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.

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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.

 

___________)

D I S C L A I M E R

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

(___________

Story © MMXIV by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved.

___________)

Comments welcome – please use link at top of the story

Comments from the original 2014 post are here

…And The Gods Made Love (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A first repeat of this hot story by Rod Cayenne, from 2014. Strictly for over 18s only!

In the seaside convenience store, the two retired headmasters eyed each other warily.

“Bernie?”

“William?”

Gradually, broad grins emerged. The two hadn’t seen each other for many years, although Christmas cards had been exchanged regularly. They had met each other at a teaching conference in London, where they immediately hit it off and ended up bed-sharing. Of course, back in those dark and distant days, they had to be really discreet. They soon discovered that they had both retired to the same vibrant coastal town with its many attractions and gay-friendly atmosphere.

“Back to my place?”

“That would be nice!”

“Better get some of these then. I’m right out of them. Can’t be too careful these days,” said Bernie as he tossed a box of a dozen Durex into his basket.

William made no comment, but picked a tube of KY lubricant and followed his friend to the checkout. As they queued, he couldn’t resist slipping his hand under Bernie’s cord jacket. He pinched the pert bottom hard! Bernie gasped with surprise, before saying, “You’ll pay for that, William!”

“Oh, I do hope so, Bernie, I do hope so.” Already roles were being arranged for what would be their first encounter for many years!

The checkout guy was young, fresh-faced and extremely large. He joked with Bernie and then with William, laughing as he wished the gents “a fun evening!” After all, it was obvious what was on the cards for the two friends.

As they strolled along the esplanade, William raised a topic of mutual interest, “You’ve got a cane at home?”

“Several, actually. And you will be feeling them all!”

“Yes, I rather thought I might be.”

“Tell me, William, did you take my advice all those years ago?”

“Rather! After the conference, I thought long and hard about the benefits of corporal punishment, and then became an enthusiastic caner. I got quite a taste for it. Used to cane the buggers really hard. I loved it when they squealed! And of course, behaviour and academic achievement went through the roof!”

“Told you so!”

“Yes, you did. Teachers like us were like gods in those days. And then I hooked up with our Classics master. Somehow we discovered that we had a mutual fascination for cp. We used to cane each other a lot, especially when his wife was away. I didn’t think I’d like being on the receiving end, but I did. It’s jolly good fun, isn’t it?”

“Yes, indeed, almost a sport of kings.”

“Eh?”

“Never mind.”

“Well, anyway, I used to lie in his arms afterwards and say, ‘I never expected to be doing this.’”

“Mmmmm, nice!”

“I’m so glad to have found you again, Bernie. I need it badly.”

“Yes, you do. And don’t worry, I’ll be giving it to you alright. Hot and hard!”

“Right! It has to be hard to feel the benefits, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed it does, indeed it does. No pussyfooting.”

Bernie’s house was a whitewashed art deco treasure. It boasted superb coastal views and had an air of opulence. The sympathetic furnishings emphasised the expensive look. Bernie fiddled with the espresso coffee machine as William took in the view from the kitchen.

“A quick cuppa, then I shall be sorting out your naughty botty!” said Bernie, slipping into some childish banter, “Your very wicked, naughty botty!”

William blushed a deep red, and then Bernie landed a sharp smack on his friend’s buttocks. “Ooh, Sir!” William camped it up.

Bernie took the tray of coffee and biscuits into the living room and switched on the TV, saying, “I just need to check the cricket.”

“I do so miss the traditional cricket whites,” William observed, “So much sexier than those coloured outfits.”

Bernie sighed and nodded. It was becoming apparent that the two men had so much in common. A love for the good old days, leather and willow, rattan and flesh. He could see that they could end up living together. The thought rather startled him, and he wasn’t sure how comfortable he would be sharing his palatial place. Better make William’s beating extra hard, he decided. After all, the man would have to earn his keep!

“Right William!” Bernie suddenly announced in his most headmasterly tone, “Time for your thrashing! I’m just going upstairs to get some canes. When I come back, I expect to see you bent over this sofa. You can keep your trousers on. For now!”

Unfortunately for William, the trousers didn’t stay up for long, and neither did his skimpy briefs. The tariff was soon escalating, 6…12…18…24…30…36! William’s arse was a deep scarlet, or was it black and blue? Well, it was a bit of a mess, anyway. Bernie felt a bit ashamed of the beating he’d given his sweet friend, but both had clearly derived enjoyment from it, all the same. And then, up in the bedroom, among the Egyptian cotton sheets, the two gods made love.

A few months later, William let himself into his lover’s house. He was surprised to find Bernie had company.

“Who’s this then?”

“It’s my nephew, Steven. He’s come down on the train for the day. He’s a good lad, aren’t you, Steven?”

“Err…”

“Well, good on the whole, but like all boys he can be a bit naughty at times.”

“Really?” asked William.

“Yes, honestly. He likes to drop in unannounced. Although he’s 22, he can be a bit of a pest.”

“Really? He looks more like an angel than a pest. Tell me, Steven, have you been pestering you Uncle Bernie?”

But Bernie leapt in with a quick retort, “Yes, he keeps pestering me for a caning, would you believe? Says he wants to find out what it was like!”

“Really, Steven?”

