I am an adopted child, taken from an orphanage at the age of 4 or 5. So I was told.
My new parents are neither young nor patient nor flexible. I don't know why they would have wanted to adopt a four- or five-year-old boy; they already had a 13-year-old daughter of their own.
I have always felt like an outsider, graciously brought into a wealthy family as a great honour and which called for eternal gratitude on my side.
There were several problems with my adoption My new parents had not fully realised, or forgotten, the work I would create and the noise and disruption I would cause. The daughter, Rebecca, was another problem because of her jealousy. Until now, she had had all her parents' attention and she saw me as competition.
But the biggest problem for me was my new parents' conviction that a boy of my age had to be controlled by means of unswerving, unrelenting and systematic punishment for any and all misdemeanours.
And I kept committing them. No matter how hard I tried, something was always available to be complained about. My father worked from home and my mother entertained mostly at home as well, so I was under constant supervision. Rebecca was schooled at home by a tutor, so she was there all day as well, except on weekends or some evenings when she went out with friends.
And Rebecca hated me. I was maybe 7 when she first discovered the power she could have over me. She had of course observed the constant spankings I received from the first day at her home, and had probably enjoyed the spectacle. On that day she felt that I had insulted her in some way and had run to her mother to complain. My mother, in turn, had spoken to my father.
"Carl, Christian is getting out of hand. He is almost 8 years old now and I really think it is time you bought a good cane. The strap you've been using seems to have been outgrown."
My father nodded and in the evening I got my first sound caning. I never thought that the thick leather strap was ineffective; it hurt like blazes when either of my new parents would liberally apply it across my bare bottom. But while my behind would be in flames for several hours after punishment, the cane was much, much worse. The sting was deeper, the welts thicker and sitting down was almost impossible for hours and most uncomfortable for days afterward.
That first caning, however, was the most memorable. I was sent to my father's study, told to lower my shorts and underpants, and bend over, gripping my ankles. I screamed at the first stroke, straightened up and clutched my bottom.
"You are to remain in position until I tell you otherwise," my father explained. "This first stroke will therefore not count. And now, instead of the six strokes I had intended to give you, it will be eight. Now bend over again and stay there."
Well, I tried but was not very successful. After almost every second cut I couldn't resist reaching back to protect my ever more tender backside from further onslaught. That cane was proving to be very effective indeed even though it was only around 2 feet long and not much thicker than a pencil. Each time it made contact with my bare bottom, it felt as if it cut right through, hot and sharp.
Perhaps even worse, Rebecca was asked to witness my punishment because I had offended her. So there I was, presenting my bare bottom to my new sister, about 8 years my senior.
I cried a lot that evening and it shamed me to do that in front of the girl who sat there with a satisfied smirk on her face. The six strokes that had turned into eight, later turned to ten and finally to twelve until I finally learned that it was better for my health to remain bent until my father had finished with me.
During that caning he kept repeating the importance of my being polite and courteous with my sister and that future complaints from her would bring more severe canings. Of course Rebecca perked up at that and acted on it.
From then on, she complained about me to her mother or father at least twice a week and each time she was present when I was thrashed as a result. Sometimes it was my father's cane in his study, sometimes is was my mothers strap. Either way, I was in tears after every session when I had to extend my hand to Rebecca and apologise for my rudeness.
Rebecca gradually started to invite her girl friends to the house when I was due punishment. My "parents" felt that the additional humiliation having these girls attend my discipline would benefit me and promote my best behaviour. Unfortunately, my behaviour was never good enough to avoid a beating at least 3 times a week; sometimes it was every single day.
On orders of my mother, I was bent across a chair, with my shorts and pants around my ankles, until my father returned home, when Rebecca first brought a friend over. The friend, a girl of around 15, looked at me with obvious interest but no surprise, from which I assumed that Rebecca had been telling her about my punishments. Great. Maybe she was charging admission.
"My mother says this is how boys have always been punished," Rebecca grandiosely explained to her friend. "She says that while girls used to be whipped many years ago - even if not as severely as boys - this has been discontinued. I never had a spanking in my life. Christian, on the other hand, gets spanked all the time. It does him a world of good, my mother says."
As they chatted, I was waiting for my father to arrive. I suspected he let me wait on purpose so the girls could have their entertainment.
"Well, I know Susans brother. He is eleven or twelve and I have been told, although never seen, that he gets his backside thrashed quite frequently. I guess most boys get it like that."
And so back and forth, while I lay there squirming and sweating with embarrassment. When my father finally arrived, he asked Rebecca to bring him one of the canes in the cupboard.
