My wife and I drove back from the school quietly. We had just had an interview with Conrad's sixth grade teacher, and it had been an unpleasant experience. His behavior and general attitude had taken a major turn for the worst. I appeared that the eleven year old had fallen in with the wrong crowd, and was being strongly influenced. He had started to be cheeky towards the teacher and hand in poor quality work – far below the high standards that he was capable of.
Conrad was waiting for us when we arrived. The lad was not very big for his eleven years (only about four months before his twelfth birthday) – but although he was short, he was starting to get good muscle definition, and had developed good perceptive abilities. He knew that he was in big trouble – his teacher had made it clear to him that when we went to see her, she would let us know exactly what was going on. And Conrad knew that I would not take things lightly.
"You must have a pretty good idea about what your teacher told us this afternoon, Conrad," I spoke softly to the blond preteen.
He nodded his head slightly, his fine hair flopping starting to stick to his forehead. Conrad always sweated when he was nervous.
"Yes, daddy," he responded softly.
"Anything to say about it?"
"No, sir," the boy shook his head, looking down, leaving me with a view of the top of his head, "shall I go down and wait in the basement?"
The basement was where Conrad and his younger brother always got their hidings. The boy, rightly, expected a long, hard thrashing this evening, and was ready to accept it. My sons know that serious matters are always sorted out across their bare bottoms in the large, sound proofed room downstairs.
"Yes, my boy, that sounds like a good idea," I nodded, "I'll join you there shortly,"
Conrad, barely able to hold in the tears, left the room, and I could hear his slow footsteps as he went into the kitchen, then descended the basement stairs. The little boy knew that his tender young backside would be very sore indeed once I started working on it.
I gave the boy about an hour to wait. He needed to reflect on his behavior, and appreciate the thought of the severe thrashing that was to be the consequence. I finally joined him down into the basement, closing the door behind me as I descended the steps. The room had been used by the previous owner of the house as a workshop, so he had had it soundproofed so as not to disturb the neighbors with his power tools. The sound proofing served me well too. Nobody would be able to hear the punishment of my young son. There was very little furniture in the room, but Conrad had placed an armless, low backed chair in the center of the concrete floor.
The boy himself had undressed, and was now only wearing his navy blue underpants. His clothing was stacked neatly on another chair, up against the wall. Conrad's nervousness was apparent in the way he stood, waiting for me. Head bowed, hands clutched behind his back, knees trembling. Hooked over the back of the same chair were my canes.
The lad had taken them out of their cabinet, and the four sticks were an ominous reminder of the coming session between father and son. Each cane was of a slightly different thickness and length. Conrad knew better than to take out just one cane. He was aware that I preferred to choose the implement of his correction, and that he would in all likelihood be feeling more than just one of the sticks across his young backside before we were finished. They were a legacy from my own father, who had been a headmaster of a boys' preparatory school. As a boy, I had felt each cane across my bare bottom frequently, so I knew precisely the amount of pain inflicted by each. In fact, when I had given Conrad his first hiding with the cane (he was eight at the time), I had invited his grandfather to attend, and give me instruction on how to cane correctly. The care of the canes were the responsibility of the boys. After a thrashing, the lad would have to polish and oil the canes before being allowed to dress. Also, every Sunday evening, both lads had to descend to the basement to do "cane duty" – a weekly cleaning of the canes. It was a constant reminder to them to behave themselves.
Jarred, Conrad's young brother, had only been introduced to the canes a few months ago, shortly after his eighth birthday. The little boy's initiation had been a long hard whipping across his bare bottom for lying. He had wailed as I laid stripe after agonizing stripe with the thinnest and shortest cane down his tender, rounded little rear end. But the improvement in his general behavior had been amazing – he'd been an angel since. But I know little boys, and I suspected that it would not be long before the third grader would be back over a chair in the basement, bare bottom up, for another good hiding.
Conrad's underpants were getting a little small for him – his preteen body was starting to fill out, and I could see the beginning of some muscle definition as I looked at the almost naked lad. Even his baby fat was starting to disappear.
"Take those off," I gestured to the boy's underpants, and slowly he grasped the waist band and slipped them off and down his legs. Conrad picked up his underpants, and placed them on the chair with his clothing, then turned back to me, his pale, hairless body now completely on display. My boys were always whipped completely naked.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself before I begin your hiding?"
"No, dad," the little boy replied quietly, head down, "I deserve a good caning."
I nodded my head. Just like Conrad to accept his punishment. I had brought him up to recognize and accept the consequences for his actions.
"Bend over."
The preteen walked slowly over to the chair in the center of the room, and got up onto the seat of it, kneeling, facing the backrest. Then, careful to keep his balance, he leant forward and over the back of the chair, reaching forward to grasp the legs of the chair as far down as he could. This put him in an excellent position for a thrashing. His bottom was pushed well up, perched at the highest point of his body, while his blond head was right down. From this position, he would have difficulty seeing what I was doing, and would not be able to move out of the way of the cane as it whipped across his backside. Conrad widened his knees as far as possible on the seat of the chair, shuffled slightly and then kept still, waiting for me to begin his hiding.
