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Posted by Rod Cayenne on January 24, 2023
Posted in: cane, caning, M/M, spank, spanking. Tagged: cane, caning, discipline, father, headmaster, humiliation, M/M, punishment, teen, teenager. 5 Comments
A repeat of this hot spanking fiction by your host, Rod Cayenne. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!
"Hello Tim, how much studying have you done tonight?"
"Not so much, Dad. Hardly any. Well, next to none."
"You mean precisely none?"
"Yes, none, sorry Dad."
"And just remind me how much studying you did over the weekend, please."
"Err, sorry Dad, that was none too."
"And just remind me how long it is until your A Level exams."
"A term, or so, Dad. I'm sorry, it's not my fault. It's this new video game. It's so absorbing. You play as this really cool character…"
"I don't want to hear about it! Of course it's your fault that you've done no studying! It's not my fault is it? It's not that new game's fault either. It's time you faced up to your own failings and lack of self-discipline. Now, I told you there would be serious consequences if you didn't buck your ideas up, didn't I?"
"Yes, Dad. But please. One more chance please. Please don't take my console away!"
"That's not what I had in mind, son."
"Oh thanks, Dad. Now can I get on please?"
"No, and don't be so cocky! Turn it off. Right now! I want your undivided attention for a minute. I've got an appointment with your headmaster, Mr Crudge, first thing in the morning. I'm not happy about having to discuss your laziness with him. Not one bit. I'm a busy man and I will be late in for work. Fortunately my boss was very understanding when I told him what I was going to do. In fact a lot of it was his idea."
Tim wasn't scared of 'Thrasher' Crudge. The old man had lost his edge ever since corporal punishment had been banned, or maybe even a bit before. He could give a mean tongue-lashing, but now there was no bite to back it up.
The following day, Tim's father was ushered in to see Mr. Crudge. The old headmaster sat listening intently as the boy's failings were recounted. It wasn't an entirely new story. There seemed to be a malaise of laziness spreading throughout the nation's youth, and by now it had even infected the offspring of the burghers and citizens of the small market town. The older man spoke, "I hope you don't mind, but I feel compelled to speak frankly. I'm inclined to think a lot of this is your own fault, as the boy's father. Did you or did you not buy him this video game console thing?"
"Well yes, I did headmaster, he was most insistent."
"Hmm, I bet he was."
"It's not that simple though. The kids of today, a lot of them have much more money than you and I did as lads. He is 18 and he'd have bought himself one if I hadn't."
"Yes, I suppose that's true. But you must have agreed to him having a television set in his bedroom in the first place."
"Yes, I did."
"Most unwise, if I may say so, most unwise. Now, how can I help? Have you decided to take away the TV and games console?"
"No, I can't bring myself to do that. That would be cruel. What I was wondering was. I was thinking, perhaps…"
"Come on man, spit it out!"
"Well I was talking to my boss down the factory. In the office."
"Indeed?"
"Well, he was saying that it's not that long since corporal punishment was abolished. He'd heard that some headmasters did home visits to get around the new rules."
"What? What? Am I understanding you correctly? Home visits to carry out punishments that a father could and should do himself? The very idea!"
"Oh, I see. You're not one of those select few then?"
"A self-selecting few I should imagine! No, no, no!"
"I just thought a short, sharp shock, like I used to get in this very office, would be much kinder in the long run than taking Tim's stuff away."
"Wait! You were thrashed here? By my predecessor I take it, Mr. Bloom?"
"Yes, Basher Bloom we used to call him."
"Yes, I'd heard. Most disrespectful, if I may say so. Anyway, we're drifting. You could give your lad a slippering, you know. A good hot dozen or so. Or 18 to match his age. Yes, that's what I'd recommend, off the record, of course."
"Of course. I could, headmaster, that's very true. But you and I both know that the cane is in another league, don't we? I think I've left it a bit late for a tap or two with the slipper. I was thinking of an old-fashioned six of the best with the cane. Like I used to get from old Mr Bloom. Yes, six of the very best from an experienced disciplinarian. Something that will make a real impression. So, I'm afraid that I hardly qualify."
"Well, yes, you're right. The cane is not that easy to master. There is a certain technique to it. You'd find it difficult to start with, it's true. It's a dying skill, of course. Sadly. I'm not convinced that abolition represents progress. Anyway, it just so happens that I do still have some canes here. I couldn't bring myself to throw them away. Would you like to see them?"
"Err, yes please. I've never seen one close up. Though I certainly remember the sting!"
"Yes, I'm sure. Not easily forgotten, eh? Now, take a look at these fine specimens," said the headmaster as he produced four dusty canes from out of nowhere.
Tim's father surveyed the canes before him, "Actually, they look a bit old to me. And lifeless. Are you sure they'd still be up any good? Are they up to the job?"
"Most definitely I'm sure! Is that a challenge? All right, you're on! Your lad's going to confirm that they're up to it!"
The conspiracy was on! A date was fixed. A time was fixed. Teenager Tim was transfixed. He uttered that most stupid of questions, "Is that a cane?"
Crudge smiled at him, "Yes it's a cane, my lad. I like to think of it as my very own Afterburner. Or a kind of Beat 'Em Up!"
Tim groaned inwardly at the headmaster's puns, but couldn't take his eyes off the rattan cane. He'd never, ever seen one before. It looked old and wicked, just like the headmaster. He gazed at the crook-handled cane in the old mans hand. His eyes misted over.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" said Crudge as he flexed the cane menacingly, "Too much playing and not enough working. Disgraceful! Now, the Boss will take you to the next level. Bend over this chair for me."
So it was that Tim obeyed 'Thrasher' Crudge. The atmosphere was electric as the lad bent over the dining chair. The old man wasted no time, whipping down a first stroke that caught the teen by surprise. A second stroke followed, causing Tim to yelp with pain and alarm. A third stroke landed with a resounding thwack. By now a wildfire seemed to be burning beneath Tim's trousers and underpants. "No more, please! Dad! Help!" the teenager cried out, losing all dignity, and started to rise from the chair.
"Get back down! Right now! Don't you dare move again," chided the headmaster.
"Sorry son, this is long overdue. Now, do as Mr Crudge says and take your medicine like a man!" Father chipped in.
Crudge resolved to get the thrashing over quickly to avoid further outbursts. He hadn't told the lad that it would be six strokes, but he lashed the final three down rapidly. Tim could bear it no more, standing up and shouting, "Bloody Hell!"
The headmaster frowned, and used his cane to point at the teenager, saying, "Well, that's a surprise! I do believe you've earned a bonus round. I told you to stay down, and you disobeyed me, didn't you? And swearing as well. Tut, tut. Two strokes extra!"
By now Tim's father was wondering if he'd made a mistake in inviting the headmaster over. Eight strokes was a bit excessive, he began to think. As his son bent over, father could only imagine the pain he must be in. His mind flashed back to canings he'd received all those years ago. The pain, the weals, the ridges, the bruising, the teasing of his classmates and the shame. And yes, the tears.
Father was brought back to the present with a loud awakening. It was the crack of the seventh stroke of the cane, which caused his son to yell out furiously. Savouring the moment, Crudge lined the whippy old cane up for a final excruciating stroke. It had been a long time, he thought. Too long. Landing the stroke right on target, it cracked loudly against the lad's fleshy arse. Tim gasped and sobbed but at last it was over. He was instructed to rise, and then to his surprise and that of his father, he shook Mr Crudge's hand firmly, as if he was sincerely grateful for the lesson imparted.
It was to be the first, but not last time that Mr Crudge was invited over to discipline Tim. And in the end, the old headmaster got a taste for making such home visits. Tim's father was given a substantial pay rise by his boss. And Tim? Well, he got in to a very good University, quite easily.
All characters appearing in this story are over 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Story © MMXVII by Rod Cayenne
Please join in the fun by adding a comment. Comments are here.
Comments from the original 2017 posting are here.
Posted in: cane, caning, M/M, spank, spanking. Tagged: cane, caning, discipline, grandfather, M/M, masturbation, naked, orgasm, punishment, teen, teenager. 14 Comments
A brand new caning story by your host, Rod Cayenne. All the characters are age 18 or older. This story is currently exclusive to The Canery and is only suitable for adults!
A Dirty Look by Rod Cayenne
Bright sunshine was streaming through the window as Jon settled down, penis in hand. As wanks go, this turned into a particularly satisfying one. Rhythmically, his hand slid up and down the girthy shaft of his stiff member, keeping him just on the edge of orgasm. But it was not to be. There was a frantic rapping on the glass of the window, as to Jon's dismay he could see his grandfather peering in. There was no mistaking the old man's anger and astonishment. Somehow the net curtain had not been fully closed, leaving Jon's obscene display open for the whole world to see. As the tiny terraced house was located on the busy Junction Road, anyone could have looked in. Unfortunately for Jon, the Peeping Tom on this occasion was George, his paternal grandad.
"What the hell do you think you're doing young Jonathan?" shouted grandfather, as Jon let him in the door which opened straight into the living room. The old man's face was red with rage. "I'm going to have to report this to your father! Even though that will embarrass me further."
"I'm sorry Grandad. Really sorry. Don't tell Dad, please! He wouldn't understand, for one thing. And he's got a lot on his plate, at the moment."
"I can assure you that he would understand. You know, I caught him playing with himself a few times."
"Really? Really? Haha. Well, that's alright then. Runs in the family. Must be in my genes!"
"It's not alright! Let me tell you something."
"I bought a cane and beat him black and blue. It was the only way to get him to curb his disgusting habit. Broke my heart, but I had to do it. Mind you, he wasn't nineteen like you, he was courting your mother by your age."
"So, exactly how old was he then?" Jon asked peevishly.
"I don't like your tone, young man. But I think he was just eighteen." Grandad lit up a cigarette, which seemed to calm him a little.
"Anyway, I think you'd better come with me!"
"Why? I mean, what for?"
"Well, I still have that cane, and right now I can think of a very good use for it."
"But Grandad!"
"Don't start! Come along now, Jon."
There was absolutely no point in arguing, as Jon certainly didn't want his father finding out about his indiscretion. They set off down Junction Road, then into Church Street and were soon at Grandad's shabby bungalow. The place was untidy and had a musty cigarette smell and yellowed net curtains. Well, yellowed almost everything, really. And, at the risk of sounding sexist, a woman's touch was evidently missing in action.
"Sit down, while you still can," Grandad barked at Jon. The lad pushed some military magazines aside and sat on the sofa. "I'll just go and find my cane. I think I know where it is, but of course it hasn't been used for many a year."
Jon hoped his Grandad wouldn't be able to find it. His hopes rose steadly as the minutes ticked by and he could hear cursing as the search failed to bear fruit. Eventually Grandad appeared empty-handed. "I'm sorry, Jon, my boy. I can't find the damned cane at the moment. It might be in the loft, I suppose. You'll have to come back tomorrow."
"Oh. Perhaps we'd better forget the whole thing, Grandad."
"Ha! Nice try, Jon, but I really don't think so. It worked for your father and I know it will work with you. In fact, perhaps I'll discuss it with your father as there is time to do that now."
"No, No! Please don't do that. I'd rather he didn't know. OK, I'll come back tomorrow for a caning."
Grandad's ruse had worked, and he'd got the lad just where he wanted him – squirming and obedient. "Very good, we'll say 2.30 tomorrow and don't be late!"
"OK then Grandad, I'd better dash now. Bye!"
Jon hurried back to his digs. He slammed the door and there in the front room, adjusted the net curtain so that prying eyes could not see inside. Not that he was planning to wank just then, but it was a precaution for the future. In fact, his mind was in turmoil about his caning to come, and masturbating was the very last thing on his mind.
As the day wore on though, Jon thought more and more about his promised caning. He decided to do some research, logging on and searching for information. He was trying to find out how bad a caning could be, and what he was likely to be in for. He soon found plenty of 'hits'! Much of the information was clearly pornographic, with both males and females being caned, sometimes severely. Bare bottom canings seemed prevalent, which was something he had not really considered, perhaps naively. But surely his grandfather wouldn't cane bare? The more he thought about it, his no-nonsense gandad probably would have caned that way. He became a little disturbed at the thought. Further contemplation gave Jon a more sexual perspective on his forthcoming beating – perhaps it would be a turn-on despite the pain? Yes, it could be exciting, he decided.
That night, he couldn't sleep. Despite an extended wank session, his mind was full of the cane. He was hot and he was bothered. The thought of a bare arse caning kept looming up in his thoughts. By the morning, he felt rough as he really hadn't had enough sleep. He brought himself off quickly before he went downstairs to fix breakfast.
Looking out of the window, he saw torrents of rain washing down the road. What a drag! He'd never known the weather be so changeable. It rained all day and he arrived at his grandfather's completely soaked through.
"You're late, Jon!" Grandad barked at him, "and soaked through."
"Yes, sorry, I was hoping the rain would ease off, but it didn't and it slowed me down."
"Well, think yourself lucky I haven't added extra strokes for tardiness."
Jon blushed, taking off his anorak which was dripping wet.
"You might as well take all your clothes off. I'll put them in the tumble drier for you."
"Thank you. But I'll be naked!"
"Well, I will be caning your bare backside, my lad. And I've already seen your manhood, haven't I?"
"Gosh, a bare backside caning?"
"Yes, that's what I said and, of course, it's the only way. Now, get those clothes off."
Silently, Jon stripped off every last stich of clothing, placing it all in a laundry basket that the old man had just brought in. Jon tried to cover himself with his hands, trying to hide his embarrassment and his less than flaccid penis. The excitement and shame were getting to him. How he wished this wasn't happening.
"You found the cane then, Grandad?"
"Yes, it was up in the loft. Here it is, look."
Jon didn't really want to look, but he did anyway. The cane looked old, with a crook handle and a golden brown colour. It looked fairly harmless, but just then his grandfather sliced it through the air with a scary slashing noise. Jon gulped. This was going to be no picnic.
"The cane was a bit dried out so I soaked it in the bath. It's nice and springy and whippy now, I'm pleased to say. Now, let's have you over here. Bend over the back of this chair. Stick your bottom out. That's it. A bit more. Good!"
"How many strokes, Grandad?"
"Well, six is traditional. I think you can cope with that. Make sure you stay down, though."
He slashed the first stroke down. Jon jerked slightly as first the impact and then the pain made themselves felt. He gasped with despair. This was going to be hard to take, he felt sure. He was right, for the second stroke was if anything harder. He shot up, clutching his arse cheeks.
"What are you doing, Jon? I told you to stay down. Now then, that stroke doesn't count. Let's do it again!"
"Well, I did warn you. Obedience is a very good idea when you are at the mercy of a man with a cane in his hand, you know."
Talk about stating the obvious! Jon just kept his head down as his grandfather whipped down the replacement second stroke and a third quickly after. Suddely the sun came out and bright sunshine flooded the room. It lit up Jon's naked arse, highlighting the target. Grandfather paused to admire his handiwork. Four bright red tramlines decorated the teenage arse before him. They looked good and sore, the old man told himself. He quickly slashed down the remaining three strokes, causing Jon to squeal and squirm under their lash. It was over, but Jon was gasping for air. He shot up, rubbing his punished rump and fighting back tears. He had never felt so humiliated.
"Good. Now, I'm not a cruel man but there will have to be a reminder session with this cane in exactly a week. To remind you to behave yourself. Unless you want the extra strokes now?"
"No, no, please Grandad! A week is OK. That's fine. Just don't tell Dad. Please." Jon soon wondered just why he had agreed to a second caning. At the time, it had just seemed the right thing to do, to assuage his own guilt and to keep the old man placated. Yes, it had seemed right, but now he was having doubts.
Grandfather told him to sit down on the sofa. Doing so hurt Jon's bottom significantly. He looked quite a sight, sat their in the nude. His hands flew to his lap to cover a burgeoning erection.
"Now then. Your clothes will take a few more minutes to dry. Let's have a fine single malt, shall we?" It was a strange offer, but one Jon was grateful to accept. Anything to take his mind off the throbbing, stinging pain in his rear. Grandpa appeared with two tumblers of fine Scottish island whisky. Jon held out his hand to take the glass, revealing the erection he'd been hiding. "I shouldn't worry about that. Sometimes happened to your father. You can sort yourself out when you get home."
"Thanks, Grandad." Jon was embarrassed again as he sipped at the scotch, which was indeed as fine a one as he'd been promised. It was damned strong though. Jon coughed. It was much stronger than anything he was used to. It burned his throat a little, just as the cane had burned his arse. It was a day of extreme experiences!
Jon also wondered why his grandfather was so forgiving of the erection stimulated or caused by the cane, but not the one when he had been caught masturbating. It was a puzzle, alright. "I'll just use the loo, if that's alright, Grandad?"
Grandad nodded and placed his tumbler down on the coffee table as he watched his grandson waddle off. Seven bright red lines decorated the lad's pert bottom as he disappeared off to the toilet. The teenager covered his front with his hands to hide his excitement.
Jon sat down on the black plastic loo seat. It hurt his cheeks to do so. He was concious of his rampant erection which had returned again. It only took a few pulls for spunk to burst out onto the pink toilet tissue he'd grabbed hurriedly. Flushing it away, he thought to himself that at least this time Grandpa hadn't caught him on the edge of ejaculation! It was a secret sin, but he couldn't understand why he'd got the erection in the first place. Surely he wasn't a masochist?
Back in the living room, Grandpa had returned with Jon's clothes which were nicely warmed after their spin in the tumble drier. Jon duly dressed in front of the lustful gaze of his grandfather. The warm briefs were some comfort to his punished bottom. Only the anorak was still a little damp.
"Same time next week, then."
"Another caning and another Scotch, Grandad?"
"Don't push your luck, you cheeky lad!" Grandfather landed a quick smack on the lad's arse as he left.
Walking home, the whisky had certainly lightened Jon's mood, although there was still an awful throbbing from the wheals left by the cane. What a day it had been! A day to remember, for sure. Back at his digs, he laid down on his single bed and wriggled his arse to stimulate a bit more pain from the cane stripes. An overwhelming desire to masturbate soon followed.
One week later, Jon appeared at his grandfather's right on time.
"Glad to see that you can be punctual, Jonathon. You can keep your clothes on this time, although I shall require your bottom to be bare for the cane."
Jon nodded and dropped his jeans and briefs down to his ankles and bent over the chair as expected. The wicked cane was soon set to work, slashing and burning the teenager's rump as before.
"That's your lot. Six of the very best. You took that really well. Much better than last week. I'm proud of you. Now, do you need the toilet again, my boy?"
"Err no, no thanks." Jon had decided that he would wank himself off at home this time. Although he did wonder whether Grandad had perhaps rumbled him last week, after all.
"I'll just get the whisky. How about we're really naughty and have a cigar too?" Grandad said.
Despite the rampant pain in his arse, Jon was beginning to feel really grown up as he shared a drink and a smoke with his grandfather. He wasn't sure his father would approve, but Jon and his grandfather were obviously on the same wavelength.
"Now, this might sound like a funny offer, but if you ever need a good thrashing in the future, for any reason at all, you know where to come. You just need to ask and I'll be happy to give you what you need."
"Err, seems unlikely but yes, thank you Grandad."
