It was a beautiful summer morning and 12 year old Peter was cycling the eight miles to school as he did every day. He lived deep in the countryside and his grammar school was in the nearest town and because the bus service was not very frequent, cycling was the best way.

He was often late and had received many detentions for this. It was Friday and Peter had been late on Monday due to a puncture and again on Wednesday because he stopped off on the way to see if he could see a cuckoo that he heard close by. The boy had never seen a cuckoo and this time he was determined to do so. Unfortunately he did not manage it and found he had strayed over three fields and through a small wood by the time he realised he was going to be late. The prefect at the school gate duly noted down his name and form in his late book.

"If you're late again this week Smith, it's a trip to the Head" said the prefect.

"Gosh", thought Peter, "that means the cane!"

Peter's father used to cane him at home using a length of thin bamboo applied to his bare bottom. It was over a year ago when he last received it. He had not been caned at school yet but often thought about it. Somehow the idea excited him. He loved to hear about other boys getting it. His best friend Simon had been caned only last week for pulling a boy's chair away as he was about to sit down. The headmaster gave him six for that and he showed Peter the stripes on his bottom and it made Peter feel all funny. Peter used to boast that his father gave it to him on the bare, usually a dozen or more but he thought those stripes looked worse than he used to get, even though he had more of them. He wished he had watched Simon being caned. He would think about the cane slicing down on his bottom, clad in his smart grey short trousers. Then he would imagine the headmaster telling Simon to take his trousers down and bend across the big leather chair he had in his study over which boys were put for more serious punishment. He imagined the Headmaster pulling his white underpants down to reveal Simon's lovely bottom - and then apply six more strokes.

Peter was imagining all this as he cycled. He was finding that his willy was getting stiff against the saddle. He wondered how he would take a caning from the Head. Would he cry? Simon said he cried a bit last week. Peter used to cry a lot when his father thrashed him. School canings were different though as you got to keep your trousers on - usually. Peter had never been caned through his trousers. He thought it must be like being caned on the hand with a glove on. He had been caned on the hand at primary school a few times and that always brought tears to his eyes. It was a year though - a whole year since he had been caned at home. He had expected to be for several things he had done wrong but somehow his father decided not to. As he pushed hard up the steepest hill on his route to school Peter suddenly realised that he actually wanted to be caned again. His willy was getting stiffer and stiffer as he thought about it.

He stopped at the brow of the hill and dismounted. He lent his bicycle against a farm gate, which he climbed over and jumped down into the meadow. He loved this spot that afforded a fine view back to the south where his village was. There was a thick hedge on a grassy bank and Peter sat down with his back to the hedge as he often did, particularly when cycling home in the afternoon. He looked at his watch. It was twenty-five to nine. He would be marked down late if he arrived at the school gate after ten to nine.

Peter removed his cap. He looked down at the bulge in his grey shorts and felt for his willy. He only had to arrive late this morning and he would be sent to the Head. He could be caned this very morning. The idea thrilled him. His tummy felt all wobbly and he rubbed his willy through his trousers. He knew that if he did not move in the next three minutes he would be late. He would be caned again. He rubbed and he rubbed and thought of the excitement to come. He wondered how many he would get. Maybe only three or four for being late. He decided he would offer no excuse for being late three times in one week. He would not mention the puncture. He would say he did not get up early enough or something like that. He would leave his cap here in the hedge and go into school without it. He could collect it again this afternoon. Boys who are late are sent directly to the head as they are. He would roll his socks down. He left his willy for a moment and took his black elastic gaiters out from under his sock tops and pulled them over his shoes. He put them inside his cap. Now he would be in trouble for being late, losing his cap and having his socks down and without having any gaiters. He though about making his blazer dirty but did not want to get into trouble with his mother. He could dirty his shoes that he had carefully cleaned this morning as he always did. He stood up and went to the dry muddy patch by the farm gate and scraped his black leather shoes backwards and forwards in the dirt. He plastered his knees with dirt for good measure.

