"Do you know why you are here, Shaun?" I asked the lad standing before me, hands nervously clasped behind his back.
"No, sir," he replied, his voice as yet unbroken – high and a little concerned. Summonses to report to the headmaster were not welcome, especially when accompanied by the command "immediately".
Shaun was a grade seven prefect, twelve and a half years old. His tall, slender figure, perhaps a little thin, meant that his muscle definition was pronounced. The boy was an outstanding swimmer, and it was from swimming that the lad had been called. That explained the way the child was dressed – in only his navy blue school Speedo. When told to report to me "immediately", boys were not allowed to dawdle – they had to head for my study at once. Shaun had barely even dried himself off. His short, light brown hair was still damp, as was his Speedo. His face was flushed from his rush to get to me, and I think from the hard training that he had been doing in the pool. His bright blue eyes were wide with concern.
I picked up the letter that had arrived on my desk and waved it at the boy.
"Do you know what's in this letter?"
"My mother said it was something to do with school fees, Sir," the attractive child replied. He shuffled his feet slightly, and dropped his head. I think he was beginning to understand that his game was up. Finally.
"That's right, young man," I nodded sagely at him, "and do you want to explain why your mother has being paying, in cash, each term, nearly twenty percent more than the set fees amount?"
Now Shaun really was concerned. His little scam had been found out – and by me, the headmaster, the most feared disciplinarian at the school.
"I was keeping the change, Sir," the little pre-teen whispered, head down now, tears starting to push out of his eyes. Wisely, he had decided not to lie and get himself into any more trouble.
"I see," I looked hard at the boy, "that makes you a thief, doesn't it. One of the best boys in the school, and a thief. What am I to do with you?"
Shaun sobbed. He knew that he was popular with both pupils and staff, and I could see that what might have started out as a once off grab for some easy pocket money had started to get out of hand for the young lad.
"How long has this little trick of yours been going on for?"
"A year, Sir," the boy sniffed.
I continued to stare at the lad, and, without prompting, he addressed me,
"Sir?" he looked up at me and I nodded to encourage him to continue, "I think I deserve a really severe hiding, Sir. Shall I report at the end of the day?"
It was my custom to cane boys after lessons, it made them wait, and saved me time during the school day when I had other things to do. But this lad would be an exception.
"I agree, Shaun – I really good thrashing is what you're going to get," the boy had his eyes fixed on the carpet again, "but I think we'll do it right now."
I got up, and walked around my desk, heading for the cupboard where I kept my canes. Shaun was aghast.
'Sir?" he asked hesitantly, "Sir, shouldn't I put my uniform on, Sir? I'm only wearing my Speedo!"
The little boy, although knowing and accepting that he was in for a sound hiding, was understandably concerned about feeling the cane through only the thin, damp nylon of his Speedo. He had been caned by me before, and knew how hard I administered the lash.
"you're right, my boy!" I exclaimed, "You are wearing your Speedo. Take it off at once!"
"Oh no Sir!" the twelve year old sobbed, now genuinely upset, "Not on my bare bottom – please Sir!"
I extracted one of my junior canes from the cupboard, and turned to face the crying boy. Flexing the cane, I put on my sternest expression, and growled,
"Shaun, get the Speedo off at once, and hang it on the hook behind the door. It's wet and I don't want it soaking the carpet or any other furniture."
Misunderstanding the apparent threat of a bare bottomed hiding as based on my concern for wetting the chair when he had to bend over it, Shaun quickly came up with a solution to what he thought was a dilemma.
"Sir, I'll go and change into underpants! They're also thin, and it will only take me five minutes,"
I slapped the cane gently onto the cushion of the deep leather armchair that always stood at the ready in my office, and shook my head. I understood the child's trepidation, but knew my duty.
"No Shaun," I said quietly, "this hiding is going to be administered to your bare bottom. Now get that Speedo off and do as you're told,"
Sobbing now – a very different lad from the one who had almost bounced into my study a few minutes earlier, Shaun slowly undid the drawstring of his Speedo, then slid it down his slender legs and off. Carefully, he hung the tiny garment up on the hook behind my door – stretching up on his toes to reach, and giving me a view of his lean young body, healthy tanning showing off his pale white buttocks. Then, hands clasped in front of his hairless genitals, he shuffled over and stood behind the chair.
I would be dishonest if I said I didn't enjoy whipping boys' bottoms. I love it. Makes the job worthwhile. But I always pretended to be reluctant to thrash the lads.
