I dashed upstairs to the bedroom and, having decided on the appropriate instrument of punishment, fought through the clothes hanging on the rail to find the old, slim, lighter junior cane with its traditional crook handle which had lain unused for several years.
This would do the job very well, I knew and I flexed the rod between my hands. I have many canes, all of varying lengths and thicknesses. Some could inflict the severest damage to a naughty boy’s behind. This was not one of my fiercest: it would deliver a sting and would leave my nephew with a sore behind, which was my intention, but as this was to be his first-ever caning, it would not be right to rip his bum to shreds.
Satisfied with my choice, I slowly descended the stairs and returned to the sitting room where I had left Stanley, my belligerent eighteen-year-old nephew. I half expected that he would have run from the house while I was on my errand fetching the cane, but he had not. Perhaps, he had resigned himself to his fate.
Stanley was the son of my youngest brother Jack. Jack was working abroad for a year and had left him in my care. The boy only had a matter of months left at school before his examinations and he agreed it was sensible that he did not travel with his family.
I suspect that he might have regretted that choice. I am very different from Jack; where he is easy going with his children, I am not with mine. If you were to ask me I’d say his kids run wild, they are lazy, selfish and have no respect for others. My children are virtuous and kind, they respect authority and are hard working. In short, Jack’s children are ill disciplined and mine are not. And, the reason for that lay in my hands: the cane.
Stanley got off to a bad start with me: he had no concept of curfew, nor did he consider it his job to do chores around the house. So, he came home at all hours of the night as he chose and the vacuum cleaner never left its moorings in the cupboard under the stairs.
I tried to put a stop to this by imposing the exact rules that had worked so well with my own children. Homework completed by nine o’clock each night. He must be home no later than ten and all chores were to be done to a set timetable.
Stanley seemed pathologically incapable of sticking to rules. I did wonder if he got some excitement from defying me. I knew all about teenage rebellion. I had seen it with my own boys, but a few strokes with one of my stoutest canes soon put a stop to that.
I had ample evidence that caning boys worked. It had succeeded with my own children and it would work with Stanley. One night I sat him down and went through with him all the rules one more time. He knew them already, but I had devised a plan and I wanted to make certain he was in no doubt about what was expected from him.
“If you obey the rules, nothing will happen, but if you break any of them from now on I shall cane you on your bare bottom.” I wanted him to understand he had crossed an important line. The caning wasn’t only a means of delivering an especially severe spanking; it was a symbol of my anger and disappointment.
Stanley who had deceptively cherubic looks rolled his eyes in distain when I announced this and shook his head making his thick curly (and too long) black hair lash about; but mostly he stayed silent. I saw immediately from his body language that he was unwilling to accept this news, but he did not argue the point with me.
“Do you understand what I have just said,” I felt we were entering into a formal contract and I wanted to hear him at least acknowledge the fact.
“Do you?” I asked again and received a sneered “Yeah” for my troubles. He left the room almost immediately and I thought I heard him say “Fuck you” under his breath. I knew I had not heard the last of this.
I was not the least surprised when two days later – it was a Saturday evening – he failed to meet his 10 pm curfew.
He rolled in at close to midnight and ‘rolled’ in this case is an appropriate word. He had obviously been drinking and seemed to me to be the worst for it. I admonished him for missing his curfew and sent him to bed with the words, “As I said I should, tomorrow I shall cane you on your bare bottom,” ringing in his ears. He now knew he could expect a severe beating for his disgraceful behaviour and could spend the rest of the night anticipating his first encounter with the cane.
And that was how he came to be standing in the sitting room that morning with me brandishing a thin ‘junior’ rattan cane.
“Do you know what that is, young man?”
“It’s a, it’s… a cane,” Stanley finally whispered.
“What did I say would happen if you did not obey the rules?” It sounded like a rhetorical question, but it was not. I wanted the lout to acknowledge his wrong-doing.
After much hesitation, he replied, “You said you’d cane me.”
“I said I would cane you on your bare bottom and that is precisely what I shall do.”
For the first time Stanley’s arrogance and self-confidence crumpled. Ashen faced, he gazed plaintively at me, opened his mouth to protest, but was immediately silenced by my penetrating gaze of authority.
I spoke to him plainly and recounted the many times he deliberately, wilfully, disobeyed the rules. He listened to my lecture with downcast eyes. He knew he’d done wrong, and he knew he was going to be punished for it.
“I’ve always said there’s a direct link between a boy’s brain and his bottom and what won’t sink in through one end can be drummed through the other. I can see you father hasn’t been drumming you hard enough. I’m going to make up for that today.”
He stood in front of me as I explained why he was to get a caning. Then I told him to turn around and drop his trousers and pants. I think that’s a critical step, because then a boy is effectively participating in his own beating, silently presenting his backside for punishment.
I’m sure like most boys, especially older ones, he would hate the cane, not only because of its searing pain but also because it breaks through his defences, makes him forget he’s a tough teenager and causes him to revert to being a little boy, heaving under an adult’s hand, wailing in remorse, letting the flood of tears wash over him.
Stanley stood his ground. I had expected a fight, and was prepared if the need arose to force him over the dining room table and lash into his backside as best I could.
I repeated, “Take down your trousers and underpants. Do it immediately or I shall do it for you myself. If you make me do that, believe me I shall thrash you to within an inch of your life.”
He must have believed I could fulfil my threat as with fumbling hands he undid the belt to his jeans. Then he popped the rivet at his lean, bony waist, pulled his zipper and lowered them to his knees. Then, with what I thought was a defiant gesture, he placed this thumbs inside the waistband of his pants and with a swift flick sent them travelling across his slim hips towards his jeans. Modestly he placed his hands in front of him to shield his cock and balls from my sight.
