Author's Note 1:
It never hurts to say thank you (although when you have to say it with your bottom all sore after a good hard caning, it can be a bit uncomfortable!) so I thought Id start by thanking MMSA Stories for his wonderful archive. I can't at all blame him that his whole submission process is automated, because I suppose he gets so many stories each week, most of them from really good writers not like me, that it would be impossible to check them all individually. It's just a pity that for some reason – I expect his Hard Drive needs a good paddling! – his software seems to eliminate apostrophes. So when I wrote in Part 1 that Richard Hardness was five FOOT nine inches tall, what came out was 59", which of course is 10" shorter than it should have been. And most of us, if I can be a little personal for a moment, can't afford to lose 10". Actually that didnt bother me so much as the email I received from a boy in South Africa who read the story and wrote to say that he too was 14 and 59" tall, and was forever being teased by bullies at school about being so short, which is what happens if you abolish the cane, Mr. Mandela!! "59" is not a typical 14-year-olds height," he wrote. So I started by saying "thank you" and I'll finish by saying "sorry" for any offence my apparent heightism may have caused anyone. Oh and I've turned my smart quotes off (thank you for helping there, Mrs. ABW!) to see if that makes a difference.
Author's Note 2:
I shouldn't need to say by now that this story is completely fiction and I'm totally and completely against all non-consensual corporal punishment and all corporal punishment of children everywhere. But someone asked me in email whether, if a boy knew in advance he would be caned for doing a thing, but went ahead and did it anyway, that wasn't giving consent. I laughed when I read that, but then I realized how important it was to have these disclaimers, to guard against that kind of wrongheaded, muddled and proto-abusive thinking!!
Author's Note 3:
I'm sorry about all these notes. I'll get right on with the story now.
A Jolly Hard Thrashing Part Two
On the morning after his fourteen-year-old bottom had been soundly punished with only the protection of a thin pair of underpants by the cane of his head of house, Dick woke up very stiff indeed. Groggily he slipped a hand down the back of the striped pyjamas he was wearing and carefully stroked and squeezed his poor adolescent buttocks. There certainly were some straight lines, and it felt as if he had slept on a gridiron, which of course he hadn't at all because he was in his bed in the Junior Dormitory of Caningham Hall, the expensive but unprogressive boarding school in England to which his father had sent him for a year while he (Dick's father) went to the United States to be the British Ambassador in New York.
For a few moments, young Richard was very groggy and unsure of himself. The truth was he had been having a very vivid dream in which Peter Thrasher, his head of house, had bent him over in the privacy of the Prefects' Common Room, taken down his shorts and white cotton underwear, and given him six hard strokes with the senior cane (which was a special kind of cane that hurt a lot more than the junior cane.) The dream had been very vivid, and Richard was surprised to find himself in bed. He was also a little worried because in the dream he had sort of wanted thrasher to cane him bare like that, even though he knew it would hurt his bare bottom terribly. 'I hope there's nothing wrong with me,' he thought.
In fact, having tea and crumpets with Thrasher in his study after the first caning had been a very enjoyable experience for the younger boy. He has felt good at having taken his first-ever caning, and flattered at all the attention being paid to him by the tall muscular head of house and captain of the Rugby team.
Unfortunately his reverie was interrupted by a sharp blow in the ribs. "Come on Hardness you duffer," said the voice of Todge, one of his dorm-mates. "There's only ten minutes till Stuffers, and if we're late for that Thrasher'll skin us alive with his cane."
"Yes," said Wang, who was a nice Chinese boy from Malaysia whose parents wanted him to have a proper British education, "you know how strict they are with new boys."
"I should think he does," said Todge. "Let's have another look."
Richard allowed himself to be rolled over and have his pyjamas pulled down. The two boys whistled at what they saw. Five juicy parallel stripes placed with millimeter accuracy and the sixth crossing over them expertly.
"Gosh," said Wang, "he really is quite a caner."
Richard didn't have much time to think about how this made him feel, though if he had he might have been even more surprised at himself. He got out of bed and rushed through the process of washing and dressing, in order to get down to the dining hall before the bell went for the beginning of Stuffers, which would mean he was officially late.
Unfortunately, Richard was not a tidy boy, and he simply couldn't find one of his socks. At home, of course, he had maids and butlers and underbutlers to pick up after him, so he had never given the location of his clothing much thought. But now it trapped him, and by the time he located it, stuffed down the inside of his bed, the bell was going and he was late. He rushed down the stairs, just in time to see the last of the prefects disappearing in procession into a silent hall. Four hundred and fifty boys and thirty staff stood at their places while Dr. Squires walked into the room and took his place at the head of Top Table.
Heads of Houses scanned their boys, making a mental note of minor dress infractions or other misdemeanours which would be dealt with later. Peter Thrasher was proud of how his whole house had turned out. Neat, smart, standing to attention, ties straight and blazers buttoned. Truly a serried rank of smartness. Except.
Except wasn't that an empty space, between those two new boys, Todge, and the Chinese lad? Yes, dammit, it was. And wasn't that the Hall Door, which he had just closed, himself, behind the Headmaster, creaking open again? And wasn't that young Hardness, tie askew, blazer unbuttoned, socks drooping like lilies in a heatwave, trying to get to his place as quickly as possible, with the ridiculous idea that no-one would see him?
