My sons stood before me in the sitting room, my wife beside me. Dylan was eight, and in the third grade, while Paul, young for his grade, was in grade six, but would only be turning twelve at the end of the year, some five months off. Both boys had taken after their mother – fine blond hair, deeply tanned, blue eyed. Both very good athletes, and well above average in the classroom as well. My methods of discipline meant that they were generally very well behaved and popular boys too.
I had been away on business, and the boys had chosen to play up that week. They had given their mom a hard time, and now was the time for their comeuppance. The four of us had been through their lengthy list of misdemeanors, and now was the time for punishment. Each boy had apologized to my wife, and it was up to me now to deal with them.
I got up and headed for the kitchen where, in a cupboard, I kept the implements used to administer justice in our home. And justice always meant hidings, as the boys knew. Reaching into the cupboard, I removed a wide, black leather strap. It was short and fairly heavy, and both boys had felt its sting – Paul more than Dylan of course. The younger boy had usually had his little bottom warmed up with my slipper. In fact, the younger boy had only had three moderate hidings with the strap. His face fell when I handed it to him.
Then I reached back into the cupboard and produced my next weapon. My cane. Bought from an old school shop, it was the real thing, curved handle and all. The clerk had assured me that it was ideal for use on boys from eight to thirteen, and I enjoyed the perfect weight and balance of the traditional instrument of school boy punishment. Both boys had felt my cane before across their bare bottoms (I only give my sons hidings on bare bums). Dylan two stripes, and Paul three. Neither boy had enjoyed the experience. Paul's eyes filled with tears when I handed the stick to him. He knew that I would be administering a long hard thrashing with it.
"Go to your rooms and get ready for me," I commanded, and, shoulders slumped, the two little blond lads shuffled off to wait for what they knew would be very sound hidings. I took their lack of respect for their mother very seriously, and they knew it.
It was nearly an hour before I entered my younger son's bedroom, firmly closing the door behind me. The eight year old, following my hiding procedure, had completely undressed, and was waiting nervously for me. His thin, naked little body was sun bronzed, with a pale little strip around his middle that had been protected from the sun by his Speedo. When I had closed the door, the naked little third grader rushed up to me, and, hands griping my shirt and tear stained face looking imploringly up me, started his begging,
"Please, daddy," he sobbed, "don't give me a hiding. I'll be good from now on!"
I ruffled the little chap's fine hair, but shook my head,
"No, Dylan," I began, "I've spoken to you guys before about respecting your mum while I'm away, so now you have to be punished."
"Then please just give it to me with the slipper – please not the strap!"
I glanced at the boy's bed. He had placed the strap neatly on it, but, hoping to win a reprieve, he had found my slipper and placed it on the bed next to the strap. I had to suppress a smile at the boy's hopefulness.
"It's time your bottom had a good, long taste of the strap, my boy," I explained, gently turning the boy to face his bed, "maybe that will get the message into you better. Now go and bend over"
"Oh please daddy!" the little lad sobbed, but he was already walking over to his bed. Reluctantly, he climbed up onto it, then knelt on the covers. He widened his knees, laced his fingers, placing them on the bed in front of him, then dropped his head, burying his face in his hands. He raised his startlingly white little bottom up, in readiness for his thrashing.
I reached over the naked little boy, ignoring the slipper and picking up the strap. Then I turned my attention to my son. His thin, sun-bronzed back was arced over as he pressed his head down and pushed his behind up. His buttocks made a bright contrast to the rest of his browned body – the two chubby little mounds perfectly presented for the leather. His wide spread knees meant that a maximum amount of his bottom would be vulnerable to the strap. My sons knew how to present themselves for their hidings.
The strap, although short, was fairly wide, so I had to take careful aim to make sure that I would only whip the boy's little bottom, not his back or legs. Then I began the hiding. I didn't raise the belt very high, rather twisting at the waist to get my power, I whipped the leather very hard right across the center of my trembling target. The sound of the leather connecting with the tender little bottom of the eight year old was like a gunshot in the quiet bedroom, and Dylan squealed into his hands at the sudden burning sensation of the strap wrapping firmly around his bare flesh. When I pulled the strap back, I was satisfied to observe a very red weal right across the middle of the lad's white buttocks.
