PART ONE
Boys in private schools did not have all the fun! Whilst we oiks who were educated in the state sector were not beaten so regularly, severely or with so few clothes about our person when we were at school, we nevertheless enjoyed equally severe thrashings in the privacy of our own homes.
Since this is to be published on an M M site I shall discretely pass over my earliest bottom warmings at the hands of my mother. As I grew older the duty of chastisement passed to my father. I could never be sure when I would get it. Sometimes I would fear a sound spanking and would just get ticked off. In later years I looked back and wondered if I saw a twinkle in his eye as he told me off; perhaps I had repeated some mischief he performed as a boy. However, some boyish crimes would always ensure a trip over his knee; I cannot now recall a list of the offences, except that he hated to hear me swear, however mildly. The manner or severity of the punishment was also unpredictable and (at least to my boyish ideas) did not always seem to fit the crime. I suspect it just depended on the mood he was in, although if I had really misbehaved this would of course put him in a less agreeable temper. When I was younger the standard was a quick hoist over his knee and slapping until I cried, with one or two more for good measure. If he was more upset he would pull down my short trousers and underpants and wallop me on the bare bottom, which I recall hurt more, but this may have been the embarrassment. He never spanked me in front of anyone, except my younger brother when he was due for it too. I do not know why, but I always got it first.
When I passed the eleven-plus my father calmly announced that once I had started at grammar school he would start to use his belt on me and that whenever I got it I could expect to find my trousers and pants round my ankles. My face (I am sure) went red when he said this, but at least we were alone when he said it.
For several weeks, the excitement of a new school seemed to keep me out of any mischief serious enough to warrant my father removing his belt. Certainly my schoolwork was not a concern as I was a bright boy. The day inevitably arrived when the threat was carried out.
It was a hot day and we were all sitting round the table at tea. The humidity threatened a storm and everyone was a trifle irritable. I made a comment about it not being beetroot again. My mother got a bit upset going on about how she tried her best, but it was difficult with the money she had for housekeeping. My fathers face grew as thundery as the weather. It would all probably have all blown over had I not had the misfortune to spill my cup of tea.
My father jumped up and shouted, "You stupid, thoughtless, clumsy boy! You are now going to get your first belting."
Before I knew it my father was behind my chair pulling it away from the table. He took me under the arm and led me out of the dining room upstairs to my bedroom. As he started to undo his belt he said, "Put your pillow in the middle of the bed lengthwise, pull your trousers and pants down and get across the bed with your backside in the middle of the pillow, making sure you tuck you shirt and vest up. Dont hang about as youll only make it worse."
Whilst it was not of course the first time my father had seen my bum to punish it, I still felt acute embarrassment, but nevertheless hurriedly carried out the instructions. As I lay over the pillow with my trembling bottom thrust up, I felt a cool breeze blow over me and out of the corner of my eye I saw the net curtain billow in the room. Two storms were about to begin. The first one hit my arse with a sound I had never heard before: leather meeting bare flesh at a speed calculated to induce pain. I then heard another new sound, which at first I did not realise was coming out of my mouth. It was the sort of noise represented in comic books by "AAAARRRRRGHHHH". I think I got another five strokes; I cannot be absolutely sure, as the part of my brain that deals with simple arithmetic had gone into shock, along with a number of other mental faculties. I am sure my vocal chords continued to express pain. I certainly felt it
My father said, "You can stay like that as long as you need to. When you are ready get undressed and get into bed. When your mother comes up to say goodnight you will say sorry for upsetting her. Tomorrow morning you will have nothing for breakfast except beetroot; if you even look at the cereal packet you will get the same again."
I stayed over the pillow until I had stopped crying and then got up and took off my socks and sandals and my trousers and pants. Despite the pain I was in I could not resist looking at my bum in the mirror. I walked over to the wardrobe, turned my back to it and pulled up my clothes. I looked over one shoulder and then the other examining the damage. I managed a smile and said to myself, "What a poor red bottom!" A clap of thunder broke. I jumped and then shivered. Removing the rest of my clothes. I climbed naked into bed and eased my bum with my hands.