“Err yes. It was just a silly notion. Just to find out. I was only interested because Uncle Bernie was a headmaster back in the days when the cane was allowed.”

“So was I!”

“Oh wow! Two headmasters. I can’t believe my luck!”

Bernie cleared his throat noisily, saying, “Steven, it’s not luck, I feel. Coincidence possibly. More likely that it’s destiny. Now, I’ve never entertained your wish before. But with Headmaster William here as well, I’m sorely tempted, if only to nip this nonsense in the bud! Now, how about if both of us give you six of the very best? Each.”

“Oh, Uncle! 12? That’s rather more than I had in mind.”

“Take it or leave it, my boy!”

“I’ll take it then, but not too hard, Uncle!”

“They will be hard. It’s the only way. You will survive, maybe it will stop you pestering me and you may even come out as a better young man because of it. Let me just check that William is willing to assist. Well, William?”

“Oh yes! I could use some practice! Getting a bit rusty, don’t you know?”

“In that case, William, please go and fetch me a couple of senior boy’s canes. I think you know where they are?”

If young Steven had been gifted with common sense, he might have wondered just how the visitor knew where Uncle Bernie’s canes were kept. But he didn’t. All he could think of was his pending thrashing. Something he had wished to experience for years, and which had been a masturbatory fantasy since his early teenage years. Now that his wish was about to come true, he was rather worried and started to bite gently on his lip.

William ran upstairs, only to return quickly with two crook-handled canes and a broad, cheesy grin. He surveyed the scene before him. During his short absence, Bernie had arranged for nephew Stephen to bend over the sofa, in just the same spot that the two friends had made favourite for William’s own canings! So there was the youthful angel or pest obediently bent, offering his denim-clad buttocks for chastisement.

“Right! Listen carefully, Steven. I expect total obedience during your beating. No jumping up, shouting or swearing. Is that clear?”

“Oh yes, Sir!” young Steven exclaimed.

“Well, it had better be! Any disobedience will result in extra strokes. And they will be extra hard. Still clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Now, it will be six strokes. To get the full school experience, it will be two strokes on your jeans, two more on your underwear, and a final two on your unclothed seat!”

“Wait a minute. Bare?”

“Yes, of course bare! Think yourself lucky I’m not giving you all six bare.”

“Alright, alright! I’m ready. Can we get on with it please?”

William detected some impatience and rudeness in young Steven’s tone. He wasn’t going to put up with that! Well, he would, but the lad’s reward would be a harder caning than William had first planned! Two swift, crisp and hard strokes landed on the blue denim, causing gasping from young Steven. His 22-year-old brain wasn’t used to processing such pain! He couldn’t believe how the pain seemed to be multiplying and overwhelming any feelings of embarrassment and excitement. He was starting to think he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

“Right, Steven! Drop your jeans down for me. There’s a good lad!” said William in his most patronising headmaster tones. Reluctantly Steven did as he was told, craftily giving his bottom a rub as he did so. “Steven, I saw that! No rubbing! That’s expressly forbidden!”

“Actually, Sir, you didn’t forbid it, expressly or otherwise,” said Steven cockily.

“That’s enough! Don’t push me, lad!” said William, waving the lithe cane menacingly, “Smart arses get extra, if they’re not careful.”

Steven thought about sparring further, but the pain in his ample bottom reminded him that this was a time for obedience, not for cheek.

Crack! The cane lashed down on the boy’s tight black briefs.

“Oh my God!” exclaimed Steven, surprised by how much more sting the cane gave now that it was on just the one thin layer of clothing.

“QUIET!” shouted William as he slashed down the fourth stroke with gusto.

“OWWW!”

“I shall not tell you again! Get those pants down!”

Slowly, Steven edged his briefs down to join the jeans crumpled around his feet. Both retired headmasters admired the view revealed to them. A peachy, fleshy pink bottom decorated with harsh red striping. It throbbed and ached as Steven adjusted his position, bending over the edge of the sofa, offering his naked buttocks to the two men. Salty tears were threatening to flow from his misty eyes. This wasn’t exciting, this was humiliating!

The fifth stroke cracked down, the cane bending and distorting the flesh beneath it. It was the hardest stroke yet, waves of heat and hurt overwhelming the cheeky youngster.

“Shit!” muttered Steven to himself. This was bad, and then it got worse as the sixth stroke lashed his buttocks! His arse was red-hot, incandescent with heat and as sore as hell.

William sighed heavily. He walked around the other side of the sofa and looked the boy in the eye. “Not too badly taken, for a beginner,” he said, “Let’s see if your uncle can cure your pestering, shall we?”

“Oh don’t worry about that, Sir! I won’t be pestering him for a caning ever again! Uncle, are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here. Been watching you take your first beating.” In fact, Bernie had been watching with growing pleasure.

“I’m sorry for nagging you, Uncle. You can let me off, if you like!”

“Nice try, Steven. But you’ve been asking for this for months. Literally asking for it. No, no. I won’t be letting you off at all. In fact, I want to ensure that you never ask me for a caning again. And it seems to me that the best way to ensure that is for me to beat you hard. Harder than William already has.”

“Oh, Uncle!”

“All six strokes from me will be on your bared bottom!”

“Oh!”

