The thirteen year old boy was led into the large, almost bare room by a tall, expressionless policeman. He was marched over to a wide metal table, and stood there, head down, close cropped blonde hair already damp with nervous perspiration, while another, more burly, policeman read silently from a clipboard that he held in both hands. A long, ferocious looking cane was the only thing that lay on the table, and I noted that the child could not stop glancing at it. The boy was already naked below the waist, his colourful T-shirt long enough to give him some modesty, but not much. He was a slim, tall boy, but still dwarfed by the two uniformed officers. They had even made him take off his shoes and socks, a regulation that I had forgotten about from my own days of being a policeman in these cold cells under the courthouse.
I glanced at my stepson, who stood beside me, nervous, silently witnessing the procedure, and, Im sure, wishing he wasnt there. Patrick was eleven, a sturdy little lad, dark hair, fair features. His mother, my new wife, had caught him stealing money out of her handbag. The boy had assured us that it was the first time that he had ever done such a thing, and he had tearfully assured us that it would never happen again. But his mother had not been satisfied. She had turned to me, expecting me to give the preteen his first ever hiding (he had been spanked occasionally by his mum, but she now thought that he was big enough to be punished by a man). For most boys, I wouldnt have hesitated to soundly leather his bare bottom, but Patrick was different. He was a bright, sensible lad, emotionally mature well beyond his years and appearance, and I decided that beating the lad would not be a suitable punishment. Instead, I had used my connections in the courts to get us where we were now. I hoped that watching the judicial punishment of a young shoplifter would scare any thoughts of stealing out of my sons head forever.
"Michael Collins, this is to be your second caning for shoplifting, is that correct?" the bigger of the policeman, standing across the table from the thirteen year old asked the nervous, half naked lad,
"Yes sir," the child whispered, still not looking up. He knew what would happen to him shortly, and was not looking forward to it one bit.
"Last time, I gave you six. That was eight months ago, and it seems youve forgotten your lesson. The judge has given me the discretion to decide on the severity of your hiding, so now youre getting twelve. Do you have anything to say?"
Michael just shook his head, giving a little sob. We were standing behind him, so his face was hidden. But from experience, I knew that the little boy must have been crying quietly – especially now that he knew how severely his bare young bottom was to be thrashed.
"Very well then," the officer announced, "give constable Peters your shirt, then bend over."
Another procedure that I had forgotten. The juvenile was always naked for punishment – it made him feel even more exposed and humble before his punishers. The boy lifted his shirt over his shoulders, and handed the garment over to the policeman who was standing beside him. The man nonchalantly threw the shirt into a corner of the room. Michael bent forward over the table, hesitantly, as the metal must have been very cool on his naked tummy and groin. In my day, I would have made the naked boy climb onto the table and kneel, bottom up, for his hiding. I found that that position put his bottom in a better position for my caning arm, as well as making the naked delinquent feel even more exposed and helpless – all part of the punishment. Even from behind, it was clear that the boy was prepubescent, his body slim but muscled. I had read the case report, and discovered that the child was from a good, middle class family. His father had insisted that his son take a beating, instead of dealing with the boy himself. Apparently a bit of a hell raiser at home, the man had decided to let the police deal with the boy. The lad raised his slim, bare bottom as he cautiously lowered himself over the table.
Constable Peters crossed around to the front of the table, and grasped Michaels wrists, effectively holding the boy firmly in place, while the bigger and more senior officer picked the cane up and walked around behind the bending, naked boy.
"Spread you legs further, young man," he commanded, his voice emotionless.
Michael obediently widened his feet, and the burly man gently tapped the cane on the preteens small, exposed bottom. The boy didnt move. He knew what was expected of him, and had resigned himself to getting his backside thrashed. The policeman took ages lining up his aim, and then took his stance. A couple more gently taps on the boys buttocks, and the hiding commenced.