He looked at his watch. It was sixteen minutes to nine. He would now be more than five minutes late. His heart pounded. He was going to get the cane. He went back to the bank. His bottom felt all tingly, like it used to when dad was about to cane him, but then he would have to take his trousers down. How could he make the Head take his trousers down? He knew you had to do something pretty bad to get that. He wished he had some cigarettes or something that he could drop out of his pockets. He undid the clasp on his snake belt and felt down inside the front of his shorts. Maybe he could take his underpants off. Quickly the boy took his trousers down and stepped out of them. The he took his white briefs off. Before putting his trousers back on he rubbed them in the dirt whilst clutching his now bare willy with his left hand. The excitement was now intense. He must not be too late or the late prefect will be gone and the visit to the head would be delayed, as he would have to explain things to his form master first. The head always caned late comers and other miscreants immediately after assembly. He wanted to be one of those standing outside of his study this morning.

Peter quickly pulled his trousers back on and he loved the vulnerable feeling of not having any underpants on. He was glad that the quite new flannel shorts he was wearing were lined in white cotton, which felt smooth to his bottom and thighs. He hid his pants, cap and gaiters in the hedge and climbed back over the gate. He mounted his bicycle and enjoyed the feeling of his soon to be caned pantless bottom against the hard saddle. He cycled down the hill towards school and felt the cool air up the inside of his shorts and blowing on his uncluttered private parts. His willy was no longer hard but felt very strange. It was too late now. He was going to be late for the third time this week and be caned by the Head - with no underpants on. He also had a detention after school for his second late and he thought about his caned bottom sitting still for an hour on the hard chairs in the detention room.

Peter cycled up to the school gate and the beckoning prefect holding the late book.

"Late again Smith! - and just look at the state of you", the seventeen-year old smiled and took a pen from the inside pocket of his blazer. He enjoyed noting the third late against the youngster's name and then the comment: "no cap and socks down. Dirty shoes, knees and trousers." The book was inspected weekly by the Head.

Peter remained straddled across his crossbar and watched the prefect writing.

"Now Smith you know the score. Straight to the headmaster's study and tell him why you are sent. Leave your bike with me"

Peter dismounted and handed his cycle to the prefect. Then without hesitating ran to the main door of the school. The prefect shook his head as he watched the scruffy first former hurry towards his fate and not even thinking about pulling his socks up. Peter was on a mission though and was determined not to pull his socks up although he was by nature a very smart boy. He doubted if the headmaster knew that though. He entered the silent school. Assembly was in progress and there were about half a dozen boys and a master standing outside who did not attend the Christian service but would enter at the end for the school notices and usual telling off by the headmaster. Peter stood outside the headmaster's study in view of the non-participants and waited. After only ten minutes, but it seemed like an hour, the six boys entered the hall but the master remained - presumably to keep an eye on Peter who was now feeling nervous. Too late to turn back now he thought. He looked down at his grubby knees and clothes and socks around his ankles. He noticed a small damp patch darkening the mid-grey material at the front of his shorts. The master said nothing but knew that this very stupid little boy would soon learn a very painful lesson about tidiness and punctuality.

Peter's heart pounded as he heard the hall door swing open and the headmaster in gown and mortarboard walking purposely towards Peter, followed by two frightened short-trousered second formers who Peter learned later had been reported smoking on the school bus. He wished he could watch their punishments. He was to be first though and before he knew it he was whisked in the study and standing facing the headmaster's enormous mahogany desk.

"Name and form?" the schoolmaster thundered.

"Smith, 1B Sir"

"How dare you stand in front of your headmaster with your socks around your ankles. Just look at the state of your clothes!"

Peter hurriedly yanked his socks up.

"I assume you are late and this is the third time this week"

"Yes Sir."

"Well - why boy"

"Sorry Sir. Don't know Sir" Peter mumbled

"How do you come to school?"

"I cycle Sir"

"Not fast enough it seems. You must leave home earlier in future."

"Yes Sir, I will Sir"

The headmaster looked down at Peter's grubby lower half.

"Being late for school is one thing, but to arrive here in that disgusting state is quite another. Where is your cap?"

"I lost it Sir", Peter lied.

"And how did you get yourself in that mess?"

"I fell on the ground after climbing a gate Sir"

"What were you doing climbing a gate, may I ask?"

