Beach Buggy (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

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

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

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

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

“Oh, I had no idea.”

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

“Gee, thanks Dad.”

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

“Never!”

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

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

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

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

“Yes Peter?”

“Can I see it?”

“Why?”

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

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

“Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wasn’t going to…”

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.  He showed me it.”

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

“Kinky, how so?”

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

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

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

“No, mum.  It’s family history.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peter just nodded.  He handed his father the cane.

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

“Oh.  I wasn’t expecting that, Dad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Last one, son.  Brace yourself!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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D I S C L A I M E R

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

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Story © MMXIV by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved.

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Comments welcome – please use link at top of the story

Comments from the original 2014 post are here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I stood there embarrassed, and red-faced.

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

“Over the internet, I suppose?”

I nodded.

“With your card?”

I nodded.

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

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

Again, I nodded at Dad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But Dad, I’m eighteen now!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Number Two cane to finish off, Peter.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Pervert!” I accused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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* IMPORTANT – DISCLAIMER *

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

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

__________________

Story © 2013 by Rod Cayenne

Comments always welcome – please use link at top of story

Heating Engineered (M/M) – NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

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

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

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

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

“Oh!”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I’ve always thought so.”

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

“Never!”

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I suppose.”

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

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

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

“Sorry Vince.”

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

“Yes Sir, sorry Sir!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit!” Dave cried out.

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

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

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

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

(____________

Story © MMXVII by Rod Cayenne

______________

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

Barber’s Pole (M/M) repeated

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Explicit spanking fiction by Rod Cayenne – strictly over-18s only!

What a stupid question!  No, of course not!  No, I never regretted moving to the coast.  Why would I?  A tidy little inheritance and my early retirement had enabled it.  My house was one of a detached pair in typical 1950s style.  With extensive sea views and long gardens, I counted my good fortune every single day.  The coastal climate was fantastic and I felt ten years younger at least.  In fact, the only annoyance at my new home was the seagulls.  Of course, you get them almost everywhere inland these days, but I did tire of their constant noise and of them shitting all over the place.

My neighbour was Mr Shepard.  He was 70, if he was a day.  He was a retired barber from the West End of London.  He used to regale me with tales of his famous and infamous customers, though rarely of the more humdrum ones.  Evidently, his salon had been a fairly lucrative business.

He was a stocky man, completely bald on top but with a neatly trimmed white moustache.  He always wore dark, neatly pressed trousers and had a taste for striped shirts.  His shoes shone immaculately, whether brown or black, and he always wore a matching thick leather belt.  It soon became clear to me that this handsome old devil was gay, whereas my own sexuality had always been a little, how shall we say, ambiguous?  Despite myself, I fancied him something rotten.

I was amazed to find he’d refitted one of the downstairs rooms of his home as a bijou barber’s salon.  There was just one leather padded adjustable barber’s chair, but the illusion was completed by all the usual trappings – a huge mirror lit from above, clippers, razors, combs, towels, tubs of dressings, styptic pencils and even a display of what appeared to be fine old Fetherlite and Gossamer condom advertisements.  On hooks to the side of the chair hung a back mirror, a razor strop and somewhat incongruously, a school cane.  I asked him about that cane.

“Oho, that!  Gets a lot of comment, that!  I call it my barber’s pole!  I used to use the strop and cane on uncooperative customers, back in the day.”

I assumed he meant young customers but I couldn’t be sure!  I wanted to talk about it a bit more, but didn’t know how to tune the conversation in on the subject.  In truth, I’d been caned at school rather a lot and began to enjoy the invigorating sting of the rattan.  I was waiting for him to offer me a short back and sides, or a short, sharp shock, but sadly neither was mentioned!

It was a few days later when we were sat in his garden enjoying the summer sunshine and the cool ocean breeze.  I gazed lovingly into his sea-blue eyes.  I sipped at my vodka and Coke and cursed as a seagull crapped on the cast iron table we were sat at.

“Those fuckin’ seagulls!  Always shitting everywhere!”

“Tut, tut, Jason!  What awful language!  I ought to tan your hide with my strop and pole for that.  Wherever did you pick up such foul language?”

My first thought was that I’d picked it up at school, like you do, decades before!  I blushed a little.  It was as if he could read my every thought.

“You’re right of course!  You should tan me,” I laughed nervously as the words tripped out.

“Inside then!” he ordered.  Oh my God!  He wasn’t joking.

I soon found myself bent over the magazine table in his salon room. A pile of football and girlie mags fell to the floor. I felt his hot breath behind me as his hands made for my belt buckle.  He must have done this before as he released the belt like an expert, undid the button and zip and yanked my trousers right down.