Not long later my brother crept into the room. "Dad said I could come up and have a chat. Ive got to remind you to stay up here." My little brother was not one to gloat, and he continued somewhat innocently, with an impressed tone in his voice, "I heard the whacks all the way downstairs."
He gallantly refrained to mention the sounds I had made.
"Mum pretended not to hear. Did you get it bare-bummed?"
I nodded and he winced.
"That must have stung. May I have a look?"
I graciously condescended to allow a viewing, lying on my tummy while he pulled the bedclothes back.
"Wow!" he said, "You could boil a kettle on that!" His admiration lasted several minutes and I enjoyed it. At last he gently replaced the bedclothes and sat on the edge of the bed. "I shall be your age next year. I shall pray for my bum tonight!"
His prayers availed him little.
A few weeks later my brother got into some mischief. My father hauled him up to his bedroom; I happened to be in their cleaning out the hamster cage. I made to move out and my father said, "Its all right; you carry on what you are doing. As for you young man I had hoped that the thrashing your brother got would serve as an example, but obviously not, so Im going to have to give you the same."
My father took off his belt and called to me, "Hold this." He then laid my brother across the bed and pulled off his summer shorts completely. He sat down next to my brother and brusquely pulled his underpants down to his knees. At a nod from him I handed him the belt. My father wasted no time, bringing it sharply down on the bare cheeks. My brother emitted a sound like a gargle and his feet lifted off the ground. At the second blow my brother made as if to get up. My father simply placed a hand in the small of his back and carried on. Although I had seen my brothers bare bottom getting it before I stood and watched fascinated as the belt was vigorously applied.
He got six. His bum looked like mine did in the mirror. My father stood up and told my brother to make sure he was ready to help him in the garden in an hour. The roles were now reversed and I comforted my brother.
I looked out of the lounge window later and saw my father and brother happily chatting away as they raked up the dead leaves. That was it with my father: he whopped you, you got over the initial pain and then everything was back to normal.
PART TWO
I had occasional doses of the belt over the next few years, the frequency decreasing as I got older. I got my severest thrashing when I was sixteen.
I was generally well behaved at school, where there was virtually no corporal punishment. However, a few weeks before I was due to take my "O" levels I got into an argument with my history teacher. It started off as a difference of opinion and then got a bit political. I said he didnt know what he was talking about and he said he supposed I did and that Id got a history degree in the lunch hour and I said that Id spoken all about the Spanish Civil War to the man next door who was in it. Any way, he ended up escorting me to the headmaster, who asked me to apologise. When I refused I was suspended.
That evening I handed the schools note to my father. He read it and, to my surprise, remained very calm. "It may surprise you," he said, "but I used to be a schoolboy and know how these situations arise. In my day of course they didnt suspend you, they wrecked your backside. Please explain exactly what happened; dont leave anything out, dont put anything in. Try not to exaggerate or understate. Treat it as an intellectual exercise in objectivity."
I had never heard my father use the word "objectivity" and I was not sure about "understate" and "intellectual exercise". He was talking like my English teacher. I recited the whole story to him.
"The man is a bloody reactionary. However, he is your teacher and you should treat him with respect. I have found in life that it is easier to win an argument if you keep calm and dont let your opponent wind you up. I shall sort this matter out tomorrow. You will stay indoors all day tomorrow and study."
First the fancy language and then swearing, followed by the first hint I had ever had that my father had any sort of a political thought in his head. I began to wonder if he had been taken over by an alien.
I spent the next day at home. In the evening my father returned at his usual time and announced that the headmaster was coming at seven oclock and that the lounge was to be cleared as soon as the doorbell went.
Just a few minutes before the appointed time the door chimes sounded. My mother took up her knitting and retired to the kitchen. My brother scuttled upstairs not wishing to meet the headmaster in his own home. I went to leave, but my father motioned me to stay and went to answer the front door.
