Dusty stood before his stepfather, fully aware that he was in very serious trouble indeed. The little boy had his eyes fixed on the carpet, his hands clasped behind his back and his knees pressed tightly together to keep them from trembling. The man sat behind his large oak desk, paging through his credit card statement, occasionally firing questions at the ten year old as he came across entries that he new that he hadn't been responsible for. Eventually, it was clear that Dusty had discovered how easy it was to pay for and download computer games, using his new dad's cards. The man and the boy got on well for the most part, and Dusty had not really thought about the decision that his mother had made shortly after the marriage – that Dusty discipline would be completely at the hands of his stepfather. And now it was a reality!
The man stared at the silent boy in front of him. Dusty was small for his ten years, but his physical size, and obvious signs of baby fat, belied a very well co-ordinated, strong child, excellent at both rugby and cricket. His pale skin and light blond hair complimented each other perfectly, making the boy almost pretty in appearance. His blue eyes, usually sparkling, were filled with tears.
"Has anyone ever given you a hiding, Dusty?"
"Yes sir. My dad used to spank me, and once I got four smacks with his belt. On my bare bottom."
"And when was the last time?"
The boy thought for a moment. He was not an academic, but was smart enough to see where this was leading. And was actually relieved. If he could get this over with by submitting to a good hiding, that would suit him. He knew that having a hiding would hurt, and he clenched his chubby little bottom cheeks in anticipation, but at least he could get it over and done with,
"I think I last got spanked when I was eight."
"Do you think that a sore bottom would be suitable punishment for this?"
Dusty looked up briefly at the large man hulking behind the desk.
"Yes sir," he whispered, "I think that would be the best punishment for me."
The man gestured towards the built in cupboard to the side of the desk,
"In that cupboard is a cane. Fetch it."
Dusty gulped, but obeyed. A cane! He hadn't bet on a caning. He knew that some of the boys at school had been caned, and that they had always cried after a hiding from the headmaster. But he had, so far, managed to avoid the dreaded stick. Things were about to change – if he was going to get caned at home, it was a very bad sign for the future! The cane was where his stepfather had said it would be – and it was the real thing! Not just any old stick, but a proper junior school cane, it even had a curved handle! Just like the preteen had seen in the odd comic book! Dusty slowly extracted it from the shelf, surprised by its lightness, and thinness. He flexed it slightly as he held it in both hands, walking reluctantly into the centre of the room, where his stepfather now stood, waiting for him. Once again, he instinctively clenched his bottom as the man took the stick from him and swished it through the air. The man looked down at the nervous little boy,
"Turn around and bend over."
Dusty turned, and, keeping his knees together, leant forward, pushing his bottom up slightly for his punishment.
"No, my boy. Widen your feet," Dusty obeyed, widening his feet the same distance apart as his shoulders, "now touch your toes."
Dusty obeyed, but wasn't happy with this position. He could touch his toes easily, but he felt terribly exposed – his bottom raised up like that. But his stepfather still wasn't satisfied,
"Keep you knees straight and make sure that your bottom is pushed right up."
Again, Dusty adjusted his position slightly. Perfect. The man was satisfied with his stepson's position. Had he wished, he could have easily have reached down and grasped the whole of the little preteen's bottom in one hand. The boy really was pretty small, but the man was determined to give him a sound caning – knowing that a good hiding was richly deserved. He had thrashed the bottoms of his own sons (boys now somewhat older than Dusty), often enough, and knew how effective a sore bottom was. Dusty was dressed in his cricket whites (bare foot, off course, as dirty sport shoes were not permitted in the house), and as the man tapped the cane on the boy's little white shorts clad behind, he fleetingly thought about making the child take the fairly thick protection down. But it was the lad's first real hiding, and he was generally a good boy. His bottom would be sore enough. But he did issue the ten year old with his stock warning,
"You're getting six," he explained, stroking the stick on his upraised target, "but if you get out of position, or put your hand in the way, I'll add one extra, understand?"
"Yes sir," Dusty nodded his head, bracing himself. He had no idea what to expect.