“Actually, you’re far too low there.  Let’s have you over the arm of the barber’s chair instead.”

I waddled over with my trousers around my ankles.  But the barber’s chair was too high!  He pumped the chair down a little. I stared into the big mirror to my right.  I was horrified to see him approach and then pull down my boxers.  My naked arse was on display to Mr Shepard and the mirror.  He pushed me down so that I was bent over the arm with my hands resting on the chair seat.

“Now that’s what I call an arse!” he laughed, landing a hearty slap right on my naked bum.  I reflected that he was the one using less than refined language now, but I wasn’t going to argue as I spied him reaching for his leather strop.  I began to fear it.  It looked heavy and purposeful.  Obviously, it was a professional piece of kit from the days when things were made properly here in England before our industrial decline.

Crack!  The heavy leather hit me hard.  My worst fears were confirmed.  This was no toy; this was the real thing!  It burnt and blazed and was rapidly followed by another equally hard stroke.

A third lick of the leather bit into my reddening arse.  “Shit!” I muttered quietly to myself, mindful of how my bad language had landed my in this humiliating position.  I stuck my bottom out ready for the next stroke.  It wasn’t long coming, and was followed by another two in rapid succession.  That made six in total, surely enough to satisfy him and to make amends?  Evidently not!  The sadistic bastard cackled loudly and lashed seven, eight and nine into me.  I’d had enough pain, but some pleasure was kicking in now, too.

“Last three,” he announced.  He left me there waiting for them for what seemed like ages.  Suddenly a hard stroke hit my left cheek, and then an equally stinging one hit the right.  A final stroke landed right in the middle of both cheeks.  It really was a killer blow, forcing me to cry out.  Gently, I rose and started to rub my assaulted arse.  He cackled again.  

“I don’t know where you think you’re going, young man!  That concludes the razor stropping, but there’s still the cane to come!  So you can get down again.  And make it smart, otherwise you’ll get double!”

I did as I was told, bending back over the barber’s chair, slyly catching a quick glimpse of my reddened arse in the mirror.  What a sight!  As I bent over again, I realised I really wanted the caning.  It had been a long time, but I really needed it.  As the first rattan stroke lashed down, my memory of beatings past surfaced.  I remembered distinctly how I’d grown to like the sting, which wasn’t what was meant to happen in a punishment. Yes, I liked the bite and the sting, and maybe the shame too!

A second stroke broke my nostalgic reverie as it hit just below where the first had landed.  Both marks throbbed and ached as my tormentor paced around the room, whipping the cane through the air.  He cackled and admonished me, “I hope I’m getting through to you, young Jason.  I won’t have any foul language in my garden or house.  Is that clear?”

I agreed submissively as he sliced a third cane stroke down on my naked bottom.  I was enjoying the beating but it did hurt like fuck.  I was torn between pain and pleasure.  He stopped to pick up the magazines from the floor.  I watched him in the mirror as best I could.  He tutted as he assembled the reading pile back on the table.  He lined the magazines up neatly, almost obsessively.  I began to suspect he was trying to wind me up by making me wait for further cane strokes.  

At last, he was back and a fourth stroke sliced me, and then a fifth.  He stopped to feel my bare arse.  The old perv!  His hands were cold as they surveyed the damage the strop and cane had inflicted. His fingers lingered over each weal, and then he rubbed my bottom as if to make it feel better, but then he landed a swift slap right over the marks.  He laughed and picked up the cane.”This will be the last one as long as you promise to do as I say.”

I promised, not really knowing what was in store, although I could hazard a guess.  The sixth stroke sliced into me.  It was a hard, unforgiving stroke. I grunted with pain. 

After my beating, I was dragged off to his master bedroom.  It was a masculine room, with no pretence of routine domesticity.  The decor was predominantly black, red and white, just like the salon room below.  The duvet and sheets were shiny, satin black.  So was the condom he slid onto his impressive erection.  That was a barber’s pole of magnificent proportions!  He started off spooning me, which wasn’t uncomfortable, but he soon demanded doggy which was both humiliating and painful.  He pounded my beaten arse like a man possessed.  He grunted and sighed and I squeezed my anal muscles to increase his pleasure.  I knew there and then that this would become a permanent arrangement.  My bottom was his to beat and fuck as he saw fit.  Oh yes!  What a man!