Peter heard a soft snigger from Guy Belter who was standing beside him at Top Table. "Oh dear," was all Guy said, and Peter felt a flash of anger. Hardness was a bloody oaf who would have to be taught a proper lesson.
"Good morning boys," said Dr. Squires, sonorously.
"Good morning, sir," chorused four hundred and fifty voices.
"Thrasher's House, one Demerit," said Dr. Squires, raising no more than half an eyebrow. "For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen."
Morning school dragged dreadfully for Dick, and he had to endure not only the misery of knowing he had a break-time appointment with Thrasher, but also the teasing of some of his classmates. Todge and Wang stuck to him loyally, but other boys made swishing noises and smirked at him. It was truly an awful prospect. He still has six fresh stripes on his poor little bottom from yesterday, and now more were going to be added, and worse. He wished he were back at Hardness Hall. He wished his father were here. When they prayed for forgiveness in chapel, he couldn't even bring himself to join in the deviant chorus about having left undone those things that we ought to have buttoned up.
He waited miserably outside Thrasher's study while the other boys were enjoying their breaktime cocoa and custard creams. Then he heard a voice say, "Come in."
Peter Thrasher was not a cruel boy, but he was fed up to the back teeth with all the ragging he'd had that morning from the other Prefects about his House, and he was furious about the Demerit which meant they would start with a handicap in the House cross-country running competition. He had already got out the sharpest of his canes, a lithe waxed yellow monster with a knob-end handle which had cost six shillings in old money, and he intended to make sure this boy felt every pennysworth.
"It's very clear to me," said Peter, looking at the miserable just-teen boy standing in front of him in his school uniform and tight-fitting grey shorts, "that you are the kind of boy who only learns when the lesson is sharpest. I see my crumpet was wasted on you, wasn't it?"
Dick felt thoroughly miserable. He had let down himself, the House, his Father, and worst of all Thrasher who had shown him so much kindness yesterday by beating his y-fronts-covered bottom with a cane."
"I'm sorry," he said.
"You bloody will be," said Thrasher. "I should send you up to the Doctor for a good swishing."
Dick looked at him pleadingly.
"Yes I should," said Peter, finding it hard not to warm to this scamp, even though he was angry with him. "I'm only allowed to give you six, and even with Mr. Whippy here, that hardly seems enough."
He walked around the miserable boy, enjoying the sight of his tight little bottom in the school shorts.
"If you got a swishing from the Doctor," he said, watching the boy's firm cheeks clench involuntarily, "that would at least take away the House Demerit."
"Oh, please, Thrasher," said young Dick, plaintively. "Please couldn't you punish me instead? I'd much rather."
"Well," said Peter Thrasher, "I'll just bet you would. When the Doctor swishes you, you have to wait a few days, and make the birches yourself with the help of Lear, the undergardner who is a highly unsavoury character, and the whole experience leaves you marked for weeks. I'm sure your Pater told you all about it."
"Gosh, yes," said Richard. "I mean, no."
"So a little caning from me is hardly in the same class, is it?" said Peter Thrasher, leaning into the innocent young face in front of him. "Unless ...."
"Unless what....?"
"Unless you agree that I can beat you BARE," said Peter, laying heavy emphasis on the last word which is why it's in upper case letters.
Poor Richard, what a terrible choice now lay before him. If he took the humiliation of the Doctor's swishing, at least his bottom would have a few days to recover and he would cancel the House Demerit. But what spunky boy wouldn't rather get it over with now? Even more confusingly, his dream seemed to be coming true, and Thrasher was offering to cane him unprotected.
"Is – is Mr. Whippy a senior cane?" he asked at last.
"Very senior," said Peter Thrasher. "As I'm sure you know, the International Convention on Caning Boys has laid down strict guidelines on cane specifications which are followed the world over. After all, a cane is not just a piece of bamboo but an almost holy instrument of ancient usage."
"I'll take your punishment," said Richard, decisively.
It was exactly like his dream. He stood by the table and took down his shorts as the older teenager flexed the whippy stick. Then he bent over and felt Peter's hands slowly pull down his white briefs to his knees. Poor Richard's bottom felt very vulnerable and exposed as the cool air touched it.
Peter whistled. He'd done a good job on this lad yesterday, and no mistake. Each weal was clearly visible, deep red and turning black in places, especially at the tip and where the lines intersected. "I can see that you're jolly sore already," he said, with a little more kindness in his voice, "but don't imagine that's going to reduce your punishment. Not a bit of it."
And then he administered six strokes of his senior cane to young Richard's bare posterior. Suffice it to say that each one stung like a swarm of angry bees which had been trained to sting in a straight line, or like a red hot poke placed on his long-suffering skin, and that Richard – in spite of his determination to be brave – howled and kicked and cried and had to be allowed a few moments' respite after four strokes. Peter Thrasher worked his anger off on the boy, so that by the end as Richard stood crying uncontrollably and making no attempt to cover up his sore, welted, blazing cheeks, he was able to put his arm around the boy's shoulders and say "well stuck." And when Richard did finally dress and limp out of Thrasher's study to be greeted by his admiring friends, he had a sense of pride in what he'd managed to take in just his first three days at school.