This is a work of fiction. Hurting children is not something of which I approve.
Mark was out of the classroom before the bell had stopped ringing.
The of the end-of-term exams were over, and he'd probably failed them all, but the sun was shining, it was three days to the end of term and those long summer holidays, He had a football in his bag and he didn't care. His three best mates - Jonno, Monster and Coop - joined him outside and they ambled lazily down to the park together. Mum had asked him to be home early that day, but he wasn't in the mood for early tea and a family trip to the cinema with such great footballing weather going for them.
He conducted his normal ritual for the end of a summer-term schoolday and stuffed his blazer into his bag, undid his school tie, pulled the shirt from out of his trousers and undid all the buttons. The breeze felt good on his still-narrow chest. He was still quite thin, which he didn't mind, but he was rather short for his age, which he did a bit. Some of his friends called him 'shorty' or 'shorty Mark', which he also took in good humour and had the confidence to give as good as he got. It wasn't so bad being the shortest boy in the class and, because of his breezy character, he never let it bother him. He also found he could get away with quite a lot from the teachers; he thought most of them felt a bit sorry for him.
He shouted, "Jonno!" and booted the ball to him, ignoring the cloud of dust which settled on his grey school trousers. Puh! he thought, wiping the sweat off his forehead with a dusty hand, leaving a smear of dirt behind, a family trip to the cinema. With Dad, Mum, his big brother Jack, nearly two years his senior and a bit of a sorry case. Not what he called fun. Mum and Dad were all right, although they didn't bother with him as much as they did Jack. And as for Jack, well he was all right, too, but he was not the sharpest tool in the box, if you know what I mean, but what he lacked in brains, he made up for in muscle: school swimming star, member of the under sixteen rugby team and, since his last birthday when Dad had bought him a set of weights, a boring "see how much I can push now" weight-lifter. In fact, he was a bit boring all round; far too sensible. He tried to push Mark around sometimes, but in some ways Mark was more mature than him because he was more sociable and had more confidence. They did have a laugh and a giggle together sometimes, which brought grim looks from one parent or the other, but not much more.
So football it was that sunny Wednesday. They didn't fancy any of the other stuff and, anyway, nobody had anything. Sometimes, they'd go down the park and sit under the railway bridge. Monster could usually get some vodka by sneaking it from his dad's bottle and mixing it with the orange juice his mum put in his lunch box. Once they'd had some at lunchtime. Big mistake! Mark had messed around in the class like he didn't care which, to be honest, he didn't. Two detentions each for that. And Coop could usually be relied on for a couple of smokes. Sometimes he got them from his big brother, which was risky as he was very big. Or ther'd club together and Coop would go to the off-licence to buy ten. He could just about get away with looking sixteen. So then it was three each and share the last one. No booze or ciggies today though.
"On your head, Mark," shouted Coop, as the ball headed his way. He caught it and kicked it back, like the England goalkeeper.
Yeah, it was fun that day. That Wednesday. The last Wednesday of term. By the end of that week, that term, that school year, Mark's life would have changed forever and, by the end of the approaching summer holidays, he would have become a different boy.
Of course, he didn't know that at the time, otherwise he would have headed home at once, where Dad and Mum and Jack were waiting. If he had known what life had in store for him that summer, he would have run home, just to make sure he was not a minute later than he was supposed to be. But he was a bit of a layabout in those days, certainly bright, but what nowadays would be called by our American cousins (and those who wanted to be like them), an underachiever. But this was not America. It was Britain, a small suburb of London, and there were standards in those days, both educational and behavioural, which young Mark was not living up to.
There was a bit of a row when he finally did arrive home. The comments rolled off his back just like the headmaster's silly comments would do two days later. They weren't able to go, they told him, because he wasn't there, so now nobody was going. He was told he should have realised he was stopping everyone's enjoyment. Jack looked at him with daggers - he'd really wanted to see the film - but Mark wasn't fussed. He told them he'd fancied a kickabout and what was the big deal? He remembered afterwards that Dad had looked at Mum with a knowing look, as if to say, "There you are." It didn't seem important at the time, as he grabbed a sandwich and glass of milk and headed up to his room to listen to his records. It was only much later that he remembered that look.
