Mr Braithwaite closed the car door and strode the fifty yards to his house. A neighbour had phoned him at work to tell him what was going on. He was furious. When he got hold of his son there would be hell to pay.
There was his confirmation, even before he had the front door open. He could see Arthur through the window of the sitting room. He was lolling around on the settee, drinking beer with another lad. Damn! Mr Braithwaite slammed the door behind him. The brat was cutting college again. Well: there was only one thing to do now. The boy couldn’t say he hadn’t been warned.
He had been warned and more than once. Arthur was nineteen years old and on his second year at the community college. Well, he should have been on his second year. But he failed so many courses in year one, they made him retake the whole lot again.
Mr Braithwaite burst into the sitting room and the furious father let rip, “What did I say would happen if you cut classes again? What did I say?”
A startled Arthur could only mouth, “B..b..b..” before his father harangued him again.
“What did I say?” Mr Braithwaite shouted.
“Dad…” his son wailed, looking across the settee to his pal Tony. He had regained some power of speech but he did not want to have this conversation. Not now. Not in front of Tony.
“And who is this?” Mr Braithwaite waved his arm in the general direction of Tony, who blushed bright red at all the commotion.
Mr Braithwaite half knew the answer to his question. He had seen Tony once or twice at the off-licence where the boy sometimes worked. He remembered him because he thought the boy was a bit precious.
Arthur mumbled something about, ‘a friend from college’.
His father growled. He was determined to get an answer from his son. “What did I say would happen if you cut college again!” his voice had reached fever pitch.
Now, Arthur was equally as red in the face as his pal. He was sure he would die with the humiliation.
“But dad, please …” he implored.
“Doh!” his father answered his own question. “I said I would fetch that cane from the back of my wardrobe and I’d put it across your backside and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“But dad …” Arthur tried to reason with his dad, but the man had already left the room and was striding up the stairs two at a time to his bedroom.
Arthur and Tony exchanged embarrassed stares, but no word was spoken.
Twenty seconds later, Mr Braithwaite returned to the room. His anger had not lessened. In his hand he clutched a whippy school-type cane.
Tony had never seen such a thing before. It was about three-feet-six long, as thick as a pencil and dark yellow in colour. It was curved at one end and the other end was frayed by much use. The boy’s mouth gaped as he watched Mr Braithwaite swish the rod through empty air fiercely. The cane was awesome. Where had it come from? Did they still make things like that? Maybe you could buy them on e-Bay.
Tony had so many questions, but the most important was: Did Mr Braithwaite really intend to beat Arthur with it?
“You,” Mr Braithwaite wobbled the cane in Tony’s face. “Get away from the settee,” he said before swishing the cane and pointing it at the opposite side of the room. “Go stand over there.”
Tony was transfixed by the sight of the rod slicing through the air. It looked a mightily effective cane. It would surely take any boy’s arse off.
Obediently, he moved from the couch, not daring to look at his pal, who was sweating profusely. Oh no! Arthur recoiled at the realisation; not only was dad going to cane him, he was going to do it in front of his best pal Tony.
“You,” he pointed the cane at his son. “Pick up the end of the settee and move it away from the wall.”
Arthur stared dolefully at his father. One more time he tried to make a protest. “Aww dad…” but the words would not come. His voice broke and desperately he tried to choke down a tear.
In seconds the settee was moved. Arthur stood mournfully. It needed no imagination to guess what would happen next. Please God! Arthur prayed silently, please don’t make me take down my trousers.
Twack!! Mr Braithwaite swiped the cane viciously across the back of the settee and a dust cloud rose.
“You,” he glared at his now ashen-faced son. “You, bend over that settee. You know how to do it.”
Tony stared down at the carpet, too embarrassed to witness his friend take two steps towards the settee and ease himself over.
“You,” Mr Braithwaite swished the cane at Tony, “Move over there – out of the way.”
Tony’s heart raced. Never before had he seen a cane in action and somehow he already knew the events of this day would stay with him forever.
He shuffled over to the bay window. Jesus. He realised anyone walking down the street could look in and see his nineteen-year-old pal stretched across the back of the couch his backside pointed upwards waiting for his dad to lash his backside raw with a whippy school cane.
