A True Account
"Well, Dr Gaster, I guess that the final decision is your's and your's alone. I hope that the arrangement might be acceptable. But if not, I understand."
I sat there thinking. I liked Mr Dawson. He somehow fitted my mental picture of a hard-working, down-to-earth, farmer. He looked slightly uncomfortable in the suit he was wearing, and the question he asked when first observing the book-case in my sitting room – "Have you really read all those books?" – spoke volumes.
***
I had been mildly surprised when I opened Mr Dawson's letter some weeks before our meeting. He obviously had read my advertisement and read it carefully.
My advertisement had indicated simply my availability as a short-term tutor in mathematics. It noted that I had taught mathematics in a highly esteemed private school for nearly a decade and subsequently at university level. It finally stated that during a year's leave of absence I was interested to tutor in mathematics any person desiring my services.
Of all the responses I had received, Mr Dawson's most interested me. His son, Garry, had left school relatively early in his life in order to assist his father on the farm. At the age of twenty, however, he had resumed part-time studies and had passed his matriculation. Although older than most applicants he had applied for a scholarship providing full 'bed and board' at one of the many residential colleges at X University. He was to sit an examination for that scholarship in some six months. Unfortunately the examination included a paper assessing the mastery by applicants of specified areas of mathematics, including for some reason a major unit dealing with combinations, permutations, and basic probability theory. Garry, my correspondent had candidly informed me, was a "dunderhead" when in came to mathematics!
Candour was the key to Mr Dawson's letter. Like many a farmer, he was capital rich but income poor. His farm if sold would realise a very handsome sum, but depressed market-prices for wheat and corn had for two years resulted in a distressingly modest income, most of which went to pay off interest on several loans for farming equipment. An arrangement had been made to sell the farm, but the transfer was to be effected some eighteen months in the future. At the moment, the sort of fee a private tutor could command were beyond his ability to pay. However he could offer "a man wanting a break from the city comfortable accommodation, good food, pocket money and time to drink in nature and refresh his body and soul."
That final, somewhat poetic phrase spoke to me. Major surgery had forced me to apply for and when granted take a year's leave of absence. The surgery had been successful, but it had left me utterly drained. My surgeon, aided and abetted by my General Practitioner, had urged me, if possible, to take a year off. I was comfortably situated, financially speaking, hence could forego the sort of remuneration I could demand for my services and some respondents to my advertisement clearly could have provided.
If truth be told, one other paragraph in Mr Dawson's letter had intrigued me. It read thus:
"Stephen's a good lad, but he's a chip off the old block! I know and he knows that only a teacher of the sort who taught me and who'll take no nonsense will get him through. He needs and knows he needs firm discipline, preferably by the cane."
***
"I'm interested, Mr Dawson, very interested. Between you and me, time to 'drink in nature and refresh my body and soul' is more important to me at the moment than money. I underwent serious surgery three months ago and need time and an environment fully to recuperate. I admire your son – Garry – both for leaving high school without graduating in order to help you on the farm, for later studying part-time and passing his matriculation, and finally, when you decided to sell and signed the contract to which you have referred, to follow his dreams and seek to study at X University. But your reference to firm discipline puzzles me. Maybe you might explain....."
"Sure, doc – sorry - Dr Gaster. But as arranged, Garry is due here in fifteen minutes. He could put it better than me – or is it 'better than I'? I'm not great with words. Garry is. He did good in English. He'll explain it in good and clear words......"
***
There was something wholesome about Garry. Like his father, he looked awkward in a clearly unacustomed suit. He shook hands firmly and, espying the book-case in my sitting-room, echoed his father almost word for word: "Have you really read all those books, Dr Gaster?" Whilst confessing that yes, I had read 'all those books' I refrained from informing Garry, as I had refrained from informing his father, that those books were way outnumbered by the books in my study, bedroom, and university study! That he had captained his school cricket team and had notched up a few 'firsts' in swimming did not surprise me. He was an extremely fit, physically well-proportioned young man. And in his own way, handsome.