Although I could see that my son's buttocks were unmarked, I still gently squeezed and stroked each chubby upraised cheek with my hand to make sure that the boy had no boils or other injuries that he may not have told me about. I did not want to cause him any more pain that I had to – the pain of the cane across his bare bottom had to be the focus of the grade six's attention. Conrad's pale bottom was slightly warm, soft but resilient flesh typical of a healthy boy his age. It would certainly take the whipping that I was intending for it.
I crossed over to the canes that had been hooked by their crooked handles over the back of the other chair and made my selection. Although all four of the canes were junior canes – made for boys of about Conrad's age, I picked up one of the thinner, shorter sticks to begin the boy's hiding with. Flexing my choice, and whipping it through the air a few times, I walked back over to the naked bending boy.
"To start with, Conrad," I began, stroking the tip of the cane lightly across the eleven year old's bottom, "we'll deal with the issue of your disrespect to your teacher."
"Yes, daddy," the child muttered softly, not daring to turn his head, staring at the floor.
"I'm going to give you six,"
I lifted the cane, and whipped it smartly across the lad's little bottom. Naturally, I caned him with the end of the stick, and part that moves the fastest, and used my wrist to make sure that the cane really snapped neatly right across both buttocks. Conrad gasped, and his body jerked convulsively. But the boy knew that I would not tolerate any attempt to get up. He had to take his full punishment. Over the years, I had become very familiar with my son's small, chubby backside, and knew where to whip it – giving the boy enough pain to make his thrashing worthwhile, while not making the hiding unbearable. I caned the boy's bottom again, and the reaction was identical. The loud report of the cane smacking into his exposed, tender flesh was a sound that I had become familiar with in this room, and I was not used to being interrupted when doing my fatherly duty, but I was.
A loud tapping on the door at the top of the basement stairs surprised me. I hooked the cane back on the chair, and, ordering Conrad to stay still, went up the stairs. My wife was standing waiting for me. She knew that I didn't like to be interrupted when giving one of our sons a hiding, so it must have been serious.
"There's someone here to see you," she had a surprised look on her face.
"Can't they come back later, when I've finished giving Conrad his hiding?"
"I think you'll want to deal with this now,"
She lead me to our living room where three people were waiting. One was Conrad's best friend, Gary, the second was Gary's mother, and the third was Gary's older brother Michael. Michael was a grade seven boy at the same school as Conrad and Gary. I knew that he was nearly thirteen – Conrad had been invited to his birthday party in a months time. Unlike Conrad, who was a keen, sturdily built swimmer, Michael and Gary were excellent track athletes, and were thin and wiry boys. Both had short cropped, almost white hair, with pale complexions. They were both looking a lot paler than normal, and neither could meet my eyes with their pale blue eyes. Their mom was a widow, but I knew that she kept a firm hand on her boys – Conrad had told me that he had witnessed Gary receiving a sound bare bottom thrashing from his mother with a doubled over leather belt.
To cut a long story short, she had also had a lengthy meeting with the grade six teacher, who had made the same report to her about Gary.
"So, Tristan," she finished off, "I know that you give Conrad pretty sound hidings, and I believe that I interrupted you while you were giving him one now. I'd be really grateful if you'd sort Gary out just like you deal with Conrad."
I was a little taken aback.
"Conrad had told me that you don't seem to have any difficulty using a belt on your boys, though...."
"Yes I know, but I just feel that they're getting too big for me to punish effectively. And the belting I gave Gary last time he acted up at school hasn't seemed to make much difference," she glared at her younger son, who was making an in depth study of my carpet. He knew how I dealt with Conrad, and I'm sure must have seen my son's bottom after a hiding in the past. I don't think he was as enthusiastic to try out my cane as his mother was!
"Do you know that when I give my boys hidings, they get it naked, severely and with a cane?"
"Oh yes. That's just how I want you to punish Gary and Michael."
She had explained Gary's behavior to me, but Michael was still a mystery. I had heard that he was a diligent academic, an excellent sportsman and a generally very pleasant boy. As if reading my thoughts, she continued, turning to the small twelve year old,
"Michael, tell Mr. Call why you need your backside thrashed,"
Michael was clearly very embarrassed, and he raised his eyes briefly to me before beginning,
"I had some porno magazines – after my mother had forbidden me to have them," he explained softly.
"That's not all, Michael," his mother prompted him. I thought that was a bit unfair. Clearly the boy was going to tell me the rest, she didn't need to rush him.
"I took them from the shop – without paying."
"So you stole them," I confirmed. The young boy nodded his head, a lone tear trickling down his pale cheek.
"And?" his mother prompted him.
