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A brand new Male/Male caning story by your host, Rod Cayenne. All the characters are age 18 or older. This story is currently exclusive to The Canery and is only suitable for adults!
Not Suitable For Work by Rod Cayenne
Outside, autumn sunshine coloured the streets. I gazed absent-mindedly out of the window, only to have my attention brought back to earth by my boss raising his voice, “Pay attention, will you? Well, I must say, that’s hardly appropriate wear for this establishment, young Larry! I expect a good proportion of your wages to go on office clothing. Is that clear? That is to say, smart and clean clothes. Don’t waste your hard-earned wages on teenage distractions, cigarettes, alcohol, loose women, lads’ mags and dare I say it? DRUGS!!”
“I don’t do drugs!” I exclaimed while thinking to myself that I must pick up some tasteless porn on the way home, “Anyway, has anyone actually complained about what I’m wearing? I’m willing to bet that they haven’t.”
“Well, that’s just where you are wrong. Very wrong. Our esteemed founder, Mr Mirabor, called me this very morning. He went on about it at length. Said I should give you a good sound thrashing!”
“He did, they go in for that a lot in his homeland, you know. Yes, really. What’s more, he’s damned right.”
“But, but…I read about him in the induction pack and I thought he’d retired?”
“Wait! You read the induction pack? I’m impressed! Not many do. As for retirement, he has in theory, but he keeps a watching brief, if you like. So what’s it to be then? A thrashing or the sack, Larry?”
“That’s not much of a choice!”
“Maybe not, but I do need a decision. And I need that decision right now! What’s it to be?”
“I don’t want or deserve the sack.”
“A thrashing it is, then. A very wise decision.”
“I don’t deserve that either, do I? This is a set-up of some kind isn’t it?”
“Not at all, Larry my lad. It’s entirely your choice and it just sounds to me like you’ve chosen a thrashing.”
“Well, as I said. But OK, OK. A thrashing. I can take it. It’s gonna hurt I guess but it’s the lesser of two evils.”
“Good, we have some progress. Now there is a choice.”
My boss pulled a grubby white gym shoe out from a desk drawer. “The choice is a session with this fine old plimsoll of mine here in the office, or…”
“Not the office, please boss! I’ll never live it down! Someone’s bound to hear.”
“A good point. The other choice is a caning at my home.”
“What? No way! That sounds way too harsh!”
“Not at all, my boy. Just a school-type caning. Of the type endured by young lads for decades. You’ll survive it, of course.”
“I should hope so too, boss! Sheesh. So why can’t I have a whacking with a plimsoll at your place?”
“That’s not the deal, I’m afraid. I’m the boss and I’m not going to bargain and argue with you. I’ve only got one plimsoll and it’s staying here in this office. If only for emergencies. At home, it just so happens that I have a cane.”
“I’m sure that all of this is highly illegal, you know.”
“I wouldn’t know, young Larry. But I do know that this is the only choice for you. We must follow Mr Mirabor’s guidance.”
“Alright. Alright. I’ll go along with it, I suppose. Thank you for offering me the chance to keep the job. You know, I do like it here.”
“Good! And let me reassure you that you do a good job here. You’re probably the best office junior we’ve had in a long while. I must say that I had my doubts about recruiting an 18-year-old for the role rather than someone younger, but I’m happy with how it’s working out now. Apart from the inappropriate clothing issue, that is.”
“Yes, Sir. I’ll get some new clothes.”
“Mmmm, Sir eh? I like it! Now, no more jeans and faded t-shirts. Just one more thing, Larry.”
“I think a witness for your thrashing will be needed to make sure there’s nothing untoward happening.”
“A witness? Oh my god, no, is that really necessary?”
“Not to worry. Mr Mirabor has already kindly offered to be that witness. It’s very generous of him. You will report to my house tomorrow at 8pm sharp. Here are the address details. Make sure you wear some clean, smart or smart casual clothes. Mr Mirabor will expect nothing less.”
So it was that the following day after work, I smartened myself up and took the bus to my boss’s house on the far side of town. I was worried that I’d be late as the old bus rattled its way slowly down the empty streets. In fact, it worked out well and I arrived bang on time at the surprisingly large house.
My boss greeted me with a firm handshake and took me into a large reception room, where I met Mr Mirabor for the first time. He was a strange figure, wearing a buff raincoat which seemed odd, given that the weather was fair and mild. His balding head was accentuated by a bushy moustache and thick glasses with expensive designer frames. My boss reappeared with a whippy-looking cane in his hand. I could tell that it meant business. It looked quite vicious. He handed it to Mirabor who examined it in detail, and slashed it purposefully through the air. If his aim was to intimidate me, it worked! That cane sure looked a fearsome implement. “It’s a good cane, that’s for sure,” Mirabor said, “Twelve should be ample for him to learn his lesson. Please proceed.”
