Jamie was a tough kid. And not scared of anyone, or anything. Except his dad. And then, only when he gave the little boy a hiding. Normally, his daddy was an even-tempered, gentle guy, but when necessary, he really knew how to whip his sons' backsides. Made the headmaster at Jamie's prep school look like a fairy by comparison. That's not to say that the headmaster didn't cane hard – he did. The boys always cried after a hiding at school. It was just that dad whipped bottoms much, much harder.
When his swimming coach had caught him naked in the girls' changing rooms, the preteen had begged him not to tell his dad. He'd even offered to take a hard, bare-bottomed paddling there and then, in front of everyone. But coach had phoned his daddy anyway. Sometimes Jamie cursed being such a good swimmer, and having to train with the sixteen year olds instead of the rest of his school friends in the eleven-year-old squad. He just wanted to show the big guys that he was cool. They had dared him. The big girls said that he was a cute little boy. They even said that Jamie had an amazing body for an eleven-year-old. And he did – almost impossibly muscular, sun-bronzed, sturdy little body. Dark golden hair. Startlingly white middle section, usually protected by the Speedo, rounded, tight but soft bottom. The girls had taken it in turns running their hands over it. Jamie had liked that. He couldn't wait until he grew pubes. Then the girls would call the little guy a man, not a little boy. His daddy didn't care that he'd been dared though. He said the sixth grader should have known better, and he was going to give the lad's bare bottom a good thrashing – and he said it in front of the girls! How embarrassing! But one of the big girls said that she'd rub Jamie's sore little bottom better at the next training session tomorrow, so maybe it would be worth it.
The frightened preteen stood naked, nose to his bedroom wall, hands on his head, legs slightly apart, waiting. He remembered all the hidings his dad had given him. The most embarrassing, and a pretty painful one sprung to mind. Just after his tenth birthday, he had been accused of something he hadn't done at school, and so had landed up in the headmaster's office. It was only going to be two lashes with the cane, and sir never even made boys take down their shorts. But Jamie had foolishly refused to bend over and get it over with. The headmaster had been calm, sending the little boy back to class. But a couple of hours later, Jamie had been summoned again, and the child remembered how his heart had sunk when he had seen his dad in the office with sir. And it was his dad who was holding the headmaster's cane that time,
"So, you think you can dictate when you deserve a hiding, young man?" dad had asked. Jamie knew better not to argue,
"No, sir," he had whispered, head down, tears already brimming.
"Well, you've wasted my time, so you're going to get a little lesson. You know the procedure. Get that bottom bared for me!"
To the headmaster's delight, the ten-year-old had not only lowered his shorts and underpants, but taken them right off, and then stood, weeping, before his cane flexing father,
"Bend over in whatever way you usually do at school to have your backside tanned."
Slowly, Jamie had turned around, widened his feet about thirty centimetres apart and bent in the traditional position, head down, bottom up, knees straight, fingers pressed to toes. His white shirt rode up his lower back. The headmaster had enjoyed the sight of those white, unprotected young mounds, up and exposed so submissively for whipping. The school cane was almost identical to the one that he had at home, so the boy's father had been able to apply it with his usual skill and vigour, thrashing his son's naked backside far harder than the headmaster had ever seen a boy being caned before. The man had been amazed that Jamie kept dead still as each stroke blasted across his bare, tender little cheeks. The child cried out, but didn't dare move. After six, Jamie's daddy had left the sobbing boy bending as he was, handed the cane to the headmaster, and as he was leaving the office had growled,
"Alright, he's all yours. Give him the hiding that he was due. My six were just for his refusal to bend over earlier. And keep his shorts and underpants off for it – Jamie learns his lesson best when it's administered to his bare bottom."
The headmaster, faced with the bare bottomed, bending ten-year-old, couldn't resist.
"Well, young man, I'd better give you those two stripes that I owe you, hadn't I?"
