Abigail and the Pole
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Barber's Pole free porn video
What a stupid question! No, of course not! No, I never regretted moving to the coast. Why would I? A tidy little inheritance and my early retirement had enabled it. My house was one of a detached pair in typical 1950s style. With extensive sea views and long gardens, I counted my good fortune every single day. The coastal climate was fantastic and I felt ten years younger at least. In fact, the only annoyance at my new home was the seagulls. Of course, you get them almost everywhere inland these days, but I did tire of their constant noise and of them shitting all over the place.
My neighbour was Mr Shepard. He was 70, if he was a day. He was a retired barber from the West End of London. He used to regale me with tales of his famous and infamous customers, though rarely of the more humdrum ones. Evidently, his salon had been a fairly lucrative business.
He was a stocky man, completely bald on top but with a neatly trimmed white moustache. He always wore dark, neatly pressed trousers and had a taste for striped shirts. His shoes shone immaculately, whether brown or black, and he always wore a matching thick leather belt. It soon became clear to me that this handsome old devil was gay, whereas my own sexuality had always been a little, how shall we say, ambiguous? Despite myself, I fancied him something rotten.
I was amazed to find he’d refitted one of the downstairs rooms of his home as a bijou barber’s salon. There was just one leather padded adjustable barber’s chair, but the illusion was completed by all the usual trappings – a huge mirror lit from above, clippers, razors, combs, towels, tubs of dressings, styptic pencils and even a display of what appeared to be fine old Fetherlite and Gossamer condom advertisements. On hooks to the side of the chair hung a back mirror, a razor strop and somewhat incongruously, a school cane. I asked him about that cane.
“Oho, that! Gets a lot of comment, that! I call it my barber’s pole! I used to use the strop and cane on uncooperative customers, back in the day.”
I assumed he meant young customers but I couldn’t be sure! I wanted to talk about it a bit more, but didn’t know how to tune the conversation in on the subject. In truth, I’d been caned at school rather a lot and began to enjoy the invigorating sting of the rattan. I was waiting for him to offer me a short back and sides, or a short, sharp shock, but sadly neither was mentioned.
It was a few days later when we were sat in his garden enjoying the summer sunshine and the cool ocean breeze. I gazed lovingly into his sea-blue eyes. I sipped at my vodka and Coke and cursed as a seagull crapped on the cast iron table we were sat at.
“Those fuckin’ seagulls! Always shitting everywhere!”
“Tut, tut, Jason! What awful language! I ought to tan your hide with my strop and pole for that. Wherever did you pick up such foul language?”
My first thought was that I’d picked it up at school, like you do, decades before! I blushed a little. It was as if he could read 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 remembered distinctly how I’d grown to like the sting, which wasn’t what was meant to happen in a punishment. Yes, I liked the bite and the sting, and maybe the shame too!
A second stroke broke my nostalgic reverie as it hit just below where the first had landed. Both marks throbbed and ached as my tormentor paced around the room, whipping the cane through the air. He cackled and admonished me, “I hope I’m getting through to you, young Jason. I won’t have any foul language in my garden or house. Is that clear?”
I agreed submissively as he sliced a third cane stroke down on my naked bottom. I was enjoying the beating but it did hurt like fuck. I was torn between pain and pleasure. He stopped to pick up the magazines from the floor. I watched him in the mirror as best I could. He tutted as he assembled the reading pile back on the table. He lined the magazines up neatly, almost obsessively. I began to suspect he was trying to wind me up by making me wait for further cane strokes.
At last, he was back and a fourth stroke sliced me, and then a fifth. He stopped to feel my bare arse. The old perv! His hands were cold as they surveyed the damage the strop and cane had inflicted. His fingers lingered over each weal, and then he rubbed my bottom as if to make it feel better, but then he landed a swift slap right over the marks. He laughed and picked up the cane. "This will be the last one as long as you promise to do as I say.”
I promised, not really knowing what was in store, although I could hazard a guess. The sixth stroke sliced into me. It was a hard, unforgiving stroke. I grunted with pain.
After my beating, I was dragged off to his master bedroom. It was a masculine room, with no pretence of routine domesticity. The decor was predominantly black, red and white, just like the salon room below. The duvet and sheets were shiny, satin black. So was the condom he slid onto his impressive erection. That was a barber’s pole of magnificent proportions! He started off spooning me, which wasn’t uncomfortable, but he soon demanded doggy which was both humiliating and painful. He pounded my beaten arse like a man possessed. He grunted and sighed and I squeezed my anal muscles to increase his pleasure. I knew there and then that this would become a permanent arrangement. My bottom was his to beat and fuck as he saw fit. Oh yes! What a man!
