I should never, ever have said it; I knew as soon as the words left my mouth that I would regret it - but it was too late; the damage had been done:
He leapt across the table, grabbed my right ear and twisted hard. "That does it, boy." he said "You've pushed me too far this time; get upstairs - I'm going to thrash you so hard you'll not know what day it is by the time I've finished with you. Now GET UP THERE." He pulled me to my feet by my ear; I yelped with pain the scurried out of the kitchen and up the stairs; he'd beaten me before and it always hurt but I'd never seen him as angry as this. I knew it was going to be bad already; I didn't dare infuriate him any further. As I walked up the stairs I saw him rushing out of the kitchen after me and shout "Hurry up; into the bathroom." This confused me; I'd expected to be taken up to the room at the top for a beating - what was the bathroom about ? In any case I did as I was told as he followed me up onto the landing and into the bathroom. As I entered the room, he grabbed me by my shirt collar and pushed my face down toward the washbasin, slapping the backs of my legs a few times with his free hand, then he picked up a small bar of soap. "Open your mouth, boy; language like that needs to be washed out of you." I opened my mouth and he shoved the bar of soap into my mouth. "Now chew on it". I didn't so he forced my jaw up and down; the soap began to foam in my mouth and the taste made me gag. Tears of humiliation welled up in my eyes but he took no notice. He repeated his sharp slapping a few more times as I continued to chew.
"You'll keep that soap in your mouth until I say otherwise. Now get your clothes off and get in the shower." again I was confused but did as I was told. He turned on the shower and the steam began to rise.
"Get in there and bend over." he said. I did so and he directed the steam of hot water onto my bare buttocks. It was hot; it got hotter - he was increasing the heat slowly; he showered all over my backside and the tops of my thighs; hotter and hotter - I shouted out for him to turn the heat down but he continued increasing the temperature.
"It hurts, doesn't it. But it'll do you no harm. I'm mildly scalding your backside. You're used to my thrashings and they don't have the effect they used to have on you - but with a scalded arse it'll be a different matter, boy. I'll have you in tears before I'm finished with you." hotter and hotter. I could take no more and then... the water stopped.
"Get out, dry yourself and then report to the room at the top of the house, boy. I shall go ahead and prepare. Oh, and you can spit that soap out now!". I did so, gladly.
A short while later, dry but wearing nothing but a towel I knocked on the door at the top of the stairs. I was beckoned in and saw in the centre of the room an 'A' frame with buckles on each corner. Next to it rested a thick leather tawse and a vicious straight-handled cane. In the corner of the room was a chair on the seat of which lay a slipper and a hairbrush. Finally, resting against the wall was a large wooden 'fraternity' paddle. I could tell I was going to be here for some time; he meant business.
He beckoned me over to the chair, where he now sat, placing the slipper and brush to one side. He pulled me over his knee and whisked my towel aside. He hooked one leg around mine and pulled my right arm up behind my back with his left hand, thus securing me tightly in position. For a moment all was quiet and still then he spoke: "Prepare for the thrashing of your life, boy." then the spanking began. He bought his heavy hand down hard again and again, the splatting noise filling the room as my scalded backside was spanked over and over. A rising warmth spread across my cheeks which became hotter and hotter, though not by any means unbearable. A pause. The slipper was picked up and began it's assault on my bottom. Slap, slap slap - a new sting; I began to wriggle, trying to escape the rising pain as the rubber sole of the slipper stung repeatedly. The slipper was placed aside and then a sharp pain as the brush hammered into my bare buttocks; a flurry of perhaps a hundred whacks with the brush like a machine gun flew all over my behind and I shouted out in pain, trying to pull free but to no avail. Finally it was over. I was sore - but I knew this was nothing but a warm-up. What was normally nothing more than a pleasant warming sensation from a pre-punishment spanking had become more like a severe beating in terms of pain - because of my scalded buttocks! He let me free and sent me to the corner, my hands on my head.
Behind me I could hear him walking around, picking up the cane and swishing it through the air. Lifting the tawse and slamming it down onto the padding atop the frame. "Feeling nervous, boy ? Sorry you spoke without thinking are you ? Well you'll soon have to speak without sitting once I've done with you! See this tawse ? I'm going to beat your bare backside with it SO hard! FACE the wall, boy."
He kept me there, hands on head, facing the corner for ten more minutes while he taunted me with tales of how severely he intended to punish me, all the while slapping the tawse against the palm of his hand. This was going to be awful.
Finally he ordered me over to the A-Frame and had me bend over it; my buttocks stretched tight as I lowered myself over. He wrapped the buckles around my ankles and wrists and bound them tightly. Finally a strap circled my waist and the backs of my knees to fasten me absolutely to the frame. There was no escape; my backside was now the highest point of my body, raised up, stretched tight and pushed out due to the padding on top of the frame; it was a ripe, tempting offering for the tawse and the cane - a blank canvas on which an expert artist was about to work. By now my flesh was merely mildly warm and slightly throbbing. By the time he had finished it would be quite different, I knew.
