It was not that I have never had a hiding before. It is just that my mother's boy friend is so big! The man seems like a giant to a slender little ten year old like me. I'm also small for my age, so that doesn't help. Even although I'm pretty strong from my rugby and swimming! Well, actually, I'm nine, but I'll be ten in just two week's time. But the worst part of my mum asking her boyfriend to thrash me for stealing money out of her purse is, well, Jerry, her boyfriend, is also Mr. Scott, the headmaster at the exclusive prep school that I attend. I'm in grade four – in the "A" class.
My mum's a widow – I don't remember my father. But that doesn't stop her from keeping me, her only child, in line. Many's the time that I had laid over her knees, shorts and undies around my ankles, for long hard hand spankings. But ever since she had been dating Mr. Scott, she had taken to making me touch my toes to get the slipper on my bare bottom. That stings! Mr. Scott has caned me before at school, before he met mum. I had just turned nine then, and I had had to touch my toes for two hard whacks with the cane. I'll never forget the agony of that thin stick burning into the meat of my little bottom, even with my shorts and underpants on! This is why I believe that my mother's insistence now that I touch my toes for hidings is sir's idea. I'm a blond, fair skinned boy (I sunburn easily), and the two stripes that sir had laid onto my bum had left blue stripes across my pale pink cheeks for weeks!
I had heard that when boys are really bad, Mr. Scott makes them undress and canes them all bare! That must be really sore. But suddenly it dawns on me that stealing from my mum also was really bad. My heart almost stops with the thought. Oh dear, I hope that Mr. Scott won't make me get naked and thrash my bare bottom! A desperate hope. In my heart, I'm pretty sure I'm in for a bare bottom hiding, all right.
I'm only wearing my thin, short sleeved and short pants summer pajamas. Maybe I ought to put on some real clothes, with underpants. Maybe two or three pairs of underpants. Just to protect my bottom a bit. But what if sir does make me undress and sees that I tried to cheat? Which he probably will! Then I'll be in even worse trouble. And I don't want sir to think that I'm a really bad boy, 'cause I'm not. Really. I want to show sir that I'm a big boy, and can take any punishment that I deserve. I know that he likes me, and the trouble that I'm in is bad enough – I must just take my hiding and get it over with. And mum had told me to get into my pajamas after my bath and wait.
I better just do what I'm told. I usually do. I don't know why I was so silly and stole. I should have just asked to borrow some money for sweets. Mum always lends me when I ask, and hardly ever asks me to pay her back. I'm so silly, and now I'm in for a really big hiding!
I can hear Mr. Scott's car driving up. Now I'm really nervous. I hope he won't be too cross. Mum phoned him earlier, maybe he's had time to cool off. What must I call him when he tans my bottom? Jerry or Mr. Scott? I think I'll just stick to "sir" tonight.
I wait nervously. I didn't hear sir come in, but he must be downstairs talking to mum by now. I get up and comb my fair, fine hair neatly in a parting. At least if I look neat, sir might be a little less angry with me.
"Grant!"
I hear his deep voice call, and I dart out of my bedroom, and stand at the top of the stairs. He must have heard me.
"Come down here for a minute, please."
Naturally, I obey, and walk reluctantly down the stairs in the sitting room where sir is sitting in an armchair. I stand before him, hands clasped behind my back, head down. I'm so ashamed of myself. My mum is nowhere in sight.
"Your mother has gone out for a few minutes, so that I can have a little chat with you,"
I sniff, and nod my head. I know what this little chat is all about. I wonder about the cane. I haven't seen it yet, but it must be around somewhere.
"Do you know why I'm here?"
"Yes, sir," I respond, "to give me a good hiding for stealing."
"So you don't deny stealing from your mother."
I just lower my head. I can feel the tears starting, but I don't want to seem like a baby and cry even before my punishment had started.
"Answer, me Grant," sir sounds angry.
"Yes, sir, I stole sir."
Sir is sitting down, and I am standing, so my eyes and his are at the same level. But I can't lift my head up to meet his fierce gaze.
"And how are thieves punished, do you think, young man?"
"Grown up thieves go to jail," I answer, hesitantly.
"And little boy thieves?"
"Little boys get the cane," I whisper.
"That's right," he is staring at me for a long time, I think sizing me up for my punishment. Now I don't feel like a ten year old. I hardly feel big enough to be nine.
"Take off your pajamas," the command didn't really come as a surprise, but, as I've said, I'm usually a good boy, so I quickly undress, neatly putting my pajamas on the coffee table. Anything to score points here and impress sir with my neatness and obedience. After all, my bare bottom's at stake here!
