BOBBY
God, that was awful. Seeing Dads friend Roy enjoying how I get punished at home was really embarrassing. And the way he looked at my shorts made me feel quite naked. I hate those shorts and wish Mum wouldnt insist I wear them. Its quite cold now and my legs feel frozen, but thats nothing. Its that I have no underpants and the shorts are so tight. Also they dont quite cover me up in the back so I dread having to bend over when some one is standing behind me. I know they can see some of my bottom.
Not only that, but that friend made us late and Mum really let me have it. That tawse of hers can really hurt when it hits my bottom, but she also hits me so that it lands in between the cheeks. Now that really stings, I can tell you. It burns like fire in there and to touch there, even with the softest tissue, is almost unbearable. What makes it worse is the tight middle seam of the shorts that always rubs me there.
Anyway, Mum thrashed the living daylights out of me and warned me that Dad would add his part when he comes home. A caning across the bottom still red and sore from the tawse is no laughing matter. It feels like the skin is coming off, especially low down where both Mum and Dad always land their strokes. There and on the thighs where everyone on the street can see I had been whipped. I get those nasty little smiles and nods that say "Ah, so youve been a naughty little boy and got your bum whipped. Good. You probably deserved it." I dont know why they always think that, as if all boys are always naughty and should constantly be punished. What do they know? I bet none of them had any idea just how painful these beatings are.
Yes, yes, I know Mum and Dad only want whats best for me, that they love me and that they have to punish me so I learn my lessons. And I try. I try very hard, but it seems I have difficulties in remembering them. Just as I have problems in school. They say I dont pay enough attention, and thats probably true. I tend to think more about my burning backside, how the hard wood hurts the weals back there. The schoolmaster doesnt want to know; he just tells me all the time to stop squirming. I bet he wouldnt stop if his behind were as sore as mine. But then he writes his little notes for my Mum and that means another good beating at home.
The mates at school used to make fun of my shorts and the marks on my thighs below the hems. But gradually they got tired, seeing that the shorts and the marks were always the same, day after day, all year round, so what fun was it? Nothing changed and I didnt get annoyed any more. So now they leave me alone.
For me, too, its become a way of life, I guess you can call it. Boys get thrashed at home and caned at school. At home friends and relatives are invited to witness the punishment while at school my mates watch. Sometimes the girls giggle when I am forced to lower my shorts, because I have no underpants. The boys sometimes gloat and sometimes feel sympathy, but they are mostly in the same boat and get their share of the cane both at home and at school. Its just the way it is for us boys. Im told no harm has ever come to a boy because of his whippings and I suppose thats true. The marks usually fade, or at least would fade if new ones wouldnt always be added. But I imagine that if I didnt get whipped for a couple of weeks, my backside would be as white as "freshly driven snow." (I read that somewhere.)
There are some variations in my thrashings: the instrument being used, the number of the strokes I am given, the severity of them, the position I have to take and the people present. The ritual and the portion of my anatomy where the strokes are placed are always the same. No variations there. The instruments usually just vary between cane and tawse, but there are several of each of those. Their length and breadth, diameter, weight, and so on, are really important to me. 8 strokes with the senior cane are much worse than a dozen with the junior cane; I can take a couple of dozen with the "medium tawse" without too much fuss, but just one dozen with the "heavy tawse" makes me scream like crazy. Im really quite ashamed at the noise and fuss I make but I cant help it. It just burns something awful.
Anyway, right now my bottom is a ball of fire after Mums work with the tawse After my dad and I came home, I was to go to my room and do homework. Its either chores or homework when Im home, so I always try to get invited at a friends home even if I rarely am allowed to go anywhere longer than an hour or two after school.
My schoolwork leaves something to be desired, Ill be the first to admit. And as you can tell, right now Im thinking only of my backside instead of the lesson book in front of me. I cant sit still, shift from one cheek to the other as usual and nibble on the end of my pencil. I have written a couple of lines and those are probably rubbish. Ill have to do them over again. Its just that Dad is going to give me the cane when he gets home and I dread that, really dread it. Im quaking inside and am full of nervous tension. I wish hed already be here and get it over with. I wonder how many Ill get this time. I know I wont sleep on my back tonight, but Im used to sleeping on my stomach. I do that practically every night.
THE PARENTS
Peter Brent came home late that day. He was delayed with problems at his office and he was in a bad mood. When Jane reminded him that he still had to have a word with Bobby, he nodded.
"Yes, yes, I know. Can I have dinner first?"
"Of course, but what about the boy? Should he eat with us or after the whipping?"
"Let him wait. Itll do him good to go to bed without supper once in a while. Right now, I might take my temper out on him and I want to avoid exceeding my limits - or his."
At supper, Brent again mentioned his friend. It seems he had checked his schedule and wondered whether next weekend would be convenient.
