Brian Randall looked at his nephew with disdain. At ten years of age, youd think a boy would have more muscle and less fat. But Harry, in his eyes, was too plump , too soft and too spoiled. Well, now that he had custody of the stupid brat, he was able to do something about it.
"Strip," he said harshly.
"Why?"
SLAP! SLAP! Two resounding slaps across the boys face, one left, one right, that sent the startled boy reeling. "Ow! he squealed.
"I said, Strip. Now do it or youll get something worse than a few slaps."
Trying to keep the tears in his eyes from overflowing, young Harry slowly discarded his wooly sweater, his shirt, undershirt, shoes, socks and baggy jeans. Then he stood, uncertainly, in his underpants. His round belly protruded above the waistband. A piece of marshmallow, was Randalls opinion.
SLAP! SLAP! Another two hefty blows across the boys cheeks.
"When I told you to strip, I meant strip," his uncle snapped, "not standing ther like an idiot in those ridiculous bloomers. Now take them off. I will not repeat myself again."
"But, Uncle -"
They were standing in Randalls study and Brian Randall now walked to a cupboard in the corner and opened the doors. He stood for a moment looking inside, then retrieved a long, heavy cane which he brought back and held under his nephews nose.
"Do you know what this is, boy?" he asked, lifting the boys face by pushing his nose upward with the tip of the cane.
"Oh - er - its - its a cane?" Harry mumbled stepping back to get out of reach of that cane.
"Yes, its a cane, child. And do you know what canes are for?"
"For - er - for beating?"
"Yes, they are meant to thrash disobedient little boys bare bottoms until said naughty little boys become very, very obedient. We will now try this one out and see whether they can accomplish the same objective with you. Come here."
With his free hand, Randall took hold of the boys ear and dragged him towards a sturdy straight-backed chair which he pulled towards the centre of the room. "Here, bend over the back. All the way over, and hold on to the front legs as far down as you can reach."
Randall watched as the boy reluctantly bent over the chair. He looks like a bloated pig, Randall thought. Fat and pink. Well, Ill roast some of his ham.
He stepped up to the boy and pulled his underpants down to his ankles. "Step out of them," he ordered. In this position, the boy thought better than to argue. He kicked the pants free of his feet and Randall threw them to one side. "These wont be needed in the future," he said. "Spread your feet as far as you can," he added.
Harry spread his feet.
"Wider, boy, and dont play games with me or itll just be worse."
The feet moved farther apart.
"More. Much wider. I want to hear those joints crack," Randall snapped.
The feet moved an inch further. Randall put down the cane, stepped up to the boy and, grasping each thigh he pulled them apart until Harry gasped.
"Please, Uncle, that hurts."
Randall disregarded this uncalled-for complaint and picked up the cane. He stood behind the boy and gazed at the boys exposed buttocks. He tapped them with the cane. "This is your first time," he said, "and I will be lenient. Twelve strokes."
He raised the cane high and brought it down forcefully across the lower cheeks. He put a lot of muscle into that first stroke and for a fraction of a second there was an astonished silence. Then, the boy opened his eyes and mouth, raised his head and let out a huge bovine bellow. Just a little coward, Randall thought. Ill teach him stoicism soon enough. He raised the cane again.
When it landed, just below the first, another cry of pain followed instantly and two small hands flew back to grasp the burning flesh. "Please, sir! Oh, ow, ow. It hurts!"
"Put your hands back where they belong. Whenever you move out of position, I will start punishment from scratch. Try and remember that, wont you? Itll save us both a lot of time. Very well, twelve strokes."
Two more fierce strokes across the quivering buttocks and Harry jumped up, bleating pathetically. "Please, Uncle," he cried. "Not so hard! Im so sore!"
"We start from the beginning," was Randalls sole response. "And you better learn quickly if you want to keep that fat bottom of yours in one piece."
Implacably, Randall restarted the caning each time the boy cried out with pain. But even dumb little idiot boys eventually learn when their backside burn and throb enough. Randall was very patient and simply caned and caned until the lesson at last sank in. Young Henry must have absorbed a full dozen by the time he finally took eachof the subsequent twelve strokes in obedient silence.
