!”

Mr Preston placed the cane down on the table next to his son. What a spectacle it had all been! As if to verify that, the old man suddenly produced a small Samsung smartphone from his shirt pocket, and snapped a couple of pictures with it.

“Right! Show’s over. I hope you have all learnt your lesson!”

Gavin cleared his throat, and said, “Yes, sorry Mr Preston. You are right to be annoyed with us. We should have discouraged Bernie. I feel terribly guilty, especially now that Bernie has been thrashed.”

“Well, he deserved it, didn’t he? Although that’s not to say you don’t. If you’re really feeling guilty, perhaps you should accept a caning too! It will purge your sin, I can assure you. Perhaps six of the best for you?” he suggested as he picked up the cane once again. Gavin nodded, much to the astonishment of Bernie, Lance and Rickie. Even more astonishingly, he took Bernie’s place at the table and promptly pulled down his own jeans and pants. Little did Mr Preston realise that this was a turn-on for the lad, who lusted after the old man and desperately wanted to be beaten by him. It was a strange thing to wish for, but then the world is full of sadists and masochists. Gavin definitely had a masochistic streak, and while the religious Mr Preston felt that he was doing the right and just thing, maybe there was sadism in the old man, too.

The first stroke landed on Gavin’s meaty arse. The sound it made was more rounded, richer and more satisfying than the multiple strokes awarded to Bernie’s scrawnier buttocks. Gavin gasped, but barely audibly. There was pain alright, but there was also satisfaction. Although Gavin’s erection had disappeared as soon as he bent over, his sexual excitement was just as present as it had been earlier. Rickie was scared, he couldn’t bear to look, so he gazed at his trainers.

The second stroke brought much the same almost quiet reaction. Gavin thrust his bottom out further, willing Mr Preston and his cane on, to maybe hit even harder! A third stroke brought another gasp, or was is a contented sigh? The lad was certainly benefiting from the beating, but perhaps not in the way Mr Preston had envisaged!

The next stroke was somewhat harder, and landed on almost the same spot as the third one. Intense heat and pain flooded Gavin’s senses, but again he was stimulated sexually, thrusting his striped arse out further for the benefit of his chastiser.

Mr Preston was finding this a more satisfying beating to administer. He liked the way the lad was taking his punishment, and the way the hairy buttocks seemed to will the cane on. Of course, there was also the novelty of dealing with a lad other than his own son. Well, not so much a lad as a young man! A 25-year-old, if Mr Preston recalled correctly.

Soon Gavin’s six strokes had been delivered. It had been a sound thrashing. Now it was Mr Preston’s turn to sigh with contentment. He really couldn’t help himself – he gently touched the hot backside and then delivered couple of hearty smacks to the raw flesh! “Two more, I think,” he announced suddenly before whipping the cane into the lad’s arse again. After that, the final stroke was even more intense and punishing.

Gavin rose slowly, pulling underpants and jeans back up. Although incredibly sore, the lad felt both fulfilled and cleansed. He had taken eight severe strokes in total. As he rubbed his bottom, he wondered idly whether Mr Preston would like a lodger! After all, the house was very large and was occupied just by Mr Preston and Bernie, who must have rattled around the place. So much better than his cold and lonely bedsit. And there would always be the opportunity for another sexy thrashing from the old man!

Just then, Mr Preston fished out his phone again. This time he started dialling. Being an older user, he hadn’t fully got to grips with how the phone and its options worked. Consequently, there was an irritatingly loud beep each time he pressed a key. He was ringing an old friend, Warren, who just happened to be Lance’s father.

“Hello Warren, Gilbert here. Not so bad thanks! How’s Jean? Yes. I remember. And the dogs? Of course! Anyway, bit of a problem here. Lance has been here with Bernie and friends. Playing a drunken game of pornographic cards. Absolute filth! Stomach-turning stuff, some of it. Anyway, I just caned Bernie. First time in three years, I think. Let me send you the picture! I think Lance should have the benefit of some of the same medicine. I’m happy to do it. Text me back if you agree. No, no, you’d better check the picture first, I was quite severe with Bernie. Text me! Bye!”

It was fair to say that Lance was shitting himself with fear. Well, not literally, of course! The lad looked distinctly worried. Mr Preston paced around the room, holding the cane in one hand and the phone in the other. Soon, there was the tell-tale buzz of an incoming text. Sure enough, Warren had agreed to everything, although Gilbert Preston was alarmed by his choice and unholy language of “Hit the bugger hard!” He showed the message to Lance, who was not impressed.

“If you think for one minute that you’re hitting me with that bloody cane, you’re very much mistaken! I’m 29 for Christ’s sake!”

“I’ll thank you not to blaspheme in my house, sonny!”

“I’m not your son, and I’m not a kid, I’m 29, like I told you!”

“29 and still living with Mummy and Daddy. No wonder you are acting like a big kid! Your daddy wants me to beat you and hard!”

“No way!”

“Be quiet, Lance! Get over the table and present yourself like Gavin did. Now, he took it like a real man!”

Those words cut Lance like a knife. For Gavin, they caused immense pride, and stiffened his resolve to broach his lodging idea, perhaps in a day or two, and when sober. Bernie was smirking at all this, while Rickie was getting distinctly worried, in a slightly dopey, drunken way.

There could only be one victor in the ensuing stand-off. It was Gilbert Preston, the Lord’s warrior and self-appointed chastiser! Slowly Lance eased himself into position over the table. He undid his leatherette belt and allowed his beige slacks to fall to the ground.

“Can I keep my pants on, Mr Preston? I really don’t like the idea of showing my everything to you all.”

