My uncle sent for me to meet him in his study - obviously, he'd had that call from my school, and now I was in deep trouble. My older cousins had told me that visits to the study almost always meant a hiding, and from their stories, having ones bottom thrashed by uncle Paul was a very painful experience indeed.
I knocked on the door and went in. Uncle Paul was sitting at his desk, his expression grim.
"Where were you on Monday, Robbie?"
"I was at school, uncle Paul," I stammered. It was probably not a good idea to lie at this stage, but fear made me stupid.
"I know for a fact that you were not, young man," he growled, "and your teacher's already told me about the sick note, supposedly signed by me!"
I looked at the carpet. The game was up.
Uncle Paul continued.
"Only in the sixth grade, eleven years old and already playing truant, forging and lying. What would your father suggest if I contacted him right now?"
I couldn't meet his eyes.
"A hiding."
"That's right, my boy. But not just a hiding. An absolute bottom roasting. Three major offences, three major hidings," he glared at me, then put his spectacled on the desk, "close the door."
I went back to the study door, and pulled it shut. I knew that that door would remain closed until my bottom was very sore indeed.
My uncle continued to glare at me.
"Anything you want to say before I begin your punishment, Robbie?"
"I'm sorry, Uncle Paul. Please give me another chance!"
"No way young man," he was adamant, "today's the day your backside gets blasted. Undress, please."
I had feared that this would be the case, and, not wanting to further anger my uncle, I quickly stripped off my T-shirt and shorts. I hesitated at my undies, but my uncle gestured impatiently and I slipped them down to my ankles, then bent down, picked them up and laid them with the rest of my clothing on the desk.
It was only at this point that I realised what else was lying on that desk. Placed flush with the blotter was a riding crop! Its black braided length was about the thickness of a man's forefinger, the total length about two feet. The handle, made of dark, smooth wood, faced my uncle. My cousins had told me of excrutiating hidings with the riding crop, and, although I had expected to have my bare bottom thrashed, I had expected a belting or a paddling. But the riding crop! My heart sank as I realised that that terrible weapon of severe punishment was soon to whip my naked little rear end.
Uncle Paul stood, picked up the crop, and walked around his desk to stand before me. He gripped my shoulder and marched me into the centre of the room. He was a big man, my blond head didn't even reach the bottom of his chest.
"Bend over," came the stern order.
I bent in the customary position for receiving a caning at school - legs straight, fingers touching toes and feet well apart. As a little boy, I was no stranger to being in this submissive position, ready to be punished by an angry man, but this was the first time I had bent over naked for a hiding.
"For truancy, you're getting six strokes. Count aloud."
Six! With the riding crop! On my bare bottom! This was going to be agony, and I knew that the punishment for lying and forgery were still to come!
Knees shaking, I felt the crop being lined up, halfway down my bare bum. There was a pause, then a hiss, and a CRACK as the whip smashed across my bottom, exactly where it had been aimed. I jerked with the shock, but it was still a fraction of a second before the pain arrived. I battled not to leap up.
"Ow! One!"
CRACK! The next lash landed just under the first.
"Two!" I yelped, trying to keep steady.
There was alonger pause, before the next stroke was whipped across my bottom, lower still.
"Ouch, Three! Ow!" I cried, squirming in pain.
"Stand still," ordered uncle paul, and I could hear he still had lots of energy. I stopped squirming, and waited, bottom trembling and burning, for the next lash.
CRACK! The fourth stroke smacked across my exposed little bottom.
"Ow! Ow! Four!" I sobbed.
The crop was lashed down again, and I felt as if my bottom was on fire, with five agonizing welts across it.
"Five!"
My uncle smashed the crop diagonally across the lower half of my lower bottm for the sixth stroke, from top left to bottom right.
"Ah! Ow! Six! Ow!" I cried, not daring to move.
"Get up and rub your bottom," uncle Paul instructed.
Without hesitation, I leapt up, grasping my sore, bare tail and rubbing vigorously. The tears were flowing, and all I cared about was my sore bottom.
My uncle was breathing heavily with the exertion of beating my little bum, and he obviously needed the break as much as me. But it didn't last long.
"Bend over, my boy," he commanded, "another six for the forgery,"
"Please uncle Paul," I begged, "I've learnt my lesson!"
"Bend over! Do you want a few with my belt as well just to soften you up a bit?" he was cross, "Take the punishment that you deserve, and stop acting like a baby!"
Fearing the tone in his voice, I quickly bent back over, in the hiding position, throbbing bottom once again up and presented to that dreadful crop. The thought crossed my mind that this was pretty harsh punishment for an eleven year old - no wonder I was being a bit of a baby!
I felt the crop once again being tapped on my bottom, exactly where the previous hiding had started. I couldn't help shuffling my feet in anticipation. In response, my uncle placed a large hand on the small of my back.
"Keep still, Robbie. If you're going to delay this, I assure you I'll stop for a few minutes, but only to tickle your backside up a bit with my belt."
