I wanted to plead but, with all these people watching with such anticipation, I couldn't bring myself to beg. I bent over the chair once more, my burning, sore bottom again on display, this time with four eager pairs of eyes looking on.
I had thought that ten minutes of respite would be a welcome benefit, a moment for my bottom to recuperate. I was wrong, very wrong indeed. When the whip once more made contact with that tender portion of my lower buttocks, biting sharply into the bruised parts, the pain seemed to have doubled, tripled, from what it had been before. I couldn't help it, I screamed out loud.
Teresa giggled, as usual. She clapped her hands. "The boy doesn't like it," she exclaimed. "His bottom looks so cute sticking out like that and all black and blue."
"Now, Teresa," her mother said with a chuckle, "that's not nice. The boy is being punished. Remember that you might be in that same position if you misbehaved."
"You would whip me?" Teresa asked incredulously.
"Oh, yes, if you needed it."
"Like this boy here? You'd whip me like him?"
"Well, maybe not quite as severely as him," her mother admitted, "but at least somewhat."
"And me as well?" Marìa asked. She made it sound like a joke.
"You're not too old either, my girl," her father said. "Boys may get it more often and with considerably more severity, but girls shouldn't be exempted either. You two have had it too easy. So watch out, or this could be you over that chair with a striped and bruised backside."
The whip lashed me around the thighs again and I writhed. My whole body was wet with sweat and I felt my tears dribble down my forehead into my hairline. Another hard lash across the middle of my bottom cheeks, followed by two very hard ones between bottom and thigh. Then in between the legs again.
"He is twitching when it lands between his legs," Teresa said. "Does it hurt him more there?"
"I'm sure it must," her mother said. "Boys are very sensitive in those areas and I'm sure discipline on those parts is most effective."
"Pedrito can answer that question, I'm sure," Marìa said with a little laugh. "He got a bit of that the other day when we were here, didn't you, Pedrito?"
I heard Pedrito's reluctant reply, "Yes, it hurts a lot."
"Very good, then we must give this boy some more," don Hernando said and whipped me high around and between the thighs. When I squealed with pain, the girls giggled again.
"There is your answer," don Hernando said, giving me another one on the exact same spot. "Mr. Sandoval, why don't you try a few strokes? You may need the experience if one of your daughters ever requires similar treatment."
"Well, I don't know..." Mr. Sandovals said hesitantly, but immediately took hold of the chicote and I saw him take up his position where don Hernando had stood.
He landed the first stroke too high and the tips of the tails landed around my right hip onto my genitals. I screeched in agony.
"I suggest you aim a bit lower," don Hernando said drily. "We want to concentrate on the buttocks and legs and all parts in between," he added.
The second stroke hit low, in the middle of the thighs.
"You're getting the hang of it," don Hernando said. "Now try a bit higher. Not too much. Just a few inches."
I felt it on the upper thighs and plunged my body in pain. Mr. Sandoval had really put his shoulder into that last one.
"Good, now another, on the same place," don Hernando instructed.
But the next one whipped higher and caught the inside of my buttocks near the anus. I screamed again.
"Good, you're learning fast. Girls, you better watch out. Your father is getting very good at this."
Mr. Sandoval was clearly starting to enjoy his work because I felt the sting of the whip getting harder and harder and gradually exploring all the most sensitive spots.
"Can I try?" I heard Marìa ask and I held my breath. Not the girls, too!
"What do you say, Raul?" don Hernando asked. "Shall we give Marìa an opportunity to handle a good chicote?"
"Please, papà? Please?" the girl begged.
"Oh, very well. But only a few strokes. You can see the boy is sobbing already," her father said, handing her the instrument.
She was better than her father. She caught me between the legs on her first try and it stung worse. Perhaps it was because I was being whipped by a teenaged girl and my shame made it seem more painful, but I screamed again. She whipped me three more times across the lower buttocks, then said, "Here, Teresa, you give him three."
"Now, Marìa -" her mother started, but don Hernando interrupted with a laugh. "Let her have a bit of fun as well," he said. "Three strokes won't matter. Right, David? You don't mind if little Teresa gives you a few whacks across that behind of yours?"
