"You will keep your hands on the lower parts of the chair legs," Pryor warned, "or I will start from the beginning. I mean that, so be very careful." Then he whipped the thick leather across the left buttock once more. Yet another loud howl.
"William," Mrs. Dover said impatiently, "you better keep your voice down. Any more noise out of you and I will have to ask Mr. Pryor to give you extra strokes. I'm sure you wouldn't want that."
"No, Ma'am," the boy whimpered and immediately the tawse landed again on that left cheek, now biting into the sulcus, that most sensitive parts where buttock meets thigh, that bruised part. William, despite his efforts, couldn't help but scream again.
"Mr. Pryor," Brian Dover said with annoyance, "The boy didn't listen to my wife. Please add another six to those first ten strokes."
Stroke number 3 cracked loudly across the lower buttocks and William almost choked on the scream he tried to suppress. He daren't think about the fact that he would be getting 13 more, and that just on his left cheek. After that - well, it was better not to think about that.
Number 4 across his upper left thigh brought renewed gurgles and puffing from the bending boy, whose face was also turning purple in his attempt to keep his screaming under control.
Jack Pryor waited after each stroke for the boy to recover his breath and take another long one so he could hold it for the next one. Then numbers 5 and 6 landed exactly on the bruise on the lower left buttock and the boy's buttocks plunged up while his back arched. He wailed out his agony, but through tightly pressed lips so the sound came out muffled and he was spared extra strokes.
Four more terrific strokes lashed across a buttock that seemed to be swelling. The skin was hot and inflamed, red as a ripe tomato by now, glistening with sweat. By comparison, his right buttocks was almost pristine despite the stripes across it.
Six more to go, the boy thought to himself. Each time the heavy leather whipped across the left side of his little bottom, he stifled his scream as best he could, squirmed in pain and waited for the next one. At last, the sixteenth lash landed, searing his flesh.
Except for the boy's soft moaning and snuffling, the room was silent again as the three adults appraised the results of that first part of the boy's punishment. They saw the swelling of the bruised flesh and seemed satisfied with Pryor's work.
"All right," Jack Pryor finally said, "let's get on with it. Ten on the right cheek." He then proceeded with great relish to equalize the right cheek to the left. "I don't think it's fair to let his right buttock off with six less than the left," he said with a smile. "I think we'll just have to be fair in this case and keep it equal."
Thus, six more lashes were applied until both buttocks had received an equal share and both glowed with the same deep red heat.
During the next pause, Pryor showed the Dovers the cane he was going to use on the boy. "Two dozen with this cane," he said proudly, "will make the child remember this punishment for some time to come. It's a most pliable rattan, not too thin, not too thick, just the right length and weight. It can bite deeply and won't draw blood too easily. All the strokes, except perhaps the last four or six, will be applied across both buttocks and thighs. The last ones will fall diagonally across all the previous weals for a grand finale. The boy won't like that, I can assure you. Those last strokes will draw blood where they cross the horizontal strokes but that can't be avoided. We'll wash his bottom before he resumes his shorts."
He stepped up to the boy who was still moaning, bent over the back of chair, his knees numb, sweating and trembling with the fear of the strokes to come.
And with good reason. The first stroke cut viciously into the fold under the buttocks where the worst bruises were. The boy couldn't prevent a loud howl as the searing pain penetrated his buttocks and his hands flew frantically back to protect his burning bottom.
"Three extra," Mr. Dover said laconically. "He has to learn to keep still during a whipping."
After the boy had replaced his hands in front and again with suitable pauses between the strokes, Pryor proceeded to cane the boy systematically across his wealed bottom. During the application of the second dozen, the boy once again couldn't suppress a mighty roar as the cane sliced into his upper thighs and he straightened up, hands clutched to his wealed, red-hot bottom. This time it was Mrs. Dover who echoed her husband's "three extra."
"I think it might be best if you held the boy's wrists firmly in place. The next strokes will truly hurt him and he needs to stay in the required position," Pryor added.
That made a total of 30 strokes with a cane that drove the boy into a panic of despair. He was held down by his father, rending him defenseless against the next onslaught and the threat of more pain finally persuaded even this particularly naughty boy to obey and take his punishment in comparative silence.
After the thirtieth stroke, the boy dangled exhausted over the chair back thinking his ordeal had ended. He had forgotten about the additional ten with the tawse across each cheek. When he was reminded of this fact by Pryor's exchanging the cane for tawse, the boy burst into loud pleas for mercy. He begged and wept, imploring his tormentor to stop his punishment. He promised to be good and obedient and anything they wanted only, please, to stop the whipping.