Term finished two days later with a bit of a muted cheer. They had all been reminded by the Headmaster that, when they returned in September, they would be starting the exam course and would all be expected to give their best. He'd tried to stifle a yawn, unsuccessfully and, because Smith the PE teacher had spotted him, had been called out to speak to the Head.
"Your behaviour has been poor this term, boy, even for you. I expect a marked improvement in your attitude and standards of work next term. I know that you can do much better that you have been doing so far." "Yes, sir," he said, then turned away, thrust his hands in his pockets, and skipped out of school, already having forgotten what the Head had been on about. Perhaps you are suspecting that he had little incentive to reform his naughty ways? If so, perhaps you are right.
The first thing I need to tell you, so that you will understand what took place that Saturday morning, is that Mark is a heavy sleeper. Normally, Mum would call him at 7.30, so that he could have a shower and breakfast before school. Then she'd call him again at 8, so that I'd at least have time for something to eat. Finally, Dad would shout at him to get up, usually at about 8.40, so that he could at least get to school on time. He'd then throw on some clothes, grab a slice of bread in the kitchen and run to school. Saturdays were different. On Saturdays, he'd catch up on his sleep and rise at around 11. Mum and Dad had normally gone for the weekly shop by then and Jack would be watching TV, or reading a book, or maybe fiddling with his bike. Mum and Dad didn't really think he was old enough to be left alone by himself, and he didn't think they quite trusted him, so they left Jack in charge, which was a laugh really, because, for all his muscle, he was a bit of a wimp and more scared of Mark's quick wit than Mark was of his strength.
So when he woke up that Saturday, he knew something was wrong, but he couldn't wake up his brain quickly enough to work out what it was. There was something about his body which didn't feel right. That was it: he was cold. Odd. A summer's morning and him in his normal night attire of boxer shorts and big t-shirt and he felt cold.
Then it struck him: He was naked! He must have been stripped while he was asleep. More than that, the blanket had gone and he was uncovered. Still a little sleepy, he reached for the blanket, but couldn't find it. Then another realisation came to him: he was being watched. Fully awake now, he looked up and saw Dad standing over him.
"Get up, Mark," he said, calmly.
"Dad," he mumbled, "What's up? What time is it?"
"It's 6.30, and what's up is that I told you to get up."
He groaned, turned over, remembered that he was naked and rolled back onto his stomach.
"Oh, Dad. What's wrong? I'm cold. I want to sleep. Anyway, where are my nightclothes?"
Dad looked down at him. He saw him out of the corner of his eye.
"I'm not going to argue with you, Mark, nor answer any questions. There is only one thing I want from you and that is for you to GET UP!!!"
He bellowed the last two words so loudly, Mark jumped. He did get up and stood in front of Dad with his hands covering his private parts.
"Put your hands on your head!" he shouted.
"Dad, I..."
Dad moved like lightning. He grabbed his right arm by the wrist and forced it up his back. He was very strong and Mark couldn't have stopped him even if he'd been prepared for it. He transferred the grip to his left hand and pulled him down as he sat on the bed, forcing Mark over his left knee, using his elbow to push his head down low. This had the effect of raising his bottom up into the air and Mark felt completely exposed. Finally, Dad brought his right knee into his left, thus trapping Mark's legs in between his. Mark couldn't move an inch. Dad paused for a moment. "Mark, you have been a very naughty little boy. That is going to change. I am going to spank you now, so that you know how naughty you have been. It is going to hurt, and there is nothing you can do to stop it."
He was right on both counts. The first one or two were not so bad, but after four or five, Mark's bottom was on fire. Dad kept the blows coming.
SMACK!
"Ow, Dad, stop. It hurts!"
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
"Please, Dad. Pleeeease, Dad!!!"
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
"Please, Dad. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was naughty. Please stop spanking me Dad! Please!!!"