Introductions over, my father began the longest speech I ever heard him make, "Headmaster, thank you for taking the time to call. If, as I requested, you have checked the school records you will have discovered that David has never during the whole of his time at the school been in detention. He has a good academic record; last year he won a form prize. However, even the brightest and best-behaved can have an off day, he sometimes does at home, but has so far controlled himself at school. I appreciate that as a headmaster you need to keep discipline and support your staff, but I do feel that the suspension is too severe a punishment for what is effectively a first offence. I realise that the main reason for his suspension is the failure to apologise. Tomorrow he will apologise. He may not think so at the moment, but he will. As a teacher you will know that adolescent boys can be disaffected and stubborn. Please allow him one moment of disaffection, the stubbornness I shall attend to. This suspension comes at a critical time in my sons academic career; it could affect the rest of his life. I must therefore ask you to lift the suspension. If you agree I shall, here and now, with you present, give my son the hardest thrashing of his life. I shall thrash him in any event. You will be able to report back to the history teacher (Im sorry I forget his name) and hopefully his honour will be satisfied."
The headmaster replied, "Your request, or perhaps I should say your offer, is, to say the least a little unusual. I did take the time to look into your sons record and also to speak to a few of the staff. You will be gratified to hear that every master I spoke to urged me to reinstate David without delay. All in all, I was minded to lift the suspension before I came here and I shall do so if David gives me his word that he will say sorry to Mr Jarvis tomorrow. Since you are resolved to chastise your son I shall, as invited, stay to witness it. It is not a form of punishment that I personally favour. Mr Jarvis was a keen exponent before I came to the school and if I can, as you say, report back to him, it will help smooth the matter over. David, do I have your word?"
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you headmaster. Please take a seat," said my father motioning to an armchair. "David, please go to the kitchen and fetch the razor strop hanging behind the door."
I do not know why there was a razor strop hanging behind the kitchen door; the only razor my father had was electric. Nevertheless, there it hung waiting for its moment, which it appeared had come. I went into the kitchen and took the leather off its hook. My mother shook her head and said nothing. As I handled the strap I realised that it must have been cleaned recently and that it had been....oiled? My father must have worked on it the night before. It had hung in its place without my giving it a thought. Now the feel of the soft, but thick leather, which I knew would soon be applied to my rear end, gave it a menacing aspect. I wondered how the punishment would proceed. I was nervous about being punished in front of a comparative stranger; until recent events I had only ever spoken to the headmaster at report time. I went back into the lounge and handed the strop to my father.
"Please remove your slippers and all your clothes except your socks and pants," he said.
I thought that perhaps I was not going to get it on the bare bum. When I had complied he said, "Please kneel in the centre of the sofa facing the back and lean over as far as you can, keeping your knees on the cushion." When I was in position, I was mortified to fell my pants pulled sharply down to my knees.
Without any further words my father gently laid the leather across my bum as if to take aim. A moment later it was lifted and brought down. My body arched in the severest pain I had ever experienced. It was as if one of his beltings had been given in one blow. He had somehow covered the whole of my bottom with the strop, or so it seemed. Three more strokes followed and then no more. Somehow or other I did not cry out, nor did I cry. I was in intense pain and was aware of father pulling my pants up.
"You may get down from the sofa," he said. "Shake hands with the headmaster, gather up your clothes and go to your room."
I did as I was told.
About an hour later my father came into my bedroom. "I am sorry that I had to do that. I wont give you a one day youll thank me talk. I needed to do everything possible to ensure that you got back to school. I shall never thrash you again. I know you will not let me down."
He left the room and closed the door. A second later he opened it and said, "I shall of course have to go back on my word if you do not apologise to that creep of a history master tomorrow." Did I see him wink as he closed the door?
The door was open again. "I nearly forgot. The headmaster says to get to school half an hour early tomorrow and report to his study. Goodnight."
The next morning I knocked on the headmasters door at half past eight. I was immediately summoned in. Mr Jarvis was with the headmaster.
