After I had spent quite a long time in the Army and gained some useful experience for my present post as chief officer in a disciplinary regiment, I was offered a job as a tutor attached to a private educational institute in America. It was organised in such a way that each tutor had one or two pupils assigned to him and the pupils spent about two thirds of their time in the tutor's own house. The rest of their time was spent in intensive study at a carefully-selected school. New tutors and pupils received a copy of the institute's rules, which they signed and which then had to be followed without exception. The rules governed not only the school work itself but also such time-honoured virtues as tidiness, discipline, punctuality, decency and cleanliness, as well as the basic timetable. Of course the forms of address to be used were described in great detail. I need hardly say that the rules were enforced if necessary with corporal punishment.
That was one of the reasons I took the job as a tutor. At the moment I have a male pupil, whom I am preparing for his examinations in eighteen months time. Since he hasn't been under my care for very long, I of course have considerable problems with him at the moment. I set him work to do in the evenings, and during the day he goes to a well-known school in the town. I have set him clear targets for the marks he obtains at school, and if he does not reach them, he knows that he will receive punishments ranging from withdrawal of privileges through detention to corporal punishment.
His name is Guno. At first I took it easy with him, to give him time to settle in. But of course my orders and threats became tougher every day. However, I soon noticed that he either couldn't or wouldn't obey me, so in the end I had to resort to stricter methods. To begin with, I hesitated to beat him, since a young man of his age would normally be thought to be too old for such punishment. But when I noticed that my instructions were falling on deaf ears, I told him clearly that any further breaches of discipline would be punished with the cane or some other form of corporal punishment, without any further warnings.
That was about three weeks ago. And I have to admit, at first he seemed to have got the message, because he became more obedient, came home on time, and followed the rules scrupulously. I was very pleased to see that sometimes he even came back home earlier than arranged, and that he often did more work than had been set; he was such a hard worker that I had no reason to reprimand him.
Of course our insitute has rewards for good behaviour as well as punishments for faults. For each week that went by without any offences, Guno received extra pocket money from me and even got permission to stay out after midnight. I gave him his own house key, which I hardly ever do for my pupils. Naturally, these privileges were to be withdrawn at the slightest fault. But for the time being I had reason to be satisfied with him.
But it didn't last long. Last Thursday he came back home at 10.30 in the evening, although we had agreed that he would be back by 10. I was waiting for him. "I've already warned you, young man - if this happens just once more, there will be one stroke of the cane for each minute you are late. In addition, as punishment this time you will stay in the house after school and you will give me back the house key. On Saturday evening you will come home by 10 pm, instead of 2 am. I hope that will teach you to obey me implicitly. You are here to learn obedience, after all. That's what I'm paid for, and I don't want one of my pupils going back to his regular school when he's not up to scratch. That will harm my reputation."
Whether Guno then tried to express his freedom in his own way, or whether he was deliberately looking for trouble, I don't know - but in any case, last night he got home a quarter of an hour too late. To be precise, at seventeen minutes past ten. I was waiting for him in the hallway. I gave him time to take off his anorak, then said, "When do you have to be home?"
"Ten pm," he replied slowly. I saw him tense his backside. It looked as though he was already thinking about his punishment; his ears were red.
"And what time is it now?"
"Ten seventeen, sir. But please don't be so strict with me ...!"
His voice was trembling, beseeching. He knew perfectly well I was going to be strict, otherwise I wouldn't have taken so much care to explain the situation the first time he was late.
"I told you that you would get one stroke of the cane for each minute you were late. And that's exactly how it will be."
I had already hung my cane on a coathook and, before he knew what was happening, I had grabbed him and pushed his neck down and clamped it between my legs, his head level with my knees. Then I gripped the back of his jeans and pulled them tight. I had enough room to take a long swing with the cane. I gave him seventeen hard strokes, and lighter stripes appeared in the material where the cane had landed.