Now naked, I'm not sure what to do. But sir solves that for me too. He holds out his car keys, and,
"Go and fetch my cane. It's in the boot of my car." I think he sees my concern about going outside all bare, "don't worry, the gates are closed and nobody can see you."
This is getting a bit much. Now I really am worried. Having to go out to fetch the cane for my own hiding – and with not a single stitch of clothing on! But I take the keys, and reluctantly leave the house. The gravel outside stings my feet a bit, and the cool evening air on my bare body reminds me of my nudity. But I get to sir's car, unlock it and open the boot. Sure enough, there it is. The cane. Thin and with a crooked handle. Pale yellow that almost gleams in the evening light. I reach in and get it, but as my hands touch it, I clench my bottom instinctively. The cane is lighter than I thought it would be, and as I walk back up the driveway with (after locking sir's car again, of course), I can't help flexing the stick in my hands. I'm not looking forward to having this thin, light and very flexible implement whipping across my bare bum!
Sir gets up when I enter the room. I hold out the cane to him – I don't want to hold this nasty weapon of my own punishment any longer than I have to, but he ignores me. Fearfully, I look up at the big man towering above me (funnily enough, I'm not in the slightest bit concerned about being naked in front of him), while he slowly rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, all the time glaring at me. His arms look so big and muscular. He must be really able to whip that stick hard on boys' bottoms. My little (bare!) bottom, tonight. Tears forming in my eyes again. At last, he holds out his hand, and trembling, I hand him the cane.
"Go to the bathroom and have a pee," he growls at me, and I dart off, thankful for the chance to get out of the room. I do my business, then slowly return to the man who is going to beat my bare little nine year old bottom good and hard with that very ferocious looking cane that he is flexing.
"Grant," sir's voice is firm, "this is going to be a very severe hiding, my boy. But your nearly ten, and I want you to do your best to take the punishment that you deserve."
"Yes, sir," I mumble, ashamed that my voice is sounding so squeaky, and my thrashing hasn't even started yet.
I expect sir to make me touch my toes, and I'm concerned that I won't be able to hold that awkward position. I rightly deduce that sir will not be stopping at just two, like that time at school – and my bottom's naked today, so it will be a lot more painful. But sir has other ideas about positioning me for my chastisement. Gently, he position me kneeling on the armchair that he was sitting on. I have to face the back rest of the chair, then push my face down into the seat of the chair, and push my bottom up. Sir even makes me spread my legs as far apart as the seat of the chair will allow. My feet dangle off the edge of the chair. But now that I'm in this position, I realize how difficult it will be for me to move out of the way of the cane quickly, and how exposed and pushed up my trembling naked bum is!
I jump slightly as I feel sir put his big hard hand onto my bottom. He squeezes gently – my whole bottom is covered with just his one hand! But somehow, the feel of sir gently rubbing my soft little bottom is reassuring. I know that my hiding is going to hurt a lot, but I trust sir not to do me any real damage. I'm glad my mum's not here to see me like this – sir must have persuaded her that real hidings are private things between men and boys. No mums allowed! And this is going to be a real hiding, that's for sure!
"How old are you, Grant?"
"Nine, sir," I respond quickly, "nearly ten."
"I see. Nearly ten. Then your hiding is going to be ten strokes."
"Ten!" I gasp, "Ten of the best?"
"No, son," sir chuckles slightly, "they'll be good and hard, but definitely not my best. I don't want to cut you in half."
At age nine (nearly ten), I believe that sir can really cut a little boy in half at the bottom with his cane if he tries hard enough. I'm relieved, but I'm also a bright enough boy to know that it will still be very sore indeed.
My thoughts on sir's prowess at cutting boys in half is interrupted by the feel of the cane being dragged across my exposed cheeks, and I shuffle nervously.
"Keep still."
I freeze, and the cane continues with its journey. Then, it's gone. There's a pause, and then the first lash whips across my young backside, the stick scorching a path of vivid fire right across the center of both buttocks, at the same time as the sharp cracking sound of wood contacting with young boy flesh as high velocity reaches my ears. My senses are in overload. That sound was the cane whacking MY bottom! And before that the whizzing sound had been the cane moving toward my bottom – fast! Then that cry had been me wailing with the shock and pain. It is the pain that eclipses everything else, though. And in those few moments it seems to intensify as sir follows the stroke through.
I just get my breath back and the cane whips across my poor bare backside again, the agony of the second stripe, just below the first is almost unbearable. I want to leap up and grab my bottom, but I dare not move. Again the cane strikes, and my bottom takes on a life of its own. For a fleeting moment I wonder if sir has changed his mind and is going to cut me in half. All my nerves seem to have gone to see what's going on behind me, and they're all reporting back at the same time.