Rebecca and her friend looked inside and made a big issue out of the problem of selecting the cane that would be best for me. They brought out one, approached me from behind and playfully tapped my bare bottom with the tip of the cane. "No, no," Rebecca would say several times, "this one is not severe enough. Lets get a thicker one."
"How about this one?"
"No, it should be longer."
"This one?"
"Not thick enough."
It took them a long time before they came back with a long, heavy cane and my father laughed.
"Girls, are you trying to draw blood? This cane is not for boys under the age of eight. Christian is still a few week shy of that age. Come now, Rebecca, have mercy on your new brother." He chuckled again as Rebecca pouted, took back the cane and brought out another long, but thinner cane. It looked fiendish the way it bent in her hands.
"This is better," my father approved with a smile. "This can hurt badly, or even draw blood if I apply it with force."
"Draw blood?" the friend asked, not the least shocked but rather fascinated.
"You will beat him hard, wont you?" Rebecca said. "After all, mother told you how he pushed me down the stairs. I almost broke my neck."
"Yes, your mother told me," my father confirmed. "But I had intended to give him a dozen for that which is severe enough."
"Then why dont you give him only ten but hard ones that draw blood," Rebecca asked while her friend nodded enthusiastically. I watched this exchange while bent over the chair, my head turned a bit so I could see the girls. They seemed quite excited.
My father thought or a moment. "Well, lets just wait and see," he finally pronounced. "If he takes the first six without fuss, well give him just six more and thats all. If, however, he screams and kicks as the strokes are laid on, I will give him four hard ones, one or two of those might break the skin. How is that, girls?"
They agreed. Of course they would. It wasnt their backsides that would be in danger.
I must admit that I did make a fuss. After the first two strokes, all placed very low across both buttocks, I was sobbing and twisting, kicking my feet in pain. The next two were laced into the upper thighs and I really let go then. I howled bloody murder at each. Two more vicious cuts and I was blubbering wildly.
My father put the cane down. "You see, girls," he said, "the boy cant learn. He knew what would happen and he still disobeyed. If he had comported himself as told, I would have finished the dozen with this cane. However, since he decided to be an obstinate little brat, you may bring the senior cane. He will get four stingers that will certainly have an impact on him."
Rebecca rushed to the cupboard and returned with the fearsome instrument. My father swished it through the air and it made a dangerous, low hum. My streaked, hot bottom twitched.
The girls placed themselves first row center, so to speak, so they wouldnt miss a single stroke. "You have only yourself to blame," my loving sister snickered and I heard her friend giggle. I would not reply even if I had had the strength. Tears were still flowing freely, my nose was dripping and I was enveloped in a bubble of hot agony.
Now my father stepped up, cane in hand, and surveyed my punished buttocks. He slid the end of the cane a few times up and down the weals down to my thighs and back up. "You will please control yourself, my boy," he said in a cold voice. "You will get four with this cane and I intend to lay them on with force. I tried to spare you with the first six but that didnt seem to work. Now they will punish, and punish severely."
When I felt the first impact, I thought he had kicked me, so hard did it fall across my lower buttocks. My body was pressed hard against the chair back and I had to hold on with all my strength not to fall off. Then the burn emerged all across my buttocks. It increased gradually in intensity until I thought my bottom would catch fire. I roared.
The second stroke was even worse, lower down, and my entire body hummed with the impact. The pain seared through me, a haze of red in front of my eyes.
"Look, Alice," my sister cried, "that last weal. See? A bit of blood along the ridge. And look how it is swelling up already."
The third stroke lashed across my upper thighs and my scream of pain made the lamps rattle. Never had I felt such intense, fiery pain. I lay there and blubbered frantically. One more!
I felt it across the buttocks again, slightly higher, diagonally across from upper left cheek to lower right cheek, the tip boring into the upper thigh. I was so exhausted by now that I merely lay there, mewling and groaning.
"He really carried on this time, didnt he?" Rebecca exclaimed. "Shouldnt he get one or two extras?" She was really a lovely girl. I could have strangled her then and there.
My father thought this over. I couldnt believe it, but he was actually considering it. At last he said, "Yes, I think you are right. This behaviour deserves two more."
One across the part where buttocks meet thighs and one across the thighs again. I was close to fainting, or so I believed, and certainly much too weak to scream very loudly. I guess that saved me from more "extras."
The girls inspected my whipped buttocks from close up while my father replaced the cane.
"Oh, see those lines? They are bleeding a bit. And look at those spots where the strokes crossed, there are many little drops. Well, Christian, do you feel like pushing me again? Ill ask Alice to come back and watch you get caned again. I dont think she would mind."