Six weeks later, Jon turned up unannounced at the bungalow. "Hi Grandad. I hope this isn't an awkward time. I feel awful. I'm sorry to have to tell you that I can't stop playing with myself. It's getting to be a real problem."
It wasn't a problem for Grandad. It would be a pleasure.
All characters and businesses appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Story © MMXXIII by Rod Cayenne
Authors appreciate feedback, so please comment on this story. Comments are here.
Posted by Rod Cayenne on January 6, 2023
Posted in: caning, M/M, spanking. Tagged: cane, caning, consensual, discipline, Friends, gay, M/M, masturbation, orgasm, punishment, spanking. 3 Comments
A repeat of this short story of corporal punishment fun by your host, Rod Cayenne. This story is currently exclusive to The Canery. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!
All Day Breakfast by Rod Cayenne
The Coronet Café and Milk Bar was opposite the faded Grand Theatre where Derek often performed, sometimes as a lead and at other times as an understudy. It was also directly below the tiny flat he rented from the cafe's proprietor, one June Prior. A scratchy and warped Merseybeat 45 played on the jukebox.
"You boys! I can guess just what you've been up to. Why Derek, your guest can hardly sit still." June wagged her finger at the young lovers, only semi-seriously. Fag ash from her roll-up narrowly avoided landing in the sink where she was scrubbing away the last remnants of a recalcitrant omelette. "Did you not get enough of the cane at school? Tut, tut what would your old headmasters say, if they only knew? You know, there should be a law against it. Yes, indeed my naughty boys! Anyways, there is a law against the other stuff I'm sure you get up to! Dirty, dirty boys!" Another clump of ash fell from the ciggy. "How did youse two meet anyway?"
"Actually we first met each other in the theatre toilets," Russell sniggered, "It's where all the big boys hang out."
"Ach! How I wish I hadn't asked," said June as she turned her attention to a prime cabbage she was preparing for the Sunday roasts, "The age of romance is certainly dead."
Russell burped loudly and Derek laughed.
"See! Dead! Disgusting! I ought to throw you both out, but you know you are my only two customers at the moment!"
"Two All-Day Breakfasts, please June," said Derek as he looked up from his stone cold sugary cappuccino.
Suddenly, June's mood improved. After all, cash was king at the Coronet! "With bread and butter?" she pushed her luck. The two lovers nodded eagerly, "Soft eggs?"
"Aha," said Rusell.
"Softie for me too please, love," said Derek in his campest tone as he drummed his fingers on the red and white chequers of the Formica table top.
June stared at the ceiling. "OK, just let me finish this," she said as she started daydreaming while slicing the cabbage. She was enjoying a flashback to that fateful day, only a few months back when she had stumbled across Derek and a different male lover in the flat. It was rent collection day, so she'd let herself in, only to find herself confronted by a most unusual spectacle in the dingy living room. Two naked youths, both sporting huge erections, one about to bend over the settee, and the other with a whippy crook-handled cane in his right hand. Yes, it had been quite a shock. She had mentioned it and the tin of Vaseline she'd seen to the vicar, but he'd reasssured that sort of thing was quite normal and could soon be legal. "After all, we are in the Swinging Sixties!" he had laughed. Those erections haunted her nights and her daydreams, for she was still a virgin most pure. Her tireless pursuit of money had left her life quite barren.
"I could spare some of this cabbage if you want some with your breakfasts," June offered.
"Err, no thanks, that is something I really did have enough of at school, thanks June," Derek replied.
"Me too, me too," added Russell.
Later that afternoon Derek and Russ were lying naked in each others arms. The old bed creaked as they kissed passionately.
"That June's quite a character, isn't she? Although that breakfast was pretty awful. It keeps repeating on me. It keeps repeating on me," said Russell.
"Oh do shut up! I get the joke. Think yourself lucky that you escaped the cabbage. But I am quite fond of June. She's such a sweetie. I ought to fuck her sometime," Derek mused.
"Nah, fuck me instead," Russ suggested.
"Nah indeed, I don't think so! You're due a caning, my boy."
"I am?"
"Yes, you are. After all, we've got to live up to the reputation June's given us."
"That bloody woman! What an old slapper!"
"The only slapping that will be going on is my hand on your arse. Then maybe a dozen strokes with my finest rattan for you. For being rude about June. She's actually quite chaste."
"Shit!"
"And that's a word I don't like hearing in my home. Some extras for that I think. Fetch the cane, my boy."
Russell dived under the bed. For it was there that Derek kept two swishy canes. A junior one which stung like the devil, and a senior one which raised wheals like nobody's business.
It was clear from Derek's instruction that he meant to use the senior one, "Now bring the stool in from the parlour."
Russell groaned. A caning over the old wooden chemistry lab stool was something that would really hurt. Clearly Derek meant business today. Russell, completely naked, draped himself over the stool.
"Bottom right up, that's it," Derek instructed before landing a meaty slap on the right buttock. He followed through, alternating firm smacks between the two pert and inviting cheeks. So many generous and livid red handprints soon decorated Russell's rear. Derek wasn't in the mood for wasting time though, and promptly landed the first cane stroke right across the middle of Russell's arse.
The second stroke was the killer though. Derek had lashed it down right on exactly the same spot as the first one. "Aargh!" cried Russell.
Derek laughed and remonstrated with him that it was a bit early in the thrashing to be crying out, "But then, you are a real Softie, aren't you? Mister Softee!" His cruel words added to Russell's humiliation. Then the cane thrashed down again, and again. The beating was harsh, remorseless and hardly playful. After twelve strokes, Russell was close to tears. Close, but not quite there.
"Stay where you are!" commanded Derek, "You're due extras for swearing. Two for 'bloody' and two more for that 'S Word' that I cannot abide! Let me swap canes. I think the bite of the junior is just what you need now."
Derek scrambled under the bed, to retrieve the second, thinner cane. If only Russell could have seen, for Derek was now presenting a most undignified spectacle. His own naked bottom, arsehole and rampant cock were on display as he groped around under the bed to find the second cane. He should have got Russell to do this, he thought to himself. "Got you!" he cried eventually, crawling back up with the lithe cane firmly in his grip.
Crack! The junior cane lashed into Russell's rump, relighting the pain from the previous dozen strokes. The lad whimpered gently as a second stinging stroke followed. At times like this, Derek could be a real bastard.
"There, that's for the first swear word. These next two will be harder; you know how I feel about that second word!" said Derek. Little did Russell know where this prudishness had come from, after all Derek had just used the F Word. In truth, that prude streak was from Derek's own painful upbringing as the son of a beastly clergyman.
So it was that the final two strokes were hard, stinging and masterful. Derek threw the cane down and jumped on the bed. Soon, Russell joined him. Derek flipped him over to inspect the damage. Indeed, the sixteen strokes had made quite a mess of Russ's rear. It was criss-crossed with angry red lines, and as Derek massaged gently, Russell could not help but wince as the pain was revived to some extent. Derek's cock was erect and primed.
"Make love to me," pleaded Russell.
"No, not now. Later perhaps," said Derek enigmatically. To be honest, Russell's caned arse was such a sight, that his lover was a bit turned off momentarily. Derek pulled on his blue jeans and a paisley shirt. "I'm just popping down to see June. Catch you later, naughty boy." He slapped Russell's arse as he departed.
Russell rolled on to his side to gently soothe the damage Derek had wrought. After a few minutes, the pain gradually subsided, to be replaced by a warm and calming glow of contentment. Soon, his penis had sprung to life. It was rock hard, and throbbing with life, like an independent spirit. Of course, Russell had to attend to it. Frantically, he pumped and pumped until he achieved a gratifying release.
Downstairs in the café, Derek was whispering in June's ear. "Sixteen hard strokes I gave him. Made quite a mess of his arse, I can tell you. That'll teach him to swear in my fuckin' flat!"
"My flat," June corrected him, wagging her finger. Little did Derek know that June had recently taken a trip uptown, like you do, and bought her own whippy cane. She had definite plans to use it on her tenant. After all, she shouldn't have to put up with swearing from him, now should she?
Story © MMXX by Rod Cayenne
Authors appreciate feedback, so your comments are most welcome. Comments are here.
Posted in: cane, caning, M/M, spank, spanking. Tagged: cane, caning, cop, discipline, M/M, police, punishment, teen, teenager. 5 Comments
A first repeat of this hot caning story by your host, Rod Cayenne. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!
It had been a long and tiresome day for heating and ventilation engineer Dave. Call after call, and hassle from the office. Now, as he drew up the works van on his gritty gravel drive, he knew he had to complete the paperwork for all the site visits, before he forgot all the details. How he hated filling in the multi-part carbon forms, ticking the boxes and recording comments. A decent firm would have issued him with a laptop, or a tablet computer, but, oh no, he had to scratch away at the forms on a vinyl clipboard using a company-branded ballpoint pen. All in that dreadful corporate green colour. And the mobile phone he had been issued was real turn-of-century stuff, well not quite, but definitely dumb rather than smart. Still, it was good to be home after a tiring day.
Up in his bedroom, Dave stared lovingly at the whipping cane stored in the wardrobe. Its lithe and slender form seemed to beckon him. The thin coating of varnish glistened in the remnants of the early April sunshine. Despite his love for the very latest technology, this relic from a bygone age was perhaps his favourite possession. He unhooked it carefully from the wardrobe's brass hanging rail. He flexed the whippy cane and scythed it through the air, landing it in a vicious blow on his bed. Dustclouds rose and fell in the shafts of spring sunshine. He'd done this many times before. It was frustrating, for what he really wanted to do was to use that cane in anger. Oh how he would love to beat Marcus, his drunken handful of a son, with it! But it was not to be, for quite simply, he couldn't face doing it.
Fortunately, he had a new neighbour. A mixed-race gay policeman named Vince. He was quite a picture and on this occasion had his full uniform on. He was happy to tell Dave, "Yes, I'll do that for you. I'd enjoy doing it. It would be a pleasure."
"Shocked? Well, you shouldn't be. So many of us police are into crime and punishment. We have a sadistic side which rarely gets exercised in a controlled manner. We get to be thuggish, but not disciplinarians. A beating for your boy Marcus sounds ideal. And even if it turns me on a little, I promise not to take advantage. He will be thrashed, but that's all. Promise. He's 18 isn't he?"
Dave nodded and Vince laughed, adding, "High time he had a good whipping then. Now, show me the cane!"
Dave climbed the stairs to his bedroom. With mixed emotions, he collected the cane. Back in the spacious lounge-diner, he handed his treasured posession to Vince, saying only, "Here it is."
"Oh yes! I say! It's a beauty, isn't it?"
"Yes, I've always thought so."
"The handle has a beautiful curve. Just perfect. Lovely. Obviously made by a true artisan. And it's never been used?"
"Well, that's a crying shame. Let's rectify that right now. Drop your trousers and pants for me!"
"Well, you can hardly expect me to use an untested cane on your boy, can you? That wouldn't be fair at all, now would it? No, we'll have to try it out on you first. Just to make sure everything's alright."
"Well, I don't know. I wasn't expecting this. And my pants, too?"
"Yes, pants too. Don't worry, I'll go easy on you."
"Really? Promise? Well, if you're sure it's really necessary?"
"Never been surer. Now, get that bottom bare. It's the only way."
"I suppose."
Feeling somewhat stupid but also rather excited, Dave bent over the back of a dining chair, as instructed by Vince. It didn't cross Dave's mind until much later that he had been tricked into taking a beating.
Vince raised the cane and slashed it down. It caught Dave right across the middle of the arse, causing a gasp and some involuntary fidgeting. A second stroke followed through, this time bringing a yelp and causing Dave to jump up, rubbing frantically at his scorched cheeks.
"Very poor, Dave. I'm sure even young Marcus wouldn't do that! Get back down and take your beating like a man. Right down and bottom up!"
"Sorry Vince."
"Don't call me Vince! Call me Sir! The man with the cane in his hand is always Sir, is that clear?"
"Yes Sir, sorry Sir!"
"Make sure you don't forget or it will be all the worse for you."
The authoritarian talk was beginning to turn Dave on. Something of a masochistic urge hidden inside had been awoken. The pain of the cane strokes was now turning into a pleasant, warm glow. He thrust his bottom out ready for the next stroke.
"We'll restart. From the beginning. Six hard strokes for you, my boy."
History repeated itself for the first two strokes, only this time Dave didn't dare stand up! Vince seemed to land those strokes right on top of the earlier ones. Somehow though, it was an exquisite agony that Dave felt. He felt he was in his natural place, subservient to a cruel master. Still, the third stroke was hard to take, hard to bear, hard not to cry out loudly about. And then a brace of cutting strokes caused Dave to squeal out with shock.
The final stroke crashed down, causing Dave to gasp at its intensity. But it wasn't over! Oh no, Vince had other plans!
"And one extra for luck, I should think," Vince announced before laying the hardest stroke yet into Dave's soft, fleshy bottom.
"Shit!" Dave cried out.
"No shit!" exclaimed Vince before chuckling loudly and throwing the cane down on the deep pile carpet. "Now stay where you are. Sir is going to inspect his handiwork."
Vince's hands explored every bit of Dave's arse. Not just the nasty weals the cane had left, but also the milky white surrounds which had escaped the rattan's stinging caress. The hands gently stimulated the anus, before moving on to play with Dave's thickening cock and meaty balls.
Suddenly Dave felt the wet slobbering of Vince's tongue in his left ear. It was disgusting, but it was a turn-on all the same. Soon they were kissing passionately and heading for Dave's bedroom. The wardrobe door was still open; the cane not returned. Dave rummaged in his bedside drawer for a condom and some lubricant. He was about to be taken by the copper, not to the station, but to the stars. It was a wild and prolonged fuck with the dark-skinned cop riding his white neighbour masterfully. Dave eventually fell asleep in his new lover's arms. After an hour or so Vince extracted himself from Dave's dozy embrace and slipped out of the house. Dave didn't wake, as he was exhausted from his caning and the lovemaking. He was truly beaten.
Young Marcus almost tripped over the school cane when he returned home.
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Comments from the 2017 post are here.
Posted by Rod Cayenne on December 13, 2022
Posted in: cane, caning, M/M, spank, spanking. Tagged: bare, boyfriend, cane, caning, erection, Joelstrap, M/M, Santa. 4 Comments
A festive new caning story by very special guest author JOELSTRAP. This story is exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are 18 or older. WARNING: ADULTS ONLY!
Santa Doesn't Make Mistakes by Joelstrap
"Come with me," said the blond hunk softly.
"But where are we……..?"
"Just come," he reiterated; and he took my hand firmly and led me forward.
The passage was almost dark, and so narrow that I had to walk behind him. The only illumination was from small lights set into the wall near the floor and at waist height. The blond guy, who appeared to be wearing only skin-tight shorts, was mostly in shadow, but I could appreciate his stature, a little under six feet, as well as the long, slim legs, narrow waist, broad shoulders and fully-rounded buttocks. We turned a corner into a blaze of light.
I came home from University with my boyfriend Jordan about the tenth of December and we met up with some former school-chums, who were studying in other places, and had also come home for the Christmas-holiday. It had been a riotous evening as we visited several pubs before buying take-away curries which we had planned to eat on a bench by the river. Heavy rain, however, put paid to this plan and instead we made our way to Kev's house, because he had a couple of rooms over the large garage which his well-off parents had made into a bedroom and sitting-room for his own use. A small toilet on the landing and a tiny kitchen in a corner meant that Kev could be independent when he chose; and have friends in without disturbing his parents or younger brothers in the main house. Six of us duly gathered there, shaking rain from our hair and casting coats in a pile in a corner. Kev did some re-heating of curries in a microwave and we sprawled contentedly on chairs or cushions on the floor, talking and arguing happily.
At one point, quite late in the evening, when we had all drunk quite a bit, Phil came over and sat on the floor between my feet. He was slim and lithe with jet-black, shortish hair and large eyes which seemed to pierce me to the soul. He tilted his head back so that it was resting on my genitals; which reacted instantaneously and powerfully.
"Wow! I didn't know you liked me so much," said Phil softly.
"I don't! I mean, of course I like you, but not like that."
"So why you sporting a boner to tie up a cruise-liner to?"
"I dunno! You putting your head in my crotch. Things just happen," I retorted.
"I like you a lot," said Phil, rubbing the back of his head against my throbbing organ and making me gasp as spasms of intense delight surged through me.
"Well, I'm with Jordan," I insisted, "so stop doing that, Phil."
"Don't you like it, Simon?"
"Of course I like it! But you shouldn't be doing it. Jordan will pulverise you."
"Jordan's too busy arguing with Kev about footie."
I glanced across the room to see that Phil was right.
"All the same, whether he notices or not, it's wrong. Now go away."
"Don't want to," declared Phil petulantly; and he rubbed his head hard against my balls and inner thighs.
Terrified that I was going to cum in my pants, I pushed him away. He slid forward on his bottom, turned round and sat looking up into my face.
"I'd love to kiss you, Simon," he declared, suddenly thrusting his tongue out from between parted lips and then withdrawing it.
My cock strained for more length and I had to shove a hand into my jeans to ease the pressure.
"And you want me to kiss you, don't you? Will you kiss me back? Tongues entwining like mating snakes?"
"Shut the fuck up, Phil!" I snapped.
I got up, gasping as my erection tried to burst free of my jeans, and crossed to the other side of the room to join Jordan and Kev. About half an hour later, Jordan told me he'd have to go as he needed to be up early next morning to go to work. The local authority had set up a spectacular Christmas-exhibition in part of the museum, to mark three hundred years since the establishment of the town, and Jordan had got a temporary job there, thanks to his dad knowing the young engineer who maintained the "Christmas Ride". This was a part of the exhibition where you sat in a chair and it moved forward slowly through a twisting route, while scenes and holograms brought the history of the winter-solstice, Yule and Christmas celebrations to vivid life. I said I'd come with him, but he insisted I stay until the others went home, as I had no need to be up early next day. We kissed goodnight at the door and I returned to join a political argument with Ron and Jack.
As we were leaving Kev's place to head home, Phil joined me. His house wasn't far from mine, so it was natural that we should walk home together. Once we were out of sight of the others, he took my hand. I tried to pull it away, but he held on tightly.
"Come on, Simon; I'm white hot for you," he pleaded. "I'm not asking to get into your pants – although I'd love to – just a few kisses. Yeh?"
"But I'm with Jordan and I can't…….."
Phil stopped and stood right in front of me, his dark eyes looking straight into mine, his lips parted, the tip of his tongue just visible between his even teeth. He moved a step forward so that our bodies touched and I could feel his massive arousal pressed against mine. I tried to pull away, but something seemed to hold me back. I was aware of his mouth moving steadily towards mine and, in spite of my decision not to do so, I found myself moving my head forward to meet him. The touching of lips was like an electric-shock which felt as though it streaked through me to the soles of my feet. When his mouth moved on mine, I made a half-hearted effort to resist; and then gave in. The kiss lasted a long time and when eventually we drew reluctantly apart, I gazed at him, speechless.
"Oh, fuck! I shouldn't have……."
"Didn't you like it, Simon?"
"Of course I fucking liked it!" I panted. "But you mustn't do……."
His mouth closed again on mine; and once more my resistance crumbled.