After the third stroke the boy began to cry out, tried to get free, and waved his hands around, though he didn't try to put them over his backside; he knew that, if he did, I would start all over again. I had told him that often enough. He yelled and yelled, begged me to stop, as I reached the twelfth stroke. And I can't deny that I found it very satisfying to beat this boy, to see his ass squirm, to see the buttocks clenching, to see how his whole body tensed up with each movement I made, as he anticipated the next lash. Guno's punishment was hurting. And that was what I wanted, to knock some sense into him, to teach him that he had to obey me. I wanted his burning ass to remind him of that afterwards. And so he received his seventeen strokes. Not one more, not one less. And I must admit that, despite his begging and crying, he held himself in position for each stroke and took it bravely.
"So - let's be clear about something. Today it was one stroke of the cane for each minute. In the future it will be one stroke more each time: the next time you're late two strokes per minute, and then three, and so on. And, since you seem to be so keen on staying out, I want to see how your school work is coming on. Get your books and come into my study."
"I didn't have much homework today, sir," he said nervously. I was immediately suspicious.
"I don't care how much or how little you had, I want to see it."
He was very slow to obey me. As he went upstairs he rubbed his backside, sniffed and ran his hand over his face, as if he had started crying again. When he got back, my suspicions were confirmed. He hadn't done his homework at all, he had just made a few notes, hastily thrown together so that he could get out of the house.
"How dare you show me such work! What do you think your school will say? They would be in touch with me in no time. And I don't need to read you the rules, do I? You know what happens when a tutor gets an unfavourable report about his pupil?"
"A short period of intensive discipline and then, if that doesn't work, it's all over. Expelled from this course and no chance of getting in anywhere else."
"I won't warn you again. In the future you will show me your homework without waiting for me to ask. You will tell me what you have done wrong at school and I will punish you appropriately, for what you have done at school and for unsatisfactory homework. If I can't make you listen, I'll warm your backside."
I had already got everything ready. On my desk lay the cane, which Guno looked at nervously the whole time, while he stood before me and ran his hands over the seat of his jeans.
"Hold out your right hand!"
He obeyed, looking uncertain and afraid.
"You tried to deceive me. For that you will take ten strokes on each hand, and then I'll attend to your backside!"
"No, sir, please! I didn't know, in the future I'll ..."
"Quiet! You knew what was in store when you signed your copy of the rules. Everything is there, down to the last detail. I am going to punish you so severely that you will take your studies seriously in the future. Right, let's get on with it!"
"Please, sir, I'm not a small child any more!"
"But you behave like one!"
I could see that he was playing for time, trying to get the better of me, because he was very scared of the punishment he was going to get.
"Come here and hold out your hand."
And with that I put an end to further discussion and gave him ten on the hand, although he begged me with tears in his eyes to lessen his punishment. Then ten on the other hand. And, although he rubbed his palm and held it under his arm after each stroke, he had to take his full sentence: I pulled his hand out again and brought the cane down with my full strength until he had counted out the full ten strokes each time.
After that I made him stand in front of my desk for a few minutes to let the pain sink in fully. He sobbed and shifted from one foot to the other. Of course he knew that worse was to come: a caning on the bare buttocks, and he didn't know how many strokes. I was going to teach him a lesson.
"Pull your trousers down, now! And then bend over the desk, arms stretched out. Grab hold of the other side of the desk - and don't let go till I've finished."
I made a few threatening cuts of the cane through the air. He stood stock still, terrified, and gazed at me with staring eyes.
"Please, sir, please don't cane me on the bare backside, I'll do everything you tell me to, but don't beat me like that!"
"If you keep complaining, it will be all the worse for you. Don't forget, I haven't decided how many strokes to give you - so the longer you keep me waiting, the more you'll get!"
He started crying again. Trembling, he began to pull at the belt of his jeans, did as I had instructed him, because he could see he had no choice. And he had to learn that I carried out my threats.
"Pull your trousers right down to the ankles! If you don't, I'll take them down for you, but then I wouldn't like to be in your shoes."
But he still hesitated, so I grabbed his neck and pushed him across the desk.
