Percy Gifford stood in front of me waiting, all so British and all so proper. I don't know, being an American, but here I was and the lad was waiting for me to give him his punishment. He looked sharp in his blazer, the knot of his tie oh-so-perfect and he all dressed up and ready for the cane. _s_h_i_t_. Sometimes I wonder why I ever agreed to teach here. I'm from the deep south, the traditional American south, and I have taught for a lot of years and punished my share of misbehaving bottoms, usually clad in a pair of jeans. But _d_a_m_n_, I hate the cane, and before I crossed the ocean and came over here to teach I'd never even seen one used. One thing though that really does surprise me is that in this school, like so many others in the British school system, when the lads do screw up they have to dress themselves all nice and proper just so they can feel it be done to them.
When I was first hired I was shown the cane in use; watching the headmaster whip it through the air and into a teenager's bent over bottom. Yes, I'll never forget that day. He made that lad bend himself over double and grip a chair, almost like he was begging for it. I still remember that first time I watched it....the sing of the cane through the air, and the hard, crisp thwack sound as it burned its way into the boy's perched up bottom. The youth made his little gasp sound with each stroke, staring ahead, and biting his lip so as not to say anything. He was a cute kid too, about fourteen, with striking blond hair that shone in the light of the room.
I can still see that first stick, like a blur, burning its way like a wooden knife and ripping, hard, into the boy's stretched pants. That was my first taste of watching an English boy taking his due, and it was impressive, then, as it still is now. Of course, the cane stung like hell---it had to have, but even so the boy just stayed bent over until his six were done. Afterwards the required "Thank your Sir" and the little scrawl in the punishment book, and then the kid was off rubbing his bottom but otherwise acting as if nothing had happened.
Ever since that first time I've never grown used to the routine. Now, here I am, and for the life of me I hate it. I try to sit tall, behind my desk, and I look at him and he stares at me. Why me? _s_h_i_t_--I can usually pass them off to someone else, but this time he's mine to deal with and that's all there is to it. The lad is fifteen, with dark hair that is neatly combed and slicked. His face is innocent looking, the way it is on a boy that age, and his cheeks are flushed as if he's just started to shave. There is a pimple on his chin, and a dusting of shadow on his upper lip. It certainly is no mustache, not by a long shot, but it is enough to show me he is deep into puberty. His eyes are wide, penetrating, and he is waiting for me to say something. Finally, I come up with the words: "Well Gifford, let's hear it. What do you have to say for yourself?"
He looks down, and swallows, and then he looks back at me and says "Sir, I'm sorry. I know St Mary's is off limits sir, but there was this girl, and well....you know. I wasn't into mischief sir---I was just lookin' to talk to her."
His voice trails off. He knows leaving campus is totally against the rules, but alas, his young hormones are raging and so he risked his bottom to go and try and see a girl. At least he's honest about it. The girl chasing is nothing to me. However, when he got back he punched out another lad who was mad about it and told on him. Gifford's got a reputation of being somewhat of a school bully, and I know he's been in trouble at least a few times for it.
I don't really like bullies, probably because when I was kid I was usually on the receiving end. So, that part of his behavior is something that does piss me off, but the entire set of teenage antics seems comical. I almost laugh. I mean, hell, the school set it all up, complete with music and a planned dance, and then they expect the kids to just go back to studying afterwards like nothing happened. Ah, the British! So nice and proper; the perfect little get together, mixin' the boys and the girls. Surprise! _s_h_i_t_....anyone could have seen this one coming! Afterwards the boys are going nuts trying to get over there and fighting each other to do it. It's almost like their school sets them up for it.
Still, even so, you can't have them sneaking off campus and you sure can't allow them to fight over it. No way we can allow that. I smile as I have the thought. The boy looks up, and I see the smile scares him. Hell, he knows it is time even if I do not. I've caned exactly three boys since I've been here, and well, frankly, it just doesnt do it for me. I normally give them three cuts, nice and quick, one after the other, although I make that decision after I look at the punishment book. Even so, three of the best can turn a youth's ass on fire, if it's done right, even if you don't enjoy it when you are doing it. Still...ah, the routine.