We eventually parted at my gate as he continued along the road to his own house; but by then we'd shared several more passionate kisses and his last words to me were, "I'd love to kiss that cute arse of yours, Simon; bare of course."
Before I could respond to this, he'd dropped my hand and sped off along the road.
I retired to my room, stripped naked and wanked myself off energetically, reliving Phil's kisses. Next morning I awoke to a hangover, vivid memories and a guilty conscience. I was furious with myself over what I'd allowed Phil to do; and I resolved to keep well clear of him and to be especially attentive to Jordan.
I tried to adhere to my resolve, but with Jordan working all day, six days a week, I found that spending time with Phil was pleasant. I didn't seek him out, but he knew the kind of places I went during the day and often turned up. We had a few intense snogging sessions, but I resisted any attempts by him to get into my pants; and I used this to calm my conscience over the kissing.
As Christmas drew nearer, Kev came up to me one morning in the cafe and told me he had a present for me.
"But we don't usually give each other presents," I objected. "Presents cost money; and students don't have a lot of it."
"Yeh, well, this isn't actually costing me anything," Kev admitted, looking slightly embarrassed. "I've got a mate who's involved with the Council's Christmas displays and exhibition, and he's given me a couple of tickets to get in to see it all immediately after it closes for the evening tonight."
"Wow! I hear it's really good; and that ride-thing, where you're taken through the history of Yule from ancient times to the present, is supposed to be spectacular. But why are you wanting to take me?"
"I was given two tickets. I want to go myself and so I needed one other guy. I know Jordan knows the exhibition and the ride inside out, because he's working there; so it wouldn't be much of a treat for him to go. I….er….I asked him earlier if it'd be okay to take you, and he was fine with it," said Kev.
"Great! You're on!"
I spoke briefly to Jordan as he emerged from the building at the end of the day and he confirmed he was okay with me going to see it all with Kev.
"It's ace," he affirmed. "You'll love it! But no snogging Kev in the dark, when you're going through the Yule-Christmas ride!"
"As if I would!" I replied, ignoring the small stab of conscience over my kissing sessions with Phil.
"Don't worry," Kev reassured him. "I won't be trying to kiss him; not that I wouldn't like to," he added thoughtfully. "He's one spunky boy, Jordan."
"I know. Meet you at the BoyBunsBar after you've been through the exhibition, Simon? Maybe about seven-thirty?" said Jordan.
"Great! I was gonna say that I'll tell you all about it; but I guess I won't need to, since you know already," I said.
"There's always the possibility of a surprise," observed Kev; and he took my arm and piloted me to the entrance, handing over his two tickets and leading me inside.
The place was almost deserted and I remarked to Kev that I'd assumed other people would also have been given special tickets to get in this evening. He shrugged.
"Probably coming along later," he said. "Come on, let's go and explore."
The exhibition was well-done, Kev was entertaining company, and we had an enjoyable forty minutes or so before we came to the climax of the experience: the ride on the chairs through the darkness from earliest celebrations of Yule and the winter-solstice up to present-day Christmas. I recognised Mike, the young engineer whose friendship with Jordan's dad had landed Jordan the Christmas job here.
He was dressed in dark overalls and grinned at us as we approached the gateway to the ride. I liked the look of him. His hair was cropped short and a dark stubble showed round his chin. Chocolate-brown eyes danced in a sun-browned face.
He lifted the bar on the chair by the entrance and told us that the ride lasted just over ten minutes and he'd see us shortly. We sat in the two-seat chair, the bar was lowered across our laps, and the chair began to move slowly forward into the darkness.
We turned a corner and were in a pastoral setting from long ago, while a young male hologram described early practices in connection with the winter-solstice. The chair twisted and turned as it slid slowly forward in time and we passed through scene after scene until we came to the Victorian Christmas. Trees and cards and Santa Clauses appeared and perfect families clustered round roaring log-fires, opening gaily-coloured presents. The chair eased forward round another turn – and all the lights went out.
"Shit! I think the thing's broken down," muttered Kev; but even as he spoke a faint light began to grow, and out of the darkness ahead there emerged a stunning blond guy, clad in nothing but skin-tight shorts. He stepped forward, raised the bar and summoned us out of the chair.
"Follow me," he said and he took my hand while Kev trotted along behind.
We turned a sharp corner and on a sudden found ourselves in a space flooded with light. I blinked as my eyes adjusted after the darkness of the last minute or so; and then I stopped and gasped aloud. There was a bench on the floor near the centre of the room, and standing beside it was Mike, the engineer, clad now in leather jeans and black boots with a studded belt about his waist. His muscular torso was bare, brown skin gleaming in the light; and in his hands he was arching a lithe cane.
I glanced round towards Kev, but he had mysteriously vanished; and the blond hunk was drawing me inexorably forward.
"What the………" I began.
"This is one of the old traditions of Christmas," interrupted Mike. "When boys behave badly, instead of presents, they get a beating. They say that Santa's got a Naughty List and, if he has, you, young Simon, are very definitely on it. I've altered the ride this evening to bring you here, so that you can get what you richly deserve for cheating on Jordan."
I gasped aloud. How did he know?
"I don't….I mean, what are you….? You're gonna cane me?" I ended disbelievingly.
"Do you deny that you've been cheating on your boyfriend, Simon?"
"It wasn't really……..I mean, Phil kind of………I never let him into my pants; honest. It was just a bit of snogging. It never meant anything. It didn't!" I insisted desperately.
"So your conscience is clear?" asked Mike.
"I thought so," observed Mike.
"What?" I demanded irately.
"Guilty," declared Mike. "Sentence: twelve strokes of the cane across your bare bottom; hard."
"Twelve? Bare? Fuck you!" I snarled.
Next moment Blond Hunk and Kev, who had suddenly reappeared, hauled me forward to the bench and began to undo my jeans.
"Get off, you buggers!" I snapped, trying to stop them; but I was no match for them both and despite my vigorous resistance they soon had me bare from the waist down.
"Boy! You do know a lot of bad words," observed Mike as I let Blond Hunk and Kev know exactly what I thought of them. "This caning is very definitely deserved; and I might add a couple of strokes for the bad language."
"You're not giving me any strokes with that fucking cane!" I yelled as I struggled in vain to get away.
"Hold him in position, guys," instructed Mike; and Blond Hunk and Kev took an arm each, yanked it back hard so that I yelped, and forced me to stand astride the bench and then pushed my head down, hands held forward and above my head. Any movement delivered a sharp pain between my shoulders.
"Nice target, guys," observed Mike as he came to one side of me and ran a hand over my raised, vulnerable buttocks. "Okay. Hold him tightly. He's gonna feel this."
I heard the cane being slashed viciously through the air just behind me and I winced instinctively. A few seconds later I felt the lithe rod being rapped repeatedly on my behind before it was lifted away.
"You fucking dare!" I panted.
The cane lashed hard across the centre of my globes and a searing pain ripped through my bottom forcing a yelp from me. I made a determined effort to break free from Kev and Blond Hunk, but they just forced my arms still further forward behind my head, driving it down until it almost touched the bench, and sending a ferocious blast of pain into my arm-sockets. Scarcely had I managed to process this than the cane whipped across my bottom once more and the fiery streak of agony it imparted made me squeal and squirm. I began again to protest, but my words were cut off by a third cane-stroke on the underside of my buttocks, which elicited a violent writhe and a half-stifled yell.
"You're getting through to him," remarked Blond Hunk.
I was too busy trying to cope with the blazing fires in my rear to make any comment; and a second or two later, Mike wielded the slim cane yet again, this time right on my crease. I shrieked as an explosion of incandescent flame seemed to rip my bottom apart. I tried to get my right leg over the bench to the side where my left was so that I could clench my glutes harder, but Blond Hunk hooked it back with his powerful leg and I just had to stand there helpless, shuddering with pain, and endure.
So it continued, stroke after powerfully-delivered stroke, each one lacerating my flesh with excoriating fires. Some landed right on top of earlier ones and raised the pain-level dramatically, while others cross-cut the welts raised by one or two previous cuts, and also pushed the agony to new heights. By the time Mike announced that I'd had twelve, I was lathered in sweat, quivering uncontrollably and panting as if I'd just run a marathon.
"And two more for the bad language," said Mike.
"Please! No!" I yelped.
He hit me hard across the tops of my legs and as fresh pain blossomed, I howled and kicked. A final stroke landed on an oblique diagonal across the welts on my crease and I twisted and writhed as the torment achieved new levels of intensity.
I gradually panted and shuddered myself to near silence and stillness. In my behind, searing fires yet blazed, but I was mastering them.
"Yeh. I think he got the message," said Kev.
"Stand him up," ordered Mike, and Blond Hunk and Kev pulled me upright, but kept hold of my wrists, so that I couldn't caress my throbbing bottom.
"You won't be cheating on Jordan again," said Mike grimly, flexing his cane before my eyes. "Understand?"
I nodded dumbly.
"I didn't hear you, Simon."
"No," I said in an unsteady voice, "I won't. I promise."
"Let him go," said Mike to the two guys, who at once released my wrists.
I rubbed tears from my face and then felt my way slowly and wonderingly over the welts and ridges on my burning bottom. To my surprise, my penis hardened a little. Once I'd got myself under control, I turned to Mike.
"Thanks," I said quietly. "That was sheer hell, but I know I needed it. You won't have to do it again. Does….does Jordan know?" I asked nervously.
"No," replied Kev; "and none of us is gonna be telling him."
"Thanks. It's probably best he hears it from me," I said.
"But you're surely not gonna……." began Kev before Mike interrupted.
"Very wise, Simon," he said quietly.
For another minute or two I rubbed at my behind and then Mike told me to get my pants and jeans up again. I flinched as the fabric touched my beaten skin.
"Right. You and Kev need to get back in the chair and finish the ride," advised Mike; and Blond Hunk led us out into the dark passage.
I winced and gasped aloud as I sat carefully on the hard metal seat beside Kev. The bar was lowered across our laps, the chair began to move and we slid smoothly into an Edwardian Christmas. A minute or two later we emerged into the entrance of the ride and got out. I followed Kev into an area with seats and tables; but I opted to stand.
"How did you find out?" I asked.
"I actually saw you on a couple of occasions with Phil," Kev admitted. "I know Phil. He's a flirt and he goes for what he wants; but I know you and Jordan have got a strong red-hot relationship, and I thought you just got kind of carried away by Phil's charm; and his persistence. Besides, he's a fucking sexy kisser."
"He's kissed you?"
"Oh yeh. I had a fling with him for a few weeks, but I soon realised he was getting bored and was taking an interest in other guys. That kind of boy isn't for me; nor for you," declared Kev. "So I told Mike, because he knows Jordan and doesn't want him hurt; and he decided that you needed to be taught a lesson. For your own good," he added.
I rubbed slowly at my still-burning rear. Kev stood right in front of me and put his hands behind his back.
"Okay. If you want to hit me, now's your chance," he said. "I won't try to stop you, and I won't retaliate."
I raised my hands and I saw him wince, and a tension streaked through his body. I put a hand on each of his shoulders and kissed him firmly on the mouth.
"Thanks, Kev," I said. "You're the kind of friend every boy needs; and if you ever see me cheating on Jordan again, you've got my full permission to haul me off to Mike and get him to beat the living fuck out of me."
Kev grinned and, taking my arm, led me to the exit. He walked with me to the BoyBunsBar and told me to join Jordan where he was sitting at a table alone.
"Hi, sexy arse," Jordan greeted me. "How was it then?"
"Incredible," I told him. "It was completely out of this world. I've never experienced anything like it in my life. It's really marked me and I'll never forget it."
"Yeh? I didn't think it was that good. I mean, I know it's spectacular, but I wouldn't have said it was out-of-this-world good."
"I…..eh, well…..I experienced a part of the ride that you've never seen," I said.
At that moment Kev came across and put a pint in front of each of us.
"Cheers, guys. Have a good night," he said; and before either of us could protest, he was gone.
Jordan looked at me for several seconds and then said, "Okay; what's going on?"
"Let's drink our pints," I said "and then go back to your place and I'll reveal all."
In his room an hour or so later, I dropped my jeans and pants and turned my back to Jordan. He let out an audible gasp.
"What the fucking hell happened to you?"
"Have you got any cold-cream?"
Jordan nodded and took some from a drawer. I lay face-down on his bed and invited him to anoint my cane-welts. While he did so, tenderly and thoroughly, I told him everything, beginning from Phil's initial approach in Kev's house, right through to my appearance on Santa's Naughty List and the subsequent caning.
"I had to tell you," I ended, "otherwise I don't think my conscience would have been completely clear; even after that brutal caning. So, it's not quite over yet, Jordan, is it?"
For several seconds he continued to caress my behind and then he lay on my shoulders and licked my ear.
"Yes, it is over," he said softly. "I forgive you. That Phil's a bit of a menace. He could do with a good hard dose of Mike's cane as well."
"But he wasn't really doing anything wrong," I said. "He made a play for me and I was too weak to resist completely and tell him where to get off. I won't be making that mistake again. I was the one who did the wrong thing and I was the one who got beaten. Santa doesn't make mistakes."
"I guess you're right."
Jordan got up and pulled open a drawer in a chest. He took out a wooden-headed bath-brush.
"My dad used to spank me with this when I was younger," he said. "Five minutes with it on my bare arse and he had me bawling my eyes out and promising him eternal obedience," he said reminiscently. "It won't sting as fiercely as a cane; but I reckon I could get through to you with it, Simon."
"You're gonna spank me?"
"Only if I don't think you're paying me enough attention; and maybe a couple of minutes every Sunday evening to remind you to be a good boy all week."
"They say a puppy isn't just for Christmas; and I think Santa's discipline isn't just for Christmas either. You're one red-hot boy, Simon, and you're mine; and I'm gonna make darned sure you stay that way."
I raised myself up on to my knees and kissed him passionately; and we were soon entwined naked in an energetic session of love-making, which was so intensely thrilling that we did it all again; and then a third time. Jordan lay with his head resting on my chest.
"Wow!" he murmured. "That caning didn't half improve your performance, Simon. It was pretty awesome before, but now it's stellar."
"See? I told you my experience tonight was out of this world," I said happily.
Jordan picked up his bath-brush.
"And I've a feeling we might be using this quite a lot," he said, "just to make sure you stay faithful and our sex always gets us into orbit."
"I'm sure I can get you into orbit without needing to be spanked first," I objected. "And I swear I'm not gonna be cheating on you again."
"Mmm. But Santa, in the form of that fantastic guy, Mike, has demonstrated what a difference getting your arse beaten makes," declared Jordan. "And so…….."
"Mike's a vicious brute," I interpolated feelingly, rubbing at my bottom.
"……..I've learned a lesson too: that you need to be tanned regularly. Santa's set me a great example and I'll be following it. Like you said yourself, Santa doesn't make mistakes."
Story ©MMXXII by Joelstrap, used here by very kind permission.
Authors appreciate feedback. Please leave a comment on this excellent story. Comments are here.
Joelstrap's excellent earlier stories for The Canery are available here.
Other hot Christmas stories by Joelstrap here at The Canery are:
The Cane In The Chimney
Leon's Christmas Present
Further great stories by Joelstrap may be found at this external link
Posted in: cane, caning, M/M, spank, spanking. Tagged: anal, boyfriend, cane, caning, discipline, erection, flatmate, Joelstrap, M/M, punishment, student, teen, teenager, tutor. 6 Comments
A brand spanking new caning story by very special guest author JOELSTRAP. This story is exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are 18 or over. WARNING: ADULTS ONLY!
"C" Is For Cane by Joelstrap
My tutor wasn't pleased with me.
"This is the second 'C' in a row, Joshua. It's not good enough."
"It's a pass," I protested.
"Yes, but you're capable of much better than this. Your exam-results from school suggest you should be heading for an honours degree; and your first two essays seemed to confirm that. But the last two have seen your performance plummet. Why?" demanded Dr. Graham.
"I dunno," I said uneasily, churning my hand in my hair. "Maybe the subjects of the last essays didn't appeal to me."
"You really believe that, Joshua?"
I shrugged non-committally.
My tutor looked steadily at me and I found that I couldn't quite meet his gaze. He nodded with a knowing expression on his face.
"What?" I asked, irritably.
"What's her name?" he enquired with a smile.
"Eh? I don't know what………."
"Don't you, Joshua?"
I felt the colour rising in my cheeks and shuffled my feet nervously. He was spot-on, of course; which is what had disconcerted me. I'd been spending so much time having sex that my essays had been scrawled at the last minute with little preparatory reading or thinking. I decided that there was no point in denying it since he clearly knew only too well. No doubt it was something he'd come across often enough before. I decided to confess.
"Okay; you got me; but you're not completely right," I said.
He raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question.
"It's his name," I said. "It's Gregor."
"But it makes no difference whether the name of the person who is taking up time you should be spending on your studies is Mary or Marcus," said Dr. Graham. "Does it, Joshua?"
"No," I admitted a little sulkily.
"Now, I recognise that you need time for personal relationships; of course you do; that's natural and normal. However, you must ensure that you give enough time to your studies as well. It's a matter of balance, Joshua, and you need to make a lot more effort to get the balance right. As I said, you've got the ability to do an honours degree, but with the effort you're putting in at the moment, it's just not going to happen. Unless you start producing the kind of work you were giving me in the first part of the term, there's no way you'll be admitted to the honours course in eighteen months' time."
"Maybe an ordinary degree would suit me fine," I replied sullenly.
He didn't even reply to that. He just looked me in the eyes again until I looked away and muttered, "Sorry. I didn't mean that. I'll try harder."
"Right. I want at least a B+ next time. It'll be the second last essay before the end-of-term exams and the Christmas vacation, so I want to see that you really are working."
"I will. I promise."
"You're a bad influence," I informed Gregor as we relaxed in the cafe after a training-session at the gym.
I told him about the interview with Dr. Graham, my tutor.
"And you think it's all my fault?"
"No, not really. I just can't get enough of you. I don't understand how any boy can be so sexy; but when you're around I can't think of anything else but writhing naked with you until our balls are empty."
Gregor sighed. "Me too," he said. "One look at you and my cock's pointing to the ceiling and I can't concentrate on anything else but fucking you inside out."
"Okay; so we need to ration ourselves a bit here; decide on days and times we're not gonna do any bonking," I suggested.
"Yeh," replied Gregor with a nod, "but I got something to tell you too. I've been getting a rocket from my tutor as well. My work's sliding badly, he says; and if I don't pull my socks up, I'm gonna be like you."
"What? No chance of the honours course?"
Gregor nodded.
"Shit! We really do need to get ourselves sorted out. Did, er, your tutor suspect the reason why you weren't performing well?" I asked.
"There's nothing wrong with my performance, you cheeky sod!" protested Gregor. "The way you were moaning and panting yesterday when we were together, I had to be doing a hell of a lot exactly right!"
"Not your sexual performance, you blithering ass! I mean your essays."
"Oh, that. Well, yeh, he did ask if I was spending too much time on my social life and too little on my work."
"They might be ancient," I said, referring to our respective tutors, "but they're not stupid, are they? I mean, they know what young guys are like."
"True," agreed Gregor. "But, look, I gotta go. I've got a tutorial in twenty minutes. We'll sit down tonight and see if we can plan how to split up our work time and our sex time."
