A primary school boy's worst nightmare. A summons to the headmaster for punishment. And that punishment would be only one thing - a very sound hiding. But I knew that my punishment would be worst than most. Not only was I a grade seven boy and almost thirteen, but I was also a prefect, and supposed to set an example!
To add insult to injury, a much younger boy had been sent to my classroom to fetch me, and pass on the headmaster's orders,
"Mr Hart says you are to go and wait outside his office now," the bearer of doom announced, "and he says you may be wearing anything except your underpants."
He smirked, but I couldn't blame him - not long ago I had been the one giving him the same instructions.
I undressed in the change rooms, and, clad only in my skimpy bikini style briefs, I walked up to the admin block and took up my post outside the door leading to the headmaster's study. He had two doors, one off his secretary's office, used for adult visitors, staff and boys sent with good work. The other door was the one I waited next to. It led directly off the school corridor, and we all knew that a boy standing there was about to get his backside thrashed.
I stood, nose pressed to the brick wall awaiting my punishment for ages. The bell for lunch rang, and most of the boys in the school passed me on their was to the playing fields. Nobody could mistake my reason for being there. But some were surprised - not often did they see a prefect awaiting the cane in his underpants.
Eventaully the door opened, and I was ushered in. The big man stood leaning against his heavy, wide oak desk and stared at me as I stood at attention before him.
"Well, Cristofer," he rumbled, "you were seen by one of the teachers smoking behind the toilets on Friday. Is this true?"
I had been caught. No point denying the charges. It would only make things worse for my bottom, which was already tingling.
"Yes sir," I managed to say, staring at the carpet.
"But my boy, not only were you involved in this nonsense, but you were encouraging a group of grade four boys, including your own younger brother, to join you!"
"I'm sorry sir. I don't want to get them in to trouble as well sir."
"Oh don't worry," he growled, "they're in plenty of trouble. I've already sent for them."
Now I felt terrible. It was one thing getting a hiding myself, but it was awful to be the cause of three other boys, younger than me, to get their bottoms tanned as well.
"I intend to thrash all your backsides," the headmaster was continuing, "yours far worse of course, due to your position of responsibility in this school."
"He was going to say more, but a soft knock on the door interupted him. He opened it, and ushered in the three scared looking nine year old boys that had been involved in our crime. They too wore only their skimpy undies.
"Ah!" the head cried, "I was just telling young Cristofer here that I am going to be whipping some bottoms this morning."
He glared at the three little boys, then turned his attention back to me.
"Part of your punishment, Cristofer, is to watch your brother and his friends get their hidings."
I looked at my brother. His fair hair was stuck to his forehead with his nervous sweat, and I could see that there were already tears in his bright blue eyes.
Making a great show of it, the headmaster opened one of his cupboards the took out the instruments for our hidings. He produced a light leather strap, a heavier strap and finally a heavy leather strop. Then he walked over to the basket next to the hiding chair, and selected two canes. He placed all his weapons on the desk, then sat in a straight back chair in the middle of the room.
"Cristofer, bring me the light strap."
I walked over to the desk, and lifted the strap. It wasn't all that light. Heavier than a normal belt used for holding up pants. Carefully, I handed the implement to sir. He pointed to one of the little boys, a dark blond lad with freckles on his nose, wearing a pair of dark orange underpants.
"Greg, you're the first. Come here."
Greg reluctantly shuffled over to sir, and was unceremoniously dumped over the head's knees. With no hesitation, sir got to work, thrashing the little bottom protected only by thin undies mercilessly. Soon, Greg was squirming in pain, and the room was filled with his howling and the cracking of leather on bottom.
After ten hard strokes, sir pushed Greg off his lap. The little guy's hands went straight to his burning bottom, but sir grabbed them.
"No rubbing, my boy," he commanded, "take your underpants right off, put your hands on your head and go stand with your nose on the wall in the corner."
Greg obeyed, and soon there was one naked little boy, hands on head, standing against the wall. His red bottom glowed for us all to see.
"Ryan, come here!" ordered the head, and a dark haired, well tanned little fellow stepped forward, and, following Greg's example, laid himself across sir's lap.
Soon the belt was cracking painfully across his little underpant clad bottom, and he too was wriggling and crying loudly by the time the belting was over. As with Greg, Ryan had to remove his underpants and stand, naked, next to his friend, hands on head, bottom glowing, crying softly.
Then it was the turn of Richard, my brother. This was the worst part for me as the little guy draped his almost nude body over the headmaster's lap, pushing his bottom up for the belt. Every stroke that he took was like another for me. He was brave for the first few, but, as with any little boy, his bottom got too sore, and soon he was crying and struggling as the belt bit across his little tail.
Finally, his beating with the belt was over, and he had to stand naked next to his friends. Sir turned back to me.
"Are you satisfied young man? This is what your influence has caused for thses little boys."
I looked at the three naked little guys. Their bottoms were bright red, with the individual welts just discernable against the general bright hue of their bums.
The head picked up the lighter of the two canes, and flexed it experimentally.
"Greg, come here!"
Greg turned from the wall, and, teary eyes turned down, stood in front of the headmaster.
"To finish off, three strokes from the cane," sir announced, "now bend over and touch your toes."
Greg obeyed, pushing his sore red little bum up. Sir had to lean down slightly to tap the cane gently on the boy's backside. Then he administered the three hard strokes with about four second pauses, while the little boy yelped each time the cane smacked across his bare bottom.
The other two lads took their turns touching their toes for their canings, then their punishment was over. But mine was only about to begin.
"You three," ordered sir, "go and stand out of my way in the corner. You will watch at least part of this senior boy's punishment."
