Revelations I, II (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Both parts of this caning story by your host Rod Cayenne presented together for the first time.  All the characters are aged 18 or over.  This story is for Adults Only!

Revelations by Rod Cayenne

Part I

Peter was moving in with his father. The old man, now 75, needed a little looking after, and as Peter was penniless after a messy divorce, it made sense for the two men to pool their resources.

Dad shook his son’s hand firmly to welcome him back to the old family home. It was a generous four-bedroom property with ample room for just the two of them. However, as Peter had become a bit of a hoarder over the years, the place was soon cluttered by a large number of cardboard boxes full of his belongings, ephemera and junk. The clutter became a source of friction between the two men, as Dad had always liked things “just so.”

As it happened, one day Dad tripped over a pile of the boxes. Luckily he was unhurt, but the contents of one of the boxes spilt out everywhere. Riding crops and school canes fell onto the floor. The two men looked at each other. 52-year-old Peter blushed just like a teenager. Dad’s Cairn Terrier, Duke, barked furiously at the upset. Who would blink first? In the end, it was Dad, “Well, son. What a revelation! A bit kinky, are we? No wonder Sandy left you! You’d better put them away. We’ll talk about it later.”

Peter scrambled on the floor, picking up the various implements of correction. He blushed furiously as he placed his “toys” back in the box. Duke barked again, and Dad couldn’t resist a chuckle.

The two men spoke little over the fish and chip supper. Peter felt awful, and he could sense some amusement from his father. How Peter wished he had hidden that particular box in the bedroom he’d been allocated.

“Alright Peter. That was a nice meal, thank you. Now, we have something to discuss, haven’t we? Bring the box, we’re going to my study.”

The study was one of the nicest rooms in the old house. It was light and airy, with the sunshine streaming through the window that autumn evening. Peter put the box down on the desk and his father sat down, facing his son.

“Well now. I think you have some explaining to do, Peter. Take the lid off the box and talk me through the contents, please.”

Peter picked up a traditional school cane. It was golden brown, three feet long and had a curved handle. “Well, you should recognise this one Dad! It’s your old cane!”

“Whaaat? Give it to me this instant!” Dad was handed the cane, and he flexed and swished it, just like old times. He pointed it at Peter and said, “It is my old cane! Lovely, but I thought I told you to throw it away? That was a long time ago now. And you’ve kept it all these years?”

“Well yes. I was going to throw it away but then I didn’t, Dad.”

“Evidently not! Has it seen a lot of use since then?”

“Oh yes, I’ll say!”

“And have you been on the receiving end or the giving end?”

“I’d rather not say, Dad!”

CRACK! Dad slashed the cane down on the desk, right in front of Peter.

“I didn’t ask whether you wanted to reply, I asked which end of the cane you were on!”

“Err, right Dad. A bit of both, actually.”

“I see. So you really are kinky then? I’m confiscating this cane, or rather taking it back as it was mine all along. I’ve thought of a use for it.”

Peter gulped. He wasn’t keen on his Dad having a cane again. Dad and cane was a near-lethal combination that brought back painful memories.

“OK Dad, of course, it’s yours to keep.”

“What else have you got in there?”

Peter extracted another cane. He swished it around.

“I got this one at a country fair. It’s a bit thinner and has an awful sting. It’s not quite as nicely finished as yours, and the crook handle isn’t as beautifully curved.”

“Mmmm. I see. Well, you can keep that one. Next!”

“A nice brown leather riding crop bought at the same country fair. It was new, unlike the cane.”

“Let me have a look please. Yes, very nice. Can you spare it?”

“Yes, Dad. You can have it, if you really want it. I’ve got another one here much the same, but in black leather.”

“Oh yes, very nice. Thanks, I will keep the brown one. You’d better hang on to the other one, Peter.”

Dad sniffed the plaited brown leather crop as Peter rummaged further in the box.

“And then I’ve got this one, which is a fluorescent pink. Quite a fun item. Popular with the ladies.”

“A bit effeminate that one. Are you sure you’re not gay?”

“Dad! Sandy chose that one. We got it mail-order from some sex supplies company.”

“Tut, tut. How seedy! What else have you got?”

“Silver handcuffs from the same supplier.”

“I’ll take those, please,” Dad said.

“A straight cane with a rubber handle. Same place again.”

“How does that compare with the others, Peter?”

“It’s a bit of a bruiser. No fun at all. And lastly, there’s this malacca cane. From the old antiques shop in Victoria Avenue. Knobbly and very punishing.”

“Mmmm, yes, it does look like something from an S&M film,” said Dad, much to Peter’s surprise. “So that leaves me with my original cane, and this rather nice brown crop you have given me. Excellent! Oh, and these handcuff thingies. Now go and put that box away in your room. We won’t be needing it again, and I don’t want it tipping out in front of any visitors. See to it, Peter. And then come back for another chat, please.”

Peter took the box up to his room. That chat had been embarrassing. He was a little worried about his Dad.

Back in the study, Dad was flexing his cane. Peter came back in and was blushing again.

“Well, Peter.  This has been a day of revelations! It seems my son is what is commonly known as a spanko! With a secret supply of implements of chastisement. Dad thinks this is a bit shocking, you know.”

“Err yes, Dad.”

“Don’t worry, Peter, my boy. I shall keep your secret safe. No-one will find out from me.”

“Thanks Dad!”

“However, it would be a shame if this crop and cane slipped into retirement. I propose a thrashing for you for all the clutter and the fact that I could have been injured. How does that sound?”

“Dad, come on, you’re joking, surely?”

“No, actually, I’m not. I’m a bit of a spanko, too. Let’s get down to it, shall we?”

“No, Dad. This is all wrong.”

“Right or wrong? Who bloody cares at my age?”

“Dad!”

“Well, that’s how I feel. Make the old man happy, please.”

“Well, if you’re sure? And it will be a secret?”