The first stroke cracked across the child's little bottom, the man not holding back, really whacking the cane hard into the lad's behind, following through fully. It was much, much more painful than Dusty had expected. With a shriek, he leapt up, clutching his buttocks in both hands. His stepfather hadn't expected him to react so badly on only the first lash, but chose to remain calm. He said nothing, just waited for Dusty to bend over again. To his surprise, the lad did just that. Still crying softly, he bent over, assuming the correct position, but the warning had been given, and the threat had to be carried out,
"Well, I warned you. Now you get an extra. So that one doesn't really count,"
Dusty said nothing. He just braced himself for another. This was far worse than he had thought it would be. The cane cracked again across his poor little bottom, but again the child couldn't control himself. He leapt up again, this time gripping his bottom and spinning around to face his punisher, the tears streaming down his face,
"It's too sore!" he wailed.
"That's the idea, Dusty," the man was firm, "it's a hiding. A punishment for your very naughty behaviour. Now bend over. Once again, that doesn't count."
Slowly, Dusty turned and bent over. The man tapped the cane on the child's rear end, and decided to change his tactic slightly, giving the preteen some more motivation to stay down and take his thrashing,
"If you get up again, not only will you get an extra lash," he warned the ten year old, "but you will take off your shorts and get the rest of your hiding on just your underpants."
Dusty said nothing. He sobbed quietly and redoubled his efforts to keep down; grasping his ankles now for all that he was worth. The cane blasted across his bum for the third time, but this time, although the boy's whole body bucked, and he wailed with the pain, he managed to keep his position. After giving the boy a few moments to compose himself, the man whipped the cane across the upraised little bottom again. But Dusty couldn't cope. He jumped up, again holding onto his aching rear,
"Please! I can't! It's too sore!"
"Would you rather I grounded you for the Christmas holiday? We can stop the hiding right now if you would prefer that."
"No!" Dusty was horrified. He was a social, active little boy, and the threat of a lengthy grounding was like a death sentence, "I'll take my hiding!"
"Shorts off then, you heard the warning,"
Dusty didn't argue. Slowly, he slipped his shorts down to his ankles, and then kicked them off. He picked up the garment, and handed it to his stepfather, who folded it neatly and placed it on the desk, before turning to the boy once again.
"Well, by my calculation, you still have five lashes left. Bend over. And if you stand again, it's yet another stroke added, and the underpants come off too."
Quickly, determined now to take his thrashing rather than be grounded, the preteen bent, raising his sore and now very exposed feeling bottom up. The stroke, when it came, was excruciating. Dusty hadn't expected it to be so sore – he had underestimated the protection value of his cricket shorts, and, once again, the little boy couldn't help himself. Up he jumped, desperately trying to rub the sting out of his punished cheeks. After a few seconds, without a word from his stepfather, he let go of his tail, gripped the waistband of his pale green briefs, and slowly slid them down to his ankles and off. He handed them to his punisher, then bent over once more, bare little white bottom up, ready to be thrashed. The man placed the briefs with the boy's shorts, and turned to his bending stepson. He hadn't seen the boy without pants on before, and took a moment to admire the child's small, rounded chubby little cheeks. The lad had pale, soft bottom – now marred by five neat, painful looking cane stripes. He lifted the boy's shirt up, noting how the ten year old's knuckles were white in his efforts to hold his position, especially now as he traced the tip of the cane across the lad's bare tail. Not moderating the strength of the stroke in the slightest, he caned the naked little bottom before him, and was once again, Dusty leapt up, now hanging onto his bare bottom, howling,
"Please! Not so hard! It's too sore!"
The man was becoming distinctly annoyed with the little boy.
"This is ridiculous! You've already had six, and you've still got five to go! If you had stayed down in the first place, we would be finished by now!"
"I'm sorry! I'll try and take it, I promise. It's just so sore!"
"You had better. This is your last chance. If your get up again, I'll cancel this hiding and ground you anyway."
"Yes, sir. I'll take my hiding," Dusty sobbed, turning around again.
"And take your t-shirt off. It's just getting in the way."
The preteen took off the last of his clothing, and, now completely naked, bent over, more determined than ever to take his beating. The six stripes throbbed fiercely as his stepfather lined the cane up again on his bare little bottom. The cane burnt its fiery path across his cheeks, and Dusty howled. But, to his stepfather's surprise, the boy kept down, waiting for another. He caned the child's naked bottom with all his skill, and again Dusty kept his position. But just as he lifted the cane back to whip the child again, a little hand came up, gripping a buttock firmly. Dusty had stayed bending, but couldn't resist giving his bottom a rub.