The next stroke was laid on just as firmly, but fractionally lower, so that most of the strap revisited the areas that had been whipped by the first lash, while a lower portion of the boy's bottom also got to feel the leather. This made the sensation somewhat more painful for Dylan, and he voiced his unhappiness loudly. The third lash was lower still, and Dylan howled in pain. He knew better than to try to stop his punishment, of course, but he wiggled his little bottom.
Gently, I placed my hand on the small of his thin back, and the pressure of my hand reminded the crying, writhing little boy to keep still. When he was steady again, I strapped him as low as I could without hitting his legs. Needless to say, when the fast travelling leather bit into this, the most sensitive part of his little bottom, Dylan wailed, and again battled to settle down.
"Ow, daddy!" he begged, "please stop! I've had enough!"
"I'll tell you when you've had enough, my boy," I responded heartlessly, "now keep still."
I waited, hand on the child's back again, until he was still, then thrashed the lad again, in exactly the same spot. The eight year old screamed into his hands, rocking forward. This was without question the most severe hiding of his life so far. I spared a brief thought for Paul, in the next room. He must have been listening to the cracking of the leather on boy flesh combined with the cries of his little brother in dismay. He must have been staring at the cane that he had with him, knowing that although Dylan was clearly suffering, his hiding was likely to be a lot worse – he was nearly four years older of course!
Dylan's bottom was crimson. Low down, where I had concentrated the belting, was deeper red of course. But this didn't deter me. I wrapped the wide leather again in the same, low spot as the previous stroke – making six lashes altogether, three of which had been focused on the child's lower bottom. It would be purple later on when the bruising settled in.
I put the strap down, and gently rubbed the hot flesh before me, waiting for the howling little lad to settle down.
"Have you learnt your lesson, young man?" I enquired.
"Yes, daddy," the little chap sobbed in his choked up voice, "I'll never be disrespectful of mummy again!"
I allowed Dylan to get up, and he did slowly. When he was on his feet, he grasped his burning little bottom, and buried his head in my shirt, promising to behave himself. I put my hand on his shoulder, and guided the naked, crying boy to the door.
"Come on, Dylan," I ordered, "you're going to watch Paul get his hiding. I want you to see what happens to big boys who don't have manners with their mothers,"
The naked eight year old followed me into Paul's room, and again I closed a boy's bedroom door firmly behind me. After instructing Dylan, his hands still holding his burning bottom, to stand in a corner out of the way, I turned my attention to the naked eleven year old boy standing before me. In many ways, he was just a taller, and slightly more developed version of Dylan. His muscular development was more advanced. But Paul, unlike his little brother, did not try to beg me for a reprieve. He just stood before me, blond head down, eyes on the carpet, hands at his sides. My sons felt no embarrassment at being naked in front of me. Neither of them were uncomfortable for their nudity, and I knew that Paul was more concerned with how sore his little bottom would be in the next few minutes.
I looked down at the blond head in front of me,
"Paul," I began, "no doubt, as the oldest, you were a poor example to Dylan. That is why is here now – so that you can continue to be an example and he will see just how severely you are punished,"
Paul sniffed, and nodded his head,
"Are you ready for your hiding?"
"Yes daddy," the little pre-teen sobbed.
"Good. Go to your bed and bend over, then."
The eleven year old turned and shuffled slowly across the room. His pert white bottom, like Dylan's framed by the rest of his bronzed body, moved in time to the muscles in his slender legs. As the boy climbed onto his bed and began to raise his bottom to receive his hiding, I noticed that there were three faint blue lines neatly lined up across the white cheeks. Paul assumed the same position as his brother had in the other room – head down, knees wide apart, bottom up. I stepped over to my oldest son, placed one hand on his bent over, slim back and with the fingers on the other hand lightly traced the course of the lines across his bottom.
"When did you get caned at school, my boy?"
Paul muttered something into the bed clothes, and I couldn't make out what the boy was trying to tell me.
"I beg your pardon?" this was starting to irritate me. I am very strict with the boys about knowing their school punishments, especially when they receive corporal punishment.
Paul lifted his head, and softly explained,
"I got up to my tenth demerit just before you went away on business, daddy, so the headmaster gave me three cuts, sir,"
I knew the school policy on demerit caning, and agreed with it. But I was angry at Paul for not telling me.
"Why did you not tell me – you know I insist that you inform me of these things?"
"Sorry daddy, I forgot."
