The Sjambok and the Shed


by Tristan <Yobo30@hotmail.com>

Christopher got out of bed slowly. The first thing that he remembered was the conversation that he had had with his dad the evening before. The burly farmer had slowly read through his 12 year old son's school report, shaking his head and looking more and more grim as he read each teacher's comment. The report had been a poor one, even for Christopher, who was not particularly talented in the classroom. The pre-teen admitted that not only had he made little effort over the past term, but his behaviour had also been pretty bad. In fact, he still sported three faint stripes across his young bottom from the headmaster's cane.

"I will deal with you in the morning, son," Christophers dad had announced, and the boy knew what that meant. His father would soundly thrash his backside. Chris could take a pretty sound caning at school, but whippings from his father were far more intense and severe. The little boy went to bed with a heavy heart.

Christopher headed for the bathroom after glancing at his watch. His dad did not have to explain to the boy what was expected. He knew the procedure well, and didn't for a moment even consider not following it. He took off his pyjamas and got into the shower. After soaping his slender, hairless body, the child finally dried himself off, then, naked, he walked straight past his bedroom door and headed downstairs. The house was silent. His father was already off somewhere on the vast farm seeing to some chores and would no doubt be expecting Chris to be ready and waiting for his punishment. In the kitchen, the lad opened the broom cupboard and extracted the sjambok that would be used on his bottom. Whip in hand, the dejected looking child left the house, pausing only to put on his sandals, and began the long trip to the shed in which he was always beaten.

The sun was shining, its warmth touching the naked boy as he slowly walked along the tracks through the fields. Absently he swished the whip lightly across trees and bushes as he passed them, his mind on the hiding that he would be receiving shortly. Although Christopher could see no one, he knew that there would be the occasional farm worker about, even on a Saturday. But he had made this long, 40 minutes' walk many times before, and had stopped being embarrassed. The farm workers never mentioned anything to him, respecting the fact that the boy would have his bottom thrashed severely enough as it was without having to be teased over it. Any one who did watch, would have seen a good looking, blond, slim youth. Chris's body was well-toned from all his sports and, of course from living on a farm. He was well sun tanned, which emphasised the strip of whiteness around the centre of his body, that was not normally exposed to the sun. His hairless groin area and rounded, firm bottom almost glowed in the sunlight. The 12 year-olds muscular buttocks flexing and moving to the rhythm of his walking. Those who did see him knew that when he walked back the tender white flesh of his bottom would be battered and bruised.

Eventually, Christopher arrived at the shed. It was an old building, originally used to house two tractors, but now stood empty, its only use now was as a venue for Chris's hidings. Why he didn't just get his bottom thrashed in the house was a mystery to the pre-teen. He hated the whole ceremony of having to walk, stark naked, sjambok in hand, all the way to the shed. But he never dared to complain. The boy entered the shed, knowing that it was his job to see that the room was ready for his punishment. There was a padded trestle in the centre of the floor, exactly where he had left it last time, and diligently Chris dusted it off and wiped it clean. Then he checked that the Velcro straps were in place and in good working order, strong enough to hold him down by his ankles and wrists as his father whipped his bottom. When he was satisfied, he carefully wiped down the sjambok, placed it on top of the trestle, then left the shed again. Now, standing at attention, the increasingly nervous 12 year-old boy placed his nose on the wall of the shed next to the door to await the arrival of his dad.

It must have been at least another half-hour before the man arrived in his off road truck. He walked straight past the naked, nervous boy and into the shed. After inspecting the trestle and the whip, he called to his son, "Come in, Christopher!"

Christopher entered the shed like a condemned man, head down, shoulders slumped, and went to stand in front of the trestle. His daddy shut the door and bolted it firmly. He had picked up the sjambok and was swishing it through the air, getting a feel for its length and weight again. Christopher had been beaten in the shed since he was seven years old. His father had used a strap until he was nine, then a cane. The boy had only graduated to the sjambok after his 12th birthday. Today's hiding would be his second encounter with the dreaded whip. Nothing was said between man and boy as the man stood behind his naked son, admiring the slim, strong physique of the pre-teen. Although he absolutely adored Christopher, and the child worshipped him, he actually thoroughly enjoyed beating the lads lovely, rounded bottom. He was looking forward to this immensely. After letting Chris sweat for a few more moments, he said, "I intend to teach you a lesson today about the importance of school. The aim of this hiding is to see if I can get my point across to your brain via your bottom, since your ears don't seem to do a very good job. Perhaps you will listen the whip across your backside better than my voice."

"I'm sorry daddy," the naked little boy answered softly, "I know you warned me, and I didn't listen. So I deserve a really good hiding. Please sir, do as you must."

"Bend over."