___________)

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

Comments from the original 2014 post are here

 

 

Who’s At Home? (F/F, F/M, M/F or M/M) repeated

Who’s at home masturbating?  Who’s at home looking at porn?  Who’s hoping to get caught?  Will your underwear be pulled down roughly, so that a thrashing may be applied?  Cane, slipper or strap?  You know very well that there’s something you should be doing.  The garden.  Some decorating.  Giving the dog another walk.  Your college work.  But the lure of the filth on the net is too strong.  You are playing a dangerous game.  It’ll end in tears.   Naughty, naughty!  Ouch!

==============================

Text © Rod Cayenne, 2012

I Masturbated In My Brother’s House (M/M) – repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A work of total fiction by Rod Cayenne.  Strictly Over-18s only!

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

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

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

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

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

“So, into spanking, are you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.” I agreed submissively.

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Twelve, Patrick.”

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

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

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

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

My brother paused.  Perhaps I had struck a chord?

“Well, Wayne…”

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

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

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

“That was fun!” he laughed.

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

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

THE END

D I S C L A I M E R

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

________________

Story © MMXIV by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved

_______________

Photograph © by Jonathan, R.I.P.

_______________

Comments welcome

Comments from the original 2014 post are here

Suntanned (M/M) repeated (again)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A repeat of this popular spanking fiction by Rod Cayenne.

All the characters are 18 or over.

Strictly over 18s only!

Poor Kevin Brown couldn’t understand why his mother was being so very frosty.  As arranged, she had collected him and friends Peter Watson and Tony Taylor from the airport.  An old Boeing 727 had returned them from their Club 18-30 Balearic holiday.  The lads all boasted suntans, hangovers and stupid grins.

The grey Ford Escort headed back home along the motorway.  Kevin was sat in the front with his mother, while his two chums were in the back.  Even through his hangover he could sense that there was a problem. He had to find out exactly what it was.

“Mum, you seem a bit annoyed.  It’s very kind of you to pick us up like this.  Really, we’re very grateful, Mum.  Is there a problem?”

“Apart from missing my WI meeting?  Yes, there certainly is.  I heard about what you youngsters got up to on the island!”

“Whaaat?”

“Yes, my friend Gladys Griffith was at the same hotel in the same resort, with her teenage daughters.  You probably didn’t realise who those girls were when you were hitting on them, pestering them, drunk and boorishly.  Fiona and Millie.  Remember them?”

“Oh, Mum!  I’m sorry.  We’re sorry, aren’t we guys?” The other passengers nodded on cue.

“Fortunately the girls had the sense to move on.  But Gladys heard you swearing your heads off at the pool and beach as well.  I suppose that was alcohol-fuelled as well?  You do know her husband works with your father?  It’s all very embarrassing.”

“Sorry,  Mum.”

“Oh, you’ll be sorry alright.  You have an appointment with your father and his cane.”

That news caused Tony and Peter in the back of the car to laugh and guffaw at their friend’s shame and apparent comeuppance.

“But Mum!  I’m 22!  Much too old for the cane!”

“Not while you live under my roof, you’re not.  Anyway, this was my idea.  I asked your father if he still had that old cane of his.  He couldn’t find it, but he managed to buy a brand new one.  It wasn’t cheap, but is extra pliant and extra painful, I believe.  I heard him trying it out on some old cushions as I left the house.  It sounded like it was worth every penny.”

Tony and Peter laughed again at their pal’s misfortune. What friends they were turning out to be!

“Shut up you two!” cried Kevin in his distress  and embarrassment.  “Bastards!”

“That’s enough of that bad language, Kevin,”  his mother admonished.  “That’s the sort of behaviour that’s got you into this trouble.  Now, Peter and Tony.  You are not blameless in this whole business, of course.  But that’s not my concern.  However I would like you both to witness Kevin’s punishment, if you’d be so kind.  It might make you two think twice in future, as well.  Now, can you both spare a few minutes?  It won’t take long for the cane to remind Kevin how to behave.  Peter, can you make it?”

“Well, yes.  As long as I’m not copping a few strokes,” said Bastard No.1.

“No, no.  Your bad behaviour isn’t my business.  Kevin’s is, of course.  Tony, how about you?”

“I’m cool with it.  We’re sorry about everything, Mrs Brown, and thanks again for the lift, but the truth is Kevin was kind of the ringleader, anyway,” said Bastard No.2.

A shame-faced Kevin blushed and looked straight ahead at the motorway traffic, fighting back angry tears. He couldn’t bear to look at his two so-called friends in the rear-view mirror.  What bastards!  His mother shook her head in dismay.  Was her son really the ringleader in this sorry business?   She was becoming quite distracted.  Fortunately, Junction 15 loomed on the horizon, and she remembered to exit just in time.