We were in a flat shared with two other guys. We each had our own room and the kitchen and living-room were communal. Callum was in his second year and we didn't have a lot to do with him, although we got on fine and occasionally went out for a pint together. The fourth was a Ph.D. student, writing a thesis on some aspects of symbolism in the works of T.S. Eliot. He was called Ben and was a classically-handsome young guy in his early twenties. He had a girlfriend who was a teacher in a town about fifty miles away and he spent most weekends with her; and his weekdays working hard at his studies.
I was sitting at a table in the communal living-room with a mug of coffee, looking gloomily at my latest essay and trying to decipher the many comments which my tutor had scribbled in the margins, when Ben came in. He threw down his briefcase on a chair and began to spoon coffee into a mug before switching on the kettle. While waiting for it to boil, he came over to me and asked, "How's it going, Josh?"
"Not too good," I admitted.
He glanced at the large "C" in the corner of my essay and said, "Ah!"
"What's that supposed to mean?" I demanded irascibly.
"First time you've got a "C", is it, Josh?"
"Er, well, no. That's the problem. It's the second time in a row."
"And I seem to remember you were getting "B+" and "A" at the beginning."
"Yeh."
"And it's Gregor's fault?"
"You sound just like my tutor."
"That's what he said?" asked Ben.
"Well, no, not in so many words; but he asked the name of my girlfriend; and I told him it was actually a boyfriend; and he said it made no difference if I was spending too much time with him. So I guess he meant it was Gregor's fault."
"Balls!"
I stared at Ben.
"You don't think it's Gregor's fault?" I queried doubtfully.
"Of course it's not," replied Ben. "It's your fault."
"Who isn't doing his work? You! Who's spending too much time snogging his boyfriend? You! Who's in danger of messing up his chances of getting a good degree? You! Who should have the willpower to get his studying done properly before he gets into his boyfriend's pants? You! Who needs his bottom spanked? You!" declared Ben.
"Bottom spanked?" I repeated. "What the hell are you on about?"
"You're the one who's at fault," said Ben. "You can't blame Gregor or anyone else. It's your problem and you have to sort it out."
"Okay, okay, I get it; and of course you're right. But….bottom spanked? What the fuck is that about?"
"It's about discipline," said Ben. "Either you're mature enough to impose a strict self-discipline and set limits to your time with Gregor; and stick to them. Or you need somebody to do it for you, like when you were a kid and got spanked."
"Right. I get it. But my tutor's hardly gonna turn me over his knee and tan my hide, is he?"
"No. You need to impose your own discipline on your life. So, what are you pair planning to do about it?"
"We're going to work on a plan later this evening, once I've finished going through this essay. Gregor's kind of in the same position as me. His work's not been too good recently either."
"Okay. Plan sensibly; and stick to your plan," advised Ben.
Gregor and I planned our week carefully, allowing ourselves the weekends for as much amorous activity as we wanted; plus the hours between ten and midnight on week-nights. Up until 10 p.m. we'd be studying; and after midnight we'd be in our own rooms, getting our sleep. It worked fine at first; but then we started to go out to the pub before we began studying in the evenings; and the time just slid past and little studying was done. We'd decide that we'd do more the next night to compensate; but it rarely happened. Even when we came back reasonably early and tried to work, we'd be distracted by each other and end up writhing naked on the bed in one of our rooms.
I submitted my next essay with a leaden heart, because I knew I hadn't done the necessary reading; nor even allowed myself time to produce a reasonable attempt at the subject. I saw the now-familiar "C" in the top-corner of my script when Dr. Graham handed it to me.
"I know," I said before he could start. "I said I'd pull my socks up and I haven't; and yes, it's my boyfriend, just like it was before. I know!"
"But knowing isn't enough, is it, Joshua? Did you try to do anything about it?"
I told him what we'd done; all about our sensible plans; and confessed that the siren-call of the pub and of our bodies had eroded every good intention. My tutor listened.
"Well," he said eventually, "it's up to you. I've told you the situation. You're wasting your abilities because your will-power is lacking. Think about it. You've got one more essay to go this term and then the end-of-term exam. See if maybe you can find a bit more self-discipline."
I winced. There were those words again; the words that Ben had used. I needed self-discipline. At school, teachers and my parents kept a fairly close eye on me and made sure the work was done; but now, away from home, I'd found that I couldn't impose on myself the discipline they'd imposed for me.
Gregor and I had a very long talk that evening, for he too was under-performing and his tutor wasn't pleased with him. We went round and round in circles, struggling to think of how we could resist each other. We were sitting at the table in the communal-room in the flat since no-one else was in and we had the place to ourselves.
"It all comes down to self-discipline," I said, helping myself to a fifth biscuit.
"I guess," sighed Gregor; and his mobile rang.
He listened to whoever was on the other end for a bit and muttered various terms of agreement from 'yeh' to 'okay'.
"That was Trevor," he said. "He's in the same boat as us; but he's got a solution. Seems there's a Ph.D. English student who does tutoring-sessions for guys who're struggling. You have to pay him a bit though, so less money for beer; and he does three two-hour sessions each week with maybe half a dozen students at a time; and he gets the results apparently. What do you think?"
"Well, we gotta do something," I replied. "Think we should give it a go?"
"We'll have to give up going to the pub or the pictures, to save a bit of cash to pay the guy," said Gregor gloomily as he told me what the tuition would cost us. "But needs must."
There was the sound of a banging door and then Ben burst into the room. He stopped short when he saw us.
"Hello, guys. Why so glum?"
For answer I pushed my latest essay across to him. He glanced at the mark and sat down at the table.
"I take it you tried?" he enquired; and we explained what we'd decided and how it had all broken down as our self-discipline failed us.
"All is not lost," declared Ben. "You just need a bit of backbone in your self-discipline; something behind it to stiffen your resolve when you're tempted to give in to your carnal urges."
"Yeh? You got a bottle of pills that does that?" I asked sarcastically. "Anyway, I think we've got the answer."
Gregor proceeded to tell him about the tutoring sessions.
Ben snorted derisively.
"Balls!" he said explosively.
We both stared at him, eyebrows raised.
"You don't need to go to all that time and trouble; or expense," he insisted.
"So what do we do then?" I demanded irritably.
Ben pointed at my essay.
"What does "C" mean, Josh?"
"It means a pass, but only just; not as good as I should be getting."
"Yes, okay; but "C" also stands for cane."
"You….you think we need to be caned?" gasped Gregor.
"Of course you do. A good hard dose of the cane would do you both the world of good; and every time you thought about neglecting your studies to get down and dirty together, you'd remember the caning and get on with your work, to avoid getting caned again. A bit of backing, as it were, for your self-discipline, to make sure it stands up to temptation."
Gregor and I stared at each other, neither of us sure just what to say next. Eventually Gregor ventured a tentative, "Are you serious?"
For answer, Ben went to his room and returned with a slender cane which he whipped viciously fast through the air, making a whining-sound. We both instinctively flinched.
"Where the fuck did you get that?" I asked nervously.
"Oh, it's a useful thing to have around," replied Ben vaguely. "Okay, boys. Jeans and pants off. Hurry up!"
Gregor and I glanced at each other. Ben lashed his cane down on the surface of a chair and we both jumped.
"Now, boys!" he shouted.
I found myself unbuckling my belt and saw that Gregor was doing the same. Once I'd kicked off my trainers and removed my jeans, I put my hands to the waist of my briefs and hesitated.
"Lose them, Joshua," said Ben softly.
I looked at Gregor, who shrugged. We both slid off our briefs.
Gregor was told to go and stand facing the wall, his hands on his head; and I was told to bend over with my hands on the side of a chair-seat. In a kind of semi-trance, I complied. This felt unreal, almost dream-like. Next moment Ben sent his cane slashing across the centre of my bare bottom with a ferocious snap, and a streak of blazing fire was etched on my behind. I gasped and winced violently. There was nothing unreal or dream-like about this. It was raw, brutal and very definitely for real.
The limber rod struck again, a little lower and a second lightning-stroke of searing pain excoriated my quivering flesh. I couldn't believe quite how much this hurt. Clenching my glutes, I processed the sting; and then the cane sliced into my crease. I yelped and scrubbed desperately at the burning flesh. Ben was not impressed.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Josh?" he demanded angrily. "Too much of a baby to take a bit of pain?"
That barb hurt as much as the cane-stroke, although in a different way.
"I'm not a baby," I hissed furiously.
"No? Well I'm going to give you that stroke again; so let me see you take it like an eighteen-year-old and not an eight-year-old."
I tensed my body in readiness, seething inwardly at his insulting comments and resolving that I'd show him I was no boy. I did too. The cane whipped savagely across my crease again and an explosion of searing pain ripped across my behind; but I gripped the sides of the chair with all my strength and forced myself to ride the wave of agony until it began to recede.
"Much better," observed Ben. "Keep still."
I tried to breathe steadily as I awaited the next stroke. It was slightly higher and the sting was marginally less intense, but it still took a big effort to absorb it. I could feel his cane sliding across my rump as he decided where to hit me next; and then, sooner than I expected, he let me have it hard on top of the second welt. I squealed and writhed, fighting the urge to rub my tormented rear. It was several seconds before I had settled, panting slightly. I waited, afraid of the agony to come, forcing myself to remember that I was a young man. He hit me full across the crease, detonating a blast of searing fires which felt as though they were gouging a deep, blazing furrow across my bottom. Again he forced a squeal from me; but I managed to keep my hands on the chair.
"Right. Go and face the wall, hands on your head," commanded Ben. "Gregor; over here."
I stumbled across to the wall, aware of a definite wetness around my eyes, but resolutely refusing to let my hands anywhere near my face. Behind me, I heard Gregor being told to bend over and then, as I listened there came a crack like a rifle-shot, followed by a sharp intake of breath. Ben managed to extract more gasps as well as a couple of desperate squeals from Gregor as the beating proceeded; but he had clearly learnt from my experience not to scrub at his bottom and only got six strokes.
"Here, both of you," ordered Ben; and Gregor and I stood, freshly-caned and subdued before him. "Both of you will get at least a 'B' for your next essay," Ben informed us quietly, "or I'll cane you again. Eight strokes. Understand me?"
"Yes," we muttered, embarrassed but submissive.
"Right; jeans and pants back on and sit down at the table and get on with some work. There won't be a sound out of either of you for the next ninety minutes. I'll be over on the sofa reading," Ben told us.
Silently we fetched our books and sat down carefully. I was acutely aware of the burning in my bottom for some time and a dull ache persisted throughout the next hour and a half. I got through a lot of work. Neither of us uttered a word.
Ben came across after the time had elapsed; and he grinned at us.
"Okay, boys. Now, I'm not going to be supervising you every day. You'll need to use your self-discipline to sit down and do the work. I'm warning you though," he added flexing his lithe cane menacingly. "I'll beat the living fuck out of your bare arses if you don't produce at least a 'B' for your next essays."
He went off to his room.
For several seconds, Gregor and I sat in stunned silence.
"Yes, well," I muttered, "I guess he's serious."
"That fucking cane's serious," agreed Gregor, standing and rubbing his bottom. "I can still feel it."
"Yeh. I'm tender," I concurred. "So what do you reckon? Are we gonna study hard?"
"I'd rather study hard than be beaten hard with that bloody cane," Gregor admitted. "Let's just agree that we do seven to ten every evening during the week; and then we can have some fun together. And this time we've got a fucking strong incentive to stick to it."
We found it surprisingly easy to keep to the timetable we'd decided on; and we both approached the next essay with much increased confidence. Our mates moaned about the cost of their tuition and the boring sessions with the Ph.D. student; but we found we were contented, our work and play neatly balanced; and our cash-flow adequate to cover some visits to the pub at the weekends.
"Ben!" I yelled as Gregor and I burst into the flat.
Ben, who was sitting reading by the fire, looked up and we thrust our latest essays at him. He looked at the 'B+' in the corner of each and grinned.
"Well done, guys," he said. "C is for cane; but no C means no cane. But B means beer; so, come on, I'll stand you a round."
As we reached the end of our pints, Ben suddenly looked serious.
"End-of-term exams in a couple of weeks, boys. I'll expect at least a B+ from each of you for all three of the exam-essays; and if I don't get it, you'll be getting eight strokes of my cane and will be starting the new term in January with very, very sore bottoms."
"B+?" gasped Gregor.
"For each of the three essays in the exam?" I asked, incredulous.
"Eight strokes of the bloody cane if we don't do it?" queried Gregor as if he hadn't heard correctly.
"That's what I said. You've both proved you can get B-pluses, so that's the standard you'll maintain."
"But we can't," protested Gregor.
"You'll cane me if even one of my essays isn't a B+? Even if I get two As and a B?" I queried.
"But that's fucking hard!"
"So is my cane. You choose," said Ben; and he drained his glass, rose and left the pub.
Gregor and I looked at each other.
"The bugger means it," he said.
"My dad wouldn't half be impressed if I got three B-pluses," I said thoughtfully.
"My dad would be gobsmacked," said Gregor. "But he might give me some driving-lessons," he added meditatively.
"Of course, we don't have to submit to that hellish cane," I said.
"But we will," replied Gregor. "Ben might be a vicious bastard with that cane of his, but you gotta admit, he spent ten minutes with us and our work improved dramatically; and it didn't cost us a penny."
"And it would be kind of letting him down if we didn't get the marks he wants and then wouldn't take the cane," I said thoughtfully. "Okay, we don't let up. It's just two weeks and then we can have a Christmas holiday absolutely full of Bs and Cs."
"B is for balls; and C is for cocks," I said
Gregor grinned and we kissed swiftly before finishing our drinks and heading back to the flat.
We worked, and the end-of-term exams came and went, each of us content that we should have done well. There would be no results until we had a brief meeting with our respective tutors on the first day back after the new year, and I went somewhat nervously to Dr. Graham's study shortly before lunch that Monday morning in early January. He was smiling, which I took to be a good sign; and when he handed me my exam-scripts I was thrilled to see a B+, an A, and a B. So near and yet so far, I thought to myself. My tutor, however, congratulated me on the dramatic improvement and expressed a hope that I'd maintain the standard in the coming term. I assured him earnestly that I would.
"I'm delighted to hear it, Joshua," he said. "I know the B may hurt a bit, but it's still a good mark, and you've done very well in the other two, especially managing an A in one of them."
"Yeh; I didn't really leave enough time for the third essay, so maybe that's why it wasn't as good as the other two," I admitted.
I met Gregor for lunch and told him my news. He grimaced as I mentioned the B.
"But you got an A too," he said. "Surely that makes up for the essay that only got a B?"
"I hadn't thought of that. Yeh; I'll try that one on Ben. I'm so close after all; so surely he wouldn't cane me for that one near miss?"
"Wish I knew my results," moaned Gregor glancing at his watch. "Still over an hour until my appointment with my tutor."
In due course Gregor went off for his meeting and I awaited him in a local cafe. He came in grinning broadly.
"Three B-pluses!" he exclaimed. "Definitely no cane for me!"
"Fucking awesome, mate," I told him, giving him a swift kiss.
"And if you do get the cane," Gregor assured me, "I'll lick your welts better and then fuck you inside out."
"Shit! It'll be worth a caning for all that," I retorted with a smile. "But you'll still fuck me inside out even if I don't get the cane?"
"What do you think?" replied Gregor.
We entered the flat; and the first thing I noticed was Ben's cane lying on the coffee-table. I stopped so suddenly that Gregor bumped into me.
"What?" he demanded; and then, when I pointed, "Oh! I see."
Ben came in from his room and asked how we'd done in our exams. Gregor revealed his three B-pluses and was duly congratulated.
"So, how did you fare, Josh?"
"Er, I got an A for one of them; and a B+; and a B."
"An A? That's impressive," said Ben. "Congratulations."
"Thanks. Look, I know the agreement was at least three B-pluses, but the A kind of cancels out the slight deficit of the B; doesn't it, Ben?" I asked pleadingly. "I was very close."
"But the agreement was at least three B-pluses and it's important that when you fail to perform as required the penalty is paid. That way the pressure stays on and there's less chance you'll slip in this term's performance because you think I'll let you off 'almost' getting the required marks."
Ben picked up the cane and arched it.
"Aw, c'mon, Ben! Please! I don't need to be caned!"
"Oh yes you do, Josh; and you will be. However, since I'm not a brute and you did come very close, I'll let you off with six rather than the promised eight."
"Gee, thanks," I muttered.
"Of course if your attitude needs improving as well, I could still reinstate the eight," remarked Ben mildly.
"No, no. It's okay. I'll take six. Er…thanks," I replied hastily.
"Good. Let's just do it then. Jeans and pants off and bend over the chair, Josh."
I complied and stood waiting as Ben rapped my bare bottom with the slim rod before bringing it down hard across the centre of my globes. I gasped aloud as a fierce sting ripped across my behind. I'd forgotten just how much this hurt. I steadied myself and the second stroke landed just below the first making me flinch violently and utter another gasp of pain. Scarcely had I got myself in hand again when he inflicted the third stroke, marginally lower down. A searing burn scored my flesh and I only just managed to stifle a yelp. The next landed very hard just at the top of my crease and I bucked, a squeal of agony forced from me. Breathing hard, I steadied my quivering body and waited for number five. I knew it was going to be full on that sensitive band of flesh where a boy's bottom merges into the top of his legs; and it was. A pain like the lash of a barbed-wire whip tore through my bottom, and as I writhed and yelped, I fought desperately to keep my hands on the chair. Ben had taught me the last time not to rub my bottom, and I'd remembered the lesson.
I was panting, aware of sweat trickling down my back, as I prepared for the final stroke. I expected a diagonal cut, slicing across several of the earlier welts, but he took me by surprise, lashing his cane down on my crease again, the vicious rod landing on the same skin which had been welted by the fifth stroke. I yowled and squirmed and as my right hand instinctively flew round to rub my tortured flesh, I made a supreme effort of will and forced it back to the chair.
"Well taken," said Ben; and I was grateful for that.
I straightened up slowly and felt my way with both hands across the ridges on my bottom, aware of the heat in the beaten flesh and still processing the fiery sting in the cane-welts.
"At least a B+ in each of your essays this term, Josh, and you'll get eight with my cane for each essay that fails to achieve that mark," Ben promised grimly. "Understand?"
"Got it," I assured him with all the fervency of the freshly beaten.
"And that goes for you too, Gregor."
"I know," Gregor assured him.
Ben went off to his room with the cane and Gregor and I retired to my room where we both stripped and while I lay flat on my face, Gregor slowly and tenderly licked the length of each cane-mark, over and over again. He lay on my back and kissed my ears and I was aware of his long, hard penis between the walls of my cleft. Underneath me, my own organ was hard as a gatepost.
"You gonna use that rod of yours on me, Greg?"
"You think you can take me after that caning?"
"Fucking right I can! I want you; hard as you can!"
Gregor obliged and when he'd powered his way to a climax, he suddenly rolled on to his back, taking me with him so that I was now lying on my back on his chest. One of his hands worked expertly at my nipples while the other grasped my shaft and worked it faster and faster until with a bass moan of ecstasy my semen burst free and spattered the bed-head behind us.
"Wow! That was some orgasm!" gasped Gregor. "There's a hell of a lot of power in these balls of yours!"