“Of course! Now how about six with the crop for the clutter? And another six, on the bare, for the box business. With the cane, of course.”

“On the bare?”

“Yes, it always was, wasn’t it?”

“Err, of course.  But things are different now. I’m 52! Can’t I be allowed a bit of modesty?”

“No! Not appropriate, I feel. You may be 52, but you’re still a naughty boy in my eyes. Now over the desk for six with this beautiful crop.”

Peter bent over the oak desk, just like in times past.  It had been over thirty years since he had last bent over it. A rush of excitement consumed him. He grinned and then grimaced as his Dad swished the brown crop through the air. Dad paced up and down the room, swishing the crop some more and smacking it gently on his leg.

“You know, I think this is really going to hurt, Peter,” Dad said. “It could be worse than the cane. Perhaps we’d better have you bare for these as well, so that I can see the marks. I don’t want to get carried away.”

“I’m more worried about you having a heart attack, Dad.”

“Shut up boy! Trousers and underpants down for your father!”

So it was that Peter’s Farah slacks slid down, followed by his cream Marks and Spencer briefs. An unmistakable erection was growing between his legs and pressing against the desk. Dad had no matching stiffness! He hadn’t been troubled by an erection for a long time.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Dad lashed the crop down enthusiastically on his son’s bottom. Oh boy, was this good!

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Peter needn’t have doubted his father’s ability to deliver a sound beating. Dad’s handshake and grip were still firm and fatherly, despite the ravages of time.

“Very good, Peter!” Dad admired his handiwork on the naked cheeks. Red marks from the shaft of the crop decorated the arse. Yes, vivid red marks which betrayed the throbbing, burning pain Peter was feeling.

“Gosh, Dad. You haven’t lost your touch at all. My arse is killing me!”

“Language, Peter! Don’t make things worse for yourself. Now for the cane. I’m grateful you didn’t throw it away. But I need to find out if the old beauty still performs.”

The performance didn’t disappoint at all. That cane  always was a special one. Its loving, bitter caress was undimmed. Peter gasped and groaned as the cane slashed down, skilfully aimed by his disciplinarian father.  Dad criss-crossed the strokes, making a really sore impression. Peter wasn’t broken, but he sure was chastened. He would be a lot tidier in future!

“Fish, chips and chastisement every Friday!” Dad announced to Peter.

“Yes, Dad.”

“You’re paying, by the way. Think of it as your rent.”

Revelations by Rod Cayenne

Part II

SWISH-CRACK!

Dad’s trusty old cane thrashed down on the naked buttocks of prodigal son Peter.

“Owww!” Peter cried.  He could usually take his strokes stoically, but this seventeenth stroke hurt beyond belief!

SWISH-CRACK!

The eighteenth bitter-sweet stroke lashed down.

Outside the study door, the sound of leather crop and rattan cane on bare flesh had sent Duke the Cairn Terrier into a barking frenzy.  It was ever thus.

The thrashings took place every Friday evening.  To start with they had been after the gents had enjoyed their fish and chip suppers.  Latterly, however, Dad had taken to sending Peter out to buy the food after his thrashing.  Peter would therefore stand in Pam’s Fish Bar with a red hot bottom, almost hotter than the food on offer!  On returning home, Peter would sit awkwardly at the dining table facing his father.

This evening was no different.  Peter’s pert bottom throbbed and burnt from the eighteen strokes.  His  face was flushed with embarrassment, or was it sexual excitement?  This particular evening, Dad also looked rather red-faced.  He leant over and touched his son’s hand.

“I hope that thrashing has taught you a lesson, my naughty boy.  Now, listen.  I want you to share my bed tonight, son.”

“DAD?”

“Yes, why not?  And we’ll both be naked, won’t we?  I want to have a good talk about your spanking and caning interests, Peter.  Pass the ketchup, please.”

“Dad, this is kinky, kinkier than we should allow ourselves to be.”

“Nonsense, son!  We’ve a shared interest.  Now, I want to share it more intimately.”

“Dad, you really are incorrigible!”

“Maybe son, maybe.  Are you up for it, then?”

“Well, yes, as long as you don’t tell anyone.  Especially Sandy, if you ever bump into her.”

“Mum’s the word!”

“How about an early night then, Dad?  These fish and chips always send me into a bit of a drowsy kind of slump.”

“I’ll decide when son.  Is that clear?”

As if on cue, Peter felt a shooting pain, just where the crop and cane had done their very dirty work.

“Yes Dad.  Perfectly clear.”

“Good boy.  I could always give you a reminder of who makes the decisions around here.”

“No Dad, no reminders necessary.  You’ve made a firm impression already.”

Was that innuendo, or cheek?  It didn’t matter.

“You will have a bath at nine o’clock and then come and join me in bed, naked.  In the meantime, you can wash up when we’ve finished eating.”

“Yes, Dad.”

____________________

“Son!  It’s nine o’clock!   Toilet and bath now.  Don’t forget your teeth.  Oh, and take the cane and crop from my study and put them on my bed, will you?”

“Errr, yes Dad.  Of course.”

Peter wasn’t too sure he liked the sound of all this.  He was being treated like a kid. Told when to use the toilet indeed!  Nevertheless, he was excited and felt his cock stiffen as he called into the study to pick up the cane and crop.  Already they had wreaked havoc that day. Now it seemed that an encore was in prospect.  It was only a few hours later, but Peter was craving more punishment, especially as it seemed to fit in with his father’s plans.

Peter entered his father’s bedroom.  It stank of cigar smoke, and there sat on the bedcovers was Duke. More worryingly, Peter could see his handcuffs, confiscated by his father, lying on the bedside table.  Next to them, was a well-used tube of lube.  Peter gulped with dread, placing the cane and crop down carefully on the bed. Duke barked at him.

Peter made his way to the bathroom.  Soon the taps were running, and Peter sat on the toilet, which reminded him how sore his bottom was.

Dad popped his head round the door.