The headmaster began, "I have passed your apology on to Mr Jarvis, who has accepted it." Did the headmaster not like this man? He was saving me from having to apologise personally. "I have described in detail the punishment meted out by your father. I personally found it a little harsh. Mr Jarvis is inclined to believe I exaggerate. For myself I am a little concerned that you may need some first aid. I shall therefore be obliged if you will drop your trousers and pants and allow a brief inspection. I emphasise that this is a simple request and fully understand that you may prefer to stand on your dignity, although I fear your father left you with precious little last night."
Acknowledging the truth of the headmasters fear I thought "What the hell!" I turned round, undid my grey flannels, pulled them down with my pants, lifted up my blazer and shirt and cheekily thrust out my bottom for inspection. Since that moment I have never been shy about being naked. I think I heard a low whistle from Mr Jarvis.
After a few moments the headmaster said, "Thank you. Please pull your clothes up. I dont think you need medical attention. Does it still hurt? It looks as if it should."
"Its still a bit sore, thank you, sir."
"Does your father beat you often?"
"I think that was the first time for about a year. That was by far the worst I have ever had. He only ever beat me when I deserved it. I deserved it yesterday. I apologise, Mr Jarvis, for my insolence yesterday." I felt in honour bound to utter the words personally and so that I could truthfully say to my father that I had apologised, if he should ask.
My father never did beat me again. My brothers behaviour mysteriously improved, but not so completely that he did not continue to get the belt for another year or so. He never got the razor strop. I never saw it again after that evening when it had its day of glory. In fact it was its last moment of glory as my father mentioned in passing many years later that he had often felt it himself when he was a boy. I wondered, but did not ask, if he got it crashing down on his bare arse in front of his headmaster.
PART THREE
Shortly after my last thrashing, my mother had a baby "on the change". It was another boy. My brother and I doted on him as he grew up, although we never spoilt him. My father, now a little mellower, and perhaps a little tireder, did not subject him to the same rigorous discipline he had administered to his first two, but still had him over his knee for a sound bare bottom spanking if he needed it.
When the boy was nine or ten, I was at home for the summer holiday. (I had become a university lecturer – that thrashing paid off, but I never thanked my father for it!). My father had broken his arm. One day I was in the garden and my father called me in. He had hold of the "Nipper" (as we all called him) and said to me, "This child needs to have his bottom bared and be given a good hard slippering. I am not in a position to do the necessary." He lifted up the arm in plaster. "Will you oblige?" Before I could say anything my father continued, "Good. Lets all go upstairs."
We did. He marched the boy into his bedroom and handed him over to me. My brother started whimpering. My father said, "Theres no need to be making that noise, young man. Youll soon have plenty to yell about when your brother gets going, especially when I tell him that you were swearing at mummy." Like my father I had grown up to detest swearing, and he knew it. He also knew that if there was one thing I never let my brother get away with it was being rude to my mother. I gave my father a look and he nodded, realising that I would now take control of the situation.
"Where do you keep your slipper dad?" I asked. He looked down at his feet. I did not want him balancing on one foot when he had a broken arm. "Dont worry," I said, "Ill use mine." I sat down on the bed, took off one slipper and put it on the bed next to me. My brother looked as if he might back away, so I took hold of him and drew him towards me. He was wearing dungarees. I unbuttoned the shoulder straps and flicked them over his shoulders. The front flap dropped down. I then unzipped the trousers and pulled them down just past his knees. I had a sudden thought about his kicking me while he was being spanked and glanced down at his feet; he was only wearing socks. My other brother and I were never allowed to walk about in socks "in case we caught cold", but things were different now with fitted carpets and central heating. I hooked my thumbs inside the waistband of my little brothers jockey briefs (no Y-fronts for him) and firmly pulled them down.
"I will not have you swearing at anyone and I will not have you being rude to mummy," I said. "I dont like it and if you carry on that way you will not grow up to be a proper gentleman. I dont know how many you would have got from daddy, but I am going to give you six very hard whacks with my slipper. I know you will cry. It doesnt matter if you do. When you have finished crying you will come downstairs and say sorry to mummy and give her a kiss." His whimpering had increased, but he managed a nod.