The muscles in Arthur’s back flexed as he clutched a scatter cushion to his chest. The boy spent a little too much time in the gym. His entire body was firm and across much of his torso even his muscles had muscles.
He had buttocks of steel that filled out the fabric of his dark blue polyester ‘leisure pants’. They had fallen slightly down the top of his buttocks, exposing his green-and-yellow checked boxer shorts, but his father quickly dealt with that. It took one tug at the elasticated waistband and the seat of the trousers clung to the lad’s buttocks so tightly each cheek and his deep crack were clearly defined. It made a wonderful target for Mr Braithwaite to lash down his fearsome cane.
Tony watched fascinated as Mr Braithwaite positioned himself a cane’s length to the left of Arthur and very gently tapped the frayed tip of the rattan across the very centre of his son’s bottom. It was then that Tony realised this wasn’t the first time this little scenario had played out in Arthur’s sitting room.
Satisfied that he had his aim, Mr Braithwaite slowly raised the cane away from the stretched seat until it was above the height of his own shoulder then with an almighty swipe he sent it crashing down into Arthur’s rock-hard bum.
They might have been ‘buns of steel’ but that did not stop the cane penetrating deep into the boy’s nerve ends. He let out a breathless ‘whoop!’ and bit deep down into the scatter cushion to muffle the yell he really wanted to make.
Slash two followed immediately. Arthur’s legs stamped up and down in a useless attempt to stop the pain roaring from his bum across his whole body. Saliva dripped from the cushion as he stuffed it further into his mouth. No way was he going to yell out. No matter how much this thrashing hurt, he would not let himself down in front of Tony. And he wouldn’t give his dad the satisfaction of knowing he had wounded him.
Cuts three and four ripped into the lower part of his cheeks, just where they meet the thigh. They were the most painful cuts yet. The lad’s once ashen face was now bright scarlet, as was his neck. If he had eyes in his backside he would see both cheeks were scarred by four deep welts, which were already a dark pink in colour and would very quickly turn to horrible purple gashes.
Cuts five and six were aimed higher on the top of the curves. Now the boy’s buttocks had a half dozen deep welts running almost parallel from the top to bottom of the cheeks. The pain was astonishing. Blood coursed through Arthur’s body at the speed of sound and he was sure it would soon come rushing out through his nose. His breathing came in short pants, hindered by the scatter cushion that had made such an effective job in stifling his yells. Without it the boy would have screamed like a banshee: so loud that neighbours would be opening their front doors and coming onto the street to see where the murder was.
His arse felt like it was twice its normal size. Sitting down comfortably would be a big problem for some time to come and the cuts emblazoned into his backside would be visible for many days: there could be no visits to the gym for some considerable time.
But, despite his agony, he thought, he had not disgraced himself. He had taken the thrashing rather well, considering.
But it was not over yet. Mr Braithwaite misunderstood the situation. So, his son was not yelling and screaming and as yet although the lad’s face was puce and he was sweating buckets, clearly the punishment had not been severe enough.
“Well,” he growled, “Since you don’t seem to be making too much of a fuss, these should come down.” He gripped the waistband of the boy’s trousers and tugged them over his buttocks and down his thighs until the rested bunched up at his knees. Arthur closed his eyes tight and bit even deeper into the cushion.
The checked boxer shorts rose up the boy’s buttocks. Tony winced at the sight of the dark red ridges gouged across his friend’s handsome bum. What agony his poor friend must be in. Why was Arthur’s father so cruel to inflict such punishment?
Mr Braithwaite smoothed down the thin cotton material of the underwear, sending a further shockwave through his son’s body. Arthur braced himself for round two of the onslaught. Nothing he had experienced so far that afternoon could prepare him for what was to follow.
Mr Braithwaite gripped the cane just below the curved handle. His hold was so tight his knuckles started to go white. Then in a coolly calculated manoeuvre he brought the cane swiping down six times without pause. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. It was like machinegun fire as the sound of rattan biting deeply into tight flesh echoed around the small sitting room.
