"Bend over."
Obediently, Robert, shorts and underpants already puddled around his ankles, bent in the required position, raising his eleven year old bare bottom up for his hiding. He kept his sturdy, pale legs thirty centimetres apart, pressed his fingers to his toes, and braced himself. Sir only ever caned very hard, and Robert was, justifiably, concerned. But he had been a naughty boy, and knew that he deserved to be punished.
The headmaster admired the boy before him, after lifting his shirt up right to his shoulders. Robert was a gymnast and his supple body made it easy for him to assume the correct position. The boy's dark black hair framed his gentle face, and his bright blue eyes had already been tear filled when the man had ordered him to bare his bottom. The child's white, muscular little behind made a perfect target for the cane, which he slowly picked up off his desk and swished through the air. Drawing out the procedure, he traced it gently across the lad's naked rear, enjoying the boy's obvious nervousness,
"Doing your homework is not optional, Robert, as I've explained to you twice this term already,"
"Yes sir, sorry sir."
"I've heard that before, young man. Now I'm going to see if your bottom sends messages to your brain better than your ears."
He lifted the cane back, then whipped it smartly across Robert's bare bottom, the stick snapping sharply as it flexed across the lad's naked cheeks. Robert hadn't expected it to be so sore. It took all of his will power not to jump up and put his hands behind him to protect his exposed bottom from further assault. Instead he yelped, his whole body bobbing sharply with the pain. He'd been caned before, but never on the bare bottom. This was bad. At least his previous experience with the cane meant that he knew better than to move until told. The cane, not unexpectedly, snapped across his bottom again, doubling the pain.
The headmaster enjoyed the preteen's cry of pain, and the jerking of his slender body, showing that the punishment was hurting. He thrashed the boy's bare bottom again. Giving young boys hidings were the most enjoyable part of the headmaster's job. He absolutely loved it. And bare bottom hidings were the best. The sound of his cane snapping across the exposed boy flesh, and the reactions of the whipped child were very rewarding for him. For the fourth time, he caned Robert, this time actually getting a sob from the lad. Four strokes were really all he could get away with at this stage. Reluctantly, he replaced the cane on the desk, and then crossed back to the bending, crying boy, and gently rubbed his tight, welted little bottom.
"Next time, it's six, understand?"
"Yes sir," came the little sob.
"Get up and pull up your pants then."
Relieved, Robert rose, grasping his sore bottom with both hands, and giving it a good rub. Remembering his nakedness, he managed to get his thin cotton underpants on over his aching bum, and then his shorts came up. He resumed rubbing as he backed away from the centre of the room. His place in the centre of the room was taken by another boy in his class – Zane. The boys weren't really friends, but, like all little boys, became fast allies in this time of trial. Their teacher was a tyrant, and took great pleasure in sending the lads to the headmaster for hidings. And the headmaster always obliged, willingly thrashing their young bottoms without the slightest hesitation.
The headmaster cast his eyes over Zane. He always left the best for last. Robert was a pretty looking boy, but Zane was in a different league. His straw coloured hair was bleached even lighter by the sun, and his body was strong and well tanned – the boy was an excellent swimmer, and a competitive surfer. Slightly taller than Robert, he was a similar age to his classmate – eleven.
"Shorts and underpants down."
Slowly, Zane obeyed, unclipping his shorts and letting them drop to his ankles, then slipping his underpants down his strong, browned legs to join them. His shirt still gave him some modesty, but not much. The boy stood before the man, head down, hands clasped protectively in front of him.
"This is your second bare bottom caning for not doing your homework, isn't it, boy?"
"Yes, sir," the child agreed softly.
"So?"
"So now I get six, sir," Zane had remembered the threat the previous time, and knew that the headmaster would do as promised. He was not known for his mercy when wielding the cane.
"Bend over."
The headmaster was looking forward to this immensely. The eleven year old bent as instructed, as supple as Robert and easily able to assume the position for thrashings. Except that instead of touching his toes, Zane grabbed his ankles, his knuckles white with his determination to stay bending through his whole hiding. He lifted the boy's shirt up to his shoulders, noting how the lad's back was well muscled and beautifully tanned. His bottom appeared softer and rounder than Robert's however. It's whiteness standing out even more due to his suntanned young body. The headmaster retrieved the cane once more, and tapped the preteen's bottom gently. He remembered the last time that he had whipped Zane's behind. The boy was a tough kid, but had still cried by the time he had been allowed to rise after four good lashes.
Zane felt the cane line up on his bottom, but managed to keep absolutely still. He was far more familiar with the cane than the headmaster knew. His father was a great believer in the therapeutic qualities of a good hiding for a young boy, and applied his own cane regularly to his eleven year old son's bare backside. But that didn't make the pain any less for Zane as the stick blasted across his tender tail for the first lash. His reaction was almost identical to Robert's. There was a long pause, then the cane blazed another burning stripe across his bare cheeks, and the child cried out.
