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.

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Story © MMXIV by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved

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Comments welcome, please use link at top of the story

Comments from the original 2014 post are here

There Wasn’t Much Caning (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Erotic fiction by Rod Cayenne.  Originally published in two parts; now combined into one hot story.

 

Part 1:

“There wasn’t much caning when I was at school,” I said to Mr Pearce, my old housemaster. We had bumped into each other in town and had started talking about old times, like you do. He invited me to drop in later that day, which I duly did. We spoke about school, former pupils and staff, of rugby and cricket. He sat up as I mentioned caning.

“Ah, the cane. It’s surprising how many old boys want to talk about that.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Almost every visitor I have wants to talk about it and wants to know whether I still have a cane. Getting back to your original comment, no, there probably wasn’t much caning when you were at school. There was a little more just after you left, just prior to abolition. We had to keep trouble at bay, and be sure anarchy didn’t break out as soon as we lost the cane. Plus Mr Watts was a bit of a sadist, if you ask me.”

“I’d heard that. I was lucky I guess that Mr Spring was still head when I was at school.”

“Yes, you were lucky, or rather your bottom was,” he laughed out loudly. “So you never got the cane, Tom?”

“No, I was a good boy. Only ever got the slipper in P.E.”

“Aha, Mr Wilfred. A bit of a perv.” I was shocked when Mr Pearce referred to my old P.E. teacher that way. “He was very fond of boys’ bottoms.”

“Gosh yes, Sir,” I said shaking my head at the memories. “I had the slipper many times. Never the cane, though. I often wondered what it was like.”

“I didn’t use the cane much, as you probably noticed. I always had a couple hanging on hooks in my study though. Just as a tease, really. They were seldom used.”

“Yes, I remember,” I said. “I used to dread visiting your room because they were there!”

“I see. I’ll tell you what, I’ll go and fetch them. I still have them upstairs,” he revealed. Suddenly I felt my interest in the topic of the cane evaporate. Fear replaced it – did I really want to see those canes again?

“Here they are!” he said returning with the two crook-handled canes. He swished one of them around and then bent it into a semi-circle. “What do you think?” he asked.

“Well, they look a bit old and thin. A bit like you, Sir!”

“Cheeky!” he replied. Suddenly his expression grew fierce. “That’s the sort of cheek that would have got you a caning in the good old days. I’m a bit hurt.”

“Sorry, Sir,” I replied with a smirk. “Perhaps you should cane me?” I said flippantly. However, he took my words literally!

“Bend over this chair then, Tom!” he ordered. Somehow I couldn’t refuse.

CRACK!

The cane lashed down on my arse. I managed to keep quiet but it hurt like mad!

CRAACK!

A harder stroke made me gasp and panic.

CRAACK!

Another hard stroke and I was writhing. I wondered how many strokes I’d be getting and whether I should just get up and leave. Just then a strange thought entered my head – it hurt like hell but it sure was fun. Of a strange kind…

CRACK!

“OWWWW!” I cried out.

CRACK!

CRACK!

He told me to get up. I rubbed my bottom furiously.

“Well?” he asked me.

“Er, ooh, gosh that hurt, Sir!”

“Good lad, but was it satisfying?”

“Er well, yes, it certainly satisfied my curiosity, Sir. What a strange feeling…”

“You enjoyed it then. A lot of grown men do. How about another six on the bare?”

Before I could answer, I felt his cold hands unbuckling my belt, and soon my cords and briefs were around my ankles. He picked up the other cane and whipped it down on my naked arse again and again.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

The six strokes were over but he carried on with further hard strokes, clearly relishing the caning as much as me.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

“AAARGH!” I cried out.

“You are a tough boy!” he said to me as I pulled my trousers back up. We smiled at each other. We should have done this years ago. We arranged to meet again in a month.

 

Part 2:

 

“Hello Mr. Pearce.”

“Hello lad! Welcome back.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Come in to the front room. I’ll get you a towel so you can dry off. Filthy weather isn’t it?”

“Yes, I’ll say, Sir. Still, we mustn’t let it spoil things, must we?”

“No indeed lad. I expect you experienced worse on cross-country runs.”

“Oh yes, Sir! It always seemed to be raining and muddy. Mr. Wilfred’s slipper used to really sting through a pair of wet white shorts.”

“Of course. Those shorts didn’t leave much to the imagination when they were wet lad. They used to become almost transparent!”