"Yes, sir," the boy had sobbed. At least it would only be two. The headmaster, enjoying this unexpected authority over one of the best looking preteens in his school, had carefully rolled Jamie's shirt right up under the boy's arms, then whipped the cane smartly, twice across the child's exposed rear end as promised. He wasn't as skilful as the boy's father, but he still managed to elicit a wail from the child as the stick had burnt across his sore bottom. It was the first time that the headmaster had caned a boy on his bare bottom, and he loved it. Jamie hadn't. He made sure that he always took his punishment after that, deserved or not. It never occurred to the innocent little boy to wonder why that from then on, every time he got the cane at school, he had to remove his shorts and undies – and he was the only boy in the school made to bare his bottom for hidings in the office. He also placed no significance on sir's insistence that he always got his canings in private. Not like it used to be – little groups of boys in the office together for punishment. Jamie didn't even know that other boys kept their shorts up for the cane. He just didn't want his daddy in on the action again, so he followed instructions, grateful that his daddy didn't find out when he got a hiding at school! He would have taken his whole uniform off, if asked, for a naked school caning, rather than being caned by his father.
The wait in his bedroom seemed to be forever. He was well aware that the hidings that his daddy gave him were far more severe than those of his friends. But because of that, Jamie didn't get as many hidings as his buddies. Some of them only got the belt, but nearly every week! Jamie got his bottom thrashed a lot less than that – but always very severely. Finally, his bedroom door opened, then closed again, and he heard his dad moving across the room. There was a rattling sound as the cane was dropped onto the little boy's work desk. Then silence, as his dad admired the strong, suntanned figure of the eleven year old. He was, on the whole, very proud of his two sons, but Jamie, his youngest, had achieved the most. The boy was an excellent sportsman, and top of his grade academically. Coupled with that, he had a good, fair nature. He was convinced that that was largely due to the sound, bare bottom hidings that the eleven-year-old got when he needed them. He had started caning Jamie when the boy was eight – before that had always been the tawse (which sometimes was still used in this bedroom, for minor whippings). He noted, as he dropped the cane onto the desk, how the little boy's pale, rounded little bottom had clenched at the sound of the stick, making the dimples in his bum cheeks deepen. Jamie's bottom was perfect for thrashing – muscular, yet soft, perfectly in proportion with his suntanned young body. No wonder those girls had let him run starkers into their change room. The boy was pretty good looking for a preteen.
"Go to your bed and bend over."
That was it - simple. Jamie, head bowed, turned from the wall and shuffled over to his bed. Slowly, reluctantly, like he had so many times before, the little boy knelt on his bed, knees apart, face buried, and hands gripping the duvet, bare bottom pushed well up. He felt his daddy's big, calloused hand rub over each of his vulnerable cheeks, as if smoothing his bottom down. Jamie didn't know why his dad always did that – it was just something that he did before commencing a hiding. Sometimes, if the thrashing was particularly severe and drawn out, he would do it during the punishment too. That was nice. It soothed the little boy's bottom. The hands disappeared, and Jamie heard that ominous rattle again as his dad picked the cane up, and then he felt it being dragged across his bottom as the man took aim. Jamie's daddy never told Jamie how many lashes he was getting. He never got less than six. In fact, he understood that that time in the headmaster's office, his dad had only given him six, expecting sir to give him a lot more. That was a lucky day, despite the humiliation. Once, his big brother Mike had got twenty-four! But that was for stealing. Jamie hoped he would never get so many. In fact, last week, Mike had brought home a bad school report. Because the older boy was thirteen, dad had used the sjambok to give him his hiding. Six lashes only, but Mike had screamed, and the welts had looked much worse than the cane. Jamie felt sorry for Mike. He wasn't as clever as Jamie, and often got hidings for bad schoolwork. But Mike was generally much more sensible and better behaved than his little bother. So it was actually Jamie who got the most hidings overall.