"I tried to blame Gary," the blond child sobbed, looking guiltily at his little brother.
"Your mother is right," I told the boy, looking hard at him, so that he dropped his eyes even further, "you do need to be very severely dealt with indeed!"
"Yes, sir," Michael agreed, "I do."
"Do you two boys understand that I will thrash your bottoms very severely?" I asked the children now standing before me. Both nodded, and I turned to their mother.
"Very well," I agreed, "I'll give them hidings. It could take a while, so it would be better if you went home. I'll bring them later."
She was clearly relieved that I had agreed to deal with her sons. The stress of handling these two youngsters, who were both going through the difficult time of being on the verge of their teenage years was a lot for her. I knew what boys were like – especially since the schools were no longer permitted to take appropriate action any more. Perhaps none of these boys – Conrad, Michael or Gary – would be needing hidings from me if the schools had still been allowed to cane their naughty bottoms.
I led the two nervous lads to the basement, closing the door behind me as they walked down the stairs. Both froze at the bottom of the stairs as they caught sight of Conrad. The naked boy must have been quiet a sight, positioned as he was, with those two deep welts across his backside. I said nothing about my own son, and simply ordered my two young visitors to undress and put their clothing on top of Conrad's. Both boys couldn't keep their eyes from roaming between Conrad and the canes hooked on the chair. Gary and Michael were both still completely hairless. Surprisingly, neither seemed concerned with their nudity before me. Perhaps it was because I am a man, and they could already see that my own son was starkers, so it was nothing unusual in this household. I ushered them out of the way, then recovered the cane that I had already being using on Conrad's bottom before the new arrivals.
"We were discussing your poor attitude towards your teacher, weren't we Conrad?" I asked, not mentioning the two boys who were now naked in the corner of the basement. Conrad must have wondered what was going on. His best friend and the boy's older brother? Brought into the basement while he was getting caned and made to strip? He didn't dare ask – he just responded to my question.
"Yes, daddy," he had managed to regain composure while I was out. He had probably given his burning bottom a little rub too, "you've given me two out of my six."
"That's right. Four to go of this part of your punishment," Conrad was under no illusions. He knew that six stripes of the cane on his bare bottom was a long way from the full punishment that I had planned for him.
I took my position again, and tapped the tip of the cane across the tender cheeks in front of me. Then, as I had earlier, I whipped the cane across the boy's pale flesh, hearing the loud snap of the stick as it connected with chubby boy flesh with satisfaction. It must have hurt like mad, but Conrad had lots of experience at self control, and his reaction was admirable. Just a little jerk of the body, and a gasp at the pain. But Michael and Gary also gasped audibly, jumped slightly and instinctively put their hands behind them, protecting their own bare bottoms.
I caned Conrad's raised bottom again, adding a fifth stripe to the set that I had already laid there. Conrad was still stoic in his acceptance of his punishment. I knew that as the thrashing became more severe a little later, he would battle, but for now he was doing well. For the sixth time I whipped my son, then turned to Michael and Gary,
"I hope you two have been watching carefully," the two boys nodded, hands still protectively clutching bottoms, "Conrad has just given you a demonstration on how to take a hiding. I expect you to take your thrashings just as bravely,"
Although Conrad knew that this part of his punishment was over, and I would give him a little bit of a chance to recover, he didn't move. The naked preteen remained in his compromising position over the chair, striped bottom still up. He would only get up with my permission. I gave it, and gratefully the boy struggled off the chair. His hands went straight to his blazing bottom, his face set in a grimace, a lone tear running down his cheek. Under no illusions, the blond eleven year old knew that I would continue thrashing his young bare bottom shortly.
"Go and stand with your nose against that wall," I ordered, and my son, still massaging his sore bum, obeyed without question, now unable to see the rest of the proceedings, just hear them.
"Right Gary," I turned to my son's best friend, who dropped his head and shuffled his feet under my gaze, "I understand that you also show little respect for your teacher."
"Yes sir," the naked boy agreed, softly.
"Very well," I continued, dramatically flexing the cane in my hands, "bend over – just like Conrad did. You will also get six for you bad attitude."
Slowly, still holding his bottom, Gary approached the chair, then climbed up onto it. Carefully, he reached over the back of it, and I had to place a hand on his shoulder to encourage him to reach all the way down to the chair's legs. He was naturally very reluctant to place himself in such a submissive position – his bare bottom must have felt very tender and exposed. As I've mentioned, he was a thin boy, but his bottom was in perfect proportion to the rest of him. His skin was paler than Conrad's, and his backside not as rounded. I was surprised by how different my own son and Gary looked. Although both boys were the same age, and were just as fit physically as each other, Conrad was so much more sturdy and solid than his friend. The naked child kneeling on the chair before me was almost delicate by comparison. But, as I gently stroked each raised up cheek, as I had done with my own son, I noted that the white flesh under my hand was soft yet firm, slightly warm, as any healthy eleven year old's bottom should be.
