The postman leaned his bike against the garden fence and pulled a packet from his bag. It had puzzled him all morning. What could it be? It was a peculiar shape: nearly four feet long and four inches wide. It was encased from one end to the other in adhesive parcel tape. It hardly weighed a thing. He hadn’t seen anything like it – except the previous week when he had delivered an identical package further down The Avenue at number twenty-two.
He opened the letter box and poked the long thin parcel through. He heard it plop on the hallway carpet and satisfied his work was done, he trampled across the flower beds and delivered a letter next door.
Inside the house Peter Hayden reached down, picked up the package and took it into the kitchen. He couldn’t find an end to the adhesive tape. There was no way he could open it. That delighted him; the senders had said they would be discreet. He pulled a steak knife from a drawer and cut the package along its length, liberating its contents onto the kitchen table.
At that moment his nineteen-year-old step-son Michael walked in and did a double take. “Yes,” Peter said, “I told you if you didn’t buck your ideas up, I’d give you a damn good caning; now I have the wherewithal to do it.” He picked up one of the two curve-handles rattan canes and swished it experimentally through the air.
“I got them on e-bay,” he said in answer to a question Michael had not voiced. “Don’t say you haven’t been warned.” Michael pouted and stomped up the stairs back to his bedroom.
Peter had a plan. It was unusual, he would be the first to admit. But, if it worked, his life and, he fervently believed that of his new wife, would be so much better. He had recently married Coleen after a five-year courtship. He had been waiting for Coleen’s only child Michael to grow up and leave school. He proposed and she accepted. They decided to make their lives together at Peter’s house in The Avenue. He looked forward to happy times ahead.
But there was a dampener. It was like a wet facecloth on an erect penis. When Coleen moved in with him, Michael came too. But, Peter had protested, Michael was old enough to look after himself. He was nineteen, he had a job, it might not pay so much but he could at least afford to rent a room somewhere. He would always be welcome to visit. He could come round at weekends and leave Coleen his washing – but only if that’s what she wanted him to do.
It fell on deaf ears and Michael was a permanent fixture. It alarmed Peter; he knew lots of “children” who still lived “at home” and some of them were pushing thirty. Now, four months after the wedding, Peter had a plan that should get Michael out of the house forever. The cane.
The idea was simple; Peter did the my-house-my-rules thing. Peter would decide how Michael was expected to behave. If his step-son fell short of expectations, he would be punished. Punished how? With the cane across his backside. If he didn’t accept punishment, he would have to leave. Peter was banking on it. Michael would go. After all, which self-respecting nineteen-year-old would submissively offer up his bum to his step-dad’s cane?
“Your curfew will be eleven o’clock, if you break it I will not hesitate to cane you,” Peter was laying down the law.
“Oww, c’mon, that’s too early, I’m an adult, not a little kid,” Michael wailed.
“Yes, you are an adult and that’s why I want you to stand on your own two feet and find a place of your own.” He didn’t say it out loud. He didn’t think he had to. Michael would never be able to stick to his curfew and Peter was darned sure the teenager wouldn’t consent to a caning. He’d be out the house before too long.
It happened the following Saturday night. Peter and Coleen had been in bed for some hours when he heard Michael sneaking into the house. Result! Peter thought. I’ll deal with the pest in the morning.
He waited for Coleen to leave the house to visit her mother; Peter didn’t want her as a witness. Peter had never caned a person before. He didn’t expect that would change now, Michael would definitely refuse to bend over; then it was only a matter of time.
The unwelcome teenager stood uncertainly in the dining room. His step-dad flexed a traditional school cane between his hands, then he tested it by swishing it through the air. Michael’s heart raced. Like his step-dad, he had never seen a cane before, but he had seen plenty of photographs. It looked wickedly effective.
“I said I’d cane you if you missed your curfew,” Peter had rehearsed a few words, he wanted to do this properly. “So, now I want you to lower your trousers and bend over that chair.” He swished the cane at a fancy metal-backed dining chair he has strategically placed in the middle of the room. Michael’s face blanched. His breathing was irregular.
“Of course,” Peter had not finished his speech, “If you do not wish to accept my punishment you must move out. I will help you find a place. I’ll even drive you and your things there.” He thought he was reasonableness itself.
Michael gulped. His hands shook. At first he could not reply. Peter watched him carefully, he seemed to be debating with himself in his head.