Christopher stepped forward to the trestle and slowly bent his body over it. The trestle had been built by his father purely for this purpose, and the man had adjusted it as his son had grown taller. It was at the perfect height for the boy to bend over comfortably. The man strapped the lads ankles to the legs of the trestle, spreading his feet about half a metre apart. His well spread legs meant that Christopher would not be able to clench his exposed buttocks as the whip did its work, and also meant that his bottom would be completely open and receptive to punishment. When he was younger, and smaller, he had really had to stretch his legs wide on the trestle. This meant that his dad's strap had often licked right between his buttocks, snapping with blinding pain into the little boys bottom hole. At least the sjambok crossed both cheeks evenly, although, of course, the pain of the sjambok was infinitely worse than the leather strap.

The man walked around to the front of his bending boy and secured his wrists. Then he crossed back behind the child, still swishing the whip menacingly through the air. But he had one more duty to perform before he commenced with the hiding. He placed the sjambok gently on the floor, then, from a shelf, he removed a tub of anti-inflammatory cream. Gently and thoroughly he massaged the cream into the rounded, soft but resilient bottom cheeks of the boy, noting, but choosing to ignore, the three old, fading stripes that must have been left by Christopher's headmaster's cane. This ritual had several purposes. It made Christopher even more nervous, as his small bottom felt very cool and sensitive after the rubbing. The cream did in fact bring the nerves to a heightened efficiency, which would increase the pain of the hiding, making the boy feel as if his backside was being sliced open by the whip, while in fact his dad made sure that he never broke the skin. What Christopher did not know was that the cream would speed up his healing and actually contribute towards a relief of pain when the hiding was over.

Wiping his hand with his handkerchief Christopher's dad put the cream away and retrieved the sjambok. It was time to commence the hiding. There was never a set number of strokes for Christopher's hidings, although the man always made sure that when he thrashed his son, he did a very thorough job indeed. He tapped the tip of the whip gently on each tightly bent buttock, then traced it gently over the perfectly symmetrical small bottom before him. Christopher said nothing, and kept absolutely still as he was expected to. He closed his eyes when the whip was lifted from his bottom, and braced himself. There was a long pause, then a whistling sound as the sjambok descended through the air towards his helpless naked bum. The explosion of pain in one intense stripe arrived only moments after the loud crack of the sjambok as it violently wrapped around the pre-teens tender cheeks. Christopher had forgotten how painful the sjambok was - this was only his second hiding with the whip, and the agony took his breath away. After a long pause the second stroke fell, and the little boy sobbed as it burnt into his soft backside. His dad was waiting at least 30 seconds between strokes, and the pre-teen boy desperately regretted the behaviour that had put him in this position. He just couldn't understand how he had been so silly, knowing the obvious consequence of his actions would be such a sore bottom. A regret, no doubt, that has been shared by generations of instinctively naughty little boys!

When the sjambok snapped around his bottom for the 5th time, Chris could no longer hold back, and yelped pitifully, squirming helplessly against his bonds. He was always grateful that his dad tied him down for his hidings, as the humiliation of leaping up would have been terrible, and he knew that he would never have been able to stay down without being held down. He could stay down easily for the cane at school, but his daddy's hidings made the headmaster's hidings pale by comparison. The whip snapped across his up raised bottom again, causing the 12 year-old to wail out in agony. The first stripe had landed deep into the meat of his under bum, and then, the man had started half way between the child's back and legs, slowly, methodically working his way down the boys lower bottom. Christopher could just squirm against the straps that held him firmly, sobbing and gasping as his daddy soundly thrashed his hind quarters. Although the boy cried out as lash after lash snapped into his tender, wide spread buttocks, he never once asked for mercy, knowing that his dad would give him precisely what he deserved, no more and no less.

Eventually, one dozen deep red, turning purple raised welts decorated the lower half of Christopher's rounded, neat young bottom and his father paused. As the hiding had progressed he had taken longer and longer between strokes, so that Christopher had been tied to the trestle for nearly 15 minutes - 15 minutes of total agony. To the boy, it felt as though his bottom cheeks had been pressed against a hot grill. He could no longer make out the individual lines, his backside was just two throbbing, burning little cheeks of agony. He had known that his hiding would be bad, but had allowed himself to forget just how painful a good whipping was! The man was tempted to stop the punishment, but knew his duty. Taking careful aim, he raised the sjambok up thrashed it down, diagonally across the pre-teens small, battered bare bottom, so that the tip of the whip dug into the flesh that had already been the target of the last three strokes, just above the boy's legs, the stroke burning diagonally across the lad's spread cheeks, right across the other dozen lashes. Christopher screamed, but his father ignored him, simply crossing around to the other side of the sobbing boy and lashing his little bottom diagonally in the other direction. Then he was satisfied. Christopher's bottom had indeed been properly beaten, and he decided that the 12 year-old had been punished enough. He released the boy, and as soon as the pre-teen got up, the child, without even touching his burning bottom turned and buried his face in his fathers shirt, begging for forgiveness and promising to mend his ways. Father and son stayed like that for a few minutes, then the man disengaged himself gently, stroked the boy's head reassuringly and left, off to continue working on the farm. Christopher picked up to whip and slowly, limping, began the long walk back to their house, looking forward to sitting in a cold bath to sooth his throbbing bottom.


More stories by Tristan