Waiting for Punishment


by Juan Santiago <Paliza3000@yahoo.com>

I was sitting on the cot in my room hugging my bare legs. I was shivering, but not from the cold, despite my skimpy clothes. I was waiting for my step uncle to come up or to call me downstairs. Or perhaps both. As usual, he had announced this visit early in the morning and so I had been waiting nervously, full of anxiety the entire day until now. It was close to 7:00 p. m., the time had had indicated he would come for me.

Of course I had gone through this same routine many, many times in the past, but no matter how frequently I had gone through this procedure, I could never get used to it or disguise my terror of what was to come. At first it was the unknown that made me tremble, but now it was what I knew that made me wish to be anywhere else but here.

I had finished my homework but knew that Uncle Stefan would find fault. He always did. I had also cleaned my room and, again, knew it was not to Uncles satisfaction. It never was.

I had been living with my uncle since I was 5 years old, or for about 6 years. I am 11 years old, you see. My mother and stepfather had died six years ago in a car accident and my stepfathers brother had been assigned by the courts to be my legal guardian because I had no other relatives. Stefan was not happy with this arrangement. He was a bachelor in his mid-forties and used to his ways. A young boy, he said, would only interfere with his peaceful life.

Then one day we had watched a television programme describing the history of corporal punishment in home and school half a century or more ago. When the programme was finished, he looked at me with a wide grin.

"David," he said, placing his hands on my knees and getting his face too close to mine, "now I know what to do with you. I am going to teach you some manners, make sure you learn at school and obey my orders instantly and unquestioningly. Yes, I have now seen how boys should be handled. Tomorrow we will go shopping."

That was the beginning. We came home carrying a number of parcels that were unwrapped on my bed. There were several straps, or "tawses" as he called them and a number of canes, a leather paddle, quite large and thick with holes in it and a little whip with several tails which he called a "martinet."

"All these will be used on your bare bottom with, I am sure, very good results," he said with deep satisfaction as he slapped one of the tawses on the flat of his hand. "The smaller items first, then, as you get older, you will graduate to more severe instruments. But they will all be very painful so that you learn quickly. I am not a patient man, especially with little scamps like you, so apply yourself and maybe, maybe, you might save your bottom occasionally. But dont count on it. I intend to take great interest in the bare skin of your buttocks."

And he was true to his word. I have lost count of the number of spankings, whippings and canings I have received since, each one more painful the the preceding one - or so it seemed. Stefan said that a boys behind is toughened up when regularly thrashed and the boy gets used to the sting, so that each beating has, by necessity, to be more severe than the last one. I did not agree with this axiom but was unsuccessful in trying to persuade my uncle of its fallacy.

Now I heard his heavy footsteps marching up the stairs and my heart beat faster. The moment had come and I could barely breathe. I thought of the stripes across my bottom from yesterdays caning and the welts seemed to come alive and tingle more at every of uncles steps. They halted in front of my room. I held my breath. There was a long silence, then the steps went away. I took a deep breath. Where was he going? Had he forgotten about me? I doubted that, but couldnt help some wishful thinking.

Several more minutes passed before I heard him return. My anxiety rose to a frantic pitch and I hugged my legs closer to my chest, leaning my chin on my knees. This time, after the footsteps had stopped by my room, the door opened abruptly and there stood Uncle Stefan, martinet in hand. Almost immediately I started to cry. Yes, even at 11 years of age I couldnt prevent the tears from flowing each time punishment loomed.

But first let me tell you about the martinet. It looks fairly harmless, just a wooden handle and a few leather strips, maybe 5 or 7 or 9. Only odd numbers as far as I could see. But these leather tails were hard and ended in a tight little knot and each knot chewed into your flesh with an agonising, burning bite. As my uncle explained at the beginning, it was simple to use this kind of instrument because you did not have to have a particularly good aim. No matter where these tails landed, they could do no permanent damage, whether in between the buttocks, between the legs or even on your private parts. It would hurt, yes, but that was to be desired to make a punishment meaningful. But, unlike the cane, even lashing the spine would not damage any important parts. As a result, he would use this martinet with wild, swinging lashes that spread the tails all over my bottom and thighs, and all the most sensitive parts between.

