Part 2 Mike found himself standing in his old bedroom before he even began to register the full effect of his Dad's unspoken threat. What on earth was happening? Here he was, a university student, eighteen years old, only a few weeks to go until his nineteenth birthday, and yet as soon as his Dad cracked out that order he had leapt to obey. Mike had gone straight up those stairs and into his bedroom without even pausing to think about what his Dad's order could mean. The full force of all those years growing up under Dad's strict disciplinary control had sent Mike back into boyhood within minutes of arriving home. He could feel his heart beating like mad, and there was that strange tightness across his chest. It had been ages since Mike had last felt this way but he recognised the feelings all the same. This was how he had always felt when he knew that he was about to be severely punished by his Dad. But what for?
Mike began to get his breath back and to think over what could possibly have resulted in his Dad's incredibly authoritarian welcome. There really only seemed to be one possibility. That letter in his Dad's hand, the one from the university, was clearly behind all this. But what could it be? Afterall, it's not as if universities send end-of-year reports home to your parents! Or did they? Whatever, Mike knew that his Dad was now waiting downstairs, and valuable time was passing. What could he do? Flight, fight, or obey.
Mike felt himself gulp, and sensed tears beginning to well up in his eyes. There really was nothing for it. If Dad was in that kind of mood then there could hardly be any choice in the matter. He would simply have to comply and obey. The eighteen year-old felt as if the months were falling away from him, it was like being caught in some sort of time-machine. As soon as he recognised that there was no choice available and that obedience was demanded, Mike felt as if he was back at school, living in perpetual fear of his father's cane.
That feeling was even more accentuated as he looked over the clothes that had been laid out on his bed. There really hadn't been any doubt in his mind about what clothes his Dad would have meant when he said that he had laid out some "more appropriate clothes". More appropriate could only mean clothes that were distinctively juvenile. And there they were: the uniform from his last year at school: blazer and white shirt, the old striped tie, and the awful grey kneesocks and grey school shorts. For just another second Mike considered resisting. He could run away. He was an adult, he didn't have to take this, he didn't have to accept this kind of treatment. But even as he thought through these rebellious notions his hands were reaching to pull his t-shirt over his head. Obedience and compliance. That had been his father's motto and it was a phrase that had been beaten into Mike so well that it was part of his very being. Moments later the young man was standing naked and getting ready to dress himself in the garments of a junior prep-school boy. Mike had pulled out a pair of his old white briefs from his drawer. Boxer shorts would have looked silly poking out under those school shorts which were particularly short as it was. And dad would only have been even more furious if his son had come down wearing anything that was inappropriate. Mike had filled out a bit during the last year, his body had matured and was very close to the peak of manly physique. But those white briefs still fitted, just about, at a tight squeeze. Mike felt the cloth stretched tightly across his bottom and that old familiar feeling of his testicles being held snugly in place.
Within seconds Mike had dressed himself again. Everything was a bit tight except for the socks and tie! The shorts which only had a two inch inside leg anyway were now extra snug and when Mike caught sight of himself in the mirror he had been almost frightened to see how bare and vulnerable his thighs were. He looked like a twelve or thirteen year old, and certainly not the man that he knew himself to be.
Dad was still standing in the hallway when Mike came down the stairs. "Just on time", he remarked, "and just as well or I would have added a stroke of the cane for every minute that you were late". The fear was clearly visible in Mike's eyes. He knew full well that this was all heading towards a pretty sever thrashing but he still didn't know why. "Into the sitting room boy".
It was there that it all came out. Mike had stood trembling at attention while his Dad interrogated the boy. His Dad began by asking Mike about how he had been getting on in his studies, how well he thought he had done in his end of year examinations, how much time he had spent studying, what other activities he had been engaged in. And Mike stood in front of his dad and tried to answer each question as it came. Of course Mike had tried to avoid any outright lies but even his own account of the year just passed was pretty _d_a_m_n_ing and Mike knew it. After more than an hour's intense questioning Mike's Dad had revealed the contents of the letter. It was from the university and had been addressed to Mike personally but his Dad hadn't seen any reason for not opening his son's mail. Afterall, what rights do boys have to that kind of privacy?