Gary shuffled nervously when he felt my cool big hand closing over his little buttocks, but I slapped each cheek hard, leaving pink hand prints on the tender flesh, and making the nervous boy gasp, more in surprise than in pain.
"Keep still, boy," I ordered, "don't make your punishment any worse than it is already! Remember, even when you've had six, you keep still until I give you permission to get up"
Gary froze, keeping his behind well up, and I drew the tip of the yellowish cane across the mounds of his cheeks, then gently tapped the stick just below half way down his buttocks.
"A caning is a lot more painful than your mother's belt, boys," I warned, "so prepare yourselves,"
Gary mumbled an affirmative from down where his head was, and I looked across at the worried face of Michael. The twelve year old nodded when I caught his eye, his hands still holding onto his as yet un - whipped bottom.
I turned my attention back to the presented bare bum before me, took my aim, lifted the cane then thrashed it vigorously across my trembling little target. Gary squealed at the new sensation of sheer pain as the stick flexed across his buttocks, burning into his tender tail. He managed to keep down though, and after about ten seconds I was able to whip the boy's naked bottom for the second time. Gary cried out again, and it was clear that he was battling the temptation to let go of the chair and protect his backside. I think it was only the memory of his best friend Conrad holding on through his hiding that kept Gary still.
I gave him a few more seconds to recover, then snapped the cane down again, getting a soft wail from the naked little boy. His white bottom was marked with three deep red welts, that were already starting to stand up from the rest of his skin. For the fourth time, I lashed the cane across Gary's bare bottom, noting how, even bent right over, his tail wobbled slightly as the stick bit into it. I laid the fifth lash down quickly after the fourth – Gary's whole body jerked with the agony of it. But I waited nearly a minute for the child to be completely still before giving him his sixth stroke. Gary had remembered my instructions about waiting until I gave him permission to move, so he kept his head down and his burning bottom up. I made him keep still for some time, while flexing the cane and admiring my handiwork. The evidence that I had given the little blond eleven year old a sound hiding was clear in the condition of his striped little backside.
"Get up, Gary," I finally allowed the boy to stand.
"Thank you sir!" he sobbed, grateful that I had allowed him to get up, momentarily forgetting that I was the one who had been whipping him in the first place. He leapt off the chair, grabbing his bottom. His face, especially his ears, were almost as red as his bruised bottom, and the tears were flowing freely. I gestured to the wall where Conrad was still standing, and Gary didn't need more elaboration. Soon, I had two blond eleven year old boys standing side by side, noses to the wall, both hands holding bruised little backsides. Again I was struck by the fact that two boys of such similar ages, heights and fitness could look so different. Both had bright blond hair, but Conrad's body was far more suntanned, stocky and muscled than his thin but clearly strong friend, whose skin was almost translucent. However, the focus of my efforts had been on their bottoms, and both had startlingly white rear end – except for the six welts of course.
I turned at last to the twelve year old. In contrast to his younger brother, Michael has actually paled slightly. In fear, I suspect. He was very similar looking to his young brother, but was starting to grow a lot taller.
"Well. Possessing pornography, and expressly against your mother's wishes,"
The boy said nothing, just dropping his head and sniffing slightly.
I waited for a few more seconds, then, pointing at the chair with the cane that I was still holding, commanded,
"Bend over."
Obediently, and head still down, the slim twelve year old approached the chair. He didn't require any further instructions. He climbed up onto the seat, reached forward and placed his naked body in the correct position – bare bottom pushed well up, blond head as far down as he could reach, knees well apart. Due to his slightly more gangly build than the younger boys, he actually got his tail further up than the others – making it an even easier target for the thrashing that was coming. As I had with the other two boys, I ran my hand up and down his pale buttocks. Although his bottom was slightly broader than Conrad's and Gary's, it was still slim and soft, with the typical resilience of youth. Not as chubby and rounded as Conrad's behind, Michael was still very thrashable. All three boys had very white bottoms, but Conrad's contrasted the most with the rest of his body – sun bronzed with a typical Speedo tan from his swimming. Michael must have watched the procedure with Gary carefully, because he kept absolutely still as I ran my hand over his cheeks. Neither of these boys had had their bottoms touched by a man before, and it must have been rather unnerving for them.
I flexed the cane, then changed my mind. Crossing to the chair where the sticks were hanging, I hooked the cane up, and selected another one. This cane was rather longer and slightly thicker. I decided that the year difference in age between the boys warranted a somewhat more painful cane for Michael's bottom. Only Conrad fully understood the difference in my selection of canes, and he inhaled sharply. The boy must have been spying out my activities from the corner of his eye, but when I looked across at him, he had managed to turn his head back to the wall. Lucky for him, I hadn't caught him peeping! He had first hand knowledge of how much more painful the new cane was than the one that he had just been whipped with.
