Yes young man, take a very close look at it. It’s a Malacca cane. Feel the weight. Flex it, see how powerful it is. It’s one that we use at the young offenders’ institute. And, that’s where you’ll end up if you carry on thieving.
Can you imagine how much that is going to hurt when I put it across your backside? Your bare backside.
When I said you could stay at my house while you were at university I had no idea you would treat me like this. Your own uncle! I hope you feel thoroughly ashamed young man. You should. Stealing money from me. From my wallet. In my own house. I cannot believe it.
At least you had the good grace not to deny it when I confronted you. But you would never have owned up on your own would you?
Don’t try to deny that. You really have let yourself down. Yourself and your family. When I contacted your father and told him what you had done he readily agreed that I should give you the thrashing of your life. You might be eighteen, but so are some of the boys at the institute and that doesn’t stop them being caned.
Now, hand me the cane and go into the kitchen, let’s get on with this.
The kitchen was not huge but big enough to have a table that could seat four people. Simon stood staring at it. His hands trembled, so he clasped them behind his back. Uncle as right, Simon had stolen money, but more than Uncle realised. Simon had “owned up” when Uncle accused him of taking a ten shilling note, but he didn’t confess to the one he took last week and the handful of silver coins the week before. Stealing from Uncle had become something of a routine and subsidised his nights out in town. The government grant he received to study at Brocklehurst University didn’t go far, even though his Uncle wasn’t charging him a proper rent for his lodgings.
Simon stared at the table ahead of him. It was one of the modern kind with an artificial laminated top. He heard Uncle approach from behind and heard him bark, “Stand closer to the table, boy.” He heard the heavy cane swish through the air. It made a terrific noise as it travelled. Uncle had been correct when he said the cane was heavy and powerful. Simon had never been caned before: not at school and certainly not at home. Dad had never spanked him either; even though Simon recognised there were times when he had deserved a damn good hiding. He had no way of knowing just how much the caning he was about to endure would hurt.
Uncle was deputy governor at Brocklehurst Young Offenders’ Institution and one of his duties was to inflict corporal punishment. He believed in the power of the cane, he knew first hand how it kept unruly youth on the straight-and-narrow path. He was not sentimental, Simon would benefit from a good bare-bottomed thrashing. He wouldn’t steal again, not after Uncle had finished with him.
He flexed the cane thoughtfully. It wasn’t like the school canes that many people recognise. It had no curved handle, instead there was a leather grip at one end. It was roughly the same length as a school cane, around three feet, but it wasn’t as thin and whippy. The school cane was usually made of swishy rattan, but the cane he now held was made of more dense Malacca. It was thicker and had notches along its length, but it still was flexible enough to bend into an arc. It packed a more powerful punch than the rattan and was ideally designed for the older youth. It would take Simon’s backside off, especially when applied with some strength across his naked bottom. The lad wouldn’t be able to sit down comfortably for some time to come and the marks and bruises would probably hang around for a week or more.
Uncle stood behind Simon and ran his eye up and down his tiny frame. He was eighteen years old, but slightly built. He reckoned if he dressed him up in school uniform he might be able to sneak on the buses and get away with the children’s fare. The tight beige shorts he was wearing added to his youthful appearance. They were very short as was the fashion and showed off his bony legs. His waist was slim and from where Uncle was standing Simon’s bottom looked puny inside them. Not more than two pips, Uncle thought. At the Young Offenders’ Institute he was more used to thrashing more burly teenagers.
“Lower your shorts and your underpants,” Uncle spoke clearly. He was used to giving orders and always expected to be obeyed. The youth under his supervision had no choice but to obey and today neither did Simon. Uncle observed his nephew shudder. It ran through his whole body. He was terrified. Uncle expected this; most boys were in this situation, especially those enduring the cane for the first time. Uncle waited ten seconds and when it looked like Simon was not about to loosen his trousers, he barked, “Shorts, underpants down. Now!”
The angry tone in Uncle’s voice spurred Simon to action. Although his fingers nearly refused to move, the teenager managed to get them to tackle the buckle of the wide leather belt that held his shorts in place. The shorts fitted him snugly and the belt served no practical purpose, but Simon thought it drew attention to the bulge in his pants. After several tries he had the belt undone. It took more effort to get the top button open and to pull the metal zipper. The weight of the belt and the power of gravity made the shorts slide to his feet.
