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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.