"Now explain to the doctor about discipline!" ordered Mr Dawson. "His time's valuable, you know!"
Without a hint of embarrassment, the boy spoke.
"Someone once said that the way to a man's heart is his stomach! Well, the way into to my head is my bum! Sorry if that sounds – silly – but that's how it is! The best teacher I ever had, my teacher in English – he had a stroke last year and I visit him as often as is possible – must have worn out three canes on my bare bum! God, he made me squirm and yell! But he was fair. If I did not understand something, he would explain again and again, not give me the cane. But if I had understood and carelessly forgot and wrote 'would of' for 'would have' or 'would've' or something like that, or didn't do my assignments – oh boy did he crease my bum and make me yell! And I tell you, if it was – were – not for him I'd never have got my Matriculation. It's the only way I learn. It's sort of like 'no pain no gain' as my old Physical Education teacher used to chant. I have to get this scholarship and that means I have to pass the maths unit and that means – well, someone not frightened to cane me hard and often when I deserve it teaches me!"
For some reason, Garry's patently sincere words clinched the issue. I would accept Mr Dawson's offer. For one month I would live on a farm, 'drink in nature and refresh my body and soul', and, pray God, transform a mathematical 'dunderhead' into something approximating to a mathematician. And, if and when appropriate, turn a fantasy long entertained into a reality.....
***
The fantasy became a reality on the tenth day of my rural escape.
Garry was a good learner. Two days of all but 'number-games' saw the demise of a pathalogical fear of mathematics – 'mathephobia' some call it – incompetent teaching had created in Garry. Following that, progress was swift. Even the key unit – combinations, permutations, and basic probability theory – became a source of mutual pleasure. I 'taught' combinations and permutations by means of Garry's secret vice, an occasional 'bet' on the horses. A 'Quinella' bet involved a combination: pick and bet on the two horses which come first and second in a race, and, regardless of which comes first and which comes secone, one wins! An 'Exacta' is tougher. Pick and bet on the two horses which come first and second in a race, and indicate which comes first and which comes second, and one wins! A permutation. Then came 'Trifectas'. Then the probability of winning a 'Quinella', an 'Exacta' or a 'Trifecta'......
But then dawned day ten.
Garry had, the previous night, gone to the local pub and celebrated the victory of the local cricket team with his fellow players. He would, he had assured me, complete the reinforcing 'home-work' I had specified for the day's lesson on his return to the farm.
He had not. Some enchanting problems I had prescribed which turned on his calculating the probability of drawing six, five and four specific marbles from forty-five marbles had not been attempted. A 'test' on the prior day's lesson revealed that, in the absence of reinforcement, whatever had been learned in that lesson had been lost.
Three problems.
Set homework had not been done. Sheer disobedience!
A promise had not been kept.
A day's work had been lost.
"You've created a bad situation, Garry. You can be the judge and jury. What am I to do?"
"No problem! Strip me and thrash mu bum good and hard!"
"More detail. Explain."
"It's clear. I did not do as told. That means a caning. I broke a promise. That means a caning. I wasted a whole day – no, three days: your day, Dad's day, my day. That means a caning. Three canings. That means a full thrashing. On my bare bum."
***
Mr Dawson had equipped me with a vicious looking cane. It was, approximately, half an inch in diameter, 38 inches in length, and astonishingly flexible.
Garry dictated, at my request, the procedure followed by his teacher of English.
"The stripping part is important. A boy should be completely nude when his bum is thrashed. It's part of the punishment. It's a bit embarrassing and as you get undressed it gets you worked up for what you know is coming. The stripping should be done slowly on your order, sir....."
I followed my old fantasy. On my instructions, Garry obediently removed the required article of clothing. Shoes. Socks. Sweater. T-shirt. Jeans. Vest. When he was stripped down to his underpants, I told him to bend over and let me test the cane for length. For some reason I wished to cut the cane several times into his buttocks, tightly clad in his white, nylon underpants, but I held back, simply rubbing the cane over 'the target' and rather gently 'tapping' those buttocks.
