♥ 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
♥ Site recommended story ♥
Sexually explicit spanking fiction by author Rod Cayenne – strictly over 18s only!
______________
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.
_______________
Performances of Scriabin’s “Le Poème de l’extase” have always been extremely rare. Madeleine listened enraptured to the solo trumpeter. He had a gorgeous tone and immaculate timing, obviously helped by a good ear. He was a natural. She admired the way his long fingers danced on the valves of the instrument and imagined those same fingers playing on her breasts. She admired his lean, athletic figure and his smart attire. The brass buttons of his navy blazer caught the spotlight and seemed to twinkle at her. She had to have him!
As an old hand at such concerts, Madeleine was able to hustle herself backstage after the trumpeter’s performance. As soloist, his services for the main piece (a sugary Mozart symphony) were not required. She found him and collared him immediately, thrusting a tired business card into his clammy hand.
“I’m an industry specialist, career coach and teacher of music theory. I can make your career really take off. You have the potential to be a classical superstar!” she flattered.
“Really? It’s just a hobby. I don’t practice enough…”
“I can see that, Alan. That’s why I need to take you under my wing. You’ll be happy and fulfilled. I promise. How old are you, by the way?”
“Just eighteen,” the young man smiled at her. At last, someone who cared! He stared at her prominent cleavage and sighed, “Alright, what do I have to do?”
That very night they made love in her plush apartment. Sexually demanding, she wore him out. Fortunately, the following day was a Sunday. As they devoured croissants and conserve, she outlined her plans for him. His office job was soon to be history. Practice was to replace it. He realised that he would have little income of his own. He was very much her plaything, protégé and prisoner. He had moved in for better or worse, and was her lover.
Gradually, she began to tire of his teenage laziness. She demanded more and more; more than he wanted to deliver. She cursed him and sometimes belittled his achievements. She was letting her sadistic side rule, and became increasingly intolerant of his musical shortcomings, as she perceived them to be.
“I don’t think you’re trying hard enough!” she declaimed one day. “Stronger encouragement is needed, I feel. Look at this! My father’s old cane. It stings like mad, I’m afraid.”
Alan’s jaw dropped in disbelief. Surely she couldn’t mean to? But yes, she did. All too soon he found himself bent over her generously upholstered and richly lacquered piano stool, with his manly and bared buttocks offered for punishment. That first time it was six brisk, stinging strokes administered with ill-disguised glee by his sometime lover.
That first caning was unforgettable. He found it difficult to comprehend. That night they made love again, and her hands repeatedly gripped and squeezed his bruised and sore rump flesh. Soon, the canings became as routine as the practice sessions. She beat him soundly every time, and he began to love and crave this new and bizarre form of attention. Being still young and naive, he didn’t see any drawbacks or dangers in his newly acquired masochism. Indeed, the thought that things could escalate or spiral out of control didn’t occur to him at all.
After a particularly brutal 24-stroke caning one rainy Wednesday, he gasped when she produced a fiendish-looking purple strap-on cock.
“No way!” he shouted.
“Nonsense, Alan. You will learn to take it and thank me for it. This will become part of your training and practice regime. It punishes the inside of your bottom, just like the cane punishes the outside.”
“This is too much, Madeleine!”
“Nonsense, my boy! Surely you’ve had a penis up there?”
“Certainly not! I’m straight. Can we change the subject please?”
“No, I don’t think so. Now, you do realise that the human back passage is designed to accommodate a penis in comfort?”
“What?”
“Yes, perfectly natural!”
“I don’t think so, thank you very much! I bet you’ve never had a cock up your arse!”
“Language, Alan! Actually, I have and I found it most enjoyable. Let’s go to bed, shall we?”
Reluctantly, he did as he was told. She rode him roughly and enthusiastically. The purple phallus thrust in and out of his tight virgin hole. After the initial pain and terror, he found it quite stimulating. It was a long, hard fuck. Over the following weeks and months he grew to love anal activity as much as the bite and sting of the rattan cane.
A while later, Alan ran off with a male percussionist from the city’s leading orchestra. A rather bitter and incredulous Madeleine was left as alone as she had been before she’d met her teenage lover. Her only comfort in life seemed to be the purple plastic cock, which she used to service herself, front and rear.
____________)
Story © MMXIV by Rod Cayenne
All rights reserved.
_______________
Comments welcome
Comments are here
Erotic fiction by your host, Rod Cayenne
I like to think of my cock as a heat-seeking missile as I lock on to a target of a moist, inviting vagina or somewhere even tighter. Ready to explode but holding back, for our mutual pleasure.
I guess the cane is somewhat similar. It seeks out a warm bottom to hit and set alight. Of course, it can attack the same target time after time. It needn’t be limited to the traditional six of the best, either. For a true caning enthusiast, there is joy in repetition. A sustained campaign of pain will bring special rewards. Both participants can enjoy this, and swap roles if desired. When punishment is due, a female playmate may wish to acquire a strap-on missile of her own to launch deep-penetrating revenge attacks of a specialised nature.
I’d like to write more, but just now my presence is required at the rocket range in our bedroom. Happy war games, everyone!
_________________)
Posted by Rod Cayenne, © 2012
Comments welcome
Erotic fiction by Rod Cayenne
“He really whipped you hard this time, didn’t he?” she remarked as she ran her fingers over the fresh ridges on my bottom. “I’m glad, because you deserved it!” Then she slapped me.
Oh yes! This was my wife indeed. Despite our happy marriage, her distaste for thrashing me had increased lately. In frustration, she agreed that I could satisfy my urges elsewhere. I think she had a female in mind when she mentioned the idea to me. I immediately knew it would be hard to secure the services of a female, other than a professional at a large fee. No, it dawned on me that I could get what I needed from a male, for free, for certain.
The internet has confirmed what I had long suspected. All men are perverts! And the sort of pervert who would be happy to cane my bottom would be easy to track down. An older man would be an easy find, I figured. In the event, I bumped into my old art teacher, Mr Morden. He was a strict man when I was at school, famous for his taste in cravats and canes!
It wasn’t hard to manipulate our conversation to old punishments, and modern pleasures! He still had a cane, but it hadn’t had any use since his retirement. He hadn’t lost his touch, as we both discovered in our first, tentative session. Subsequent occasions had been more satisfactory, with me baring my bottom for the stick. It became a regular fortnightly meeting. Usually it was a Friday evening, which let my bottom recover before the ravages of a Monday morning at the office.
Fortunately, Mr Morden wasn’t interested in any sexual activity (although I suspect he usually relieved himself soon after I departed). This meant I could hotfoot it back to the loving arms of my wife and give her the satisfaction of feeling my ridged and hot bottom as soon as I got home. On a good day, we’d shag like mad. On a bad day, she would make me bend over for a session with her strap-on cock! Boy, that could be a rough ride after a good caning! Ouch! I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that beastly thing…
We renewed our vows in church recently. It seemed only natural to invite Mr Morden to the ceremony. He looked very smart in a pale cream suit and paisley cravat. I’m sure that he winked at me as I walked by with my wife on my arm.
___________)
story © 2012 by Rod Cayenne
Erotic fiction by Rod Cayenne.
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.
_________________)
Story © Rod Cayenne, 2011
Erotic fiction by Rod Cayenne.
“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.
_________________)
Content ©2011, Rod Cayenne
Comments welcome
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Erotic fiction by Rod Cayenne.
“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…”
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Story and photo © Rod Cayenne, 2011
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