Uncle Brad


by Juan Santiago <Palizaus2000@yahoo.com>

"Come here."

I trembled as I heard those two fateful words. I had heard them so often in my eleven years, I should have been used to them. But I wasn't. Each time I heard them, I started to tremble from head to foot. My face felt hot and my body shivered with cold. My stomach cramped and my bottom twitched in anticipation. But in the end, of course, I went over to stand in front of my uncle. He was my guardian now, my parents having died in a plane accident when I was three.

As I stood before him, Uncle Brad, as I had to call him, I felt awkward and vulnerable in my brief, skin-tight shorts and short-sleeved sport shirt. Except for ankle socks and shoes, these were the only garments I had worn since coming to live with Uncle Brad. Even in the coldest winter days, all I was given was a thin jacket, scarf and cap. But that wasn't so bad; I have gotten used to that. Not to the whippings, though, which frightened me each time more than the previous.

Uncle Brad sat comfortably in his big leather chair. We were in his study where my whippings were usually administered. He opened his knees and beckoned me closer. He looked at my bare legs and smiled.

"Your lessons aren't up to standard, are they?" he asked with a little chuckle. "Answer me!" he smacked my thigh sharply when I remained silent.

"Yes, Uncle Brad," I dutifully replied.

"And you will have to have your little bottom thoroughly thrashed, won't you?"

"Yes, Uncle Brad."

"Excellent. Now tell me what I have to do."

I knew the routine by heart. "Please thrash my bottom thoroughly," I said.

"Yes, yes. That's my duty as your guardian, isn't it, my boy?"

"Yes, Uncle Brad."

"And how should we thrash that little bottom?" he asked, grinning widely. "With the tawse, the cane or the birch?"

"Answer me!" he snapped again as I said nothing.

"I - I don't know, sir," I mumbled, plucking at the tight seat of my shorts. That middle seam always bothered me most during these moments when I stood, sweating, in front of my uncle.

"Well, then I guess we'll have to start with the tawse, then pass on to the cane and perhaps finish with the birch. What do you say. Is that fair, since you can't make up your own mind? Then, next time, you'll be able to decide which you enjoy more." He laughed.

I stood and looked at the carpet.

"You persist in not replying to my questions, do you? I will have to be quite severe with you and teach you that I demand answers to my queries. Go over to the cupboard and bring me the black tawse."

I swallowed. That was the thickest of all his tawses and therefore hurt the most. It also had three tails which made it even more painful. I felt tears stinging my eyes as I made my way over to the cupboard. I opened the large doors and glanced at the horrible collection of punishment instruments. Leather straps, canes and even birch rods, the latter soaking in brine in a small bucket were carefully stored there. I took the heavy black tawse off its hook and brought it to Uncle Brad.

He took it and handled it like a loving pet. He stroked it, fingered its tails and slapped it lightly against the palm of his hand. "Yes," he said with a snicker, "this will do quite nicely. That fat bottom of yours is going to get warmed up before we start the caning. Turn around and touch your toes. Mind you keep your knees straight."

I had had practice with that as well and I had no trouble touching the floor with my finger tips without bending my legs. After a while, I heard Uncle Brad get up from his chair and leisurely approach me. I felt his hand grasping the back of my shorts' waistband and forcefully drag them up. A moment's wait and then - a terrific whack across my upper thighs. The leather seared into the skin and I had trouble staying bent over. The first impulse is always to straighten up and rubbing the burning skin. I resisted the urge.

The next stroke fell higher, across the underside of the buttocks which were now stretched quite tight. As I felt the fiery sting, I realised that the shorts no longer protected that area and I squealed at the pain. The next fell across the thighs again, so hard I let out a yelp of pain.

I heard Uncle Brad chuckle. "Hurts?" he asked.

"Y-yes, sir," I stammered, remembering his warning about answering even his rhetorical questions.

"Excellent," he gloated. "Let's give some more, shall we?"

"Yes, sir."

And more he gave. My lower bottom and down to mid-thighs were now in flames. As it continued, my cries grew louder and my tears streamed down my face. I was now grasping the toes of my shoes to prevent myself from straightening up. The pain was so intense, I had to fight the temptation of rubbing my sore skin. And still the tawse lashed my bare legs until I was shouting in agony.