“Good lad!  I’ll be in later to soap you down.”

Peter rolled his eyes.  He couldn’t even have a shit in peace, it seemed.

A few minutes later, Peter was enjoying his hot bath when the door swung open.  Peter was astonished to see Pam the proprietor of the chip shop stood holding the cane, and Dad just behind her.

“Your father has invited me round to join in the fun! Lucy is minding the shop.  I’ll be caning you both tonight!  Hurry up and get dry!  This cane needs some use!”

She swished the cane down and chuckled.  “Two strokes for each minute it takes you!  You’d better hurry up!”

Peter pulled the plug out and smiled to himself.  By the time he got to the bedroom, his father was stood naked and handcuffed.

“Five minutes!  Ten strokes!  Your father will be getting the same.  Peter you can go second.”

It was the first time Peter had seen his father naked. For a 75-year old, his body was in surprisingly good shape.  His bottom was most attractive, pert and hairy. Peter was also naked, after his bath.  Unlike his father, Peter had a stonkingly stiff erection.  Pam gazed at it lovingly as she flexed the cane.  She was particularly fond of uncircumcised penises.  She flexed the swishy rattan cane again.  Oh yes, it was going to be a night of revelations!

 

_______________)

Both parts of this 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 over the age of 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or businesses, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

(_____________

Comments and masturbation welcome.  Comments are here.

 

The Crop Circle (M/M)

Short erotic equestrian fiction by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2012. All of the characters are 18 or older.  This story is suitable for adults only.

The Crop Circle by Rod Cayenne

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I see.  I understand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“Can I keep my jods on please?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

I gasped as lines of fire lit up my backside.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

It was humiliating.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

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

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

I resolved to go easy on the horses in future.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

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

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

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

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

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

_____________)

Story © MMXII 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.

Photography © by Jonathan, R.I.P.  Models: Jonathan (dom) and Rod (sub).

Comments please.  Comments are here.

The Bullwhip On The Wall (M/M)

⇒Site Recommended Story⇐

A repeat of this hot story by Rod Cayenne, from 2014. Strictly for adults only!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?  21?”

“Oh yes!  21, 22, 23, I think.”

“Gosh!”

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

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

“Oh yes indeed!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh Uncle!  What a horrible word!”

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

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

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

“Alright, alright!  But not too hard!”

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

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

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

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

“Hey!  That’s a lot!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry, Uncle. “

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

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

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

“Whaaat?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 ___________)

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 facility not available for this story, but comments from the original 2014 post are here

 

Father’s Favour (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh not that girlfriend business again, Dad!”

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

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

“How’s your hangover, son?”

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

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

“Did I?  Gosh, sorry Dad.”

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

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

“Yes, as well you might!”

“Sorry, Dad.”

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

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

“It’s just not good enough, my boy!”

“Dad…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit, Dad!”

“Language, Peter!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Err, yes.  Yes, Sir!”

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

“Yes, Sir.”

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

“Maybe, Sir.”

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

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

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

“No, I suppose not.”

“Are you stupid, boy?”

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

“Yes!  Good!  Progress!”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Well then, a thrashing it shall be!”

“Yes, Sir.  Thank you, Sir.”

“How old are you?”

“Just eighteen, Sir.”

“So an adult then?”

“Yes, Sir.”

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

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

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

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

“Ouch!  Do you mind?” cried Peter.

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

“Oh, thank you Sir!”

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

“Oh, Sir!”

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

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

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

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

“Stand up!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He will?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Language, Peter!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

____________

Story © 2015 by 11plus, used here by very kind permission of the author.  The full list of stories by this author is available here.

____________

D I S C L A I M E R

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

_____________

Photographs © 2015 by Rod Cayenne

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

_____________

 

Mum’s Birthday Present (F/F)

A favourite spanking story by Rod Cayenne, repeated by popular demand.

All the characters are age 21 or older. WARNING: ADULTS ONLY!

 

“A cane?”

“Well Mum, you said it was almost impossible to get you anything. What do you get the woman who’s got everything?”

“Yes, I did say something like that didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. And then I remembered you saying something a while back along the lines of you’d like to hold a cane again, just once to remind yourself how powerful it made you feel.”

“Well, yes I may have done. It certainly takes me back. I feel just like Head Girl again,” Mum said grinning and swishing the beautiful crook-handled cane through the air.

“You like it then?”

“Oh yes, Carol darling! It certainly takes me back, it certainly does.”

“Did you use the cane much, Mum?”

“Oh yes! It was expected, encouraged. I was a bit of a beast, really. I feel a little guilty about it now. It wouldn’t be allowed now, would it?”

“No, certainly not. Anyway, is it a good one?”

“Yes, I’d say so. Let’s try it on this cushion, shall we?”

Swish-CRACK! Swish-CRACK! Swish-CRACK! Swish-CRACK! Swish-CRACK! Swish-CRACK!

“There we are! Six of the best. Very impressive. Thank you darling.”

Mother and daughter kissed.

“You’re welcome Mum. I had to buy it from an online sex shop.”

“Really, do people find it sexy?”

“Well someone must, otherwise they wouldn’t sell any, would they?”

“I remember being on the receiving end too. Phew, it burns like fire.”

“Really? It seems so thin and inoffensive.”

“Yes, but it’s whippy as you’ve seen and bites like a snake. Not that I’ve been bitten by a snake, of course. Not at all sexy, anyway.”

“So Mum, one thing has always puzzled me. You used the cane at school, but you didn’t believe in it at home?”

“No. Your father and I argued about it, but I was adamant. No cane in our house. Although I regretted that a bit when Penny went off her head.”

“The drugs?”

“Yes, that was difficult. To this day, I don’t know where she got them from.”

“I do Mum. It was me. I’ve always felt very, very guilty about it.”

“YOU? Oh no, no, no!”

“Yes, sorry Mum. Still Penny’s turned out fine hasn’t she? All those dressage awards!”