“I know Sir, I know. The slipperings were bad enough but as Mr. Wilfred had a no underwear rule, he must have had a good look at our assets when we were bent over.”

“Yes, I remember him telling me as much. He and I became good friends, you know. He was a perv, but let’s be honest, so am I. You too, I believe.”

“Yes, maybe Sir. I think I could develop a taste for the cane.”

“That’s certainly possible lad. It’s a danger in a way. The cane can be addictive. Like a drug. It’s the pain-killing endorphins that cause the problem. Anyway, here’s a towel. You might as well strip off and put your clothes on the radiator. I take it you do want another caning?”

“Er, yes please, Sir. Only if it’s no trouble.”

“It’s no trouble my boy. It’ll be a pleasure. You know, your arse is quite, quite special. A beauty.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I get to see a few arses you know. Fat ones. Lardy ones. Lumpy ones. Dirty, unwashed ones. Eeeewww! Tattooed ones. Smelly ones. But every now and then, I get a real beauty like yours to play with. It makes it all worthwhile.”

“Thank you Sir. Would you like a feel of it now?”

“Yes, bend over and touch your toes for me lad.”

His hands were cold, just like before. They wandered all over my bottom. I was feeling a little dizzy in my bent over position. He shoved an unlubricated finger up my arsehole. It hurt a bit but it was also pleasurable as he gradually started to wiggle it about in my hot hole.

“Get up lad! It’s a nice arse alright, but you shouldn’t have let my finger in. You will be punished for that.”

“Yes, of course Sir. Sorry, Sir.”

“Plenty of time for that later. I think we’ll have a cuddle for a minute lad, come and sit here with me on the sofa.”

He put his arm around my naked shoulders. It felt nice. Like a dad. My dad never did that for me. He never took the trouble to chastise me either. My cock was rock hard by now.

“That’s a very nice penis you have there.”

He grabbed it and started to wank it roughly. His grip tightened and he increased the speed. Faster and faster he pumped. I tried to hold back my excitement but I couldn’t. I was stiff, stiffer than ever before. I was turned on, more than ever before. Suddenly my cock exploded with copious amounts of cum. It shot all over the place, over him and over his wanking hand.

“Dirty boy! That will be more punishment for you.”

He wiped the cum from his hand onto my hairy chest.

“A very dirty boy. With a very nice penis. And a bottom to match.”

He disappeared. I assumed he had gone to fetch the canes, but instead he returned holding a carpet beater.

“This hurts!” he said to me nonchalantly. “What does it do lad?”

“It hurts, Sir!”

“Get upstairs! I’ll deal with you there.”

He sat down on the bed, patting the carpet beater on his palm. I stood before him, naked but at least I no longer had an erection.

“Bend over lad. I’m going to beat you now for allowing a finger to probe you!”

“Yes Sir. Sorry Sir, it won’t happen again.”

“I only wish I could believe that.”

I was bent over waiting for the first stroke when instead I felt his finger push into my arsehole again!

“See what I mean! Absolutely incorrigble!” He laughed and withdrew his finger. The carpet beater lashed down. Ouch! It hurt. Not as badly as the burn of the cane, but still a painful reckoning. Again and again painful blows lit up my bare cheeks.

“How was that then boy?”

“Painful Sir!”

“Good! Now then, I was telling you about Mr. Wilfred. We became good friends and used to spank, slipper and cane each other.”

“No! Get away, I don’t believe you!”

“I wouldn’t advise calling me a liar boy!”

“No Sir, Sorry Sir! I was just a little surprised.”

“Anyways, that’s how I know about the wet shorts and how much a slippering hurt through them.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of white P.E. shorts. He held them up and twanged the elastic. “For you, boy!”

“Thank you, Sir.” I went to put them on.

“No, no, no!” he said impatiently. “Take them to the bathroom and make them wet!”

At first, I was horrified as I thought he meant me to piss on them, but then I realised that he wanted me to run them under the tap. I did so, cheating a little by using warm water. He would never know, after all. I wrung the shorts out a little and and then slipped them on over my naked, beaten cheeks. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. I looked my 25 years but I also looked like a naughty pupil. By the time I returned to the bedroom he had changed into shorts too. His were dry, of course. On a leather lanyard around his neck hung a shiny chrome whistle. This was going to be fun! He picked up a white and green gym shoe and waved it under my nose.