I hoicked him over my knee and pushed his T-shirt up his back. I almost lost my nerve when I saw his vulnerable little bottom present itself to me, as I had mine to my father. But my father had never held back on me and I could not now go easy on my brother. I picked up the slipper, announced, "Here it comes!" and brought it down hard on his exposed cheeks. His whimpering turned to proper crying and I continued with the spanking, aiming to get good coverage, as I remembered my father did. I was glad that I had checked him for footwear, as his legs thrashed up and down and his feet kicked my legs.
"I hate you!" he cried, after three or four whacks.
"No you dont," I replied cheerfully. "You just hate what Im doing to your bottom." I finished the spanking off, making the last whack extra hard and leaving his bottom a shade of pink that any artist would have liked to have on his palette.
I put him back on his feet. "Do you want me leave your pants down so that you can rub your bottom?" I enquired. He nodded tearfully and his hands went behind his back and tentatively felt his sore bottom. "Dont forget to come downstairs when you are ready and do as I told you." He nodded again.
I stood up and put my slipper on. My father and I left the room.
"Did I use to ball like that when I was his age?" I asked my father.
"Probably. Thats the first time hes felt anything on his backside other than my hand. Thought you did a good job. Must have learned from experience!" After a pause he continued, "I often used to wonder if I was doing the right thing, but youve turned out all right, apart from the cross-dressing." I had never heard my father make such a joke before and would have been shocked if I had not seen the wide grin on his face. "Well have to have a serious chat about corporal punishment one of these days. But not today, as this arm is giving me hell."
PART FOUR
When he was twelve my brother came to stay with me during the Easter holiday.
He got a bit bolshie.
"Do you still get it from dad?" I asked. I knew the answer as my father as I had had a conversation on the phone on the very subject only a few days before.
My little brother had a number of not so good points, but lying was not one of them.
"Yes," he answered sheepishly.
"And does he still take down your trousers and pants and give it to you on your bare bot?"
My brothers face reddened.
"No. I mean yes. I mean no. I mean I now take down my own trousers and pants."
"Do you still yell your head off like those times I whacked you with my slipper."
"I try not to, but sometimes he really gives it to me and I cant help it."
"Have you had the belt yet?"
"Only once, for swearing." He added hastily, "But not at mum, I havent been rude to her since you slippered me."
"Glad to hear that that whacking at least did some good."
"Ive never forgotten it."
I smiled to myself.
"Dad says he used to give to you and Patrick more than he gives it to me. Were you worse than me, or was dad stricter then?"
"Patrick was probably naughtier. I think I used to get it more when I disappointed dad, as I was the eldest."
I told him the saga of the razor strop. He was impressed.
"Dad has given me full permission to dish out any punishment I feel necessary. Dont worry, I wont be resorting to a razor strop, but I am sure that I can find something to redden your little bot-bot if you dont behave."
His face reddened again.
Our little talk had an effect, as he was quiet for a day or two. One day though he got frustrated over something unimportant and threw a tantrum like a two year old. I sent him to his room to await my pleasure. I pondered what I could whack him with. I come up with my old school ruler, which I kept in my desk. I wondered if it would be too hard. I got it out and weighed it in my hand. It seemed to be made of quite a light wood. I also reasoned that the weight of the instrument was not decisive; it depended on how much force was applied. I recalled something from school physics about speed to weight ratio.
I opened the bedroom door and found my brother sitting nervously on the bed. I said, "Right! Get em off and get your bum in the air. Its whacko time."
"Youre not going to hit me with that? On my bare bum? Youll hurt me!"
"General idea," I replied. "Dont worry. Ill start off with a few light taps and work my way up until I think Im getting the right result. You know my motto Everything in moderation, including whopping your little brother on his bare arse when he deserves it. Please be so kind as to remove your shoes, take your trousers off, stand up, take your pants down, step out of them and bend over and show me your naughty little bottom."