"I was bird watching Sir - I was looking for a cuckoo Sir"

"A cuckoo!! It is a school day. You have to come straight to school and arrive here on time and smartly dressed in your full school uniform. As you well know. You will restrict your hobbies to weekends" and so saying the headmaster went over to a tall cupboard behind his desk. Peter could not see the contents but his heart leapt as the master took out a long thin rattan cane with a bent over handle. It was the sort of cane he saw in his comics and books and nothing like his father's straight bamboo. Peter was rooted and fixed his eyes on the cane that the headmaster flexed between his hands. The boy's bottom felt so vulnerable now and his willy was feeling tickly but remained squidgy. He wanted to feel it.

"I do not believe I have caned you before, Smith"

"No Sir"

"Well now for being late three times in one week with absolutely no excuse means four strokes of the cane. In your case, however, because you have also lost your cap and managed to make yourself filthy dirty and had the audacity to come in here with your socks down I must view this far more seriously" the head said, continuing to flex his cane

"Does your father punish you at home?"

"Yes Sir, with a bamboo cane Sir" said Peter, almost eagerly

"When was the last time?"

"A month ago Sir", Peter lied. "For stealing sweets from my brother Sir" Peter added. That part was true.

"How many strokes did he give you?"

"Eighteen Sir, with my trousers down Sir" Actually he did not remember how many strokes but it would have been at least that.

The headmaster looked hard at the twelve-year old and eyed his leather chair. He wondered if he should pull this lad's trousers down. He must certainly be severe with him.

"Well Smith I think I shall give you a note to take home to your father. I will let him decide if he wishes to punish you further. In this school, boys are only caned across their bare bottoms for very serious things. In your case as a first former still I believe a few strokes of this cane will make you mend your ways. As well as the mandatory four for unpunctuality I am giving you a further three strokes for losing your cap and three more for coming in here dirty and with your socks down. That is ten strokes and quite a lot for a small boy to take so I think you had better bend across the leather chair." He pointed to the large black leather Chesterfield.

Peter bent himself across the arm and was glad to press his willy up against the leather. He felt the headmaster lifting the tail of his blazer and pull his shirt tail out from his shorts. He felt the cane touch his bottom through the grey cloth of his trousers. The headmaster seemed to hesitate. He was actually wondering if the boy was wearing underpants. He could not see any evidence. Peter was bending over with his bottom sticking out so that his buttocks were clearly defined through the cloth of his trousers.

The headmaster then caned Peter very hard. Ten of the very best and after three strokes Peter cried like he used to at home. It hurt more than his father's bamboo and he struggled hard to stay across the chair and take his medicine.

Peter was in agony as he left the Head's study. He avoided the gaze of the two second formers who he was sure would rather have been anywhere else in the world right now. He went to the boys' toilets and locked himself in a cubicle and tried to stop crying and to wait for the boys to get to their classes. He would be late for his. After five minutes the extreme pain subsided and Peter emerged from the cubicle. He lowered his trousers and strained to look at his bottom in the mirror. What a fantastic site. His willy was getting hard again. Peter went back into the cubicle and had the best wank of his life - so far.

He enjoyed the gaze of his schoolfellows as he went into his maths class late and told the master he had come from the headmaster. He enjoyed sitting at his desk feeling his red-hot bottom through his trousers. He loved whispering to Simon that he had got ten strokes. He would show him later. At morning break he showed Simon but had some difficulty pretending he was taking down both his trousers and underpants at the same time. How could he explain no underpants to a boy who took the precaution of making sure he was wearing at least two pairs or a swimming costume under his shorts for a school caning? He loved Simon's reaction as he felt Peter's ridges on his bottom and loved feeling his hand there. He enjoyed fetching the letter addressed to his father from the Secretary's office. He enjoyed sitting in detention class for an hour writing out lines and feeling the itchy sweatiness of his bottom on the hard chair.

He enjoyed the painful cycle ride home and remembered to find his cap, gaiters and underpants. He enjoyed dressing in the field and arriving home late. He told his father he was in trouble at school and handed him the note from his headmaster.

Maybe now his father would get his stick out again. Perhaps Peter could persuade him to wait until Sunday to give his stripes a day or two to heal. He quite liked the idea of a Sunday morning caning after church but before lunch.