♥ Site recommended story ♥
A hot new caning story by very special guest author JOELSTRAP. This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are 18 or older. WARNING: ADULTS ONLY!
Taken At The Flood by Joelstrap
“Hey! What’s that?” demanded Dave as I started to pull on my jeans in the changing room.
“That red mark on your bum.”
I twisted round and, sure enough, I could just see the edge of a slim red mark on my skin, protruding from under my briefs.
“Er, well, actually it’s a cane-welt,” I admitted as I hastily hauled my denims right up and began to buckle my belt.
“How the hell did you get a cane-welt?” Dave asked, wide-eyed.
“I got caned.”
“But….but…you couldn’t have.”
“I did. Bloody sore it was too.”
“I guess it would be,” replied Dave, “but who would cane you? Why?”
“Come on. Let’s go to the cafe and I’ll tell you.”
Sitting with coffee and biscuits in front of us, Dave looked me straight in the eyes.
“Okay, mate,” said Dave, “I’m listening. How in the name of all that’s hairy did you get your arse caned?”
I told him.
It all started the day after the flood. The river was still very high and, although it had retreated from the fields, brown waters were surging down at high speed, bearing a sprinkling of branches, trees, gates and other debris. I made my way a short distance downstream to a place where there was a slight indentation in the bank, causing water to swirl round as if in a pool on the edge of the main river. I watched the water for a while, glancing occasionally up towards the river-path above me. Except for an elderly man striding along, swinging his walking-stick, there was nobody else in sight.
I watched the cane, which was floating in circles in the relatively calm water of the tiny bay, and then took hold of the trunk of a small tree and reached out and lifted it from the water.
I’d heard of the cane of course. It had only been abolished the year before I started school; and I’d seen it in use in films and on TV. I ran a finger along its lissom length and then bent it into a smooth arc. I slashed it down hard and the air whined. I gave a low whistle as I registered its potential to hurt.
“Aye; you’d feel that if it was used hard across your behind, Paul,” said a voice.
I jumped, and whirled round to see the old guy whom I’d observed on the path above me. I recognised him as Mr. Chisholm who had lived a few doors away from me, in a neat bungalow, ever since he’d moved in a year or so ago. He was watching me closely.
“Yeh, I suppose I would,” I replied. “I wonder how it came to be in the river,” I mused aloud, trying to turn the conversation away from myself.
Mr. Chisholm shrugged.
“It’s surprising what can end up in a river when it’s in spate,” he said. “I used to use the cane when I was a teacher.”
I stared at him.
“You actually beat boys with a cane like this one? Did they….did they writhe a lot?”
“Some of them did,” he replied. “Some could take it well and didn’t move much. Others yelped a bit; and some took it in silence.”
“Wow! Did they get it on their bare bottom?” I asked.
He shook his head and said, “No. Always on their shorts or trousers. It still hurt plenty though.”
“Yeh. I wonder what it feels like,” I mused aloud as I arched the rod and then whipped it through the air. “Boy! I bet that would sting!”
“It certainly would,” Chisholm confirmed.
“I suppose I’m lucky I’ve got to eighteen and never been caned,” I admitted. “There wasn’t any cane when I was at school.”
“What are you planning to do with it?” he enquired.
“Just keep it. It’s a kind of interesting thing. A bit of history. When I saw it, I thought it’d be a curious thing to have, so I got it out of the water.”
“Taken at the flood, eh Paul? Well, I’m a believer in taking chances in life when they offer. Anyway, I’m going to continue with my walk. See and don’t fall in.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful,” I assured him.
As he made off down the river-path, I got out my camera and took several photographs of the turbulent waters; and then I picked up the cane and headed home. When I reached the houses on the edge of town, I felt a bit self-conscious about carrying the cane and so I slid it down inside the leg of my jeans, the handle hooked over my belt but hidden by my anorak. It made walking a little awkward and slowed me down a lot, but it avoided possibly embarrassing encounters with people who knew me. I didn’t want more curious questions.
Back home, I took the cane to my room and wondered about how many boys’ bottoms it had been used to beat; and inevitably I also found myself wondering again just what it felt like to have a cane used on you. I lay on my bed and gazed at it as I fantasised about being thrashed; and brought myself to a thunderous climax. After that, I placed it on top of a line of books on a shelf opposite my bed where I could see it as I played with myself.
It was about three weeks later that I was cycling along the road near my home. It had been raining and the surface was slippery. I mounted the pavement to avoid the traffic-lights at the junction and as I swung round the corner I veered wildly off course and through a gateway, and then ploughed my way to a halt in a bed of chrysanthemums. It was old Chisholm’s house and it was his flowers which I had seriously damaged as I careered to an ignominious halt. I stumbled out of the flower-bed, propped my bike against the house-wall and rang the door-bell.