“Yes, indeed. No sense in covering it up again. Same rules, no shouting, swearing, moving out of position or rubbing! Understood?”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“Call me Sir! If it was good enough for William, then it’s good enough for me!”

“Yes, Uncle Bernie.”

“Are you trying to provoke me, boy?”

“Sorry Sir!”

“That’s better. Now, brace yourself! Here it comes.”

And come it did. It lashed down with staggering force. The pain came too. Wave after wave of it. Bernie smiled to himself. He was a better caner than William, he was sure. It wasn’t a competition, but he was determined to make a more severe impression than his lover had. Steven was startled by the viciousness of that first stroke. He gasped and choked. It was all too much, too much by far!

A second harsh stroke from the slightly sadistic uncle followed. The red stripe throbbed and pain shot all around from it.

“Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” squealed Steven, leaping to his feet, rubbing his bottom frantically.

“GET BACK DOWN, STEVEN!” shouted Uncle Bernie. William laughed loudly at the perhaps predictable turn of events. Bernie was worried that his nephew was going to start playing up. So he quickly lashed the remaining four strokes down, rapid fire style.

“ARRRGH!” cried Steven.

“Well now, Steven. I think you are due some extras. One for swearing, one for getting up, one for rubbing, one…” It was now Bernie’s turn to laugh. “Well, OK, maybe not. I think you’ve had enough for one day, haven’t you? Well, what have you got to say for yourself?”

“Err. Two things, really. First, thank you, uncle. Second, I don’t think you’ll be seeing me again for quite a while!”

“Aha. Suit yourself. You know I’m very fond of you. Come back when you’re good and ready. And I’ll be dismayed if you ever pester me for another caning.”

“Oh don’t worry about that, uncle. I’m cured!”

“And please don’t tell your parents about any of this.”

“Oh, no chance of that,” said Steven, zipping up his jeans smartly, “No chance at all. I’d be far too embarrassed for one thing.”

“Good. You’re a good lad. With a tough arse. Wouldn’t you agree, William?”

“Yes, you did well, Steven. Here, give me a hug!”

It ended as a group hug. And then after Steven had gone, the two men had their own cuddle on the sofa. They masturbated each other as they listened to a secretly recorded tape of Steven’s thrashing. How they laughed as the lad squealed on the tape. They wanked faster and faster. “I never thought I’d be doing this,” said William wistfully.

___________)

D I S C L A I M E R

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

(___________

Story © MMXIV by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved

Photograph © Jonathan, R.I.P.

___________)

Comments welcome

Comments from the original 2014 post are here

The Bullwhip On The Wall (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Happy new year! Let’s start the celebrations with a first repeat of this hot story by Rod Cayenne, from 2014. Strictly for over 18s only!

 

Terry was staying at Uncle Billy’s house for a fortnight.  He looked around the large lounge.  It was full of souvenirs from his uncle’s seafaring days.  Uncle Billy had eased back from that whistle-stop lifestyle a long time ago and his home now paid homage to those distant days.  The room was dominated by a large black wooden elephant and a coiled bullwhip hanging on the wall of an alcove.  Terry looked at the whip and shook his head.

“Fearsome, isn’t it?  Mexican, if I recall correctly.  It’s savage!” paunchy Uncle Billy stated in his gruff Liverpool accent.

“Looks kind of exciting.  In a fierce way, of course,” Terry added.

“Yes, although I’m not sure exciting is the right word there, young Terry.  I can see it would get the adrenaline flowing.  It cuts and tears flesh.  Not suitable for use on humans, only animals with tough, leathery hides.”

“That’s a relief!” exclaimed the young nephew.

“Well, you’re here for a holiday, aren’t you?  I’m sure you won’t do anything to upset me and wish I could whip you!” laughed Billy, “It’s only for show, I could never use it.  However, be warned that I do have a riding crop and cane.  I could use both of them on you if you do play me up!”

“Oh really?” Terry asked, excitement returning to his voice, “Are they from Mexico too?”

“Don’t be stupid, lad!  The riding crop is from the saddlery down the road.  It’s a lovely item.  The cane was my father’s, of course.  I remember its sting all too well!  Yeowch!”  Uncle Billy grimaced and rubbed his bottom with earnest nostalgia and perhaps a hint of fun.

“Hold on, your father used to cane you?”

“Oh yes!  Hard beatings they were, too.  And always trousers and underwear down.  I even got it at your age.”

“What?  21?”

“Oh yes!  21, 22, 23, I think.”

“Gosh!”

“Well 21 was the age of majority back then, and I lived with Daddy and his cane for another couple of years after that.”

“How awful!  And on your, err, naked, er, backside?”

“Oh yes indeed!”

Terry gulped as he took it all in.  Perhaps it was no wonder that Uncle Billy had eventually run away to sea?  Suddenly he found himself rubbing his own bottom through his thin summer-weight shorts.  He caught his uncle’s intense and beery gaze.

“Wow!  That must have been painful.  Was it a bit exciting, too?”

“No!  Not at all.  What a strange question!  Really, you youngsters have no idea.  How can you think being caned, let alone whipped, was exciting?  You’re not, you know, a bit strange are you?”

“Oh no, Uncle.  It’s just that it seems like another world.  So very different from today.  So hard to comprehend.”

