I knocked on the headmaster's door, then, as was the custom, let myself into his warm, plush office. I had been summoned from my classroom, and it would not be acceptable to make the great man wait.
Needless to say, he ignored me. I stood at attention in front of the desk while he continued with his correspondence. To a twelve year old boy, the headmaster is always an enormous and frightening figure, and, even although, or maybe because, I had been in here before and felt the strength of his arm wielding a cane across my bottom on more than one occassion, my knees were shaking so hard they were almost knocking together.
Finally, sir lifted his head and glared at me over his reading glasses.
"So, young Master Gilberts, you at it again? Fighting? This time on the sport field, in front of parents and a visiting school?"
"Yes, sir." I mumbled, in my most humble voice. I had the most terrible temper, and this time had really blown it - even swearing at the referee.
"And using foul language - to the referee, mind you!"
_d_a_m_n_. I had hoped he wouldn't have heard about that detail.
"What do you have to say for yourself?"
"Sir," I began, knowing this would be my only chance to lessen my punishment, "I was very frustrated, sir. I didn't mean to. I just lost my temper."
"Lost your temper. Again." Sir had dropped his voice. Always a sign that the schoolboy with whom he is dealing is in serious trouble, "and what was your punishment the last time you lost you temper at this school?"
"You gave me a severe caning, sir," I replied, head down, studying the carpet.
"That's right, my boy, you received a good hiding!" he continued, "four strokes on your bottom with just your underpants on, correct?"
"Yes sir,"
"And did it hurt much, my boy?"
My bottom throbbed at the memory. The pain of that whipping had been excrutiating. It had taken days for me to be able to sit in comfort.
"Yes sir. It was very painful, sir." I knew where this interrogation was leading.
"But," sir continued, "not painful enough. It didn't do the job, because here you are again. What did I say your hiding would be next time?"
"Seven," I whispered.
"Speak up, boy. And be more specific.
My heart was in my throat, "Seven, sir, on my bare bottom."
"Correct!" he exclaimed, "You know the procedure by now. Go and lower your pants, then bend over."
I shuffled over to the corner of the room, and turned the old leather arm chair, the hiding chair, around, so that it faced the wall. Then I undid my shorts, letting them drop to my ankles, followed by my underpants. taking a deep breath, I draped myself over the back of the chair, bare bottom up. Every time I got into this position, I couldn't help but notice how the top of the chair had been worn by the many little hips that had rested there as young boys had had their bottoms thrashed, and how the seat was stained dark by the multitude of little sweaty palms as the lads had struggled to maintain their position through their painful ordeal. This was my first time over the hiding chair bare, and the cool sensation of the leather on my hairless crotch was not altogether unpleasant.
There was a basket of canes next to the chair, and I was able to watch out of the corner of my eye as sir made his choice for my bottom. The cane he selected for me was about three feet long, and as thick as his middle finger. He flexed it, I'm sure for my benefit, then disappeared behind me. All I could hear was the swishing as he had a few practice swings. I'm sure that the cool breeze floating across my naked buttocks was not the only cause for the goosebumps standing up on my exposed flesh!
He made me wait ages before lightly tapping the cane on my bottom, about halfway up. Experience had taught me that this man knew boys' bottoms - all the strokes would be below the halfway mark, where it is the most sensitive.
There was the familiar hiss through the air, then the loud CRACK! as the first stroke bit across my bare bottom. Initially, all I felt was the weight of the cane as sir followed the stroke through. And then the pain. Incredible! I hadn't believed that the cane was capable of producing more pain than the hiding I had had on my underpants, but this was ten times worse. The wood connecting directly with the naked bottom created an indescribable purity of pain. For the first time, after all my school boy hidings, I cried out at the first stroke!
Sir continued, keeping a steady pace, although rather slower than I would have liked. About fifteen seconds between each lash. Gave me plenty of time to fully appreciate the pain of each individual stroke, and sore bare bottom trembling, fearfully await the next. After three, the phone rang.
Instead of ignoring it, sir balanced the cane against on of my widespread legs - effectively making me keep absolutely still, and went to answer it. He chatted to his secretary, then had the call put through. He spoke to someone about various mundane school matters for about ten minutes, while I remained, bottom throbbing, bent over the chair. I must have been some view from the desk - framed by suntanned back and legs, my creamy white bare bottom with its three deep red welts, neatly placed one below the other. I realized that the darkness of the seat of the chair was not only caused by sweaty hands - my tears were running down my cheeks and dripping off my nose onto the ancient leather.
I heard sir take up his position behind me, and retrieve his cane. He pushed my shirt up a little, "Mind you keep still now, boy," he growled, "you're squirming, and I'm sure you don't want me to start all over again now, do you?"
"No sir," I sniffed, and braced myself for the remaining four lashes.
He lined the cane up once more, then the delivered the fourth stroke. After a pause, the fifth was administered millimeters above the top of my legs, just in the crease. I howled. The headmaster made a neat diagonal cross across my bare bottom with the last two strokes - so that they crossed all the other strokes. I had never had cuts laid on like that before, these two vigorous lashes renewed the pain of all the other lashes that I had already had that morning.
Sir put the cane away, leaving me bending for a few minutes. Then he allowed me to bend and pull up my pants. I did so very gingerly, but didn't dare rub my bottom in sir's presence.
"Thank you for a good hiding, sir," I sobbed, before I was sent on my way.