When the first stroke of the cane lashed into Michaels defenceless bottom cheeks, even I jumped with crack of the stick. Patrick gasped next to me, and the punished thirteen year old yelped as the pain of the cane exploded across his bare tail. But the policeman was merciless, sticking strictly to procedure he waited the regulatory thirty seconds, then caned the slim little bottom again, getting a similar reaction from Michael.
Again and again, the cane lashed into Michaels bare bottom, and it didnt take long before the boy was wailing and fighting against the firm hold that the constable had on his hands. But the only sympathy he got was the order to stand still. After the fifth lash, the crying child squirmed and clamped his legs together, and only when he was notified that the policemen could wait all day, did he slowly widen his feet again and lie still for the next stroke of his hiding. Only when the boy was still and in position, did the thirty second wait begin. I must have felt like hours to Michael – waiting like that for the cane to snap across his naked rear end again.
Michael was the only one to show any emotion. The policeman went about their duty with detached professionalism, coldly thrashing the boys bare bottom, administering as much pain as possible in order to suitably punish the young lad. I had forgotten how hard policemen caned the naked rumps of boys sent down to them, and was impressed with the mans skill at wielding the cane. It took a special technique to beat a boys bottom that hard, without breaking the skin. There was no doubt about it – Michael was certainly being taught a painful lesson. Patricks hand crept into mine. He too was learning a lesson, imagining himself over that table, with the cold, merciless policeman whipping his bare bum with that cane.
When the hiding was over, Michael was helped up, and his hands flew to his bottom. Constable Peters picked up the boys shirt, but did not give it too him. The lad was marched out of the room, and as he turned to head for the door, we could not help but notice he tear and snot stained face. A very well punished little boy. The procedure was now that Michael would be marched, still stark naked, right through the court building to the juvenile room, where the judge, when he was ready, would call the boy forward to examine his bottom, and decide if the hiding had been severe enough. All publicly of course, although I doubt if Michael cared for much more than his sore bottom at that point. Of course, the judge was always satisfied that the punishment had been sufficient – the public display was really just to show people that justice had been done.
Patrick was quiet for the trip home. I think that he had been horrified by the boys hiding. Later, when I went up to say goodnight to him after he had gone to bed, the eleven year old had started his questions,
"Do they always cane thieving boys bottoms that hard, dad?"
"Yes, my boy. They dont mess about. They have to teach them a lesson to stop them stealing again."
"I bet that boy wont steal ever again."
"I hope not, Patrick. And I hope you never have to be in that situation either."
"I know. And Im scared," the little boy looked up at me, "I dont ever want to be caned by that policeman!"
I ruffled the boys black hair, "keep you fingers out of other peoples things, and you wont!"
The preteen had obviously been doing some thinking, and was leading up to something, "You used to give canings like that policeman, didnt you?"
"Yes, I did. When I was a policeman."
"Did you cane that hard?"
"Oh yes, my boy."
"Then," Patrick dropped his eyes, "please can you give me a good hiding like that for stealing from mum?"
"No, my boy," I was more than a little surprised by the boys request, "youre a good lad, and I have no desire to whip you. I took you there to show you what could happen to you if you kept up with your stealing."
"Yes, but please, dad! If you give me a hiding, then Ill learn my lesson and never have to end up like that boy. Id much rather get a thrashing from you, because I know you love me, rather than from a policeman who doesnt care about me!"
And so we argued back and forth, but I could see that the eleven year old was determined, and his logic was good. Patrick was once again showing his maturity and sensible nature. He needed to be punished for his crime, and was turning to me to help him get rid of his guilt. So, slowly, I stood and started to unbuckle my belt, but Patrick stopped me,
"No, dad. You must cane me. Like the boy was caned. And on my bare bottom, of course," I explained to the child that I no longer had a cane, but he had an answer for that as well, "Cant you buy one or borrow one?" I would never cease to be amazed by my stepson. He had convinced himself, and now me, that he needed his bottom caned.
I conceded, and told the boy to go to sleep. I would cane him the following evening, when he went to bed. But he still had the last say,
"When you give me my hiding dad, please give it to me really hard – just like that naughty boy. I deserve it, and I trust you to be fair. Please dont be lenient with me just because its me."