Now home, Kevin’s father was shouting at the trio, “Never in all my years have I been so ashamed!  Guy Griffith said I should beat the living daylights out of you, Kevin!  I’m not a cruel man, but he does have a point.  You need a good, hard reminder to behave yourself!  You have gone too far this time!  I’m not sure I can show my face at the Bowls Club ever again!”

Kevin’s father was indeed an older man; just the right age for the Bowls Club, and a product of the public school system.  As such, he remembered only too well how much a caning could hurt.  He remembered that every time, the shock of a caning was something you couldn’t prepare yourself for.  His old prefect’s cane had seen a little use over the years, until it went missing. Finding a replacement cane had been an uphill task. Fortunately, one of the club members informed him about a local ironmonger who still had stocks of the increasingly unfashionable punishment implement.  He also remembered the glee on the shopkeeper’s face as the sale was made.  “You’re doing the right thing.  This trendy ‘spare the rod’ business will be British society’s undoing,” he had said.  What Mr Brown didn’t know was that Kevin had hidden the old cane, fearful of its sting and retribution.

Father flexed the new cane.  It was a vicious beauty, and perhaps his most satisfying purchase in many a year.  Yes, it was money well spent.

“Right, Kevin.  Let’s have you over this chair.  Trousers and pants down.  I expect you’ve been skinny dipping, so your friends will have seen it all before.”

Indeed, the three lads had indulged in the pleasures of the nudist beach, but only a couple of times.  So when Kevin dropped his pants, the bottom revealed was still fairly pale when compared to his suntanned back and legs.  Peter and Tony looked on, somewhat embarrassed, while sandwiched in between them, Kevin’s mother showed only grim determination.  She did not really want to see her baby hurt, but he did deserve the punishment.  She crossed her legs and fidgeted nervously.

The cane lashed down on Kevin’s flesh. Immediately, a prominent line appeared and Kevin leapt to his feet, swearing and cursing!  Father pointed the cane at son, gesturing that his submissive posture should be resumed.

“Well, that was a very immature reaction, Kevin!  And the sort of foul language Mrs Griffith tipped us off about.  Dear, dear!  I think we’d better start again.  First stroke coming now!”

Kevin’s friends grinned at the display before them.  His mother uncrossed her legs, and then crossed them again hastily.  She too was transfixed by the naked exhibit before her.  She sighed with contentment as she looked at the red weal on her son’s bottom.

CRACK!  CRACK!  Two hard strokes landed on the youthful flesh, causing Kevin to gasp and writhe.  A most indecent display, his mother reflected.  His friends were quiet, but Kev was seriously embarrassed when he thought about the eyeful they would be getting.

“Keep still, Kevin!  More to come!”  Mr Brown stated in a very matter-of-fact way.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!  He wasn’t pacing himself, and these rapid strokes would teach his son the hard lesson both parents had deemed necessary.  Again and again the cane lashed down, until a full baker’s dozen red stripes decorated Kevin’s pert posterior.  Waves of agony shot through his body.  He was allowed to rise, which he did slowly.  He pulled up his underwear and trousers, and turned to face his friends and mother.  All three were recovering from the shock of what they had just witnessed.  Mr Brown had exited the room, to pour himself a refreshing glass of water.  He guzzled it greedily, almost as if he’d been in the desert for weeks.

Kevin’s companions were now on their feet, commiserating with their friend, only slightly insincerely. Mrs Brown was reaching for her car keys, ready to offer lifts, when the phone rang.  She picked it up.  It was evidently the father of Tony Taylor, Kevin’s friend and a witness to the beating, of course.  Mrs Brown handed the phone over to her husband.

“Yes, yes.  Most regrettable.  I expect the whole town knows now,” Mr Brown said in a peevish tone, “Well all three lads are here.  I decided to cane Kevin, and the other two witnessed it as a warning.  Yes. a traditional school cane.  Yes, with a shepherd’s crook-type handle. Definitely rather whippy and painful.  No, it’s new!  My old one went AWOL.  No, I didn’t know you could still buy them either.  Got it from Murgatroyd’s.  You should get one yourself!  OK, we’ll talk it over down at the Queen’s Head.  What?  You want me to cane Tony for you?  Well, I don’t know.  What?  Yes.  Yes.  Perhaps.  I gave Kevin twelve.  Yes, it was rather a lot, I suppose. Oh, and an extra one for some childish behaviour. Alright, I’ll do it.  But you’d better have quick word with Tony yourself, so that he knows it’s your idea.”