The boy has brought THE BOOK, and I open it. I scan through the well worn pages, and then I begin to see his name. As I turn the pages suddenly I am aware that this particular lad is a regular...and it surprises me. I knew he was a bully, but I just had no idea he was getting into trouble so often. His name is there, page after page, again, and then again. I turn more pages, and he is still there. This boy has been caned more than two dozen times in this year alone! Most of them are for fighting. I look back at him, and he's looking at me. I ask: "Gifford....your name's throughout this book. Do you enjoy the cane?"
He shrugs his shoulders, and says in a stoic sort of way: "No...no sir."
"Don't you know it's wrong to settle scores with your fists? You are a bully Gifford, and I don't like bullies. You've received six of the best the last three times, and even that has failed to make an impression on you. The last time you got the senor cane."
He looks down. Then he looks back and says "Sir...if I may....sometimes, well, sometimes they deserve it--the ones I hit."
I look at him and study him. I stand up, and go out and open the window, wide, letting the spring breeze into the room, and getting rid of the British stuffiness of the place. The air feels good. Outside, in the quadrangle, there is a large group of boys relaxing, resting there at the noon hour and snacking on their lunches. Their ages range from thirteen through eighteen, and each of them is dressed in his school uniform. Suddenly, as I'm staring at them, I start to get an idea...and well, I hesitate. I can see the headmaster frowning now. But this kid needs something, and as I think about the cane I'm just not sure it's up to the job, at least not with this boy and the way it is normally used.
I turn around and pick it up. Its a junior cane, and the boy isnt afraid of it. He's one tough kid, and another six of the best probably won't make any difference. I contemplate the senior cane, but I can't do that to the boy. I hate it too much, and it rips as much as it burns. I say "Well Gifford...I suppose you are ready for the cane? Is that what you think I should do...give you another caning....another six?"
He looks at me and shrugs his shoulders. Then he says "Sir, I guess I know its coming. I'm ready for it sir."
I answer him, matter of factly: "Yes....I can see you are. All dressed up and oh-so-proper. The problem with you Gifford is that you EXPECT the cane, and in fact, you have been caned so many times it's quite apparent you don't think much about it. I don't think it has made much of an impression on you. You certainly aren't afraid of it.
He looks at me and says: "Well, it's not something I enjoy sir. It burns like bloody hell sir. But I can deal with it, and I'm not going to play a pansy just to avoid it. Do you want me over the chair now sir?"
He almost looks eager. I frown. He's _c_o_c_k_y, in a careful way, and I don't like his attitude. Still, oh so proper...so British and oh-so-polite. The book tells me the last time was just a week ago. Then he took six cuts, across his clothed rump and Master Gentry did the swinging. Six cuts. Whack. Whack. Whack. I can picture them, hitting the boy's pants, driving through the material and leaving lines of pain for the boy to contemplate. Still, it hadnt stopped him. No, he had his pride, and afterwards he no doubt had shown off his stripes and laughed them off in front of the others. No, this British boy needed more than a cane. He needed much more.
I set the cane back down on my desk. I decide perhaps the senor cane is needed after all. Still, if there was something else... Then, I open the closet and look down at all of the implements. There is dust on most of the assortment, and for the most part there is just a line up of canes. Senor canes. Junior canes. Long canes and shorter ones. Yes, lots of canes. Seems funny even. I take the teaching job, and they issue me the canes. Well, issues not really the word. It's more like they give me the study, and the canes are there, in the closet for me to use. They are all sitting there just waiting for a clothed bottom to sting. As I look through the closet I spy something else, down on the floor and literally covered in dust. As I spy it I feel my heart beat faster, and for the first time I know exactly what I am going to do.
