THE FATHER
"I see your boy wears those brief little shorts they used wear in the 1970s," my friend Roy Pierce said, looking down at 12-year-old Bobby, whose face flushed crimson. "Even in this weather?"
"Yes, of course," I replied with a tight smile. "He is still a boy and therefore wears shorts. And if a boy wears shorts, they should be as brief as possible. And if the boy is forbidden underpants, then the shorts will also have to be extremely tight so prevent indecent exposure." I laughed as Bobbys face turned puce.
"Well, his thighs are completely exposed to the very top. And when the boy sits, they presumably run up even further."
"I imagine they do. As he sits, his thighs flatten out and the tight hems bite well into them. He finds it difficult not to think about his shorts during the day. Excellent discipline, I say."
Roy walked around Bobby and inspected the child from behind, much to Bobbys discomfort. "That backside of his is certainly well displayed. Each buttocks is gripped separately by that middle seam. It must cut into him quite painfully."
"No problem. Yes, the seam fits snugly into the cleft but he gets used to it. At the beginning, when he was 7 or 8, he used to tug at that seam, again and again despite the thrashings I gave him for it. It took a long time before I could break him of this vulgar habit. Now he knows better, dont you, Bobby?"
Bobby was close to tears but he answered dutifully," Yes, sir." His hand twitched as if he had difficulty control the old urge to pluck at the seat of those tight little shorts. Roy laughed when he noticed this. "Still cant keep his fingers away."
"Then he will have to feel the cane again when we get home," I said easily, taking Bobby by the ear. "He gets it on his bare bottom, you know,"I added for Roys benefit.
"You beat him often?" my friend inquired with obvious interest.
"Not often enough, it seems," I said, twisting the boys ear sharply. "Bobby thinks he gets it too often. But what do boys know? A father is in better position to judge when his son merits a sound thrashing, dont you think?"
Roy kept his eyes on Bobby, whose ear was now a bright red. I pinched it harder. "No doubt. Boys obviously will always try to get out of a spanking. You said you cane him?"
"Most of the time, yes. But I have a variety for various offenses and I have a nice collection of really heavy Scots tawses that serve well to light up a fire in the boys backside. Dont they, Bobby?" I pulled at his ear.
"Yes, sir," Bobby squealed, trying to get away from my grip, without success. I just pulled harder.
"What does his mother say to all that?" Roy asked.
"Well, she is actually the one who recommended Bobbys dress and she is a much stricter disciplinarian than I am. You may not believe this, but she actually encourages me to whip the boy harder when he offends. And he offends her quite frequently. I remember the first time I bought Bobby some clothes without my wife. She brought them all back to the store and went to her favoured boutique where she has a friend who provides her with shorts imported from other countries. My wife always picks the shortest and tightest trousers for young Bobby. She also does not believe in young boys wearing underpants. It just spoils them, she says."
"Does she also punish the boy herself?" My friend inquired further. He appeared fascinated with the subject.
"All the time," I said with a smile. "Dont forget that I am away most of the day. It is only after I come home in the evenings that she presents me with this naughty little boy with her request that I whip him. But that doesnt mean that the boy is immune from punishment during the rest of the day. Most of the time when I take the boy into my study for some serious instruction, his backside is already well marked from thrashings given him during the day."
"And this all started when?"
"Of course it was very gradual. Hand spankings were the norm until Bobby was 5 or 6. Then came the hairbrush and strap until he was 7 or 8. The strap was replaced by the impressive tawses I mentioned earlier and at 8 or so we introduced him to the cane. 8 is the normal age at which boys can expect to be caned at boarding schools. Six of the best for most trivial offenses. A dozen for more serious faults. A few misdemeanours, such as lying or rudeness used to earn him 18. These days, being a big boy now, he frequently gets a lot more."
"I can see that your system has worked wonders," Roy said as he looked at Bobbys grimacing face, still under tension from my hold on his ear. "He seems to be a nice, polite little boy."
"Sometimes," I replied, twisting the boys ear. "But most of the time he needs a number of reminders, especially when it comes to school work and his chores at home. He has stopped complaining about his uncomfortable shorts after he got his behind well thrashed each time, but there is still a great deal of room for improvement. As my wife says, never let up on a boys discipline or they immediately revert to their savage state." I laughed and finally let go of Bobbys ear who now stood fingering his red, sore ear.
"I will be in town again next month," my friend said, his eyes once more on Bobbys tight little bottom. "Why dont I come by and meet your wife? I would love to see your domestic arrangements for myself. Perhaps even watch it in action."
"Of course. Too bad you have to leave already. But give me a ring when you plan on coming and I will make the necessary arrangements. You can stay with us for a week or so. There is no problem with space. We have several guest rooms so you will be quite comfortable. I just hope that Bobbys howls will not disturb you too much. The study is just below the bedrooms."
My friend laughed and Bobbys face flushed again with embarrassment. "I wont be sleeping, I can assure you. I might even be present to witness the reason for his screams."
"I will make sure you are there," I said. "I will let my wife know that you might be visiting."
We said goodbye and Roy walked off after giving Bobby a hearty slap across the tight seat of his shorts. Bobby made a little sound but when he saw my face and my hand reaching for his red ear, he quickly shut his mouth.