Randall was satisfied. He knew how to deal with stubborn ten-year-old scamps and when you flogged them enough they will gradually realise that they have no other option. If they want the pain to stop, they will just have to obey orders. He put the cane away and after several minutes allowed the silently weeping boy to rise. His uncle stood for a moment studying the dark weals that were rising and turning purple. The lower buttocks, already starting to swell, hung in a heavy fold over the thighs. The upper thighs also had received their due.
"Stand up straight, boy, and pull in that gut," he snapped. "You look a disgrace. Go outside. You will see a bridle path around the lake. You will run ten laps and be back here in exactly one hour. If you fail in either the time or the laps, youll get another thrashing, so youd better run hard. Itll do you good."
Henry stood there for a moment, each hand around a glowing bottom cheek and stared at his uncle. He could hardly walk, each step giving him agonising pain, and now he was supposed to run? A full hour? For God knows how many miles? He just couldnt believe this was real. It was a nightmare and he had to wake up.
While the boy stood, open-mouthed, caressing his wealed behind, Randall had gone back to the cupboard and returned with a very serviceable Scots tawse. Three feet long, two inches wide and almost a half-inch thick, the receiving end split into two heavy tails, it was an intimidating instrument. Without another word, Randall lashed the tawse full force across the boys swollen lower bottom.
Miraculously, young Harry realised he was not dreaming. The pain of the thick leather was real enough and he jumped with the burning sting on his smarting flesh. But before he had time to react sensibly, another strokes, even harder, found the underbum that drove the buttocks upwards. Harry howled.
"You will obey when I tell you to do something," Randall said, raising the tawse once more, but before he had a chance to deliver another fleshy cut to that round, plump little rump, the boy fled.
With a little smile, Randall stood by the window and watched as the naked little child started on his long, strenuous run. He took his stop watch from a desk drawer and started it. He didnt have to count the laps; he knew the boy would have to return in an hour, exhausted and admit that he had not been able to finish the required laps. He would be on his honour to tell his uncle exactly how many laps he had completed and the corresponding punishment would then be implemented. He had not yet decided how many strokes he would be giving the boy for each lap not run. He sat behind his desk, picked up some papers and began to work.
He was interrupted some time later by Geraldine, his wife, entering the study.
"Brian," she said, "I see the child is doing his morning exercise. And having had a glimpse at his bottom, I venture to say that youve had your exercise as well. Was it very bad?"
"What, my exercise or the boy?" Randall grinned.
"Oh, I know youre used to that kind of exercise from your headmaster days. No, I meant the boy, of course. Will he fit into our lives without too much disturbing our habits?"
"I will do my best to educate him properly. If he responds promptly to my training, we should have him in line within a few months. It may take longer, of course, if he is stubborn, and I will have extra hard exercise as you call it. But yes, eventually he wont be too much of a bother. Just give us some time. Youll see Ill make a strong, athletic and most obedient little boy out of him even if I have to thrash that backside of his on a daily basis."
Geraldine nodded. "Better also let me have a good strap so I can look after him when youre not here. I dont want the brat to think that he can do what he wants when youre not here. As you know, I have my bridge parties on Wednesdays and the book club on Fridays. I also like to invite a group of your friends every now and then for dinner. I must be sure that the boy behaves himself."
"Yes, certainly," Randall said with a chuckle. "You can use that shorter one, its thicker than the long ones I normally use and will be easier to use at closer range. I suggest you use it freely during the day. If there is no opportunity or time to have him lower his shorts, just work on those thighs. They look strong enough to take any amount of strappings. And the marks will alert our guests to be careful: Beware of Disobedient Boy. Maybe we should make a little placard with this warning, along the line of David Copperfield."
They laughed. Geraldine turned towards the window just in time to see the naked boy galloping along the bridle path. A young colt, not yet broken, gasping for breath, his black and blue backside bouncing at each step.
"Hes slowing down, I see," Geraldine said. "He will need a great deal of training."