I spy a strap! It's less of a weapon in some ways, but more of a weapon in other ways. I like it immediately, far more than a stick, although there are many that would disagree with me. Still, my American smile cracks across my face and I reach down and pick it up. It's a thick, leather strap, bound to a wooden handle and with some kind of official seal on one end. It's about eighteen inches long. I recognize it as an old prison strap, a very old one, and from the seal it is obvious to me that at one time it was actually used. I try to make out the seal but it is blurred and unreadable. It might be a Canadian Prison Stamp on the leather, but I'm not sure. I guess it doesnt matter. This strap is about two inches in width, and very thick. It's probably 3 8 of an inch thick in fact, and it looks mean. It's an instrument with character, but the leather is still supple and I think it might be just his ticket. I know if I use it I'll be taking a chance, but I'm relative certain the headmaster won't object too strenuously, especially for this youth, and perhaps he might just let it slide.
I heft it and let the old leather slap into the palm of my hand. I hardly swing it but the sting is real, and intense and that surprises me. As an American from the deep south, it's more along the lines of something I'm used to using. Hell, too bad there isnt a paddle in there! That thought makes me grin. Well, I like the strap, with its line of holes down the center that are just perfect for making a point. Of course, this British boy has never seen a strap before. As I wave the implement and show it to the lad I can see his face is puzzled. This is new, and he has no idea what to make of it. I see the boy's Adam's apple bob up and down, and I know perhaps for the first time, that I am getting to him.
The boy is shocked to see it in my hand. Still, expecting the cane, he isn't sure what to make of it. He's not stupid though, and he knows what it is, although I doubt he's ever seen one before. It certainly has never occurred to him that he would ever be asked to feel a strap, and I can tell he's nervous and very apprehensive. This one is well worn, and I figure it's probably seen more than a few naked rears. Of course, mostly it was used on prisoners, strapped firmly to a special punishment bench, and their upturned bottoms pulverized like there was no tomorrow coming. The boy stares at the leather, and I can tell immediately he has no idea what to say. He's dressed for a caning, plain and simple, and he's mentally ready to bend over the chair and to take his prescribed cuts on his clothed bottom without uttering a sound. I decide its time for me to Americanize his punishment experience.
"You know Gifford...if it was just a simple schoolboy prank of running off to the girl's school I'd let it go. Perhaps a couple of cuts just to keep you focused. But the problem is it's not that at all...you gave a lower classmate a black eye and a bloody nose just for ratting out on you. And from what I heard you laughed as you were doing it. The pussy hunting I can understand even, to a point, but the fighting I can't, not when you've been punished for it before."
As I use the 'pussy' word his face looks surprised. God...so un-British of me to refer to his actions so crudely and he has no idea what to say. He isn't sure what to make of me. I overheard them once refer to me as the "cowboy teacher." If they only knew. Ha! Well, outside, his classmates can be heard chatting in the courtyard below, the sunshine filling the room and the smell of spring strong and in the air. Then I say to him: "Gifford....let's get it done. Since the cane has not been able to make an impression on you, I'm going to give your rear end something new to experience. Today you will be strapped. Perhaps that might make a sufficient impression on you and get you to rethink your anti-social behavior."
The lad stares at me. He looks at the strap...not sure what to say. Then to answer his question before it is asked, I say: "You can drop your pants Gifford...I'm not going to thrash you with the strap wearing pants. No sir I'm not. You can get out of those uniform pants and prepare yourself for a man's punishment. I'm going to give you a hiding you will never forget. Perhaps this time you will get the message and it will sink in."
The boy starts to protest, but he checks himself. The idea of a student talking back to a Master just doesnt enter his British brain, even when he's facing the strap. He swallows...and then he reaches to his belt and soon enough he begins to unbutton his pants.
He drops his pressed school slacks, and folds them carefully, and then only his underwear covers his manhood. He stares at me. His lip quivers, and he hesitates. He still has his school tie on, and his white shirt, and his neat little burgundy blazer that all the boys wear whenever they come for a caning. His shirt hangs down even with the bulge in his drawers. He hesitates...hoping I suspect. I make a motion with my hand, moving my finger downward as I point it at his shorts. His face goes white. Then he says "Sir....may...may I please keep on my shorts?"