The next day I managed to get my hands on a cane. I had no intention of getting the type of cane that had been used on the unfortunate Michael. Although that stick had in itself been a fairly minor implement as canes go, I still only selected a basic junior school model for Patricks hiding. I doubt is the shop assistant at the shop I bought the punishment tool from even suspected that I intended to use the smooth, flexible, crooked handled stick on an eleven year old boys bare bottom. The only place these days where parents can buy canes is in a _s_e_x_ shop, and it was slightly embarrassing browsing through the range, displayed among all sorts of other S&M equipment. My cane, unlike others bought in the shop, would not be enjoyed by the owner of the bottom that was going to be thrashed with it.
Nothing was said at supper time, or in fact at any time during the evening, about the Patricks impending hiding. I had left the cane in clear view on the mantle piece in the sitting room, silently giving the eleven year old a dose of reality, and a chance to opt out of his self imposed punishment. But he said nothing, just eying the implement of his coming chastisement with trepidation ever time he thought I wasnt looking. His mother had been delighted that I had seen reason, and had agreed to give her son a good thrashing. She did not understand the importance of the boys submission to me. Typically of a woman her age, her brothers had been sounded thrashed regularly, be she had not. Her father had believed in firm doses of corporal punishment for naughty boys, and, because she adored Patrick just as much as I did, she believed that a hiding was the best thing for the boy. Im sure that she thought I was kidding her when I told her that I would be caning the eleven year old reluctantly, and at his own request.
Patrick went up to bed at his normal bed time, and I gave the preteen half an hour to get himself organised before I picked up the cane and followed him upstairs. When I entered the little boys bedroom, closing the door behind me, Patrick was sitting on his bed, wearing only his thin pyjama shorts, nervously waiting for me. I had intended to give the boy a last chance to discuss this, but the anxious look on his face made me change my mind. This was a little boy who needed to be soundly punished, and by not doing my duty, he would feel that I had let him down. I was not going to enjoy this, but I would do it properly, purging him of his guilt, like he so desperately needed,
"Stand up, Patrick," I put on my sternest voice, and Patrick stood clasping his hands behind him, dropping his head, knees trembling, "take your shorts off."
The boy obeyed quickly, while I stood, watching him and menacingly flexing the cane. I had decided to make the build up for his first hiding as scary as possible for the preteen – hopefully then I wouldnt have to do this very often. Naked now, Patrick stood before me again, in the same position as he had a few moments earlier. We had all been living together for nearly a year, but I had never seen the eleven year old naked. I had assumed, correctly, that he was a modest little boy. But part of his self imposed punishment, and a demonstration of his trust of me, was to allow himself to be fully exposed to me. He could have worn a long T-shirt like Michael had, but Patrick had seen to it that he would be completely naked as soon as possible for his punishment. His hairless body was firm and strong, apart from a little bit of baby fat around his middle, and he made no attempt to cover up his modesty. I let him stand like that for a few moments, then,
"Kneel on your bed, bottom facing me, head down, knees apart."
I suspect that Patrick had thought of various ways in which I may have bent him for his hiding, but had not suspected that I would have him kneeling on his bed. However, he must have seen the efficiency of the position, because he adopted it perfectly, and I was faced with a small, round and slightly chubby eleven year old bottom, perfectly raised for thrashing. His rounded little cheeks separated, clearly exposing his rounded buttocks, and I had to shake off the temptation to chuckle at the almost comical manner in which the preteen pushed up his bottom, offering it to me for whipping.
Again, I let him wait for long moments, then I started to gently trace the cane on my target area, making sure that I was completely confident that I had my aim, and would be able to administer blistering strokes to the childs lower buttocks,
"You are going to be punished soundly for stealing, Patrick. This is going to hurt a great deal, but you are expected to remain in position until such time as I give you permission to stand up," I ordered the preteen, "you will receive six of the best tonight."
"Yes, sir," Patrick whispered nervously – he was a little surprised by the formal tone that I was using, but could understand that it was a necessary part of his punishment, "but shouldnt I get twelve, like the other boy got?"