The letter set out the results of Mike's examinations and assessments for the first year and on the whole Mike felt that it really wasn't as awful as it could have been. He had actually passed most of his modules, gained a third in two of them, and a two-two in one. But that still left the simple fact that Mike had failed two modules, both of which would have to be resat and passed before he could go on into the second year of the degree course. Dad was simply furious. He was absolutely livid about the failed exams, but even the various passes didn't please him. Mike, he pointed out, was perfectly capable of achieving a first-class degree if he worked hard just as he had been trained to do when he was at school.
There would be no holiday for Mike, the boy would have to knuckle down and study for the resits in the first week of September. If he worked hard and did well then maybe the boy would be allowed to have a short holiday in the second half of September. Dad had checked with the University and established that Mike could retake the other examinations as well if he felt that his results did not properly reflect his ability. And Dad had made perfectly clear that these results did not reflect his boy's capabilities. Mike stood quietly to attention and flinched at every use of the word 'boy'. Dad was laying it on pretty thick and Mike was feeling even more juvenile and ashamed as each minute went by.
Then it came, as Mike had known it would have to. That moment when Dad had finally come to the end of his words, and there was a silent pause before Dad would begin to communicate even more directly with his son. Now there would be nothing said. Dad simply reached over and, pulling on his son's grey shorts, drew the boy towards him. Mike took a few deep breaths and tried to steel himself against the inevitable. There was a sudden sharp and loud smack as Dad delivered a slap across the back of his son's thigh. Mike felt the tears again, getting ready to spill out at any moment. It wasn't the pain of the slap that hurt, it was the knowledge that a hand-slap across a boy's bared legs was somehow symbolic of his status as a mere boy; a child under discipline. Dad continued to draw his son towards his lap and then there was that moment, so familiar when Mike had been at school, when Mike felt his body lose its balance and tip over until he was drawn across his Dad's thighs. Mike reached forward to steady himself, and felt his short school pants getting even tighter.
Dad took a few moments to take in the full beauty of the moment. He had resigned himself to the idea that he had disciplined his son for the last time over a year ago and had regretted the passing of what had been the most intimate moments he spent with his boy. But here they were again, back in that old position. A boy under his father's authority, a father getting ready to teach his son that error and failure and disobedience have no place in a boy's life. Dad had actually been surprised that Mike had responded so submissively to his commands. But, if the boy was so easily cowed, if he wouldn't stand up for himself like a man, then there was nothing for it. He would have to be treated like a boy. Dad smoothed the cloth of the boy's tiny little shorts. They were really ridiculously tight and short, but, all the more delightful for that. Dad savoured the moment, and then lifted his hand up into the air.
The assault on Mike's bottom was relentless, smack followed smack and few of them were actually wasted on the part of the boy's buttocks that were covered by those shorts. Instead Dad favoured the bared area that revealed itself under the hem of the short pants, an area that he knew was a particularly effective target being extra sensitive. And within minutes the results were obvious to both Dad and son. For, even though he managed to avoid breaking into tears, Mike was soon whimpering as each smack made contact with his vulnerable body. When the whimpering became even more pronounced Dad decided that it was time to move on. As required by the tradition built up over the years Dad told Mike to raise himself up a little and then Dad reached under Mike and undid the clasp and fly of the boy's short pants.
When he had pulled the shorts down to Mike's ankles Dad reached over and picked up the old trainer. It was a worn and very tired looking old shoe but there was nothing wrong with its sole when it came to beating boys' bottoms. Dad paused for a few minutes. There was really no need to rush this, and indeed Dad believed that a boy's punishment was enhanced if it was spread over a longer time. Dad took in the sight of his son's bottom, now covered in only a very thin layer of white cotton cloth. The area of Mike's skin just below the briefs was already showing a nice pink colour. That would soon be blazing red! And then Dad caught his own breath as he had a moment of deja vue. Glancing down he had noticed the white lining of Mike's school shorts. There was, thought Dad, something so utterly childish about that traditional piece of styling. Lined shorts could never be anything else other than the short pants of a traditionally clothed boy. Indeed, there was always something particularly pleasing about the little glimpse of white lining that one sometimes got when a boy was sitting down. White-lined grey school shorts were the badge of the junior boy, and junior boys must be taught that failure and slacking were never acceptable. And therefore ....
With that, Dad brought the sole of the trainer firmly into contact with Mike's bottom. Smack!! Within seconds Mike was crying real tears of pain and utter humiliation. It couldn't be happening to him, it was happening to him. The eighteen year-old youth felt each and every smack on his tender backside. The boy felt each and every smack deep in his soul. This was hell. This was, he suddenly thought, this was heaven.