For some time we both lay silent, revelling in the post-orgasmic glow. Gregor slid a hand into my hair while the other fondled my testicles, effortlessly bringing my penis back up to full erection.
"Boy, you are one red-hot guy," he said, "and randy as a raft of raccoons."
"As if I can't feel you getting hard as a flagpole inside me," I retorted. "If you were any hotter, you'd catch fire."
"How are the cane-welts?"
"What cane-welts?"
Gregor laughed.
"Glad I managed to make you forget about them."
"Yeh. That cane is one vicious brute and it didn't half get through to me; but there's nothing like a good fuck to make me feel a hell of a lot better," I admitted.
"Josh?"
"That cane. Remember it was on the coffee-table when we came in? It was like Ben knew he was going to use it; but he didn't know our marks until we told him."
I considered this for a few moments and then something came back to me.
"Hey! My tutor said something a bit odd when he was talking about my marks. He said the B might hurt a bit, but I'd done well on the other two essays. It was a kind of strange way of putting it. I mean, it might have been more natural to say that the B disappointed me. You know, it's almost as if he knew that B would quite literally hurt me," I mused.
"Hmm. You think your tutor and Ben have been colluding in the background?"
"Surely not; and yet……it does seem to fit. But having the cane out ready; and the comment about the B hurting me; that does seem to have given them away," I replied.
"Careless of them, huh?" said Gregor. "Or not?"
"You mean, they deliberately left some clues so we'd guess what was going on?"
"Looks like it. They're hardly dumbos after all. Why would they make stupid mistakes like that……except on purpose?"
"I think we need to speak to Ben," I said.
Ben was sitting at the table taking notes on a tome he was reading.
"Ben! Why did you have the cane out ready when we got back with our results?"
"So that I could cane you," replied Ben with a grin.
"But neither of us had told you his marks until after we got here," I objected.
"True," said Ben complacently.
"So you must have known already that you were gonna cane me," I persisted.
"I guess I must," agreed Ben.
"Dr. Graham said that the B would hurt me, but the other marks were very good. Why did he say that, Ben?"
"Must have known you were going to get the cane for that B, Josh."
"Look, stop messing me about! Who's supervising your PH.D. work, Ben?"
"Ah, you're there, are you?" said Ben with a smile. "It's Dr. Graham."
"My tutor!" I exclaimed. "He told you my results!"
Ben held up his hands.
"But that means Dr. Graham knows I get the fucking cane!" I howled. "I'm gonna feel hell of an embarrassed every time I see him now."
"Did you feel embarrassed in the second part of last term; or today?" asked Ben.
"Well, no, but………why last term? You don't mean…….Ben?"
Gregor jumped in.
"Are you trying to tell us that you and Dr. Graham cooked up this cane-business together deliberately, to get Josh and me to up our work?" he demanded.
"Spot on!" said Ben.
"So he knew I was caned for my poor essay last term?" I asked, trying to get things clear.
"Sure. It's his cane," replied Ben astoundingly.
"He gave you a cane so you could tan my hide?" I asked, a sense of outrage bubbling to the surface.
"Well, it wouldn't really do for him to cane you himself," explained Ben, "him being your tutor. But he knew I was into using a cane and knew how to do it effectively…"
"Fucking right you do," I muttered.
"……so he asked me to see if you'd be up for an experiment with the cane, to see if it could get an improvement in your results. And, oh boy, it worked," declared Ben.
"Well, yeh, but…….."
"So, are you complaining, Josh? Want to end the threat of the cane as a stimulus to a high standard of work?"
"Er, no, I guess not. It does work; and I want to keep on doing myself justice. But what's Dr. Graham doing with a cane?"
"He's a member of an S&M Society, as am I," said Ben. "We meet once a week or so and cane bad boys who come along to be punished."
"They want to be caned?" I asked.
"Absolutely," replied Ben.
"Shit!" I said.
"What about me?" asked Gregor.
"Well, you were what might be called collateral damage," grinned Ben. "You were here; you admitted you weren't doing well at your work either and it was the time you were spending on each other that was the problem; and so I just decided to include you too. You were as willing as Josh to do it; and with you it's been even more effective. And no, before you ask, your tutor doesn't know anything about it."
"Right," said Gregor.
"….and," continued Ben, "you've got a hell of a cute arse and I couldn't resist the chance to cane it."
Gregor stared, his mouth half open, speechless.
"Are you saying you were disappointed that I was the only one who failed to get at least three B-pluses?" I demanded.
"Well, I admit I'd have loved an excuse to cane Greg again too," Ben confessed. "But the term is young. Five essays and then another three in the end-of-term exams. There's still a chance he'll need to be caned again; as will you."
"Not if I can help it," I said firmly.
"Nor me," agreed Gregor. "This is war! You wanna beat our arses and we're determined to stop you; and we will."
"Spoken like a true student," said Ben. "But if a single defence comes down; a single mark below B+, I'll be in there with the cane and setting your young bottoms ablaze."
"Did you both leave clues for us intentionally?" I asked.
"Yes. We felt you deserved to know the truth; and we hoped you were convinced enough of the efficacy of the caning-system to want to stick with it anyway. It might not work for everybody, but for you pair it seems to do the trick."
Greg and I glanced at each other.
"Yeh, it does work for us and we're sticking with it," I said. "We know C is for cane, and we don't want it."
"And B is for beating as well, and we don't want that either," added Gregor.
"So it's gonna be at least B-pluses all the way," I said.
"You're determined to spoil my term," grumbled Ben with a hangdog expression on his face. "Two fantastic bottoms which I see every day; and both of you out to make sure I don't get a chance to beat them. Shit! Sometimes life's a dung-heap!"
"Come on," said Gregor, "we'll stand you a pint down at the pub."
A few minutes later we were sitting in front of full glasses.
"A toast?" said Gregor.
"C is for cane?" suggested Ben.
"B is for bottoms up," I said. "And we're gonna work fucking hard to make sure that the only bottoms you get to see up are the bottoms of beer-glasses, mate!"
We all laughed, clinked our glasses, and drank.
Joelstrap's excellent earlier stories for The Canery are available here. Further great stories by Joelstrap may be found at this external link
Posted by Rod Cayenne on October 23, 2022
Posted in: cane, caning, M/M, spank, spanking. Tagged: cane, caning, cop, discipline, gun, M/M, police, punishment, spank, spanking, strap, strapping. 5 Comments
Hot caning fiction by your host, Rod Cayenne, originally from 2019. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!
Packing Heat by Rod Cayenne
It was Autumn, 1967. Hippies with flowers in their hair were everywhere, except in the once-noble village of Nether Bumming. Down at the half-timbered Fox And Hounds, Jim Rodgers played with his fresh pint. He tried to blow the froth off the top off the bitter ale. It wasn't shifting, so he sliced it off with a sticky, dog-eared and discoloured cardboard beer mat. That was not something he'd have done had he not been well on the way to inibreation. Anyway, clearly he was distracted; miles away.
"Just what's up, Jim?" asked his young friend PC Steve Churlington.
"Nothing's up. Really, nothing. Nothing at all."
"Don't give me that! You're brooding about something or other. It's that lad of yours I'll warrant, what's his name again?"
"Oh, you mean Peter?"
"Yes, Peter. Tell me now, what's he been up to? I thought you and I had no secrets." The cop winked at his close friend.
Jim gazed at his pint, tracing a pattern in the condensation on the outside of the glass with his grubby finger. He sighed and smiled and looked his friend straight in the eye, before revealing, "Well, you're right. Of course. He's been a real handful since his mother ran off with that low-life estate agent. I may have mentioned it before. He and I seem to be jostling to be head of the household all the time. Which is ridiculous, as it's my place, after all. Now the little sod's bought an air rifle, a gun. Can you believe it?"
"Oh I see. What's the problem, then? He's old enough to own one, he's seventeen isn't he?"
"Eighteen and a half, actually. It's just, it's just…"
"What exactly, Jim?"
"Well, it's just that I asked him not to buy one. I begged him not to buy one. I told him not to buy one. I forbade him from buying one."
"You didn't want him to buy one then?" laughed his friend the cop, supping ale with a twinkle in his eye. The froth from the beer decorated the cop's moustache briefly before his beefy hand wiped it away.
"Shit, Steve. No, I didn't want one in the house but the little sod is earning now and has got a mind of his own."
"I suppose that's the danger at his age. But he's not 21, so you are still in charge. He's testing you, as you hinted."
"Oh maybe, maybe not. Yes, definitely maybe."
"A very tricky situation then. And let me guess, his father's reluctant to leather him?"
"Yes, rather. Although, I suppose it's just what he needs and deserves."
"Hmmm. I agree. Totally. You know, I see this all the time. The young generation disrespecting their parents, their teachers even. Thank God the schools have the cane. It would be chaos without, especially with all this hippy, Summer Of Love nonsense at the moment."
"Shove the Summer Of Love!" said Jim, and then "Cheers!" as the two men crashed their glasses together, laughing and supping their ales. Jim belched loudly and "A Whiter Shade Of Pale" played on the distant jukebox.
Later, as the evening wore on, PC Steve leant over towards Jim, and put his hand on his friend's knee, saying conspiratorially, "You know I could deal with Peter. As an officer of the law, I'm sure I could find a way of giving the boy a really sore arse."
"Oh, would you?" implored Jim, "Could you?"
"Leave it to me!" said PC Steve conspiratorially. "But I do need some background. He's had the cane before? And a good slippering?"
"Yes, quite a lot, when he was younger. It was noted on his reports. By the Headmaster. He was a bad lad then, alright."
"You didn't follow it up ever, then?"
"Oh no, no. Isobel wouldn't wear it."
"Hmmm, seems to me that she wore the trousers in that relationship!"
"Mmmm. That's tired old territory though, Steve. And I was happy to leave it to the Head, who could be an unforgiving bastard at times, to be perfectly frank."
"Well, Peter's obviously a lad who needs a firm masculine hand. The smack of discipline! The bite of the cane! Don't you think?"
"You won't be too hard on him, will you?"
"I said to leave it to me, but I certainly won't go off half-cock! Let's just say I have some experience with this sort of thing. He's in safe hands. Or safe-ish hands!"
And so it was that PC Churlington put his plan into action. With inside information from the concerned father, he'd staked out the likely venue for young Peter to be practicing mayhem with his air rifle. He soon spied the lad and his mate, Rowan Knight, shooting at cans and the bark of trees on the edge of the medieval forest. There was just the one gun, which Peter was allowing his friend to use now and then. After a short but purposeful toot on his whistle, PC Steve bellowed, "Oi! You two! What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Crikey! It's the cops!" cried Rowan with amazing powers of perception, before he scarpered away, his fat teenage thighs working harder than they ever had before. Peter was left holding the baby, or rather the gun. Suddenly the rifle seemed very heavy in his sweaty grip as he stared into the penetrating blue eyes of the constable.
"It's all legal, Officer!" exclaimed Peter.
The policeman grabbed the lad firmly by his ear, "Oh no it's not! Not in a public place like this, and this PC says a licence is needed under new legislation. Have you got a licence? My diligent research suggests that you have not."
"The new 1967 legislation requires a licence! Use of firearms especially in forested areas is strictly controlled, you know."
"What new legislation? They didn't mention that at the shop when I bought the gun. With respect, I reckon you're pulling my leg, Officer!"
"Oh no I'm not, sonny! And that's enough of your lip! Now, we can deal with this down at the station, with all the paperwork and publicity in the local papers. The Echo loves to print this sort of stuff. Right next to all the reports about the dirty importuners. Would you like all of that?"
"Errr, no. No. I wouldn't."
"No, I bet you wouldn't! Neither would your parents, I'd imagine. Well in that case, I could deal with this at my place. Off the record. Unofficially."
"Eh? What do you mean, deal with it?"
"I mean some corporal punishment for you my lad. A sore arse. A good hiding. I'm sure you've had one before?"
"Yeah, but those days are gone. Gone when I left that bloody tyrannical school. Long gone. Thank God!"
"Well it's up to you. If that's your decision, I'll just get the handcuffs from the patrol car. I should warn you that you'll be sharing a cell. We've just arrested a particularly nasty bunch of Rockers and some Mods."
"Oh. No, wait. Wait, please Officer! Surely there's another way?"
"I've already told you. It's back to mine, or take your chances down the station."
"But that's no choice at all!"
"Of course it's a choice! Now which is it to be? Hurry up, I don't have all day."
"OK, your place then."
"You mean, thank you, Officer, I'll come with you."
"Thank you Officer, I'll come with you." Adopting a submissive tone seemed somehow appropriate.
"That's better," said the constable as he pointed to the car. He opened the boot, and Peter stashed the air rifle carefully away, as instructed. The car soon left the forest way behind, with Peter sat in the back. The constable eyed his uneasy companion in the rear-view mirror and chuckled quietly. His devious plan was working and his naive prey had been well and truly captured.
The car skidded to a halt outside the ramshackle building that the policeman shared with his bachelor landlord. The two men stepped out, with Peter retrieving his air rifle. "Upstairs!" ordered the cop.
In his bedroom, as Peter watched, PC Steve laid out two crook-handled rattan canes, a favourite leather strap, some soothing cream balm, and he prised the lid off a small tin of Vaseline, just so he'd be ready instantly for any golden opportunity that presented itself. Peter blushed at the disturbing array as it was gradually unveiled before his disbelieving eyes.
"Just how old are you?"
"Errr, I was eighteen in March."
"In that case, we'll start with eighteen strokes of the strap! One for each year of your age. Seems more than fair to me. So there will be six on your slacks, six on your underpants, and six on the bare. Now, bend over the end of the divan for me." The burnt umber leather strap soon started to crack down purposefully, and punishingly. Whack after whack inflamed, irritated and distressed the cheeks of the cheeky teenager. The pain intesified of course as the layers of clothing were shed. After the beating, Peter was grateful when he was allowed to stand and rub his sore buttocks, but it was only a temporary respite.
Next it was time to reinforce the lesson with the bite of the rattan. The cop flexed the cane menacingly only a few inches from the teenager's nose. He scythed it through the air a few times. The sound took Peter back to the helplessness he'd felt during his school punishments. "Lie down flat on the bed. I think at least eighteen strokes with my beautiful canes. You're lucky to receive this care and attention. Make sure you count out loud after each stroke."
"Yes Officer, thank you Officer."
Peter braced himself for the onslaught. Nothing could have prepared him for the pain of the first stroke which was delivered with considerable heft by the fit young policeman. It was worse, far worse, than any caning at school. After the leathering, this was real agony. The second stroke followed after a lengthy pause. It was a gentler stroke, but still with a bite. PC Steve alternated heavy and milder strokes, but he suddenly stopped after the eighth. "You forgot to count. We'll have to start back at one, I'm afraid. Now, pay attention and do as you're told."
Peter groaned at his own stupidity in forgetting to count. How foolish he had been! Indeed, he'd had a most stupid day all round. He felt the tell-tale tap of the cane, before it was raised high in the air for the first of the repeat strokes. As it crashed down, Peter was properly prepared this time, "One!" he cried.
"No, no, no!" said the cop, "That won't do at all. I expect respect from you and 'One, Sir' or 'One Officer' or 'One, Constable'. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Sir! Sorry, Sir!"
So the caning and the counting resumed. This time the only pause was when the cop decide to swap from his "Bruiser" cane to "The Stinger" in the hope of getting more vocal reactions from his victim. With each solid whack the lad's arse bobbed up and down just like a fairground horse ride. Yes, he was bobbing and lifting to meet the cane just in time for each painful disciplinary stroke. Maybe it was involuntary, or just some kind of a natural submissive reaction to the rhythm of the punishment.
He gasped and groaned, and writhed and turned. The switch to "The Stinger" had worked! Peter became more frenzied and then suddenly at around twenty strokes the gasps became pleas for more! That cruel cane had rekindled something within him. Clearly the lad was experienced, and was well on his way to developing a taste for the discipline. PC Steve had found himself a masochist! The two were well-matched.
"Hmm. Looks like you enjoyed that. Just look at the state of your penis!" A silvery string of pre-cum was dripping from the rock-hard teenage erection. "Make sure you sell the gun, now."
"Oh I will, I will. Whatever you ask, Officer."
"You can call me Steve."
Suddenly they kissed passionately. Peter had never kissed a man before, moustached or not! He loved it, and what followed. He became a frequent visitor to PC Steve's lonely garret. The lad received the cane regularly and they indulged in many other activities which may or may not have been legal at the time, and about which even the editor of the Echo would have been too embarrassed to publish.
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. Comments are here. Comments from the original 2019 post are here.
Posted by Rod Cayenne on September 11, 2022
Posted in: cane, caning, M/M, spank, spanking. Tagged: cane, caning, confession, discipline, father, M/M, nephew, priest, punishment, spanking, uncle, vicar. 3 Comments
Barry's Beating by Rod Cayenne
It was a sad, dismal Thursday afternoon in September. Grey and moody clouds threatened an overdue downpour. Barry had pedalled fast to get to The Vicarage. He was visiting his ageing great uncle, as was his wont at least once a month. In the plush and spacious lounge the two men were enjoying one of their occasional chats. This time the conversation was turning more frank than usual.
"The truth is that I hate pretty much everyone and everything!" Barry declared. He really meant it, too. His uncle had already given the lad a beer to help calm his nerves, but evidently, it had not worked. The lad paused to reflect for a moment on what he'd just said. It had just slipped out, after all. He swigged on the brown bottle. As usual, he had declined a glass.
Uncle scoffed at the irate words. "Tut, tut, still in angry teenager mode, then, Barry?"
"That's not very diplomatic!"
"I believe in plain speaking. It's the way of the good Lord. I do hope you don't hate me, along with everyone else," he said adjusting his starched white dog collar, "You have a lot of anger issues, don't you? For a 24-year-old. Why so bitter?"
"Oh, I don't know. It's just me. And I really don't hate you. It's just me. Just ignore it."
"I'm not sure that I can. You know what I think might help? Prayer, my boy. The power of prayer. It can be a great healer. Give it some thought."
"Well, I don't know. I'm not sure that's what I really need."
"So, what do you think you need then?"
"Well, I'm not sure I should mention it. But Dad confided in me."
"About?"
"Err, well. It's difficult. You might not want to discuss it. You see, Dad mentioned your cane."
"Ah, he did, did he? I'm surprised at that. He really should not have told you. So, what did he say about it?"
"Well he was telling me about how he felt cleansed and uplifted after a good, hard thrashing."
"Indeed, indeed. And well sore, I should imagine."
"Well, yes of course. It must have hurt. But, you know, strangely as soon as he told me about it, I felt calmer."
"I see, I think. And do tell me, where is this all leading?"
"Well, do you still have it?"
"Have what?" uncle said, feigning obtuseness. He was toying with his visitor, of course.
However, Barry was getting uncomfortable, with his anger resurfacing. He shouted, "That cane, that fuckin' cane!"
Uncle gasped with mock horror, "No."
Barry gazed into uncle's brown eyes, saying only, "Oh." He was disappointed.
"No, that cane broke. They sometimes do when used with vigour. But I do still have a couple of others. Ideal for thrashing moody, foul-mouthed young men!"
"Oh. Errr, right."
