My adopted son, Rick, is now almost twelve and has been with me for close to a year. When I adopted him from a Hong Kong orphanage, he looked wild and unkempt in shorts and singlet. He also had a definitely defiant attitude towards the institutions staff. He is a very handsome child, with smooth, warm bronze-coloured skin, straight black hair – kept rather too long at that time – and large dark eyes. The slightly heavy eyelids were noticeable only when he smiled (occasionally) or cried (frequently)when they squinted to a small slit.
I liked him from the start and his rebellious behaviour did not bother me. I knew I would correct is attitude very quickly. I had him properly bathed and then took him to a childrens outfitter for a clean pair of shorts and shirt. I kept him barefoot despite the hot sidewalks as this kept his attention on the soles of his feet instead of on where I was taking him or what was in store for him.
By now we have gotten used to each other. Frequent applications of cane and tawse have taught him to discard his defiance as well as learn (almost) instant obedience. Of course he has his relapses, but one expects that with boys his age. His hygiene has improved somewhat although I have to keep a sharp eye on his daily habits.
I have been dealing with young boys for several years as headmaster of a local private school and have found that cane and tawse (or the birch rod when available) are essential equipment to further their education and behaviour. For this reason, I had introduced these instruments from the very first day I had taken him home. His behaviour during the return trip had not been exemplar and I had to spank him soundly in the airlines lounge while waiting for connecting flight. Since he wore only shirt and shorts, the latter was quickly removed. I retrieved a short, very thick strap from my carry-on suitcase and administered that first spanking in full view of the other passengers who watched with fascination and great amusement. Needless to say, the child was utterly humiliated by the experience of having his bare backside strapped in public, but he gave me less trouble during the remainder of the trip.
During these last 5 or 6 months his attitude and behaviour have gradually improved but I can never relax my control over him. It is necessary, when dealing with boys his age, to maintain constant, rigid discipline. He is supervised at all times except when asleep, including his visits to the bathroom. I allow him no privacy and no modesty and even after all these months he still finds this extremely shaming. Which is, of course, the whole purpose.
I watch him get out of bed in the morning, when he is in the bathroom and during all his other act ivies. I dress him, always in shirt and shorts (the latter quite tight and very brief). We have breakfast together after which we retire to my study for his lessons.
As usual, Rick is slow, unenthusiastic and inattentive during lessons. He shifts about on his hard seat despite my repeated warnings. I know his bottom is still quite tender from the last caning a couple of days ago, but that is no excuse. He still has to learn more self-control.
At lunch time, we move to the kitchen where the maid has prepared a small meal for us. As we eat, I look at the boy and make a decision.
"Rick," I say, putting down my fork. "Stand up. From now on we will have an occasional inspection of your personal habits. I have tried to inculcate in you the need for absolute cleanliness and warned you to keep your clothes neat."
"Yes, sir," Rick says with a shrug, and stands up.
"Move away from the table so I can have a proper look at you," I say, moving my chair so as to have a better view. He stands, almost slouching, hands against his bare thighs.
"Stand up straight, boy," I admonish him sharply.
He wears a white, shirt and light grey flannel shorts with a black leather belt. It is winter and already quite cold. I dont heat the house (except my study) and I see his bare legs are red and covered with goose bumps. He looks strong and healthy, his light tan skin glows, his bare thighs are quite muscular for a boy his age. The calves bulge like small balls.
"Show me your hands," I say and inspect them closely. "Turn them over," I add. I can immediately see that his nails are not clipped and some dirt has accumulated under one or two of them.
I draw him closer, and inspect ears and neck. Not properly washed, I decide. His shorts are neat and crisp; apparently he put on a new pair. I have to check with the maid whether she had put them out for him or whether the boy had decided on his own which was, of course, strictly forbidden. I inspect him from head to toe as he stands fidgeting nervously.
" I am quite disappointed in you," I finally say. "I thought you were old enough to be trusted to be more careful with your appearance. Look at those fingernails, a disgrace! Your belt needs polishing in the back and your shoes! Have you polished them in the last month even once? They are scuffed and filthy. What am I going to do with you, Rick?"
Rick hangs his head. He know what is coming but keeps silent.
"I will tell you what I will do with you. Follow me to the study."
I march off towards the study and the boy trudges behind me. He is already sniffling with fear. I open the door and let him in. His hands are protectively clasped around his chubby little bottom.
"Bring me the senior cane," I say, watching his face. As expected, he gasped.
"The s-senior cane, sir?" he asks in a small, shaking voice.
"Yes, and you better hop to it, boy. I dont like having to repeat myself nor waiting for small boys to obey my orders."