“Certainly not! Stop mucking about. Here, I’ll pull them down. At least they look nice and clean!” They were white and starched and unbranded. And with a quick yank, they were down! Another fine male posterior was revealed, quite beautiful in its masculine glory. So much more fleshy than Bernie’s and not dissimilar to Gavin’s. Could it be that Mr Preston was beginning to be corrupted by these naked visions? Certainly not! God forbid! He spoke to Lance, “Yes, now I happen to think your father would be happier with eight strokes rather than six.”

Lance decided to remain quiet, although he was finding Mr Preston’s manner really grating and patronising. He was also very conscious of his bare bottom, revealed to the old man and his three friends. He looked over at Bernie, who was engaged in some heavy duty bottom rubbing. He was annoyed with his friend who had brought all this trouble on him. And he was worried what his father would say when he got home.

CRACK! The first stroke broke into Lance’s flesh. He couldn’t believe the pain and shot bolt upright!

“What are you doing, Lance? Get back down right away!”

“I don’t think I can take it, Mr Preston, I really don’t!”

“Nonsense! The other two did. And they are younger than you! You need toughening up! Bend over right now or I’ll ring your father and tell him what a coward you are being!”

That did the trick! Lance bent over submissively, thrusting his naked bottom towards Mr Preston. The old man decided to make the strokes as hard as possible in case it was not possible to deliver the full beating.

CRACK! A second stroke sliced into Lance’s rump. It was lower than the first stroke and even more painful.

“OWWW!” shouted Lance. “Please, please, no more! ARRGH!” he squealed again as a third stroke whipped him.

“Really, a most immature display!” observed Mr Preston, lining up a salvo of fast strokes, four, five, six!

“OH! OWWWCH!” Lance cried out. He really wasn’t taking this at all well. Gavin watched with fascination. His friend was being a wimp, but the action was turning Gavin on, all the same.

“Last two coming up, Lance. Try to take them with some dignity, please,” Mr Preston said, flexing the cane, and winking at Lance’s friends.

“ARRRRRGH!” Lance cried as the seventh stroke hit him, and then “SHIIIIT!” as the eighth and final stroke landed.

“GET UP! VERY POOR! Think yourself lucky I’m not giving you extras for swearing! Now, RICKIE!”

Poor Rickie was the only lad there not to have been beaten yet. He’d watched in silence as the cane had done its wicked work. He was scared. “Do I have to?” he asked, “I don’t want the lads at rugby to see my arse covered in marks!”

“Well, I can’t cane you and not leave marks, can I?”

“No, I suppose not, but can’t you let me off?”

“That’s not fair on the others, now is it? Well, perhaps I should call your father?” Mr Preston reached for his mobile again.

“No! No! That’s not necessary. I’ll take it, I’ll take it, although it will take some explaining in the changing room. And the showers.”

“Come, come, surely you rugby players have seen it all?”

“Well, I don’t know…” Rickie replied, moving towards the table. He lowered his trousers and boxer shorts, revealing a fine, muscled rugby player’s arse. Gavin was beside himself with lust. What an evening this was turning out to be!

With a swish-crack the cane landed right on target, delivering a strong blow with a wicked bite. The sting penetrated the whole of the lad’s arse. He grunted loudly with discomfort. “OWWWW!” he cried as the second stroke hit home. The third had much the same effect, with the burly rugger bugger taking his beating really badly. The fourth, fifth and sixth were like a bombing run on the field of flesh, scarring and burning all around. The lad was crying bitter tears and writhing. He clenched his arse cheeks together and unclenched them, in an attempt to ease the pain. But it was no good. Despite repeated clenching and unclenching, nothing was going to reduce the pain.

Mr Preston paused, as had become his style, after the sixth stroke. “Well, another disappointing performance! I hope you do better on the pitch, my lad. Come on, stick that bottom out for me!”

The raid on the arse continued, the seventh stroke cutting a diagonal, crossing previous damage and multiplying the pain. “OWW! I’ve had enough! PLEASE!” the lad cried in his distress.

Bernie’s father was having none of it. Rickie should have known from the previous beatings that any pleas for mercy would fall on deaf ears. The old man looked at Rickie with disdain, bordering on disgust. That lad had been a huge disappointment, and he launched the eighth stroke with all the force he could muster. The cane sliced down with venom. It seemed to spring back with extra life. It was done. Rickie cried out again, slumping to his knees, clutching his battered arse. Gavin was blushing with ill-disguised sexual excitement.

It was almost a week later that Gavin was able to proposition Gilbert Preston with his lodging offer. He was quite brazen about it when he added, “And I’d expect the cane to be used to keep this lodger in line, Sir.”

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

(___________

Story © MMXV by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved

___________)

Comments welcome – please use link at top of story

A Tale From The Toilet Seat (M/M)

Hot fiction by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2013

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 police 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 © 2013 by Rod Cayenne

Comments welcome – please use link at top of story

Sideboard Of Memories (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Leave it out!” I replied playfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bare?” I queried.

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

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

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

“Owww!  No!” I cried.

He just laughed and swished the cane some more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, I see.”

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

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

_____________

D I S C L A I M E R

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

(_____________

Story © MMXVIII by Rod Cayenne.  All rights reserved.

__

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

What’s Going On In There? (M/M)

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

_________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh Dan!  Not the cane again!”

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

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

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

“Oh Dan!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

___________)

D I S C L A I M E R

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

(___________

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

All rights reserved

___________)

Comments welcome, please use link at top of story

Charlie Alpha November Echo (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

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

Over-18s only.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eh?” Jim asked stupidly.

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

“But Sir!  You can’t do that!”

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

“Yes Sir.  My father…”

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

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

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

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

“How so, Sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“From Charlie Alpha?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dad, you can’t mean…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Another eight!”

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

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

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Story © MMXVI by Rod Cayenne

Photographs © by Rod Cayenne

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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