"Well," I ended, "we'll discuss this later. Right now, put your head back down and let's get on with your hiding."
Paul obeyed, dropping his head once more, and I reached across the slender lad's body and picked up the cane that he had left on his bed. I whipped it through the air a few times, knowing that the sound of the stick whizzing through the air created a terrifying build up for the boy, then gently traced the tip of the stick across the middle of the bum before me, following the perfectly symmetrical little mounds of pale boy flesh. Although Paul must have felt very nervous feeling the stick moving across his bare cheeks, he was a boy with amazing self discipline, and didn't even shudder. The only sign of his trepidation were the goose – bumps that were appearing on his naked young body.
With one fluid motion, I drew the junior cane back and, using the power generated by the center of my body like a golfer or tennis player would, I blazed the stick dead across the center of my eleven year old target. As the cane cracked across his exposed little buttocks, Paul squealed into his hands and his body jerked with the pain, as well as rocking forward in time with my powerful follow through. Dylan jumped with fright as his big brother received his first lash, and gasped in sympathy. Even though his bottom was still alight, he had a limited experience of the cane, and knew just how sore Paul's bottom must have been. And this was just the beginning!
My boys know that when I give them a hiding, I don't waste time with gentle strokes – I thrash them hard. Dylan had just experienced a full pace whipping, and Paul would be no different. Although of course a caning a considerably more painful than a strapping. When I lifted the cane for the next stroke, I was satisfied with my efforts. The boy's tender, white little pre-teen bottom was now marred by one deep red welt right across the center of his cheeks. Paul kept his bottom raised, but I took my time before administering the next blistering stroke, right below the first, getting the same reaction from the punished little boy. For the third time, I caned the young backside before me, and the reaction from the eleven year old was a little more pronounced. I could hear him sobbing with the build up of the pain as his hiding progressed.
For the fourth time, I whipped the boy, smashing the cane across what must have been an absolutely blazing little bottom. Four deep scarlet weals told me that my strokes were effective and accurate. Although Paul raised his head to cry out and dropped his behind slightly after the fourth lash, he surprised me by putting his head down again immediately and slowly, but without bidding, raised his tender young backside up once again for my attention. The fifth stroke bit deep into the tender flesh of the child's lower bottom, and he screamed with pain. This time he wiggled his body slightly before assuming his proper hiding position. He must have decided that his punishment was nearly done, and would take the last of his six lashes as bravely as he could. I made the final stroke the hardest of all, but Paul took it bravely. He kept his position when it was done, but I could still hear the boy sobbing.
I turned to Dylan,
"Do you think Paul enjoyed that, Dylan?" I asked the naked eight year old, who was still holding onto his own little behind.
"No daddy," he replied quietly, awed by the severity of his big brother's hiding, "his bottom must be really sore!"
"I'm sure it is. Now off you go – Paul and I have another matter to discuss which doesn't concern you. Get dressed in your bedroom, then go down to your supper"
The little lad scampered off – I'm sure next door to his bedroom to listen at the wall to hear any other action. I turned back to the kneeling and crying figure of my eleven year old son, and gently rubbed his welted little bum. After complimenting his on taking his hiding bravely, I started on the issue of the hiding he had received at school.
"Now tell me the truth, Paul," I began, "why was I not told about you school caning for demerits,"
The little boy knew he was in further trouble, so he didn't dare lie to me,
"I knew you'd give me a hiding too, dad," he explained correctly, "so I thought if I didn't tell you, you wouldn't find out."
My rules at home were that if one of the boys received a hiding at school, I matched it at home, but on his bare bottom of course.
"That's the same as lying to me isn't it Paul?"
"Yes, daddy," the child whispered.
"And what did I say would happen to you if you didn't tell me that you got the cane at school and I found out?"
"Double, daddy," the little blond mumbled, "so now you have to give me six on my bare bottom."
"That's right, son. You could have had three a week ago, and now you're in for six. That was silly of you."
The little chap just sobbed quietly, and I continued, still rubbing his pert young, very sore behind,
"Well, you're bottom's already bare, you're bending over and I have the cane right here, so let's get it over with,"
As I stood to retrieve the cane, Paul cried out,
"No daddy, please let me off! I'll be a good boy,"
I had expected the pre-teen to beg for mercy, but I wasn't moved. I don't think the boy had expected me to change my mind anyway. Even as he made his outburst, he put his blond head back down with a sob and raised his bottom for the next thrashing. I lined the cane up again across the two already well whipped little cheeks in front of me, then drew back and commenced thrashing the trembling little tail in front of me.