"Come along, Bobby," I said, setting out back home. "Hurry up, or well be late for lunch. And you know what your mother thinks of your being late." I had to smile when I saw the anxious look on my sons face. No, he didnt like his mothers reaction to any tardiness. Too may times his small backside had had to pay for such infractions.
THE MOTHER
THE MOTHER
I have been waiting with lunch and getting a bit impatient. Peter is usually punctual for the meals. I imagine that Bobby probably had held him up somewhere. The boy is always making things more difficult. Hes a real brat and I cant seem to make him understand, and follow, the simplest rules of the house, much less outside. The school has complained to me and to Peter about the boys laziness and inattention during class. Hes been whipped for it many times, but it seems more severity is required to make him obey. Peter is too soft with the boy and tends to spoil him a great deal. I always have to be after him to give the child his punishments and even when he finally gets down to administering them, I have to make sure he doesnt let Bobby off with just a few little whacks of the cane.
"Hello, Jane, were home," I hear Peter as he opens the door. "Sorry if we are late, but we ran into James Bedford. Remember him? I introduced him to you a few months ago. He now lives in Sus_s_e_x_."
Once Peter and Bobby have removed their shoes ,m I order Bobby to the bathroom. Meantime Peter removes his hat, scarf and coat. "Brrr, its getting quite cold out there. I guess winter is here."
"Hurry up, Peter," I reply. "Lunch has been ready for over 20 minutes and its getting cold."
I go into the kitchen and bring the dishes into the dining room while Peter washes his hands. We are both seated by the time Bobby appears, out of breath and quite red in the face. "Dont dawdle, boy," I say sternly, "and sit down. Let me see your hands."
He extends both his small hands, palm down, and I inspect the nails. "You have dirt under that nail. Get back upstairs and wash them again. It seems you need the strap to teach you cleanliness. Go to your room after lunch. You will get 20." I say that in a menacing tone so he appreciates the seriousness of coming to eat with dirty hands. Then we have lunch; Peter and I discuss matters of the day but Bobby is silent. He knows better than to interrupt when adults are talking.
"I asked James to come and stay with us for a few days the next time he is in town," Peter tells me. I nod. I remember James as a polite, pleasant young man.
When lunch is finished, I have Bobby clear off the table and place the dishes in the sink. "When you have washed an dried the dishes, put them away and come up to your room."
Peter and I retire to the den. We have a number of topics we want to discuss before Peter goes back to work. I hear Bobby banging the dishes in the kitchen and it takes him an inordinately long time before I hear him trudge up the stairs to his room. I let him wait another 20 minutes and then go up myself. Peter leaves with a wave of his hand. I think he wants to avoid listening to Bobby antics during his punishment.
I go upstairs into Bobbys room. He is standing there, rather forlornly, dressed in his usual polo shirt, shorts and ankle socks. I see his bare legs are still red from the cold outside. His room is not heated, of course. I take the tawse I keep hanging from a hook by his bed.
"Take your shorts down and kneel on the bed," I say, slapping the tails of the tawse against the palm of my hand with a loud, clapping noise.
"Please, Mum -" Bobby starts, but I dont let him finish. I detest these cowardly pleas to avoid deserved punishment. "Get on the bed, kneel with knees apart and your head well down. If you make me wait, I will double your dose."
That gets him moving. When he is in position, his bare bottom is pointing upwards, the cheeks spread wide to expose the cleft fully. I raise the tawse and bring it down forcefully, making sure the tails curls around the inner thigh. There are immediately red stripes where the tails landed, well inside the upper left thigh. Bobby squeals, as usual, but I pay no attention. When it is time for a whipping, I dont let anything distract me. My eyes are on the boys bottom and I proceed with the thrashing at a leisurely pace.
Aiming the strokes carefully so that the tails land on the inside of the buttocks and thighs, I lash the heavy tawse forcefully down with good strength. It is useless to whip a boy unless you do it properly. Each stroke must be given as hard as you can and it should hurt the boy as much as possible for the punishment to be effective. I give a few strokes from his left side so the tails bit well into the left buttock and cleft, then walk over to his right so as not to neglect Bobbys right cheek. I prefer to work on each buttock separately rather than lashing the tawse straight across both cheeks, but of course do that as well. The entire buttocks and upper half of the thighs should get equal treatment until the entire area is a deep red blending into purple. The boy should feel these parts as hot as fresh lava.
Despite the boys anguished cries, I administer all of the promised 20 strokes. Once a sentence has been passed, I never give less. But I give him more if he behaves badly during his whipping. I allow a few, small cries, but nothing more. Boys should take their punishments in silence. It means that they accept it as deserved. Too loud an outburst means rebellion and that I do not allow.
Bobby twists his backside about; he wants to clench his cheeks but his position will not permit that. The cleft stays open and the tawse does its work there quite effectively. His entire behind, upper thighs and everything in between is a deep, sore red when I finally put down the tawse and replace it on its hook.
"You will stay there for 45 minutes," I tell the kneeling boy. His face is buried deeply in his pillows so I cant see his face, which is just as well. I have seen it often enough in the past, a contorted, red, tear-stained face, with tightly squeezed shut eyes and twisting mouth. Not a pretty sight, but it cant be helped. Bobby just cant take his thrashings properly yet. He still has a lot to learn.
I leave the boys room, close the door and go downstairs. Its almost dinner time and Peter will be coming home soon. I have to tell him about Bobbys naughtiness. Something has to be done about that. He really likes to spoil that little brat.