I kept still, and the crop slammed across my bare tail again.
"Aiy! Ouch! One!"
CRACK! Another one.
"Two. Oww!" I sobbed.
There was a long pause again, then another merciless stroke bit down. I couldn't stop myself from leaping up and grabbing my burning bottom with both hands, trying to wrench away the sting, howling. My uncle was furious. He threw the crop on his desk, grabbed my arm and dragged me across the room to his armchair. He sat and threw my naked little body across his knees. Pinned easily by this big, strong man, I was helpless, bare and bruised bottom pointing upwards.
"It seems you need to learn self control too!" he roared, and I heard the heavy leather of his belt being slipped throug the loops of his jeans.
"Nooo! Please, Uncle Paul! I'll bend over and finish with the crop. Not the belt as well! Please!"
"Too late. You were warned!" And with that the belt smashed across my tender little bottom. Although the belt in itself was not as painful as the crop, over my already raw buttocks it was agony. Stroke after stroke fell, and eventually I stopped struggling and just lay there trying to endure the rising pain.
"Are you ready to continue with your proper hiding?"
"Yes sir," I sobbed tearfully. I just wanted to get it over with now.
Uncle Paul helped me up, then got up himself. He swung the armchair around so that it was facing the wall, then pushed me over the back of it. My hands only just reached the seat, and my toes barely touched the carpet. He adjusted my legs so they were still well apart. My bottom was still high, but at least this positio would be easier to maintain than the earlier "touch you toes" position.
The crop was retrieved, and tapped again on my burning bottom.
"Don't forget to count, Robbie," I was reminded, "we were on three."
CRACK! The crop landed exactly on the previous number four's position.
"Ahh! Four!" I howled.
CRACK! The fifth stroke smashed down across my bare bum, millimetres above the top of my legs.
"Five! Ow..." I sobbed.
The sixth stroke was also administered diagonally across my pre-teen bottom, but at right angles to to previous sixth stroke, so that it crossed all eleven strokes. My bottom must have had a neat cross on it, complimenting the ten other welts. My uncle had an eye for interesting designs! Of course, he had painted his canvass a bright red with the belt, so that now my brown, suntanned legs blended straight into a deep red, fading to white a few inches from my lower back, and back to brown at the top of my Speedo tan. Not to mention the artistically placed welts.
"Stand up and wait in the corner for your next six - for lying."
I got up, and hung onto my bruised bottom,
"Can't we just get it over with now?" I pleaded.
"No." he was abrupt, "I need to get my breath back, and I want your bottom's pain to fade a little so that you really appreciate the last six."
He made sure that I stood, hands on head, with my nose pressed against the wall, then busied himself at his desk. The waiting was agony. All I wanted to do was go to my room and cry and rub my bottom, but I knew that there was more to come. My uncle was a real expert at administering hiding to little boys - sometimes the tension is almost a bad as the beating itself, especially when you know how sore it's going to be.
I must have waited at least half an hour before the next order was given.
"Alright, Robbie. Bend over the chair."
I left the corner, took a deep breath and once again draped my naked body over the large armchair. I made sure I was in the position my uncle wanted me to be in, then waited, dreading the pain to come. My sticking up bare bottom felt more exposed than ever. Although the immediate pain of the hiding had subsided slightly, my bottom still felt as if a hot iron had been pressed to it and all the skin removed. My uncle was right - my bottom was terribly tender, and I knew that my next encounter with the crop would be agony. But I had had all the fight thrashed out of me now, and I resigned myself to my fate. As the whip was carefully lined up again on my aching little bottom cheeks, the tears were already flowing once again down my damp face cheeks.
CRACK! The pain was indescribable! I kicked my toes against the back of the chair, but managed to keep still.
"Owww! Ouch! One!" I howled.
If only I was allowed to close my wide apart legs - it was almost as if I was purposely inviting the crop to smash across my sore bottom.
CRACK!
"Aghh! Two! Ow..."
CRACK! Again the crop snapped across my tender little bottom.
"Three!" I cried.
CRACK! CRACK! Two in quick succession. I hadn't expected that. I screamed.
"Ow! Ow! Four! And five! Ahh!!"
There was a long pause this time. I waited in fear. The crop was lined up as low as it could go without actually hitting my legs - right in the crease of my little boy bottom.
CRACK! The final, and most agonising, stroke of the whole thrashing.
"Aghh...! Six! Oww...!!"
I was glad nobody had been at home to hear my screaming. Uncle Paul left me bending in position while he put away the crop.
"Get up."
I struggled up, and once again grabbed my fiery bottom.
"What do you have to say, Robbie?"
"I'm very sorry for being so naughty, Uncle Paul," I sobbed.
"What else?"
"Thank you for giving me a good hiding. I've learnt my lesson, sir."
Uncle Paul made it clear that if necessary, he could do worse, then let me go.