I found eleven year old Richard on the playing field, playing cricket with his friends at the school break time. I summoned the boy over to me. He was one of the brightest pupils in grade five at the school, and had never given trouble before. As he trotted towards me, I noticed how the boy was beginning to grow. He was one of the taller of the grade five boys, his limbs slender and tanned by the hot sun. A good, and enthusiastic swimmer, and hockey player.
Richard stood before me, his usual genuine bright smile on his face, his blue eyes sparkling and dark blond hair slightly damp from the game he had been playing with his friends. I had never had the cause to reprimand this boy before, so he had no reason to believe that he was in trouble now. But as with many bright little boys, he thought that his own clever crimes would not be discovered.
"Yes sir?" he enquired politely.
"Where you in the computer room this morning, Richard?" I asked.
"Which computer were you using?"
"Number four, sir. That's the one I always use."
"I see," I looked at the expectant face before me, "did you know that the computer teacher checks the history files occasionally, and he checked the files of computer four today?"
Richard's whole demeanor changed. He paled visibly before my eyes, and stammered something. But I continued,
"Tell me what you understand about a computer's history file, Richard," I commanded.
In a soft voice, Richard answered,
"They show the sites that have been visited on the Internet, sir,"
Now the little chap couldn't meet my eye.
"Do you think that anybody else, other than you, visited several pornographic web sites this morning from computer four?"
"No, sir. It was me sir." A single tear was running down the boy's cheek.
I made my own voice softer now, more sympathetic,
"Your mother has found similar material on your computer at home, Richard. She feels that you are too big now for her to discipline, so she's asked me to pay you a visit this evening. I'll be treating you exactly like my own sons, and tanning your backside with my belt."
Richard sobbed, and tearfully nodded his head.
"But first you need to be punished for betraying the trust given to you on the school computers," I continued, "have you ever been caned?"
"No sir," a weepy little boy answered, "I've only ever had a hiding with my mum's wooden spoon,"
"Go and wait for me in my office, then," I ordered, "and while you're waiting, get your shorts and underpants off."
Richard nodded, and started to scuttle off, but I raised my voice after him, for the shocked benefit of some lads standing nearby, who had never seen Richard in trouble before,
"Make sure your bottom is bare by the time I get there, young man!"
I did my rounds, giving Richard at least half an hour in my office to wait for me. Finally, I let myself into my plush study. As expected, Richard had followed orders, and was standing sheepishly, not knowing what to do, neatly attired in tie, shirt, long socks and shoes – but without shorts or underpants. These he had placed, folded neatly, on the corner of my desk. His white shirt barely made it below his waist, and gave him little modesty. His long sun bronzed legs just made him look even more vulnerable. I decided not to waste any more time. I walked up to the nervous boy, took his shoulder, marched him to the centre of the room, then spoke softly,
"Bend over, Richard,"
Richard leant forward, not quite sure what to do. The new angle of his young body meant that his school shirt just lifted clear of his bottom, giving me a flash of his pale little buttocks.
"No, my boy," I corrected him, "right over. Grab hold of your ankles and keep your knees straight,"
Richard followed my instructions. That was better.
"Now widen your feet,"
Finally the little boy was in the perfect caning position. His slender body bent right over, presenting me with perfectly submissive behind to thrash. His bottom was smaller than I had expected for a fairly tall boy, his perfectly rounded little buttocks almost seemed to glow in the subdued light of my study. I lifted his shirt right up to his shoulders, exposing his slender, bronze back, which further enhanced the whiteness of his bare bottom.
Without haste, I crossed to my cupboard, aware that Richard could see my every move out of the corner of his eye. I leisurely went through my selection of canes, eventually finding one that I thought would do the job well. Taking the stick in two hands, I flexed it – yes, it had good spring. This would be ideal for Richard's first real hiding.
I stepped over to the bending form of the little boy, and tapped the cane gently on his tight young cheeks. He shuffled slightly, and I took the opportunity to warn him,
"Make sure that you stay absolutely still until I tell you that your hiding is over, you're getting six. If you're lucky!"
"Yes sir," came a muffled reply from the nervous eleven year old.
With a long swing, I swung the cane firmly across Richard's bare bottom, ensuring that the stick connected with his pale cheeks while still accelerating, maximizing the sting. Richard's reaction was electric. He leapt up, with a squeal, holding onto his bottom as if it might fall off. I had expected this from the boy – he was really a gentle child, and this had to be the most pain he had ever felt across his young bottom.
