Barber's Pole - Sex Stories

Barber's Pole

... my every thought. “You’re right of course! You should tan me,” I laughed nervously as the words tripped out. “Inside then!” he ordered. Oh my God! He wasn’t joking. I soon found myself bent over the magazine table in his salon room. A pile of football and girlie mags fell to the floor. I felt his hot breath behind me as his hands made for my belt buckle. He must have done this before as he released the belt like an expert, undid the button and zip and yanked my trousers right down. “Actually, you’re far too low there. Let’s have you over the arm of the barber’s chair instead.” I waddled over with my trousers around my ankles. But the barber’s chair was too high! He pumped the chair down a little. I stared into the big mirror to my right. I was horrified to see him approach and then pull down my boxers. My naked arse was on display to Mr Shepard and the mirror. He pushed me down so that I was bent over the arm with my hands resting on the chair seat. “Now that’s what I call an arse!” he laughed, landing a hearty slap right on my naked bum. I reflected that he was the one using less than refined language now, but I wasn’t going to argue as I spied him reaching for his leather strop. I began to fear it. It looked heavy and purposeful. Obviously, it was a professional piece of kit from the days when things were made properly here in England before our industrial decline. Crack! The heavy leather hit me hard. My worst fears were confirmed. This was no toy; this was the real ...

... thing! It burnt and blazed and was rapidly followed by another equally hard stroke. A third lick of the leather bit into my reddening arse. “Shit!” I muttered quietly to myself, mindful of how my bad language had landed my in this humiliating position. I stuck my bottom out ready for the next stroke. It wasn’t long coming, and was followed by another two in rapid succession. That made six in total, surely enough to satisfy him and to make amends? Evidently not! The sadistic bastard cackled loudly and lashed seven, eight and nine into me. I’d had enough pain, but some pleasure was kicking in now, too. “Last three,” he announced. He left me there waiting for them for what seemed like ages. Suddenly a hard stroke hit my left cheek, and then an equally stinging one hit the right. A final stroke landed right in the middle of both cheeks. It really was a killer blow, forcing me to cry out. Gently, I rose and started to rub my assaulted arse. He cackled again. “I don’t know where you think you’re going, young man! That concludes the razor stropping, but there’s still the cane to come! So you can get down again. And make it smart, otherwise you’ll get double!” I did as I was told, bending back over the barber’s chair, slyly catching a quick glimpse of my reddened arse in the mirror. What a sight! As I bent over again, I realised I really wanted the caning. It had been a long time, but I really needed it. As the first rattan stroke lashed down, my memory of beatings past surfaced. I ...