"Let me tell you now, my canes tamed and calmed your father and his brothers. Has he only just mentioned that to you? Hmmm? He took his time, although I'm disappointed as I had instructed him to keep our little secret. Anyway, the fact is that I think it's just what you need. A good, hard caning. Yes, there are times when a penance has to be paid, as your father may testify. Perhaps now is one of those occasions?"
Suddenly Barry was not so keen. In fact, he felt a little bit stupid, "Well, I don't know. It all sounds a bit strange. Though, I've always wondered what it would be like. Corporal punishment, I mean. It might toughen me up, I suppose."
"Exactly! You want to try it, I think. It's strange, but it might help you."
"Alright, alright. Maybe I do. But don't tell Dad."
"I won't. You can be sure of that. Mum's the word. Some of us are very good at keeping secrets. I see it as part of my job and my calling. Let me go and fetch a cane and you can take a look, and we'll take it from there."
He disappeared for what seemed like an eternity. His impatient visitor could hear various wooden cupboard doors banging and a lot clattering. Eventually the old man reappeared. Barry's eyes were immediately drawn to the cane his uncle held. It looked scary, about three feet long, with that crook handle you see in old illustrations and plates. Barry gulped and said, "I'm not so sure now, Uncle."
"Don't mess me about, Barry! I think we've already established that you want and need a caning, haven't we? You will definitely feel the benefit."
At that moment, Barry was more worried about feeling pain, rather than any benefit, "Sorry, uncle. I don't think I can go through with it, after all."
"No, no. Nonsense! Now, this particular cane has served me well. It's a senior model left over from my private tutoring days. It has helped eighteen-year-olds struggling with their re-sits. And young men in their twenties, just like you."
"Just like me?"
"Yes, just like you."
"OK, OK, let's do it then. Where do you want me?"
"Very well. Let's have you bending over my desk. That's it. That's good. Now stick your bottom out a bit more. I need a good target for my cane. You wouldn't want me to miss, now would you?"
"No, uncle."
"No, indeed. So, stick it out some more. Be a good lad. Up a bit more. That's it! Good."
Barry's pert, trousered rump was now presented ready for the lash of the cane. Despite being fully clothed, the smooth curves of the masculine bottom were tempting in an almost obscene manner, inviting the harshest of sadistic canings from the older man. However, the vicar was wise and canny, knowing full well that it would that he should not be too hard on the lad this first time. A little pain kept in reserve could help to help secure repeat sessions in the future!
The first stroke of the cane generated almost instant heat and pain, just as intended. Barry gasped and cursed as the burn sunk in. He stood up, rubbing his pert backside. Despite this, Barry's calm and youthful face betrayed no resentment despite his obvious pain.
"What do you think you're doing, Barry? Get back down immediately! We've barely started!"
The vicar pushed the lad down roughly, and drew his arm back and put his whole body weight into delivering a fierce second blow. The sound ricocheted around the room, and Barry grunted plaintively. Once again, he stood up involuntarily, his hands flying to soothe his assaulted bottom.
"Get back down! Really, this is not good enough. It's supposed to hurt, you know. Such disobedience! I shall not tell you again. If it happens again I'll add penalty strokes. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sorry uncle. Very clear. It won't happen again. Sorry, it's just a bit of a shock."
The lad bent over again, raising his bottom submissively. The third stroke followed with with the cane making a delightful whoosh and a deeper cracking retort, as it struck Barry's aching bottom. Rapidly, the vicar slashed the stick down for a fourth stroke. This time the lad cried out loudly. The vicar ignored the obvious distress of his young relative. He'd heard it all before, many a time, after all.
The old man thrashed the penultimate stroke down with a vicious crack! Barry remained in position, determined now to take each and every stroke as stoically as possible. The vicar teased the lad by tapping the cane playfully against the shapely bottom cheeks, and then thrashed down a final stroke. Barry let out a final deep and sexual grunt. His eyes were moist. It had been really painful and, indeed, humiliating.
"There, I think we can call that a firm first caning, if not quite six of the best. Has that done the trick?"
Barry took that as a cue to stand up, and he rubbed his scorched arse frantically. Shit, yes it had done some good despite the pain. He could feel a serene calm taking over. But he knew the answer to his uncle's question was really a no. So he said it out loud, much to his surprise.
"No, no, not really. It's helped, but I think I need some more. Please."
"My, my, you are a glutton for punishment, aren't you? Really? Well, let's see if we can wipe that impudent grin off your face. Would it help if your further chastisement was on you bare flesh?"
"Give over, uncle!"
"Less of your cheek, young man! I'll take that as a yes! Get your trousers down right now!"
Reluctantly, Barry unbuckled his thin black leather belt, and allowed his trousers to fall in an untidy heap around his feet.
"A good start, my boy. Your underpants will have to come down too. Let me pull them down for you. Mmmmm. Nice, crisp white pants, clean on, Barry?"
"Oh, yes. Of course." Barry had been sure to put some fresh underpants on with this sort of potential outcome in mind. And he did want to please his uncle, very much. In truth, though, he wasn't always so thoughtful.
"Ah, yes. That's a very, very nice bottom, Barry. Almost divine. Let's see if we can turn the pink to red, shall we?"
Six more strokes were donated in quick and painful succession by the whippy old cane. These strokes were evidently a bit harder, as Barry's delightfully bare bottom squirmed, bucked, rose and fell as if following instructions from the remorseless stick. It had been an entertaining and gratifying show for the old man, who was now doing his damndest to hide a rare and pleasing erection in his Harris Tweed trousers.
Barry was to leave the vicarage on his battered old pushbike. It was going to be a sore ride home, that was for sure. The skies were darkening with imminent rain. He stopped off at the public conveniences in the local park. He chained his bike to a drainpipe and went inside. A couple of old men he thought he knew were standing at the urinal, cocks in hand.
Barry didn't join them, instead he headed into one of the cubicles, and slammed and bolted the door. He was desperate to have a good feel of his bottom after his first caning. He unbuckled his belt, not for the first time that afternoon. He dropped his trousers and underpants. His hands immediately flew to his scarred cheeks. He could feel distinct, raised weals. They were sore to the touch, but also somehow strangely exciting. He rubbed the scars and then he rubbed his penis. Sure enough he was rewarded with a strong and virile erection. He tried to peer at his bottom, but it was hard to get a proper view of the marks he wanted to see. That would have to wait until he was back home in his bedroom with a choice of mirrors to use.
Barry bent over towards the cistern, so that he could feel the marks better. He had the uneasy feeling that he was being watched. That was a distinct possibility as he noticed that the walls of the cubicle had a few peepholes. His suspicions seemed to be confirmed as was sure he heard a faint whistle of what he assumed was admiration from the cubicle to his left. He ignored it as he inspected his bottom further. A minute or so later, a hastily-scribbled note was passed under the partition. Against his better judgement, Barry picked it up and read it. It said, "Been a naughty boy? Let me in." Barry was excited, tempted, but also disgusted. He would pass up on that invitation. He screwed the note up and threw it into the pan. He had a quick slash, flushed and left the toilets in a hurry.
Barry's unwashed hands gripped the handlebar and he pedalled away furiously. What an interesting afternoon it had been. Perhaps the most exciting of the year. Of his entire life maybe? Exciting. Exhilerating. Sexy. Memorable. Enjoyable. Unforgettable. Painful. Distressing. Arousing! His mind was awash with conflicting thoughts and emotions. One word kept recurring. That word was "Repeatable". He felt sure that the event could be repeated. He could manipulate his uncle into giving him another caning, he was sure. After all, it sounded like his father had had multiple encounters with the stick.
His father! Oh God, what if he found out? He had asked his uncle for discretion. Surely, he wouldn't tell? Uncle had promised that he wouldn't but right now Barry wasn't feeling particularly trusting. And then another horrific though sprang up in his mind. What if his father found out anyway? And then, what if his father were to acquire a cane? He didn't want that! Or maybe he did? At 24, and living at home, if it were to happen he wouldn't be the only lad living in the shadow of a parental cane. In some ways, he felt that every father should keep a cane for disciplinary purposes.
Back home at last, Barry made his weary way up the stairs to his bedroom. He turned the key in the lock, and was soon completely naked. At last he could get a proper look at the damage! Yes, the large mirror revealed a pert bottom criss-crossed by angry red cane lines. Those marks would take some time to disappear, he though to himself. He could see why the old perv in the toilets had been impressed. He grabbed a hand mirror to get a closer view. Impressive, he thought! And there we leave Barry inspecting himself and masturbating hard with determination.
Meanwhile, back at the Vicarage, the the old uncle gazed at the cane which was still on his desk. How he loved it! In a rectory full of joyless trinkets and souvenirs, that cane, along with a few others, was what brought him the most pleasure. What an unexpected delight that fun-filled afternoon that had been. He laughed quietly to himself. He expected Barry to be back sometime, as the lad was clearly a masochist in the making.
With the coast clear and his erection long gone, the old man picked up the telephone. He rang Barry's father, "You have betrayed our old secret and are in obvious need of a reminder."
"Now come on, one of us brothers was bound to tell young Barry, sooner or later."
"Maybe it was inevitable, but it's still not acceptable. Not by any means."
"Well, I'm sorry, that's all I can say."
"Not good enough. Not nearly good enough. No more argument. You are in definite need of that firm reminder. Report to me forthwith!"
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.
Story © MMXXII by Rod Cayenne. All rights reserved.
Comments welcome – authors love your feedback, so please leave some. Comments are here.
Posted by Rod Cayenne on August 29, 2022
Posted in: cane, caning, M/M, spank, spanking. Tagged: anal, bare, blackmail, boyfriend, brother, cane, caning, discipline, erection, Joelstrap, M/M, punishment, teacher, teen, teenager. 1 Comment
A hot and brand spanking new caning story by very special guest author JOELSTRAP. This story is exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are 18 or over. WARNING: ADULTS ONLY!
Caning Practice by Joelstrap
The doorbell rang while we were at breakfast. Dad looked up at me and I rose to go and answer it. Muttering irritably to myself about people who called before nine in the morning, I opened the door and scowled.
"Hi, mate! Parcel for you," declared the postman as he handed me a long, narrow tube, wrapped in brown paper.
I glanced at the address-label and saw that it was for Dean, my elder brother.
"Okay, thanks," I said and the postman strode off down the path, whistling tunelessly.
I returned to the kitchen and handed the parcel to Dean. He looked at it for a moment and then began to rip off the paper to reveal a cardboard cylinder, closed with a plastic cap at each end. He prised open one cap and pulled out a lithe, slender school cane.
"It's a beauty," he breathed, standing up and lashing it hard in a downward motion so that it made a whining-sound. "Think they'll feel that, Garry?" he asked me.
"Oh, yeh, they'll feel it," I assured him. "You gonna hit them as hard as that?"
"Depends how old they are and how bad they've been," replied Dean with a grin.
He arched the cane into a smooth arc and I eyed it warily. I'd turned eighteen a couple of months past, and had left school just six weeks ago to work on a local farm until my college-course began in September. All the same, it was over a year since I'd had a cane used on me; but I hadn't forgotten how much it could sting. I watched as Dean experimented with the slender rod, bending it, swinging it, flicking it. Dean was four years my senior and had just completed his degree and teacher-training and was at home for the summer before he started his first teaching-job in September. That's why he was ready to use that cane.
"Why did you buy it so soon?" I asked. "It's gonna be a couple of months before you can use it."
"I need to get the hang of how to cane properly," he informed me. "There's an art in it, Garry. Remember how that French teacher, Bong, used to do a huge swing; and it hardly hurt a bit?"
"Yeh; but old Fractions just seemed to give a little swing and a flick of his wrist and it stung like an angry hornet," I agreed.
"So, I need to practise," Dean told me. "I don't want the boys laughing behind my back because I can't cane them properly and really make them feel it."
"I guess. I'm glad you're never gonna be my teacher, because I think you'll be able to make that vicious rod feel like a thousand bee-stings at once."
Dean grinned and slashed the cane down on to the plastic surface of a kitchen-chair. Dad jumped and looked up from his newspaper.
"For goodness sake, Dean, watch what you're doing! If you want to practise with that thing, go up to your room," he said.
"You could use your pillow," I suggested.
"You could not," said mother, coming into the kitchen with a pile of dirty-washing. "I'm not having my good pillows split open by you messing around with a cane."
"Yes, mum. It's okay. I wasn't planning to use it on my pillow. I was hoping that Garry would volunteer to let me practise on him," said my big brother.
"You what?" I gasped.
"I wondered if you'd let me practise caning you," said Dean.
"Why the hell would I do that?" I demanded angrily.
"Because you're a good brother and you want to help me," replied Dean with an encouraging smile.
"That's one way I don't want to help you," I retorted firmly.
"Aw, go on, Garry! It's not as if you haven't been caned often enough at school. You know what to expect."
"Yeh, I do. I expect a hell of a sting in my arse, and I …….."
"Right, that's enough, Garry," interrupted dad. "You don't use language like that here. Any more of it and I might borrow Dean's cane and see how I get on using it on you."
"Sorry, dad," I said hastily.
"I could give him a few strokes of my cane to punish him for his bad language right now," offered Dean eagerly. "It'd be great practice for me and do Garry a lot of good too."
"I told you," I snapped irritably, "you're not using that bl…..blasted cane on me!"
"Tell him he needs to help me practise, please dad," urged Dean.
"Don't be silly, Dean. Garry's eighteen. He can make up his own mind; and if he doesn't want you to practise caning him, then that's an end of it. I've got to go," he said, standing up.
Dad went out and mum began to clear away the breakfast-things. I went up to my room to get ready for going out to the farm and was just about to head off down the stairs when Dean came in, still holding his cane.
"Look, I know the cane stings," he said. "I got it too at school. It's meant to hurt after all; but could you not help me, please? I know you're not a wimp and you can take a bit of pain without making a silly fuss. Maybe just six across your jeans or shorts?"
"I said no!" I retorted.
"It'd only be once a day," Dean said.
"Once a day? You think I'm gonna bend over and let you give me six of the cane once every day all fucking summer? Not bloody likely, chum!"
"You could take it, Garry. You're a tough young bugger," said Dean.
"That's not the point," I insisted. "You're not caning me and that's all there is to it. Now get out of the way and let me get to the farm or I'll be late."
Dean sighed and stood aside to let me pass.
"At least think about it," he called after me as I went out the front-door.
On Saturday morning, I went out for a run after breakfast. I needed to be by myself for a bit because my boyfriend and I had just split up, by mutual agreement. We'd both accepted that it wasn't working; but the separation still hurt and I had to work through it in my head. I'd got myself to the point where I'd decided that I'd go to the gay-disco that evening, not necessarily looking for a new boyfriend, but just to be with other guys and have some fun.
I was on a narrow, quiet road high on the side of a valley, enjoying the steady trot along a fairly level stretch after a long and challenging climb, when a cyclist passed me, heading in the opposite direction. We exchanged a brief greeting and I continued to run until I felt a sharp pain in my left shoe and stopped to remove it and extract the small stone which had somehow worked its way in. As I did so, I noticed that the cyclist had turned and was coming along behind me; but had stopped at the verge and appeared to be admiring the view across the valley. I wondered vaguely why he'd turned at that point as it wasn't a road-junction or even a farm at which he might have decided to turn back. I ran on and then, surprised he hadn't passed me, glanced back to see him still not far behind and moving very slowly. I continued running a bit longer and on looking behind once more, I saw he was still there, cycling at a glacial pace. I stopped and waited so that he was forced to catch me up. As he approached I admired his lean figure and the profusion of brown curls which tumbled over his forehead. He'd be in his very early twenties, I reckoned, and he wasn't half sexy.
He came to a stop, one foot on the ground, the other on a pedal, and smiled at me.
"I guess you wonder what I'm up to?" he asked.
"Yeh. You turned round and came back, but you never passed me," I replied, leaving it to him to explain his behaviour.
"You see, I just wanted to look at you," he said, showing slightly red in the face.
"Oh. Right. You…uh…you like me, huh?"
"Oh, boy, yeh, I do! I liked the look of you when I was cycling towards you and then after I passed you, I looked round and nearly fell off my bike."
"Best to look the way you're going, eh?" I suggested.
"No, no. It wasn't because I was heading for the hedge. It was your arse."
"My arse? What's wrong with my arse?"
"There's nothing bloody wrong with it," he shouted suddenly, throwing his hands in the air. "It's a fantastic arse! It's the best arse I've ever seen, ever! I turned round and started to come back behind you, just so I could keep on looking at that incredible bottom. In those short, tight running-shorts of yours, it was like a magnet. It drew me and I had to follow. That's why I stayed behind; so I could just enjoy your bum while you ran."
I eyed him warily. "You like my bum?"
"I worship your bum."
I flushed and looked at my feet.
"You're cute when you're embarrassed," he remarked.
"Er, thanks," I replied.
"Look, I know this is a bit forward of me, but I'd really like to get to know you a bit better," he said. "I'm Tim, by the way."
"Garry," I said, extending my hand. "Um; do you know the Guylife disco? I'm going there tonight."
"That's a gay disco," he said.
"Yeh, I know. That's why I'm going; but I thought that….well, since you like my arse, I thought maybe you were……."
I dried up. He grinned broadly at me.
"Bent as a boomerang," he announced. "I've been to Guylife a few times and I'm definitely going tonight. See you there, Garry."
I stood naked in my room, looking at my bottom in the mirror. It seemed to have featured strongly in my life recently. My bastard of a brother wanted to cane it. Tim had said he worshipped it. It just looked like the same bottom I'd always had and known. Sure, it was rather neat and the glutes were taut with the running; but why was everyone apparently so obsessed with it?
I showered and dressed in very brief, tight shorts and a close-fitting t-shirt. I decided to go commando because that way my posterior assets really stood out. I was having a final look in the mirror when there was a knock on my door and Dean came in, holding his cane.
"Wow!" he ejaculated. "If you were any sexier even I might fall for you."
"Ha, bloody ha! What do you want?"
"I'm still needing someone to practise on with my cane," he said. "I thought maybe a nice stinging arse, after six with my cane, might drive your sex-appeal up a notch or two?"
"There's nothing wrong with my sex-appeal, you cheeky bastard," I retorted, rolling my eyes and giving him a crude gesture.
"You should be caned bloody hard for that," he observed.
"Yeh? Well, you can stick your bloody cane where the sun don't shine," I told him brutally. "Fuck off!"
"Don't blame me if another guy goes off with a boy you like the look of," he said. "Just a tiny bit of a cane-welt showing at the edge of those obscenely-tight shorts should get you a bit of extra attention."
For a moment, I almost found myself agreeing with him and then I said, "As it happens, I'll be meeting a guy who was so taken with my arse when he saw me out running this morning, that he actually turned round and followed me so he could perv on my bum. If I can do that to a guy without cane-marks, I don't think I need them at a hot, sweaty, testosterone-rich disco."
"Okay. Suit yourself; but, Garry, remember that you're just out of a relationship. Don't go letting the first guy who comes along get into your pants, just because you're feeling a bit down or lonely. Be sensible, huh?"
"I am sensible," I protested. "You don't need to talk to me like I'm a kid!"
"Fine! Keep your hair on. I care about you," said Dean.
I felt a pang of guilt and smiled at him.
