I draped the tawse over the bare little bottom before me, and the naked ten year old shuffled as he felt the leather gently touch his unprotected tail. Bent over the back of the large leather armchair as he was, he couldn't move much. His toes barely touched the ground, especially with his legs spread nice and wide, and he had to stretch to grab hold of the front of the chair seat. Obediently, he had pushed his head down between his shoulders. Oscar had been thrashed by me before. The boy was bright, but lazy, and this was not the first time that he had been naked, bending in my office, his marks and teacher comments on my desk, ready to go off to his parents, with a very sore bottomed little boy.
I raised the leather, and whipped it down smartly, the two tails separating slightly, and cracking together across the lad's chubby, rounded young bottom. The boy's body stiffened, and he gasped. No matter how many times I gave a lad a hiding, he never got used to it. Whippings from me hurt, as they were supposed to. That's the beauty of corporal punishment. Boys suffer through it – it's no fun. I slapped the leather down across the child's white little cheeks again – although they weren't all that white now, showing the evidence of their encounter with the strap. At that moment, the intercom buzzed, and with a sigh, I balanced the tawse on Oscar's bottom (that would keep him still), and crossed to my desk,
"Yes?"
"That grade seven boy is here, Headmaster – Travis,"
"Ah, send him in," I would normally have made him wait for Oscar to finish his ordeal, but dealing with Travis would be something special. An "A" class boy, top sportsman, generally fabulous kid, he had never, in all his twelve and a half years, had a hiding. His mother had admitted that to me when I had spoken on the telephone to her earlier that morning. I had had, surprisingly, several reports that the young prefect had started to bully the younger boys, spanking them himself with a miniature cricket bat for minor misdemeanours, which should have been reported to teachers. The prefect knew that they were, under no circumstances, allowed to hit the other boys. Travis was about to get some major comeuppance.
The office door opened, and the boy entered. I must admit, that he was an extraordinary good-looking preteen. I had harboured secret dreams about having him naked in my study for punishment before, but had never really been able to find fault with the boy. His dark blond hair was cut neatly to regulation length, and his deep blue eyes showed his concern. I think that he pretty much knew why he was in my office, and his expression said it all. He was even more surprised to see the naked figure of Oscar bending over the chair, the tawse draped on his little backside. I picked the strap up and resumed my former position, ready to beat the ten year old,
"Who gives the hidings in this school, Travis?" With that, I cracked the strap down across my young target, getting a grunt of pain from the younger boy, and a jump of fright from the still dressed twelve year old.
"You do, sir," Travis answered quietly.
"Correct," I whipped Oscar again, paused, and smashed the tawse hard across his bare bottom again, "not you, or any other prefect for that matter."
"Sorry, sir," Travis didn't know what else to say.
"Oh you will be, my boy. Come around to my desk and get all your clothes off – pile them neatly, next to Oscar's."
Travis walked around the armchair over which Oscar was bending, and, in front of my desk, reluctantly began stripping. Of course, now Oscar could see this feared prefect taking his clothes off, and I'm sure that, despite having his own sore bottom to contemplate, was delighted at Travis's humiliation. The twelve-year old's body was all that I had expected. He was deeply suntanned – his skin almost bronzed, and there was barely any fat on him. Except when he slowly took down his underpants, of course. Startlingly white, his bottom was round and chubby, perfect for a long, hard thrashing. I made him turn to face me (and Oscar), his hands on his head, hairless privates on display, while I lectured him on his actions.
"Bend over my desk and hold on to the edge tight, boy. Don't forget to widen you feet properly for me!"
Travis obeyed, the tears already running down his cheeks with the humiliation of undressing not just in front of me, but in front of Oscar too, and realising that the younger boy would no doubt be witnessing his punishment. I left the strap as I had earlier, draped over Oscar's bottom, and ran my hand lightly over Travis's soft backside, enjoying the boy's discomfort and nervousness. Then I spanked him, hard. Six good spanks to each young cheek with my big, hard hand. To give him his due, for a boy who had never had his bottom smacked before, Travis took his hand spanking well, not moving, but sobbing quietly with each spank. I think the presence of Oscar helped the lad try to maintain his dignity. I knew it wouldn't last long. I fully intended to introduce the boy to both the tawse and the cane before he left my study. But I was satisfied for now.
Oscar, smiling despite his own stinging backside, lost his grin instantly when I turned back and crossed behind him. Resignedly, he dropped his head down between his shoulders again as I picked up the tawse. The two boys, although both well built for their ages, were very different. Travis had deeply tanned skin, and almost golden blond hair, while Oscar had a very fair complexion – his bottom only marginally whiter than the rest of his naked body. With long pauses, and strong, over arm strokes, I strapped the little child's behind, all the time lecturing him on his classroom behaviour and schoolwork. He sobbed as the leather bit time and again across his exposed little cheeks – his bottom blazing now, he had forgotten all about the bending, naked prefect. I gave the ten-year-old a dozen hefty strokes, and then left him lying there for a few moments.
