Dr. Helmut Forst looked smilingly down at the trembling nine-year-old boy and swished the long, yellow cane.
"You have come for your thrashing, boy?" he asked unnecessarily.
"Yes, sir," the boy squeaked, tears already forming in his eyes as he glanced at the cane.
"Excellent. From what I can see in those tight little shorts of yours, your bottom is very well suited for a really sound caning. Show me the slip."
A small hand held out a piece of yellow paper. The hand shook so badly, the paper almost dropped to the floor. Dr. Forst snatched it and carefully read it out loud.
"The bearer, Berkley, Adam, age 9, to report for punishment. Insolence and disobedience in class; careless composition; careless dress (fallen sock). Recommend severe caning."
"Severe caning, eh?" Dr. Forst gloated, swishing the cane again. "How many strokes, do you think, would be adequate punishment for all these serious misdemeanours?"
"I - I dont know, sir," the frightened child whispered, hands hands fingering the tight seat of his brief shorts.
"Shall we say 3 strokes?" the headmaster inquired politely, pointing the tip of the cane towards the boys round bottom.
"Er - yes, sir," the boy replied, rather relieved.
"Good, 3 strokes it is. For four faults, that will add up to a neat dozen." He watched the small boys face drop at the frightening number and smiled more broadly. "Across your naked buttocks, of course."
Young Adam started to cry and Dr. Forst rather enjoyed the sight. In his opinion, boys must always be punished, and punished with utmost severity, from the age of seven. This boy was nine, so no mercy would be shown.
"Berkley, take down your shorts and underpants, lift your shirt well up and kneel on that chair, bending over the back. Hurry up. No dawdling now, or you will get a few more cuts with this little cane."
Small hands, with shaking fingers, fiddled with buttons until the shorts dropped, then the underpants followed. The boy stumbled towards the chair, climbed on it with difficulty and knelt, his shorts around his ankles, then bent obediently across the low back.
Dr. Forst watched with interest as the small, bare bottom stretched tightly. He could see sign of previous canings. "Further over, boy. Get that backside well up," he ordered sharply, gripping the cane. His eyes fastened on the rising buttocks and he nodded. "Higher, boy. Get that bottom up or Ill give you two dozen. Up, boy. UP! Get that bottom into the air. I want to have a clear, accessible target for my cane."
Young Adam strained and pushed his backside as far as he could up and out.
"Spread your knees, boy. Further. Dont worry, you wont slip off the chair. Its quite wide enough to get those knees way wider. Much wider, now, boy."
When the headmaster was finally satisfied with the exposed, shaming position the boy had assumed, he stood for a moment drinking in the sight. He enjoyed having a small, defenceless boy in front of him, ready and waiting for a harsh whipping, presenting a well-spread pair of buttocks to the cane.
"Twelve strokes, my boy," the headmaster gloated. "Each one laid on with good force so you will feel its full impact. You will stay in position, without moving, and you will count each stroke the instant you feel it across your backside. Any hesitation whatsoever, and you will feel a repetition of the same stroke which will not count towards your dozen. You will count out loud, addressing me politely as "sir" and thanking me each time. Failure to adhere to this requirement, will earn you an extra stroke each time. So I advise you to obey or you will get more strokes than you would want. So be prepared."
He waiting a moment longer to let his words sink in and he noticed the visible trembling of the boys legs. Yes, this boy would learn the consequences of his disobedience and ill manners. He raised the cane.
The first stroke slashed sharply across the lower cheeks of the gaping buttocks and Adam screeched with the searing pain that flashed through him. Dr. Forst chuckled.
"Did that hurt, boy? Good. Excellent. I want it to hurt. I want you to know what it means to be disobedient in my school. So this first stroke doesnt count as we will have to repeat it. You will obey me, my boy, or I will cut you to ribbons."
The next stroke was even harder, so close to the previous cut that the rising welts almost touched.
"ONE!!!" the boy screamed. "Th-thank you, sir." The last words were stammered in anguish.
Dr. Forst chuckled again. "Do you think this was a polite, clear reply, my boy?" he asked. "I wonder whether we should count this stroke or start from the beginning?" He tapped the two livid weals with the tip of the cane.
"Oh, no, sir," the boy wailed. "Please, sir. It hurst so."
The headmaster nodded, satisfied. His cane was having the desired effect.
"We will see. On the next stroke, I want to hear your count instantly, clearly, in a polite tone of voice, or I will really start from number one again. So you better obey."
The cane whipped down, landing on one of the previous weals. The boys buttocks shook and flinched as the pain seared through him.
"One, sir," he managed to mumble. "Thank you, sir." The headmaster noted the effort it took the boy to control his cry of pain. This was progressing very satisfactorily. He raised the cane again.
Crack! A fraction below the previous strokes, the cane landed near the buttocks underside, just where they meet the thighs. The best place to cane a boy, in Dr. Forsts opinion. He always concentrated most of the strokes on that area.
"T-two, sir," the boy croaked. He took a quick breath and then added, "Thank you, sir."