He placed the cane on the chair and took the tawse. He stood behind and to the side of me and as I twisted around I could see him lining himself up, measuring the distance - determined to ensure that each vicious swing of that leather strap inflicted as much pain as possible onto my offered flesh. He lifted his right arm high over his shoulder, the tawse falling over his head and momentarily flicking into the small of his back then with tremendous speed his arm swung forward, the tawse with it and the leather wooshed through the air and slammed viciously across my bared buttocks. The noise was like a pistol crack and for a moment all was still and quiet and then the pain began; oh GOD the pain. He took his time; he knew the impact of each stroke would take some seconds to reach a climax and he felt no need to spoil that with another stroke so he waited and as I relaxed again he slammed another stroke across my backside... then another and another; the beating was slow, measured and cruel.
There was no mercy and I'm ashamed to admit that in the end I began to cry. A grown man reduced to tears from a bare bottom beating; pathetic. But cry I did. Eventually the beating ceased. The tawse was placed on the chair and the cane was picked up in its place. He took the cane and placed it on the floor in front of my face.
"I'm going for a while. Give you a chance to compose yourself. Become acquainted with the cane in front of you, boy; when I return I shall thrash you so hard with that, the tawsing will seem like a bit of fun."
I lay over the frame for perhaps 20 minutes, unable to ease the pain in my inflamed rear-end and with nothing to do but either close my eyes or stare at the cane. When the door finally opened again, it was a kind of relief; at least it would soon be over. But not before a lot more pain. He picked up the cane and swished it through the air a few times. "Prepare yourself, boy; you'll not be sitting down for a long time after I've finished with you!" and on the final word he delivered the first stroke of the cane:
Three feet of dense, whippy cane forced through the air with as much force as he could muster, with nothing but the tender flesh of my backside to stop it.
I didn't stand a chance.
The wood sunk its teeth into my backside and bit hard; the length of the cane ripped hard into my taut skin making a loud 'craaaack' which echoed around the room for a moment afterward. No pain. Nothing. Wait... here it comes... ah... arggghh oh NO! The searing burn of a white-hot poker being slowly drawn across my bare buttocks - like nothing I'd ever felt before. The earlier scalding had sensitised my bottom so much - I'd never felt a stroke of the cane quite like it.
I cried out even with that first stroke. He continued slowly but surely - each stroke carefully placed and timed to cause as much excruciating pain as possible; a beating calculated to impart a lesson never to be forgotton.
By the time he'd given me the first dozen I was yelling out loud; the second dozen returned the tears to my eyes and the third dozen had them streaming down my face accompanied by my cries and shouts. He paused. Could it be over ?
"Twelve more, boy, then the caning is finished. But these will be the worst."
I felt the cane tap-tap-tapping against the crease at the top of my thighs where by backside began; he was going to cane me where I sat down so I'd remember this for a long time. He even took a couple of steps back then stepped forward again, putting his bodyweight behind the stroke - the cane cut hard and deep and yet again I shrilled out in pain.
And then nothing. A full minute passed and then... two steps back he took, a leap forward... whoooosh... CRACK! Another vicious cut. Ten more similar strokes all concentrated in the same general area, each a minute apart and each delivered with the conviction of a man determined to give me the caning of my life.
It left me a sobbing wreck. Once I cursed out loud which bought me a further three strokes which he laid on with extra gusto; I didn't dare swear again - I couldn't risk any more - as it was, my throat hurt with my cries, though not as much as the other end of my upturned body which was being ravaged so cruelly.
He placed the cane alongside the tawse, picked up the paddle and placed it across my backside. This time, with no break, no warning he simply began to paddle away at my bottom as hard as he could, the weight of the wood pushing my body forward with each stroke; I screamed, cried, yelled but to no avail; he simply thrashed me. No other word for it; I was being totally, completely, severely mercilessly thrashed.
When the straps were finally undone and I was helped to my feet I felt totally exhausted; my face was wet and sore with the sting of tears, my throat hoarse with the crying. My body was covered in sweat and my bottom was totally ravaged with the relentless beating he had administered. He told me to return to the bathroom and to get dressed which I did. When I got there, I looked in the mirror at my behind; it was a complete mess; it was swollen, scarlet, purple and black. Shiny with the swelling, ridged with the weals. My trousers barely stretched over the aching flesh and I had trouble walking properly as I made my way back downstairs.
He was waiting there in the kitchen for me. "Do you have something to say, boy ?"
"Yes sir; I'm sorry I spoke to you that way."
"Apology accepted. I'm just sorry you had to learn the hard way. You'll find you'll not be able to sit down comfortably for a week or so but the swelling will go down soon. My advice to you is to behave yourself until it's fully healed; a second beating over that one wouldn't bear thinking about!"
He was right; it didn't. He continued...
"And if you ever speak to me like that again, I'll be using the birch on you..."
I must remember to hush my mouth!