"Get up and rub your bottom," Oscar climbed quickly off the chair, tears steaming down his face, grasping his sore cheeks, and trying to rub the sting out of them. He made no effort yet to go and put his school uniform back on. Oscar knew better than to assume that his punishment was over.
"What did I say I'd do if I had to strap you for schoolwork again?"
Oscar turned to look up at me, his expression one of dismay. But he didn't beg, just admitted,
"You said you'd introduce my bottom to your cane, sir,"
"That's right – go and fetch it please. I think your bottom needs a good dose of it this morning,"
Oscar knew where the cane was, he had fetched the tawse often enough from the shelf in the cupboard next to it. I had noticed that when he collected the strap earlier, his eyes had lingered on the stick. He hadn't forgotten my threat, and had known that he would be collecting that particular implement before he was allowed to dress again. I took the proffered cane from the small boy, and then hefted the tawse in my hand again. Crossing once again to the desk over which Travis was bent, I addressed the twelve year old again,
"Hold tight, Travis, you're getting a good strapping next," then I looked back to where the ten year old boy stood nervously, once again absently rubbing his sore bottom, face still red and wet with his tears, "watch carefully, Oscar. You're a golfer, so you know that you use the centre of your body to get power – the same applies when giving naughty boys hidings."
With that, I demonstrated, landing a mighty crack with the leather on Travis's bare backside, eliciting a yell of pain from the naked prefect. Again I thrashed the preteen, whose body tightened with the new experience of agony as cowhide met boy hide. I turned once again to Oscar, who wasn't smiling this time. His bottom was too sore for that, and he still had the cane to come.
"How many times has Travis paddled you, Oscar?"
"I think four times, sir," the little boy replied quietly.
"Come here," I waved the child over, then, to his delight, I held out the tawse to him, "give him four of your very best lashes. Remember what I told you about getting the power from the middle of your body."
Now Oscar was grinning. This was too good to be true. He could actually give Travis a hiding! With my consent, and on the prefect's bare bottom! Travis kept quiet. He knew that he had this coming, and also knew that Oscar, like any other grade four boy, would take absolute delight in getting his own back. He tensed in anticipation. Oscar gripped the tawse, and then whipped it across the other boy's bottom, amazingly accurately. But he was a golf player, so he had a good eye. Travis bounced with the pain, but the lash was nowhere near a painful as those from me had been. I think he was relieved. I ruined it for him.
"Nope, that doesn't count, Oscar. Too soft. Harder please."
Oscar looked up at me in amazement, but, enjoying the situation immensely, whipped Travis again, somewhat harder. This time the older boy really felt it.
"No," I shook my head, "harder than that."
Oscar put all of his not inconsiderable strength into the next attempt, and did a good job. The leather whipped perfectly and very hard across Travis's cheeks, and the twelve year old howled. Oscar looked up at me, and I nodded my approval. Then the boy licked his lips and asked,
"Can I take a run up, sir?"
"Good idea," I responded, and as Oscar stepped back, Travis sobbed,
"Oh no, please sir,"
I ignored him, and Oscar took three strides in, delivering a well timed, excruciating lash to the prefect's exposed bottom. He repeated the operation twice more, and then reluctantly handed the tawse back to me.
"Get up and rub you bottom, Travis," the twelve year old obeyed, scrambling up and desperately rubbing his burning backside, his modesty forgotten. I'm sure Oscar enjoyed watching the prefect do a similar spank dance to the one he had so often done after Travis had tanned his bottom. He had forgotten about his imminent caning until I recovered the feared stick and led him onto the rug in the centre of the room. With Travis now watching the proceedings with interest, I flexed the cane, looking down at the now very subdued ten year old.
"Bend over, touch your toes,"
Oscar assumed the ageless position of naughty schoolboys presenting their bottoms for the cane. Finger on toes, legs straight and slightly apart, head down. The naked little boy braced himself for his first taste of the cane as I tapped the implement gently on his tightly bent bare little bottom, getting my aim right. I whipped the child good and hard, ensuring that my follow through was strong, and Oscar cried out with the intensity of the pain. He battled, but succeeded – and kept his position, bottom up. On the second hard lash, the ten-year-old's knees buckled slightly as the cane sunk deep into his sensitive, already strapped, lower bottom, but he still managed to keep his compromising position.
I left him there, propping the cane against his trembling leg, and admonishing him to keep still. Then I strode back across the room to Travis. Taking the naked preteen by the ear, I led him to the chair over which Oscar had earlier been bending, and made him assume the same position. Except that with Travis, I had his legs spread far further apart. Now, instead of whipping him with a sideways motion, I could lift the tawse straight up, delivering it downwards with the help of gravity, across my exposed target. And whip him I did. I focused my attention on one chubby cheek at a time, the boy's wide spread legs making it easier for me to thoroughly tan his small backside. I was able to get the tails of the tawse deep into the lad's hairless crack, and all his wailing and squirming did him no good. I would not tolerate bullying, especially by prefects, and Travis was learning that lesson while writhing in pain as the leather burnt again and again across his poor bare bottom. When I was satisfied that his tail was crimson enough, becoming deep red lower down just above his bronzed legs, I put the tawse down and gently rubbed the sobbing boy's bottom. It was a very satisfactory, warm backside indeed.