He made no move.
"I mean today," I said firmly. "If I have to come over there and take your trousers and pants off myself I may forget about the light taps and start off as hard as I can and keep on until I get tired."
He saw that there was no way out and started to undo his trouser belt. He looked as if he was fumbling "accidentally on purpose". A look from me told him that he should speed up a bit and he quickly completed the first stage taking his shoes and trousers off while sitting on the bed. Remembering my instructions, he then stood up and pulled down his pants and stepped out of them.
He looked round the room and asked, "Where shall I bend over?"
I considered his question for a moment and said, "Face the bed. You can rest your hands on it if you like."
He did just that and his behind jutted up nicely. He then remembered that he was to show his bottom so he pulled his shirt up.
"Well, well!" I said. "If I dont see a very naughty bottom indeed. We shall have to see if we can make it into a very good little bottom."
I applied the ruler, as promised not too hard; in fact so softly that I barely made a mark. I increased the force until nice reddish patches appeared on his bum cheeks. After one nice crack he jolted and his shirt fell down covering his bottom.
"We cant have that," I said. " Please stand up and take your shirt off." He did so without argument. I made a sign indicating that he should resume his position. He was soon bent over again, now naked apart from a pair of long grey school socks. I continued smacking him with the ruler, slowly reddening his bottom. When I had covered him all over I told him he could stand up straight. As he did so he muttered an obscenity. I chose to ignore it and leave the matter for the next day.
The next evening after dinner I ordered him to his room. He was obviously puzzled, but with the attention given to his bum the previous day he decided not to argue.
A few minutes later, I entered the room carrying my ruler and said to him, "I have spoken to dad and he agrees that you need to be punished very severely for the four letter word that slipped out yesterday. I shall therefore beat you hard with my ruler. Dad says he is thinking up something special for when you get back. Take your clothes off. I dont want any arguments."
He obeyed and was soon standing naked in front of me. I put one leg up one the bed and pulled my brother over it so that his bum got a full airing. I cracked half a dozen times with the ruler, harder than the day before, but not too hard, as his bum was still red from the pasting I had given him. About half way through he started crying.
"Will you swear again?" I asked.
"No! No!" he cried.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes! Yes!"
"I dont need to give you a few more whacks to make it sink in?"
"No!"
"You promise never to swear again, even quietly under your breath when no-one is near?"
"Yes! I promise."
I let him down.
"Good." I said. "Thats settled then. Get into bed. You can read for as long as you want."
I did not need to punish him again during his stay. I left the ruler on view and a look from me was enough to stifle any further bad behaviour.
I drove him back home at the end of the holiday. As we neared our destination, his face got glummer.
"What do you think dads going to do to me?" he enquired.
"Im afraid he hasnt given me a hint. He just said he would deal with you as soon as you got in the door, so you wont be kept in suspense for long. I suspect that something hard and shiny or long and whippy will soon be coming into contact with your bum. I wouldnt bet on your trousers and pants getting in the way. Just do exactly what dad tells you and it will over the sooner. Ive bought some cold cream especially to soothe your bum after, but I wont tell dad. I expect hell send you to bed immediately after and Ill sneak in when I can." He cheered up at the brotherly solidarity, but not a lot.
When we arrived home we got my brothers case and my overnight bag out of the car. My father suggested that as he had some urgent business to attend they could conveniently be left in the hall. We all trooped into the lounge.
"Your brother will tell you," began my father, "that when he was younger than you I had to deal with him severely for swearing. I never, however, heard him use a four-letter word. I think I have only used my belt on you once and that was for much less serious swearing. I have been in the garden today and have cut a nice switch. Its in the garden shed in a bucket of salt water. Go and get it and dry it with a kitchen towel and bring it in here."
My brother went off on his mission. He was back a few minutes later bearing a long thin switch about five feet long. I swallowed hard when I saw the length of it and was glad that I had never had such an instrument applied to my backside.