“You are a sinful little boy and I am going to beat that sin right out of you!”

He indicated that I should bend over on all fours on the bed. He waved the plimsoll at me again.

WHACK!

“Yeowwwww!” Shit, that hurt!

WHACK!WHACK!

WHACK!

He gave a toot on his whistle. My cock stood to attention.

WHACK!

WHACK!

WHACK!

The intensity of the slippering on my wet shorts was breathtaking. It was almost worse than the cane! Almost…

WHACK!

“AARGGH!”

He stopped and threw it down.

“Stay here for a minute boy. Don’t get up.”

A couple of minutes later he returned. He had changed into a headmaster’s outfit! Suit, shirt and tie, mortar board and gown!  He looked terrific. He headed over to the wardrobe and opened the doors. I could see his two canes hanging from the rail. He seemed to be deciding which one to use. He sighed a little, and rolled up his sleeves. He took out both canes and turned around giving me a wicked grin.

“Twelve with the senior cane, on your wet shorts.”

“Yes Sir!”

“For spunking all over the place.”

Yes, I thought to myself, that had been fun and rather wicked. I had loved the masterful way he had wiped cum on my chest.

SWISH-CRACK!

“AAARGH!” It hurt like the blazes!

SWISH-CRACK!

The wet shorts offered no protection from the bite of the senior cane.

SWISH-CRACK!

“AAAAAAARGH!”

The wet shorts were making the pain worse.

SWISH-CRACK!

Mr. Pearce could see redness behind the wet shorts.

SWISH-CRACK!SWISH-CRACK!SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!SWISH-CRACK!SWISH-CRACK!

“AARGH!”

SWISH-CRACK!

“Owww!”

It was all over, to my immense relief. What a wicked teacher Mr. Pearce had turned out to be.

“Drop the shorts boy!” he instructed. I duly let them fall off.

His ice cold hands were once again on my bottom. He took some lube from a drawer in the bedside cabinet. Soon he had another finger up me. We both got a lot of pleasure from this.

“Your shorts have made the bedding wet!”

“Oh gosh, I’m sorry.” I knew straight away that this would mean more of the cane. I thrust my naked arse submissively towards him.

“You’d better beat me again, Sir!”

“Not so fast!” he replied. “Put the shorts back on.”

I began to suspect that the wet shorts were a bit of a fetish of his. I tried to imagine how he and Mr Wilfred had played their games. Did they end up in bed together? My thoughts were soon disturbed by the SWISH-CRACK! of the crook-handled junior cane landing on my damp buttocks. I was in for eighteen strokes as punishment for making the bedding wet.

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Story © 2012 by Rod Cayenne

Comments welcome

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

What’s Going On In There? (M/M)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh Dan!  Not the cane again!”

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

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

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

“Oh Dan!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

(___________

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

All rights reserved

___________)

Comments welcome, please use link at top of story

Drop The Crop (M/M) r e p e a t

Erotic Fiction by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2011.

 

“Is this your crop?” I shouted at the passing rider.  He was rather handsome in a tweed jacket, cream jods and very shiny black boots.  His silk tie was gold and red and looked expensive.  I waved the crop at him.  It was a nice plaited black leather item.

“Yes, I do believe it is, thank you!”

“I found it over there near those bushes.  It looks a fearsome weapon.”

“Ha! It certainly is.  I don’t use it on the horses much, but my stable lad has felt it a few times!”

“Lucky boy!” I said somewhat incautiously.

He dismounted and shook my hand firmly and introduced himself as “Cyril Makepeace, those are my stables over there.  It’s a wicked crop, that one.  If you really envy my stable lad, I could give you a good whipping with it.  Ahem, as your reward for finding my crop.  If that’s not too kinky for you, lad?”

“No Sir, I’ve always wanted to try it, honestly Sir.”

“Good lad.  Then your wish will come true.  I also use a cane on my stable lad.  Would you like to try that as well?”

“Sounds a bit harsh Sir, but in for a penny, in for a pound,” I replied.

“What’s your name lad?”

“Jason Newman, Sir.”

“Very good lad, follow me.”

I was beginning to feel foolish.  I walked behind him as he led his horse to the stables.  Suddenly the horse had a big dump.  I felt even more embarrassed.  He put the horse in the stable block and we walked towards the house.