“No Peter, you are quite right,” Michael had also prepared a script. “You warned me. You said if I broke curfew you would cane me. I broke curfew and so I deserve to be punished.” He paused a beat as if willing himself to make the next move. He was too nervous to look at his step-dad. He turned his back on the older man and with trembling hands, he unbuckled his belt. Once that was done, he unbuttoned the waist of his chinos, gripped the tab of the zipper and pulled. The chinos fell down his thighs and legs of their own accord, aided by gravity.
“No! This is not how it’s meant to be!” Peter hoped he hadn’t said that out loud. “You are supposed to be pouting; protesting; refusing to be caned.”
Instead, Michael shuffled up to the front of the chair and leant forward and gripped the grey padded seat. He moved his feet back and spread his legs so that his back was arched and his bottom was rounded to receive cuts from the cane.
Peter’s mouth dried. Until his package had arrived, he had never even seen a cane, let alone held one. How exactly was this done? He looked across the room at his step-son, waiting submissively. The nineteen-year-old’s buttocks twitched a little under the dark maroon cotton briefs. The boy’s bum was round and well covered. He was far from fat, but there was a lot of meat. Peter supposed he just needed to aim the cane across the fleshiest part of the posterior and whack it with as much force as he could. The caning needed to hurt; otherwise what was the point? Besides, he didn’t want Michael returning for more. He still harboured hopes that the boy would move out rather than be caned again.
He stood a pace to Michael’s left and tapped the cane across the lower part of the boy’s buttocks. Then, he took a horizontal aim, drew the cane back slightly in an arc and then whipped his forearm and wrist so that the rod landed exactly where he intended. A resounding Smack! sound bounced round the room, followed by a sustained hissing as air escaped through Michael’s clenched lips.
Peter was rather pleased with the effect. He aimed the second cut a little lower and was rewarded with the sight of Michael’s waist and hips gyrating left and right and backward and forward. This time the teenager let out a distinct yelp, rather like a young puppy. There were now two distinct cane lines indented in the seat of the cotton briefs. Peter was no expert, but he supposed two thin welts might be throbbing underneath across Michael’s bum.
Peter hadn’t expected to be beating his step-son at all, so had not thought how many strokes to deliver. He knew, but he wasn’t sure how he knew, that the tariff was usually “six-of-the-best.” That might do for some little kid, he reckoned, but Michael was an adult, as he often liked to remind his step-dad. It should be twelve strokes, he decided. He won’t come back for more after that.
By the time the sixth stroke burnt deeply into the teenager’s bum, the pain was terrific. It felt like the whole of his arse was on fire. The agony was intense each time a stroke hit home; but it quickly subsided to a dull ache which was reignited to agony again when the next stroke connected.
Blood rushed through his whole body at breakneck speed. Michael could feel his face was as scarlet as he supposed his bum to be. His ears popped and a vein on his neck throbbed. Breathing was difficult. He drew in deep gasps of air, but it didn’t seem to make much difference.
Michael gripped the seat of the chair so tightly his knuckles were turning white. He buckled his knees and repeated the hip swivelling as each successive stroke burnt into his boiling buttocks.
Swipe! Swipe! Peter put all his energy into each stroke. He was a keen golfer and he lashed the cane down with the force of a tee-shot. Peter screwed his face, sucking in his lips and twisting his cheeks, making him look like a grotesque gargoyle.
Then, it was over. Twelve strokes and each one delivered with energy. Only then did Peter realise sweat was pouring down his back. The armpits of his shirt were soaked. His own breathing was as heavy as Michael’s was shallow.
Peter put the cane on the top of the dining room table. He had not expected he would be forced to beat Michael; he had not rehearsed how it should end. “Stand up. Go to your room,” was all he could think to say.
Michael could not meet his step-dad’s eye. Keeping his back to him, he swiftly bent down and dragged up his black chino trousers. With difficulty, he zipped and buckled up. Then, still unable to look at Peter, he dashed from the room.
His step-dad watched the teenager take the stairs two at a time and heard the boy’s bedroom door open and then close. Peter stared at the cane on the table. What would happen next, he wondered? Would Michael be upstairs now, packing his bags? Somehow, he doubted it.
In the bedroom, Michael had his trousers and pants at his ankles. His cock was standing to attention. It had never been so stiff. His head felt remarkably clear. The agony in his bum had receded into a constant throbbing. He pointed his buttocks at the mirror. There were a dozen lines; all were welted and some deeply.
He reached over to his bedside table and picked up his phone. Within seconds he had taken a bunch of “selfie” pictures of his toasted buttocks. He checked the images and satisfied that he had done a good job, he uploaded them to boyzblazingbuttz, his favourite Tumblr site.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second