Slicing the cane through the air a couple of times to get the feel of its balance, I crossed over to the tightly bent naked boy. I gently traced the tip of the cane across the preteen's well presented cheeks, enjoying the subtly more defined shape of the slender lad's buttocks – no doubt due to the twelve year old being slightly more mature than the two boys that I had just thrashed. I admired the boy for his stoic self control for what must have been a very unnerving few seconds – he kept absolutely still as he felt the tip of the cane lightly tracing across his bare and very exposed feeling bottom.
"For possessing pornography specifically against you mother's wishes, Michael," I announced, "you will get eight."
"Yes sir," Michael mumbled, "I deserve a good hiding,"
I was slightly taken aback by the boy's comment, but took my stance to begin thrashing the naked child. Using the same technique as I had with the previous two hidings, I whipped the cane smartly across Michael's backside, noting with satisfaction the snap of the stick as it wrapped around his firm buttocks, and the gasp of pain from the boy as he felt the burning agony of the well placed stroke. My firm follow through always enhanced the pain considerably. Like Gary, this was the first time he had been caned, or indeed received corporal punishment from a man, let alone a man as skilled in using the cane as myself.
After a suitable pause to allow the twelve year old to appreciate the first stroke, and understand what he was truly in for, I caned him again. The little boy remained still for the third and fourth stroke too, the only indication of his suffering being his soft cries of pain, and the pronounced jerking of his head every time the stick whipped across his upraised bottom.
When I lashed Michael for the fifth time, I noted that his body was starting to twist after the stroke – unconsciously trying to avoid the pain of my cane. His gasps had become wet, and I could clearly hear the boy sobbing between the lashes. I was getting through to the lad, that was certain. After waiting for the youngster to straighten up, I whipped him again, and this time he nearly let go of the legs of the chair. The agony was really building up.
"Keep still, Michael," I warned, "you don't want to get any more than necessary, do you?"
"No sir," came the reply from the crying boy, "sorry, sir."
I really drew out the seventh and eighth strokes, allowing Michael to prepare himself for each. But when it was over, I naturally didn't let the naked boy move for a few seconds, while I stood behind him, flexing the cane.
"You took that well for a first caning, Michael," I complimented the child, "get up,"
"Thank you, sir," Michael acknowledged, as he scrambled off the chair, hands moving swiftly to his very sore bottom. I patted the crying boy on his head, then indicated the wall to him. Like his brother, he didn't need further elaboration, and went and stood next to the other two. Now I had three good looking preteen boys, hands holding sore bottoms, noses to the wall, waiting for the next installment of their excruciating punishment.
"Conrad," I called softly, and my son turned reluctantly and came back to stand in front of me. The fact that I had not put down the cane that I had used on Michael was not lost on the boy – his eyes were fixed on the punishment implement.
"Now for the appalling decline in the standard of your school work," I lectured the naked, trembling little boy, "I've spoken to about this issue before, haven't I, my boy?"
"Yes, daddy," Conrad mumbled. I flexed the cane some more, making the eleven year old sweat for a few moments longer.
"Bend over again,"
Nervously, Conrad turned back to the chair, and assumed the same compromising position as before. I traced the cane lightly across his chubby buttocks, their previous unblemished whiteness now marred by the half dozen thin purple welts that I had laid there a few minutes previously. Conrad kept completely still, knowing that I would not be pleased with any sign of resistance from him. I knew from my own childhood experience that the gentle tapping of a cane on an already caned bottom is a very scary experience.
"For your school work," I announced to the helpless boy, "another six strokes,"
"Yes sir,"
I lashed the cane across the boy's chubby bottom, eliciting a yelp of pain from the naked preteen as the cane licked across his exposed buttocks. I used all my expertise, making sure, once again, that the stroke hurt as much as possible without actually damaging Conrad's backside. All my strokes would be lined up neatly, never crossing. Again, I caned my son, the sound of the cane snapping across his tightly bent bottom most satisfying, and the lad's cry of anguish proved that he was indeed getting an excruciating thrashing. The little child's tears did not deter me from my duty though, and, after a suitable pause to allow Conrad to stop his squirming and get himself ready, I whipped the stick across my bare target again.
I never rush a good hiding, so Conrad had a long wait before he received his fourth lash (of this session). Now he wailed, and it was me that had to wait for the naked boy to compose himself to receive the rest of his whipping. For the fifth time, I lashed the sobbing boy, causing him to jerk his body and howl as I caned him as low as possible across his bottom above his wide spread legs. I managed to land the sixth stroke in almost the same position, causing my eleven year old son to almost scream with the pain that I was inflicting on his exposed rump. I let him settle down for a few moments, then,
"Alright, my boy," I allowed, gently rubbing his welted little bottom, "up you get, and back into the corner,"
I had hit the child very hard indeed, and his hands flew straight to his blazing bottom as soon as soon as he left the chair. He quickly crossed back to the wall, and, even although he stood with his nose pressed to the cement, his hands were busy rubbing what must have been a very sore bottom indeed with twelve good stripes across the lower section of it. He couldn't stand still, his body writhing as he tried to rub out the agony that his punishment had caused him.