When I didn't answer, they all laughed and I felt Teresa's 'whacks' across my legs and buttocks. I was ashamed and cried not only from the pain.
"All right, children, enough fun for now," don Hernando said, taking back the chicote and standing behind me once more. "I think we shall finish my 25 strokes. I think we left off at six or seven, so I will resume. 19 more to go."
I thought it unfair to let all these people have a go at me and not count the strokes, but I kept silent. I wanted this to be over and didn't want to give them an excuse to add to my punishment. But 19 more? By now I was certain that I wouldn't be able to sit down for a month or more without great pain in my behind.
Again the chicote went into action and I realised how much more experienced don Hernando was. Compared to what the Sandovals had accomplished, don Hernando's strokes were much more painful. It seemed he wanted to impress his audience with his skills and brought the tails down on all these tender areas until I dissolved in sobs once more.
There were comments during the process and on several occasions don Hernando had to pause to let someone finger my wealed bottom. "He's really getting flayed," was Mr. Sandoval's comment after he had inspected my bottom. Then the whipping continued.
I didn't think it would ever end. My mind wandered off to Pedrito and his whipped bottom. How the brown skin gradually had grown darker, how it looked so sore and swollen afterwards, how Pedrito had slowly pulled up his little shorts. How brave he had been! I wish I could have done as well. But next time - wait, I certainly hoped there wouldn't be a next time. I've had just about enough with this one. On the other hand, Pedrito wasn't so lucky. His father had him at his mercy and would punish him whenever he thought it necessary. Surely my parents wouldn't do that! I didn't know then how wrong I was.
When I was finally allowed off the chair, I was told to go back and stand as before, facing the smaller chicote on the wall, hands behind my neck. A whole hour later I was released. Don Hernando called me over. He was holding something.
"David, these are a pair of Pedrito's shorts. I had suggested to your parents that you wear these for the next few months, and your parents agreed. So put these on and leave your old ones and your underpants here. They will be returned in, say, three months, if you have behaved during that time."
I was aghast. With those brief shorts my striped thighs would be visible to all. Again I thought of Pedrito. He had gone through this humiliation and survived. So would I. Obediently I pulled up Pedrito's brief little shorts over my bare, striped skin. They fit very snugly and made my bottom burn even more, but I managed to button up. It felt cool and unaccustomed when I was finally allowed to go home. I walked very slowly, hands on my bottom, the wind cold around my bare thighs.
My parents inspected my bottom that evening and expressed their satisfaction.
"Don Hernando certainly did a thorough job on you," my father said and he couldn't supress a little smile. "I hope it did you some good."
"Yes," my mother added, "and you will go right back if you do anything like that again."
I certainly had no intentions of stealing anything else, but luck was against me. Pedrito and I were invited by some older boys to join them at a Saturday night party at the home of one of them. After obtaining permission from our respective parents, we were given a ride by one of the older boy's father. When we arrived, there were already a dozen or so other boys and girls dancing to some frantic music. Some were about 3 or 4 years older than we, but most were about 16 or 17. They were all dressed in their best suits and dresses and I felt very young and awkward in my brief little shorts. Pedrito and I were dressed alike, only his suit was black and mine was blue. We wore a crisp white shirt and a dark red tie, white ankle socks and black shoes.
They stared at us when we made our entrance. Some went back to their dance, other whispered and snickered among themselves. I wished I hadn't come. I realized that I had grown used to my shorts and hadn't considered the reaction we would have on others. Of course some of them, being in the same school, had seen us before and didn't comment.
Gradually, we mingled among the other boys and found we enjoyed ourselves. We drank several cups from the punch bowl and before we knew it, we were drunk. I had thought the punch was some sort of juice; it tasted very sweet, and never considered that alcohol would be served at this party. We found out when it was too late. Some of the older boys had gone out into the back yard, singing and laughing loudly. They found a ball and started throwing it at each other. All had great fun until the ball went out of control and through a neighbour's window.
The rest was just a blurred memory. Loud voices, screams and laughter, and before we knew it, Pedrito and I were hauled off to our respective homes. Unused to alcohol, we were both quite sick as soon as we arrived home. As Pedrito later told me, his father was as furious with him as mine was with me. The end result, not surprisingly, was that we both found ourselves once more before don Hernando and his chicotes.