He is about to say something, changes his mind and shuffles over to the cupboard where I keep my instruments of instruction. He selects the cane and brings it over, holding it at arms length as if afraid it will bite. As it will shortly, painfully, into his buttocks. Its a very effective implement, about three quarters of an inch thick and three feet long.
I take the cane and swish it the way a headmaster is supposed to swish a cane before administering a sound thrashing. "For the belt, you will get three strokes on each hand. Hold out your right one."
After a brief hesitation, he extends his small hand, palm upwards, fingers straight. I wait a few seconds, then raise the cane and whip it sharply across his palm. Rick takes a quick intake of breath and suppressed a cry.
"Left hand," I say and, after a suitable pause, lash the cane down. Another loud gasp from the boy who is shaking his hands trying to cool the sting.
"Right hand," I continue, but when the stroke falls, the boy lowers his hand slightly. "This one doesnt count. You will hold your hand properly." Stroke number two cracks across his right hand and Rick whines.
"Left hand," I say. Rick has trouble holding out his smarting hand. "You want some extras?" I ask, and he quickly brings up his bruised hand.
One more stroke on each palm and Rick is bawling.
"For the shoes, a further three across your palms," I say, amused at the panicked expression on his small face. His eyes are wide open in a pleading look which I ignore.
"Right hand."
Again I am forced to administer extra strokes for not holding up his hand properly but finally the second set of three have been branded across his palms which now start to swell. Purple welts cover them both.
"For your dirty finger nails, I will now give you six across your bottom. Take your shorts down and bend over."
Rick squeaks. "Please, sir -" but I interrupt.
"Shorts!" I shout. Rick unfastens his belt and pushes the shorts down. His shirt reaches down only to his waist so now he stands bare from waist to ankles. He bends and grasps his ankles.
The senior cane is excellent for application of a boys buttocks. I select the flesh parts where bottom meets thighs and give him all six across that area. After the third, Rick, now blubbering freely, reaches back to soothe his flaming backside and thereby earns himself three extra strokes.
After the nine strokes, Rick is swaying and his knees are bent. This is not a position I allow during a caning.
"Rick, you are being very disobedient. You know very well to stay in position and keep your hands away from you bottom. It seems I have not been strict enough with you and you are starting to disobey and ignore my rules. I will not have that. Get up and bend over the back of the leather chair. We will continue until I feel your attitude has changed."
The boy walks over to the chair and bends over, presenting his wealed behind at a nice angle. I see old bruises that are starting to fade underneath the new welts I have just painted across the lower buttocks.
"We will start with another six," I say pleasantly and raise the cane. He takes two, then with a little cry, straightens up and holds his wealed bottom after a particularly hard and well-aimed stroke across the uppermost parts of his thighs. "Three extra," I say.
Nine strokes later, the lower half of his little bottom is covered with deep red double welts . I swish the cane. "I dont think this has done the trick yet," I say. Lets continue. Six strokes, and I advise you to comport yourself properly or we will be at it for the rest of the day."
Rick whimpers and grabs the far end of the chair seat, tensing his buttocks. Another piteous look at me hoping for a reprieve which he doesnt get. Slowly, methodically, I cane the bending boy up and down the naked cheeks so that by the end of the last six cuts, his small bottom is wealed from top to thigh.
"Are you going to obey, boy?" I inquire.
"Yes, sir," the boy whimpers.
"Are you going to wash and keep your nails neat?"
"Yes, sir."
"And your clothes, including shoes and belt?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. Here, take the cane back to the cupboard."
Rick takes the cane and walks over and replaces it in the cupboard.
"Now bring me the tawse. The heavy one."
Rick gapes at me. He had expected his punishment to be at an end.
"Obedience, boy," I say with menace in my voice. "You just promised me obedience. Now you see why I have to give you a dozen with the tawse, dont you?"
"Y-yes, sir," Rick mumbles, He is crying loudly again. I notice his eyes are red and the lids swollen. His entire face is wet with tears and snot.
He brings back the thick leather strap, two-tailed and about 30 inches long. "Please, sir, Im so sore," he begs. "Ill be good."
"One dozen," I reply. And he takes them. I apply each stroke with extra force and the leather claps against his bottom with loud cracks. His round, rubbery buttocks shake as the tails whip into them and he blubbers again. But this time he stays in position.
When the twelfth stroke has been given, he takes the tawse back to the cupboard.
"Into the corner now, boy," I say. "Hands behind your head and think about the lesson you have learned this morning. This afternoon you will write a five-page essay on the punishment and its effect on naughty little boys."
I leave the study and close the door behind me, leaving the weeping Rick to enjoy a well-whipped backside. When it comes time for reviewing his essay, I fear the cane may have to be brought into action once more.