The headmaster was enjoying himself immensely. He was always amazed by how well these little boys could take a good thrashing. He caned Zane again, and the boy sobbed. Half way. He determined to really take his time, and carefully lined up the stick again before caning the bending boy for the fourth time. The last two lashes were delivered with all his technique, and he was pleased to note that the preteen was battling to hold his position. After putting his cane away, he allowed the crying child to stand up and get dressed smiling to himself as watched the boy desperately trying to rub some of the sting out of his thrashed bottom, forgetting, momentarily, his nakedness. Then the lad pulled up his shorts and underpants, and he dismissed the two, who left his office for their classroom, ruefully rubbing their throbbing bottoms.
Robert's daddy was furious, "How dare you!" he yelled, "not only did you not do your work, but lied to me about it!"
The little boy stood before his parents in the sitting room after supper. He had decided to come clean with them and tell them about his caning at school before they found out from another source. Somehow, they always knew when he had been in trouble. His little sister had been sent off to bed, but he knew that she would be hiding up at the top of the stairs, eager to listen to the action. When Robert had told all, he had been sent upstairs too, to take off his pyjamas, and now stood naked, in the middle of the room, while his parents ranted. His pale, sturdy young body had no fat – typical of a good little gymnast, he was a muscular, strong child. But the solid young legs were trembling. He knew where this was leading.
"Your attitude needs some serious adjustment, young man," his mother was just as angry as his father, "and it's time you got your backside soundly tanned!"
"Please, no!" Robert sobbed, knowing that his pleas were pointless, he tried anyway, "I've already had a hiding – a caning from the headmaster, on my bare bottom!"
"Good!" his dad responded, getting up and effortlessly swinging the armchair in which he had been sitting around, so that the back of it faced into the centre of the room, "he's warmed your bottom up nicely for my belt! Bend over."
"Please, daddy," the preteen sobbed, already shuffling up to the chair and then slowly draping his naked body over the back of it. He didn't as much as bend over the back of the chair, as lie over it. Knowing the procedure from countless previous encounters with his father's belt, the eleven year old spread his legs well apart, reached as far forward as he could with his hands, and braced himself. His round little bottom ready and exposed for his hiding. He felt his dad's finger gently trace each of the four tender cane stripes that lined his behind,
"Your headmaster knows his stuff – he's kept these nice and low. Must have been pretty sore,"
"Yes, daddy they were,"
"But only four," his mummy had added, "that's not nearly enough!"
"I'll get six next time."
"There better not be a next time, Robert," the man had warned, swatting then kneading the each of the child's buttocks in turn. He enjoyed the feel of the eleven year old's soft, yet somehow muscular bum, "if you think this thrashing is going to be bad, you have no idea how severely I'll deal with you if you don't do your work again."
Robert said nothing as the big hand of his father was lifted from his backside. He listened to the familiar sound of the belt being unbuckled, and then the ominous hiss as his dad slowly slipped it through the hoops of his trousers. The boy knew that his dad would be doubling over the wide, heavy leather belt in his fists, while greedily looking at his trembling young target, and it was not long before the preteen felt the leather being lined up on his very exposed feeling behind.
Although Robert was still very much still just a small boy, his dad noted with some pride how the boy had started to grow. For the first time, his son could actually touch the carpet with his toes, despite his wide spread legs, in his punishment position. He was sure that the lad's young bottom was also slightly meatier and a bit bigger – or perhaps that was just the effect that the four painful looking cane welts had – than the last time that he had administered the leather to it. He had never seen Robert's bottom after the boy had been caned before, and he was genuinely impressed by the headmaster's efforts. He reminded himself to look into getting his own cane for the boy. But then it was down to business. He blasted the strap good and hard, right across his naked target, getting an immediate sob from his son, and a compulsive jerking of the body as the leather left its mark.
Robert had always prided himself on taking the first few lashes of a belting well. But this was too much. His daddy had lashed him right across the bruises left by sir's cane, and the agony was excruciating. Three more times, the belt snapped across his lower buttocks, relighting the pain of his earlier caning, and the little boy howled. Then his daddy worked on the rest of his tail, starting right up at the top and whipping the boy's bare behind slowly down until the leather was once again painfully revisiting that sensitive area just above the legs. The preteen wailed, squirmed and bawled through his hiding, but his father took no notice, knowing that his son would keep still while he mercilessly thrashed the boy's poor bottom.
Stepping back at last, the man admired his work while putting his belt back on. The boy lay still, sobbing, his scarlet, bruised bottom up and on display. He would stay like that for a good half hour, until he had clamed down, and was able to get up and thank his father for the undoubtedly well deserved thrashing. Only then would he be allowed to rub his bottom, and go off to bed. Both parents were satisfied that their eleven year old son had learnt his lesson.