“No thanks to you!”

“Mum!”

“Well, frankly I’m very disappointed with you. Very. If I’d found that out at the time, I probably would have got a cane!”

“Really? I had a lucky escape there then!”

“Yes!”

“You’re not happy with me now are you, Mum?”

“No I’m not! I think you’d better leave, before I say something I might regret later.”

“What, like ‘Bend over’?”

“No, that’s not what I was thinking of at all, but it’s not a bad idea.”

“Really, Mum? If it would help, I’d do it.”

“No. Don’t tempt me. Wait! Yes, let’s do it!”

Carol was a bit shocked that her mother had suddenly expressed a wish to cane her. This hadn’t been in her plans when she bought that jokey present. She was a bit old for the cane, too.

“Seriously, Mum? Don’t you think I’m a bit old for it? I’m twenty-nine, remember.”

By this time, Carol’s mother had pulled a dining chair into the middle of the room. She obviously wasn’t joking.

“Shut up Carol! Of course you’re not too old. Now bend yourself over this chair. We’ll start with a traditional six of the best. Like that cushion just had!”

“Oh, Mum!” exclaimed Carol, remembering what a sound thrashing the cushion had taken. Indeed, dust from the cushion was still in the air, and visible in the streams of sunshine coming through the window.

“You can keep your skirt and knickers on if you behave yourself, although the skirt will be raised out of the way.”

“Oh, Mum!”

“Six of the best, then.”

Swish-Crack! Mum wasted no time slashing the first stroke down on her daughter’s pert knickered bottom.

“AARGH!” Carol cried, leaping up and clutching her bottom. She massaged her cheeks frantically.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, Carol? You’re meant to stay in position. Really, the girls at school were so much better behaved.”

“Well they were probably used to it!” Carol exclaimed, still rubbing her bottom frantically.

“Carol, I suggest you bend over again, right now, unless you want me to repeat the stroke!”

Filled with horror at the suggestion of an extra penalty stroke, Carol bent over submissively for her mother, somewhat embarrassed by events. Mum flexed the cane, eyeing the temptation before her. Carol’s bottom was more womanly than pert, offering an ample and very punishable target. Mum prepared herself for the next stroke, telling herself that there was no point in holding back! After all, this was likely to be the one and only time the cane would be employed for its designated use.

Swish-Crack! The second stroke landed on Carol’s white lacy knickers. The daughter gasped, and her face flushed. This was quite an experience, one she thought she would never have.

Swish-Crack! The cane landed again, causing Carol to squeal, much to her mother’s satisfaction.

CRACK! A heavy, brutal stroke crashed onto Carol’s bottom. She leapt up again! Her mother frowned as she watched Carol rubbing her bottom.

“That’s cheating, my girl! No-one dared to rub their bottom in my study at school. Get your knickers down, hurry up! Bend over again! And an extra stroke for getting up!”

Swish-Crack! Swish-Crack! Mum was getting into her stride. Her daughters naked, striped bottom was a delightful sight. It seemed to encourage and beckon the whippy stick.

Indeed, the cane lashed down again, causing a very vocal shriek.

“I’m not sure I’ve forgiven you properly yet! Stay down for two more!”

“Oh, Mum!”

CRACK!CRACK! On and on it went, two more each time. Mum’s taste for caning had been rekindled. Carol just felt sore and stupid, wriggling as the cane lashed her bum.

A few days later, Mum was over at her other daughter’s home. Mother and daughter were sat on the rattan sofa in the conservatory, enjoying a Pimms in the spring sunshine.

“Mum, I heard about Carol’s caning.”

“Oh, you did, did you? Well, let me tell you Penny, she deserved every one of those strokes.”

“But Mum, there were over twenty, I’m told. That was a bit harsh. Especially as it was me who was caught with the drugs.”

“Being caught was your own stupid fault. You took your punishment.”

“Yes, Mum. But Community Service hardly compares with what you gave Carol the other day.”

“Maybe not, but I don’t believe in punishing twice for the same thing. You don’t want the cane do you?”

“Yes, I do actually. Have you got it with you?”

“No, of course not. I’m not going to keep it in the car, now am I? Now who’s being stupid? It’s hidden in the bedroom where your father and I can keep an eye on it. We don’t want Carol breaking it.”

“OK Mum. I do deserve a good whipping, though. I thought you might not have the cane with you, so I thought we could use one of my riding crops instead. Let’s go into the living room, I’ve left my favourite crop in there.”

__________)

Story © 2013 by Rod Cayenne

Comments welcome – please use link at top of story

Old comments are here

I Could Smell The Man On My Hands (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

A hot new tale by your host, Rod Cayenne. All the characters are aged 21 or over. Strictly adults only!  This story is exclusive to The Canery.

I thought I’d washed thoroughly in the showers before leaving the gay sauna. But somehow the smell of the young man lingered on my hands. Musky and masculine, with just a hint of funk and condom rubber, the smell was unmistakably him and not me.  I cursed the soap gel dispensers at that sauna, which always seemed to be half-empty, and difficult to use.  A lot of guys there took their own toiletries, I’d noted.  It seemed a rather French thing to do, but I resolved to do the same in future.  Still, I sniffed nostalgically at my hands as I walked down the historic Rue des Artistes.  Maybe I’d been too busy washing my head hair, as somehow or other, I’d accidentally managed to get a large dollop of lube in it.  Then I remembered what fun we’d had.  I’d spanked him for ages in a private room, le vice anglais indeed, and then we’d shagged each other senseless in front of an eager cosmopolitan audience in the cinema room.  The feeling as his thick bell-end eased and probed its way into my tight tunnel was just exquisite. Mmmm, such happy days!

Just a couple of weeks later I found myself cutting through the leafy park on my way to the car dealers.  The sun shone like molten gold on the boating lake as I stopped and sat myself down on one of the green-painted metal bench seats.  The ducks were quacking merrily and I could almost hear Debussy in the air.  Instead, I heard the purposeful exclamation of my erstwhile lover from the sauna, muscled young Henri, “Jim, it’s you!  I can’t believe it’s you!  I had assumed you were a tourist!”