SMACK! SMACK!
"I'm sorry Daddy. Pleee Da...I soooo Daaaaa Oooo Eeeee!"
He sobbed and sobbed like a five-year-old. Finally, Dad stopped.
"Are you going to be a good boy?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"And are you going to do as you're told?"
"Yes, Daddy, I promise."
"All right."
Dad let him up. "Put your hands on your head." He did so.
Dad then walked around him, telling him to keep still. After he had made one complete circuit, he stood in front of him and began to speak. He spoke in a way he'd never spoken before, at least not to him. He had authority.
"Mark. You are scruffy, rude, disobedient, disrespectful, untruthful, lazy and ill-disciplined. You have messed about with your friends when you should have been helping your Mother. You have been watching TV, or listening to music, when you should have been studying. You have upset him, your Mother and your brother. And I discover that you have been smoking and drinking. Your behaviour is atrocious and unacceptable. You have, in short, been a very naughty little boy. So understand this: it's over. Your old life is over. When you go back to school in September, you will be a well-behaved, smart, polite, obedient, respectful, disciplined little boy who is a credit to his family and school and of whom we can all be proud. You may not think that this is likely, or even possible. But I'll tell you this, boy, if you do not make rapid progress towards those ends, what you have just experienced will seem like a picnic. I will spank you every day, even twenty times a day, if you do not do as you're told. Do you understand?"
Mark was shaking, but managed to say, "Yes, Dad."
"You have been trying to be grown up, when patently you are not. You need constant reminders that you are still just a little boy. One such reminder will be that from now on you will call me Daddy...."
"Yes, Daddy."
"....except when you are in my study. When you are in the study, you will call me 'Sir'. Other reminders of your juvenile status will come later. Now, follow me."
Mark followed him down to the kitchen, where he sat him on a chair. He produced some hairclippers, scissors and a comb and, within a few minutes, Mark had been given a very short, very traditional and unfashionable schoolboy haircut. For a year or so, Mark had worn his hair fairly long at the back, just off his collar and at the front it was also long and pushed back over his head, partially covering his ears. Now, the back and sides were very short and the front was combed straight forward to a fringe about halfway up his forehead. He sobbed a bit all the way through the haircut, but daren't move. He couldn't risk another of those spankings.
Upstairs, he had a shower, with Dad watching all the time. He noticed that the lock had been taken off the bathroom, so he couldn't have kept him out anyway, but Dad had followed him in and shouted instructions at him as to how he was to wash himself. When he was satisfied, Mark stepped out and Dad dried him all over. Then, he covered him with baby powder. As he did so, he pointed out the name of it, and said that it was used only for babies and little boys. Then he followed Mark, who was stark naked, back to his bedroom.
"Right, Mark. Now that you are clean and you have begun to learn the basics of discipline, you will be dressed in clothing more suitable for a little boy. Put this on."
Dad walked over to his bed, where lay three carrier bags. He reached into one of them and handed Mark a new white vest. Mark never wore vests, even in winter, considering them to be something worn by babies or girls, but he reluctantly put it on. Dad then gave him some white underpants, of a very traditional style, which nobody, but nobody, wore at school. All the boys in his class wore boxers or trunks. But his still-sore bottom prevented him from arguing and he did as he was told. Dad then told him to tuck the vest into the underpants. The next item was a white shirt. It had short sleeves, which Mark didn't like, even in summer, as he preferred the rough-and-ready look of rolled up sleeves. Once he had that on, it was followed by his school tie. He felt like telling Dad that school had finished, so there was no need to wear a tie, but he kept his mouth shut. When Dad was satisfied that the tie was done up tight and straight, he moved on to his bottom half.
He gave him some socks. At first, he thought they were standard grey school socks, but there was a difference. These were long. He pulled them over his ankles, wondering whether he should leave them there or pull them up. Then Dad said something which didn't make sense.
"Put your shoes on."