I look at him, and suppress the smile. "Mr Gifford, you certainly may NOT. Your underwear hasn't done anything wrong, and I do not intend to punish it. Your bottom is what I'm gong to strap, your very naked bottom young man. This is no cane mister....its a strap. And when you are strapped in my office, you will be strapped on your naked bottom. I certainly wouldn't want you to miss getting the message. Besides, a proper strapping is always given on the bare. So, let's get them down, and get this done. This strap is waiting for you. I know you wouldnt want to keep it waiting any longer than necessary. I'm sure it's anxious to start warming up your rear."
He is almost shaking. Slowly, the boy grabs the edges of his underpants, and hesitates. He swallows, and then his lips come together in a tight line, and after that he makes his move and slides them down. He looks totally humiliated. His prick bounces out, and bobs....and he immediately covers his genitals with his hands and tries to pull his pressed white shirt down further, to cover his exposed genitals. He's a shy one. His blazer is normally worn unbuttoned, and yet he tries to close the front of it. It doesnt work. I can see the blackness of his pubic hair, partially covered, and his face blushes red with embarrassment. I look at him and say "You're quite the man Gifford. Too bad your behavior doesnt reflect it." The boy's cheeks flush redder, and he looks to the floor, humiliated. He's scared, and it's obvious.
"Turn around" I say.
He doesnt know what to do but he seems relieved to face away from me, hiding his prick as he does so. He turns around quickly, facing away from me, and I'm looking at his round little bottom then, the white shirttail covering the top half of it and his jacket right even with his shirt. He has a perfect, bubble but, and it is white and oh-so-sweet. There are six faint lines across his bottom, from his last caning. They have all but healed, but the marks are still visible. Four parallel lines, with two across the others for added effect. Six. Six of the best. I notice the boy is sweating, and the nape of his hair is wet. For a fifteen year old his body is perfect, sprouting his way into adolescence. The back of his thighs are dusted with hair, and under his arms, unseen but still certainly there, are two circles of wetness where he is sweating and where his pit hair is sprouting. The boy is pushing his way into manhood, and his muscles ripple the way they do on a young man whose body is going places.
I make my move. I grab the back of his shirt and his jacket, right below his neck, and spin him around so he is sideways to me, and then I walk him toward the open window. As I do it he staggers...and I can see him staring ahead...not having any idea where I am pushing him or what is going to happen. He seems shocked that I am even touching him, much less forcing him to walk where I want him to go. I think he was expecting to be told to bend himself over the chair, but I walk him past the furniture and right up to the open window instead. Then I push him out, so that his head and shoulders are outside.
He throws his hands out to keep his balance, and grips the window sill, staring, his eyes blinking in the sunlight as he stares down at the quadrangle and the students eating there. I slide my hand to the small of his back, and push him down, so that he is leaning out, gripping the outside shelf of the bricks. I lift up his shirt, and his jacket, high, off the small of his back and push it all upward so as to uncover his bottom completely. Then I grab the old window, and lower it, all the way down until the heavy frame is against the small of his back....hard, pushing down so that only his bent over and very naked bottom is in the room and the rest of him is outside.
I kick his ankles apart then, wide, and then pull him slightly backwards, sliding his legs apart as I do so. His body is at an angle then, half outside and dressed oh-so-perfect, while the other half is inside with his feet stretched wide and apart and totally naked. He's at such an angle from the window that he has to support himself outside with his hands. I can see the cheeks on the boy's face have flushed red...bright red, and as he stares outside I can see he is staring, scared and humiliated, knowing he is totally naked from the waist down and yet he's hanging outside, all dressed up and proper for a punishment, where anyone can see him if they just look up. His round little bubble but is sticking up and out, waiting for the strap and waiting for me. I smile.
Its a nice position for a strapping. His entire naked ass is on display to me....with his sac of teenage balls hanging down full and totally visible. I move to the left side, where I can see the boy's prick, clearly. There is nothing hiding it now. The lad's half hard....his uncircumcised _c_o_c_k_ bouncing, and it juts from his pubic hair like a tree root sprouting from the forest. He has a thin prick, but long, a _c_o_c_k_ of a boy moving toward manhood. The students outside can't see it of course, but I can, and I feast my eyes on it and stare at everything that makes him a man. Finally, I slide the shear curtains closed, around him, leaving him framed in the window. I can still see out, but nobody can see in. His face is cherry red, and he stares, open mouthed, at the friends below who have yet to look up or to notice him.