“Oh no, Henri!  I’m no tourist, I live and work here!”

“In that case we have something to celebrate, Jim!  Hey, why don’t you come back to mine?  Now!”

“I’d love to but I can’t.  Car trouble.  Got to pick it up.  They’ve fixed the main problem but I’ve got to take it back again in another couple of days.  So much for fucking French engineering!”  Indeed, my locally-sourced Citroen had turned out to be a bit of a citron.

“Pfft!  Always whingeing, you Little Englanders!  Here, let me give you my number.”  He tore a page from a diary or some kind of French Filofax thing and scribbled away with a chewed blue BiC ballpoint pen.  I took the paper from his beefy hand and gave him a sly wink.

With indecent haste, just a couple of days later I was over at his apartment.  It was located off a swish and swanky little mews not so far from me.  He greeted me like a long-lost friend, kissing both my cheeks like many foreigners and the French always seem to do.  We sat down on a leather chaise, cuddling and kissing as the prelude to our hot afternoon.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a glass-topped table displaying a martinet and a beastly-looking riding crop.  Clearly my friend had a taste for corporal punishment games.

“Yes, my good friend,” he said, “They will both see some use today, don’t you suppose?”  I nodded and was just about to say how much I agreed, when he interrupted excitedly, “I have something else here that may interest you.  Something quintessentially British!”  He wasn’t wrong.  He was right.  He picked up the item from behind the sofa and waved it at me saying, “Look dear boy, it’s a cane!”

“I can see that!  Give it to me!” I bent the thing almost double before scything it through the Parisian air and whipping it down on a nearby plump cushionette, saying, “Where on earth did you get this?  These fucking hurt, you know!”

“So I’ve heard, my friend.  But I don’t really believe it.  More Little Englander exaggeration.”

“We’ll see about that!  Anyway, you haven’t answered my question about where you got it from,” I snapped testily back at him.

“I bought it at a sex shop, of course.  Where else?  It was – how you might say – an under the counter item.”

“I doubt that!”

“They had a few for sale.  Some straight and some, like this one, with that funny curved handle thing.”

He’d chosen well, I decided as I bent the rattan again, saying, “Come on then, bare your arse for me!”  He dropped his pale blue slacks and his burgundy underpants.  He looked faintly ridiulous standng there in just his Sasha Distel-stylee polo neck top.  So I ordered him to take that off too, and totally naked bent him over a chair near the window.  He had to stand on tiptoes due to the high back of the chair.  “Six strokes is traditional,” I informed him.

I whipped the rattan down with venomous intent.  The poison took immediate effect as my French friend gasped with undisguised horror.  “Quelle horreur!” he must have thought to himself.  Absolutely nothing prepares a virgin for that first stroke of their first caning!  Still, I wasn’t going to dwell on that thought, after all I had another five strokes to deliver.  I whacked the second one down, just below where the first one had landed.  “No!” he cried.  I feigned complete deafness as I raised the cane again. I aimed lower still, landing a real beauty on his naked flesh.  “No more, Jim!  Please!” he pleaded.  I chuckled inside with sadistic delight, for I had this French Fancy just where I wanted him.  He should have known better than to have so flippantly underestimated the power of the cane.

“Half way,” I said to him, but in truth I was half way to paradise.  My cock was twitching and straining in my trackies as our CMNM scene progressed.  His hairy arsehole was intermittently on view as he squirmed about.  It wasn’t the target area but it sure was enticing.  There was the promise and allure of more wild sex treasure there, for sure.  I lashed the fourth stroke down, laughing with delight at his undisguised misery.  He groaned loudly and muttered something foreign that I just couldn’t catch.  After all, I wouldn’t recognise the French word for “bastard” now would I?

I was half-tempted to make the final couple of strokes diagonal ones, but I didn’t want to blow it by being too sadistic.  That could keep for another time!  Right then, I landed two bracing parallel stripes on his French flesh.  He jumped up and jigged around, rubbing his bottom vigorously.  His member was half-erect, and open to admiration.

“That’s enough of that, Henri,” I admonished, “Now be a good boy and fetch me the martinet.”

“Oh, Jim.”

“Just do it!” I barked in my best military tone.

He duly presented the martinet to me.  It was a strange item to these English eyes.  Often referred to as a dog whip, this particular one was a rough and cheap item.  The handle was poorly fashioned, but the leather lashes were rather more professionally finished.  I really had no idea how to use it, but figured it couldn’t be that difficult.  I led him back to the chair, and bent him over.  The cane weals were now really prominent.  I couldn’t resist feeling them.  They were very hot to the touch and Henri groaned as I felt them all over.  I was a little disappointed that I couldn’t feel the weals throbbing, but I guessed that was a pleasure only the caned could enjoy.  I spat on my finger and rubbed the wetness on his arsehole as a tease of pleasure to come.  I then rubbed the handle of the martinet around the same enticing area.  I thought about pushing the tip of the handle in but instead decided to lash the martinet down on the waiting cheeks.  I did it again and again.  I was enjoying the moment as the leather strands whipped all around his arse, also filling in any gaps between the cane weals.  I could feel my cock stiffening as I brought the whippy lashes down again.  What an intriguing implement I though, and so quintessentially French!  Henri was now mewing, perhaps with pleasure but certainly with discomfort.  I threw the martinet down and picked up the riding crop.  Now, the crop was a real old favourite implement.  I scythed it through the air.

“Time for the crop, Henri.  I’m going to beat you like an animal!”

“No Jim, please.  Fuck me instead.  Please!”

