The headmaster looked down at the small boy with satisfaction. He held the power over this child to do as he pleased. He relished the wide eyes, full of fear and trepidation. Charlie was an average boy of eleven, with large brown eyes - like those of a calf, the headmaster thought - cropped blond hair and a large mouth which just now was wet and open.
"You've been reported for slovenly dress, boy," the headmaster intoned, watching the boy's small face narrowly, "and I can see why. You didn't even see it fit to arrange yourself for this interview. Look at those socks around your ankles. You know very well that socks are to be worn well pulled up at all times. And those shorts! Rules are that they always be kept tightly braced. Are they? No. They hang around you like a limp rag. You are just a lazy, ill-mannered little brat, aren't you? Very well, we'll have to whip some manners into you, won't we? Eh, boy?"
The boy nodded miserably, his mind still on the ferocious caning he had received just a day ago. His bottom still felt raw and tender all over.
"I didn't hear you, boy," the headmaster snapped. "I asked, will we have to whip some manners into you?"
"Y-yes, sir," young Charlie acknowledged reluctantly. His right hand went to his right buttocks, the one that had suffered the most yesterday.
"Excellent," the headmaster said, "then go and get the cane from the stand. Bring a good and heavy one, the one with the knob at the end. I usually reserve that one for the older boys, but I'll make an exception for you, seeing that you agree to be soundly thrashed. Hurry up, boy."
The headmaster watched with amusement as the boy slowly turned and walked toward the cane-stand. His eyes were on the boy's bottom, tightly encased in his brief little shorts. Actually, the braces were extremely tight for the simple reason that they couldn't be loosened, and the centre seam was pulled snugly in between the round little bottom cheeks.
Charlie returned to face the headmaster, cane in both trembling hands, as if handling a particularly poisonous snake. He handed it to the tall man towering over him.
"Now be a polite little boy, if you can manage that for a change, and ask for a really severe caning on the bare buttocks," the headmaster said, enjoying the boy's misery to the fullest.
Charlie licked his lips, swallowed several times and finally whispered, "Please, sir, would you give me a caning on my - on my b-bare bottom."
"What? I thought you wanted a severe caning. Or was that a lie when you first agreed? Liars will get extra, you know."
"Er - no, no, sir. Yes, I need a severe caning, sir," the trembling boy muttered anxiously.
The headmaster shook his head. "Too late, I'm afraid. I usually give boys your age a neat dozen, but in your case I'll make another exception. You will get 18 strokes plus another six for lying just now. That's two neat dozen. Just right for a boy like you. Perhaps then you will remember to draw up your stockings and shorts properly. Take down your shorts and pants, boy."
The small boy began to cry. "Oh, please, sir," he wailed, "not so many! I couldn't take them. You see, sir, I was caned yesterday and I'm still so sore."
"Yes, boy, I remember very well. But obviously the caning didn't help, did it, since you are back again. You know that you have to be dealt with severely, don't you, boy?"
The boy nodded, tears running down his cheeks. The headmaster watched avidly. "Now take those shorts down, boy, or it'll be six more."
Quickly, the boy pushed the braces off his shoulders with some difficulty, unfastened the waistband of his shorts, unbuttoned the flys and peeled the shorts down his hips, followed by the small underpants.
"Lift up your shirt, boy," the headmaster instructed, his eyes on the small bare bottom. His eyes lingered for a while on the purple weals and bruises that covered the entire area. "Now go and get the chair into position."
With his shorts and pants now around his ankles, Charlie shuffled toward the heavy chair used for such occasions and painfully dragged it into the centre of the room. Then he stood, facing the headmaster once more.
"Now tell me again how you should be disciplined, boy. I want to make sure you really understand what is needed here to improve your behaviour."
More tears as the youngster sought the right words. They came out, hesitantly, in a small shaky voice. "Please, sir, I need a severe caning on my bare bottom."
"And that you shall have, dear boy. Yes, that you shall have. Bend over the chair."
The boy's legs were visibly trembling as he assumed the dreaded position over the chair back, feet apart as much as the shorts around his ankles allowed, knees straight, head well into the chair seat cushion. The headmaster watched impassively as the small boy presented his wealed buttocks for further punishment.
"A small bottom," the headmaster commented drily. "I'm afraid the cane will have to land across those existing welts and bruises. Well, you should have thought of that before presenting yourself in my study with disarranged apparel. Now let's see. These bruises down low," he tapped them with the tip of the heavy cane, "do they still hurt, boy?"
"Y-yes, sir," the boy mumbled into the cushion. "Very much."
"And if the cane lands across them, do you think it will hurt you even more?"
"Oh, yes, sir. Please don't..."
The headmaster raised the cane high and, with a straight, outstretched arm, he swung the cane will all his strength landing it squarely across those bruises on the underbum.
Young Charlie roared.
"Yes, very effective, wouldn't you say, boy?" he asked mildly.
Charlie's scream faded slowly into a whimpering groan.
"Answer me, boy, or you'll get extra," the headmaster snapped, tapping the cane against the newly alive bruise.
"Yes, sir!" the boy wailed.
"Good. That is why I use this cane. Its effect is unquestionable. Do you think another one on that same spot will help teach you better comportment, boy?"
"Oh, please, sir, not there! Not there!"
"I don't think that is the proper reply to my question, boy," the headmaster said. "Maybe a few more strokes will help you answer questions properly?"
"Oh, no, sir... Please... Yes.. er - another stroke will help, sir... oh, please, sir..."