“Paul! What on earth happened to you?” he exclaimed, seeing my dishevelled and muddy appearance.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Chisholm. I lost control of my bike and came straight through your gates and then across your flower-bed before I could stop. I’m afraid I’ve made rather a mess of it, but I’ll try to put it right. I’m really sorry.”
“You’d better come in and get yourself cleaned up,” he said. “You’re covered in mud.”
“Thanks,” I said as he ushered me into the bathroom and left me to tidy myself up.
When I emerged I found him drinking coffee at the kitchen-table. He offered me a mug which I gladly accepted.
“I had a look at the damage,” he said, “but I don’t understand how you came into my garden.”
I felt myself turning a little red in the face.
“Er, well, I think you’ve maybe guessed already that if I’d been on the road I wouldn’t have ended up in your garden.”
He raised one eyebrow.
“I was riding on the pavement to avoid the traffic-lights,” I confessed.
“Which is definitely not allowed,” observed Chisholm. “Is it, Paul?”
“No,” I conceded. “You won’t tell my dad, will you? He’d confiscate my bike for months. I may be at college, but I’ve got to stick to his rules as long as I’m living at home. I’ll tidy up your flower-bed and I’ll buy some new plants too.”
“The flower-bed can be put right easily enough and I’ve got plenty of chrysanthemums,” he said. “But riding on the pavement is dangerous and inconsiderate. There’s a corner after all; and you could have knocked someone down. I think you need to be taught a lesson so that you don’t behave so irresponsibly again. Your father does need to know about this, Paul.”
“Aw, please, Mr. Chisholm! Suppose I come in for the next three Saturdays and work in your garden for you?” I pleaded.
He took a slow drink from his coffee-mug, laid it down and looked me in the eyes.
“Have you still got that cane that you fished out of the river a few weeks back?”
“Er, yes. It’s lying on top of a bookshelf in my room. Why?”
“Maybe it’s time it was put back to use,” he said, watching me closely.
“Back to use? You mean as a cane? For beating someone? Me?”
He nodded slowly.
“You’re offering to cane me to punish me for riding on the pavement?” I asked, struggling to be absolutely clear.
“That’s right. Then the matter would be dealt with and I wouldn’t need to inform your father.”
I took a long swallow of my coffee.
“Would you do it now,” I asked, “if I go and fetch the cane?”
“If you’re sure that’s what you want, Paul.”
“Well, I’m not sure that I want it; but if I don’t want my dad to know, I guess it’s what I’m gonna get.”
“You understand that I’ll cane you properly, don’t you? You’ll feel it.”
“Yes, I know. There wouldn’t be much point if I didn’t.”
“Right. Off you go and bring the cane back here.”
I gulped down the last of my coffee and trotted up the road to my own home. With the cane once again hidden down the leg of my jeans, I returned more slowly to Chisholm’s house. He took the cane from me, bent it into a smooth arc and told me I would be getting six of the best. He then conducted me into a small study.
“Jeans and pants down, Paul,” he instructed brusquely.
“You…you’re going to cane my bare bottom?” I asked nervously.
“I want you to feel it.”
“I think I’d feel it through my jeans,” I said.
“You would; but not enough. Get them down, Paul. Now!”
Obediently I bared my behind, dropping jeans and pants to my ankles and keeping my back to him. I was semi-aroused and didn’t want him to see. He ordered me to bend over the leather-topped desk, grasping the far edge with both hands, and spreading my legs wide. I felt decidedly vulnerable, but my cock was still hardening. I flinched as he did a vicious practice-swing just behind me and the cane whistled through the air. A few seconds later I was aware of its cool length lying lightly across the centre of my buttocks. I tensed anxiously.
There was an expectant pause and then I’d barely registered the sound of the rod descending fast towards my rump when it landed with a fierce lash of fire which felt as if it was scything its way deep into my flesh. I drew in breath sharply and clenched my gluteal-muscles as I struggled with the sting. I’d expected it to hurt, but not as much as this. He was rapping the cane gently on my skin again, a little lower down, and I took a tighter grip of the edge of the desk as I readied myself. I heard the whine and then felt the lightning-streak of pain as the cane etched a second blazing welt across my seat. I squirmed as I fought the burn in my flesh, and blinked as I became aware of tears forming in my eyes.
He wielded the cane a third time and it felt as if it landed right on top of the previous stroke. I squealed and writhed as a searing blast blazed a fiery furrow across my bottom.
