I sat at the kitchen table, holding Adam's reprt card in one hand, and looked at the eleven year old sixth grade boy with my most intimidating expression. The lad was still wearing his smart white cricket kit, although the shorts showed the normal stains that a healthy boy picks up from playing his chosen sport of the day with enthusiasm and dedication. I encouraged my son to play hard, and he never let the team down. But now was a different issue. Adam was a little short for his age, his slight build toped with neatly cut light brown hair. His usual, mildly over confident expression was replaced by one of concern, and he couldn't meet my fierce gaze.
"A very poor result from an exceptionally talented pupil," I read aloud from the document in my hand.
Adam shuffled his feet.
"How much effort did you actually put into your school work this quarter, young man?"
"A bit," was the sheepish reply.
"A bit too little, wouldn't you say?"
"Yes, dad. I'm sorry,"
"What was it that I threatened you with the last time you brought home such a lousy report?"
Now Adam's voice was starting to tremble, and I could see the glint of tears in his eyes,
"The hiding of my life," the little chat whispered.
"Correct!" I stood up, putting the report on the kitchen table. With a sigh, I walked over to a drawer, opened it, and removed the short, fairly small wooden spoon that was kept in there. I used it on my sons frequently, for minor 'crimes'. It stung like crazy, but hardly left marks when applied with care. Today, it would be the opening session for a most memorable hiding for little Adam.
"Bend over,"
Obediently, Adam bent, grabbing his ankles, and I was presented with teo small rounded buttocks, covered with white sjorts. I proceeded to firmly warm up the boy's bottom thoroughly, giving him four firm spanks on each cheek. His only reaction was a slight gasp at each spank, and a little bit of gentle squirming. He had had much worse in this kitchen, and knew that his thrashing had barely begun.
Of course, Adam didn't stand when the wooden spoon stopped its work. I slipped my hand into the waist band of the shorts and slowly drew thwm down his legs to his ankles, then I pushed his white shirt right up under his arms. Still he didn't move, poor bottom now only protected by red and blue stripped underpants. Putting one hand on the slim boy's sunbronzed back, I repeated the smacks with the spoon, four on each presented cheek. But this time, the pained reaction from the bending little boy was a lot more obvious. It was starting to really hurt.
After a pause, I grabbed the top of Adam's underpants, and slowly dragged them down, my fingers grazing past his warm young bottom as I pulled his only protection down to join his shorts. This time, I leant down and wrapped my arm right around the waist of the bending, half naked boy, and pulled him tight against my hip.
"Spread your legs further,"
Adam widened his feet, as far as his pulled down underpants would allow, and i really went for it. Still keeping the actual power behind the strokes relatively low, I made sure that I covered the entire presented surface area of my son's bare bottom with pink marks from the spoon. Although Adam was crying now and really squirming under the prolonged onslaught, I easily held the slim boy with one strong arm.
"All right, pull up your pants," I ordered the crying child, and while the eleven year old was dressing, I continued, "after supper, you will prepare for bed, and a good belting, understand?"
"Yes, daddy," Adam wept. He headed upstairs to get on with his homework, ruefully rubbing his burning little tail.
Adam remained composed through the evening, after explaining to his mum why he had such a bad report, and ensuring her that his dad (me), would be sorting him out for it. My wife was a strong supporter of the methods that I use in dealing with the misdemeanours of our sons.
After supper, Adam excused himself and went upstairs. I would take him about fifteen minuted to bath and prepare for bed. I gave him forty - five. He needed to wait a while and contemplate his coming whipping. Bed time hidings were always feared in our house.
The boy was sitting on his bed waiting for me when I entered his room. He was wearing his light weight summer pyjamers, the pale yellow patterns emphasising his golden brown, suntanned skin.
"well now, Adam," I asked, "any reason why I should reconsider soundly tanning your bottom?"
"No daddy," Adam responded, much more confident than he had been in the kitchen, "I was warned, and maybe a good hiding will make me work a lot harder."
"I hope so," that was typical of Adam. Confident, and prepared to take the consequences for his actions, no matter how severe, "fetch the strap."
Michael opened his cupboard and reached in, removing the weapon for his own thrashing. It was a leather strap, only slightly less long and wide as a man's forearm, and as thick as my thumb. A rubber handle, moulded specially for my grip, was securely nailed to the end. It was a terribly painful implement for administering hidings to little boys' bottoms. I had been administering Adam's thrashings with it since he was eight, the most strokes being four over his shorts, or three bare. Today he was in for a bit more than that.