“Step out of them,” Uncle intoned. Simon wore no shoes so this was no difficulty. A slight breeze from somewhere tickled his bare legs. He looked down at his own body and saw that bulge in his pants close-up. “Get them down,” Uncle said evenly. Simon turned to make sure Uncle would not see his cock and balls once the pants were lowered. Uncle amused himself by swishing the cane through the air and affected not to look as Simon hitched his thumbs in the elasticated waistband of the pants and with the merest flick of the wrists sent them down to the floor. “Step out,” Uncle swished the cane once more. Simon now stood naked from the waist down. “Bend over the table.”
The table seated four people but it was still quite small. When he lay his stomach on the cold laminated top and stretched his arms ahead of him they dangled over the far edge. Even though Simon had no personal knowledge of such things, this didn’t feel right, so he spread his arms and gripped each side to his left and to his right. He decided spread-eagled like this was more comfortable. “Legs further apart, jut that bottom out further.” Simon followed Uncle’s instructions to the letter and now he was perfectly positioned to Uncle’s satisfaction.
Uncle wasn’t yet ready. Although Simon’s t-shirt was not very long its hem rested over the top part of his buttocks. In one swift practiced movement Uncle took hold of it and tugged it up Simon’s back. He was now bare from the shoulders all the way down to the soles of his feet. Now, Uncle was good to go. All he needed to do now was to take up position to the left of Simon’s prone, submissive body. He tapped the cane across the centre of the teenager’s furthest buttock, then he bent his own legs slightly. He tapped the tip of the cane gently to get his aim. Then, in one fast, complete movement, he raised, it brought it up and then along the same arc he swiped it with all the force he could muster across the very centre of both of Simon’s cheeks. An ugly red, raw line immediately appeared and maybe half a second later a tremendous howl echoed around the room. The boy’s body buckled, his head nodded up and down, his legs kicked, but somehow, through some resolve that Simon did not know he possessed, he managed not to leap to his feet and clasp his burning backside while dancing around the room.
Uncle let him settle. It took fully half a minute. Then, he rubbed the cane in a sawing motion across the lower part of Simon’s bum. The next stroke was equally as vicious as the first. It provoked the same response, and in addition this time tears flooded down Simon’s face. He gripped the edges of the table as if his very life depended on it. He wanted to beg for mercy, to tell Uncle that if he would only stop the caning now Simon would never, ever, steal again. But, some inborn instinct told him not to do this. There is some unwritten law that has been followed across the centuries that says a boy or young man under the lash (whether in the headmaster’s study at school, or the governor’s office at borstal or across the back of the sofa in the family home) must take his medicine with as little fuss as he may muster. Simon was not doing too well, but he vowed not to humiliate himself by pleading for mercy. Besides, he knew very well he would get none from Uncle.
So, the flogging continued. It was hell. By the time Uncle was done Simon had six deep cuts throbbing across his rear end. Already each had risen to a welt. The pain was intense, Simon had no idea what a caning was supposed to feel like, but by instinct he knew Uncle’s beating was classic. This had been no ordinary schoolboy’s six-of-the-best. Every square inch of his bum throbbed like crazy. His heart raced and he could feel the blood coursing at one hundred miles an hour through his arteries. His temples throbbed, almost as much as his poor savaged bottom. He could hardly see for the water in his eyes. The back of his throat was raw from his screeching. He could taste vomit inside his mouth.
Uncle tucked the cane under his arm. “Stand up!” he ordered, just as he would with any of the young offenders at the institute. Uncle watched with deep satisfaction as his nephew struggled to raise himself. Simon got to his feet but had to quickly clutch at the table’s edge to stop himself slipping to the floor. His legs didn’t seem to work. His bottom felt like he had been forced to sit in a bucket of boiling water. Gingerly, he reached behind him and to his shock he felt heat rising from his bum. Was that his imagination? He let the tip of his fingers brush his battered behind, even the slightest touch sent further shockwaves of pain streaming through his body. He resolved not to try to massage the pain away.
His head was clearing a little and after he wiped tears and snot away from his face he could see more clearly. He daren’t look at Uncle. Simon stood unsteadily breathing deeply, forcing down great lung-fulls of air. It seemed to him like hours before Uncle spoke again. “Pick up your shorts and pants. I wouldn’t try to put them on if I were you. Go up to your room.” He said this kindly. Despite appearances, Uncle was not a tyrant. Simon was a thief. He had been caught and now he had been punished. That should be an end to the matter. And if Simon did not repeat the offence, it would be. Punishment had been severe; but the lad deserved everything he got. Now, it was over: they could both move on with their lives.
Uncle watched unmoved as his nephew hobbled from the room and began the long and intensely painful journey up the stairs to his bedroom.
Picture credit: Unknown
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
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Charles Hamilton the Second