"I know; and I appreciate it. I'll be sensible, I promise."
"But not even a couple of strokes with my new cane, just to……….?"
"Out!" I shouted; and Dean retired, grinning broadly.
I took one final look in the mirror and then headed off to the disco.
There was no sign of Tim, but I danced with one or two very attractive guys and enjoyed myself as I flirted and explored. After a particularly energetic dance, I retired panting to a table and poured myself a huge glass of water. One of the guys I'd been dancing with earlier came up and sat beside me, his eyes wide, his lips parted, the front of his shorts positively straining. Between my legs, my body reacted strongly and I smiled encouragingly at him.
"Hi, hot-arse!"
We both turned and there was Tim, stunningly clad in a leather t-shirt and leather shorts, and wearing large, heavy black boots. I stood up, gasping as my roaring erection caught on the waist of my shorts.
"Er, sorry," I said to the lad with whom I'd been dancing earlier, "but I said I'd meet this guy here."
The boy got up with an expression of disappointment on his face, and slid silently away.
"Was he trying to get into your pants?" enquired Tim.
"What? No! We'd been dancing together and I kinda liked him."
"I didn't mean to break you up."
"It's okay. I can find him later if I need to."
"Great. Beer?"
"I won't be long," he said as he stood to go across to the bar. "No chatting up sexy boys while I'm away or I'll beat that exquisite arse of yours until you can't sit down."
I half bent over in pain as my penis responded to this display of dominance; and sat down suddenly so that I could rearrange things under cover of the table-top. I gazed admiringly at his leather-clad shoulders as he moved to the bar and waited to be served before returning with our drinks and sitting down beside me.
"Cheers!" he said. "To the best bum I've ever seen."
"Cheers! You look hell of a sexy in leather. I mean, I thought you looked hot in your cycling-gear this morning, but now you're just……oh, fuck!"
"I'll take that as a compliment," he said with a grin, winking at me over the rim of his glass.
We chatted comfortably and I learned that he'd completed his second year at Uni and was planning to train as a teacher in due course.
"Shit! I've got a big brother who's doing the same," I admitted. "He's not here though. He's straight as they come. So you must be about two years older than me?"
"Yeh. That bother you, Garry?"
"Nuh. I kind of like a guy who's a bit older than me. Sometimes I think I need a guy just to keep control of me. That was kind of exciting when you said you'd beat the hell out of me if you found me flirting with another boy. I know you didn't mean it literally, but I………"
"Why do you think I didn't mean it?"
I stared at him and asked carefully, "Are you saying you did mean it? You really would have tanned my hide if there'd been another boy at the table here when you came back from the bar?"
"You bet your sweet life I would! I could really make that fantastic bottom of yours glow like a brace of suns," he declared astoundingly.
"Fuck! My brute of a big brother wants to cane me as practice for when he starts his first teaching job in the autumn. He actually had the nerve to say he wants to give me six every day for the rest of the summer. Like I'm gonna agree to that!"
"Well if your brother's first in the queue to beat that perfect bottom of yours, I'll be right behind him," declared Tim.
"You really want to beat me?" I asked doubtfully.
"Hell, yes! I get why your brother wants to practise on you with his cane. I'd love to take my cane to those perfect globes of yours too."
"You've got a cane?"
"Sure. I inherited it from my granddad. He used it before he retired from teaching. So, you said you didn't want your big brother to cane you; but what about me? Would you like me to cane you, Garry?"
"No way! I don't want to be caned! I got the cane plenty at school and it fucking hurt. I don't want any more," I protested.
"Okay, fair enough. So how about showing me what you can do on the dance-floor?"
I got to my feet and he followed me out. We had a great time. He was good and by the time we collapsed, panting and sweating on a bench, we were both desperately hot for each other. All the same, I could hear in my head the words of Dean earlier, warning me against just having sex as a reaction to my split with my ex-boyfriend. He might have been a sadistic brute as far as practising with his cane was concerned, but I did listen to him, because I knew he cared about me; even if he did want to cane me every day for weeks on end!
Tim and I engaged in some intimate kissing and exploring of each other's body and then I told him I really liked him and would like to meet him again. I expected him to try to persuade me at this point to go home with him; but he was perfectly well-behaved, took me by the hand and said he'd walk me home. He did too; and kissed me passionately under cover of a large bush at our gate before asking if I'd like to run with him the next morning. I agreed with alacrity.
I made my way in and upstairs quietly, because it was almost 1 a.m. and everyone was in bed. I was slipping along from the bathroom to my own room when Dean's door opened and he beckoned me into his room.
"What? I'm ready to crash," I informed him.
"I just wanted to know if you met anyone," he said mildly.
"Yeh, I met up with the guy I saw while I was out running this morning. I told you about him."
"You didn't….?"
"No, I didn't! Believe it or not, I do listen to you; and I knew you were right about not just letting a guy into my pants too soon, on the rebound like. But Tim was okay; and he didn't pressure me. We're going running tomorrow morning."
"I'm glad you're being sensible. Now, before you go off to bed, how about letting me have a little go at your arse with my cane? A stinging bum should make you sleep like a baby; and you'll need a good sleep if you're gonna run with a hot guy in the morning."
"You never give up, do you?" I complained in exasperation. "Believe it or not, Tim's in the same boat as you, but a couple of years behind, just done his second year at Uni and aiming to be a teacher; and he's got a cane."
"How do you know that?"
"He told me."
"You telling me he wants to practise caning you as well?"
"No! But he did say that I had such an amazing arse that he wanted to beat it; but when I said no, he said that was fair enough and changed the subject. Some people know how to take no for an answer," I added meaningly.
"So you're not gonna let me cane you tonight?"
I rolled my eyes at him and then kissed him on the cheek.
"So, where are you running tomorrow?" he enquired.
"Eh? Hadn't thought about it."
"Try down the river through the estate. Some good thick clumps of rhodies there for you to hide behind if you can't keep your hands off each other," he suggested.
"Yeh; that sounds good actually. I'll see what Tim thinks."
"Good night, Garry."
"Thanks for the good advice," I said and headed along to my own room.
Tim liked the idea of the run my big brother had suggested and we set off side-by-side, running steadily along a track until we reached the river-bank; and then on a path which ran under trees, among bushes, beside open fields. When we paused for a brief break, Tim slid his hand over my buttocks and my penis leapt.
"The next section of path's kind of narrow, so I'm gonna run behind you," he said.
"You just want to perv on my arse," I accused.
"Why not? It's a fantastic arse," asserted Tim; and he took me by the shoulders, turned me to face him fully, and kissed me.
"What was that for?" I asked.
"For having a brilliant bottom," he replied.
I felt myself going slightly red.
"I've still got the same bottom," I remarked; and he took the hint and kissed me again.
"Wow!" I panted.
"Come on; let's run," urged Tim.
Eventually we came to the edge of a village where private gardens ran down to the river.
"I guess it's time to turn back," said Tim. "That's the only snag with this run. We can't make a circle."
"Yeh we can," I said. "We just need to go back about half a mile and there's a viaduct, so we could cross the river and go back the other side."
"But that's the railway-bridge. We can't cross that. We'd get into trouble if we were seen," objected Tim.
"I've crossed it lots of times," I assured him. "As long as you look and listen carefully to make sure there's no trains coming, you can race across on the service-path beside the track in well under a minute."
"Okay; lead the way," said Tim.
The bridge was well out in the deep countryside and there was no-one to see. We made sure no train was coming and then tore swiftly across and paused, panting to catch our breath on the other side. We took the chance to try out some more kissing before beginning the run home.
On Sunday evening, mum and dad had gone out to play Bridge with friends and I was watching TV when Dean came in. He was holding his cane.
"You're not practising caning on my bum," I told him, "so you can just put that thing away."
"I've got something to show you," said Dean, and he handed me a photograph.
It was slightly out of focus, but there was no doubt that the picture was of me, with Tim just behind me; and we were running full pelt over the railway-bridge. I stared and then looked up at Dean.
"Where did you get this?" I demanded.
"Took it myself," replied my big brother smugly. "I thought there was a good chance you'd use the bridge so you could make a circle. That's why I suggested that route, and I watched to see if that's where you were going and then came along the other side to get a snap of you coming across. Pretty good, eh?"
My mind was whirring like a machine in over-drive; and I was starting to see where this was leading. I leapt to my feet and glared furiously at Dean.
"You're gonna show this to dad if I don't let you practise caning on my arse, aren't you?" I accused.
"Boy! You're quick," he admitted with a broad grin. "Or even the police; or the station-master. Plenty options really. Whichever way, you're in very hot water, little brother. Dad will probably ground you for the rest of the summer and your driving-lessons will vanish faster than a ferret up a drainpipe; and he'll probably take his belt to your arse as well."
"You vicious, sadistic bastard!" I raged at him.
"Now, now, Garry. Crossing the railway-bridge is illegal and you have to be punished to teach you not to do it again. Like I said, dad would probably put you under house-arrest; and the police might really arrest you. On the other hand, you could just bend over and take a good caning from me, and that would be the end of it."
"It's not like you've not run across the railway-bridge often enough," I said bitterly.
"Have I? I don't remember. Where's the evidence? You on the other hand have certainly done so at least once; and you're holding the proof."
I glanced automatically towards the fire, but Dean just smiled and said quietly, "I've still got the negative."
"Fuck!" I swore violently.
"So, ready to let me do a bit of practice on your behind with my new cane, Garry?"
"I haven't got much choice, have I, you stinking brute? You've got me over a barrel."
"Okay, that's a good tight pair of shorts you're wearing. Just bend over with your hands on the edge of the chair. I'm just wanting to practise my aim, so you shouldn't find this any trouble."
I rolled my eyes at him, but positioned myself as instructed. To my surprise, the strokes gave a sharp sting, but I'd had much harder canings over the years. After about twenty strokes, I could feel that he was getting his aim right and every one was landing in a band between the crown of my bottom and its lower edge. It actually felt quite exciting and stimulating and my penis was decidedly perky; so much so that I had to reach inside my shorts and rearrange things. Dean noticed.
"So; you like it, huh? Getting your arse beaten turns you on, eh Garry? That looks like some boner you've got there," observed Dean, grinning broadly.
I stood up and plunged my hand into my shorts again, to deal with even more rampant movements, while Dean watched, a huge smile on his face.
"Okay; nice little strokes like that, enough to sting but not too hard, yeh, I liked that, okay? Stop making a bloody meal of it. Go away and leave me alone," I snapped.
"Go away? But I haven't finished."
"You haven't?"
"That was just me practising, getting the range, sizing up the target……"
"My arse isn't a fucking target!" I snarled.
"……….making sure I wasn't hitting too high or too low," continued Dean. "Now I've got the hang of it, I can move on to caning you hard as punishment for crossing the railway-bridge."
"Caning me hard? No way, mate!"
Dean picked up the photograph; and I got the message.
"I never realised before what a sadistic bastard you are," I told him angrily.
"But you realise now, huh?"
"Yeh. I do!"
"Well, just to make sure that you really and truly understand, I'm going to give you six of the best. Maybe that will teach you not to trespass on the railway. Get your shorts and pants down, Garry!"
I stared at him, speechless for several seconds.
"You trying to tell me you're gonna cane me on the bare?"
"You got it in one," agreed Dean.
"We never got the cane on the bare at school," I protested, "and you won't be using your cane on the bare either once you qualify; so you don't need to practise that."
"But this isn't school. It's serious corporal punishment for a tough young eighteen-year-old who needs to be taught a lesson; so you get it bare. Get them down, Garry. Now; or I'll make it eight."
He took a half-step towards me, arching the limber cane menacingly, and I felt the full power of his natural authority. For several seconds I hesitated and then I gave in, shoving shorts and pants to my ankles in one furious movement and immediately bending over again.
"Go on then," I challenged, "let me see if you can use the cane like a real teacher!"
As soon as the words were out, I regretted them and cursed my stupidity in letting my anger get the better of me. Dean slid his cane across my rump and I felt the cool, smooth wood of the rod on my unprotected skin. There was a brief pause and I held my breath; and then he hit me. The slim cane lashed hard across my buttocks just below the crown and a fierce sting blazed in a fiery streak in my flesh. I gasped audibly and fought an urge to rub my bottom. My brain struggled desperately to come to terms with this new situation. No master's punitive cane over the past few years had ever delivered such an intense burn to my behind. Dean had met my challenge head on. As quickly as I could, I steadied myself in readiness for the next stroke. It landed hard and fast just below the first one and another searing blast of pain ripped through my rear. I kept quiet this time and clenched my glutes as tightly as I could while I absorbed the pain.
Dean did a practice-stroke just behind me, making the cane whine as it descended, and I flinched instinctively.
"Bastard!" I muttered under my breath.
"Say something, Garry?"
"No," I replied shortly.
"I can still make it eight if you want," said Dean softly.
"No, thank you," I replied firmly.
The rod rapped repeatedly at my skin and then was swiftly raised and driven in again, delivering a vicious arrow of pain which felt as though it was lacerating my flesh.
I squirmed as I wrestled with the pain.
"Feel that, did you?" Dean enquired.
"You know I bloody felt it," I snarled.
"Language," said Dean. "You do want eight, don't you?"
"No, I'm sorry. Yes, I felt it."
I was revolving in my head all the worst epithets I knew to describe my brute of a big brother, but I held my tongue. I still had three to take and no way did I want it to be five. He hit me again and I failed to stifle a little yelp as the cane burned a blazing pathway along the skin of my lower buttocks. Once more I writhed as I struggled to process the pain. As I awaited the fifth one, I was aware that there was a sheen of sweat on my skin and my whole body was trembling slightly. Furious for letting him see how much he was hurting me, I made an effort to steady myself.
He hit lower still and I bucked and then clenched hard; but I managed to keep silent. I expected him to cross-hatch some of the previous strokes with the final one, but he caught me by surprise and hit me full on my crease. A vicious lash of agonising pain gouged a furrow of shining hell deep in my sensitive flesh and I writhed and kicked as a squeal was forced from me.
I stood, still grasping the edge of the chair with white-knuckled intensity, my body a-quiver with pain, my buttocks throbbing as if an explosion of fiery heat had been detonated there.
"Stand up, Garry."
I obeyed slowly and placed both hands on my tormented bottom, fingers splayed, as I felt my way over the pulsating welts he'd raised on my skin.
"So," demanded Dean, "was that like a real teacher?"
"What was wrong with it?" he asked, sounding slightly aggrieved.
"I didn't say there was anything wrong with it."
"So why wasn't it like being caned by a real teacher, then?"
"Because of all the teachers who've caned me, none of them ever beat me as hard and hurt me as much as you did."
There was a silence while I continued to caress my thrashed bottom, occasionally glancing at Dean from beneath my eyebrows.
"So, I really am a sadistic bastard?" he asked eventually.
"No," I admitted with reluctant admiration, "you're just the best fucking caner I've ever been beaten by; and I'm glad I'll never be in any of your classes!"
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It was," I assured him.
"Have you learned not to cross by the railway-bridge?" asked Dean with a smile.
"I've learned to make damned sure you're not around with a camera any time I do," I replied with a watery grin.
Dean laughed and ruffled my hair.
"You didn't half take it well," he informed me.
"Yeh?" I queried, a glow of pride flooding through me.
"Yeh. Impressive. Now, wait here a moment."
He dashed out of the room and returned a minute or two later with a negative which he handed to me, along with the photograph. I eyed them and then glanced into his face; and he nodded at the fire. I threw them into the flames and watched as they curled up and disintegrated into ashes.
"Right, that's that," said Dean. "Help me turn the sofa round."
"The footie's coming on telly and we're gonna watch it."
"I know; but why turn the sofa round?"
"So you can kneel on it and rest your arms on the back, you chump; and I'll kneel beside you for company," said Dean.
"Thanks," I said. "I never thought of that."
"And thanks for letting me practise with my cane on your arse."
"I didn't let you," I objected. "You forced me."
"Fucking hell!" gasped Tim as I showed him my cane-welts the next evening. "I never knew a cane could do that to a boy. Now, tell me all about it."
We were in my room, where Tim had come at my invitation to spend a few hours. We lay back, side-by-side on my bed and I told him what had happened the previous evening.
"And you think Dean was really impressed with how you took the cane?"
"Yeh, I think he really was."
"And you were impressed with how well he could dish it out?"
I snorted.
"I don't think impressed is the word. Shocked, maybe," I suggested.
"I think I'd like to meet this big brother of yours," said Tim.
"Why? You're not plotting to get me another caning, are you?"
Tim shook his head. I got up and went through to Dean's room and asked him if he'd like to come and meet Tim. He followed me back to my own room and the pair of them immediately started to discuss the caning Dean had given me the previous night.
"You got one or two squeals out of him?" asked Tim. "Brilliant."
"Hey! This is my bum you're talking about," I protested.
"And what a bum!" breathed Tim reverently.
I flushed, while Dean eyed my behind critically before saying, "Hmm. I see what you mean. It is a bloody good arse: nice tight globes, great cleft; and he fills those shorts superbly."
"It's what attracted me to him the first time I saw him. That bottom just grabbed me by the balls and wouldn't let go! You're hell of a lucky getting to give him a caning, Dean. I told him I'd love to beat that perfect arse of his, but he was having none of it," Tim ended in a disconsolate tone.
"Well, you might not get to give him a real punishment-caning," agreed Dean, "but I did about twenty moderately hard on his shorts, just to get my eye in; and he fucking loved it. Cock so hard you could tie up a battleship to it. You got a cane yet, Tim?"
"Yeh. Got one from my granddad after he retired. It's got a real sting to it, so he said; and it's been well-used. I've done a bit of practising on a striped cushion. I reckon my aim's pretty good now. But I don't suppose it's the same as watching the reactions when you're caning a real live guy," said Tim.
"Soon as you get a chance, get him to bend over for you in his tight shorts and just cane him hard enough that he feels the sting. If he's getting a boner, you know you're doing it right. And then I guess you can do what I couldn't really do; you know, deal with his boner for him."
"Dean!" I yelped, horrified.
"He thinks just because I'm straight, that I don't know what gay-boys like," observed Dean.
"I think I can handle him," said Tim confidently.
"But you respect him, mind," warned Dean, looking suddenly serious. "Treat him right. He might be eighteen, but he's still my kid-brother, and I look out for him."
"Yeh, I get it," Tim assured him solemnly. "I wish I had a big brother to keep an eye on me," he said, turning to me.
"It's not all it's cracked up to be," I muttered.
"Like to see my cane, Tim?" asked Dean.
"I'll just go and get it. I think Garry needs to see it as well; just to remind him to watch his tongue," said Dean as he went out.
"The cheeky bugger!" I gasped to Tim. "Did you hear that?"
"Yeh. Better watch your step, Garry," replied Tim.
Dean returned and showed Tim his cane. The pair of them examined it closely and fell to discussing technique and power and numbers of strokes. They both did some practice-slashes in the air and on my pillow. Dean showed me the cane and raised his eyebrows interrogatively.
"No way!" I yelled at him; and my big brother, with a huge wink at Tim, returned to his own room.
"Brute," I muttered.
Tim placed a hand on the throbbing bulge in the front of my shorts and said softly, "But he's right about you needing moderate caning, isn't he? And about me being able to deal with this for you?"