"Roy really seems anxious to visit us," Brent said with a little smile.
"Roy? You mean Roy Pierce?" Jane asked surprised.
"Yes. I told you before."
"No, you mentioned James, and I thought you referred to James Wells, Walters son."
"James? I must have confused it. Roys brother is also called James."
"Next weekend would be fine," Jane said.
After they had finished the meal, they sat for a while discussing matters of the day, Peter having a last cognac before joining his son upstairs.
Billy was sitting forlornly at his desk, His face looked frightened when he saw his father enter the room. He quickly stood at attention, his hand straying to his burning bottom. "Hello, Dad," he said quietly, his voice trembling a little.
"Hello, Bobby. Your mother tells me you need a caning," he said. "Lets go downstairs and settle this matter. And bring your schoolbooks. I want to see your work for tomorrow."
With a little sigh, Bobby picked up his book, only too aware that he hadnt done much and would probably also pay for that. Father and son solemnly marched down the stairs, down the hall and into the study.
"Take your shorts down, Bobby," Brent said gruffly, at the same time taking the cane from the cupboard. "Bend over the desk while I review your work."
Bobby slowly lowered his skimpy shorts and laid himself across the wide desk. At least the inflamed skin of his behind was getting some ventilation as his father settled himself behind the desk, placed the cane next to him and started reading from Bobbys notes. He took his time, occasionally looking back at his sons face resting on the polished desk surface not too far from the papers Brent was studying.
It took Brent almost 30 minutes before he finally put down the papers.
"Well, Bobby," he said sternly, "it looks like youve been sleeping instead of working or, perhaps, working while you were sleeping to judge by the quality of your essay. This and the problems youve had at school today require severe punishment, dont you agree?"
"Oh, please, Dad," Bobby whined, fear winding its way through the length of his body, "Im sorry. Please dont cane me. Mum already punished me and my bottom is so sore."
Brent was not impressed. He looked at his sons bare bottom for a second. It was red, yes, but not much to worry about. A few darker bruises on the underside also didnt really matter. The cane would do him good.
"I think a dozen for the matter at school and a dozen for that sloppy work you did here," Brent said, pointing to Bobbys home work. "Dont you think thats fair?"
"No, Dad, please," Bobby wailed, now quite distressed. "Please not so many."
Brent stood up and picked up the cane. He positioned himself and tapped the cane against the red buttocks. The he raised the cane high. When the cane landed with the full force of Brents right arm, Bobbys scream could be heard throughout the house. Downstairs, Jane nodded. Yes, thats what the boy needed, and frequently. Another cry, even louder, followed after a few seconds.
Brent lashed the cane down for number six, low down, just where the thighs start and where the marks would show below the shorts hems. Number seven landed on the same spot and the boy howled.
"You may have a few minutes rest," he said, putting the cane down on the desk right next to Bobbys nose. "Then well finish the first dozen." He left the sobbing child prostrate across the wide desk, his wealed bottom on display.
When he returned, Bobbys crying had calmed down a little. "Lets continue," Brent said calmly, retrieving the cane.
"Dad, please!" the boy implored, all too aware of the stripes still throbbing across his buttocks. "Please no more!"
The only reply he received was a sharp slasher across his lower buttocks that made him heave and writhe in pain. He resumed his crying as cut after cut sliced across his slowly swelling backside. This way the first dozen was completed and Brent gave the boy another rest.
While his father resumed his seat behind the desk, Bobby lay sobbing, gripping the desk with all his might, his mind on nothing but the hot sting in his buttocks. This and the 12 strokes that were still to come. Bobby had decided that it was no use begging his father to stop. He knew his mind wouldnt be changed and that he had to go through with the next dozen, no matter how much it hurt.
And another dozen he got, each stroke laid on as hard as the first, without regard to the skins condition. By the time it was finally over, that bottom had some swelling, several dark bruises on the underside and an overall glowing deep red going on purple.
Brent returned the cane to the cupboard. "Go and stand in the corner, Bobby," he said dispassionately to his sobbing son. "I will come back in an hour and then you will go back to your room, do your homework over again properly this time and then to bed. No supper for you." Without another look at the weeping boy in the corner, he left the room.
Downstairs, Jane was putting away the dishes. "How many did you give him, Peter?" she asked. "The cries stopped quite early."
"Two dozen. I think they taught him to behave better in school."
"Only two?" she asked, surprised. "I thought that the school matter alone deserved that. And you told me his homework wasnt done well either. I would have given him 3 dozen at least."
"His bottom was still quite inflamed from your little tawse," Brent said, smiling. "I think hes had enough for today."
Jane shook her head. Peter was really pampering that boy. But she would see to it that Bobby didnt get off that easily next time when she had reason to discipline her errant son.