Although Tony had only heard half the conversation, he knew exactly what his father was going to tell him. Anxiously, he twisted at the coiled lead of the trimphone as his father shouted down the line.  The whole room could hear as Mr Taylor tore a strip off his son.  The words ‘bare arse’ seemed to echo around the room!  Tony handed the phone back to Mr Brown.  The two fathers had a quick farewell chat  after agreeing a tariff of ten strokes.

“Just ten for you then, Tony.  I don’t like to ask, but your father was most insistent on a bare bottom for you.”

“It’s OK, Mr Brown, sir.  I suppose I deserve it.”

Kevin was rubbing his bottom as discreetly as he could. But all the rubbing in the world wasn’t reducing the sting very much at all.  Still, it seemed like the right thing to do.  Certainly, his body was telling him to do it. He gazed over at Tony who was slipping his board shorts down to the ground, revealing a boyishly smooth bottom.  Meanwhile, Peter Watson bit at his nails nervously.  He was only too aware that natural justice and fair play demanded that he too should be caned. He’d have to persuade his parents otherwise.  Hang on though!  At 23, it was no business of theirs!  Hell, at 23 he was too old to be caned, full stop! However did he get himself into this mess?

CRACK!  Mr Brown’s cane was now getting a fresh workout, this time on Tony Taylor’s naked haunches.  Mr Brown was a natural caner.  He knew it, and the boys knew it.  Tony knew it even better than the others, as he was the one feeling the wrath of the angry adult right at that moment.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!  Yes, Mr Brown was having a cracking time alright!  So was his wife, who was only too happy to watch the handsome lad being reduced to a wreck before her eyes.  The smooth babyish buttocks were marking up a treat!

CRACK!  Tony was losing count.  He wasn’t trying to count as such, although it was a natural thing to do. But he lost it.  Lost count, that is.  And then he lost his dignity as well as the cane did indeed reduce him to a sniveling wreck.  Kev had found his beating hard to bear, but Tony was totally unaccustomed to this kind of harsh punishment and it showed. Oh yes, it showed. Mrs Brown wriggled restlessly on the sofa as the final stroke cracked down.

An eerie silence fell on the room.  Tony pulled his shorts back up , gave himself a quick botty rub, and went and sat down in a vacant armchair.  Mr Brown slashed the cane through the air.  It made a shocking swishing noise as it sliced through the silence.  He stared towards the only unbeaten lad, Peter Watson.  He beckoned him with his forefinger.  He made Peter stand a couple of feet in front of him, then purposefully bent the cane into an arc right in front of the lad’s gaze.

“Well, Peter?”

“No, no, you can’t Mr Brown!  Please!”

“I can and I rather think I should.  The other two have taken their punishment, so why shouldn’t you do likewise?”

“But my parents!  They haven’t agreed to this!  Besides I’m almost 24!  The cane is for teenagers!”

Mr Brown bent the cane right in front of Peter’s face once again, saying, “This is all very tiresome.  The very fact that the others have taken a caning means you’re not too old.  And do you really want me to ring your parents?”

“No, but…”

“Take your punishment like a man, Peter!” interrupted Kevin, at last extracting some kind of revenge at the expense of his sometime friend.

“Be quiet, Kevin!” snapped Mr Brown.  “You are still in disgrace.  Any more from you, and I’ll have you over the chair for another twelve strokes!”

Kevin blushed a deep, deep red.  Once more the room fell quiet.  Then the silence was broken by Peter unzipping his Wranglers.  It seemed that his time had come!

___________)

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

Photograph © MMXI by Jonathan, R.I.P.

All rights reserved.

___________)

Comments welcome

Comments from the original 2014 post are here

Comments from the 2015 repeat are here

Chess Club Was Never Like This (M/M) repeated

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot all-male erotica by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2013 by popular request.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Mr Atkinson!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

(____________

Story © MMXIII by Rod Cayenne

Photo of Jonathan is © Jonathan

All rights reserved.

______________

D I S C L A I M E R

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

_______________

Comments welcome

The Perils Of Piracy Parts 1 and 2 (F/M, M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot caning fiction by Rod Cayenne, originally in two parts but published as a complete story for the first time.  Erotica for over 18s only!

Part One:

“Well lads, this is very serious.  Radio piracy is an offence under the Marine Broadcasting Offences Act, 1967.  You could all be going down for this!”