__
DISCLAIMER: All characters appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
My neighbour was Mr Shepard. He was 70, if he was a day. He was a retired barber from the West End of London. He used to regale me with tales of his famous and infamous customers, though rarely of the more humdrum ones. Evidently, his salon had been a fairly lucrative business.
He was a stocky man, completely bald on top but with a neatly trimmed white moustache. He always wore dark, neatly pressed trousers and had a taste for striped shirts. His shoes shone immaculately, whether brown or black, and he always wore a matching thick leather belt. It soon became clear to me that this handsome old devil was gay, whereas my own sexuality had always been a little, how shall we say, ambiguous? Despite myself, I fancied him something rotten.
I was amazed to find he’d refitted one of the downstairs rooms of his home as a bijou barber’s salon. There was just one leather padded adjustable barber’s chair, but the illusion was completed by all the usual trappings – a huge mirror lit from above, clippers, razors, combs, towels, tubs of dressings, styptic pencils and even a display of what appeared to be fine old Fetherlite and Gossamer condom advertisements. On hooks to the side of the chair hung a back mirror, a razor strop and somewhat incongruously, a school cane. I asked him about that cane.
“Oho, that! Gets a lot of comment, that! I call it my barber’s pole! I used to use the strop and cane on uncooperative customers, back in the day.”
I assumed he meant young customers but I couldn’t be sure! I wanted to talk about it a bit more, but didn’t know how to tune the conversation in on the subject. In truth, I’d been caned at school rather a lot and began to enjoy the invigorating sting of the rattan. I was waiting for him to offer me a short back and sides, or a short, sharp shock, but sadly neither was mentioned.
It was a few days later when we were sat in his garden enjoying the summer sunshine and the cool ocean breeze. I gazed lovingly into his sea-blue eyes. I sipped at my vodka and Coke and cursed as a seagull crapped on the cast iron table we were sat at.
“Those fuckin’ seagulls! Always shitting everywhere!”
“Tut, tut, Jason! What awful language! I ought to tan your hide with my strop and pole for that. Wherever did you pick up such foul language?”
My first thought was that I’d picked it up at school, like you do, decades before! I blushed a little. It was as if he could read 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 remembered distinctly how I’d grown to like the sting, which wasn’t what was meant to happen in a punishment. Yes, I liked the bite and the sting, and maybe the shame too!
A second stroke broke my nostalgic reverie as it hit just below where the first had landed. Both marks throbbed and ached as my tormentor paced around the room, whipping the cane through the air. He cackled and admonished me, “I hope I’m getting through to you, young Jason. I won’t have any foul language in my garden or house. Is that clear?”
I agreed submissively as he sliced a third cane stroke down on my naked bottom. I was enjoying the beating but it did hurt like fuck. I was torn between pain and pleasure. He stopped to pick up the magazines from the floor. I watched him in the mirror as best I could. He tutted as he assembled the reading pile back on the table. He lined the magazines up neatly, almost obsessively. I began to suspect he was trying to wind me up by making me wait for further cane strokes.
At last, he was back and a fourth stroke sliced me, and then a fifth. He stopped to feel my bare arse. The old perv! His hands were cold as they surveyed the damage the strop and cane had inflicted. His fingers lingered over each weal, and then he rubbed my bottom as if to make it feel better, but then he landed a swift slap right over the marks. He laughed and picked up the cane. "This will be the last one as long as you promise to do as I say.”
I promised, not really knowing what was in store, although I could hazard a guess. The sixth stroke sliced into me. It was a hard, unforgiving stroke. I grunted with pain.
After my beating, I was dragged off to his master bedroom. It was a masculine room, with no pretence of routine domesticity. The decor was predominantly black, red and white, just like the salon room below. The duvet and sheets were shiny, satin black. So was the condom he slid onto his impressive erection. That was a barber’s pole of magnificent proportions! He started off spooning me, which wasn’t uncomfortable, but he soon demanded doggy which was both humiliating and painful. He pounded my beaten arse like a man possessed. He grunted and sighed and I squeezed my anal muscles to increase his pleasure. I knew there and then that this would become a permanent arrangement. My bottom was his to beat and fuck as he saw fit. Oh yes! What a man!
__
DISCLAIMER: All characters appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real businesses or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Valentina
- 15.09.2021
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