Jamie's dad noted the tension in the little boy's body as he lifted the cane up and back to commence the thrashing. Those two, rounded, white little cheeks, so vulnerable. But he hardened his heart. This was for the boy's own good. Using the expert technique that he had developed over the years, he whipped his son's bare young bottom, delivering the stroke like a pro, making it really snap into the boy's naked rump, nice and low. Jamie gasped and gripped the duvet with all his might as the familiar but searing agony of the cane sliced across his bottom. The sharp crack of wood making violent contact with boy flesh hardly registered with Jamie – his attention was focused on the fire burning low across his bum cheeks. His dad never rushed hidings, and the preteen had to wait for the man to apply his fast moving cane again to the child's rear end. Jamie could never get immune to the absolute, breathtaking agony of a sound caning. He sobbed as the third lash bit into his upraised tail. Not for one moment did he even consider moving – he simply kept his bare little bottom raised for his daddy, as he always had, and always would.
The man also never even considered the possibility that the eleven year old may try to stop his hiding. His sons had been brought up to take their punishments – always. They never even tried to beg, although Mike had pleaded with him, in vain of course, not to use the sjambok a couple of weeks back. But the thirteen-year-old had still kept his position as his dad mercilessly whipped his bare bottom, screaming with the agony of it, but taking his thrashing as his father expected. He caned Jamie for the fourth time, pleased with his son's stoic acceptance of punishment. Four very painful looking stripes decorated the preteen's little bottom. Jamie had always been the considerably tougher of his two boys. He took far harder thrashings than his brother; seeming to recover from them much quicker, and had to land up kneeling on his bed, bare bottom up and presented for a flogging, at far more regular intervals. He caned the child's naked rump again, almost lifting the lad off his knees with the follow through. It hurt, that he could tell from Jamie's yells, but the lesson didn't always get through fully. This time it would. He was loath to give the eleven-year-old two dozen strokes. Mike had been given that hiding for stealing, and this was, after all, really just a prank. Jamie solved that problem for him, shortly after he had administered the sixth vigorous stroke,
"I don't know what got into you, Jamie," he started, stroking the boy's blazing bottom with the tip of the cane, admiring the six evenly spaced stripes that he had painted there, "you're far too young to be showing off to girls five years older than you. I know you're a good-looking little boy, but, really. That was silly."
"I'm sorry, daddy," the boy sobbed, feeling the cane gently rubbing against his throbbing backside. He hated it when his dad did that – the man thought he was giving the boy time to recover, but Jamie just wanted to get it over and done with, "I was trying to be one of the guys,"
The cane was lifted, and Jamie braced himself for the continuation of the hiding. Two more excruciating lashes bit into the lad's buttocks, causing the boy to wail, as he always did at this stage of his domestic hidings, then,
"So you wanted to be a big boy, then?"
"Yes, daddy."
"And do big boys' daddies have to cane their sons' bare bottoms?"
"I don't know, daddy,"
"Get up and stand against the wall, no rubbing."
This was a first. Jamie had never had corner time after a hiding, and he'd always been allowed to rub his bottom before. But if all he was getting was eight, it would be worth it. Gratefully, the crying preteen climbed off his bed, and, resisting the urge to hang onto his burning cheeks, he went and assumed the same position, hands on head, that he had been in to await his hiding. He heard his dad leave the room. After turning his head to check that he was indeed alone, the little boy couldn't resist giving his behind a good rub. He held onto his bum until he heard his dad coming back along the passage. That hadn't been long – only about a minute!
Jamie's dad re-entered his son's bedroom. He was no fool, and knew that the boy must have rubbed his bottom. But he left it – the lad would have something else to worry about now. The eight stripes across the lad's shapely little bum looked pretty painful, anyway.
"You want to be a big boy, then you'll get punished like a big boy. Turn around."
Jamie turned, his eyes widening as he saw what his daddy had gone to fetch. The sjambok! It had always been left to hang behind the kitchen door, except when Mike had had his hiding with it, of course. Mike had been sent down to the kitchen to fetch it. Jamie remembered how his already weeping, naked big brother had entered the kitchen, ignoring him and mum, and unhooked the whip. Then the older boy (funnily enough, not much taller than Jamie, but thinner, and equally undeveloped and hairless 'down there'), had taken a deep breath and gone back to his room, and daddy, with the sjambok. The contrast between the thirteen-year-old's soft white, vulnerable bare bottom and the wickedly tapered whip had stuck in the younger boy's memory. Not for a moment had he ever imagined that it would soon be his naked little tail raised for that nasty sjambok.