"Bend over at once!" I commanded, pretending to be angry, "You've just earned yourself one extra stroke,"
"Yes, sir, sorry sir," Richard sobbed, quickly bending and grabbing his ankles once again, "it's just so sore!"
"Oh course, my boy! Hidings are supposed to be sore!"
When the boy had re-assumed his position, I lashed the cane across his bottom again, and the child sobbed in pain, but this time he managed to remain in position. Again I caned the crying boy, low down and hard, and, after a suitable pause, I whipped the cane across his delicate, tender little orbs again.
By now, Richard could no longer hold back the tears, and I could hear his gentle sobbing as I prepared to snap the cane across his bottom again. But this did not stop me whipping the boy's little tail just as hard. Taking my time, and making sure that I was deadly accurate, I placed the second last stroke right in the crease where Richard's long legs joined his by now very sore bottom. The child squealed with pain, his knuckles white as he battled to maintain his hold on his ankles.
I stepped back, lifted the cane up above my shoulder and gave Richard the last lash of his thrashing, laying the cane vigorously across all the other six strokes. His bottom must have felt like it had been struck by lightening – he shrieked with pain, but still didn't dare to move from his submissive punishment position.
Leaving the crying boy bending over, I replaced the cane, then walked back over to the child. Gently, I massaged his soft but by now very hot bottom, feeling the welts swelling up as his naked flesh started the process of bruising.
"You'll leave your pants and under pants here, and I'll return them to your mother when I get to your house to punish you later on, my boy," I explained. Boys getting bare bottom hidings at my school always spent the rest of the day without their pants. He would be going to swimming training after school, which meant the school coach would make him train naked. His well thrashed little bottom would serve as a reminder to the rest of the boys to behave themselves – especially as the battered rear end would be Richard's – a lad considered to never be in trouble!
After swimming, the boys had to get back into their school uniforms for the trip home in the local bus – Richard would be in public, bare bottomed too. The small town community in which the school was situated approved of my discipline techniques, and I would no doubt have several phone calls tomorrow complimenting me on the evidence of another good hiding.
"Yes sir," Richard sobbed, also realizing that the rest of his day would be particularly humiliating.
"I will be at your house at 7 pm," I continued, "and you are to be bathed, and waiting in your bedroom with nothing at all on, nose against the wall, do you understand?"
"Yes sir," the little, thoroughly chastised boy responded once again.
I let him get up then, and firmly rub his own bottom, before escorting his back to his classroom. No stops at the toilet to cry and recover at this school – straight back to work, blazing bottom and all!
I arrived at Richard's home at 7 promptly, as promised. His mother and I had a chat, and she offered me tea, while the nervous eleven year old waited for the second installment of the day's hidings.
Before starting on my tea, I decided to go up and see the little miscreant. I took my punishment strap, a small container of Dubin and a soft cloth out of my small carry all, and headed for the stairs. My strap was not the kind used to keep up trousers. I had made it years before, with the single purpose of administering blistering hidings to pre-teen boys' bottoms. And it was a formidable implement. The length was approximately the length from the tip of my fingers to my elbow – short enough to control easily, but long enough to develop a good speed through the air. The leather itself was deep brown, thick as a man's finger, and as wide as two fingers together. On the end, I had attached a molded wooden handle, to give me a perfect grip when swinging the painful "weapon" across naughty boy's bottom.
Richard was, of course, exactly as I had commanded, stark naked, nose against the wall next to his bed. He shuffled his feet slightly as I entered the room, but otherwise did not move.
"Evening sir," he mumbled – polite to the end.
"Evening, Richard," I responded, admiring the lad's tall, slender body. He would be a big lad in five or six year's time. His buttocks, white in comparison to his bronzed body, particularly his back, were perfectly in proportion to the rest of him – had he had a classic "bubble butt", it would have looked out of place on his physique. Instead, his bottom was slender, but not scrawny – ideal for thrashing. The seven welts from the earlier hiding with my cane had turned into bluish, purple bruises – six working down his bottom from half way to the top of his legs, with a final stripe crossing them diagonally. I complemented myself on my accuracy.
"Come here," I ordered the little boy, and he turned and stepped over to me, modestly covering himself up with his hands. His big blue eyes widened when they saw the strap in my hand.