"Get up!" the man was exasperated.
Slowly, Dusty rose, now not even touching his bottom, even although he was desperate to. But it was too late.
"That's it. Get dressed. You're grounded."
"No please!" the ten year old boy wailed, "I'll take my hiding! Please!"
"You've proven that you can't. Now get dressed." He was already putting the cane back in the cupboard, while the naked little boy followed him, begging.
"I can take it! Please thrash my bottom – give me another chance!"
"You've had you chance, my boy, now get dressed and go to your room."
"Please! You can start again from the first lash, and if I can't take all six at once, then ground me! Last chance, please!"
The man was tempted.
"Go to your room, and I'll think about it."
"Thank you!" Dusty, despite his battered bottom, was almost buoyant. He grabbed his clothing, but, without bothering to dress, he dashed out of the study, and his stepfather heard him pounding upstairs, to his bedroom, to await his decision.
He had already decided to take up Dusty's suggestion; he just wanted to make the boy wait a bit. He had admitted to himself years ago that he loved whipping boys' bottoms, and Dusty's little bottom was absolutely perfect for sound thrashings. It was only when the boy had removed his underpants that the man had realised just what a lovely little behind his stepson had. He would make sure that he beat it regularly from now on. He recovered the cane from the cupboard and headed up to Dusty's bedroom.
Dusty heard the man coming up the stairs and prepared himself. Still naked, the little boy was more than ever determined to take his whipping, rather than be grounded. Remembering how he had been positioned by his father two years ago for those four firm lashes with the belt in his bedroom, the little boy got onto his bed. Knees wide apart, facing the wall, bottom pointing towards the bedroom door, the lad got onto all fours, then pressed his head down into the duvet, and raised his little behind up, ready for the arrival of his stepfather, hoping that the man would be convinced of his willingness to accept a hiding. He sensed the man enter the room, and prayed that he had the cane – he didn't think he could bare to be told to get up, and that the grounding would be enforced. There was a soft chuckle behind him.
"Okay, Dusty. You've convinced me. But remember, this is your very last chance."
Dusty's stepfather had been startled by the position of the ten year old. He was surprised that he hadn't thought of positioning boys like that for hidings years ago! It was perfect for the cane. The preteen's bottom was raised up far more effectively than the simple touching toes, or even bending over a chair positions, and it was at the perfect height for the cane swinging arm. The boy's ultra sensitive lower bottom in particular was now perfectly accessible for the stick. He closed the bedroom door, then, unable to resist, gently placed a hand on the boy's small, soft bottom, carefully feeling out the eight painful welts that he had already burnt across the tender little orbs with his cane.
"This is going to be six, and you've got to take them all without moving," he reminded the naked, kneeling preteen.
"Yes sir," came the muffled reply.
He tapped the cane on the beautifully presented young target,
"This time, I want you to count aloud and thank me – then I'll know when you're ready for each stroke."
"Thank you after each one?" Dusty's voice was still muffled, pressed into is duvet.
"That's right. I'm doing you a favour now, remember."
"Yes, sir. Thank you sir."
He whipped the cane hard across Dusty's bare bottom, not worrying about the state that the child's rear end already was in, but making sure that he didn't cross any previous lines. The boy's bottom was small, so the amount of area still free of welts was small. But he had discovered that the new position meant that previously unwhipped, lower parts of the preteen's backside were now exposed to his cane, and he was able to cane the boy with confidence just above his legs. Dusty wailed and bounced his body, but otherwise kept still. Then he remembered, and recited,
"One," followed by a stronger, "thank you sir."
The pain of the thrashing was like nothing Dusty had ever experienced – even worse than the strokes that he had taken in the study. He was certain that soon he would feel blood trickling down his wide spread legs, but that never happened. Each lash was placed low on his little bare bottom, which would make it uncomfortable for the boy to sit for several days. But sitting was far from Dusty's mind as his upraised naked hindquarters were soundly whipped. But he managed to keep still right through, and even remembered to count and thank his stepfather for each agonising stripe. When it was over, the man rubbed his bottom again, telling him that he was proud of the child and all was forgiven. It was over. But Dusty didn't know that his perfect, chubby little bottom and his self selected punishment position had reawakened his stepfather's passion for caning little boys, and his bare bottom would be regularly whipped with that wicked junior cane in the future.