Mark didn't understand. How could he put his shoes on when he didn't have his trousers on yet? Perhaps Dad had somehow forgotten, which seemed silly. Even then, Mark didn't see it coming, perhaps not wanting to believe what he would be made to wear.
"But Dad..."
Again, Dad moved in a flash and Mark was over his knee again. Somehow, his underpants had ended up down by his knees and his bottom was once again sticking up in the air, immobilised by the arm up his back and the clamp of his knees on his legs. He felt completely helpless, but didn't struggle, hoping Dad would go easier on him.
Before he started again, he said, "Mark, you must learn never to argue with me and never to answer me back. All you have to do is what you are told to do. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Dad."
"It's Daddy!""
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
Four more hard blows landed in the centre of his bottom. On top of the whacks he'd earlier, he was screaming and crying after the first one had landed.
"Now, are you going to do as you're told?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"Without arguing or answering back?"
"Yes Daddy."
"Are you going to do as you're told without thinking?"
"Yes Daddy. I promise Daddy. I'll be a good boy, I promise!"
Dad let him up and he started to pull up his underpants.
"Leave those alone!! I didn't tell you to pull them up!"
He left them and stood up straight.
After a few seconds, Dad told him to pull up his underpants and tuck in his vest Then he repeated his instruction.
"Put on your shoes."
"Yes, Daddy," Mark said quietly. He looked around for his familiar school shoes, assuming Dad wanted him to put those on, rather than some more traditional Saturday footwear. Then Dad pointed to a box on the floor. Mark opened it and saw the most little-kid shoes he'd ever seen. Plain black, no designs, laces, round toes and, worst of all, they were the sort you had to polish. The shoes he'd worn before were made of that modern material which didn't need polishing. They were also pull-ons, and had some interesting leatherwork on the toes. Mark couldn't see his old shoes anywhere. Come to think of it, he couldn't see any of his clothes either. Perhaps Dad had put all his stuff away while he slept.
Dad seemed to be reading his mind.
"In case you were wondering, all your old, scruffy clothes have been thrown away. From now on, you will dress smartly at all time. Your old school uniform was also scruffy, so that will be replaced in due course."
"Yes, Daddy, " he said as he finished lacing up the shoes. At least they were a good fit.
Next, Dad produced two small loops of material, which he handed to Mark, who found they were made of elastic. They were grey and had buckles and adjusters. He didn't know what they were. When he told him to put them on, he didn't know what to do and hardly dared ask, as Dad might think he was disobeying him again. He tried to think of a respectful way to ask the question.
"Please, Daddy, I'm very sorry, and I'm not disobeying or arguing, but I don't know how to put them on. Sorry, Daddy."
Dad gave a little smile. "These are the most important items of clothing for a little boy. These are your garters. They go over your socks and keep them in place. Now, put them on."
He pulled them over his shoes, still not too sure what he was to do with them after that. Ah, well, he thought, Dad hasn't told me to do anything yet, so I won't do anything. All the time, he was also wishing he would stop referring to him as a little boy.
"Now. Pull up your socks. Slowly. Careful! Don't twist them. That's it, keep pulling all the way up as far as they'll go."
The socks covered his knees.
"Now, pull up your garters so that they are just below your knees. That's it. Make sure they are level. That's it. Now, very carefully, turn over the tops. Make sure they are neat, front and back, and make sure each side is the same height."
He did as he was told. It was rather a strange feeling. A bit like wearing football sock, except those were more elasticated, being made of some sort of nylon material, whereas these were heavier and woollen.
Finally, the trousers appeared from out of another carrier bag. He had to admit, he'd never seen it coming. Silly really in hindsight. When they came into full view, he was shocked. Dad handed him a pair of very traditional grey short trousers! They were made of thick cotton, lined in white cotton and had a half-elasticated waistband at the back.
"Put them on."
He almost hesitated, he was so shocked. He could not believe he was going to have to wear stupid short trousers. It had been two or three years since he had last worn anything like them, and only then when he wanted to. At the time, he hadn't really minded. One or two of his friends at the other school had worn them, as had he in summer, but it was not a rule and he only wore them because he liked the sun and the cool breeze on his legs. He only just managed to recover himself in time, because he saw Dad watching him carefully, ready to pounce.