Above the waist he is dressed perfectly, his tie around his neck and his crisp white shirt and school jacket with the school emblem visible to anyone that looks. Of course, only that part of him is outside. Inside, inside the window and in my study, his naked bottom is totally on display to me alone; open, exposed, and oh-so-vulnerable. I grab the strap and gently let the leather slide over him. His eyes go even wider then, as I let the strap slide over his ass, and up, between his legs. I rotate the handle and the leather slides along his crack, and then I lower it down so that it gently touches his balls. I move the strap around to the front of him, and lift upward on his _c_o_c_k_....sliding the smooth leather under it....along its length. It grows stiff, almost immediately, so that it juts upward then, toward the window that is closed as far as his body will allow. Soon, he's rock hard, and his face is flushed even redder with embarrassment as he waits for this strapping and his boner bobs up and down, pointing upward as if it is eager for it all to begin.
I bring my right hand up, high, and then down, swiftly, bringing the thick leather strap with it and letting it slap across his rear, covering both cheeks and painting his bottom with a two inch wide stripe of vivid red. The blow surprises him, and he was not expecting the sensation his ass delivers to his brain. He bucks his hips and grunts, but the snap-crack sound of the leather escapes the partially open window, and immediately every student is looking around, and then up, to see what has made the strange sound. Of course they can't help but see the boy who is hanging outside, and as they look up, with questioning looks, the lad being punished stares at them with dread. Just then I hit him again, harder, and he bites his lip and bucks his hips again.....and with the CRACKKKKKKKKKKKK and the snap of the leather immediately everyone outside figures it all out in a second. Most of course think he's being caned...but nevertheless it doesnt matter what they think and they can hardly believe what they are watching.
After that I begin his strapping in earnest. I begin then to just work the strap, slapping it across his rear time after time. At first the youth holds himself still...staring ahead, feeling the strap and taking it like he was being caned, stiff and still and oh-so-stoic. Soon enough though the boy starts squirming a little, lifting his left leg and then his right, trying to dodge the blows by wiggling his ass. As he bobs with his buttocks up and down, he stares outward...at his friends looking back and him, squinting with the blows and trying hard to keep himself together.
SWISHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH....... SNAP...... CRACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK........... goes the leather.
SWISHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH...CRACKKKKKKKKKKKKKK.
He grunts then, and swallows, trying desperately to remain stoic, to control the pain and to hold it inside. His eyes are wide open, staring, and he is working hard to keep his expression under control. The youth's naked bottom is already red, bright red, and the fire has to be intense. As he moves his feet and begins to squirm the youth starts to struggle with a renewed intensity.
SWISHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH...CRACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK
Again and again without hesitation I bring the strap down onto his upturned rear. He starts to struggle more, and I need to hold him steady. I know I need to keep him under control, so I reach out and grab the one thing I can hold onto. I grip his erection to steady him and as I do that he gasps, and his eyes go wide as saucers, and then without any further hesitation I am working the strap into his rear again and again and again even as I hold his manhood in my hand.
SWISHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH...CRACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!
SWISHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH....CRACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!
He can't believe someone's gripping his _c_o_c_k_, and as he stares at his friends looking at him his face is aghast. God he's humiliated! The strap is relentless, like an angry nest of wasps, stinging into his rear that is getting ever more sensitive. He makes his first little yelp then, and then again a little louder, and outside I can hear the first hints of laughter as his friends watch him taking his punishment. The burn is intensifying, and unlike the cane he has no idea when it will end. He starts to buck his hips in desperation, and as he does his motion shoves his hard _c_o_c_k_ through my fist, and after that he's squirming and bucking and jerking his hips in a wild, _f_u_c_k_ing motion, trying to relieve the burn and to somehow make this end before it consumes him.
As he does that the skin on his _c_o_c_k_ slides up and down in my fist, and yet I don't think much about it. For one thing, I am concentrating on the strap, and where I am taking it and how hard I am swinging it. I want his entire bottom painted red, bright red, and so I work it up and down across his bottom covering his entire rear thoroughly.