“Come on in lad.  Make yourself comfortable, while you can.  Scotch?”

“No thank you,” I declined.  He quickly knocked a glassful back.  Perhaps it was Dutch Courage?

“Right then lad!  You want a thrashing as a reward do you?”

“Yes please, Sir!  It’s something I’ve wanted for a long time.”

“Right lad.  And you wanted it bare arse I am guessing, too?”

“It’s the only way, Sir, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s certainly the best way.  It’s going to hurt, you do realise that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir.  But I do want to be properly rewarded”.

“Aha.  Over here then.  Bend over and I’ll take your trousers down for you.  And we’ll have these down too!”

I was feeling exposed.  The room was cold and so was my bottom.

“Oh, I’ve forgotten.  You wanted a taste of the cane too, didn’t you lad?”

“Yes please, Sir.”

“Well you stay right there while I go and fetch one from the bedroom.”

He soon returned, swishing the cane as he entered the room.  I turned around to look at him.  He looked so horny in his jods and boots and with a crook handled cane too, it was like all my fantasies had become real at that moment.

“Face the front, lad!  There’s no need to stare.  I think that’ll cost you extra strokes!”

“Yes Sir, sorry Sir.”

“Well we’ll start with a swift dozen from the crop you found.  I think you’ll find it quite rewarding!”

THWACK!  The crop lashed down.  I cried out.  That was a heavy stroke.

THWACK! THWACK!  Two strokes in quick succession.  My arse was on fire.

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!  Half way through and I was beginning to think I’d been rewarded enough.

THWACK! THWACK! “AAAARGH!” I screamed.

THWACK! THWACK!  I was regretting my bravado.

THWACK! THWACK!  Extra hard strokes had me close to tears.

“Very good, lad,” he complimented me.  He put the crop down and poured himself another stiff one.  “Very satisfactory.  Very rewarding.  Have you had the cane before, lad?”

“No Sir.  Is it worse than the crop?”

“Yes, I’d say so.  It stings and burns in a unique way.  I had it a lot at school.  Prep school and boarding.  And then when the horse thing came along, I got a taste for the riding crop, courtesy of my riding mistress.  She has a lot to answer for.  As do my old housemasters.  Anyway, as I said, the cane is worse.  Stick that bottom out for me, laddie!”

SWISH-CRACK!  The sound of the cane was thrilling, and the pain didn’t seem too bad for a second or so, but my, did it kick in!

SWISH-CRACK!  A second stroke.  Absolute agony, although I was proud not to cry out.

SWISH-CRACK! The third made me gasp.

SWISH-CRACK!  “AAARRRGGGHHH…………….”

SWISH-CRACK!  He was really getting into the swing of it.

SWISH-CRACK!  “YEOWWWCH!”  That was the worst one.

He dropped the cane to the floor.  I was expecting more.  He’d threatened extra strokes earlier.  They didn’t materialise.  I think the alcohol may have dulled him as he suddenly seemed mellow.

“Good boy.  Let me have a look.”  His hands wandered over my arse too.  They were quite cold, which was a relief as my arse was really hot after the caning.  “Why don’t you come over next Saturday, lad?  You could help my David muck out the stables and then have a thrashing as another reward.  You did enjoy it, didn’t you Jason, my boy?”

“Yes I did enjoy it, thank you, and I will come on Saturday.  What time Sir?”

“Oh, let’s make it early, you will need plenty of time for your reward.”

The following day, Cyril Makepeace was out on his favourite horse again.  He ‘accidentally on purpose’ dropped his crop again.  Horse and rider then cantered off a safe distance.  Makepeace raised his binoculars to see if anyone would pick the crop up.

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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Story and picture © MMXI by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved

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Comments welcome

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The Crop Circle (M/M) repeat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I see.  I understand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“Can I keep my jods on please?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

I gasped as lines of fire lit up my backside.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

It was humiliating.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

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

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

I resolved to go easy on the horses in future.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

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

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

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

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

 

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

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Story © MMXII by Rod Cayenne

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

Photography © by Jonathan, R.I.P.

Comments please

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

♥ Site recommended story ♥

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Mr. Smith, err Sir!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Mr. Smith, Sir!”

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

“Traditional Family Butchers, Sir.”

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

“Err, yes.”

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

“Whaaat?  You’re joking?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“OK but no, no, he must be mistaken!”