"Nicholas, you will kneel on the sofa facing the back and take down your jeans and pants. You will then lean over and stick your bottom out. I will then place this stick on your bottom, which will tell you that I am about to hit you with it. After each stroke I will place the stick on your bottom and this will you remind you to keep your bottom stuck out. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"I dont want your shirt getting in the way so it may be best to take it off. You can tuck it up if you like, but if it falls down I shall not be happy."
My brother chose not to risk any such unhappiness and took his shirt off. He then got onto the sofa as instructed and dropped his jeans and pants. He thrust his bum out. I was relieved to see that my father grabbed the switch about half way along its length. He laid it across the twin cheeks and immediately brought it back. He paused for a brief moment and with a loud swish he brought the wood down where a second before it had rested gently. It cracked home nicely and my brother sort of sank into the sofa. He made no noise. When the stick was replaced my brother straightened up and pushed his bottom out again. The next stroke extracted a short gasp of pain and with the third he nearly lost control of his vocal chords. He kept resuming the required position after each stroke and I admired his determination not to ask for the beating to stop. He got six. The stripes were evenly spaced. My father always had good hand and eye co-ordination. I was surprised that my brother was not crying.
My father gently helped him get off the sofa. "I am very impressed by the way you took that. I think you will be more comfortable if you take your jeans and pants off and put this on," he said, handing my brother his silk dressing gown, which I had not noticed on the arm of the sofa. "No lectures; just get to bed. I spotted the jar of cold cream; your brother will be up in a few minutes."
My brother said, "I shall try very hard not to swear again. It is difficult to stop when you start. If I do swear please give me twelve. It will encourage me." The last words were said so seriously, but I saw that my father was having as much trouble as I in suppressing a smile.
When the Nipper had gone my father said, "I never intended the use the full length on him. I just thought Id give him something to think about for a few minutes. Off you go on your mission of mercy."
I heard from my father that the Nipper had needed a few reminders before he finally gave up the habit. My father felt duty bound to give him twelve, but told me he couldnt bring himself to whack him too hard.
PART FIVE
Meanwhile, as they say in the best stories, my brother had married and had a son. The boy was a brat. He could be sweet if he chose to. (Fortunately he always chose to when my father was about; he was not stupid). However, he was a brat. It was his mothers fault and my brother had always pandered to her wishes that no form of corporal punishment should be used.
One day, when the boy was about fourteen, I was visiting. He told me he was waiting for the brat (his words) to come in so that he could "talk to him." He spat the words out.
"I should have given it to him years ago," he said.
"Its never too late," I ventured.
My brother sat up straight. "Do you know, I think you may be right." He cheered up. "Can I rely on your help and support?"
"Absolutely."
"If I waver I shall buy you a pint every night for a year." He was starting to get positively jovial.
Almost as soon as the matter was resolved the Brat walked in.
My brother addressed him, "Ive decided that talking to you is a waste of time. So instead I am going to thrash as hard as my grandad thrashed me when I was your age."
The boy smirked and said, "Yeah, you and whose army?"
The matter was urgent. The boys backside needed roasting.
"Me for a start," I said.
A little of the _c_o_c_k_iness evaporated. He suddenly realised that this was, like, serious. He made for the door, but I outmanoeuvred him, shut the door, locked it and pocketed the key.
The boys manner returned, but with a trifle less assurance. "So what is this? A smacked bottom for the naughty boy. Boo hoo, please dont smack my botty daddy, Ill be a good boy."
"I was thinking of something a little more vigorous," said my brother. "Get over the arm of the sofa, please."
The boy now started to panic and shouted "Mum! Mum! Dads going to hit me!"
A moment later my brothers wife was trying the door handle and shouting, "Whats going on? Let me in!"
"All in good time, my dear" He never, as far I know, ever called her "my dear". He was clearly going to have fun. "In the words that you hear in the movies Im going to do something I should have done years ago."
(For the record I should mention that throughout the scene which unfolded my brothers wife kept rattling and banging the lounge door demanding to be admitted.)