"Stand up and underpants off!" I heard myself saying, and off they came.
Garry was standing upright, his back to me. He bare bottom was, frankly, made to be caned! Each white bum cheek was fleshy, but firm. Almost hairless. I smacked his right and then his left buttock with my hand, registering a strange satisfaction as each buttock 'bounced' when smacked. "Bend right over!", I ordered. The boy's anus was clearly revealed as the anal cleft opened.
"Stand upright! Now, go over to the armchair and lean over it's back, making sure that your bum is conveniently positioned for me to cane. To thrash. Not too tight, mind you! I want to see your bum cheeks bounce and squirm as each stroke is administered!"
Garry did precisely as commanded. Then he spoke.
"Is my bum in the position you like, sir? Not too tight for your liking?"
I said that it was.
"Mr Patterson used to ask me to say something like, 'I am ready for my punishment. Please administer stroke number one, kind sir.' Then when he did it, he liked me to say , 'That is cut number one. Thank you sir. Please now give me cut number two, kind sir'. If you would like, Dr Gaster, I'll take it in the way I used to take it with Mr Patterson."
I did so like.
I administered twenty-four strokes with the cane.
Frankly, I enjoyed so doing.
I liked seeing the precision with which each red weal burst into visability following each stroke. Place. Tap. Watch the bounce. Aim. Raise the cane. Hurl it into the waiting and quivering pair of buttocks. Observe the bounce and subsequent tighening of each buttock, hear the gasp, and then listen for, 'That is cut number thirteen. Thank you sir. Please now give me cut number fourteen, kind sir....."
At stroke seventeen the skin on the right buttock 'split' and a little trickle of blood made its way down that nicely rounded bum-cheek. "We had better stop," said I. "You're bleeding. I'll complete the punishment later. Even tomorrow......"
"There are only, I think, seven more cuts to go – unless you decide upon a few more. I'd rather have it over. I expect to bleed a little during a full thrashing. That is cut – cut – number seventeen. Thank you sir. Please now give me cut number eighteen, kind sir....."
When cut number twenty four, followed by two 'penalty' cuts earned when Garry on two occasions stood upright after a stroke and cradled his squirming buttocks in his hands, I informed Garry that his punishment had been administered and that he could stand.
I had never before seen such a sight. The nude boy stood, his hands clasping his striped and bleeding bum cheeks. He almost involuntarily repeatedly stood on his toes and lowered himself, moaning, "Oh sir, my bum is on fire and hurts so much! I deserved it sir, but oh sir, my bum is so sore, so very sore. But thank you, sir..... "
He then said, "Before I dress, do you want to inspect my bum?" Not knowing what such an inspection involved, I said "Not particularly."
Garry slowly dressed, then gingerly lowered himself into his chair at the table and the day's lesson recommenced.
***
The next day began with an unexpected 'bonus'.
"Would you like to inspect the damage from yesterday's caning before we start the day's lesson, sir?" asked Garry.
This time I said, 'Yes!"
Without a trace of embarrassment Garry lowered his trousers and underpants, raised and tucked into place his shirt-tail, turned his back to me and slightly bent forward, exposing his bared buttocks.
I was, frankly, aghast. What one day previously had been two white buttocks were striped and ravaged and showing signs of severe bruising. Gingerly, I squeezed the boys's right buttock. He tensed and gasped. I then squeezed his right buttock harder. "Did that hurt?" I asked. "Very much, sir. You did a good job, sir. Can I now get dressed again or do you want to give me six or so more to smartern me up?"
"Get dressed. You took your punishment. It's over....."
"Thank you, sir. But my punishment is only over to the next time I deserve another thrashing. Do you think – in your opinion – did I take it like – well – a man, sir? And did I cooperate so that my bum was conveniently positioned for you and so that each cut really hurt? It really did hurt sir, just like a thrashing should...... Are you sure that you don't want to touch me up and watch me squirming and writhing again? Sir."
"No!" said I.
"Thank you sir", said Garry. "Till my next thrashing......"