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

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

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

“You!  But you’re married!”

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

“What?!”

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

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

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

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

“Indeed.  Indeed.”

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

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

“Shit!” I exclaimed.

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

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

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Story © MMXVI by Rod Cayenne

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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Comments welcome

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

♥ Site recommended story ♥

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh Dad! Must I?”

“Yes, you must.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crack! “Learn some manners!”

Crack! “Respect!”

Crack! “Self-discipline!”

Crack! “DISCIPLINE!”

Crack! “Consideration!”

Crack! “Is that clear?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“DISCIPLINE!” Father shouted.

Crack! A second burning lash made Tom gasp.

“RESPECT!” Father shouted.

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

“MANNERS!”

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

“I am your father now!”

Crack! “ARRGH!” cried Tom.

“I am in charge!”

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

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

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

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

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

“No, Sir! No way.”

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

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

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

Crack! “ARRRGH!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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Story © MMXVIII by Rod Cayenne.  All rights reserved.

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

In The Pillbox (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

By Rod Cayenne.  Explicit erotica repeated from 2013.  Strictly over-18s only!

 

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” my man Evan asked me.

It was a fantastic location.   A veritable desert strand of a beach, a beautiful headland, and nearby a nature reserve – a Site of Special Scientific Interest (SSSI), or Safleoedd o Ddiddordeb Gwyddonol Arbennig (SoDdGA) as they say here in Wales!  The tide was out, but the salty smell of the ocean was still in the summer air, and the song of the gulls echoed all around.

Rather incongruously, there were a couple of concrete pillboxes along the beach.  Obviously relics of World War II rather than the Cold War, they had both seen better days.  Indeed, the shifting sands had meant both concrete structures were now well out of true level.  We made our way towards the larger pillbox, and a small gang of teenagers rushed away as we approached.  Perhaps the sight of two leather-clad bikers walking hand in hand gave them the willies?  No matter, as I always think an absent teenager is an ideal teenager!

We ducked as we made our way into the pillbox.  Guys must have been shorter in those days, I told myself.  The octagonal interior of the little concrete building was a little disconcerting at first.  Piles of sand had encroached quite a lot, but there was just about sufficient height for us to be able to stand.  The place smelt a bit of piss, of course.  These places always do!  There were beer cans – local bitter, strangely – and empty Sterling fag packets.  Someone must have bought a job lot!

“Well?” he asked again, somewhat impatiently, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yes, I think so!” I laughed, “This would be a great place for a seedy fuck!”

“Yes, dead right it would be, loverboy!  And for some discipline too!  No room to swing a cane, but we could bring the leather strap,” he laughed as he said it, “Hot and well-shagged bottoms tonight!  Here, take this plastic bag and clean the place up, boy!  We don’t want any accidents or incidents while we’re on the job do we?”

It wasn’t a particularly pleasant task.  In the end the bag contained tin cans, fag packets, some broken glass and even a human turd.  I tied the handles up tight and we took the bag with us, depositing it in the bin in the car park where Evan’s Triumph Bonneville awaited us.

That evening we packed my backpack excitedly.  A can of Carlsberg for me, an energy drink for him.  A packet of heavy duty condoms and a tube of our favourite slippery lube.  A couple of battery torches and our mobiles.  Finally, pride of place for our brown leather spanking strap.  We both enjoyed a bit of the leather from time to time, although I was the sub more often than not.

I felt quite excited as we headed back to the beach.  The vibrations from the engine of the Bonneville throbbed around my thighs as my cock stiffened inside my leather chaps.  I held onto Evan for dear life as he threw us around the corners of the long, winding coastal road.  This time we parked near our chosen pillbox.  We kissed passionately at length before he led me back through the brambles to our venue.  It was now late evening and fortunately no-one else was around.  We flashed our torches to examine our surroundings again.  I moved some fresh cans and  crisp packets out of harm’s way.  The place stank of piss even more than earlier on.  We stuck our torches upright in the piles of sand covering the floor.  We needed a little illumination for what was to come next!

“Drop them!” he ordered.  I complied, pulling my leather chaps right down.  I bent down on all fours, jockstrap still in place and my head only just above the sand-covered floor.  “Fifty!” he announced.