The three 21-year-olds surveyed their surroundings.  Their poky little studio with the twin turntables, and a pile of 45s.  The pegboard on the walls, with egg boxes to provide some acoustic insulation.  A valve amplifier and a rudimentary transmitter.

Sergeant Westlea and his two constables examined the pirate treasure with some disdain.  The Sergeant picked up a Deep Purple single and snapped it in half.

“Oops!  Well, that’s forever hushed!” laughed the Sergeant.  “Fortunately for you three, I am under strict instructions not to arrest you straight away.  If you know what’s good for you, you will accompany us to the police station where the Chief Superintendent wishes to interview you.   Why he is so interested in small fry like you, I have no idea.  The van’s outside, I suggest you all get in it before I change my mind and cuff the lot of you.”

Soon Bill, James and Hugh found themselves in the plush surroundings of the office of Chief Superintendent Walker.  All three were sat in front of his large oak desk.  He was reading the case file silently.  Now and then, he would look over his half-moon spectacles, gazing at the three miscreants.  He puffed on a large Churchillian cigar.

“Well, gentlemen.  It’s taken us three years to track you down.  You have led us a merry dance.  A dance to the music of time, you might say!  During this time, I have listened to your station a lot on my trusty Roberts.  I must say I have enjoyed a lot of your output.  Particularly that Cream bootleg you keep playing.”

To the three friends, this was the first sign of any relief from their predicament.

“I have studied the case file, and I must warn you that a judge might impose custodial sentences.  This is really a most, most grave offence in terms of the law.  However, here at the station, we tend to view this as a less serious offence.  I see from our research that you are all ex-pupils of St. Stephens…”

“Yes Sir!” said James, who was evidently the leader of the pirate gang.

“So am I,” laughed the Chief Superintendent.  “Not strangers to the cane then, lads?”

All three shook their heads.

“Mmmm.  Just as I suspected.  Now, listen to me!  As a prefect I used to cane naughty lads such as yourselves, back then.  It seems to me that an unofficial caning could be just what you lads need, instead of a spell in prison.  Something to wake your ideas up!  Well, lads?”

James spoke up, “If you’re suggesting we take a caning, I’m sure all three of us would be happy to accept that, Sir!”  The other two nodded enthusiastically.

James was thinking how much he hated the cane.  In the past, Bill hadn’t found the cane too bad if he felt he’d deserved it.  Hugh however, had a masochistic streak and loved being caned.  The Chief Superintendent was also very fond of the cane…

“Good.  Some common sense from you three at last.  I was thinking of six of the best.  Six strokes for each one of the years you evaded us.”

The lads gasped.  Eighteen strokes each!

“Don’t worry lads.  I was thinking of three sessions of six strokes each, say a week apart.  Just to drive the lesson home.  On the bare, of course.”

James spoke up again, “Of course.  Yes Sir, that seems very reasonable in the circumstances.”

“Now there is one problem.  My right arm is recovering from an injury sustained just recently.  I can’t cane you myself, although I feel I must witness your punishments.  Which leaves me with a couple of alternatives.  I could ask Sergeant Westlea…”

“We don’t like him, Sir.  He deliberately snapped one of our records!”

“Not the Cream bootleg, I hope!” exclaimed the Chief Superintendent.

“No, no it was a 45 of ‘Hush’ by Deep Purple,” said Bill.

“One of my favourites!” said the Chief, shaking his head.  “Well, I can’t trust the brute not to snap my cane then, can I?  It’s my last one.  Which brings me to the other alternative.  Mrs Walker!”

“Your wife, Sir?”

“Yes, my wife.  She’s an experienced caner.  Do you have a problem with that?”

“No, Sir.  Not really, but bare bottom Sir?” asked James.

“Good point, boy.  I’ll have to ask her how she feels about that.  She might want you to keep your underwear on.  In which case, perhaps more strokes might be appropriate.”

“Oh, Sir!” said James, the one who feared the cane the most.

“Well, Gents.  Maybe we’ll leave it at six each session.  I’m a reasonable man and Mrs Walker will see reason too.  It will hurt you, but it won’t kill you.  Have we got a deal?  Smith?”

James nodded, “Yes Sir, thank you.”

“Williams?”

“Yes, Sir!”

“Prentice?”

“Yes, yes thank you.”

“Very good.  I want you all to call around to my house on Friday evening.  Well after ‘The Archers’.  Say eight o’clock.  Here’s the address.”

The three lads trooped out of the station with mixed feelings.  They passed Sergeant Westlea, who looked astonished to see them walking free without so much as a caution.