"When did I last give you a hiding?" I asked Shaun, now standing behind the naked boy, and mentally planning where I would lay the stripes across his slender little buttocks – I didn't get the excuse to cane many bare bottoms, so I really took advantage of the situation.
"About eight months ago, Sir, at the start of the year – for bunking. You gave me six of the best Sir."
"Six?" I responded.
"Yes Sir, six Sir," the boy was getting weepy now, "and last year you gave me four – also for truancy. But always over my shorts and underpants, Sir."
I enjoyed the lad's comment about being dressed. It was his way of asking me to be lenient. But he had no chance today.
"Yes, I remember," I responded, "truancy is also dishonesty, Shaun. I shall have to really thrash that dishonest streak out of you, I'm afraid."
"Oh, Sir," Shaun could only sob.
"Bend over," I commanded, and the naked twelve year old, keeping his feet well apart bent over the chair, as he had on at least two other occasions, reaching down as far forward as he could onto the seat of the chair, and pushing his young backside up to me.
Slapping his tender cheeks firmly with my hand, enjoying the firm resilience of his slender bum as I squeezed slightly with each slap, I spoke softly,
'This gives me no joy," I lied, "it's for your own good."
Then I traced the tip of the cane gently across his rounded little mounds, before lifting it to administer the first blow. I caned the boy hard, using all my well practiced technique to whip the end of the cane vigorously across both cheeks. The cane makes a satisfactory crack as it wrapped round the twelve year old's slim buttocks. When I lifted it, there was the characteristic welt that would soon turn into a purple bruise. Shaun had squealed when the cane had bit into his naked flesh, but, apart from a reflexive jerk, maintained his compromising position over the chair.
I didn't wait long before administering the second hard lash of the hiding, and the boy reacted as well as could be expected. I only ever cane very hard indeed – I'm not going to waste my time with half – hearted spankings and Shaun must have really felt the agony as the perfectly weighted cane sliced across his bottom. The flexibility of the instrument meant that it striped right across the boy's bottom cheeks, while not reaching the thighs. This meant that every stroke would be felt fully across both naked buttocks – and I ensured that this would happen with a well practiced flick of the wrist as the cane reached its young, tender target.
I whipped the cane vigorously down again, just above the child's legs, and Shaun cried out in real pain, his muscled, slim body bouncing with the pain – the boy rose up onto his toes with the agony of it. Now I had three perfect, scarlet welts marring the smooth, white and delicate surface of the boy's bottom. I began all major hidings in this way. The first stroke had been thrashed across his bottom at exactly three quarters of the way down, the second just above the halfway point of his behind, and the third, as mentioned, right above the poor little guy's legs. Now I would begin in earnest, painting in the area between halfway and the crease where bare white bottom met sun bronzed, slender legs.
"It is my intention, young man," I addressed Shaun, "to teach you a lesson you shall not forget!"
With that, I slashed my cane right across the halfway point of his bottom, below where the second stroke had landed. Shaun, needless to say, cried out at the pain, but I was not moved. Waiting for the boy to appreciate my efforts, I paused, then caned him again, slightly lower. I would color in this, the part of his bottom between half way and three quarters of the way down, first. I never caned high – if the boy moved unexpectedly, a hard stroke could damage his kidneys. But, more importantly, the lower down one whips a boy, the more it hurts. That lower little "sit down" place is exceptionally sensitive, and I like to ensure that hidings from me really hurt!
It wasn't long before I had reduced the twelve year old lad to a wailing little waif by the total of four tremendous lashes all administered to that lower middle quarter of his bare bottom. But now the serious caning would start.
Taking my aim carefully by stroking the tip of the cane gently across the lowest quarter of his naked backside, I prepared to give Shaun an experience of how the cane could really hurt his little pre-teen bum.
"It is unfortunate that I have to punish a boy of your caliber as severely as this," I spoke softly, then whipped the cane across Shaun's delicate under bottom with all my considerable skill. The child yelped with the added pain of this new, sensitive area that was getting my attention. But I waited for him to be completely still before blazing the stick across again, slightly lower.
"In my experience," I paused, then caned the lad again – steadily working down his cheeks, making sure that I didn't overlap any strokes – or leave any untouched, white area below the half way point of his bottom, "a sound thrashing generally gets the message through to a boy quickly," I smashed the cane across his backside again.
That was the fourth stroke to the lowest quarter of the twelve year old's bottom, and there was only a thin strip of white flesh left between the lower quarter stripe that I had panted earlier and the lowest lash that I had given the boy. His total was already up to eleven, and I could see by his reaction that this was really hurting. Shaun was crying and sobbing, his slender body writhing in pain. His bottom had never been this sore before.