And now here he was, holding this martinet in his big fist. He closed the door behind him as I jumped from the bed and stood at attention.

"Good evening, sir," I said as I had been trained.

Stefan did not reply. He placed himself before me and stared into my eyes. He played with the tails of the whip and his eyes dropped to my shorts and bare legs. "Why are your shorts so wrinkled?" he finally snapped.

I didnt know what to reply since I never thought about my clothes except to make sure they were clean. I was always punished when I came home from school and had dust on the seat of my shorts or a spot on my shirt, or even if my shoe laces were undone.

"I - I dont know, sir," I stammered, pressing against the front trying to smoothen them out. The shorts, very brief to begin with, were even shorter crumpled up as they were. Not having any underwear, I was glad they were very tight or it might have been embarrassing when sitting down.

"Well, I do, my boy," Stefan growled. "It is because you dont take proper care of your clothes. And why is that? Because you dont have to pay for them, do you? It is my money, so ruining a good pair of short trousers is nothing to you, right? Uncle will buy you another pair, right?"

I said nothing and just looked at the floor.

"I see you havent cleaned your room yet even though you were told early this morning. Why not?" He swished the martinet through the air with a loud whoosh.

"But, sir, I did!" I wailed. I had spent almost an hour cleaning and tidying the room.

"I see little evidence of that," Stefan replied coldly. "Laziness will not be rewarded, you know. You will clean it after I am through with you and if it was not properly done when I come back, you may expect a dose with the cane, so I suggest you do it right the first time. Now stop fiddling with your shorts and take them off."

This was the moment I always feared the most. Baring myself in front of Stefan while his eyes followed each of my movements and then, when the shorts were around my ankles, his gaze lingering on the stripes across my bottom. But of course I obeyed immediately. There was never a question of not doing what he told me. That had been well whipped into my bottom for the last 6 years.

"Take them right off," he said when he saw me standing with them on the floor. So I stepped out of them, picked them up, folded them and placing them on my desk, always feeling Uncles eyes on my bare parts. As I bent, I was only too aware of presenting him with my wealed bare bottom.

"Now lie on the bed, raise your legs over your head, hold them back with your knees close to your ears by gripping them behind your knees."

I knew the position and I hated it. It allowed me to watch Stefan raising the whip and then lashing it down. I also displayed all my most private parts and was unable to retain even the slightest bit of modesty. And of course those sharp tails with the hard knots would infallibly fall into those areas again and again until all the parts between my legs, in the cleft of the buttocks and even on my front would be a burning throbbing hell. Then having to pull the tight shorts well up with the seams biting into the cleft and up into the crotch was utterly devastating. Stefan knew how to whip so that every lash would hurt as much as possible and leave stripes that lasted for days, long after the next thrashing was already due.

So I lay there, splayed wide open to his gaze and to the martinets bite, waiting for the torture to begin. Stefan stood over me, gazing down at my bare body so indecently exposed. For a moment he dangled the tips of the thongs over my bottom, tickling my anus, penis and testicles. He smiled when he saw me trying to clench. I wasnt successful, of course, in this position, and could do nothing to hide myself.

"The first ten strokes will be given for your careless homework," Stefan said easily, stepping back and to the side. From this I understood that these strokes would be given horizontally across the buttocks and thighs although the tips of the tails would snap into the cleft when the stroke was short and did not reach the opposite buttock. I also understood that there would be further strokes that would land vertically between the legs. It was just a question of how many times this process would be repeated. I knew from ample experience that a set of 10 strokes each given horizontally and vertically could be repeated several times. I have had as many as 3 or 4 sets this way with untold agonies but without too much skin having been lost. That is why I hate the martinet so much.

Then I saw Stefan raise his arm, the thongs of the whip flying up and back, then whistling down with incredible speed. I wanted to close my eyes but couldnt. I saw the leather tails with their little knots rushing towards me....


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