Now the long, black tapered whip was in his dad's hand, in his bedroom, and ready to be used to thrash his bare bottom! Jamie wailed,
"Oh please, daddy! Not the sjambok, please! I'm not a big boy yet – I'm not even twelve! Please daddy!"
"You're getting four, if you bend over right now," no attention was paid to the boy's pleas, "so get moving before I start adding."
"Please, daddy, I'll be a good boy!" Jamie was distraught. He'd heard Mike's hiding, and seen the marks when the boy had returned the whip to its hook. Still naked, sobbing, trying to soothe a very well beaten young bottom – and Mike was thirteen, not eleven!
"Now it's five," his daddy was determined,
"Not five! Okay, daddy, I'll bend over and take my four – but not five, please daddy!" the little boy had still not assumed his punishment position on his bed, so his dad decided to take a really tough stance,
"Your hiding's just gone up to six. Seven if you don't get on that bed, with your bottom up, now!"
Jamie was no fool. He knew that he was just making his punishment worse by delaying, so, as quick as he could, he climbed back onto his bed, raising his sore bottom up properly for the coming thrashing. He tried to stifle his sobs, and his dad waited for him to settle, tapping the tip of the whip gently on each of his tender little cheeks. When the naked preteen was still, he stepped back, gauged his distance, and whipped the sjambok across his son's bare backside. He placed the stroke very accurately, and with just the right amount of force and technique to cause the boy excruciating pain, while not breaking the skin. Jamie had never felt anything like it. The pain could only be described as if his daddy had pressed a white-hot, thin brand to his buttocks. The child squealed. But his discipline held, of course. It never crossed is mind to move and try to avoid the next almost unbearable lash.
The man made the boy wait, even longer than he had made him wait between lashes of the cane. Flicking the tip of the whip gently against the small rounded cheeks raised for his attention, Jamie's dad waited for the loud sobs to turn to sniffles again. He was determined that the boy would have his attention completely focused on each individual lash. That was, in his opinion, how he would get the most benefit from his thrashing. When he was satisfied, he whipped his son's naked hindquarters again, getting a shriek from the child as his body plunged on the bed. Of course, the little bottom remained up and ready for the next. The two deep welts were already starting to show signs of bruising along their edges.
Jamie knew and accepted his dad's policy on making him appreciate each stripe of his hiding. When he had had his first ever caning, it had been the same. But the boy had, after a few good hidings, learnt to calm down quickly in order to get his thrashings over and done with. He made himself stop crying, and braced for the next lash. It arrived, as expected, lighting a third river of fire across his poor bare bottom, and Jamie, despite himself, wailed again. For the first time in his life, the boy realised that he was not only pushing his face into his duvet to muffle his sobs, but also to resist the urge to put his hands behind him to protect his exposed, burning bum. For the next few minutes, Jamie's whole being was focused on his bottom – his cheeks seemingly alight from his daddy's whip. Nothing else mattered, just his little bottom. Momentarily, the preteen even forgot about the hiding that his dad had just given him with the cane.
And then, it was over. Jamie felt his daddy's hand gently rubbing his tail. Then his daddy was gone. The little boy didn't move for a while, kneeling on his bed, battered backside up, in the quiet room. The cool air actually felt rather nice. Then one hand reached back, feeling gently to see what the extent of the damage was. The hand explored the ridges and sensitive welts left by the whip. Slowly, the eleven-year-old got up. He rubbed his bottom, tears streaming down his face. The procedure was simple. When he had recovered, he would put on his pyjamas, go downstairs and apologise for the actions that had earned him his hiding. And that would be the end of it. But it would take a while for him to pull his thin, soft pyjama shorts over his bruised little bottom! Oh well, hopefully that big girl really would rub his bottom tomorrow. He hoped she would make him take his Speedo off too –a girl's hand on his bottom was an exciting thought for the preteen. He just had to make sure that he didn't get caught!