I am certain that the severe caning I am shortly to give my eighteen-year-old son Robert will do him nothing but good.
I know the constant use of corporal punishment is the only way to ensure a boy will properly grow into manhood, knowing the value of respect and obedience.
Robert will detest the thrashing, but that is the point. When instructed he will take down his trousers and expose his tight white underpants. And, they will be white. He does not wear any other kind of underwear. I don’t care what so-called ‘modern’ boys do. In this house we are traditional: traditional school uniform; traditional underpants; traditional values; traditional punishment.
So, with his pale grey trousers crumpled over his black shiny laced up shoes; he will shuffle to the armchair I have already positioned in the centre of the lounge room and bend over its back. Head down low: bottom raised high.
Of course, it is Robert’s headmaster who should be delivering this six-of-the-best. Robert has been misbehaving at school, but the head is powerless. This country is going to the dogs. Corporal punishment is banned in schools and there’s nothing the teachers can do with the brats they teach, except give them detentions. And what’s the good of that? They don’t turn up.
In fact, corporal punishment is banned in the home as well. Could you believe such a thing? But the law doesn’t worry me, who is going to turn me in? Certainly not Robert; he accepts he has misbehaved and he knows he deserves all he is getting.
The neighbours might hear Robert’s howls of agony as his buttocks roast under the lash, but they won’t do anything, even though I know they don’t believe in corporal punishment. You can tell that by the way their own boy behaves.
Thomas is twenty-years-old and if he were mine, long ago he would have been across my knees, trousers and pants down (his, not mine), as my thick, black leather belt welted his cheeks.
So, nobody but me will ensure Robert grows up to be a fine man. I have a collection of long, whippy rattan canes laid out in a drawer of the kitchen table ready to do the job. I have already selected a fine specimen. It is probably three feet long and as thick as a pencil. I oil my canes regularly and they are always in pristine condition.
When Robert’s bottom is perfectly presented to me, I will take my time before delivering the first slash into the white cotton. I don’t believe in half-measures. A beating should be severe, leaving the boy in agony from the very first stroke to the last.
I will take up position a full cane’s length to the left of Robert’s bottom. Then, a few gentle taps on the left buttock I get my range and aim. Then I withdraw the cane and with a swing back as far as it will go I return it to the backside with all the force I can muster. I don’t swipe the skin; I force the cane through the meat as far as it will go.
Robert will probably stifle a scream on the first stroke, but as number two and three slowly follow (between fifteen- and thirty-second intervals are best) any attempt at decorum is lost. He is howling.
He grips the seat cushion of the armchair for dear life, his fingernails digging deep into the foam. Robert knows he cannot resist. He might want to stand up and clutching his bum, flee from the room, but his own male pride tells him he must not do this. But, he also knows if he tries to resist, it will be even worse. I will call in his older brother Kevin and down will come Robert’s underpants and Kevin will hold him across the dining room table as I whip twelve vicious stripes into his now naked buttocks.
But, it will not come to this. Robert will take it like a man. That’s my boy.
Here he is now, hovering on the other side of the lounge room door, reluctant to come any further.
“Ah, Robert my boy. Come in. You know why you are here ….”
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second