He put them on and was told to tuck his shirt in neatly. The shorts felt weird. They came to about halfway down his thighs and were quite baggy. They had been neatly ironed with sharp creases front and back. He didn't know what to think. He kept looking at Dad, waiting for him to say something, but he just kept scanning his eyes slowly up and down, obviously looking for defects in the way Mark looked. All Mark could think of was what Jonno, Monster and Coop would think of him if they saw him now.
"All right, "said Dad. "You'll do. Follow me."
He followed Dad downstairs. He told him to wait outside the study while he went inside, shutting the door. A few seconds later, he opened it again.
"Mark, do you remember what you have to call me in here?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's right, but you're not in the study yet, are you?"
"No, Daddy."
He paused for a second, looking at him sternly. "All right. This the only time I shall remind you of that rule. Now come in."
He entered. He had not been in there often. It was not an interesting room. Dad worked from home and was usually quite busy. He had turned the room into a sort of office, with filing cabinets, a desk and a couple of chairs. The room was in the corner of the house, so as you entered, there was a window facing you at the side of the house and a larger window in the right-hand wall, which Dad sat with his back to. As Mark went in now, he noticed one change from when he'd been in there in the past. There was now a small table and chair by the side window. The chair, like Dad's, was facing away from the main window and would receive light from the side window.
"Stand in front of my desk. Stand up straight, hands behind your back. Do not talk. Do not move."
He didn't even say, "Yes, sir."
"Now, Mark. Let me explain one or two things to."
He walked round the big desk slowly, then sat down in the big chair. He seemed very relaxed and confident. He continued.
"As I began to tell you upstairs, you've been going off the rails and I am going to put you back on track. Your Mummy and big brother have gone to Grandma's for a few weeks holiday, while I get to work on your behaviour. By the time they get back, you will be a very well-behaved little boy. I promise you that. You've been spanked twice already and it's only the first day. But, as I said, if you stand up to me, son, I will spank you every day, twenty times a day if I have to. As you have discovered, you will be punished for disobeying me. You will also be punished for doing anything without permission. From now on, you will do as you're told and only what you are told. If you need to be punished, I am not going to force you over my knee as I have been doing up to now. I am going to tell you to bend over and you are going to do it without hesitation because, if you do not, it will be the worse for you. Do you understand?"
Mark didn't know whether he could speak or not. He was shocked, outraged, even a bit angry, but he didn't want another spanking. So he just nodded. "Good. Now. Here's is what your days will be like this summer. You will be woken up at seven o'clock every day. You will have a shower, then put on your dressing gown and come down for breakfast. You then have until 8 o'clock to get yourself ready, because at 8 o'clock exactly, I shall walk into this room and you will be standing where you are now, dressed neatly and smartly. I will discuss your clothes in a minute. I shall then inspect you. You begin each inspection with 10 dress points and you will lose one for each breach of the dress code. If you lose more than 5 points, you will be punished. The dress code will be pinned up in your bedroom along with a list of general rules. But remember that the main rule is that you do as you're told."
He stood there, stock still, not believing what he was hearing, but not daring to speak.
"Clothes. You have been shown how to wear them. I shall help you get dressed again tomorrow, so there will be no inspections until Monday. Your clothes are kept in your room. They will be placed on your bed while you are in the shower, so you must make sure you make your bed before you go into the bathroom. You're clothes will be taken away again after you have got into your pajamas. You notice that you have an hour between getting up and being inspected. That might seem like a long time to have a shower, have breakfast and get dressed. But you will have to iron your clothes and polish your shoes in that time. I will show you how I require them to be ironed this evening. After you have dressed yourself, you will not sit down, because that would crease your short trousers and shirt."
He paused for a moment, staring at the desk. Then he continued.