I leave nothing untouched. By rotating my wrist I can bring the strap downward, into his twin orbs one after the other. Like an expert, I paint the strap along the sides of his crack, until the entire area is glowing cherry red. The boy cannot believe the feeling.
His friends stare in disbelief. By now he's grunting with every blow, but trying so hard not to. For the English boy keeping a stiff upper lip and a stoic poise is all that is important to him right now, especially with his classmates staring at him. Of course, I do not relent, but continue to paint his bottom with the strap. I kick his left foot outward, so that his legs are spread further and his bottom is even more exposed. His eyes go wider as his vulnerability increases. I whip my wrist, and as I do I bring the strap into him so that I slap it under both his cheeks, and then upward. The tip of the strap catches his crack, sliding inside this time and just kissing his puckered anus.
He grunts loudly then, and actually yelps when that happens, and there is another roar of laughter as his friends laugh at his reaction. They have no way to know what I am hitting of course, or where, or even with what. Still, they can see their friend squirming, all dressed up in his crisp shirt and tie and school jacket, hanging out the window with his face starting to contort from the pain and the misery. Still, he remains stotic, to a degree.
I flip my wrist this time, and the strap comes up, from underneath, and my aim misses the mark. The leather catches his hanging balls and lifts his entire teenage sac straight up and as it does it carries it forward until his balls themselves actually slap his ass. He yelps then, loud, and there is a burst of laughter as he does. That gets him moving, and suddenly he's struggling to get his ass out of the way. Outside, as his friends watch him squirm and jerk and thrust to dodge the blows that swish and crack and snap through the open window they laugh louder and louder, adding to the boy's embarrassment and to his humiliation.
It's too much. He closes his eyes, struggling even harder to maintain his composure. I turn up the heat even more. I whip the strap faster, then inside his legs, curving it up and around his thighs. He bucks his hips...and after that he is sliding his _c_o_c_k_ in and out of my fist like a piston. He doesn't care...he struggles, and then starts to yelp with each blow after that--struggling desperately to find some motion to relive the fire that burns across his rear and along his hole.
I increase the pace and the intensity of the strapping even more, occasionally catching his balls and turning his entire sac bright red in the process. "Ohhhh... OOOOOOO.... WHOA...... YIKES!..... YEOWWWWWWWWWWW" he yells. And with each comment he makes, the laughter increases, his British friends amazed at his antics as he squirms to dodge the strap that is painting his rear. His prick stays hard, and grows even stiffer, and the end of the boy's _c_o_c_k_ is engorged and purple. Still, he is thrusting into my fist as I grip him, steadying him as I punish the boy and swing the strap.
The strap curves around and snaps again across his asshole. "YEOWWWWWWW" he yells this time, and thrusts his body forward again, hard, slamming his back up against the window and pushing his _c_o_c_k_ into my fist in the process. He arches his back, and stares out with wide, open eyes. Then, suddenly, he gasps and his pubescent voice cracks, and then he squeaks "Ohhhh...OH GOD....oh...oh NOOOOOOO" and then while he stares at his friends and they stare back he starts to ejaculate into my fist. Outside, the boys watching burst into laughter. They have no idea what's happening, but the look on his face is comical and they laugh hysterically as I feel him squirting into my hand.
I can feel him shooting his wad, the youth's jism shooting out of his stiff dick as he grunts. It's quite a mess and my hand grows slick with it. Of course, I continue to paint his rear, my right arm a blur as I move the strap and bring it down hard into the tender spot under his round adolescent cheeks of his bottom. Even so he continues to squirt out his load as his friends watch his expression and laugh outside. The youth is totally humiliated. I pump his _c_o_c_k_ then to make sure he empties all of it and to stretch out his moment of humiliation. At the same time his bottom grows redder and redder by the minute, and soon it is glowing, literally, his entire buttocks bright red and intense and hot to the touch.