“Are you feeling it, Paul?” enquired Chisholm.
“What do you think?” I retorted sarcastically.
The cane whipped viciously hard across my crease and I leapt upright, scrubbing desperately at the savaged flesh.
“That was for being insolent,” observed Chisholm. “Get back in position for number four.”
“But you’ve given me four,” I pleaded as I bent over again.
“I told you. That last one was a penalty-stroke for your insolence. It doesn’t count towards the six. Would you like to argue about it, Paul?” he enquired softly.
I got the message.
“No, sir,” I replied submissively.
“Good; and to return to my original question, are you feeling it, Paul?”
“You do understand that you’re going to feel it a lot more, don’t you?”
He drove the cane in hard a couple of centimetres above the penalty-stroke and forced a yelp of agony from me as I twisted from the waist. Pain throbbed insistently in my behind and I failed to quite still the quiver in my gluteal-muscles. I struggled to tense myself in readiness for the next cut, but he was there before me and I uttered a desperate squeal as that tender area where bottom merged into legs absorbed another fire-blast of infernal heat. Panting with the effort to process the pain, aware that tears were trickling down my face, and making a supreme effort to steady my shuddering body, I tried to concentrate on the fact that this was the final stroke coming up. He slashed the cane viciously through the air so close to my behind that I felt as well as heard the sound of its passage. I flinched hard with fright.
Inside me, resolve hardened. Yes, it was a lot worse than I’d expected; but I’d taken all he’d given me and he wasn’t going to break me completely. Suddenly it seemed vital that I show that it wasn’t all a matter of something being done to me. I took a deep breath and purposefully pushed out my buttocks, inviting the last stroke. Chisholm accepted the invitation and as the cane sliced across several of the earlier welts, powerfully driven into my bottom at an angle, I closed my teeth on the desk’s edge and writhed in silent torment for several seconds until the raging inferno in my rump abated.
For a time there was silence and then Chisholm ruffled my hair.
“Well taken,” he remarked.
“Thank you,” I responded politely.
“Stand up, Paul.”
I did so slowly and faced him, scrubbing carefully at my buttocks. Determinedly, my penis began to harden again and to rise.
“What have you learned, Paul?”
“Not to ride on the pavement to avoid the traffic-lights.”
“And what will happen if I catch you doing that again?”
“You’ll cane me again?” I suggested, observing that my penis had passed the horizontal and was rising with increasing rapidity.
“And how do you think I will cane you, Paul?”
“Exactly. Do you think you can remember that?”
“Good. Get your clothes back on.”
I hauled up my pants and jeans, wincing as the fabric rubbed my tender flesh, and then stood and waited. He handed me back my cane and sent me home. Walking slowly with the cane down the leg of my denims was no problem this time. I was walking slowly anyway to minimise the friction between my pants and my skin.
Back in my own room, I stripped, lay on my bed, and brought myself to the most earth-shattering climax I’d ever experienced. So intense was the orgasmic delight that for a few seconds the whole room whirled round and round and I thought that I was going to lose consciousness.
Over the next fortnight, I observed Chisholm’s movements with care. He was a man of habit and I came to know that he left his house to walk down for his morning-newspaper at 8.20 each day. The walk took seven minutes. He spent on average a couple of minutes in the shop and before 8.30 he was on his way back, usually reaching the corner with the traffic-lights at 8.34. I could have set my watch by him.
It was a Saturday and I mounted my bicycle at 8.33 and pedalled fast towards the junction. As I approached it, I swerved across and on to the pavement, whizzing round the corner and leaving the vehicles on the road stopped at the lights. I came face-to face with Chisholm as he walked smartly home with his paper. I screeched to a halt. Chisholm looked at me for several seconds.
“You know what this means, don’t you, Paul?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, looking at my feet.
“Go and get the cane and come to my house in half an hour’s time.”
“But,” said Dave, an expression of bafflement on his face, “why the hell did you ride your bike on the pavement at the very time you knew Chisholm would probably be there? You’d think you wanted to be………….”
He stopped and stared hard at me.
“You did, didn’t you?” he accused. “You fucking well wanted him to cane you again!”
“I dunno. It hurts like hell, but it’s exciting; and when I get my rocks off afterwards, it’s out of this world. Honest, I never felt anything like it.”
“You’ll be going back for more?” enquired Dave.
“Yeh. I realised I’d got a great chance and you gotta take things at the flood. I’m not letting this chance slip away.”
“More carefully-timed bike rides on the pavement?”