Well, that was certainly an option.  My cock was rigid and its head was straining against my tracksuit bottoms.  But I really wanted to beat him hard with that crop first.  I was crazy with lust, desire and sadism.  The horse-whip was rather different to the dog-whip I mused as I cracked a first stroke down on top of flesh already scarred by the cane and the martinet.  Henri bucked with pain immediately.  I really didn’t care as the animal beastliness in me had taken over, and I crashed a second and a rapid third stroke down, enjoying the sound, feel and vision of the punishment.  I determined to make it just nine strokes of the crop, so I lashed the final six rapid-fire style and he gasped and complained throughout.

“Now, let’s fuck!” I laughed as I entered him roughly and started pumping for dear life. I slapped his arse a few times, relighting the barely-dormant flames of my sadism.  I was already close to cumming.  I pulled at his lanky black head hair as I gave a couple of final thrusts.  Hot spurts of cum gushed from my cock right inside his young arse.

Later that sunny afternoon, we swapped roles and he beat and serviced me.  Well, it only seemed fair and my gosh, what fun we had!  As I walked back home sore arsed through the park I noticed I could smell him on my fingers again.  It made me horny again and I laughed out loud to no-one in particular.  Well, I had to really, didn’t I?

 

 

_____________

D I S C L A I M E R

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

(_____________

Story © MMXIX by Rod Cayenne.  All rights reserved.

__

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

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

Erotic Fiction by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2011.

 

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

“Yes, I do believe it is, thank you!”

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

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

“Lucky boy!” I said somewhat incautiously.

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

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

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

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

“What’s your name lad?”

“Jason Newman, Sir.”

“Very good lad, follow me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s the only way, Sir, isn’t it?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes please, Sir.”

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

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

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

“Yes Sir, sorry Sir.”

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

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

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

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

THWACK! THWACK! “AAAARGH!” I screamed.

THWACK! THWACK!  I was regretting my bravado.

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

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

“No Sir.  Is it worse than the crop?”

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

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

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

SWISH-CRACK! The third made me gasp.

SWISH-CRACK!  “AAARRRGGGHHH…………….”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_____________/

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 and picture © MMXI by Rod Cayenne

All rights reserved

_____________/

Comments welcome

_____________/

The Crop Circle (M/M) repeat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I see.  I understand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“Can I keep my jods on please?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

I gasped as lines of fire lit up my backside.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

It was humiliating.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

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

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

I resolved to go easy on the horses in future.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

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

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

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

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

 

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

_____________)

Story © MMXII 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.

Photography © by Jonathan, R.I.P.

Comments please

The Bullwhip On The Wall (M/M) repeat

♥ Site recommended story ♥

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?  21?”

“Oh yes!  21, 22, 23, I think.”

“Gosh!”

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

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

“Oh yes indeed!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh Uncle!  What a horrible word!”

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

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

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

“Alright, alright!  But not too hard!”

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

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

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

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

“Hey!  That’s a lot!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry, Uncle. “

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

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

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

“Whaaat?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 ___________)

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

 

Grading The Punishment (F/M) repost

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Reposted hot erotica by guest author Fred Spankmanbare

So if my wife uses her canes more often than her hairbrush, and always on my bare bottom, what other ways do we use to deal with the question of grading my punishment to suit different offences? As I said in my previous post (“How I Became a Spanked Husband”) we don’t use corner time, cross-dressing or any sort of humiliation; none of those things is a turn-on for either of us and adds nothing to the simple effectiveness and mutual satisfaction of straightforward adult domestic spanking. Nor do we agree with spanking or caning on underpants or pyjamas, even for milder infringements, since any garment tends to defeat the whole purpose of the exercise. Instead, my wife varies the number of spanks, their severity, and the position in which I have to present myself to be disciplined. In terms of the number of cane strokes, an “ordinary” offence usually gets 15-20. From time to time, however, I have to stay in position while she applies 24 strokes or even more.

For special offences, a more lengthy session takes place. On first presenting my bottom, and despite what I said earlier about always on the bare (this is for special sessions, remember) I am allowed to wear what we call my Punishment Panties. These are tight-fitting, male, cotton underpants of the jockey type, and when I have pulled them on taut and smooth she makes me bend over and gives me 24 hard strokes of the cane. Then there is a pause. I have to get up, still gasping, take down the Punishment Panties and bend over once more, presenting my sore, striped and now completely exposed, unprotected, bare bottom for the second part of my punishment – another 24 hard strokes. These are events to remember, I can assure you. During a severe punishment such as this, and especially when she has finished, my wife likes to see (and feel) the weals raised by her cane.

Severity can also be varied to match the offence by choosing the appropriate instrument. My wife’s increasing order of severity for disciplining me is hairbrush – cane – leather riding whip, or even a mixture of two or more of these. Variety is the spice of life, after all! The black leather riding whip is very effective. My wife uses it like a cane, and the little tab on the end makes a nice ‘whap’ sound on bare buttocks as she lashes it across my bottom (she doesn’t just flick me with the end-tab). Before the session, she tells me why and how I am to be punished, for example: “Your behaviour has been absolutely terrible. You simply have to improve, and you know you deserve some really strict discipline. Go up to the bedroom now. I’m going to give you the cane.” My stomach churns, and after a moment I reply “yes, very well. How many strokes do you want to give me?” “You need lots”, she says, “but 24 should be enough if I cane you hard.”