I should explain that our leather strap is heavy duty.  It must have cost Evan a fortune to buy.  It was a hard thrashing.  The strap lashed and lashed again.  I gasped, groaned, writhed and cried out.  Fifty strokes was a hell of a lot.  All the noise the strap and I could make was muffled by the sound of the crashing waves, now that the tide was in.  My arse was aflame, sore and I wasn’t sure a shagging after my beating was a great idea at all.  Evan was sure, however, and his sheathed cock was soon persuading me that all was not lost.  I was turned on by our seedy surroundings, my throbbing arse cheeks and the rhythm of my lover’s cock exploiting my most private place.  We were both sweating profusely in our leathers and soon he came noisily inside me.

I slumped right down, my arse and my brain exhausted by our exertions.  My boner was as stiff as a surfboard, aching and dying for relief.  I wasn’t sure that he’d want me to reciprocate, as he’d been in one of his more dominant moods that day.  He smiled at me in the faint torchlight, as he removed the condom from his shrinking cock.  He tossed the rubber aside saying, “Let’s leave something for the next occupants to clean up!”

I was a little shocked.  I picked up my can of lager and tugged at the ringpull.  “That was great, thanks,” I sighed, still recovering from the hard beating and fuck.

He grabbed at his can.  Those energy drinks don’t half smell strange, but then so did the pillbox.  I traced my fingers through the sand, and then a little later he whispered, “Want some revenge then?”

“You bet!” I said, staggering to my feet and pulling my leather chaps up properly.  This wasn’t an opportunity I got very often!  I undid his belt and slid his leather jeans right down.  Evan’s bottom was magnificent!  A little puppy fat, but rather hidden by thick, dark matted manhair.  I sniffed at his arse.  Wonderful!  I picked up the strap and lashed it down on my lover’s mounds, before he had time to change his mind.

“ARRRGH!” he cried immediately.  For a sometime dom, he could be quite a wimp when the tables were turned.  I intended him to have a full fifty too, but lost count around the thirty mark!  Eventually, I threw the punishing strap down and in my most assertive tone ordered him to put a rubber on my swollen cock.  The lube squelched rudely out of the tube as I rubbed the stuff all over the condom.  Soon I was home in his hot hole, thrusting for dear life.  At times like this, Evan can become quite submissive and docile.  I fucked him roughly.

Afterwards, we laid in each others arms for a while.  He said he wished he had a cigarette, and I told him he wasn’t taking up that filthy habit again!  We kissed again and again.  That late evening, I felt the balance in our relationship had altered subtly, with me taking on a more equal role.  We would return to that pillbox, and its smaller neighbour just along the beach, on a regular basis from then on.

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Story © MMXIII by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved.

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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 persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

_______________

Comments welcome...
and
Comments from the original 2013 post are here
and
Comments from the 2015 repeat post are here 

Father’s Favour (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh not that girlfriend business again, Dad!”

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

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

“How’s your hangover, son?”

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

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

“Did I?  Gosh, sorry Dad.”

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

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

“Yes, as well you might!”

“Sorry, Dad.”

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

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

“It’s just not good enough, my boy!”

“Dad…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit, Dad!”

“Language, Peter!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Err, yes.  Yes, Sir!”

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

“Yes, Sir.”

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

“Maybe, Sir.”

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

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

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

“No, I suppose not.”

“Are you stupid, boy?”

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

“Yes!  Good!  Progress!”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Well then, a thrashing it shall be!”

“Yes, Sir.  Thank you, Sir.”

“How old are you?”

“Just eighteen, Sir.”

“So an adult then?”

“Yes, Sir.”

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

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

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

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

“Ouch!  Do you mind?” cried Peter.

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

“Oh, thank you Sir!”

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

“Oh, Sir!”

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

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

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

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

“Stand up!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He will?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Language, Peter!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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Photographs © 2015 by Rod Cayenne

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

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Beach Buggy (M/M) repeat!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

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

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

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

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

“Oh, I had no idea.”

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

“Gee, thanks Dad.”

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

“Never!”

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

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

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

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

“Yes Peter?”

“Can I see it?”

“Why?”

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

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

“Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wasn’t going to…”

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.  He showed me it.”

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

“Kinky, how so?”

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

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

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

“No, mum.  It’s family history.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peter just nodded.  He handed his father the cane.

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

“Oh.  I wasn’t expecting that, Dad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Last one, son.  Brace yourself!”

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

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

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

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

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

———————–

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

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

 

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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Story © MMXIV by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved.

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