There is a long pause, and then the fourth lash lands right below the third. I can't help screaming out, but I concentrate all my will power on keeping still. It seems the most unnatural thing in the world to keep my bare bottom upraised and exposed for the cane, now that I know how sore it is. But the fifth comes down just as hard, and I plunge my body in the chair with the agony of it. Sir's a real pro – he's working his way down my bottom, that's why it keeps getting worse. The lower down parts of boys' bottoms are the most sensitive parts. That's what the big boys have told me about sir's major hidings anyway. He always works down bottoms with the cane. But what if he runs out of bottom? Does he cane on the legs?
My thoughts are once again forgotten as the sixth stroke cracks across my rear end, and my already blazing bum explodes in fire once again. Then, to my surprise, I feel sir's big hand lightly rubbing my little bottom again. The sensation of his fingers gently kneading my flesh is very nice, and although my behind feels like a million wasps have been dancing on it, he takes some of the burn away, and manages to calm me down. But I am under no illusions. Sir said that I would be getting ten, and ten it would be. I had only had six, so it was four more still!
"Is this getting through to you?" sir asks quietly when some of my crying has calmed down to soft sniffles. His hand still gently rubs my poor bum.
"Oh yes, sir," I sob, knowing my next request will be in vain, but instinctively trying anyway, "please stop, I've learnt my lesson! No more, please let me off the last four!"
"No, my boy," the answer is no surprise, "you getting ten, and that's that. This is just a rest for you to calm down."
I say nothing more, and soon the hand is lifted and the cane is tapping my raw feeling hind quarters once again. I squirm slightly, but it must have been more of a squirm than I think.
"Get that bottom up properly for me!" sir growls, "You don't want me to add any extra, do you?"
Quickly, I raise my bruised little rear up as high as I can. No way do I want even more lashes that I have to have. I'd rather lift my bare bottom up and take the rest of my hiding like a big boy, than have even more!
Sir says nothing, but must be satisfied, because, after another lengthy pause, the cane whips across my bum again, the pain of the lash being intensified by sir's famous follow through. Somehow, sir managed to find an unwhipped part of my poor bare backside, somewhere just above my legs, because that's where the seventh lash of my terrible hiding comes cracking down. The little pause that sir had given me when he had rubbed my bottom now seems like a bad idea. It allowed my bottom to relax a bit, and now the resumption of my thrashing seems a hundred times worse than the first few strokes. I wail into my hands, which have long since become wet with my tears and snot, and bang my head against the back of the chair. But I'm careful to get back into position as quick as I can bring myself to. Now the end is in sight. Three to go!
The eighth stroke is also a blistering one, and my nine year old bottom does indeed feel as if it is being cut right in half. Almost on my legs! I grip my own hair of my fringe to keep myself bent tightly over like sir wants me. But it's nearly finished. Only two to go. But now the whole lower half of my bottom is boiling. Where is sir going to cane next?
The answer arrives, and I don't like it! The ninth cuts diagonally right across all the other strokes, and I scream with surprise and pain. This is too much! I only just manage to keep my bottom up for the last one. Now I know what sir does when he gets to the lowest part of a boy's bottom, and runs out of bottom to thrash – he canes right across the other stripes! I feel like sir has woken up all the other lashes, and I know full well that the next stripe is likely to be diagonal too!
I'm right. The tenth, and final, stroke of what amounts to the hiding of my life, smashes across my cheeks, diagonally, but in the opposite direction from the previous stroke. Again, I scream, but my wits are still with me, and even although my bottom feels as if it has been dipped in boiling oil, I keep my bent over position. I just know that that is how sir wants me to stay for now.
Again, I feel sir's big hand gently rubbing some of the immediate sting out of my battered little bum, while he waits for me to bring my loud sobbing under control. I manage eventually, and I'm allowed to get up. When I reach behind me, I can't believe that my bottom is still in one piece. But the heat radiating off it, and the feel of the welts that the cane has raised across my delicate flesh are further evidence that I have been very soundly thrashed indeed. I wonder fleetingly if many other nine year old boys have had such severe bare bottom hidings.
Sir holds out the cane to me again, and slowly I release my bottom and take it. Then he gives me his car keys, and I know, without being told, what to do. I limp outside again, legs kept apart (it hurts to close them properly), gingerly holding the implement of my own painful correction. The cane, amazingly, is still cool to the touch – in comparison with the heat that the stick managed to build up across my bare bottom. I replace it in the boot of sir's car, and return to the living room, where sir hands me back my pajamas, and calmly bids me good night. I go upstairs, and, like any bright preteen, run a cold bath and carefully lower my burning bottom into it. The relief is immediate. But my bottom still throbs as I climb into my bed later. Every time I sit down for a couple of days, I feel my stripes, and the bruises take nearly three weeks to disappear from my pale, tender little backside.