"Sounds as if you are really enjoying this," Uncle Brad snorted. "Take your shorts down. It's time to attend to these chubby little buttocks."

I straightened halfway, loosened my braces and lowered my shorts to my ankles. I wore nothing underneath, so when I bent over again, I presented my bare backside to Uncle Brad.

Now it was my bottom's turn to suffer the hot lashes and soon I was screaming again. I almost forgot my burning thighs as the tawse went to work across my bottom, up and down, up and down, strokes landing on top of previous strokes. I was swaying back and forth as Uncle Brad whipped and whipped that tawse across my backside. I felt the skin being flayed off.

Uncle Brad stopped. He seemed out of breath and when I turned my heard, I saw him wiping his red face.

He saw me looking and grinned at me. "I hope you appreciate the hard work I'm doing on your behalf," he said. "You will be grateful for my attentions when you are older. Now let's rest for a moment so I can get my breath back. It's no easy work punishing a boy's behind. "Go and stand in the corner, nose to the wall, hands behind your neck."

So we "rested." I longed to rub my flaming bottom and thighs as I stood, trembling worse than ever, shorts around my ankles, in the far corner of the study, fingers laced behind my back.

There was silence in the room for what I judged to have been about thirty minutes. Then I heard Uncle Brad stand up.

"Come here and take the tawse back to the cupboard, boy," he said, "and bring the cane with the white enamel knob."

I hobbled painfully over to him, shorts still entangled around my feet and feeling my swollen buttocks hang over my thighs. I took the tawse and replaced it on the hook in the cupboard. Then I brought out the required cane. and handed it to Uncle Brad. He smiled as he took it. It was a good three feet long and at least one centimeter thick. I had felt it before and wasn't anxious to have it repeated.

He swished the cane through the air, enjoying the terror he saw in my eyes. "Yes, my boy," he said, "this is going to hurt. Really hurt. I'm sure it will leave a lasting impression and remind you to bring better grades next time. Over!"

The last word was shouted at me and I quickly resume my whipping position, presenting a pair of throbbing, swollen buttocks for more punishment.

Uncle Brad stood behind me, tapping my bottom with the cane. This lasted for several minutes before he finally said, "You will have 18 strokes with this cane. You will count each stroke out aloud immediately after it lands, or I will add strokes. Is that understood, boy?"

"Yes, sir," I mumbled. My legs were shaking again.

The first stroke was so hard I almost took a step forward. But the fear of the consequence kept me in place. I shrieked with the pain, gasping for breath.

"Too slow, boy, in your count," my uncle said with a little laugh. "Let's start again."

Another stroke, low down across the bottom near the thighs, had me cry out loud but I managed to scream "One!" before taking a new breath.

The next cut fell across the upper thighs, across the parts already well tenderised by the tawse and I roared. My uncle chuckled and whipped down the cane again so quickly I had had no time to count.

"Disobedient little brat," he yelled at me, and brought the cane down across the bottom. "Eighteen strokes to come. You better start counting properly or this will continue all day."

He took his time after that, too much time. I counted frantically and then had to wait and wait for the next. I thought I was being cut in half. If the tawse had been painful, this terrible cane was considerably worse. It lashed into me, strokes crossing strokes, until I thought my bottom must be covered in blood by now. But Uncle Brad was relentless. Again and again he had an excuse to add another stroke, and another, until I had no idea how many cuts I had received even when I counted "Eighteen!" at last.

Out of breath, Uncle Brad lowered the cane. He placed it on his desk and then approached my. I felt his hand across my tortured buttocks and I winced as his fingers probed each thick welt and bruise.

"Well, that's your thrashing, my boy. I have decided to spare you the birch but don't count on my restraint the next time. If I don't see those grades greatly improved the next time, you'll get four dozen on top of what you got today. So get to work and stop idling at school."

He laughed again and slapped me hard across my aching bottom. "Get up, pull up your shorts and go and stand in the corner for one hour. I'll be back and take you to lunch."


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