This time I could not stop myself from smiling at the boys naivety. He really had no idea what he was in for,
"No, young man. Michael is thirteen, and you are eleven. I was also Michaels second hiding for stealing. If you find yourself in this position again, then, I assure you, you will get a dozen. But I think that youll find this hiding sore enough."
Patrick said nothing more, simply bracing himself for the coming onslaught. It had been a long time since I had caned a boys bottom, and I intended to hit Patrick just as hard as he would have been caned in the police cells. In other words, considerably harder than a headmaster canes a naughty preteen. I made sure that I took my aim carefully, then, remembering the stance that I used to take, tapped the lads small bottom one more time, before slowly lifting the cane back and up. And the top of my swing, I paused for a moment, then let fly, arcing the cane down and forward, slamming it into the pale, tender little bottom before me, the stick cracking loudly as it wrapped around the preteens bare cheeks. It took Patrick a moment to absorb the pain of his first ever stroke from a cane, and, even as the cane lingered on his bottom with my professional follow through, the boys whole body plunged forward and the lad squealed into his hands. The agony must have been excruciating, far worse than he had expected. But, amazingly, he made no move to put his hands behind him or move out of position. Patrick just slowly raised his poor bare bottom in preparation for the next lash of his hiding.
The sound of the cane snapping across Patricks bare bottom brought back memories of all the preteen boys that I had thrashed years before. I found myself moving into the instinctive "zone" of doing that job, and, after waiting about thirty seconds, I caned my precious son again, lashing the cane mercilessly across his pale bare bum, driving the agony of a good hiding deep into the boys naked bottom. Distancing myself from the fact that this was Patrick bending over before me, not some naked little criminal was the only way that I could give the boy what he really needed, a blindingly painful dose of the cane. So that is what I did.
For the third time, I whipped the bare bottom of the boy, the cane snapping loudly into his tender bottom flesh, the wail of the boy showing that he was indeed being soundly punished. Patrick, for all his inexperience, was showing amazing self control, keeping his head down, rocking his body with each stroke. Even the instinctive wiggling of his lower body was quickly brought under control as the sobbing boy straightened up to present his throbbing little bottom up for the second half of his thrashing. I waited again for thirty seconds, noting the three deep scarlet lines that crossed his pale cheeks, good and low. The third stripe was still white in the middle, but as I watched, the welt turned red, and started to rise up, creating the typical "tram line" effect of a well laid on lash with the cane.
The gun shot like sound of the cane echoed in the boys bedroom again, as again I caned his upraised little hindquarters, the stick lighting the fourth agonising line of fire across the eleven year olds bare rump. But still Patrick took his caning more bravely than any boy his age that I had ever caned before. In my past experiences of giving hidings like this, boys Patricks age had always been held down by a junior policeman. I had considered asking the boys mum to help me with Patrick, but had decided that I would give the boy the dignity of not having a witness to his thrashing – a time when a little lad is at his most vulnerable. Domestic hidings, especially when severe like this, are something that should remain strictly between the man and his boy. And Patrick was being remarkably brave.
The fifth stroke was no less vigorous than those that had licked across the preteens bare bottom before it, and it was clear to me that the only thing that was keeping Patrick in position was the thought that he had only one more lash to go. He must have been very relieved that I had turned down his suggestion that he get a full dozen. Obviously, the eleven year old was determined to take his punishment bravely, more to impress me than anything else. I respected his determination, but did not hold back. The last lash landed right in the crease, at the lowest and most sensitive part of the boys exposed and very tender bottom. A stroke like that had been my trademark, and I used it to good effect on my own son, getting the expected howl for my efforts.
After I had gently rubbed the sobbing boys bottom myself for a few minutes, calming him down and telling him how impressed I was by the way in which he took his punishment, I allowed Patrick to get up. Instead of rubbing his bottom, the child turned to me, burying his face in my shirt,
"Im so glad that youre my dad," was all that he could say.