Then it was over. Mr Braithwaite stepped back from the couch to admire his handiwork. He saw his son, still prostrate across the back of the settee. His feet were stomping and he wriggled his hips from side to side. He was gulping in great gasps of air; like a beached whale, trying to force his lungs to work. His head was banging up and down head-butting the back of the settee. His face and neck were scarlet and his eyes glazed like monster’s.
“All right. That’s over. You may stand.” Mr Braithwaite was calm, almost kind.
Gingerly Arthur hauled himself to his feet. He grabbed onto the settee as he nearly toppled to the floor trying to pull up his trousers. Within seconds he was fully dressed. The intense agony he felt as each successive swipe had bitten into him had lessened. His buttocks still throbbed like crazy, but he knew very soon even that pain would ease. Much of his buttocks would be too tender to touch for a long time yet, but the worst was now over.
He stood not daring to look at either his father or his pal Tony. Involuntarily, tears welled behind his eyes and washed down his face.
“You!” Mr Braithwaite had not finished his work. He turned to face Tony. “Your turn now.”
Tony pushed past Arthur, exited the room, opened the front door and hurried up the street outside.
“Bah! Coward! You know he’s a poofter!” Mr Braithwaite sneered as he tossed the cane onto the settee. “I’m going back to work and you should get off to college.”
Seconds later he left the house. Gingerly, Arthur hobbled into the passageway and tugged down his trousers to inspect his toasted buns in the mirror. The whole of both buttocks was a deep red, with purplish bruises forming at the edges. Across the centre of his cheeks were twelve distinct cuts; some had overlapped others and droplets of blood seeped where they crossed. He was wondering where his mum kept the Germolene when the doorbell rang. Through the opaque glass Arthur could see the distinct figure of his pal Tony.
He opened the door to find a very sheepish friend hopping from one foot to the other in embarrassment.
“I thought you’d be half way to Sheffield by now,” Arthur grinned as he let his pal into the house.
For some moments the boys stood, unsure who should speak first. Eventually, Tony piped up. “Does it hurt?” he asked, nodding in the direction of Arthur’s backside.
“No, it tickles,” the boy growled but then seeing the hurt in Tony’s deep brown eyes, he relented. “No, it’s not so bad now. I’ll live.”
The two boys looked each other in the eye in companionable silence.
“C’mon, we didn’t finish the beers,” Tony said as he led the way into the sitting room.
Arthur stood shuffling his feet and Tony sat in an armchair while they slurped on their cans. Then Tony spotted the cane on the settee; he seemed transfixed by it.
“Of course, it’s all your fault,” Arthur nodded at his pal.
“This,” Arthur said holding both his hands against his buttocks as if trying to rub away the pain. “It was you who said we should cut college.”
Tony blushed. He had; but both boys had readily agreed to go to Arthur’s house for a bit of fun. He couldn’t be blamed for what happened next.
Arthur stooped down and picked up the cane and thoughtfully flexed it between both hands. It was very supple and he easily made it bend into an arc. Tony’s eyes followed Arthur’s hand as the boy swished the cane through the air. Tony’s mouth suddenly dried and he gulped on his beer.
“I think you should get the same as me,” Arthur stared intently at his friend to measure his reaction. Then he wobbled the cane in front of Tony. The boy’s round brown eyes shone. Arthur knew that look in his friend. He had seen him give similar looks before.
“So,” he swished the cane once more. “What do you say? Should I cane you?”
Tony knew his face had flushed. His breathing was tight as well. His heart beat faster with excitement.
“Well lad, what do you say?” It was a commanding order.
Tony stared down at the garishly-patterned carpet beneath his feet. “Yes, Sir,” he whispered.
“Speak up boy. Do you want me to thrash you?” Arthur rolled the word “thrash” around his tongue.
“Oh yes, Sir,” Tony whimpered. Arthur snorted. His friend could be such a wimp sometimes.
“Have you ever been caned before?”
Tony flushed, as if embarrassed by his answer, “Oh no, Sir.”
“Then this will be an awesome experience for you, won’t it?” Arthur realised he was loving this. It would be an awesome experience for them both.