The boy handed me the strap, then stood at attention, hands at sides, head down.
"This is going to be, as promised, the most severe hiding I have ever given you, Adam," I reminded my son,
"Yes, daddy, I know,"
"Right then," I continued, "pyjamers off, then get into the whipping position."
Adam obeyed without question, unbuttoning, then removing his shirt, and slipping off his light weight shorts. I admired his lithe, thin but strong little naked body and he folded and neatly placed his pyjamers on his side table. He was well suntanned from all his swimming and out door activities, but the narrow patch of skin around his slender waist that was protected at all times was still creamy white. It was almost as if he was wearing a white Speedo, the change in skin colour was so abrupt.
The stark naked boy approached his bed, climbed onto it and knelt. He pushed his face into his pillow, placing his hands under the same pillow to keep them out of the way, then raised his tender white bottom up high for the lash. There was no evidence of the spanking with the wooden spoon, and I was presented with a pure and unblemished pair of eleven year old buttocks to thrash. Adam shuffled a little to prepare himself, widening his knees, and when the kneeling boy was still, I prepared to begin his hiding.
"Six strokes, Adam,"
Adam lifted his head. Now came the really formal part of our hiding ritual. Even although the boy must have been horrified by the intensity and severity of his sentence, he managed to keep his voice steady,
"Yes sir, six strokes. I'm ready for number one, sir," then the lad put his head back down and raised up his bottom.
I pulled the strap back, twisted my body, and let it fly, using mainly the heavy leather's own momentum, towards my upraised target. The leather wrapped around the child's slender, rounded bare buttocks with a loud snap, like a pistol shot. Adam yelped into the pillow. I waited for the squirming boy to settle. I never gave him his lashes quickly, he had to be completely composed for each one, and ask for it.
"I'm ready for number two, sir," he called after he had absorbed and come to terms with the pain of the first lash.
I swung the strap again, bringing it crashing down across the eleven year old's naked backside, seeing to it that the leather wrapped around his bare bottom, flicking the thigh. Adam squealed again, trying to pull in his burning bum. He got himself under control again, and then,
"Ready for number three, sir," he sobbed into his pillow. I let him wait for a few more moments, then delivered a resounding lash across the curve of his now distinctly red little bare bottom. Adam gasped at the intensity of the pain - this was now getting really sore. In the past, I would have ended the thrashing at this point, but today I was only half way through, and Adam knew it.
It took Adam longer to recover this time. I think he was contemplating the coming pain across his little rear end fearfully.
"I'm ready sir," he sniffed, "for number four,"
Once again I let the crying boy wait, throbbing bottom up and ready for the next instalment of his hiding. I didn't compromise, and let the fourth stroke fall just as hard as the previous three across the child's exposed backside. Adam didn't scream, but he came close to it. He hissed into the softness of his pillow, and bounced forward, banging his head on the head board of his bed. His naked little bottom must have been really burning and I could see that he was suffering - the back of his ears were bright red, a sign that he had truly given into the tears.
"Ready for number five, daddy, I mean sir," he sobbed into the pillow,
"Only two to go, my boy,"
With that, I strapped the child's bare tail as low as I dared, knowing that the leather would bite into the crease between his little bottom and his legs. Adam bounced against the headboard again, squealing in pain. It took a long time for the young lad to pluck up the courage to ask for the final lash of the most painful hiding that he had ever endured.
"Okay," he gasped eventually, "I'm ready for number six, sir."
"Push your head down and raise your bottom right up," I commanded.
Adam obeyed slowly and reluctantly, pushing his very red and tender naked bottom up as high as he could manage. I took my time, stepping back from the bed. Carefully judging my distance, I stepped into the final stroke of the boy's hiding, delivering it with all my strength low across my little target. This time Adam really did howl.
As is my custom, I gently rubbed the upraised, red little bottom while telling the boy that all was forgiven and wishing him a good night. Then I replaced the strap in the cupboard, and left the child still kneeling on his bed, head in pillow, knees wide, sore bottom up. He was not allowed to move until I had left the room - this would signal the end of his punishment.
I closed the door behind me, and smiled as I heard the tell tale sounds of a well thrashed boy dancing around his room gasping and rubbing a blazing backside before gingerly putting himself to bed.