"Gary," I summoned, without further elaboration. The second naked eleven year old turned away from the wall and came to stand before me. His nudity too had been forgotten, and the tears were streaming down his face. He had heard Conrad's second six, and his hands were clutching his slender buttocks, more in an unconscious attempt at protecting them than to rub away any of the lingering pain from the first installment of his hiding.
"Is it true that your school work has also been of a very poor standard lately?"
Gary didn't dare to lie to me. He had learnt quickly that I was not a man to be trifled with, especially when punishment was called for. The cane that I was flexing added to the weight of the moment for then naked tyke.
"Yes sir," he whispered.
"Bend over then," I ordered, "you can also do with another six."
Slowly and reluctantly, Gary approached the chair and got himself into position. This time I didn't need to assist him in assuming the correct bending angle of his slim body. He knew it by now, and I was soon faced with his slim, pale bottom well pushed up for another good thrashing. The very whiteness of his bottom made the evidence of his first six all the more pronounced. The thin weals had already started to turn purple, and the boy had started to sob quietly in anticipation of his next painful encounter with one of my canes.
Taking into account Gary's relative inexperience at getting the cane, and his smaller size, I decided to go a little easier on the naked boy. I crossed back to my canes, replaced the stick I was carrying, and unhooked the thinner cane that I had given the boy his first hiding with, It would do for this trembling lad's thrashing today. With great ceremony, I gently stroked the tip of the stick across the trembling bottom upraised for some attention from me.
"Sir?" Gary's voice was surprisingly strong for a lad so nervous, and with such a sore bottom.
"Yes Gary?" I kept the cane still half way down my pale young target and waited for the boy to have his say.
"Please use the same cane that you used on Conrad on me, sir," I was astonished at the words coming from the bent over child, "it's only fair sir, and I'm sure I can also take it if he can."
"No, Gary," I was impressed by the lad's apparent bravery, "you have never had a hiding with a cane before, and Conrad has had many – you'll take the cane that I choose to use on your bottom."
Gary didn't answer, but I think he was relieved. Perhaps his offer to take his next six stripes with the more severe cane had been made only as a gesture to Conrad. He had made the gesture, and was now ready for the commencement of his thrashing. I resumed the stroking of his bottom with the cane, then lifted the stick. Taking careful aim, I lashed the boy, ensuring that I missed any of the first six stripes, but still whipping the cane low into the tender flesh.
Gary squealed with the pain, and he rocked forward slightly. But there was nowhere to go, and soon the little lad was ready for the next stroke, which I administered with just as much vigor. After the third mighty lash, Gary unconsciously twisted his bottom away from me, but I waited, and the boy straightened his tail, lowered his head, took on a firmer grip on the legs of the chair and was ready. But I waited longer, to give him time to fear the coming stroke. He was not disappointed. I made it a good one, and Gary wailed. I lit the fire up once again, for the fifth time across my trembling, blazing eleven year old target, then decided to finish off the boy's hiding with my classic diagonal stroke. I paused, letting Gary expect his last stroke to be just above his legs like the previous one. I even stroked the cane on the same line as the fifth lash. But, when I lifted the cane, I changed my stance slightly, and brought the cane snapping down across the boy's poor bottom diagonally, crossing all eleven lashed that the crying child had already endured.
Gary howled in distress, but must have had the strength of character to realize that that was the end of his hiding, and managed to keep his head down and bottom up. Like Conrad, I rubbed his welted young buttocks gently, waiting for the lad to clam down before I allowed him to climb gingerly off the chair and rub his burning bottom. His bottom was a lot skinnier than Conrad's, but still had a resilient feel to it, despite the heat that it was emitting, and the raised weals that were forming. Stepping back, I admired my accuracy. Gary had a band a scarlet and purple welts across his behind that started about two thirds of the way down his slender bottom and ended just above his trembling legs. The diagonal stroke was perfectly placed across the band of pain that must have been throbbing mightily.
"The last lash, the diagonal one," I told the sobbing, bottom rubbing naked little boy when he had gotten up off the chair, "made up for the lighter cane being used for your hiding."
That was my consolation to refusing to allow the boy to be punished with the same cane as I had used on Conrad, and allowed him to save some face before his friend. At that stage, Gary was too busy rubbing his bottom to care, but I knew he would remember my comment later on.
Michael must have been waiting nervously for his summons to bend over the chair, but I let the tensely waiting boy wait some more. Calling Conrad and Gary over to me, I gave Gary the thinner cane, and Conrad the cane that had been used on him for the second session. Each boy had to carefully and meticulously clean his cane with an oily rag, sobbing quietly all the while. When I was satisfied that the job had been done correctly, they neatly packed the sticks back in the cupboard. I could sense that the two eleven year old were wondering what was to become of Michael, especially now that the canes had been put away, but they were not going to risk asking. There was in doubt that the twelve year old was in serious trouble.