“I understand, I think, young Terry.  Would you like to see that cane?”

“No thanks.  No need, Uncle.  I’m not that interested, really.”

It was a lie.  Both men knew it.  Uncle raised his bushy right eyebrow quizzically and instructed Terry, “It’s in the umbrella stand in the hall, right by the front door.  I think the riding crop is there too.  Be a good lad and bring me both.  Go on then!  See to it!”

Terry made his way to the hall.  He was annoyed that his uncle had wondered whether he was a bit strange.  After all, Uncle Billy was the one with the bullwhip, cane and riding crop in his house, and all for ornamentation rather than use!  He found the cane straight away, its lithe crook handle sticking out prominently above the umbrellas and walking sticks.  It didn’t look that old, Terry thought to himself.  He then busied himself looking for the riding crop.  Being a tad shorter, it was not visible immediately.  Only after removing a few sticks and brollies did he find it.  It was a beautiful item, with the shaft’s leather plaited neatly in black and blue.  Somehow that seemed appropriate to young Terry.

“Ah, thank you, Terry.  What do you think to these then?”

“Well, they’re less intimidating than that bloody bullwhip thing.  That’s really creepy.”

“Aha, but I thought you said it was exciting?”

“I meant exciting in a sort of creepy way!”

“You mean something like a horror film, then?”

“Exactly, Uncle.  I suppose you’d say it was a kind of morbid fascination.”

“Yes.  You’re making sense now.  So which do you want to try first?  The cane or the crop?”

Terry blushed a brighter red than he had ever done before, “I never said anything about trying them, Uncle!”

“I know that, lad.  But I can read you like a book.  You want to, don’t you?  Yes, you’re a bit of a masochist on the quiet, unless I’m much mistaken.”

“Oh Uncle!  What a horrible word!”

“I believe in calling a spade a spade, Terry.  You want to give it a go, don’t you?  Eh?”

“No, I really don’t.  And if we’re calling a spade a spade then you’re not even a proper uncle!”

“Well, that’s a bit rude Terry, but I suppose you’re technically right there.  But I am a family friend.  A friend of yours, and I’m offering you a favour, aren’t I?  You’re a masochist, and maybe there’s a little sadist in me, I  think.  Well now, this is getting awkward.  Are we going to do it or not?”

“Alright, alright!  But not too hard!”

“Terry, it has to be a bit hard, you know.  To see what it’s like.  To see whether you like it or not.  We’re not playing a school playground game here, after all.  Now, drop those shorts for me please.”

Terry dropped his summer shorts, revealing some surprisingly conservative grey briefs.  Sensing some residual reluctance, Uncle Billy bent Terry over the back of the sofa and yanked down the underwear in one seamless movement.  All was revealed!

“Oh!  I wasn’t expecting that!” exclaimed the youngster.

“Oh yes you were!  I think six strokes of the cane for persistent lying and disrespect.”

“Hey!  That’s a lot!”

“No, trust me.  It’s not.  Not at 21.  You can take it.  But do try to be quiet as the windows really do have to be open at this time of year.  Ready?”

“No!” Terry suddenly exclaimed.  But he was too late to alter his date with destiny, for the cane cracked down viciously just at that moment.

“Ye Gods!” Terry exclaimed as the red-hot burn kicked in, “Oh hell!”

Uncle Billy laughed at his nephew’s discomfort.  The cane was raised high again, and again Billy let rip with a severe stroke which lashed Terry’s naked bottom.  This time Terry just yelped.  He was prepared for the pain the second time.  But he really didn’t like it.  Not one bit.  This was definitely no fun at all.  He was telling himself this just as Billy guided the cane in for a third stroke.  This was the worst stroke so far, whipping the pale young flesh with gay abandon.   Terry squealed this time.

“You can have a break for a minute, if you want to,” Uncle Billy informed his guest.

“Thanks, but I’d rather get it over with.  I can’t believe I agreed to this!” said Terry ruefully.

“You didn’t!  Actually, perhaps you did.  Anyway, I do believe it’s just what you need.”

Just then uncle lashed the fourth stroke down, slightly off-cue and rather low down.  Judging by Terry’s reaction, it was by far the worst stroke yet.  The youngster leapt to his feet, clutching his thrashed behind.

“Yes, very entertaining, Terry.  But you’ve got five seconds to get back down, otherwise you’ll be getting extras!  One.  Two.  Three.  Four.  Five.”

Terry held out until the last count before bending back over the sofa.  Four distinctive scarlet tramlines decorated his otherwise pale buttocks.  Uncle sighed with pleasure as he surveyed them.  He had done all that, and it felt great!  He really liked being on the right end of the stick after all these years.  Yes, it was terrific.  Already he was forming plans for further beatings for Terry during his two-week stay.  He flexed the cane and then sliced it down again.

This time Terry gasped, and his hands flew back to his buttocks, in a vain attempt to soothe away the burning pain.  Uncle Billy was not amused.  “Terry, get those hands off there immediately!  They’re right in the firing line, and you are this far from those extras I promised you.”

“Sorry, Uncle. “

“Right.  Apology accepted.  Last stroke coming up.  Keep still and keep those hands out of the way!”

Crack!  The cane lashed down for the last time.  Terry cried out; he really couldn’t help himself.