I ordered him up, and his hands flew behind him. I grabbed his wrists before he could soothe his own rear end,
"I didn't give you permission to touch your bottom, young man!" I placed his hands on the top of head and wrapped my own arm around his waist. Bending slightly to reach the bottom of the small boy, I, for the second time, spanked his now very sore bottom firmly with my hand, landing a few slaps on the back of his upper legs and thighs for good measure, "Your problem is you do things without permission, and that's why you're here!"
I led the sobbing preteen over to where Oscar was still bending, and had him assume the same position as the younger boy, about two metre apart. The two were a sight. Oscar, red bottomed from his strapping, two deep red welts down low across his trembling tail. Travis, different skin tone completely, but bottom, formerly just as white as the ten year old's, scarlet from a much more severe encounter with the leather. Oscar was tall for a ten-year-old, while Travis slightly below average for a boy of twelve. So there was not much difference in their heights. The two looked as they should. Two very humbled, well punished little boys, touching their toes and presenting their young bottoms in preparation for well-deserved canings. I collected the cane from where it had been balancing, propped up by Oscar's leg, and swished it through the air. After tracing it across his sore bottom, I gave the ten year old his next two hard, well-aimed stripes, low down on his little rump. He sobbed and bounced with the pain. Oscar was finding the cane a new, far more painful experience than his many encounters with the tawse. Then I turned my attention to the figure of the slender, tightly bent twelve year old,
"Please sir," sobbed the boy as I traced the cane lightly across his bare bottom, about three quarters of the way down, "don't cane me!"
"How many fourth, fifth and sixth grade boys asked you not to paddle them, Travis? How many did you let off when doling out your own punishment?"
"Oh, sorry, sir," the little boy couldn't think of an excuse – he just reached back and gripped his ankles, preparing himself for the stick.
For the next few moments, the only sounds in the room where the loud crack of the cane and the cry of the child as I laid three deliberate and very hard lashes across his sore young backside. I think that my words had finally got through to the boy, and he was gaining an understanding of how the younger boys had felt. His guilty conscience was giving him the strength to raise his tender bottom up after his legs had buckled after each agonising stroke, for another lash. I left Travis bending, and turned back to Oscar. Twice more, I lashed the younger boy, two mighty strokes, causing him to howl in agony, and then back to the sobbing Travis. Another three good lashes. Each one taken with a wail of pain, and a reflexive jerk of the body. But the boy slowly raised his throbbing bottom up for me each time.
I stepped back, admiring the lad's battered bottoms. I certainly had handed out two sound hidings,
"Alright boys," I kept my voice softer and gentler now, "you've taken your punishments well. Get up and get dressed."
Oscar slowly stood, hands back to his bottom, eyes streaming tears, a comical look of relief on his face. The ten-year-old had never had such a sore bottom before. But Travis didn't move. The slender lad retained his position, legs apart and straight, hands gripping ankles.
"Up you get, Travis, it's over now."
"Please sir," he sniffed, "I feel so bad about the boys I hit, sir. Please cane me some more."
I had never had a boy, especially an all ready severely thrashed one, ask me for a hiding, but I made a quick judgement,
"Very well, how many more do you think you need?"
"About ten,"
I smiled inwardly. This boy really did feel terrible.
"No my boy, I'll give you another six. That's enough for you."
"Thank you sir."
I turned to Oscar, who was standing, still naked, mouth hanging open at Travis's request, underpants dangling from one hand. I sternly ordered him to get dressed. I had decided that Travis would have the dignity of no audience for this last hiding. I waited for the ten-year-old to get dressed, and then began ushering him out, until Travis interrupted,
"Sir? Please let Oscar stay and watch my hiding. So he can tell the other boys that I am really sorry?"
I was once again surprised, but I conceded. Picking up the cane, I went back to the naked, bending twelve-year-old, and lined up the stick. He shuffled nervously as he felt the stick touching his exposed bottom. Now he knew exactly what to expect, and, even although he had asked me for it, was nervous. This would be excruciating, and the boy knew it. I thrashed the two, naked little mounds of boy flesh slowly and mercilessly. Travis took his whipping bravely, crying and squirming, but always settling for the next stroke, raising his buttocks for the next agonising stripe of fire. I had sensed that the boy felt the need for severe punishment, so I caned him very hard, letting the stick linger with each stroke, transferring the energy of its flight deep into the tender flesh of the boy's lower bottom. Eventually, the boy's hiding was over. I allowed him up and gave him permission to rub his bottom, which he did so carefully, tears running down his cheeks. Oscar stood by quietly, the dislike he had had for the prefect turned to pure admiration. He walked up to Travis and nervously patted him on the shoulder.
"Get dressed and off you go," I told the twelve-year-old, but the child had one more surprising request,
"Please can I spend the day naked, sir? I don't think I could bare to put my pants back on my sore bottom," he smiled ruefully, "and I'd like the other boys to see that I have been properly punished."
So the two lads left. Both faces red from crying. One fully dressed, the slightly taller lad still stark naked, his bottom scarlet, covered in welts. And already starting to bruise.