The cane on the landing

I was intrigued by your recent publication of a story where a 17-year-old was spanked and caned by his landlady, as I had a very similar experience myself at the same age.

In the late 1980s, I answered an advert in the local newspaper for a lodger. I had recently left home to pursue a career in sport but had not yet passed my driving test. Therefore I needed somewhere near my work, in a well-heeled but sleepy town on the east coast of Devon, and this location was ideal as it was only a decent walk away.

I arranged an interview by telephone and arrived at the place dressed in my best and only suit, and having done what I could with my somewhat unruly hair. As I walked up a gravel driveway, I came to a large detached house, probably early Victorian. Arriving at the doorway I realised the property had been divided into two flats. 

I rang the doorbell and waited. I heard footsteps descending the staircase, then the door opened to reveal a tall, quite attractive lady in her mid-50s. She had dark hair, in a bob-style cut, and despite the half-rim spectacles perched on her nose, she looked a lot longer than her years, with an enviable figure inside her long, dark dress.

She introduced herself as Mrs Martin [name changed – Ed]. She was well-spoken and precise, and although she had been smiling broadly when she opened the door, her demeanour changed almost instantly to something rather more slightly cold. Nevertheless, she invited me in.

Highly nervous I expressed my gratitude and offered my hand – I remember the very firm handshake I received in return. As we ascended staircase, we exchanged pleasantries. Although nervous, I was pretty comfortable around older people as my job at the time necessitated it. I suppose I came across as fairly confident.

However, whatever nerves I had left were suddenly firmly rattled as we got to the landing. On my right was a large, oriental-style vase. This contained the usual expected paraphernalia such as umbrellas and walking sticks. What I didn’t expect to see was an indisputable crook-handled school cane!. 

Time stood still for me – the air became electric. I blushed deeply and felt butterflies in my stomach. However, my prospective landlady sauntered elegantly by the object of my fascination, probably not even noticing my discomfort or excitement.

We entered the huge spacious kitchen, where I met her husband. Mr Martin seemed friendly enough, although like his wife slightly aloof. Nevertheless, he offered me a warm handshake – he was tall, slight and bald, and much older than his wife.

During our subsequent chat, it transpired that they were both retired – he some time ago from the police force and she more recently from her job as a matron at a private girls’ school. The Martins had a son and daughter, both older than myself. Their daughter was at university while their son lived on the other side of the country.

Mrs Martin made me a cup of tea, then showed me what would be my room and then most of the rest of the large, roomy flat. She explained the ground rules – and they were very strict. I could only use the bathroom and the kitchen at certain times. There was a 10pm curfew, I wasn’t allowed guests and I could not use the living room with them. However, I was allowed to watch a television in my own room. 

We got to ‘my’ bedroom. It had a beautiful sea view, and I liked the feel of the flat. However, looking back it was probably that cane that made me so keen to move in!

I did so (with the help of my boss and his car) a few days later. For the first few months, things went fairly well. I paid the rent on time at the end of each week, in cash to my landlady. Mr Martin kept himself to himself in the living room, his study or bedroom, and I rarely saw him.

I had the occasional chat with his wife, who would sometimes chide me about not cleaning the bathroom, leaving a mess in the kitchen and doing something unmentionable to the toilet. During these interactions she often spoke about her time at the school. Naturally this intrigued me, and I longed to ask about her possession of the cane – but I lacked the necessary social skills to guide the conversation towards such matters without revealing any sexual excitement.

Nevertheless, at one stage, my landlady did suggest that my sloppy behaviour would have been dealt with severely at her school, with the use of corporal punishment. I remember blushing and stammering an apology, all the time wishing I had the courage to suggest she use the cane on my bottom. 

When I was alone in the flat, I would often get the cane out and try it across my own bottom – always bare – but of course, I couldn’t get a good swing to appreciate its full venom!

I spent nearly a year with the Martins, until the time came when I was on the verge of buying my first car, when I was asked to leave. I don’t know whether it was the prospect of having to accommodate another vehicle on the drive which led to their decision, or maybe they decided they didn’t really want a lodger after all.