“Good!  That’s better.  Not bad for a beginner.  Of course, Daddy used to give me more than that.  But I was used to it.  Now, time for the extras!”

“Whaaat?”

“Yes, Terry!  Just a couple with the crop, I think.  Stay just where you are.”

Terry had forgotten about the crop.  Uncle picked it up and sliced it through the air.  It made a different sound, when compared to the cane.  Perhaps a deeper sound, still chilling and exciting, however.  Uncle moved closer and whacked the crop into the waiting target.

“Owww!” cried Terry, somewhat startled at the pain this new assault delivered.  It was different, but really just as bad!

Uncle Billy laughed and sliced the crop down again.  Terry gasped, and almost choked as pain engulfed his wiry frame.  Eight red lines were causing new waves of agony on the punished buttocks.

“Pull your shorts back up then, that’s a pretty disgusting sight!” Uncle Billy lied.

Terry rubbed and rubbed at his arse, but nothing would help ameliorate the throbbing hot pain.  He looked embarrassed, as Uncle Billy patted the cushion next to him on the sofa, saying, “Come and sit down, Terry.  You look like you’ve had enough excitement for one day!”

“You’re not wrong there, uncle.  But thank you.  I hope we’ll fit in some more excitement before I go home.”

“Yes, Terry.  I’m not surprised.  Plenty of time for that.  We’ve got fourteen days.  Fourteen nights, as well.”

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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.

___________)

Comments welcome

Comments from the original 2014 post are here

 

The Lodgers (M/F, M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot short fiction by brand new special guest author Ian Squire.  This story is currently exclusive to The Canery!  All the characters are aged 18 or over.

Paul and Kim were lodgers in my house. They had the top half of it, with a bedroom and bathroom suite attached. Paul was 28 and Kim was 25. They could come and go as they wished as long as they kept the place clean and tidy and stayed in their part of the house.

I went away on one Saturday and came back Sunday at about 1pm in the afternoon.  What I saw when entering was a shock to me. It was obvious they had thrown a party while I was  gone and the house was trashed. They were I presumed still asleep in bed so I waited until they came down. At 2pm they did and saw me and the state of my house.

“What is the meaning of this?” I asked them, “This is totally unacceptable! You will clean this house up now and then find somewhere else to live.”

“Please Sir, do not throw us out,” said Paul, “We have nowhere else to go. We will do anything to make amends.”

” Then you will accept whatever punishment I decide for you,” I told them, ” You are both going to receive a bare bottom caning, and given very hard, as this is what you deserve!”

” Yes Sir. We will accept whatever you decide is best for us,” said Paul.

” Do you accept this as well, Kim?” I asked, “Yes Sir, I do as well,” she said.

“You are both off work on Tuesday so I will carry out your caning then.”

Tuesday arrived and I summoned them to the lounge. “Both of you will strip naked and then I will begin,” I instructed. They did as they were told. Paul had a nice slim bottom and Kim had a little chubby one.

This was something I was going to enjoy doing. I fetched my junior thin rattan cane, nice and whippy and bendy. Perfect for their bottoms. I told Paul to stand in the centre of the lounge and bend over and touch his toes. This he did.

It was a lovely sight to see and I applied six very hard strokes to his bottom. He yelped after the first three but remained in position until his full six strokes had been given. I told him to get up and then told Kim to touch her toes, which she did. She too felt the wrath of my cane as each stroke landed and she starting crying after number four. I told them both to stand in the corner with their hands on their heads until I was ready to give them more, which they did.

After 15 minutes I told them to come out. I placed an ottoman in the centre of the lounge and motioned Paul to kneel on it, which he did. “Stick that bottom right out and place your hands on the floor,” I said, which he did. Then I applied six more hard strokes. The sound of the SWISH WHACK! as each one landed was beautiful and I revelled in giving each stroke. Paul cried throughout like a baby, but this needed to be done!

Then I told Kim to take Paul’s place, which she did. Another six strokes resounded the room as I let fly with my cane. She cried with each stroke too, but a lesson had to be learnt.

“You may both go now to your rooms now!” I said. “Just remember what will happen if such behaviour ever happens again. Next time you will receive more!”

They went to their room with very sorry looks on their faces.

Story © 2017 by Ian Squire, 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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Comments welcome!

Please use comments link at top of story

Top Shelf Showdown (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A repeat of this hot and homoerotic fiction by your host, Rod Cayenne.  All the characters are aged 18 or over!

My local newsagent, Mr Kumar, was such a sweet old thing.  His greying hair and gold-rimmed spectacles betrayed his age, which was probably mid-60s.  He carefully slotted my copy of “Mayfair” inside the “Telegraph.”  He winked at me as he did so, and I handed a crisp new note over to him.  He understood that us men sometimes needed this one-handed reading matter to relieve our domestic tensions.  Indeed, in my case it was being decidedly unattached which made my urges at times overwhelming.

Just as I was about to leave, Kumar pulled me to one side.  “Mr Kemp,” he said, “It’s not my place to judge, but I wanted a word about your son, Robert.”

“Really?  I do hope he hasn’t been stealing stuff,” I laughed, knowing full well that my son wouldn’t do that.

“No, no, bless me, it’s nothing like that.  I just wanted to check his age with you.”