He turned to his son and said, "I thought I told you to get over the sofa."
The boy may no move.
"O. K. Have it your own way."
My brother nodded to me and we both grabbed the boy. We were two grown men and he was an adolescent. I dont say we got him down immediately, but we soon had him where we wanted him.
"I think youd better hold him down as this is his first time. He doesnt want to get his bottom smacked does he?"
I sat on the sofa and held the Brat over the arm. He struggled, but I had him in a firm grip.
The Brat was wearing a sort of tracksuit. The elasticated waist meant there were no buttons or zips for my brother to worry about. My brother grabbed the tracksuit bottoms halfway down the thighs and yanked them down to the boys knees. The underpants had come down exposing the top half of the boys slim bum. (The never spanked, unthrashed, bum.) My brother completed the job and slid the briefs down to meet the tracksuit bottoms.
The boy was now really alarmed. "What are you doing," he wailed.
"I would have thought it was obvious. I am taking your trousers and pants down to embarrass you and so that it hurts a lot more when I get strapping your very bare bottom with my belt."
"I thought you were going to spank me with your hand."
"I think "thrash" was the word I used. Thrashing needs wood or leather."
"No! I wont let you!"
"Do you see any means whereby this errant boy can prevent his immanent chastisement?" my brother enquired, almost merrily. He really was enjoying himself.
"With one bound he was free!" I quipped. My brothers mood was catching.
My brother took off his belt and folded it in two.
"Did dad ever give us extra for refusing to bend over?"
"We never refused."
"How many shall I give him?" It was not a question addressed to me; more a musing on an important question. "Its such a sweet little bottom. But it belongs to a very naughty boy. I think well just start and see how we go. Just pull the top up a little please. Thank you. Position the bottom up a little more. Thats it. Shall we begin?"
My brother moved to the side of his son. His voice became a little more serious. "Since you have never been punished in this way before I shall not go too hard on you, though I am sorely tempted to give you a real bum basting. You will still be surprised at how much it hurts. If I do not see a dramatic change in your behaviour the next thrashing will be a lot harder. Think about that while youre getting it."
My brother rested the belt on the upturned bottom, as we all seem to, and began giving the Brat his first hiding. The energy from the application of the leather seemed to transfer itself into the boys body as he writhed and twisted in a vain attempt to avoid the blows raining down on his defenceless bottom. He made a lot of noise and eventually started to sob.
After a good twelve fairly hard strokes my brother stopped. As he put he belt back on he said, "Uncle David will let you go in a moment. When he does, you will stay where you are. If you even look as if you might get up I shall have to start all over again. Do you understand?"
The Brat nodded.
My brother nodded and I let go of the Brat. He stayed where he was.
My brother went to open the door and remembered I had the key. I threw it to him. He unlocked the door and his wife almost fell in. She opened her mouth to speak, but she got a look that I do not think she had ever had from my brother, and closed it.
"Come in, my dear. Come and look at the very red bottom of our son who has just had his very first, and if his behaviour does not improve certainly not last, thrashing. All other forms of punishment such as grounding, stopping pocket money and no ice cream, which have proved singularly ineffective will, and the turn of phrase is not mine, cease be operational. Any disobedience, truculence, _c_o_c_k_iness, failure to keep his room tidy and all other misdemeanours will earn points on a system, partly capricious, which only I will understand. When the points reach a certain level, known only to me, a thrashing will be administered. Each thrashing will be harder than the last. This new regime comes into force with immediate effect. I have spoken.
"You may apply such soothing unguents or cooling lotions to our sons bottom as your maternal instincts dictate. We are off to the pub to celebrate the start of a new era."
When we were out of earshot of the house my brother let out a whoop, pumped his right arm and declared, "That felt gooooooooooood."
On my way back home from the pub I was passing a house and heard from an open upstairs window, "I will not tolerate such insolence young man!" followed by the unmistakable sound of leather meeting bare flesh. Long live the oiks!