The following story is fiction. It contain scenes of domination and spankings. If such subjects are offensive, uninteresting or if you are a minor (i.e., child) please leave now.
Mike Ward wrote: "I saw the same photo that Y Lee did but imagined a different scene. I have given permission for it to be posted here and for Y Lee's sequel. Visit my site at www.asstr.org/~Mward/ for more of my stories." Click to open the images off-site.
This work is copyright by the author and commercial use is prohibited without permission. Personal/private copies are permitted only if complete including the copyright notice.
The author would appreciate your comments – pro and con, including constructive criticism, and suggestions.
Christopher sat on the window seat flexing a nasty little punishment cane. The equally nasty little smirk on his face suggested that something unpleasant was going to happen to someone or other in the very near future. That someone was going to be his older brother, Orlando.
Christopher had been sitting there, keeping watch over the garden for over two hours as he awaited his brother's return. He had had time to try out the new Rubik's cube, eventually getting the hang of it and solving the puzzle twice over. It had been a most satisfactory afternoon, and he just knew that things were going to get much better. The evidence he had accumulated during his brother's absence was absolutely damning and Christopher tingled in anticipation that Orlando's long reign of oppression was going to be brought to a crushing end this very afternoon.
Hearing the gate creak he put the puzzle aside and picked up the cane from its resting place on the adjacent the plant-stand. Sure enough, here was Orlando striding confidently through the sun-splashed garden. He would come up to the drawing room almost immediately, and thirteen year-old Christopher was ready to press charges, preside over the peremptory trial, pass the terrifying sentence, and execute punishment immediately.
Orlando knew his little brother well and knew that something was amiss as soon as he stepped into the room. The sixteen year-old youth was on the verge of manhood and relishing the authority and responsibility that had been placed on his shoulders when their parents had left for a few days away at the wedding of some ancient friend. He was in charge, the man of the house for the time being, making sure that his little brother stayed out of trouble and keeping the family domain secure. But adolescence had not yet given way to manhood and he was still boy enough to be constantly on the alert for trouble in the air.
"What are you doing with Papa's cane?", he asked, instantly regretting the way his voice seemed to falter over the last word. His brother's confident response terrified him.© YLeeCoyote
"Just waiting for a certain naughty little boy to get home."
The smirk was still there. The sheer confidence being exuded by his younger brother struck fear into Orlando. There can be few teenage boys who don't have at least one or two guilty little secrets, misdemeanours they have covered up, petty infractions that they would prefer to leave hidden. Orlando was a boy who lived in fear of the suspicion that every adult could read his innermost thoughts. He wanted to assert his authority; after all, he was the brother-in-charge. But he hesitated, and in that second or two of hesitation he could see that he was about to find himself on the losing side of this exchange.
Christopher flexed the cane, and then pointed it silently towards the antique mahogany table in the middle of the room.
Orlando walked over and reached out tentatively to pick up the items so carefully placed on the richly polished wood. Christopher sat back, his deeply-tanned legs up on the window seat as he continued to arch the supple rod of discipline.
Orlando turned back to his brother, the beginnings of fear-induced tears in his eyes. "P, p, please p, promise you won't tell Papa. Please. I'll do anything, but please, don't tell Papa."
Christopher savoured his older brother's nervousness. Poor Orlando was collapsing before his very eyes, but then, he had a lot to be worried about. Christopher's smile deepened and an aura of confident authority seemed to surround him. It was time, at long last, time to turn the tables on his overbearing big brother. "You'll do anything?"
"Yes, anything, just please don't tell".
Christopher paused, waited, let those words solidify in the air between them. For Orlando the silence was terrifying. And then Orlando's gaze fell on the rod of discipline so quietly flexing in his brother's hands, and the awfulness of what 'anything' might mean impressed itself on his very being. It was as if he was being hypnotised by the gentle movement of the rattan as it arched and fell, only to form a perfect arc again and again. His mind refused to register the sheer terror that he sensed. As if in a trance his eyes met those of his little brother and he quietly sobbed , "Yes, anything."
Christopher pointed the cane at a chair on the other side of the room. "Change into those right now".
It had been a bone of contention for Christopher for two years now. At the age of thirteen Christopher was still wearing shorts all year round. But for two years his older brother hadn't bared his knees on even the hottest summer days. Orlando's jeers had vexed the younger brother. "Shortie pants, shortie pants", had rung in his ears as Christopher tauntingly paraded in his cool jeans. Only earlier that day Christopher had playfully smacked his little brother's deeply tanned legs as if to emphasise his seniority, his maturity, his designation as the household authority figure in the absence of their parents. Well all that teasing was about to come to a sudden end.