“He’s eighteen.  Cigarettes?”

“No, not that either.  Eighteen is good and legal.  You see, he buys adult magazines too.  Rather specialist ones, you might say.  Mainly these spanking ones.”  With that, Kumar pointed a spindly finger at some top shelf titles like Janus, Blushes and Swish!  “An unusual taste in one so young, if I may say so,” he chuckled.

Ignoring his gaze, I picked up one of the titles, actually some sort of readers’ letters edition.  I flicked through and looked at the photos and illustrations of attractive maidens having their bare young bottoms spanked, slippered, hairbrushed and caned.  I swallowed hard.  I really couldn’t see the appeal of it all.

I sighed and placed the magazine back on the top shelf, noticing the exceptionally high price tag on the fluorescent orange sticker as I did so.  “Disgusting!” I exclaimed, probably more from embarrassment than true revulsion.

“I don’t like stocking those magazines, but the wholesaler always sends them, and doesn’t like too many returns.  I’m probably cutting off my nose to spite my face here,” said Mr Kumar, “Because young Robert is one of my best customers.”

“Well thank you for letting me know,” I said laughing, “Perhaps I’ll get my slipper or hairbrush on the case!”

“Oh no! Oh no, no, no!  I didn’t mean to cause trouble!” he said, but you know, I rather think he did.

I went back to my old Cortina, wondering what to do.  Was it any of my business?  Was it any of Kumar’s business?  No and no, the answers came to me.  Perhaps I should have let Robert have my back issues, although to be honest I rather prized my collection of Men Only and Mayfair magazines.  I decided to do nothing.  I got home and read the paper, and then proceeded to enjoy my adult reading.  As I spunked over my belly and chest, I started to feel a little bit guilty.  Guilty about knowing my son’s secret, and guilty about my double standards.  Still, there it was.

Unfortunately, things came to a head only a week or so later.  I came home early, only to find Robert masturbating in the living room.  He was looking at one of the spanking magazines.

“Robert!  What the hell are you doing?  In the lounge, of all places!  Give me that magazine!”

Once again, I found myself flicking through what is commonly known as a “spanker,” although this time my interest was more piqued.  Page after page of naughty females being spanked, their arses up in the air, with pretty much everything clearly on view.  Oh yes, this time I could kind of see the appeal.  But that didn’t stop me being a complete hypocrite!  I shouted at my son some more, “This is utter filth!  Girlie mags are one thing, but this sort of depraved thing’s only suitable for the dirty mac brigade!  I was brought up that it was wrong to hit women, so this really sickens me!”

“Sorry, Dad,” was all that my embarrassed teenager could say.

“Have you any idea how much this would hurt?” I asked him, pointing to a graphic picture of a young minx being thrashed on the bare with a hairbrush.

“Dunno.”

“Well!  Let’s find out shall we?  Go and fetch the hairbrush off the dressing table in my room!”

“Dad!”

“Fetch it!  NOW!”

A minute or so later, he appeared red-faced with the brush in his hand.  I snatched it from him, still fuming at his totally inappropriate use of the front room.

“Jeans down!  Over my lap!”

Suddenly I was confronted with the reality of the situation I’d created.  My son was draped over my knees, his off-white Y-fronts on display, and fully expecting to be battered hard with the oaken brush.  I began to have doubts.  But it was too late to stop!  I cracked the brush down hard, again and again, and my son cried out as the blows hit home.  I wasn’t going easy on him, I was so annoyed and so determined.  I cracked the brush down again, and then tore his pants down, revealing a severely reddened hide.  This seemed to encourage me to hit him even harder, and soon the brush was making frantic contact with his bare teenage flesh.  After perhaps twenty more blows I stopped, much to his relief.  I was rather embarrassed about it all.  His hands flew to his bum as he stood up.

“Let that be a lesson to you!  If I find this sort of thing again, I will be getting a cane.  Then we can see how you like that!”  I was shocked by my idle threat, and by the way my latent sadism had surfaced.  “We’ll say no more about it!” I declared, wanting instant closure.

Robert beat a hasty retreat to his bedroom.  I picked up the magazine.  It was called Swish!  I skimmed through the pages.  The content turned me on and I soon found myself wanking in the very same room my son had been jerking in!  I kept the magazine and it made some very interesting bedtime reading.  Needless to say, Robert didn’t ask for it back.

It was a few days later that I bumped into my old headmaster, Dr Dillon.  We exchanged some idle chatter in the street and then adjourned to the Crown Inn for a couple of beers.  The alcohol soon loosened my tongue, and he found out about how I had disciplined my son.

“Good for you!  You did the right thing.”  He gently squeezed my hand, saying reassuringly, “Eighteen can be such a difficult age.”

“I don’t know about that.  I was so annoyed!  I even threatened to buy a cane and use it on him.”

“A cane, eh?  Not a bad idea.  Could help cure him of his strange interest, I suppose.  By the way, call me Dave.”

“Well, Dave, that’s what I threatened him with!  He went as white as a sheet.”

“I bet he did.  The cane has that effect!”

“I know, I didn’t much care for it back in the day.”

“No, indeed.  I remember.  Anyway, I can help.”

“How so?”

“I’ve got some canes back at my place.  Souvenirs from abolition.  You can have one, if you like.”