I must admit I was a bit disgruntled at having to find somewhere else. Mrs Martin did say that I could take as long as I wished to find somewhere else, but in those days lodgers were easily accommodated and I soon found an alternative.

By my last day I still hadn’t completed the purchase of my own vehicle, so my boss’s wife arrived with her own car to transport me and my possessions to my next abode. I packed my bags, and went up and down the staircase for maybe half a dozen more times.

Unusually, I paid my rent a week in arrears, so there was still some money due. It was on my last trip up the stairs that I took the momentous decision to remove the cane from the vase. I headed to the kitchen, holding my rent money in one trembling hand and the cane with the other.

As I entered the kitchen, I immediately noted the quizzical look on Mrs Martin’s face – it was a strange mixture of hostility and amusement. Very deliberately, I placed the money on the kitchen table, then proffered the cane. She took it by the handle, then crossed her arms without saying anything.

My mouth was bone dry with nerves, but somehow I managed to stammer out an explanation that because I’d broken numerous rules during my stay, and had suffered no retribution, I thought I deserved a good caning. 

Mrs Martin just stood there, her arms still crossed and the cane clutched across her breasts. Time stood still for a moment and the air was electric. Eventually, I simply moved towards the large round table, dropped my jeans and bent over. I never wore pants under my jeans, so my bare bottom was now on show.

To my consternation, I felt the tip of my penis touching the T-shirt that covered my frontal modesty as I quickly got an erection.

I looked over my shoulder towards my landlady. She hadn’t moved. So I begged to be caned. Eventually, she said: “You’re a very silly, naughty and rude young man.” Then, to my surprise and relief, she took a step forward and aligned the cane across my bottom. “Look straight forward, and keep still,” were her only words.

I soon realised I was being dealt with by an expert. I grunted and held on to the end of the table with clenched hands. Six strokes were quickly delivered, by which time I was grimacing and expressing my pain quite vociferously, although I managed to hold my position.

After the sixth stroke, I eventually asked Mrs Martin if she had finished. She confirmed that she had. Momentarily, I put my hands back to feel my bottom. It was covered in raised welts, and my erection – which had naturally subsided somewhat during the thrashing – began to stir again.

In that moment I experienced a strange combination of intense relief, gratitude and affection towards my landlady. However, the tone of her own voice as she eventually spoke again was at it had always been – cold and reserved. “You’d better leave. You’ve got what you deserved, young man, and I hope it teaches you a lesson.”

I bent down, fumbling to retrieve my jeans from around my ankles. I’m pretty sure she must have got a good glimpse of my hard-on as I stood back up. I quickly buttoned my jeans over their bulge, hands still trembling, and did up my belt. 

I thanked her sincerely for my caning – she placed the rod of correction on the kitchen table and once again crossed her arms. I walked down the long corridor towards the top of the stairs, and it was here that I noticed Mr Martin. He was standing in the doorway of his study, looking at me with raised eyebrows. He must have heard every stroke, and perhaps even seen them applied to my young bottom.

I walked stiffly downstairs to the waiting car. I had regained my composure somewhat by then, and to my relief my boss’s wife turned the car radio down as I opened the door – I’m pretty sure she couldn’t have heard my thrashing. 

Safely ensconced at my new lodgings, almost the first thing I did when finally alone was to check the state of my bottom in the full-length mirror on the inside of the wardrobe. My conviction that I had been dealt with by an expert was confirmed – I saw six livid parallel lines, neatly spaced. I was bleeding slightly on the right cheek where the cane had really caught me. These marks lasted for well over a month.

I took my trousers and pants off, lay down on the bed and began to wank. The rough blanket on top of the bed scratched and itched deliciously against my sore buttocks and my penis stood hard and upright as a rocket as I rubbed it vigorously and replayed the caning in my head. In the end, I ejaculated so much that it took most of a box of tissues to mop it up from my belly and there were even a couple of large blobs of semen on the carpet, which I had to carefully clean off.

For many years, I felt very embarrassed and ashamed at what happened that day in the Martins’ flat – but I now consider it one of my most cherished memories.

Contributor: Mark

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