"Well, yeh, maybe; but he shouldn't go saying it like that. I don't tell him how to fuck his girlfriend."
"Probably best not to," agreed Tim. "He might cane you for being insolent."
"That'll be right."
"So, you wanna come round to my place on Friday evening when my parents are out and I can introduce you to my cane?"
"I'd rather be introduced to your cock."
"You will be, I promise; but cane first."
"Not too hard? Just on my shorts?"
"Sounds good to me. Then, when my cane's got you wound up tight as a watch-spring and your balls are bursting and your cock's like a tree-trunk, I'll think about doing what Dean suggested."
It was all I had hoped and more. We'd kissed and explored each other intimately and then I'd bent over eagerly and Tim had given me several dozen strokes with his cane. It didn't take him long to get his eye in and then he varied the speed of delivery and also the force, throwing in a harder one amid runs of moderate ones which screwed my sexual excitement up to screaming-point.
"Please!" I begged.
"Okay, Garry. I think we need to take this on to the bare. Strip."
"Everything, Garry. Hurry up!"
In a frenzy of excitement I tore off my clothes, releasing a desperately bounding erection from which pre-cum oozed.
"Bend over."
"You're not gonna…….."
"Just hold your tongue and do as you're told."
I bent over and he resumed using his cane firmly, delivering a strong sting which was definitely more intense than it had been through my shorts; but still my cock loved it. He stopped and I glanced along my side to see him stripping fast before he began to drive confidently and determinedly inside me. As he did so, he spanked me hard with his hand and then reached round and took my balls in one hand and my penis in the other, pulling me back hard against his body as he thrust deeper and deeper. Shuddering on the brink of orgasm with the powerful stimulation of the cane on my bare skin and then the stinging slaps from his hand, it didn't take long before his expert work on my tackle made me explode in an eruption so powerful and intense, that for a few seconds the whole room seemed to spin as constellations burst in my head. Even as I came, I was aware of Tim reaching his climax and sounding the bass-strings of delight.
We collapsed in a tangle of limbs on his bed and lay panting contentedly for a while before indulging in a long session of kissing and caressing of each other's body.
"Got some good ideas, your big brother, hasn't he?" said Tim.
"Yeh. Caning me and then fucking me was definitely the best."
"That's great, because I need to practise my caning and now I've got you to practise on. Okay, Garry?"
"Whenever you want, any way you want, any place you want, I'm up for it. Caning like that I really like," I enthused.
As I was leaving later in the evening to walk home, Tim said, "Don't forget to thank Dean for me; for getting you introduced to the cane so that we could have such fun. I really wish I had a big brother like Dean. You're hell of a lucky, Garry. He's a good guy; and he watches out for you too."
"Yeh, he warned you to treat me right, didn't he?" I said with a smile.
"And I listened," Tim assured me, "didn't I?"
"You treated me exactly the way I wanted," I agreed. "I'm sure Dean wouldn't find fault."
"Anyway, just tell him."
I promised to do so and kissed him goodnight.
Dean was away that weekend but on Monday evening I went to his room and conveyed Tim's gratitude.
"Two different kinds of hot rod, eh Garry?"
I flushed.
"Yeh, yeh, he caned me and fucked me; not that it's any of your business."
"I'm pleased it worked out for you," said Dean.
"Look, I know I wasn't keen on bending over so you could practise using your cane, and I know that punishment-caning was pure hell; but it was thanks to you I found that caning could be fun when it's not too hard; and I did appreciate it when you told me I took the punishment-caning well. I felt really good about myself after that. I know you look after me," I continued, "and give me good advice; and Tim says I'm hell of a lucky to have a big brother who looks out for me; so………"
Dean had raised his eyebrows and was looking curiously at me.
"………I'd be willing to take six with my shorts on once a week from you until term starts, just to let you practise real canings; and as a kind of 'thank you' for being a supportive big brother. A bastard of a big brother sometimes, but you've always been there for me," I ended.
"You really are quite something," said Dean.
"Well, I need to make sure you're fully proficient before term starts, because like you said, I'd hate to hear stories about boys laughing at you behind your back because you couldn't cane them properly."
"I definitely can't have that," agreed Dean, picking up his cane from his desk. "Right. Let's get started. Bend over, Garry."
"What! Now? But I thought maybe later in the week……"
"Bend over, Garry."
I sighed and obeyed. I heard the cane whistle as it descended and then a vicious sting whipped in a fiery line across my buttocks, my tight shorts apparently giving me little protection.
"Uh!" I panted as I clenched hard.
It occurred to me too late that Dean didn't really need to practise. When it came to wielding a cane, my big brother was a natural.
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Posted in: caning, M/M, spanking. Tagged: briefs, cane, caning, consensual, discipline, M/M, mature, punishment, teen, teenager, underpants. 2 Comments
A repeat of this hot and wet story by Rod Cayenne. This story is currently exclusive to The Canery and is only suitable for adults! All the characters are 18 or over.
Car Wash by Rod Cayenne
A yellow weather warning was in force, with a danger of gales and flash flooding. Twigs and branches littered the roads like the aftermath of a sound birching. The wipers on my car were working overtime, as the heavens opened and torrents and rivers of the wet stuff gushed everywhere. I was worried that the old Saab's sunroof would start leaking. I paused at the roundabout and noticed a youngster hurrying along the footpath. Even through the filthy weather, I recognised the pert little bottom straight away. It was Pawel from the car wash round the corner from my workplace. Many was the time I'd lusted after this youthful specimen! There was something very tempting about him, and of course seeing him spraying cars my mind had often strayed to thoughts of ejaculations and even watersports. I stopped and asked him if he wanted a lift home.
"OK, thanks! Although in general I don't worry too much about a little rain, Sir," he said, "After all I get wet all day long. Especially when the others are fooling around."
"Do you enjoy it there?"
"Yes, it's a friendly place. Good atmosphere."
"Do they treat you well? You get paid?"
"Yes, minimum wage. But sometimes we get tips. Sometimes big ones."
"I bet. They don't beat you then?"
"No of course not! They actually treat us quite well, although I probably do deserve a sound smacking now and then! Ouch! Yes, a good leathering like I used to get back home in Poland."
"Yes. I kind of miss it," said Pawel shaking a few drips from his long, curly hair, "To be honest, I sometimes need it."
"Don't be silly," I chided, while being amazed at the candid revelations by my Polish passenger pal.
"No, really. Really. A good spanking keeps me in line. I crave it now and then."
"I expect you do!" I laughed and glanced at him. He couldn't mean it for real, could he? I thought about the many times I'd lusted after his deliciously pert peachy arse, and how I'd like to fuck and spank him. And then I thought about it some more.
I was about to say something daring, when he beat me to it. "I don't suppose…I know I shouldn't ask. Could you do it for me, give me a spanking now and then, as a favour? I could clean your car for you, for free, in return."
"Maybe!" I replied, resting my left hand briefly on his knee.
"That's nice!" Pawel said.
What a tart! I threw caution to the wind and smacked my hand down on his thigh instead.
"Ouch! Oho, I can see you mean business, Sir!"
"Indeed I do, boy! Back to mine?"
"Errrrrrr, yes Sir. Yes please."
"I noticed some hesitation there, boy, why was that?"
"It's just that I'm not prepared. You know, showered. Clean underwear. That sort of thing. I also have a leather spanking strap at my home."
This was sounding better by the minute to me. I'd found an experienced spankee. Musky and unwashed! I reassured him, "Not a problem my boy. I do have a shower, you know." Although I had no intention of letting him use it. Not straight away, anyway. "I also have a leather strap or two."
"Really, Sir? Wow!"
"Yes, really. And some fine British canes."
"Oh gosh! I've hit the jackpot! I've always wondered about the cane."
I smiled. The one hitting the jackpot was me, really. At the risk of mixing metaphors, this lad was just like putty in my hands.
"How old are you?" I asked him.
"Nineteen, Sir. I can prove it. Show you my passport. If you want."
"Passport? You haven't got that with you, have you?"
"No. Just as well really. It would have got soaked in this weather."
"Yes indeed. So, I'll just have to trust you then?"
"Yes, Sir. But it's only a spanking, no age restrictions there, surely?"
"No. True. But I do like to entertain a guest in my bed afterwards. Many disciplinarians do."
"Oh, I see."
"No, not really Sir. I'm not very experienced. With men. At all."
This was sounding better and better. A cane virgin and a willing virgin to the pleasures of man on man fun! I felt my penis stirring, but decided I'd better concentrate on driving. The weather seemed to deteriorate even further, and then we were home. At my place. Pawel followed me to the door. I let him go in first, and smacked his bum as he passed by. He turned and grinned at me. Somehow his laddish charms brought out a sadistic urge in me. I promised myself that I'd soon wipe that grin off his face!
Straight away I had him over my lap, spanking first his rigger trousers, then lowering them before I assaulted his navy blue briefs. Then I pulled the briefs down, and then I pulled them right off. In true old perv style, I held them to my face. They were warm. I examined them further. There was clearly evidence of pre-cum, despite the fact that he didn't seem to have an erection. The pants were a bit musky, but not what you or I would call dirty. I tossed them aside and resumed my onslaught, spanking hard and relentlessly.
Eventually we stopped for a coffee break. I produced a strap and a cane and checked that he really did want to proceed further. I need not have worried as truly he was gagging for it. I raised the black leather strap and crashed it down purposefully. What a terrific sound it made! A satisfying crack of black-stained hide on willing teenage hide! I did it again. And again and again and again. It was heaven. My cock was straining and aching as I enjoyed him squirming and bucking around on my lap. Nonetheless, I issued a quick rebuke for him to keep still, backed up by some extra-hard strokes. By this time he was gasping. A few more strokes and he was begging and pleading for respite. Eventually I gave in and pushed him off my lap.
"Stand in the corner!" I ordered, "Nose to the wall!"
He obeyed meekly. I gazed lovingly at his pert red rump. I'd transformed it from milky white to an erotic crimson. I then picked up his musky pants and inspected them further. After a few minutes I started to rub my cock through the thin material of my suit trousers. I squeezed and massaged it gently, getting stiffer all the time. I wanted him to see my erection tenting in my trousers when I made him turn around.
"We'll do this the traditional British way. I think six of the best for you. Pull that chair over here," I commanded.
Dutifully he obeyed, bending over when instructed. I walked up to him, cane tucked away under my arm. I felt his arse, resting my hands to absorb some of the raging heat. It was a thrill; a pervy thrill. I slapped his arse hard.
"First you must kiss the cane. To welcome it to your bottom."
He stood up and took the cane from me.
"Hey, it's light, isn't it?" he said.
"Quiet boy!" I warned him. He kissed the rattan shaft of the cane. I was minded to the tell him to kiss me as well. But I wasn't sure that I'd be able to stop myself from indulging in a longer passionate snog. There would be plenty of time for my tongue to explore his mouth, cock, arsehole, tits and pits later on. Instead, I made him give me the cane back.
"Bend back over the chair," I said, "Quickly boy!"
I lashed the first stroke down. I watched intently as he initially seemed cocky, but a second or two later the pain overwhelmed him, as he gasped for air. I laughed out loud. I was going to enjoy this. I'd savour every moment of his misery and discomfort. I swished a warning stroke throught the air. I laughed again and asked him, "Ready boy?"
He just grunted, but as I was enjoying the role play, I demanded an answer, "I asked whether you were ready?"
"Sorry Sir, I was kilometres away!" he replied somewhat cheekily, "Yes, I'm ready. Sir!"
I made the second stroke harder. And the third stroke. He was taking it quietly, which was kind of annoying. I upped the ante again, slashing the cane down hard on his rump.
"Aaargh! It hurts! It hurts, Sir!" I was gratified to get a meaningful response. My cock was fit to burst. I stopped and felt the scarred flesh. I felt guilty for a fleeting moment and then it passed!
"It's meant to hurt, boy! Here comes number five!"
The cane cracked dowm, leaving an immediate imprint. He grunted, but for the first time I wondered if I detected some pleasure among his discomfort. It was kind of a sixth sense I had. I felt he was close to getting off on this as much as I was.
"Last one," I informed him, "Let's make it special!"
I sliced the cane down, diagonally this time. The weal raised rapidly, crossing the others I'd inflicted on him. My hands soon wandered for a feel of the bottom still so submissively on display. That had been a hell of a caning and he was certainly a tough kid.
"You may get up now, boy!" I informed him, as I reflected on minor disappointment that he had done nothing to incur extra strokes. A bit of stamping, clenching or standing up might have added to the entertainment, after all.
He rose slowly, and the he took the initiative, kissing me passionatley. I dropped the cane on the floor. I was about to tell him to release my cock from my trousers, but he had read my mind and got there first. I took him gently at first. But after it was all over, I wasn't covinced he had been anything like a gay virgin. Not that it really mattered, as the sex had been great, but I felt a wee bit manipulated. Like you sometimes do.
We are meeting again in a fortnight. In the meantime, it's safe to say that the old Saab has never shined and gleamed and glinted like it does now. I feel the same, in a way.
Story © MMXX by Rod Cayenne. All rights reserved.
Comments from the original post are here.
Posted by Rod Cayenne on August 7, 2022
Posted in: cane, caning, M/M, spank, spanking. Tagged: cane, caning, discipline, erection, headmaster, M/M, punishment. 2 Comments
A repeat from 2012 of this hot caning tale by your host, Rod Cayenne. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!
Déjà Vu by Rod Cayenne
"Do you ever get that feeling of déjà vu? I said, do you ever get that feeling of déjà vu?"
My old headmaster was laughing, playing games with me. Not rugby, not cricket, but caning. Yes, caning. For there we were in his room as he took a whippy cane from his cane cupboard. Only now it was his living room, not the school study. He had retired and on a visit to him we'd had an affable conversation about corporal punishment.
"I got a taste for it…" we had both said at the same time. We both had a jolly hearty laugh about it. We had resolved to re-enact my teenage canings. He whipped the cane through the air.
"Ready then?"
"Yes Sir. I'm getting those old feelings. Excitement, fear, an erection."
"Then you really are a naughty boy!"
"Yes Sir, sorry."
"Well the erection could be a problem, as I'd already decided to cane you bare bottom."
"Oh Sir, you never made me bare my bottom at school."
"Well, things have moved on and you must trust your headmaster to know what's best for you."
"Yes Sir, if you're sure."
"Never been more sure of anything in my life, lad. Let me help by taking your trousers and briefs down."
"Oh Sir!"
Well, he did take them down for me, although I did not find it particularly helpful. He certainly helped himself to a good viewing of my rampant erection.
"Tut tut. That really is a most obscene display!" he said as he flexed the cane gently in his big hands. "I think this revolting sight will require extra punishment." He feigned distaste at my engorged penis. However, this was all a game as we both knew he was enjoying all that he saw before him.
"Now then lad. How many strokes is it to be?"
"That's up to you Sir."
"Quite right, lad. I shall decide. What's the most I gave you at school?"
"The full six, Sir."
"I see. Well, there's nothing full about six lad. You're not a teenager any more. Your bottom is nicely filled out. I rather think it could take a lot of thrashing. A severe beating, perhaps sixty strokes?"
I gasped at his sadism and I felt my erection dwindling fast.
"Only joking, lad. That would be rather a lot for your first adult caning. Although you could take it. If I'm not mistaken, that's a very, very thrashable bottom. Here, let me have a feel."
He felt it at some length, massaging and gently pinching at my flesh.
"Yes, clearly I am right. This bottom could take a lot of caning. Thirty, forty, perhaps…"
"Sir!"
He laughed again. This talk was all part of his technique. Of humiliation and mastery. Of my shame and misery.
"Right, let's get down to it then. You will notice I have the official school caning stool. I stole the cane cupboard and stool when I left!" he chuckled. "Please be so kind as to bend over the stool now. I'm sure you remember the form."
Indeed I did. The stool was like an old friend to me. I'd been over it many times for correction by the cane. For cheating, for smoking, for lying, for not trying, for masturbating. The padded leather top was just as comfortable and welcoming as in times past. I was under no illusions though. Comfortable though it may have been, I remembered exactly how much the cane hurt. Or I thought I did. For at this exact moment there was a loud THWACK as the cane lashed down on my naked bottom for the first time in years. He was laughing. The bastard! I gripped the rung on the stool as a second THWACK hit me. Oh boy, was it agony? Yes, it certainly was as the fire spread around my submissive cheeks.
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!
That made six. Now I was going to get more than I'd ever had before.
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!
Now it was twelve and I was gasping and writhing in response to each cruel stroke. He was laughing again. The bastard!
By now my buttocks were on fire and he was merrily humming to himself as he went back to the cane cupboard. I craned my neck to see what he was up to.
"Get back down lad! We haven't finished. I'm getting a whippier cane for you. The sting should be worse, so I am hoping for some prime entertainment from you."
"Yes Sir. It hurts awfully."
"That's of no interest to me lad. That's your problem. You've had eighteen strokes so far. You will now get the same again for your disgusting erection."
"I don't ever want to see it again. Is that clear?"
Well, he'd made his wishes clear but no-one had told my penis. As ever, it had a mind of its own and was thickening and erecting with pleasure from the joyful waves of pain the cane had donated. I tried to move discreetly on the stool to accommodate my growing penis. However, he was on to me in a flash!
"STAND UP! TURN AROUND!"
I stood before him. He swished the cane through the air. My hands tried to cover my embarrassment.
"HANDS BY YOUR SIDES! Aha! I thought so!"
He had seen it. I blushed. He laughed. The bastard!
"I think we'll make it twenty four strokes. For your continued impertinence."
However, instead of getting on with my punishment he hooked the crook handle of the cane over my erection.
"I have to use the toilet a minute, lad. One of the perils of old age. You stay just where you are. But when I return, I want to see that your erection has subsided and that the cane has fallen onto the floor."
He laughed. The bastard. I tried hard to think of turn-offs and eventually settled on a shrivelled old MP. Thankfully, it worked and the cane clattered onto the floor. The toilet was next door. I could hear everything as he'd left all the doors open. Again, he was humming merrily. The bastard.
On his return, he didn't comment on the status of my penis. Instead he picked the cane up and pointed to the stool with it. I duly bent over it. Eventually he spoke.
"Twenty five strokes with the whippiest cane. Try to take them with some decorum, lad."
He had added an extra stroke. I felt sure it was one of his games, rather than forgetfulness. He laughed. The bastard.
I duly took twenty five exciting strokes from my old headmaster with as much decorum as I could muster.
"Now you've had your whacking, do you want some whacky baccy?"
"Whaaat?" I asked in disbelief.
"Oh you know, a reefer, I think it's called. I confiscated so much of the stuff when I was head, that I couldn't resist trying it. I got a taste for it."
Story © 2012 by Rod Cayenne
* IMPORTANT – DISCLAIMERS *
This is a work of fiction. The author does not participate in substance abuse or condone it.
All the characters are aged 18 or over.
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Posted by Rod Cayenne on July 31, 2022
Posted in: caning, M/M. Tagged: cane, caning, consensual, discipline, M/M, masturbation, punishment, uncle. 1 Comment
A repeat of this short story from 2015. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!
The Man Behind The Cane by Rod Cayenne
All characters appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons or businesses, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Diese Geschichte ist hier auf Deutsch.
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