Orlando stepped out of his flip-flops, undid his jeans and slid them down his somewhat milky-white legs. A second or two later he was wearing a pair of Christopher's brief little short trousers. They were tight enough and brief enough on the thirteen-year old; on Orlando they were positively disgraceful, but they just about fit and Orlando was trembling as he began to beg. "Please Christopher, please Christopher, please don't make me". Orlando's fear-laden voice failed him and the sentence remained unfinished, hovering in the air as he craved even the tiniest sign of mercy.
Christopher took in the sight of his brother's freshly-bared legs as he contemplated the next steps in his plan. His smile deepened as he suddenly found himself wondering if that stuff being advertised on the television would do for the hairs on his brother's legs what it seemed to do for that woman in her bath. What was it called again? Maybe he should send Orlando out to buy some. Would it work on that pubic bush of which his brother was so proud? Well, they would see.
There would be absolutely no mercy.
Christopher moved slowly out of his relaxed position on the window seat. As he stood, cane in one hand, his free hand adjusted his short little fawn-coloured corduroy short trousers. His pubescent tumescence was already filling those tight little shorts as he contemplated with vengeful satisfaction the sight in front of him. For two years he had been taunted about being a little boy with legs constantly bared to the elements. Now he could allow himself a moment to take in the sight of his older brother's nicely muscled thighs. Salaciously and with contemptuous arrogance, Christopher moved his cock to one side in his close-cut little shorts. "Anything" was going to be everything.
"You know what to do".
Orlando froze for a few moments and then, sensing the determination in his younger brother's eyes, turned around, undid his recently donned shorts, pushed them down towards his ankles, and bent right over to grasp his ankles. Christopher let his hand rest for a moment over Orlando's tightened blue briefs before pulling them down to join the shorts and bare the target.
The cane was lifted up into the air, and held in total stillness for just that fraction of a second before it whistled through the air to deliver the first stroke.
The hours of practice had proven their worth. Christopher's poor pillow had borne the brunt of hundreds of increasingly confident strokes but the pillow's sacrifice had not been in vain. Even that first stroke had been devastatingly effective. Orlando now knew, if he had dared to doubt, that he was bent over in the presence of a master of the disciplinary cane. That first stroke had induced a spasm as Orlando's beleaguered bottom feebly attempted to ward off any future attack. But the attack continued. Again, and again, and yet again.
The fourth stroke produced an involuntary reflex arching of Orlando's spine that saw the youth release his grip for the briefest of moments. It was a measure of his fear, his desperate need to keep the evidence of his deepest secret from their parents, that Orlando was so quick to regain his submissive position.
Eight searing parallel cuts made their lasting marks over Orlando's unblemished teenage buttocks from the top of his backside down towards that incredibly sensitive point where bottom becomes thigh. Orlando was screaming from the fifth cut, screeching in utter agony as the eighth bit deeply into the uppermost part of his tender thighs.
The ninth stroke was the final confirmation of Christopher's victory over his older brother. Carefully angled it had descended exactly as intended to form a diagonal cross over the previous eight clearly defined welts. Orlando, already crushed, could not hide his agony. He had been caned with this very rod by their father on at least five occasions. But this time he had been caned by a true master of the rod, and by every god in the universe, he knew it.
"I'll do anything, just please don't tell Papa."
As Orlando stood up and turned his tear-filled eyes towards his brother he could see that "anything" would be "everything".
A crooked finger beckoned Orlando and indicated that he should kneel in supplication before his dominant little brother. His eyes rested on the point where Christopher's increasingly tight little shorts met mahogany-coloured skin. Christopher let the cane fall on the floor, undid his fly and pulled Orlando's defeated face in towards his crotch.
"Anything" had most definitely become "everything".
As Orlando kissed his disciplinarian's cock he heard the full extent of his sentence. Christopher would be the brother-in-charge from now on and would wield the rod over Orlando's beleaguered buttocks as he saw fit. Orlando would swear perpetual obedience to his younger brother. Orlando would also inform their parents of his freely-made decision to return to wearing boyishly-cut little short trousers during the summer, and possibly even all year round.
Christopher tightened his grip on his brother's hair, pulled him even closer into his crotch, and exclaimed in complete pleasure.
Orlando had offered anything, Christopher had taken everything. All was right with his world. Christopher relaxed and smiled. His smile suggested that something very pleasant had just happened to someone or other. And indeed it had.
© Copyright Mike Ward, July 30, 2006
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Last updated: September 15, 2023