Back in the office, the Chief Superintendent leant back in his leather chair.  Yes, this would be a most gratifying spectacle.  Three naked, prime rumps being caned by his disciplinarian wife.  Something for the weekend!  In bed that night he shared his wicked plan with his wife.  She mounted him eagerly and came heavily as he described his plans in detail.

“Well Charles, you have really excelled yourself this time.  I’m almost tempted to cane you now as a reward!”

“Thank you darling, but don’t you think you’d be better off resting and waiting for the weekend?”

“Well no, my arm’s not the one that’s weak at the moment is it?  Be a dear and fetch the cane…”

Despite the hot lovemaking he had just enjoyed, Charles Walker was regretting mentioning his plan.  His wife switched on the bedside lamp and took the cane from him.

“Eighteen strokes, I think!  Seems appropriate.  Unless you’d prefer twenty-one?”

“Oh, Lynn, surely that’s too many?”

“Well, let me have a look at your bottom.  Hmmmm.  No signs of recent caning or trauma.  Arse is looking meatier than ever.  Too many trips to the canteen at work, I’d say.  Eighteen!”

Charles placed a couple of pillows in the middle of the bed, and bent submissively over them.  His wife could hardly contain her delight.  How she loved caning this all-powerful copper!

CRACK! The first hard stroke from the whippy cane lashed down on the chunky, hairy cheeks.

CRACK! The second stroke was just as hard.

CRACK!  She wasn’t playing as a third fiery stroke hit him just above the crease.

CRACK!  Indeed, this was no love caning.  This was punishment!

CRACK!  The whippy, crook-handled cane bit into his bottom again.

CRAAACK!  A harder stroke caused him to gasp.

CRACK!  A satisfying sharp stroke.

CRACK!

“AAARGH!”  Charles could no longer contain his pain.

CRAACK!  His sadistic wife chuckled as the cane lashed down again.

CRACK! CRACK!  She was truly in her stride now.

“OWWWWW!”

He felt his cock springing to life again.  What magic the cane worked!

CRAAAACK!  The cane broke clean in half!

“SHIT!” they both cried.

“What are we going to do now?  We’ve got your boys coming on Friday and nothing to cane them with,” Lynn sighed.

“I know, I know.  It’s so hard to find a decent cane these days.  Those canes from school were top quality.  I’ll have to get the lads at work to find me a supplier.”

“Well, you don’t have long, Charles.  Don’t fail me or it will be very bad news for you!  How about Soho?  Or a whorehouse?”

“No, I don’t think so, love,” he got up from his submissive position, semi-erect, “the school might be a better bet.  They still use the cane at St Stephens…”

Part two:

“Where the hell have you been?” asked Chief Superintendent Walker.

Sergeant Westlea threw two whippy, crook-handled canes down onto the Chief’s oak desk.

“I’ve been at your old school.  I had a devil of a job persuading the headmaster to part with these canes, although he had at least two dozen in stock.”

“Why was he so reluctant to give you them?  I’d have expected him to have responded favourably to our unofficial law and order campaign.”

“Well, it was my fault in a way.  I let slip that there was no caning at my secondary school. So then he said he was only happy to hand over the canes to someone who knew what the cane was like…”

“Carry on, Sergeant.”

“Well, it was difficult Sir.  I didn’t want to disappoint you by returning empty-handed.  So I suggested he gave me a few strokes there and then.”

“You did what?”

“I took six of the best, Sir.  So that you wouldn’t be disappointed.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“I do Sir!  My arse is throbbing like mad.”

“He caned a uniformed officer?”

“Not exactly uniformed, Sir!  I had it bare bottom!”

“Well, it’s the only way…”

“Yes, that’s what he said too, Sir.  Must be a Saint Stephens thing.”

“Quite so, quite so.”

“I’m really sore!”

“Of course you are!  Still, it’s no more than you deserve.  I’ve been disappointed in your behaviour lately, Westlea.  Snapping that record at the pirate station was the last straw!”

“But Sir, those hippy lads have broken the law.  They ought to be banged up and have all their equipment and records confiscated.”

“No, no.  You’re wrong on two counts there, Westlea.  I am the law around here, and I have decided that the offence was not too serious.  The lads will be caned instead, but not here.  You will replace the record you destroyed, is that clear?”

“But Sir, it’s not fair!”

“The law never is fair, Westlea.  You have a lot to learn.  I’ll be taking you under my wing, so that I can keep an eye on you.  Now about these canes…”

“Yes, Sir?”