I told them to pick up their clothing and leave the basement. Neither boy dared delay to put on his pants, and, clutching clothing, still stark naked, they scuttled up the stairs and out of the room, closing the door behind them. I'm sure that both would show Jarred their stripes with pride, boasting about how they had taken it without crying to the wide eyed eight year old. Jarred was no fool, however, and would see their wet, red faces.
"Michael, come here," I turned to the twelve year old, and the lad reluctantly approached me. He had sensed that the dismissal of the two younger boys meant bad news for him, and he was right.
"I take stealing very seriously, my boy," Michael dropped his head further, hands still ruefully rubbing his well caned backside.
He didn't have anything to say in his own defense, so I continued to lecture the quietly crying child on the error of his ways, dwelling on the immoral and especially the illegal nature of his transgression.
"I'm afraid that I'm going to have to take very severe measures, my boy," I explained, "and I'm going to thrash your bottom very severely indeed for your actions."
"Yes sir," Michael sniffed. This boy had not once denied that he deserved sound punishment, "I need the biggest hiding of my life, especially for trying to blame Gary, sir."
"Bend over," I commanded, gesturing to the chair that the boys had received their canings, "just as you did for your initial hiding."
Michael obeyed quickly, without hesitation. Soon, his head was down, and his pale bottom was up again. It was still smooth and white, marred only by the eight crimson, turning purple stripes that I had laid across the delicate flesh with my cane.
I followed a procedure that my father had used on me only when the most severe punishment was necessary, and had as yet not had to follow for my own boys. Stepping to an as yet unopened cabinet, I withdrew some wide tape, then crossed to the tightly bending boy. Carefully, I taped his wrists to the legs of the chair that he was holding, ensuring that the lad would be unable to get up during the coming thrashing. I knew that the temptation to avoid the whipping that I had planned would be great, especially as the pain set in. Michael made no move as he was tied down – I think he sensed that his punishment was to be very serious, and he accepted his bondage without a word or movement.
"This is for your own good, Michael," I explained, "I know that you are willing to accept your punishment, but it is going to be a lot more painful than you think, and I don't want you moving or putting your hands in the way. Your bottom must be the only part of your that I whip, yes, your backside is going to be whipped, not your back or your legs."
"Yes sir," the naked twelve year old responded nervously, and bobbed his blond head.
I put the tape back where I had found it, and then, for the first time in many years, I withdrew our family whip. It was actually a short sjambok, about the length of my arm. At the handle, the whip was thick for easy grip, while tapering to a tip about the thickness of my index finger. I made sure that Michael saw the whip before I walked around behind the helpless boy. He gasped, and must have felt terribly afraid, tied down, naked, bare and already sore little bottom up and ready for what he must have realized by now would be a terrible thrashing.
"Oh, sir," he sobbed, "please not too hard sir,"
"Hard enough Michael," I answered, impressed that the boy had not begged me not to use the whip, just rather not to be too hard on him, "it will be very sore indeed, but I won't break the skin, or do you any real damage,"
Too my surprise, he responded, "Thank you sir," then put his head down, raised his bottom a little further and braced himself for his hiding. I could not help but be impressed with the pre-teen's acceptance of what he must have known would be very severe corporal punishment.
I traced the tip of the whip lightly across the lad's pale, exposed bum, as I had earlier with the cane, and Michael shuffled slightly at the feel of the sjambok as it gently made contact with his bare little bottom. Then, being careful to strike accurately, and making sure that I controlled my strength, I wrapped the whip firmly across the two upraised young cheeks presented to me. The sound of the whip contacting at high velocity with bare boy flesh was far sharper and louder than the sound of the earlier canings had been, and I think that Michael was shocked by the intensity of the pain that must have flashed across his poor young bottom. He froze in place, and made not a sound. After a suitable pause, I whipped the child's bottom again, and this time Michael's body jolted, and the boy barely stifled a scream as the whip wrapped itself right around his exposed hind quarters. When the boy was still again, I counted ten long seconds, then lashed him again, taking care not to cross either of the other two stripes that I had already laid down with the sjambok. I knew that over the already well caned flesh of his lower bottom, overlapping stripes from the whip would inevitably break the boy's skin, and I had promised him that he would not bleed from this thrashing. I wanted to soundly punish him, not abusively beat him. Michael cried out, and his body squirmed even more. I noticed that the naked boy was now starting to sweat slightly – a thin line of perspiration was running down each hip, and his back was gleaming. His fine blond hair was damp and sticking to his scalp, and his crying was continuous.