"I wonder whether I should count this stroke?" the headmaster teased the weeping boy. "You didnt really speak very clearly. But I will wait and see how you behave during the next few strokes. If you persist in your disobedience, we will just have to start all over, Im afraid. So you better get a grip on yourself, concentrate and do as you are told."
Crack!
"Oooowwww!" A loud wail of agony erupted from the boys slobbering mouth. "Please! Oh, the pain, the pain!"
"Yes, my boy, the pain. That is what will teach you. Caning is very good for boys, especially young boys like you. One has to start early when dealing with naughty boys, or they will quickly become incorrigible. There is no room for leniency; boys are rude, crude, wild creatures that must be tamed, and the cane is the best instrument to make them behave in a civilised manner."
Crack!
"Three, sir," the boy whimpered. "Thank you, sir."
"No, no, my boy," Dr. Forst said mildly. "That was number one. You made another mistake. So let us start from the beginning, shall we? And I think you will agree that it will be better for you to start obeying my instructions, dont you think?"
"Oh, please, sir," the boy started but the cane flashed and he couldnt finish his thought. With the utmost effort, he brought out the "One, sir. Thank you, sir."
The boy managed to count the next three strokes properly, avoiding further extra cuts or even the warning of a renewed count. But at the 5th cut, he hesitated as he tried to fight the searing pain and the stroke had to be repeated. "No excuses, boy. You know the rules and if you cant comply with them, you will just have to pay the penalty." He whipped the cane across the boys upper thighs, eliciting another piercing cry and the stroke had to be repeated.
Dr. Forst worked methodically, expecting the boys absolute obedience and he relentlessly repeated each stroke that wasnt counted properly. There was no sympathy in him for this recalcitrant little boy. He knew that in order to teach the boy proper behaviour, he had to carry through and not let up, regardless of the mass of welts and ridges that blossomed on those small, sturdy little buttocks.
The headmaster had dealt with many naughty little boys and knew how tough their backsides were. The cane was the most effective way to get those scamps to pay attention to their lessons even if they forget them as soon as their behinds were halfway healed.
He continued the thrashing, aiming each stroke at the most sensitive areas to ensure the best effect. He noticed the boy twisting and writhing across that chair, how his buttocks shook and shivered at each impact of the cane. Occasionally he would lay down the cane and walk over to inspect the boy from the front so he could enjoy the sight of the streaming eyes, the tear-stained face and twisting lips as the pain produced the oddest grimaces. Yes, the cane, if properly applied, could do wonders for a boys behaviour.
He went back to stand behind the boy and continued the thrashing. The count had now reached nine although the headmaster had lost count of the actual amount of strokes this little bottom had absorbed by now. Perhaps the boy was learning and he would get only three additional strokes.
But Young Adam broke down again and howled instead of counting, so in the end, instead of three, he merited six more. By that time the boy was thoroughly exhausted, hoarse from crying and lay limply across the chair back. His ridged bottom was swollen, covered with thick, purple weals and dark bruises on the underside of the buttocks and upper thighs. This boy would not be sitting down comfortably for a fortnight. This was good, because it meant that he would be thinking about the caning for several more days. A lesson well learned and, the headmaster hoped, remembered for at least those two weeks.
However, if he heard that the boy had offended again before the two weeks were up, he would not hesitate to give him another sound thrashing regardless of how bruised that bottom might still be. He enjoyed instructing young boys with the cane because he had excellent results with these methods. No matter how obstinate a boy might be, or how obdurate, he would eventually absorb the lesson provided he was beaten often and hard enough.
"Get up and stand in the corner, hands behind your neck," the doctor ordered after several minutes had elapsed after the final stroke. The boy struggled off the chair and stumbled toward the corner. The headmasters eyes were fixed on the very red, inflamed skin, the pattern of livid weals all across the round, swollen little buttocks that bounced as the boy walked painfully, stiffly, towards the far end of the room to take up his position in the corner.
And there Adam stood for the next hour, his posterior throbbing and burning, each weals having a life of its own, dying to rub his sore behind, but aware that the headmaster, now sitting comfortably behind his desk, was watching to make sure he could not relieve the sting in his flaming buttocks.
As luck would have it, Dr. Forst was presented with Adam Berkley just one week later for an infraction in school uniform. He had not pulled up his sock and was duly reported by the house master. When Dr. Forst bared the boys bottom for his new caning, he noticed with satisfaction that both cheeks were still showing clear and ample signs of the previous whipping.
But of course the doctor ignored those stripes and caned the boy with vigour. Because of the seriousness of the offence, however, he decided to give the boy another full dozen with the cane. This time he did not require the boy to count, though, and he just caned very hard, twelve juicy stingers, some of which left small bloody ridges all across his bruised behind.
The boy limped out of the headmasters study, holding his aching bottom, and Dr. Forst smiled as he replaced the cane. He was certain that he would see this boy in his study again in a very short time. This boy really needed systematic applications of cane across bare bottom at least once a week to keep him in line.