 

On other occasions, the tension may build up to very high levels before such a discussion, and at those times I frequently ask her directly if she would like to use her cane or hairbrush on me. I tell her that we both need her to do it – a tension reliever for her, retribution for me. She usually agrees, and we make an appointment for later. Sometimes, instead of asking directly (particularly if things are really bad) I get ready for bed before her (without my pyjama bottoms), take out her favourite cane or her whip and lay it on her pillow. I wait under the blankets, heart thumping in anticipation. Her usual reaction is along the following lines. “Ah! Good!” she would exclaim when she comes in and sees the punishment instrument laid out ready for her to use, “I’m glad you understand that you deserve some strict attention. I want to spank you really thoroughly because I have a lot of steam to work off, so I’m going to cane you very slowly as well as hard. I want to use my whip on you as well, for the final strokes”. She peels off the blankets completely. “I’m glad to see you’ve already bared your naughty bottom. Now – turn over and present it for caning. Put your pillows under you. You know the position I like to have you in for discipline. How many strokes do you think I need to give you?” I think about this for a moment; better not choose a number that’s too low or she may well double it,  so I clear my throat and murmur “at least two dozen, please”. She agrees, so the required and mutually welcome disciplinary session gets under way. By the time she has finished (the two dozen may have been increased to 30, the final six being with her riding whip) her mood is much lighter and more relaxed, as it always is after she has administered discipline. When my bottom stops quivering I too have a great feeling of release.

 

My wife also grades the punishment severity by varying the way in which she makes me bend over. For hairbrush spanking it’s OTK, of course, with her sitting on the edge of the bed. Her preferred position for a caning or whipping, however, is to have me lie flat on our double bed with a pillow or two under me to raise my bottom into a more rounded presentation. She kneels on the bed and briskly administers the agreed discipline. I am allowed to wriggle and squirm, as long as I keep my bottom up. For a more serious session (like with my Punishment Panties on) I have to kneel on the bed on elbows and knees, bottom right up in the air, skin taut (and panties taut too, when they’re being used). Sometimes I get whipped downstairs in the dining room or kitchen, using a chair reversed against the table. I fetch her cane from the bedroom as instructed, or her riding whip if she has chosen to use that, and return downstairs. I have to bare my bottom as usual, and kneel on the chair with my head and shoulders on the table. The agreed number of strokes is then administered deliberately and thoroughly. I find that these positions, where I have to bend right over so that my buttocks are stretched, result in a more severe punishment than being whipped lying on the bed when my bottom is soft and relaxed.

______________)

Story © Fred Spankmanbare, 2011 

Comments welcome

Misty Morning (complete) (F/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

All four parts of this hot F/M story by Rod Cayenne presented together for the first time.  Over 18s only!

It was a misty morning. I was taking my dog for a walk on the ancient track. Crossing a road at one point, I saw a couple unloading an estate car in the lay-by next to the track. She was dressed in horse-riding apparel, he was wearing just white shorts, a white t-shirt and running shoes. She strode purposefully towards me, while he followed a little way behind. She had a leather-bound riding crop in her hand. She gave me a friendly smile, so I said, “Morning! Have you lost your horse?”

“Oh no,” she replied. “No, no, no. Not at all – this crop is for whipping my husband’s bottom with.”

Naturally, I was taken aback at this revelation. However, I decided to play along as things were sounding interesting.

“He does look like a naughty boy,” I said. “May I watch?”

She wagged the black plaited crop in my face and then said, “Yes, why not! You are naughty boy too, but on this occasion you may be our look-out! We often come here on gloomy days for a taste of outdoor discipline.”

We walked on for a few minutes before she stopped and said “Bend over here, Paul.” Obediently her husband bent, touching his toes and looking uncomfortable as his shorts rode up around his ample bottom.

“He’s getting at least fifty strokes – first twenty on his shorts,” and with that she laid into him. The leather crop struck down repeatedly as he squirmed and tried to muffle his cries. What a scary sound it made.

“Shorts down,” she ordered. Skimpy black briefs didn’t offer much protection as she whipped another ten strokes down on his cheeks.

“Pants down now for the next twenty,” she laughed. I was enjoying the spectacle, and even more so now as he edged his briefs down to reveal a hairy but reddened arse to me and to his wife. These strokes seemed even harder and he gasped, cried out, wriggled and screamed.

“A disappointing display from you today Paul!” she said to him. “I’m sure our guest would like to join us later at home to see you at the mercy of my cane.”

“Oh no!” he cried and “Oh yes” she and I chuckled. She licked her lips and then said to me, “Have you ever had the cane? I said, have you ever had the cane?” she demanded again. My face went red. I reckon my arse did too and I gave it a quick rub.

“Er yes, my father used to…”

“But not your mother?” she quickly interjected.

“Er no, she didn’t really approve of that sort of thing.”

“What a pity,” she replied “I always think a woman looks so much more powerful with a cane in her grip. Don’t you agree, Paul?” Her husband quickly nodded his agreement. What a poor fellow, I thought to myself. She handed me a thick address card. “Do join us at 8pm,” she added. Was it an invitation or an order, though?

They headed off for their car. I stared at my dog and then at the address card. Why would she have had cards made? Perhaps she was a hooker I thought to myself. A high class one, maybe.

The morning mist was slowly clearing as I in turn headed back to my car. My mind was in turmoil as I drove back home. What a scary lady she was. But also horny. An erection was stirring in my pants and I kept thinking about my arse. I wasn’t sure that I ever wanted to feel the cane again. If I went along to watch Paul’s torment, could I be sure I wouldn’t get a dose too?

I decided to not go along but to try to find them again on another misty morning. At least, that’s what I decided for a few minutes before I changed my mind and decided to go along and join them for the evening’s entertainment. I rang the bell promptly at 8pm.

She answered the door in her dressing gown. She had a crook-handled school cane in her hand. “Do come in,” she purred, and as she did, the gown came undone revealing a black lace twinset and a huge black strap-on!

At this point, I didn’t really know where to look. She pointed to a door with her cane and said “In there now! Paul has had to go out so we will have to make our own entertainment.” I had been set up good and proper or so it seemed to me!

“Trousers off!” was her next command. So there was to be no foreplay! “I’m going to beat you hard. Like your father did.”

She wasn’t wrong there. Dad was a devil when he had a cane in his hand.

“Over the arm of the sofa, now!” I had walked into a trap but truth told, I was thrilled beyond belief. Here was this sex goddess commanding me as my erection rose. She yanked my briefs down.

“Six of this senior cane. Count!” The strokes were hard. The strokes were brutal. I cried out after each stroke despite resolving not to.