"I'm going to whip your ass till you can't sit down, my friend. Come on, arms out, grab the desk. And don't you dare let go till I give you permission."
In one rough gesture I tore his jeans and underpants down, revealing his bare buttocks, glowing red from the caning he had taken in the hallway. But that was just the beginning.
"Do you deserve to be punished?"
"Yes, sir, I deserve it. I'll obey you in the future. Please, don't punish me too severely!"
The words came out between helpless sobs. But he knew that his pleading would not change my mind. His bare ass trembled, his face was pushed against the desk, and the fear of his punishment was driving him crazy. I was enjoying his humiliation, seeing how young man like him could be forced to take a beating on the naked buttocks. Because he knew that, if he resisted, it would be a lot worse.
I brought the cane down.
The cane buried itself in his bare flesh. Across his buttocks, exactly in the middle, the characteristic double line of the cane stroke appeared. And he got another ten like that to warm him up. He began to wriggle and stamp his feet like a sixteen year old, but he didn't dare let go of the desk. Resigned to his fate, he kept in position, twitching his striped ass, and had to take a whole lot more hard strokes. His backside turned dark red, and blue patches started to appear after the first thirty strokes. Then I started to apply the strokes vertically, standing behind the desk and applying the lashes mercilessly. Five vertical cuts on each side. He screamed like an animal, pulled his head back as far as he could, kicked his legs as if practising swimming strokes, gasped for breath, steadied himself for a moment and opened his mouth silently, his eyes full of tears and a begging expression on his face; then his body relaxed and the next stroke landed on his glowing ass.
"Ten more - very hard and very special, my friend: bring your ass right up and spread the cheeks. I'm going to beat your crack until you cry. But then it'll be over, and I hope it does you some good."
"No, sir, please, not that!"
He sobbed, fidgeted, gazed at me wide-eyed. I lifted the cane, put my left hand on his head and pushed him down onto the desk.
"Lift your backside up and get your legs apart. Otherwise we can start right over again from the beginning."
That worked. Suddenly his ass was lifted up, the cheeks spread, and I saw the untouched area around his anus. But it wouldn't stay untouched for long. With all my strength I brought the cane down, and the yell he let out was indescribable. All the muscles in his body quivered as he tried as hard as he could to keep his self-control, to remain in position despite the pain and the humiliation, knowing there was more to come. I helped him by keeping my left hand on his head, so that he just had to control the lower half of his body, although he only managed it with great difficulty. His bare legs writhed, his buttocks trembled - after each stroke his ass jerked downwards and his cheeks clenched together convulsively, but he remembered my orders and managed to get back into position again, ready for the next stroke, even though it cost him an immense effort.
Thwack! The next stroke, the same ritual and the familiar yell. Tears and snot dripped onto my desk, and he let out cries, groans, animal noises that can hardly be described. But such a punishment stretches the endurance to its limits, especially when taken for the very first time. And my new pupil had to submit to it. There were three strokes left.
"And the next - pull yourself together, or there'll be extra strokes!"
"And the last!"
But I let go of his head and watched him as he lay trembling before me. His trousers down around his ankles, his buttocks red and swollen, the blue lines running down onto his thighs. His ass quivering in panic, torn by fear and obedience - pulled in one direction by the fear of pain and in the other by the will to obey. He had to obey me. I knew it.
"And you will thank me for it."
"Y-yes, s-sir ..."
Slowly and deliberately I raised my arm and watched the boy flinch, noticing how he thought three or four times that now the stroke was coming. That's how it should be. He shouldn't forget this beating; maybe I wouldn't need to be so severe in the future? That was what I hoped.
Several times I let the cane swish through the air. Each time he cried out and flinched, as if I'd hit him. Fear of my cane was now deep inside every bone in his body, and that would make him respect me from now on.
Now - thwack!
His body twisted on the desk as he tried to overcome the pain. A well-whipped backside writhed on the edge of my desk. A sobbing boy gasped for breath and then found a voice racked with agony. And then I heard it:
"Thank you, sir!"