Mr. Browning looked down on the young boy. Billy, dressed in his usual skimpy little shorts and sport shirt, was a healthy chap and the discipline that was necessary for all boys his age could be administered with with as much severity as the situation warranted.
Boys must always be whipped, and whipped long and hard, if you wanted to keep them in line. It was never too early to apply bit and spurs to the flanks of young colts. Billy had been soundly thrashed from an early age and the boy had lost count of the times he had been placed over Mr. Brownings knee or been made to take up some other kind of punishment position. It was probably a conservative estimate that over the last year alone he must have had 150 beating.
And of course they did the boy a great deal of good. Over the years, he had been molded into a strong, well-mannered and polite youngster and would be even more so in another few years, as long as the discipline was tightened month by month, year by year. When dealing with boys, it was useless to handle them tenderly. Flogging was the only thing they understood. Sitting down should always be as uncomfortable as possible, every day, because long before the thick weals from a caning had a chance to fade ever so slightly, a new session with the cane was necessary.
Bend over the back of the chair, boy, Mr. Browning now said. He watched the small boy drape himself dutifully across the chair, his bottom well up in the air, the thin shorts clinging to the round, bare buttocks . Underpants were quite unnecessary in Mr. Brownings estimation. They served no useful purpose and only hindered the execution of the daily punishments.
He picked up one of his favourite canes, long and not too thin but very pliable and able to produce an excellent sting that would penetrate the flesh.
Eight strokes, he announced with satisfaction, tapping the seat of the tightly stretched little shorts.
He whipped the boy with hard, leisurely strokes, all across the lower cheeks and upper thighs, most of which were unprotected by the shorts that had meantime crept well up into the boys bottom cleft leaving the lower portions exposed. Mr. Browning aimed for the raised welts still clearly visible from a previous application of the cane a day or two ago. He disregarded the boys howls and pleas as just being a necessary part of the canes effectiveness.
After the eight cuts were given, Mr. Browning put down the cane and sipped from the teacup on his desk. The boy lay motionless, well-trained over the years to maintain position until he had Mr. Brownings permission to rise.
Mr. Browning enjoyed the sight: the bending boy, his whimpering, the wealed flesh below the shorts hems. He let the boy wait a good ten minutes.
Stand up straight, he then said curtly and the boy stood.
Shorts down, came the next order and again the boy obeyed but started crying again.
Now back across the chair back, Mr. Browning said with relish, picking up the cane once more. His eyes lingered on the red stripes across the boys behind. Even through the shorts, the lines or tram tracks were almost as vivid as those that had landed on the bare flesh. Black pips had appeared where the cane tip hand bitten most satisfactorily.
Eight strokes, he said, raising the cane high.
He applied the first stroke with all the strength he could muster, in an upward motion, into the sulcus, the fold between buttocks and thigh which he knew was the most sensitive area (and would help have the child remember the lesson even more clearly each time he sat down) and was rewarded with a high-pitched scream at the same time as the boys back rose off the chair and clutched his steaming backside. After just a couple of seconds, he realised his mistake and quickly resumed his bent position.
This stroke doesnt count, Mr. Browning said easily, and you will get an additional two strokes for disobedience. He smiled when he saw the boys buttocks twitch.
He laid on the first three cuts with a will. Each one across the underside of the buttocks which was gradually turning into a purple band of welts. He was quite unmoved by the boys antics who tried desperately to stay down so as not to invite further pain.
Another three strokes, across the middle of the buttocks, kept the boy in good voice. The high treble rang throughout the large study and Mr. Browning drank in the sound like good music.
Three more strokes and when the third landed once more across the upper thighs, the willful child rose again and held on to his throbbing cheeks, whining pitifully.
The last stroke doesnt count, Mr. Browning snapped sharply. Get back into position this instant or we will start at number one again.
With a gasp, Billy quickly went back over, only very reluctantly separating his hands from his backside.
And two extra, of course.
The last four strokes made the boy howl. He was sweating and his body writhed and twitched uncontrollably, but he stayed bent over. Even obstinate little boys like Billy eventually learn obedience - as long as their bottoms are well thrashed.
Mr. Browning put down the cane and sat behind his desk to rest. His eyes stayed on the well-whipped buttocks that still seemed to tremble with pain. The weals were raised and glowing in a deep red-purple colour except for that band between buttocks and thighs where a spectacular bruise was developing. All in all a most satisfactory discipline for the boy.
Very well, boy, Mr. Browning finally said, you may straighten up and go into the corner. Hands on your head, nose against the wall. And stop that stupid sniveling. You should be grateful that I limited myself to just eight strokes. The other six you invited yourself, so dont blame me.
He smiled as he watched the small boy slowly waddling towards the corner, shorts entangled around his ankles, bottom oddly stuck outwards as if trying to get that part ventilated.
Billy spent the next hour in that corner. Then it was time for lessons and he felt his bruises most painfully when he sat on his hard bench.
Two hours of lessons before lunch. Two hours of sweating and crying, attempts to absorb the facts and numbers Mr. Browning hurled at him. His open textbook was stained with yellow spots over most pages from tears spilled so freely during these hours. Mr. Browning was a relentless pedant, never overlooking a mistake, no matter how small or insignificant it might be. And each mistake was carefully recorded in Mr. Brownings little book to be brought up in the evening when it was time for punishment.
Around noon, Mr. Browning took the weeping boy by an ear and dragged him first into the bathroom and then into the kitchen for a small lunch which was quickly ended. The Billy was dragged by the ear back to the school room for two more hours of lessons.
Following lessons, Billy was given his homework to be reviewed the next day. An hour of television - exclusively educational programs - and then it was time for supper. After supper, review of the days lessons and punishment for mistakes. Mr. Browning used the three-tailed tawse for this purpose, a leather strap almost a half-inch thick, two inches wide, with two tails. He had another tawse, wider, with three tails, which was used when the boy was particularly stubborn or obtuse, The tawse was extremely effective when landing on a previously well-wealed boys bottom. The sting spreads over a wider surface and if the stroke is properly severe, produces a nice little fire in the boys rear end. That evening, Billy felt that fire from the top of his buttocks to midway down his thighs.
After a bath, he was sent to bed. Of course he cried for a long time, lying in the dark, on his stomach, nursing his burning behind, but eventually fell into a deep sleep, knowing that the next day would be the same as today. Mr. Browning knew better than to let up even for a single hour. If a boy was to be under firm discipline, perseverance was most important. An afternoon of leisure would undo a months hard work. A boy had to be kept on a short leash.