Sir turned back to me.
"Now it's your turn, Cristofer. And these younger lads will see that grade 7 prefects are far from immune from a good hiding."
He recovered the heavier of the two straps and turned back to me, his face grim.
"Bend over my desk."
I couldn't trust myself to say anything. I draped my body over the head's tidy desk and grabbed the far edge firmly with both hands. I was familiar with the procedure, so I widened my feet and pushed my underpant clad bottom up for the belt. I felt the leather being draped across my backside, then, with very little pause, it was lifted and smashed down across my tail, making me jerk and gasp with the pain. Sir worked methodically, but, as usual, kept most of the strokes low, on the bottom half of my thinly clad buttocks. Six firm strokes seemed to take forever, but I managed to stick it out without howling.
"Get up."
I slowly rose from the strapping position, bottom burning, but I didn't dare to rub. I knew that what I had just received was nothing more than a warm up. I was right.
"That was just the beginning, young man," sir growled, "your brother and his friends will also watch the next session, but for the main course, so to speak, they will leave the room."
I didn't want to say anything - I couldn't have my younger brother and his friends hear the tears in my voice.
"Remove your underpants and bend back over in the strapping position."
I had expected that order, but my heart was still in my throat as I took off the only protection from my burning butt and bent my naked, hairless twelve year old body back over the desk for another instalment of my hiding. I clenched my bare cheeks involuntarily as I felt the heavy leather shaving strop across them, then remembered the rules and widened my legs.
I heard and felt the wicked snap as the strop cracked across my bare bottom. The pain from the previous session was reawakened and doubled as the heavy leather made its impression on my young, tender flesh. The tears started almost at once, and after only four strokes, I was sobbing and battling to keep still. Sir gave me eight slow, hard strokes in all. I can honestly say that up until that point I had never had such a sore bottom in all my life. But more was still to come.
"Get up and face the other boys."
I stood, still not daring to rub, and faced my fellow 'criminals'. Their red, tear stained faces were dominated by their wide eyes.
"Do you three see what happens to senior boys who forget the rules?" sir enquired, "and do you understand that you are very lucky to be the young ones here?"
They all nodded together.
"Good. Go and stand outside, noses pressed to the wall. The rest of the school can admire your red bottoms for a while," then, as ab afterthought, he added, "and listen carefully. What you are going to hear is the cane on Cristofer's bare bottom - and he's going to get it a lot worse than you did, so be grateful."
They turned and trooped out of the office. Three naked little boys with bare bottoms, each bright red with three distinctive stripes across it.
The headmaster turned to me when they had closed the door.
"Now I start with you. The only reason that you are still a prefect at this school, my boy, is that your general behaviour and attitude is excellent. But retining your badge is going to come at a price. You will not sit for a week when I am finished."
He gestured to the famous hiding chair in the corner. It was an elderly, overstuffed leather armchair, with a well worn back and seat, from many hips and hands as lads my age and younger had bent over it to endure the agony of the cane smashing across their bottoms. I knew that sir only ever gave boys five, six or seven strokes across that chair, and not very often bare, so now I was really in for some serious punishment.
"Have I caned you over the hiding chair before, Cristofer?"
"Yes sir," I responded, head hung, "you gave me five last year for truancy."
"Bare, or underpants?"
"Shorts and underpants, sir, because it was my first time, sir."
"Ah. Well, you'll find this different then, won't you?"
"Sir."
"Bend over. And brace yourself. You're getting seven."
I gulped, but without hesitating, and went and bent over the hiding chair. It brought back the memory of that very painful experience from last year. I also remembered that my friend, Gilbert, had received the same punishment a few weeks back, and the marks were still visible on his bottom. In fact, Gilbert had come out of the office crying after his seven bare. And he hardly ever cried after a hiding. And he hadn't had a sore bottom already to start with!
I pushed my legs and hairless crotch against the cool leather of the back of the chair to support myself, widened my feet an waited for my thrashing to begin. Sir took his time in picking up the longer, and heavier of the two canes, and tapped it gently across my pushed up bare bottom. It was deceptively cool on my throbbing rear end. My total nudity had been forgotten - all my senses were focused on my throbbing bottom and the pain to come.
And painful it was. The first stroke hissed down and bit into my bum, causing me to yelp in surprise and pain. One always forgets between hidings how sore they really are, and this, as my first ever bare bottom caning, was almost unbearable. But I didn't move, and, after about five seconds, the next stroke was administered. Two lines of agony burnt across my little tail and I howled. A slightly longer pause, and the third stroke whistled down, snapping across my naked boy-flesh. Now three incandescent lines of fire dominated my senses, so the fourth took me completely by surprise. It was excrutiating. I almost lost my position, and had to exert enormous self control to remain bending. To stand without permission would have meant starting over from number one!
Sir waited about fifteen seconds before laying on the fifth, which cut diagonally across my bottom, then the sixth stroke smashed down, diagonally again, but the other way, making a neat cross across my naked bottom. These two not only contributed to the agony felt by my rear end, but lit up the other four strokes once again, on top of my strapping and my stropping. But the seventh stroke of the cane was the worst. Sir took ages, even tapping the cane on several parts of my bottom to prolong the tension. Then he gave me an incredible lash - low, millimetres above my legs, right in the crease where the underpants usually sit. This was the one that would remind me of this hiding long after the pain of the rest of my punishment had subsided.
Sir took his time putting away the straps, strop and canes, then turned back to me - the naked, sobbing and thoroughly chastised little boy still bent over his hiding chair.
"You may get up, Cristofer."
I stood and thanked sir for my hiding.
Richard and I managed to keep the events of the day secret from our parents, at least for a few weeks...