"Now as for your days. Your studies have been very poor this term, this entire school year to be exact. So you are going to spend this summer holiday catching up. Every morning after inspection, you will sit at that table over there." He indicated the small desk and small, wooden school chair. "You will sit with your back to me, so I can keep an eye on you and you will do the work I set you. Most of it should be self-explanatory but, if you have any questions, you must raise your hand smartly and say 'Please, sir' and then wait for me to come to you. If you stop working, or I think you are not working hard enough, for example if I catch you staring around the room, you will be punished. The work mostly consists of questions and information to help you answer them. You will work from approximately 8.15 to 10, when you may have a short break to use the toilet and have a quick drink. At 10.15 you will resume work until 12.30, when you will help me prepare lunch. Study starts again at 1.30 and continues until 3. Then you will get changed into your evening clothes and do any jobs I have for you around the house. At around 4.30, you will commence your homework while I prepare supper, which will be at 5.30. Only an hour for homework, you notice, but you will have to work quickly to get it all done. On Saturdays, school finishes at 12, apart from today, which is your first day and so will be a normal school day. On Sundays there will be no school, but you will go to Sunday school dressed, of course, in your full school uniform until such time as I can buy you a suit. Got it, boy?"
He started to cry, just managing to nod his head. he couldn't help himself. Within a few short hours, he'd been transformed from a carefree young lad into an obedient, smart, disciplined little boy, wearing clothes that came straight out of a 1950's boys' boarding school novel. But this was no fictional tale of plucky young chaps ready to take on rotters from foreign powers. This was real. It was frightening and it hurt. More was to come.
"You will not be allowed to watch television or see your friends. In fact, you will not be allowed out of this house by yourself. Bedtime will be at 7.30 during the week. 8 o'clock on Fridays and Saturdays."
Seven-thirty! He hadn't been to bed that early since he was 7! He usually slipped away when he felt like it, which was usually around 10 or 10.30. Things were looking really bad. He had to do something about it, but his bottom was still sore and he didn't want it to get any sorer!
"Turn to your right, Mark.."
Mark did so. He was looking into a full-length mirror hanging on the wall. There he saw a sorry state. Staring back at him through a blur of tears was a very young-looking boy, very smartly dressed in neatly-ironed clean new clothes and with a very short haircut which made him look even younger than he was.
"There you see what you are to become, Mark. That is a good little boy. Or, at least, what looks like one. You will truly be a good little boy when you feel it inside, and I shall know when that happens. I'm going to be watching you every second, Markl, and looking for that change in you. Until it happens, until you want to be like the good little boy looking back at you now, I will spank. There is only one Daddy in this house and only one little boy. Good boys do as they are told by their Daddy, because if they don't, they go to sleep lying on their little tummies. Still, don't worry. You don't have to try to be good. I will help you. The only thing you have to do is what I tell you to do. Nothing else. Simple. Do it, and enjoy being good, or stand up to me and suffer the consequences."
"Before your studies commence, we need to discuss your end-of-term report. Take your down your short trousers!"
So that's how it started, that summer. As he lay there over Daddy's knee, wishing he'd worked harder at school that term, Mark had no idea how he was going to cope with it all. He wanted to be out playing football and enjoying the sunshine, not studying and wearing little boys' clothes. But he had to accept that this was the way things were going to be. He had to learn what Dad wanted, what he demanded and he had to learn quickly. If he didn't, he knew he was going to be a little boy with a very sore bottom! All he could hope for was that Dad would become less strict, and so less ready to spank, as he started to behave himself. And one thing he was sure of: he was determined to become that boy Dad wanted him to be. He would pass those inspections, He would work hard and do as he was told. Daddy would have no cause to spank him if Mark had anything to do with it.
He thought that state of affairs was as bad as things could get. But, when Mummy and big brother Jack arrived home, things would get a whole lot worse. During the holidays, Jack had spent most of his time at his girlfriend's and was now very grown up. And grown-up, big-muscled Jack had no time for naughty, cheeky little brothers who wouldn't do as they were told!
Would you like to know what happened when big brother came home? Part 2 coming soon!