“Shall we say six on the trousers and another six on the pants? Which pants are you wearing?”
“You know; those tight dark green ones.”
Arthur tapped the worn end of the cane against the wooden surface of the dining room table. “Bend over the table, boy.” He was enjoying himself. “I am going to thrash your bottom. Very. Hard. Indeed,” he tried to sound like an old-fashioned schoolmaster about to administer six-of-the-best to some misbehaving sixth-former.
Tony’s breathing quickened and his mind flooded with contradictory thoughts. He knew he wanted his pal Arthur to cane his backside; but he wasn’t sure he could take the pain that would result.
He shuffled forward to the table and bending at the waist he gipped its far edge.
“No, it’s better if you lay flat on your stomach,” Arthur clearly had more expertise in such matters than his pal.
Obediently, Tony repositioned himself so that his belly and chest rested on the table top and his legs stretched out behind him. This way his bottom was raised over the edge of the table at just the right angle for Arthur to lash the cane across the centre of both buttock cheeks.
Tony buried his face in his folded arms and waited for the intense pain to start.
Arthur swiped the cane through the air and observed his pal’s rounded buttocks clench and unclench and then clench again. Arthur had always thought Tony’s bum was his finest asset and having it presented to him in this way confirmed that view.
“Relax. Relax; it is better if you can relax your buttocks.” Arthur tapped the cane across the centre of his target.
It was easier said than done, but Tony gave it his best shot. But, if the mind was willing, the body was not. The buttocks continued to remain clenched.
“Are you ready?” Arthur’s kind question was met with a muffled groan from Tony’s mouth which was now buried deep in his arms.
Swish! Arthur’s first stroke caught his pal in the centre of the bum. Tony gasped, his head shot up and Arthur could see his pal’s beautiful brown eyes were shining.
“Keep still, now,” stoke number two landed a centimetre lower than the first. Despite his best efforts, Tony’ buttocks lifted off the table and he swung his hips from left to right in response to the pain now shooting down his legs.
Arthur smiled at his pal’s histrionics. He wasn’t caning the lad one-tenth as hard as his dad had beaten him. What a wimp.
The third stroke was met with a girlish shriek and “Ow, ow, ow.” Again, Tony sashayed his hips and his round bum danced across the table top.
“Keep still.” It was such an inviting target that Arthur wanted to land at least one cut with full force across the lad’s full bottom.
Swish! Thwack! Bingo: right on target Tony let out a loud yelp and jumped from the table, hopping from foot to foot and massaging his injured bum.
Arthur looked deep into his pal’s shining eyes. He couldn’t read his expression: was he loving or hating this caning.
Swish! Arthur swished the cane menacingly. “C’mon boy. Take this with some dignity can’t you. Get back over.”
Tony knew he had let himself down. His great pal Arthur had received one hell of a beating from his dad and he didn’t howl and holler. He buried his face in his arms once more and gritted his teeth.
Swipe! Swipe! Two strokes fell in quick succession. Tony’s bottom reprised its table-top dance but the boy stayed face down. The first six was over. Now, it was trousers-down time.
“Stand up. Take down your trousers.”
Tony was a ghostly white as he raised himself from the table. He smiled enigmatically, but made no effort to unbutton his trousers.
Arthur stared at his best pal. A bright smile creased his own face. Then he burst into laughter.
“Get them down,” he laughed. “At once you naughty little boy.”
“Okay, you asked for it,” Tony giggled and ripped down his trousers, revealing a massive erection straining to break free of his bottle-green briefs.
Arthur also had a tent pole in his pants. Without a word, he grabbed Tony’s pants and pulled them to his knees; then he took the lad’s cock into his own mouth.
“Wait, wait,” gasped Tony as he struggled out of his t-shirt and pulled his trousers and pants off his legs. In seconds Arthur had his own clothes on the floor and the two nineteen-year-olds entwined together fell on the carpet as naked as the day they were born.
And that was how Mr Braithwaite would have found them if earlier in the day he had arrived home five minutes later.
Other caning stories you might like. Click on the titles
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second