"A boy's bottom," a lashed the lad again, "is a better instrument for his hearing," a caned him again, now almost in the crease between his bum and his legs, "than his ears!" and with that I caned the boy, for the second time in his hiding, right in the crease – and Shaun screamed. He desperately struggled to get up from his position over the chair, but I pushed my hand firmly on his neck, keeping him down. The width of the backrest of the chair made it impossible for him to reach back with his hands, but he tried.
"Please sir!" he wailed, "I've learnt my lesson!"
I was impressed that the thin boy had kept his composure for so long – most boys would have been begging me and trying to get up long before the fourteenth lash, but Shaun had finally been broken.
"No, my boy," I said firmly, "your punishment is not over yet,"
"Oh please, Sir!" he sobbed, but put his hands back in front of him, "my bottom's so sore! You're caning me so hard!"
"You know you deserve it, Shaun, and remember, you even asked for it,"
"Oh please Sir!" then the little chap got himself under control, sniffed and raised his slender, very well whipped young bottom up again, "how many more Sir?"
"Two more, Shaun," I decided that sixteen lashes would be sufficient for today, "but brace yourself, they're going to be good ones!"
Shaun's knuckles whitened as he gripped the leather of the seat before him, and he dropped his head. I saw the muscles in his strong, long lean legs tense as he instinctively tried to clench his wide spread buttocks. A single drop of sweat ran down one of his thighs, and I noticed how his slender naked body was gleaming – not from residual swimming pool water, but from perspiration generated from the boy's excruciatingly painful punishment.
I stepped in close to the bending boy, raised the cane up and slashed it diagonally across both his bruised cheeks, making sure that with the angle of the cane it cut right across his lower buttocks, lighting up the fourteen painful stripes already there. Shaun's whole body jerked with the agony, and he gasped wetly – but the boy knew that his hiding was almost over, and managed to retain the grip on the chair. He dropped his head and raised his poor little bare bum for the final lash of his thrashing.
I walked around the boy, to administer the last stroke. As I walked around, I saw that Shaun had tightly closed his eyes, and was waiting fearfully for the end of his punishment.
I caned backhand, but just as hard, making another diagonal stroke, identical to the first, but of course in the opposite direction. This was undoubtedly the most painful lash of the whole hiding – not only did I put maximum effort into it, but it crossed over every other stroke. Shaun's reaction was the same as the previous one. Even although the boy's hiding was now over, he knew the rules, and didn't move from his submissive position. I can only imagine that all he wanted to do was rub some of the fire out of his blazing backside.
He could wait. I carefully replaced my cane in the cupboard, then sat down at my desk, punishment book open before me. In my neatest handwriting, I wrote the lad's name, age and offence in the required column. Then I detailed the child's hiding, carefully noting the number of strokes, administered with the junior cane, and, of course, applied to his naked buttocks. Then I looked at the boy. The position of the chair meant that I had a good view of the boy's bottom, and a very satisfactory sight it was. The whole area from the half way mark of his behind was covered in neat, straight stripes – not once had I caned anything but dead straight, and the only lashes to cross other lashes were the two diagonal stripes. Already the redness was fading, but being replaced by multicolored bruising. I knew that Shaun would not sit comfortably for some time.
"Come here, Shaun," I summoned, and slowly, awkwardly, the naked, very well beaten twelve year old stood up and hobbled across the room to me. He didn't dare touch his bottom in my office, even after such a vigorous thrashing. His face was red and wet with tears, his hair plastered to his forehead. I could see that his nose had been running too, along with the tears, and, as if reading my thoughts, the little boy quickly wiped it with the back of his hand. Hard to believe that this crying little lad would, by tomorrow, be smartly back in his uniform and doing his duties in his usual, efficient way – setting a neat and tidy example for the younger boys. Of course, anyone who watched carefully would notice that he sat down very delicately.
"Would you like to rub your bottom, Shaun?" I asked kindly.
"Yes please, Sir," the youngster sobbed.
"Rub it then, then get out of here,"
Shaun thankfully placed both of his hands behind him, grasped his throbbing cheeks and firmly massaged them, the look of relief on his face was almost comical.
"Thank you for a good hiding, Sir," the boy addressed me when he had gathered some of his composure. I stood up and opened the door to my study, handing the lad his Speedo. He didn't even put it on when he left, but slowly walked out onto the corridor, and made his way, still stark naked to the change room, drawing glances and comments from other little boys as he limped past them.