As he ejaculates his face is as red as his ass. Of course, none of his friends know he is cumming, but they do see his expression and the shock of his face as he is being strapped. It's quite an expression too! The boy gasps, and the tears come then as he finishes squirting out his load and all of the feelings he's experiencing intensify a hundred fold. Its the ultimate failure for the Brit, the tears pouring out of his cheeks as his bottom feels the strap and his prick pukes his teenage goo. He's crying after that like a first year student....bawling even like a baby as the strap consumes him and his friends watch it happen.
I could go on and on but I've made my point. The boy outside is heaving, gasping for air as he sucks in the tears and cries in great heaving sobs. I let him cry it out, as his friends watch, amazed, the snickers almost continuous as everyone watches the school bully finally get his due. As his sobs slow, I jerk up the window. Without showing myself, I reach out and grab the back of his jacket and shirt, and with a sharp pull I have him inside, staring, gasping, his face so red and he so embarrassed there are not words to describe it.
His hands grab his flame-red bottom, rubbing it, his eyes open and staring and the tears flooding down his face. His drooling prick still juts up, pointing at me, the big fat end glistening and wet. He stares at me in total disbelief, shocked even, the burn in his butt a thousand times anything he has ever felt before. He makes no attempt to cover his dick--his hot bottom is instead holding his attention. The exposed end is fat and purple, the single eye wet and drooling the last of his teenage spunk. He looks down and his face flushes crimson. He can't believe it of course, and he is totally and absolutely humiliated.
I dry my hands with his undershorts. Next, I take the punishment book, and record the date and the reason for his punishment. In the block where the number of strokes are normally placed, I simply write "Well strapped" and then I initial the box. He stares, and says nothing. I look at him, staring at me, with his prick still stuck out and drooling his goo in a clear string that runs all the way to the floor. His pubic hair is wet, like a mop, and he is dripping sweat from the sides of his head. The boy simply can't believe what has happened.
I look at him and finally I say: "Well Gifford....I'm waiting....unless you want a caning too?"
He blinks...and swallows and sucks in a lungful of air. He wipes his eyes with his hands, and I see him swallow then, and even as I watch he straightens up and his hands leave his bottom for his sides. The transformation astonishes me in a way, the pride of the British boy visible even in his humiliated state. The boy takes control of himself, and his severely whipped bottom, which of course has to be burning as if was literally on fire. Still, the boy looks up at me, eye to eye, and in a voice which holds hardly a tremor, he says, "Ah....no...NO SIR! I'm...I'm sorry sir. Thank you for giving me such a good hiding, which I thoroughly deserved. I shall not allow my bad behavior to reoccur."
With that, he looks me straight in the eye, wordlessly begging me to keep the details of his ultimate humiliation between us. I smile, and give him a nod. His dignity amazes me, the stotic way he stands there, his bare and well-thrashed bottom hot and red and burning, and even with his prick bobbing before me he still stands tall with pride. The boy, bare-tailed and soundly thrashed, then offers me a firm, unreserved, handshake, which I glady accept.
Ah...so formal. So British. Thanking me for punishing him. I smile. Then I say "You're welcome Gifford. You may get dressed now and return to your classes. I had better not see you in here again, or next time I won't stop so quickly."
His eyes go wide, and he nods, and I hand him his folded trousers and his damp drawers that are spotted with his cream where I have wiped my hands. He says nothing, and ignores the mess, and then he puts them on as if they were fresh from the laundry. As I watch he has to bend his _c_o_c_k_ to stuff it inside. Its a delicate matter, as his boner is still jutting out, the way it does on a teenager right after he's ejaculated, and his underwear is small and can't really contain it.
He slides his slacks up next, and then he winces as he pulls them on but he doesnt make a sound. After that, almost in a flash he has his shirt tucked in. With one more "Thank you Sir" he turns and then he's out my door. I smile, and go to the window, and feel the warmth of the afternoon. Outside, the entire quadrangle is filled with students, all staring, staring at the window and now at me. I wave to them, and they look away, and after that I turn around and prepare for my next class.
[Authors note: © Copyright May 2003. All rights reserved. Not to be copied without the consent of the author. All comments are appreciated, more than you can know. If you liked it, please tell me. I will answer every letter. Nathan9001@yahoo. com]