The boy in Mike was in ecstasy as Dad rained down smack after smack on Mike's very sorry bottom. He felt totally humiliated and ashamed, and he felt pain and yet more pain. But he also felt very content in himself, knowing that security that comes from having clearly defined boundaries and limits. Mike was his Daddy's little boy again. Dad kept on smacking and smacking. Smack!! And then it happened, Mike simply let go and began bawling like a child. The tears and cries and wails of 'Daddy, please Daddy, please Daddy stop' streamed out in a high-pitched torrent. Even the deep voice of an eighteen year old youth and given way to the pre-pubescent pitch of a little boy. And still the smacks rained down.
Eventually Dad felt the heavy tiredness in his arm and sensed that the blows were coming more slowly and more weakly. It was time for a pause, a little rest. Time to catch his breath again. Time to order Mike to stand up and be made ready for the third stage of his punishment. For Dad was still intending to carry out this disciplinary session without any concessions to his son's age. Mike had to remove his short pants and his white briefs and fold them neatly on the coffee-table. Then Mike moved into position, draping himself over the big arm-chair and stretching his feet as far apart as he could.
Dad let the minutes pass as he rested and recouped his energy. About half an hour went by, Mike standing in position, his face buried in the back of the armchair, waiting in trembling fear for the first stroke of the old cane. Dad sitting still, taking in the glorious sight of his son's well-spanked bottom. Then it was time to continue. Dad went over to the bookcase and drew the cane from its discrete place behind the old set of Encyclopedia Britannica. It had a while since the cane had been brought out into the daylight but it was still quite flexible, still nice and whippy. It was getting to be an heirloom in its own right, a junior cane obtained in the days when schools used to have them delivered by the gross. But as an instrument of discipline it would still be very effective.
Dad lined up his stroke. As always he would limit himself to six sound and well-delivered strokes in neat parallel lines across his son's glowing bottom. It was a matter of pride. Anyone could thrash a boy, but it took real skill to make the boy feel each and every stroke as if it was the final unbearable herald of the end of time. Gently, Dad raised the stroke into the air. It's possible to get a nice whooshing sound as the cane is lifted high into position but Dad always liked to raise the cane for the first stroke as quietly as possible so as to add to the boy's terror. The not knowing was part of the punishment. Not knowing when to expect the first cut, not knowing whether it would land high or low. There was no need for the boy to know these details until he finally heard the cane cutting down through the air and felt the almost instantaneous impact.
Dad gave his wrist a turn, delighting to feel the cane suspended in the air as it had been so often when his son was younger. They had presumed that those days were over, but Dad was now resolving that he would never allow his son to ever again imagine that punishment might not follow failure. A boy was never too old to receive the benefits of his Dad's wisdom, and therefore never too old to be caned. Arm, wrist, and cane, hovered for another moment in the air.
And then it came. The first stroke.
The boy felt the impact, gasped a little, and then felt the full searing pain of the stroke as it seemed to continue cutting its way through his body. That was always the thing about the cane. For some strange reason the real pain seemed to come on a sort of time-lag. First there was the impact, then a brief moment of calm, and then the full realisation of the awful reality of mind-numbing pain.
Dad certainly hadn't lost his touch.
"One, Sir".
Dad knew that for a caning to have its full benefit on a boy's mind, as well as on his bottom, it was best to allow a minute or two to pass between each stroke. Let him feel the benefit of every cut.
"Two, Sir".
The bawling and wailing of the earlier spanking was gone now. A good caning is a solemn ritual, it precludes unnecessary noise. It imposes a hush on a room, a hush on the boy and his disciplinarian, and indeed imposes an awed silence on any witnesses who happen to be present.
"Three, Sir".
An effective caning is a time for calmness and studied politeness. A time when every single second is magically prolonged and the boy loses himself in the moment. It is a ritual that demands respect and leaves the boy resolved to be ever so good. "Please Daddy, I promise that I'll be a good boy from now on, please".
"Four, Sir".
Dad waited a bit longer and then decided to enhance the ritual a little bit. "Well Michael, I think that you should ask me for each of the strokes that remain."
"Yes Sir. Please Daddy would you please cane me".
"Five, Sir".