“Oh no.  I couldn’t possibly.”

“Go on.  I insist.  A good, hard caning is just what your boy needs.  I’ve got a few canes, and I can spare you one.  After all, they don’t get a lot of use nowadays.”

So it was that we ended up at his house.  It was a real tip, which was a surprise, given how he used to lecture us on tidiness and presentation!  We made our way into his dining room, where he offered me a chair.  He disappeared for a few minutes, then came in with a good half-dozen canes.  All of them had that strange curved handle, so familiar to generations of British men.

We talked canes for  a short time.  He told me all about rattan and how it was so suitable for punishment canes, unlike bamboo which could split and break if used in anger.  He swished a few of the canes and so did I.  Then there was an awkward silence.  “Choose one,” he said, “Any one.  They are all much the same.”

I picked the one I’d just been swishing around.  He nodded approvingly, “Yes, a fine specimen that one.  Of course it can hurt like the blazes.  Want a stroke to remind you?”

“Perhaps, I’d better,” I agreed reluctantly and bent over the dining room table.  He let rip with the cane which sliced into my trousers.  “Shit! Shit! Shit!” I cried.

“Hurt a bit did it?” my headmaster asked while laughing sadistically.  “Just one more I think, for swearing.  Get back down!”

Foolishly I bent over obediently.  He let fly again with another scorcher.  This time I held my tongue, but as I rose I felt I had to hold my bottom too!  God, how it stung and ached, and all after only two strokes!

“Well, what did you think of that little beauty?” he smiled.

“Yes, that would certainly teach him a lesson!  I’d forgotten how much a cane can sting,” I admitted, adding “But I’m worried about doing it.  I mean, do I just whack him?”

“No there’s a definite technique to it.  Watch me!”  With that he whacked some cushions and then let me try to do the same.  I soon got a feel for the power of the rattan stick and how to handle it.  Encouraging me, he said, “You have to aim for the middle of the buttock cheek furthest away from you.  Of course what you really need is a real person to practice on.”

“Yes, well that’s not going to happen, now is it?  Come on!” I said

“Don’t be so cocky, Kemp!  Or I’ll give you some more.”

“Sorry, Sir,” I said, feeling a bit worse for wear after our drinking session, and with those two cane weals throbbing under my trousers.

“You may be surprised to hear this, but I’m not averse to taking a few strokes myself.  You can practice on me!”

I was astonished.  He couldn’t be serious, could he?  But he was, and then to cap it all, he promptly dropped his trousers and underpants and took my place bending over the dining table.  I shuddered and hesitated as I gazed at the bare male flesh before me.

“Well, get on with it lad!  I don’t have all day!” he ordered.

I lashed a first strike down.  It landed spectacularly, right on the manly, naked target and with a most satisfying crack.  He grunted, and then said, “Good!  You’re a natural!  Carry on.”  The second stroke was less successful, too tentative evidently, as he admonished, “Harder!”  With determination, I then landed four crisp, harder strokes as instructed.  My God, what fun it was!  Moreover, I was strangely turned on, my rigid cock straining within my Falmers slacks.

I was so grateful for that cane he gave me.  I was even more grateful for our friendship.  We met up regularly for caning sessions.  One thing led to another and we ended up bedding each other.  Yes, we became the most unlikely of lovers.

So did I cane my son?  You bet!  Only a few times, sadly, as he became a pretty well-behaved senior teen, on the whole.

I eventually confided in Mr Kumar that I’d caned young Robert.  He just smiled, and then said, “Unfortunately, I don’t think it has cured him, Mr Kemp.  He’s been buying even more of the spanking magazines.  And some of these homosexual ones too!”  He pointed out titles such as Zipper, Him and Vulcan.  I was shocked speechless and then he added, “Forgive me, I didn’t want to cause more trouble.”  But you know, I rather think he did.

(____________

Story © MMXVI by Rod Cayenne

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

_______________

Comments welcome

Fire Breaks Out On Arthur’s Seat (M/M) (Reposted again and again)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Erotic fiction by Roderick Cayenne

Reposted to celebrate Bonfire Night (November 5th in the UK)

Etching of Edinburgh by John Slezer – Arthur’s Seat is in the background, to the left.

THE FACT (INSPIRATION FROM 2011):

Fire crews were called to tackle a large fire on Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh on Bonfire Night.  Lothian and Borders Fire Service said the gorse was alight.   Arthur’s Seat is an extinct volcano and a popular spot for watching firework displays on Bonfire Night (November 5th in the UK).

I love Scotland

THE FICTION:

Arthur Smith was enjoying his holiday in Scotland.  He’d visited a lot of the popular tourist destinations and now found himself in Edinburgh for three days.

One highlight of his visit was to be a session with local disciplinarian Hamish McDonaldson.  They had corresponded via an internet spanking contacts site, and now on this cold, rainy evening they were to meet.

“Come in laddie!” Hamish greeted Arthur.  “Wipe your shoes and follow me.  You can hang your coat there.”

Hamish was pleased to see that Arthur had bought himself a kilt.

“So you want a taste of discipline the Scottish way, do you laddie?”

“Yes, please Sir.”

“I hope you know what you’re letting yourself in for!  And is this discipline to be on your hands or on your seat?”