So, twelve strokes had been announced as my punishment. But, I had been expecting only six! Twelve seemed like an awful lot to me. But then came another bombshell, as Mirabor casually added, “Teenagers got it bare in my old country. I suggest we proceed on that basis.”
My boss stared at me with a cold gaze, “Well, what are you waiting for? You heard what Mr Mirabor said. Trousers and pants down, this instant! Hurry up lad.”
Things were going from bad to worse to even worse. I felt sure that these two old men were out to humiliate me in every way possible, and to get their jollies at my expense. I undid my belt and slowly unzipped my trousers. They fell down to my feet. It was now time to pull my pants down. I’d chosen a sensible white pair. They would look clean, smart and understated, I’d felt. They were kind of old-fashioned looking, though. I was nervous. I didn’t want to do it – pull them down, that was. I was kind of hoping that my boss would step in and do it for me, but I could hardly ask him to do that for me. That would have seemed silly and childish. So I gradually eased them down myself. All the time, I felt as if two pairs of eyes were ogling my pert teenage arse as more and more of it was revealed. In the end, momentum took over and my pants slid right down.
“Right then, I guess we’re ready!” said my boss. He turned to Mirabor, “Are you ready, Mr Mirabor, Sir?”
“Yes, I am. It looks like Larry is ready too. Give it to him hard!”
I heard the clatter of the cane as my boss picked it up from the table. He ordered me to bend over the table edge and gently pushed me into position. He encouraged me to push my arse out ready to meet the cane. When that stick landed, it was far from gentle. The first stroke laid out a pattern of pain that the subsequent strokes just built on. Two, three, four, five, six. I was struggling to keep quiet and still. Wave after wave of burning pain followed with each impact of the whippy rattan. After seven or eight, I really felt that I couldn’t take any more. I pleaded for a break. To my surprise, they agreed. But it really didn’t help. I was told to remain in position, and just felt their eyes feasting on my battered arse cheeks. Eventually, my boss picked up the cane again. “Right, that’s enough. Let’s get this unpleasant business finished. We are busy men, you know!”
The final strokes lashed down. I gasped and squealed and choked. It was so embarrassing. I heard Mirabor chuckle. What a sick, sick man, I thought to myself. And then it was all over. I was allowed up, and rubbed my arse frantically, in a vain attempt to ease the pain. Embarrassingly, my cock was thickening. It was inexplicable. I really didn’t want an erection. How could that be happening? I quickly pulled by briefs and trousers up to hide my stiffening cock. But both men had seen it, I felt sure. Both were staring at my crotch. The perverts!
Then something funny happened. I should have headed off straight away, but my boss offered coffee, and I found myself accepting. I was soon sat uncomfortably on a plush sofa with Mirabor by my side and my boss opposite. We made small talk, which in hindsight was just bizarre in the light of what had occurred. The coffee was strong and tasty. It kind of helped me recover from my ordeal.
Mirabor then offered me a lift home. I wasn’t sure that I trusted him, but reluctantly, I accepted. His expensive German saloon had really soft, comfortable seats, for which I was grateful. It certainly was better than catching the service bus. He chatted away as we headed to my place. He told me that he was caned a lot as a teenager. Staring at his balding head, I found it hard to believe that he had ever been anywhere near as young as me. I tried to change the subject. He patted my knee a couple of times during the journey, which didn’t seem creepy at the time, but in hindsight definitely was. It was just his way, I’d told myself. As we drew up to my door, he wished me well, saying, “I hope I get to see you again, sometime. I pop into the offices now and then and we may need to review your progress at some stage.” I gulped and got out hurriedly. He drove off, giving me a friendly wave.
It was good to be home. I looked at the ugly, sore cane weals in the large mirror in the bathroom. I ran a bath, but not too hot, as I didn’t want to aggravate the soreness. I looked at the marks again as I climbed into the bath. My boss sure knew how to use a cane! I idly wondered where he’d got that experience from. Was it maybe Mirabor? I slumped down in the bubbles. What a strange evening it had been. As the water cooled, I couldn’t stop a rampant erection forming. The caning had been painful but now, in the aftermath and being naked, I was feeling strangely excited and sexy and turned on. I pulled at my cock and soon enough thick ropes of cum spurted into the bathwater. In truth, I didn’t get a lot of sleep that night as I kept replaying the beating in my mind. It was stimulating, and my cock acted accordingly. Mirabor’s threat of a review in the future held a strange allure.
Back at work the following day, paranoia set in. I suspected that each and every colleague of mine knew what had happened. But none of them ever said anything to me. Not directly, anyway. I felt sure that the boss’s secretary, Rina, knew. That foxy smirk she gave me seemed to confirm it. How I’d like to have zipped off that tight pencil skirt of hers, to see how she’d like a dose of the cane. And the junior underwriters? I felt sure that they knew too. There seemed to be a lot of whispering going on when I appeared in their section of the office. Bastards!
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.
Story © MMXXIII by Rod Cayenne
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