“Er, no. We had a talk and agreed that to keep doing that was dangerous; so I’ve to go to him every Saturday morning for a maintenance-caning. Just to remind me to be a well-behaved and hard-working boy.”
“Shit! You’re weird; but you’re hell of a cute,” said Dave. “So how many welts have you actually got on that sexy arse of yours? Six?”
“Well, he actually gave me eight this time,” I admitted.
“When?” asked Dave.
“Bloody hell! You must still be sore.”
“A bit tender,” I confessed, “but if a really sexy, spunky hunk was to lick the welts for me, I’m sure they’d soon feel much better.”
Dave’s eyes widened.
“You’re on,” he said eagerly. “I’ve always kinda liked the look of you and wondered if I could maybe get into your pants; but I never thought it would be this way.”
We finished our coffee and headed off towards Dave’s place, because he said his flatmate was away for the weekend. In his room we both stripped, and he caressed and kissed and licked my cane-welts until we were both so aroused that we couldn’t hold back any longer. Suddenly Dave took charge, slapped my bottom hard and told me to lie flat on my face, legs apart. I obeyed at once and he lay upon me, his breath hot and exciting on my neck, and took me hard and fast.
“Wow!” he panted as he lay, breathing hard, on my back, his nose nuzzling my ear, “that was awesome. You’re awesome.”
“So are you. You wanna do that to me every Saturday after I’ve had my caning from Chisholm?”
“Oh, yeh! Try and stop me,” he replied.
We rolled round to face each other and he worked expertly with his hands to bring me off before we lay and kissed intimately for a long time. In one of the interludes between bouts of kissing, Dave said, “Funny how chance works. If you hadn’t found that cane in the river and then skidded into old Chisholm’s garden and messed up his flower-bed, you’d never have got caned and discovered you wanted more; and then you wouldn’t have engineered that beating this morning and I’d never have seen the welts in the changing-room and we might never have got together.”
Dave looked at me for several seconds.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” he demanded.
I hesitated and he jumped in before I could reply.
“You deliberately messed up Chisholm’s garden, didn’t you?” he accused.
I grinned sheepishly and, “Yeh, I’m afraid I did,” I admitted. “So your theory about chance kinda falls down.”
“True; but it was still sheer chance finding a cane floating down on the flood-water.”
I didn’t say anything.
I kissed him but he pushed me away and grabbed a handful of my hair, twisting my head to make me look him straight in the eyes. I looked back steadily and silently. With his other hand he grabbed my balls and squeezed firmly. I gasped. He raised his eyebrows and I was aware that the pressure of his hand on my testicles was slowly but steadily increasing.
“Okay. That wasn’t chance either. Please, let go of my balls!”
He released me and I caressed myself.
“That fucking hurt,” I said resentfully.
“So? Tell me!”
“I’d wanted to get a caning for ages. Don’t ask me why. I just did. I saw this cane in a little junk-shop in a back street a few weeks ago and bought it. I knew old Chisholm had been a teacher because when he moved in, I heard a friend of my dad’s saying that he’d actually taught him twenty years ago; and he said he’d caned him too, for playing truant one day. I thought maybe Chisholm might be my best chance of getting myself caned, but I had to make sure he knew I’d got a cane and had a certain interest in it; and then I had to create a situation where he had a chance to offer to cane me.
“He’s a guy of habit. He walks along the river at 1.30 every afternoon, as long as it’s not very bad weather. I waited until I saw him coming and then dropped the cane into a little pool where the river has gouged out a tiny bay in the bank. I was a bit economical with the truth when I was telling you about that part earlier,” I admitted. “I was pretty sure it would just whirl round and round there, because I’d tried with a stick a couple of times; but I attached a strong thread to it too, just in case. Then I let Chisholm see me pulling it from the water; and I’ve told you the rest.”
“You’re quite something when it comes to engineering what you want,” said Dave as he gazed admiringly at me. “I’m glad I noticed that cane-welt and we got together.”
“Yeh,” I admitted with a smile, “that was the hardest part of all. I had a hell of a job trying to get into positions where you’d notice.”
Dave stared at me for several seconds with uncomprehending eyes and then he burst out laughing.
“You cheeky, manipulative bugger! I’ll…..I’ll….”
“What? Spank me?”
“Now there’s an idea,” he said softly; and before I could do anything about it, he had turned me over his lap, bare bottom exposed to his hand.
“Hey! Not now! I’m still sore after this morning’s caning!” I protested.
“But you need it now and I wanna do it now,” he retorted. “Like you said yourself: you gotta take things at the flood.”
There and then, he spanked me hard. It was fantastic!