This hiding took a lot longer than our first session, as Paul's poor bottom was already very sore from the original six lashes. Now he squirmed, and wiggled, and I had to wait sometimes for more than a minute before the boy was still enough to receive his next stroke. After three lashes, the little lad twisted his bottom to the side while still keeping his head down, and wailed,
"Please daddy! Please stop! I can't take anymore – it's so sore!"
I placed a hand on the boy's throbbing bottom, feeling the welts with my fingers. I hadn't come even close to breaking the skin, but even although Paul was a pretty tough youngster, this hiding was hurting him a lot. However, he had to learn to take the consequences for his actions, and I wasn't about to let him off his full punishment. My son would have to endure the agony of his full thrashing, regardless of the severity and pain across his eleven year old bare bum.
"You will take your last three, my boy," I told the sobbing, writhing lad firmly, "now straighten your bottom and keep still – or I'll have to start again from the first one, and you don't want that, do you?"
"No daddy, please don't start again," he sniffed, "I'll take the rest of my punishment. Then he slowly straightened his stripped young tail, lifted it up and braced himself for the rest of his hiding.
I caned him hard, and low, and Paul wailed in pain. I said nothing, and soon the squirming little boy managed to get his naked body under control, and raised his buttocks once again.
"Only two to go," I heard him sob quietly to himself.
"Widen your knees a bit more," I commanded, and obediently Paul widened his knees – already well apart – even further, giving me a slightly more accessible target just above his legs. Surprisingly, there was still a little bit of pale, white flesh left at the lowest part of his bottom, and it was here that I whipped the next stroke, causing the pre-teen to raise up off his knees slightly with the intensity of the agony.
When he had settled, and brought his bottom up for the last time for my cane, I tapped the lad high up on the inside of his legs to remind him to keep his knees wide, then gave him the final stroke, raising the cane right up and letting it whistle through the air and bite into Paul's bottom exactly where I had lashed the previous stroke. Again, the child screamed, writhed and raised up off his knees. But then he resumed his punishment position, waiting for me to tell him to get up. I decided to let him remain bending for a few moments after I had rubbed his sore bottom for him. I would go and fetch the strap from Dylan's room, put the cane and the strap back in the cupboard downstairs and then let Paul get up. But there was a surprise for me. As I opened Paul's door, a very startled young eight year old almost fell at my feet. Instead of going to his room, he had spent the last few minutes trying to star in at the keyhole, sore bottom and all. I was very annoyed with the boy. Not only had he just had a sound hiding, but now he had willfully disobeyed my instructions and spied on his brother and I.
I grabbed the little naked lad by his arm, and growled at him,
"So, you don't want to follow instructions? Did you enjoy the show?"
"Sorry daddy!" the little boy knew he was in big trouble.
"Bend over next to Paul," I ordered, "since you're so interested, you can feel what it's like too!"
The third grader was about to protest, but he saw the determination in my eyes, and quickly climbed on the bed next to his brother, assuming the same position, bottom up. The two boys, kneeling in such submissive, vulnerable positions naked on the bed, were strikingly similar. Paul, of course, was a fair amount bigger than his little brother, and his legs were more muscled. But both boys had lean, strong sun tanned bodies, and pert, perfectly proportioned young bottoms. Paul's bottom was a mess of stripes, already turning into long, multicolored bruises. The lowest part of his bottom was far more battered than the rest of his little tail Dylan's bottom also showed that he had had a good hiding – with purple bruising starting to form on the lowest part too – where I had concentrated the strap.
As I had with Paul, I slowly traced the cane across the eight year old's little cheeks, then thrashed it hard across the child's behind. He wailed with the intensity of the pain, raising his head up,
"Ow! Daddy! Sorry!"
"Put your head back down and get your bottom up!"
The child slowly followed my instructions, and again I caned his bare young rump. I decided that that was enough of thrashing little boys' bottoms for one evening, and stepped back to admire the well whipped backsides of my sons as they knelt waiting for further instructions.
I put my weapons of chastisement away, and returned to the bending boys, taking a bottom in each hand and gently rubbing it. The punishment session was over, and the boys had been forgiven.