"Bend over the chair back, boy," the headmaster said tersely and watched as twelve-year-old Thomas quickly obeyed. The boy had been here, in the headmaster's study, many times before so he knew the routine and making the headmaster wait was never a good idea.
The headmaster watched and gazed at the boy's tightly stretched gym shorts that clearly outlined a pair of solid, well-rounded buttocks. He didn't mind in the least that apparently young Thomas had long outgrown his gym kit and that his buttocks seemed to be close to bursting through the thin white cloth. Nevertheless, the headmaster approached the boy, took a good grip on the elastic waistband and dragged the back of the shorts even tighter until a good portion of bare buttocks was exposed. Then he stepped back and surveyed the attractive picture. Thomas' legs were sturdy and nicely shaped, the thighs well-muscled for a boy his age and the calves like small tennis balls. The entire expanse of bare legs was deeply tanned from years-long exposure to the elements.
After a while, the headmaster walked over to the cupboard at the end of the large room and selected one of the canes that were stored there. "A sturdy cane for a sturdy boy's behind," he thought. The hefty cane was 3 feet long and almost half inch thick. He swished it through the air so the boy could hear the impressive whistle, low and menacing. Thomas shifted his feet. His hands were planted on the wooden seat of the chair and his face was near his hands. He was most uncomfortable and wondered how many he would get today. Considering the viciousness of each stroke the headmaster administered to all naughty boys brought to his study, one stroke was one too many. Yesterday he had been given 8 across his bare bottom and the day before it had been 'six of the best' across his pyjama bottoms.
The headmaster stroked the cane across the boy's bottom, first across the shorts, then gradually further down to the exposed areas. That was when the boy first realised that almost half his bottom was unprotected. Not that the thin cotton of his gym shorts was much protection - no underpants were ever allowed with gym kit - but at least it gave you that impression.
"Well, now, Thomas, so you're back again. Can't get enough, eh? Let me have a look at the book." Clamping the cane under his left arm, he went to the desk where the 'Punishment Record' was kept. There the name of the boy, the offence and the punishment were all carefully recorded for posterity. In the evenings, when the small boys were in bed, the masters had their fun comparing notes as to who had thrashed more boys during that day, the week or the month. The winner was usually the headmaster which wasn't fair, because for what were considered 'serious' offences the masters had to bring the culprits to the headmaster's study for more serious attention. But it was fun anyway. It was also a reminder to keep a closer eye on those boys who had not been given their share during that period. No boy should have to go without a sound beating for too long.
"Ah, yes," the headmaster now said, paging through the book, "I see it was six on Tuesday and 8 on Wednesday. Today, Thursday, I think we should make it 10. What do you say?"
"Oh, er, p-please, sir -"
"Yes, my boy, you're quite right," the headmaster snickered, "twelve it is. A round dozen. Just what you need, isn't it?" He gripped the cane in his right hand again and took up his whipping position.
The cane rose, trembled slightly in the air, like a falcon spotting a mouse, then rushed at great speed towards its prey. It landed with a thick, fleshy thud across the boy's tight shorts. The cane seemed to remain imbedded in the flesh for an instant, then rose again. Thomas gave a loud scream as he felt the branding iron-like pain across his backside, and squirmed on the hard edge of the chair back.
Then came the second stroke, lower down, striking the hems. Because there the cloth was doubled, the pain wasn't as fierce as the first cut, but it hurt awfully anyway. Thomas squealed and tears filled his eyes. The third stroke landed on the bare portion of those firm buttocks, now nicely stretched. The headmaster had put extra muscle into it and it left almost immediately a deep, purple welt across both cheeks. The boy howled and kicked his feet.
"Keep your feet still," the headmaster admonished the boy, "and spread them farther. This stroke doesn't count." And he whipped the cane down across the exact same spot. The boy threw his bottom up in a spasm of pain, but kept his feet on the floor. His bottom was on fire. Nine more to come. How could he take them? What choice did he have? Young Thomas wept as he waited for the next stroke. It took maybe 15 seconds before it slashed across the upper thighs, eliciting another howl, a bit louder and shriller.
The headmaster took his time. Punishment should never be hurried; the boy should always have plenty of time to digest each cut individually. He raised the cane. A twelve-year-old's backside is not very large and the headmaster liked to limit cane strokes to the lower half, which meant that twelve strokes would have to be applied to a small portion of flesh even if you include an inch or two of thigh. So it was a given that the cane would work and rework the same area over and over, stroke landing upon stroke, leaving weal upon weal. Gradually the few inches undergoing discipline would become one deep bruise on which the lucky boy would have to sit afterwards on the hard desk bench.
The headmaster brought the cane down with great force across the fold where bottom joins thighs, a fold that was now being stretched smooth. This area was still well striped from the previous canings and the boy didn't take it too well. The ceiling seemed to shake with his roar. The headmaster smiled and raised the cane. Another one just there would teach the little bugger, he thought. His aim was perfect; the boy's scream attested to that fact. Another one again there? Yes, why not. Give the boy something to remember. With a thud, the cane dug into the fleshy underbum of the sobbing little miscreant.
It took more than 20 minutes before all twelve strokes had been duly delivered. The headmaster had found another reason for repeating a stroke, so the actual total had been 14. The boy's bottom, at least the bare parts visible to the eye, looked like a plum pudding at Christmas time.
The headmaster let the boy lie for another 20 minutes before he ordered him up.
"I hope you have learned your lesson this time, my boy," the headmaster said as he replaced the cane. "Put your shorts in order and get back to lessons. I will tell the master to keep a close eye on you and cane you again if you neglect your studies. Now run along."
Still sobbing, with heaving shoulders and tear-stained face, Thomas pulled his small shorts out of the cleft and down across his swollen buttocks, and waddled painfully out the room.