“I’d prefer it on my arse, Sir!”

“DON’T YOU EVER USE THAT DISGUSTING WORD IN MY PRESENCE, LAD!”

“Sorry, Sir.”

“YOU WILL BE, LADDIE!”

“Yes, Sir, Sorry Sir.”

“Your punishment has been doubled, whether you like it or not.”

He went to a cupboard and drew out a couple of canes, and three tawses.

“Oh yes, you’re going to be one sorry lad!”

He pointed to a leather-covered stool in the corner of the room.

“Bring the spanking stool to the middle of the room.  Then bend over it.”

As Arthur bent over, Hamish flicked the kilt up with a cane.

“Ah good lad, no underwear!”

He put the cane down and caressed the cheeks before him.  A little hairier than he liked.  Perhaps a little more ample than he liked.  But the flesh was tender and begging for discipline.

“Twelve with this light tawse.  It was going to be six originally.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The strokes were hard and stinging.  The twin tails of the evil tawse wrapped themselves around the generous contours of the bottom.  Arthur gasped, and cursed silently.  Hamish enjoyed a certain sadistic pleasure as blow after blow reigned down on Arthur’s cheeks.

“How was that laddie?”

“Agony, Sir!”

“Well, we’ve only just begun.  Twelve with this senior belt!”  Hamish picked up the dark-coloured Glasgow Corporation tawse from the chair next to the spanking stool.

He surveyed the bottom looking for places to aim.  This was difficult as the whole bottom was already covered in marks.

WHACK!  A first blow landed and Arthur let out something close to a scream.

“Aha!  Getting to you now are we, laddie?”

“Yes, Sir.”

WHACK!

“AAAARGGH!”

“I’ll teach you to use disgusting language in my home!”

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

The evil tawse did its master’s bidding.  Arthur squirmed on the spanking stool.  Oh how that beastly leather hurt!

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

“Please Sir, I can’t stand any more!”

“REALLY?  I think you can, you cowardly wee sassenach!  Final two with this belt, laddie.  See if you can enjoy them.”

WHACK!

“AAAAAAAARRGH!”

WHACK!

The triple tails wrapped around the bare bottom offered so submissively to Hamish.

“AAARGH!” A final cry from Arthur, as Hamish laughed heartily.

“Did you enjoy those last ones, laddie?”

“No Sir.  Not really.”

“How strange!  I enjoyed them immensely!”

“Yes Sir, thank you Sir.”

“Right laddie!  Next up I was going to give you a couple with this XH belt.  It’s severe.  Of course, the couple has been doubled to four.  Very appropriate for the four letter word you said.”

“I only said arse, Sir.”

“Are you trying to provoke me, lad?  I wouldn’t recommend it!”

“Sorry.”

“Aye, you will be.  You will be.  Now shall we play a little game?”

“A game, Sir?”

“Hold your tongue, lad!”.

WHACK! The tawse lashed down.  “A!” said Hamish.

WHACK! A harder blow, causing Arthur to buck and squirm.  “R!” said Hamish.

WHAAACK! Instant agony spread across the submissive cheeks. “S!” said Hamish, laughing with delight.

WHACK! A fourth blow fell. “E!” said Hamish.

Arthur then felt the hands of his tormentor exploring his naked, disciplined cheeks.

“Laddie, that sure is one fine bottom.  It’ll be caned in a minute.”

“Yes Sir, thank you Sir.”

But the wandering hands were not finished yet.  They caressed the cheeks.  The fingers  strayed towards the arsehole where they began to probe gently.  Arthur moaned submissively, pushing his bottom towards his master.  Suddenly six hard smacks reigned down.  Hamish then applied a little lubricant and thrust his middle finger up Arthur’s seat.  The finger moved in and out and around and around, causing delighted, approving noises from Arthur.

“Time for the cane, laddie.”

Hamish picked up the junior cane.  He flexed it and swished it around.

“It was going to be a dozen, but I think you can cope with 24!”

Arthur wasn’t so sure as the first stroke fell.  Successive strokes of the beastly cane confirmed his doubts.  He had miscalculated when he chose Hamish for his first foray into Scottish discipline.  He had met his match and grew ever sorrier as the cane lashed down mercilessly.

At last it was over.

“Well done laddie.  Bedtime now.  Take this senior cane with you.”

Arthur’s seat was already on fire but would become further inflamed upstairs…

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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.

_______________

Story by Rod Cayenne, © 2011

Republished again by popular demand, possibly!

Comments welcome

Beach Buggy (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

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

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

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

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

“Oh, I had no idea.”

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

“Gee, thanks Dad.”

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

“Never!”

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

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

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

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

“Yes Peter?”

“Can I see it?”

“Why?”

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

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

“Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wasn’t going to…”

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.  He showed me it.”

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

“Kinky, how so?”

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

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

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

“No, mum.  It’s family history.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peter just nodded.  He handed his father the cane.

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

“Oh.  I wasn’t expecting that, Dad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Last one, son.  Brace yourself!”

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

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

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

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

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

———————–

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

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

 

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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Story © MMXIV by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved.

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Comments welcome – please use link at top of the story

Comments from the original 2014 post are here

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

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Erotica by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2013. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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Story © MMXIII by Rod Cayenne

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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Comments welcome – please use link at top of story