When Zane got home, needless to say, the first thing he did was his homework. But the eleven year old knew that his punishment, like Robert's was far from over. Even as he sat at his desk in his bedroom, feeling his pulse throbbing through his six welts, he feared his dad's reaction. The rule was simple. Any caning at school would be administered at home – but the number of strokes would be doubled. So that would be twelve! The most Zane had ever had, even from his father, was eight! He never even dreamt of not telling his dad. His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of his father. The man always came through to his son's room to greet the boy – preferring to have the child sit and do his homework, instead of rushing out to greet his father. Man and boy had a very close relationship – Zane adored his dad, and the man gave the child as much of his time as possible. The hidings were simply regarded by both of them as a necessary part of their relationship.
Father and son chatted for a few minutes, then Zane broke the news of his hiding at school,
"Dad, I got a bare bottom caning at school today for not doing my homework."
The man sighed. Zane's schoolwork was a constant worry for him, "How many did you get?"
"Six, dad. Six of the best."
"You know what that means that I have to do, don't you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Stand up then, and drop your pants," he ordered, "let me see the damages."
Zane stood, slipped down his shorts and underpants in one quick movement, then bent slightly forward over his desk. His dad ran his fingers over the raised weals neatly placed down his son's smooth, round backside. The boy's bottom had been well thrashed,
"We'll wait for a couple of weeks before I give you the hiding for this, Zane," he decided, "your bottom won't take a full dozen now,"
"Yes, sir," Zane knew better than to argue. And his dad was right. He didn't think he could take twelve of his dad's awful lashes on his bruised bottom.
Like most preteen boys, Zane healed quickly. His bruises faded, and it was after supper two weeks later that his dad decided it was time,
"Report to the study at seven pm, Zane, you and I have some unfinished business."
The boy did as ordered, entering his dad's large, plush study exactly at the required time. He didn't need to be told what to do. His dad was working at the desk, and the eleven year old quickly stripped off his pyjamas. Then, naked, he went to stand, at attention, facing the wall, directly opposite his father's desk. After about ten minutes, without even lifting his head from his paperwork, the man commanded,
"Fetch the cane, and get it ready,"
Again, knowing the procedure, the preteen crossed to a cupboard, opened it, and withdrew his dad's thin, flexible, junior cane. Next to the cane was a pot of wax, and a rag. The boy took the cane, wax and rag and knelt down on the carpet in front of his dad's desk. Then, carefully, almost with reverence, he waxed the cane that would soon be thrashing his own bare young bottom. When he was satisfied, he replaced the wax and rag in the cupboard but kept the cane. Cane in one had, the little boy crossed back to the wall, and again assumed the position in which he had been standing when he had first reported to the study.
Eventually, Zane's dad put down his pen, leant back in his chair and admired the figure of the preteen boy. He was proud of the boy – he certainly was turning into a sturdy, strong lad. His long, strong legs were well defined, and his back showed the clear muscle structure from his hours in the pool and in the surf. The boy's bottom was perfectly in proportion, and totally unblemished from his encounter with the headmaster's cane. Unlike the headmaster, this man took no joy in beating Zane. He gave the lad hidings because that was what he believed was the best way to discipline the boy. As a child, he had had his own bare backside regularly thrashed, and believed in the efficacy of a well laid on hiding. With a sigh, he got up and went to stand by the coffee table in the centre of the room,
"Let's get this over with, Zane,"
The boy said nothing, just shuffling; head down, to stand before his father. Without being told, he handed the man the cane, then knelt on the coffee table. He leant over the edge of the table placing his hands on the floor, then, leaning further forward, he put his head on the carpet between his hands. This put his bottom well up at the top of a triangle completed by his tightly bent body, ready to be thrashed. Zane had been assuming this submissive position since he was six years old, for his first hiding. Then it had been with a belt – he had only graduated to the cane about eighteen months ago. He knew that his dad would really hurt his bare bottom, but had absolute faith that he would not be in any way damaged by the man. He waited, eyes closed, as his daddy lined the stick up. His dad caned much, much harder than the headmaster!
The hiding started, and Zane sobbed as the incredible pain of his dad's cane bit into his exposed hind quarters. The man caned the boy with slow, deliberate determination. Not one word was passed between man and boy – Zane's dad believed that the boy needed to be totally focused on the hiding, not a lecture, all his attention had to be on the cane lashing across his rounded little bottom.
Zane's dad was a pipe smoker. After three lashes, he retrieved his pipe and tobacco, lit up, and then commenced the thrashing, often stopping to relight the pipe. He liked the boy to appreciate each lash, so he really took his time, often more than a minute between the strokes. Even when not getting a hiding, Zane always associated the smell of his dad's pipe tobacco with a sore bottom – it was part of the ritual of thrashings in the study. The room was filled with pipe smoke, the sobs of the boy, the occasional sharp crack of the cane as it bit into the eleven year old's bottom, and, of course, the wail of the child at each crack of the cane.
But eventually it was over, and Zane was allowed to rise, put the cane away and thank his father for his punishment. Of course, he had to wax the cane again before being allowed to put his pyjamas back on and go to bed. It was the worst hiding that he had suffered through yet, but he knew, as would most boys his age, that he would in all likelihood receive worse in the next few years.