The headmaster smiled at the boy's frantic appeals as the boy's bare bottom plunged about.
"And we want the punishment to be effective, don't we, boy?" the headmaster inquired, tapping the bare bottom with the cane.
"Yes, sir," the boy quickly replied, afraid of additional punishment.
Once more, with great force, the cane landed on the same bruise and this time the naughty boy half rose from the chair back, his face contorted with pain, and, opening his mouth wide, let out a loud, high-pitched howl.
The headmaster observed the child's reaction with clinical interest. Such a relatively small thing, this cane, and yet it could provoke such extreme reactions from a recalcitrant little boy when handled with expertise. And what the headmaster lacked in sympathy for the boy, he more than made up in expertise in the art of a boy's discipline.
"All right, boy, settle down. Nothing to carry on so. I'll leave that bruise alone for the moment and work downwards. I'm sure you would want me to pay some closer attention to your thighs, wouldn't you? We don't want to neglect those, do we, boy?"
Still sobbing and moaning, the boy managed to mutter "Yes, sir" to prevent extra cuts.
But his renewed howling, as the cane bit deeply into the soft flesh just below the buttocks, annoyed the headmaster. After two more, even harder, across the upper thighs, he put down the cane.
"Look here, my boy. I won't stand for such noise. We have barely begun the punishment and already you scream bloody murder. What was it? Five little taps? What a baby you are. Other boys, younger than you, can take six or eight without a murmur." Which wasn't exactly true, but it helped his resolve to shame the boy as much as possible.
With that he landed another great slasher across the thighs. Charlie tried to control himself, but found it impossible to resist the searing pain he felt. He screamed again.
"Very well, boy," the headmaster said, tapping the streaked bottom, "if you won't be obedient, we will have to deal with you with even greater severity. Don't you agree?"
Tears streaming down the boy's face, he whispered, "Yes, sir."
The headmaster walked over to the cupboard and returned with a thick, heavy tawse. It had two tails, each over an inch wide, and the boy, squinting out from the seat cushion, could smell the pungent odour of well-oiled leather.
"Twenty should be enough, don't you think, boy?" the headmaster asked, stroking the boy's whipped backside with the leather tips.
"Yes, sir," the boy mumbled, unable to keep from weeping. "Only, please, sir, I'm so sore! Please let me off this time, sir. I'll be good. I promise I will. Only don't beat me anymore!"
The headmaster smiled. He was making progress. The boy was becoming more pliant but it would be a mistake to let him off a single stroke. That would denote a weakness in the disciplinarian and boys tended to take advantage.
"If you are a good boy, and promise to behave in the future - " the headmaster's voice trailed off.
"Yes, sir," the relieved boy exclaimed gratefully, "I will! I will! Thank you, sir!"
"...if you promise to behave," the headmaster continued calmly, "I will not give you more than twenty with this little strap."
The boy wailed some more as the headmaster chuckled.
"The tawse is very beneficial. It warms up the surface, rekindles old flames in the buttocks, but leaves the skin unbroken even if quite tender. As you will feel for yourself."
The impact of a heavy tawse across bare flesh is quite loud and the next five minutes or so produced quite a din, what with the combined effect of the slap of leather on bare skin and the high-pitched yelps and shrieks of the culprit. The headmaster warmed to his task with the result that each stroke of the tawse was applied with ever more force. At last, when the 20th stroke had been delivered with utmost strength, the headmaster stopped to wipe his brow. This was hard work and he needed a rest.
Gradually, the bawling boy managed to control himself somewhat, and the room returned to normal: low whimpering of a boy in agony. The headmaster sat in his comfortable chair facing the boy's blue-black behind and observed the effect of his ministrations. He felt quite satisfied. The small buttocks were slowly swelling up and the bruises were darkening. A perfect backdrop for the next six of the best.
After a while, he got up and went to sit behind his desk to finish some papers that needed grading for the next day. He gave poor marks to most boys, probably deserved, which would mean a sound caning for each of them . Eleven - and twelve-year-old boys had very little between their ears, so caning their backsides could do no harm.
Occasionally he shot a glance at the bending boy with a purple and black behind to make sure he wasn't moving out of position. That would cost him another six. But Charlie kept his position stoically, feet apart, knees straight, face in the cushion. Even his weeping was calming down. Putting down his papers, the headmaster stood. "Time to continue," he said, watching the boy's little bottom twitch and wriggle.
The headmaster picked up the heavy cane and approached his victim.
"Ready for the next installment, my boy?" he asked with a little laugh.
"Please, sir... Oh, please..."
"I thought I told you several times before that you are to answer my questions properly," the headmaster admonished the small boy. "Do you want another six?"
"NO! Oh, sir... I - I'm ready, sir," young Charlie mumbled, ready to start weeping again. The headmaster sighed. What a nuisance this boy was. "Very well, I'll let you off the extra six this time. But I want a proper answer to each of my questions or I won't be so lenient the next time. is that understood, boy?"
"Yes, sir."
Once more the cane went into action for the second set of six, but before the third could be applied, the door opened.
"Oh, I'm sorry, George," the older woman said as she ushered in a younger woman and a young girl. "I didn't know you were busy."
The headmaster put down the cane. "Don't move, boy," he said and walked over to his visitors.
"George, this is Mrs. Florence Templeton and her daughter Alicia. Florence, this is my husband George." Hands were shaken and polite murmurs of pleasure were expressed while the young girl, Alicia, about 16 years of age, gaped openly at he spectacle of a bare-bottomed boy bent over the chair back. Her eyes never left the bruised bottom.