With care, I taught the child how to wax and polish the leather with the Dubin and the cloth, then continued,
"Richard, I'm going to have tea with your mother now. You are to wax this strap. It hasn't been used for a very long time, and you need to make it nice and flexible."
Richard nodded, taking the strap from my hands slowly and with awe.
"Don't let me come back here and find that you haven't done a satisfactory job."
"Yes sir," Richard nodded politely, and immediately the naked child got to work – nudity already forgotten in his anxiety to follow my instructions perfectly. Richard had once again demonstrated his high intelligence and realised that he had better get going in order not to make severe punishment even worse.
I returned downstairs and spent a pleasant hour chatting to the lad's mother, knowing all the time that a very nervous naked eleven year old was upstairs preparing the instrument of his own very painful correction.
Eventually, I mounted the stairs again, and entered the boy's bedroom, closing the door firmly behind me. Richard stood up quickly from where he had been sitting on his bed, fervently working the leather that would be beating his backside, and slowly held the strap up to me for inspection. I took the proffered weapon from the little chap, and nodded my head. He had done a good job of preparing the strap – it was once again soft and flexible.
I put the strap on the bedside table, then instructed the eleven year old to kneel on the end of his bed, facing out, knees wide apart on the edge. He had to then lean his body forward and down, placing his hands on the floor. This put almost all the child's weight on the palms of his hands, making it almost impossible to move out of position without falling over onto his face. But more importantly, it made his already bruised little bare bottom a perfect target for my strap – pointed right up, exposed and vulnerable. Although now his little _c_o_c_k_ and balls were hanging in the air, completely visible and exposed, gravity would keep them well away from the leathering that would be administered to the boy's backside. Richard's face was already going red – not so much from the blood rushing to his head, but from the humiliation of his punishment position.
As I slowly and ceremoniously rolled up my shirt sleeves, Richard turned his head to watch me, blond hair already stuck to his forehead in nervous anticipation. Finally he plucked up the courage and whispered,
"Sorry, sir, but how many am I getting sir?" His blue eyes were already full of tears.
"As many as I think you need, Richard – I'll decide when you've had enough."
I picked up the strap and gently stroked it on the lad's little bottom.
"Turn your head and look at the carpet, my boy," I instructed, and Richard obeyed reluctantly, "raise up your bottom for me." Again the boy obeyed, the strong muscles in his thighs bunching as he obediently pushed his naked tail up for a good hiding.
I thrashed the boy hard from the start, endeavoring to cover his entire bottom, but especially the lower half, with the leather. Each stroke was administered with a long, over arm motion, the end of the strap snapping against the little boy's thighs. In order to "help" Richard appreciate each lash, I made the intervals between five and ten seconds. These got longer as the bawling child battled to keep still.
Due to Richard's compromising position – bottom right up and pushed out as it was, and the length of my strap (as well as my considerable skill in using it), I was able to thrash the lad very accurately. After the first ten, I laid a vigorous stroke across just one cheek, making sure that the tip of the whip wrapped around the single buttock, snapping on the edge of his tender little bum hole. The boy screamed, and for the first time fell. As he struggled to resume his position, he sobbed,
"Sir, that one was right in my bottom, sir!" I think he thought that I had made a mistake, and was horrified at my calm answer,
"I know, and they'll be a few more like that, so hold your position!"
I waited calmly for the sobbing boy to raise his bottom up again, then delivered another five whistling strokes down the same buttock, the last three allowing the tip of the strap to snap into that particularly sensitive area between the boys wide spread legs, just below his scrotum. Richard was now howling with each lash, his lithe young pre-teen body plunging with the pain of each vicious stroke.
Without haste, I crossed to the other side of the boy, and continued with the treatment, this time on the other buttock. This time Richard fell twice when I snapped at the really sensitive areas, and each time I waited for him to resume his position.
I finished the hiding with ten more vigorous strokes across the little chap's bare bottom, low down of course. By now, Richard had grown hoarse from his howling, and the carpet was damp from tears that were running down his nose.
I sat on the bed, and gently shifted the crying boy over my knees, where I rubbed his burning bottom, and lectured him on the expectation that his mother and I had for a lad of his intelligence, and how he had let us down. I emphasised each point with a sharp spank with my hand, which must have really stung on his terribly bruised bottom. When I had finished, I helped him up, but before allowing Richard to so much as touch his punished backside, I made him spend fifteen minutes re-waxing the strap. I never knew when I was going to have to administer another sound hiding....