“One will remain here at the station.  For unofficial punishments and to keep delinquent constables and sergeants in line.  The other will go to my house, as that’s where those boys will be thrashed.   Now, we seem to have a junior and a senior cane here.  Which was used on you?”

“I’m not sure, Sir.”

“Only one way to find out then.  Show me the marks!”

“Sir?”

“Bare your bottom for me, Westlea.  Hurry up, unless you want another dose?”

The Sergeant undid his thick black leather belt, and let his trousers fall to the ground.  His white Jockeys followed.

“Wow!  Those look bad, Westlea!”

“They certainly hurt badly, Sir!”

“I’m not sure that they were done with either of these canes.”

“Well, I couldn’t really see, Sir.  I was bent over his caning stool, at the time.  Do you think I should have him for assault or GBH?”

“No, that wouldn’t be advisable.  Just think what the press could make of it.”

“Yes, you’re right of course, Sir.”

“Yes I am.  Now keep still a moment.  I need to check those ridges.”

And so it was that Sergeant Westlea had his naked bottom felt all over by Charles the Chief Superintendent.

“Oh, Sir!”

“Shut up, Westlea.  You’ll live.  Now, pull your trousers up.  Tomorrow you will go to the record shop and order a replacement copy of that record.  Here are the details.  No messing about now.  You will give the record to me.  Don’t let me down or it’ll be the cane for you!”

“Yes, Sir!”

Their relationship had changed forever.

________________)

(________________

“Where the hell have you been?” Lynn demanded as Charles came through the front door, cane in hand.

“Getting this cane, of course!”

“Those boys will be here in less than an hour.  I’ve hardly got time to fit your caning in first!”

“Eh?”

“We are going to redo your eighteen strokes before the boys get here.  After all, I need some practice with this new cane.  Into the front room, now!”

Charles was glad he’d chosen the junior cane to bring home.  It would sting like the blazes, but neither he nor the radio pirates would be badly bruised.  However, the police staff back at the station might benefit from the biting caress of the senior cane!

In the front room, Lynn had arranged the room around a chair for her victims to bend over.  She pointed at the chair with her cane and Charles meekly climbed onto it, lowering his uniform trousers and pants ready for a serious thrashing.  Once again, his meaty, hairy cheeks were offered submissively to his wife.

SWISH-CRACK!  It hurt, it really hurt!

SWISH-CRACK!  It was a damn fine cane.

SWISH-CRACK!  She smiled.

SWISH-CRACK!  He grimaced.

SWISH-CRACK!  It stung like only a cane could.

SWISH-CRACK!  She was loving every minute.

“Let’s stop for a minute, Charles.  Tell me a little bit more about these boys.”

“Well, they’re all 21-year-olds.  One of them’s a bit tubby, but should be a nice target for your cane.  I want to watch, of course.”

“Do I know any of them, or their parents?”

“No, I don’t think so.  They all arrived as the town and school expanded.  All from down the road in London, I think.  All ex-GLC pupils.  All no strangers to the cane, at least when they were at St. Stephens.”

“This is only a junior cane, though Charles.  I was hoping for something a bit firmer.”

“Yes, sorry, Westlea let me down a bit.  I’ll have to visit the school again myself.  And not just for old times sake.”

“Bend it a bit more Charles.  These will be extra hard ones.”

SWISH-CRACK!  She wasn’t joking!

SWISH-CRACK!  That cane could pack quite a punch, even for a junior.

SWISH-CRACK!  “Aaargh!”  Suddenly Charles had found his voice.

SWISH-CRACK!  “Owww!”

SWISH-CRACK!  “Shut up, Charles.  Unless you want extras?”

SWISH-CRACK!  He was silent, but his bottom was stinging terribly.

She left for the kitchen.  She poured herself a glass of milk.  This was thirsty work!  Charles remained bent over submissively, allowing his hands to comfort his bottom briefly while Lynn was out of the room.

“Get those hands off there!” she ordered as she arrived back in the room.  She placed the tumbler of milk on the sideboard.

“Six left!”

SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!

SWISH-CRACK!  “AAAARGH!”

SWISH-CRACK!  “OWWW!”

“That was fun!” she announced.  “I wish those lads would hurry up.  You’d better get up and pull your trousers back on.  You are keeping your uniform on for the main event, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes, darling.  I am the semi-official witness.”

“And a very naughty boy, too!” she added, pointing the stick at him.  “You might be getting some more later.  I’m really in the mood this evening!”

Charles rubbed his bottom nervously.  His wife was so sexy when she was like this.  His first erection of the evening was straining in his trousers.

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Story © MMXII by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved

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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