They let him plead in stony silence. When he was finished with his little entreaty, the tawse landed crisply on his cane-striped left buttock. His father kept a firm hold on the boy's wrists; there would be no mercy for this obtuse little boy and each stroke was given him with utmost severity. He cried out twice while his left cheek was being punished and they rewarded him with six extra. He apparently learned his lesson because when his right cheek was ministered to, he held out without too much commotion. But to keep things equal once more, he got his six extra anyway.
"We mustn't neglect one buttock to the detriment of the other," Pryor said. "We should be even-handed and treat both the same. No discrimination here between left and right." The laughter drowned out the boy's whimpers.
They stood and watched the exhausted form lying across the chair back, shoulders shaking with his sobs, the little bottom wealed and bruised, visibly swollen, chubby cheeks a bit chubbier.
"We have a nice little whipping bench in the punishment room downstairs," Pryor said, as he replaced the heavy tawse. "It has the necessary restraints so the boy can't move a muscle while strapped to it and I see that we will have to use it for this young lad here who can't maintain the required position during a well-deserved whipping."
"An excellent idea," Mrs. Dover said, her eyes still on the boy's bottom. "A boy must be made to feel quite helpless during punishment. He must always resign himself to a full and complete thrashing with no hope of escape. That is very important."
"Well, I see we are in agreement on all points," Pryor said. "William, you may get off the chair and stand here."
The boy rose and struggled off the chair, his knees stiff, his buttocks a sea of flames. Bare from the waist down, he stood next to Pryor, hands by his side, not daring to soothe his throbbing backside. Tears were still flowing and a little snot ran from his nose, and Henrietta Dover took a small handkerchief from her purse to wipe the boy's nose.
"I hope you have learned you lesson," she said, replacing the handkerchief and giving the boy a resounding smack on his bare backside. The boy gasped loudly and squeaked a trembling "Yes, Ma'am," in reply.
"It is agreed, then," Mr. Dover said, rising from his chair. "We will keep the boy at your school for the next three months and if everything works out, you'll have him for several more years. His bottom always at your disposal." He laughed.
"A good daily thrashing will keep him in line," Jack Pryor agreed. "I have no doubt that the next three months will be a time of learning for this little chap."
He saw his guests out and had one of the monitors take young William to class.
As they walked down a long corridor with closed doors on both sides, William heard loud, high-pitched screams coming from behind one of those doors and he felt his legs trembling.
The monitor chuckled. "Just wait, little boy, your turn will come soon. They don't spare the boys in this school, and they won't spare you even though you look as if you've had a goos sample already to judge from the way you walk."
They finally reached the end of the passage, turned another corner and the monitor opened one of the doors. "This is yours," he said, giving the boy a good push. "And good luck, your backside will need it." He gave a little laugh. Then he turned to the master on the dais. "This is the new boy, William Dover." With that he closed the door behind him and left the quivering boy standing with all eyes on him.
"Don't stand there like an idiot," Mr. Graham snapped sharply from the dais. "Come over here. We have another stupid little boy here who is new here and the two will sit together so I can keep a close eye on you."
William slowly walked to the desk the master was pointing at where Basil was now cowering, rubbing his cold thighs, trying to absorb the new lessons. The desks were a bit narrow to accommodate two boys and their thighs and hips touched. They looked at each other.
Basil had noticed the contorted face of the new boy who was propelled into the room. The red eyes, swollen lids and trembling bare legs showed him that this was a boy fresh from punishment. He watched as the boy shuffled towards his desk and had to suppress a little smile when the new boy lowered his tightly-clad bottom slowly and gingerly onto the hard bench, then giving an audible gasp as contact was made. Yes, Basil knew from experience what it felt like to sit on a well-whipped posterior.
"All right, Basil," his thoughts were interrupted by the rough voice of Mr. Graham from the front, "let's see what you have learned today. Mr. Pryor tells me you are slow, slow and idle. We will change that. Stand up!"
Basil noticed as all head were turned his way and he blushed. He still had trouble displaying his bare legs all the way to the top and showing fresh welts. He plucked at the almost non-existent hems.
"Stop wriggling, boy, and answer my questions."
Then came a barrage of demands for names and dates, reasons and effects for this and that, while the boy stammered nonsensical replies. After less than ten minutes of this, he was in tears and his face flushed even darker when he heard the other boys' titters.
"It seems Mr. Pryor was right," Mr. Graham said. "Not that he is often wrong when it comes to lazy little boys. Come here!"