“Bend over that table,” I flicked my cane to emphasis my order. I understand how difficult it is for a strong-willed boy to submit to a caning rather than fight it, but I couldn’t afford to leave him any option other than to submit. The table was ideal for young men to position themselves across for a caning. Its surface was hard and cold and it offered none of the comfort of the back of the settee. Stanley would be required to take a firm grip on its hard edges to retain the correct position for a severe caning, and the teenager’s legs would need to be kept very straight and well parted throughout the entire caning.
Stanley stared at the table, unable to look at me, for what seemed an age. I could see he was steeling himself for the ordeal that was to come. Eventually he found the fortitude to lean forward across the table, his bottom pointing upwards towards me. His height and the small table made the position uncomfortable. He put his right ear on the table, then after a moment turned and put the left one on it. A little later he rested his chin on the top and sighed, while no doubt looking about as best he could.
“Bend forward. Nose to the table.” He shuffled a little until his bottom was offered up sufficiently well for me to administer his thrashing.
A rounded and vulnerable bottom was on display and waiting to be caned. I intended to teach this naughty boy and his backside a lesson they would remember. He really had a big ‘bubble butt,’ one that seemed to beg for a caning.
As Stanley’s bum was exposed sufficiently, there was no need for me to step forward and fold back his shirt; but I did it anyway. His body was now naked from his shoulders to his ankles.
He was now submissive, in position to allow me to thrash him any way I wished. I could not resist adding to his humiliation. “I don’t go easy on first timers. You will learn what a proper caning is like so that you won’t be tempted to break the rules again. You may howl as much as you like but if you stand up or move out of position, you will get two extra strokes each time.”
I didn’t expect a reply and didn’t get one. I took up my position. I do not go in for flexing and swishing before a punishment, for that is unnecessary mental torture. I silently took aim, without touching or tapping the target, then lifted high, and swung rather like a golfer, with a lot of waist movement, bringing the cane down across the middle of Stanley’s bottom. The rod drew a vivid stripe across the bare cheeks. I hoped the pain was hideous.
Stanley cried out between gritted teeth. His back arched, his eyes closed and his face screwed up in agony as he felt the effect of that first blow.
I couldn’t help but give a sermon. “This is not, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, supposed to be a pleasant experience. It is supposed to be horrible and unendurable, the kind of thing you would want to go out of your way to avoid in future.”
I was delighted with the first stroke: a good stripe is one that fully covers both of the boy’s cheeks, so causing maximum sting and I felt I had achieved this and I intending to repeat the success. I took up position again to the boy’s left, lined up the cane, lifted it back high over my shoulder and then I let loose. God that crack, how did he manage to hold position? The line was white at first then quickly turned red. Now, he had two red lines in parallel. He moved slightly, his chest was heaving and he wriggled his bottom.
I waited for perhaps thirty seconds to let the pain travel from my nephew’s buttocks through the entire length of his body. Then I tapped Stanley’s bottom this time just below the second stroke before methodically taking the cane right back and bringing it back down with great speed to strike exactly where I had wanted – half an inch below that second stripe. Stanley gasped as the third line of undiluted pain penetrated all the nerve ends in his trim bottom and his feet drummed against the floor.
Soon the eighteen-year-old lout had six very prominent welts, turning blue/black. The agony must have been spreading throughout his body, blinding him to all else.
I had not announced to Stanley how many strokes I had intended to deliver. It is, I suppose, traditional to inflict six-of-the-best in such circumstances. I could clearly see that the six strokes I had lashed down into his bared buttocks so far had a considerable effect on the boy. He was crying uncontrollably, sobbing, and shaking.
However, his offences had been many and some grave. I could not be sure that six strokes would be sufficient to drive home to him the enormity of his crimes, and more to the point, to ensure perfect behaviour from this day forward.
Since this was Stanley’s first-ever caning I supposed that he had never before in his life imagined such pain, but was this experience enough for him to resolve never to undergo it again?
I could not be certain, so I resolved to carry on for the full dozen. I drew back and three strokes thumped low down into his bum in rapid succession. I knew that these low strokes would be felt every time the boy sat down for days serving as a constant reminder not to disobey me.
I landed number ten higher up, before changing my stance and lashing number eleven across the full swell of his bottom, cutting across several earlier welts. Stanley roared and his bottom gyrated as he took this hardest stroke yet. Number twelve was delivered again in a diagonal stripe; this time from the opposite corner ensuring his buttocks resembled a hot cross bun pattern.
“That will do, I hope you have learned your lesson,” I said, meaning that the thrashing had concluded. Stanley did not move. He was in great distress and I supposed he had not heard me, or perhaps had not fully understood the importance of my words.
I tried again, “You can stand up when you are ready.”
Still he made no effort to get up. He must have been so sore that he didn’t want to (or couldn’t) move.
“Hurry up! I haven’t got all day. Do you want me to cane you some more?”
That last threat did the trick and Stanley, utterly defeated, hauled himself to his feet and began rubbing his glowing backside and the swelling of each weal.
Once more I scolded him about his disobedience and attitude. He promised to be very, very good the way that most freshly caned boys will promise just about anything. Without asking my permission (but I let that go this time) he bent down and in obvious agony pulled up first his cotton briefs and then his denim jeans over his toasted bottom. He was still shaking from the force of his thrashing and I thought it best to dismiss him instantly. He didn’t need telling twice and he dashed from the room and hurtled up the stairs to his bedroom to inspect his tenderised rump.
Thinking about it later, I thought the caning worked very well. My nephew had demonstrated self-control and submission to my authority by allowing me to thrash his naked bottom. I could see there was hope for him yet. He had promised to obey me in future, now we would see if he was able to keep that promise.
Other caning stories you might like.
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second