“Thank you for beating me,” I said after stroke number six. This was a phrase my father used to insist I said after being caned.

“My pleasure. But we’re not done yet. Fetch my riding crop from the table.”

I had to bend over her lap while she assaulted my arse with the crop. It was the same plaited black leather item she had used so wonderfully that morning. Oh boy, was that thing beastly! I didn’t count but I must have had around thirty strokes. My arse throbbed. Now I knew how Paul had felt.

“OK, now fetch the lube from the table…”

“You know what I’m going to do with this, don’t you?” she said as she stroked the black strap-on penis.

“Paul always takes it like a man. I hope you can do the same for me boy. I bet your father didn’t have one of these did he?”

“Er, no, just the cane,” I replied somewhat stupidly. The lube squelched out of the tube with a rude noise.

Just then her husband Paul slammed the front door and crashed in to the room we were in.

“Paul where the hell have you been? You are late. You are disobedient and you will pay! I’ve had to beat our guest to relieve the boredom. Mind you I think our guest might have enjoyed it. Isn’t that right boy?”

“My name is Peter,” I replied as I was getting rather tired of being called a boy. “But yes, maybe I did enjoy it in a funny kind of way. Are you going to cane Paul now, that’s what I came to see?” I was being cheeky and assertive, anything to divert her from the thought of ploughing me with that hideous strap-on thing. My arse was throbbing and my eyes were already moist. The last thing I wanted was that plastic cock making life even more uncomfortable!

“Yes indeed. What an excellent idea! The senior cane, I think. Twenty strokes. Bare. Drop them, Paul!”

She strode off and came back with a thicker looking cane. It was darker-coloured than the one she had used on me and it had the most beautiful crook handle.

“This will teach you not to be late!”

The cane thrashed down on his cheeks. They were already reddened by the misty morning’s cropping. Nasty welts were appearing.

“Fifteen.”

“AAArgh!”

“Sixteen, Seventeen.”

“AAAAARGH!”

“Eighteen.”

“OWWWWW!”

“Nineteen.”

“AAARGHHH!”

“Twenty.”

“OWWW!”

The last couple were cross strokes, I think. Boy, did his arse look sore!

“Now then boys,” she said. “I want you to be friends. Peter and Paul. How cute. Play your cards right Peter, and you could replace Paul in my affections.”

If this was a taste of her affections, I wasn’t so sure I wanted it!

“Now to show me you are good friends, Paul why don’t you lick Peter’s sore bottom and then Peter you can do the same for Paul. The one who does it best may get to lick mine – not that mine is sore, of course.” How humiliating this evening was turning out to be!

Having my arse tongued after the thrashing was quite a turn-on, and it did ease the pain a little. I won the competition to lick the lady’s arse too.

“You may call me Mistress,” she said. “Although my real name is Lauren. Now get upstairs! Paul you can sleep on the sofa tonight. And no wanking!”

I headed for the master bedroom. Although it was now dark, I could see that the view of the bay from the window was magnificent. I switched the bedside lights on. I mentioned the wonderful view to her as I stared out of the window.

“Yes, and so is the view of your arse! I’ve done a good job there.”

“You certainly have, Mistress.”

To my immense relief, she removed the strap-on cock, and let it fall to the ground. Knickers and bra followed. She got on the bed and on all fours, pointed to her bottom and said, “Service me!”

I was happy to oblige. My tongue wandered over the fleshy contours, darting in and out of the crack to service her arsehole. Although gamey, it tasted sweeter than the one I had serviced earlier. My hands massaged her pussy and clit. It was hard not to slobber over her arse. It was just so heavenly. The sex that followed was curiously unsatisfying. I had rediscovered my submissive side and somehow fucking her just didn’t feel right.

After we had both come, I started to fall asleep. Suddenly she elbowed me in the ribs.

“Don’t you dare fall asleep on me! Fetch the cane from the wardrobe!”

Gingerly, I opened the mirrored doors of the wardrobe. There were a variety of outfits – fetishy rubber ones, a nurse’s top, furs, policewoman, traffic warden, and air hostess uniforms. Perhaps she was a hooker after all, as I had previously surmised. Thank goodness I had worn a condom! And why was I getting a freebie?’

Hanging on the end of the wardrobe’s rail was a knobbly looking cane. I took it down, and couldn’t resist swishing it around as I returned to her.

“That’s for me to play with, not you!” she admonished me. “I was going to give you six, but we’ll make it twelve now, I think.”

“Yes Mistress,” I replied obediently.

That knobbly cane – possibly a malacca – hurt like hell. She cackled as it whipped my naked cheeks, time after time.

She was counting the strokes out loudly.

“Nine!”

“AAAARGH!”

“Ten!”

“AAAAAGH”

“Eleven!”

“Yeowww!”

“Twelve!”

I managed to stay silent for the last stroke. Goodness knows how, and heaven knows what Paul thought! He must have heard a lot of our nocturnal activities.

That was the worst cane I’d ever been disciplined with, and I’ve known a few in my time. She gave it back to me, and I returned it to the wardrobe. As I returned to the bed, she pinched the cane marks several times, adding to my pain and humiliation. Eventually we fell asleep.

As dawn broke, I slipped downstairs discreetly. Paul was nowhere to be seen. My arse hurt like never before. I opened the front door, only to find it was another misty morning.

___________)

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 © 2011 by Rod Cayenne

Comments welcome

 

The Bullwhip On The Wall (M/M)

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Spanking fiction by Rod Cayenne – strictly over 18s only!

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?  21?”

“Oh yes!  21, 22, 23, I think.”

“Gosh!”

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

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

“Oh yes indeed!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh Uncle!  What a horrible word!”

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

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

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

“Alright, alright!  But not too hard!”

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

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

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

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

“Hey!  That’s a lot!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry, Uncle. “

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

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

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

“Whaaat?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 ___________)

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 are here