A few seconds floated by as Mike steadied himself to request the final stroke. He knew that it would be the worst, delivered with the most force, and always, always, landing in the same place. For tradition required that the final stroke was always carefully delivered so as to strike the point at which a boy's bottom gives way to his fleshy thighs. The pain from such a stroke was always excruciating and terrifying. It was certainly not something to be asked for in a polite little-boy voice. But asked for it must be.
"Please Daddy, would you please cane me again".
Another pause, and then the utter nothingness of agony. Mike felt his spine arch involuntarily as his whole body responded to the final stroke.
"Six, Sir. Thank you Daddy for punishing me and teaching me to be a much better boy in future".
His Dad smiled gently. It had been one of his best efforts, a masterpiece in the art of discipline. And he was certain that there would be plenty of opportunities to improve on this session as the summer rolled on.
Dad ordered the boy to stand up and turn around. It was almost comical to see the tracks made by salty tears down his son's face. Just as he had always done, Dad would now undress his boy as if he was a mere child. Reaching out Dad undid his son's tie, then his shirt buttons. Mike's shoes were removed, his long kneesocks rolled off over his feet. Soon Mike was standing naked in front of his Dad. Both of them remained silent. Mike was expecting his Dad to give the order for the boy to go and stand face into a corner for the next hour or two. Dad was thinking that there still seemed to be something that was not quite right.
And then it dawned on him. "Get up to the bathroom this instant boy", he ordered and Mike moved swiftly in obedience. Dad began to run a bath and Mike sobbed as it dawned on him that he was about to be bathed like a little child. But worse was to come first. Dad searched out his old hair-clipper, inserted the number one blade, plugged it in to the shaver point, and then began to run the clipper over Mike's eighteen year old body, sweeping over his chest, through his pubic hair, under his arms, and then down the boy's legs and around his caned bottom. Then, ordered into the bath, Mike found himself being subjected to an all-over wet shave as every last bit of stubble was removed with a razor. The dejected youth was then scrubbed clean with no part left untouched. Eventually, ordered out and towelled dry by his Dad, Mike was sent back downstairs to complete his punishment with a long period of meditative reflection in the corner.
Dad was delighted. A close inspection had revealed that not a single hair was left other than on the top of his son's head. If a lad still has to be punished like a boy then let him look like one. And Mike certainly had an all-boy appearance now. Denuded of the hairs of manhood Mike looked even younger, it would have been hard to say whether he was fifteen or sixteen, but nobody would have mistaken him for a youth only a few weeks shy of his nineteenth birthday. The boy would spend the long summer holiday at his desk studying for his resits. He would be restricted to school clothes most of the time. They would have to go out a do some shopping for new clothes that fitted a bit better, but that shopping would be done, as it always had been, at the local specialist boys' outfitters. And there would certainly be no question of Mike getting his legs back into long trousers again until those examinations were well and truly passed with honours.
The only thing that troubled Dad was the question of supervision. Dad sat in his favourite chair admiring his afternoon's handiwork. "Yes," he thought. "The boy cannot be left to his own devices while I'm at work. How will we manage that?"
Mike stood silently examining every little detail of the wall in front of him. His arms folded on top of his head he was the very image of a well-punished little boy. He felt totally and completely humiliated and he could easily imagine that Dad would have even more humiliations planned for the months ahead. There was nothing for it. He would simply have to submit, comply, obey, and knuckle down to his studies. He knew that the odds were in favour of him receiving several more canings as the weeks would go by and he felt that the wisest course of action would be to do exactly as he was told and thereby limit thrashings to the bare minimum. And afterall, it could hardly get much worse than this.
The doorbell rang. Dad roused himself out of his own meditations and went to answer it. Mike could only hear snatches of the conversation in the hallway but it was enough to recognise the voice of his old school-friend Colin. Colin must have heard that Mike was due back and have called around to see if Mike would like to go out and sample some of the local high-life for what that was worth. Mike snivelled in fear. Surely his Dad would take a message and send Colin on his way.
"Come on in Colin, come in. You'll find Michael in his usual position I'm afraid". Dad's voice had turned jocular. "But come in and sit down for a while, we'll give him a few more minutes in that position while we have a little chat about how things have been going for you".
Mike knew that he was not allowed to move, but he didn't have to. Without turning around he could still feel the amazed stares of his old friend as Colin took in the sight of Mike's punished backside.
"I see what you mean Sir", Colin said. "It looks like you have a well-tamed teenager in that corner".
And with that, Dad and Colin began to have their little chat.