I lashed the sjambok across the crying pre-teen's bottom again, eliciting yet another cry of pain from the boy, and a convulsive jerking of his body. His muscle definition was now standing out clearly as his pale body battled to absorb the pain of his punishment. The muscles from his running in his thighs were bunched as he tried to be brave and not fight too much against his tightly bound wrists. I stepped away from the boy for a minute, to let him gather his composure. A whipping with a sjambok is difficult for the hardiest lad to endure. The four long, deep scarlet welts stood out boldly across Michael's white bottom, even with the clear evidence of the cane.
"Well, Michael, you've had four," I reminded the boy after his crying had quieted down a little bit, "how many more do you think you deserve?"
I was absolutely stunned by the little boy's answer,
"For stealing and then trying to blame my brother?" the lad sobbed, "at least twelve, sir, that's eight more. At least."
Never had I come across a child who was so clearly struggling to take the pain of such a severe thrashing, and who truly believed that he deserved a lot worse. I retrieved a towel from a cupboard, and gently wiped the perspiration off the bending child, while thinking how I would deal with his obvious guilt.
"Very well, Michael," I decided to see how the punishment progressed, picked up the whip once more and took aim again by leading the tip of the sjambok across the little boy's battered rear end. Michael shuffled slightly at the feel of the whip, but kept his sore bottom raised, determined to brave through his excruciating thrashing. As bruised and welted as Michael's backside was, it still gave the impression of being sturdy, and belonging to one tough young lad. I was impressed. But that did not stop me from whipping the sjambok with all my technique across those tightly presented little cheeks again, making the child wail with the pain of the implement snapping neatly and fast around his buttocks.
It took Michael even longer than before to stop squirming on his knees, and keep his bottom still for his next lash. I wouldn't whip the boy while his buttocks were moving for fear of missing the next thin strip of un-whipped flesh that I was aiming at. Even when the twelve year old was still, I made him wait for the next painful stroke – a large portion of punishment of this nature is anticipation. As is my normal procedure for hidings with the cane, I had been concentrating the thrashing lower and lower on the boy's bare bottom, and now the whip was coming near to the pre-teen's legs as I gave him his sixth merciless stroke with the hissing sjambok. Michael literally screamed with the agony as the whip sliced across his tender flesh, in this low part of his poor little bottom.
I decided that the boy had had just about enough. One more lash with the whip would be enough for him. Taking careful aim, I drew my arm back, and whipped the sjambok right into the crease between his legs and bottom. This was, without doubt, the most painful stroke of Michael's entire hiding, and he wailed louder than ever. In the days to come, when all the other bruises were fading, this last lash would be a reminder to the twelve year old of his hiding every time he sat down, especially at his seventh grade school desk.
Once again, I picked up the towel, and gently wiped down the trembling, crying pre-teen. I ran my hand gently over his soundly thrashed bottom, rubbing out some of the immediate agony, and waiting for the sobbing child to settle down again.
"Alright, Michael," I announced as diplomatically as possible, "I understand that you feel that more lashes are in order, but as a grown up, I'm telling you that you've had enough,"
"Yes, sir," sobbed the boy, "thank you sir,"
I carefully cut away the tape that had been keeping his wrists bound to the chair, then helped the boy up. Gingerly, his hands went to his bottom, and he carefully felt the sensitive welts that covered the entire lower half of his young rear end. I think that he had expected to feel blood, but was pleasantly surprised to find none.
"Thank you, Mr Call," Michael sobbed quietly, looking up at me and for the first time managing to look me in the eyes, "I deserved that and more, but you gave me a good, fair hiding."
I ran my hand through the boy's moist blond hair, hoping to myself that if I ever had to punish Conrad as severely, he would take it as well as this youngster. I had a feeling, knowing the nature of my son, that he would take this kind of whipping, and more.
"Compose yourself, then get dressed and meet me upstairs so that I can take you home," I told the boy. Then I put away the whip and headed back up the stairs, leaving the softly crying, bottom rubbing naked boy to settle himself down and prepare to face the world once again.
When I reached the sitting room, there was no sign of the younger boys, so I went to Conrad's bedroom to look for them. They were there of course, but neither eleven year old was dressed. Jarred was admiring the stripes on the two naked boys' bottoms, and I think the eight year old was in awe.
"Get dressed you two," I told them, "it's time to take Michael and Gary home."
"Did you whip Michael, daddy?" Conrad asked, his eyes wide, and still slightly red from crying. He had been threatened with whipping before, and had seen the sjambok. But this was the first time that he had ever known a whipping to have been carried out.
"Yes," I answered simply, and walked away, leaving the little boys horror struck, slowly pulling on underpants over bruised bottoms.
Finally, the boys were all in the sitting room – very subdued. I noticed that Michael walked with a slight limp, legs apart. His underpants had been shoved into the pocket of his shorts. Obviously the boy had decided that his bottom was too swollen to even consider putting them on. Looking at the three pre-teens, I decided that my efforts had not been in vain. These little boys had certainly learned a good, painful lesson.