Sam glanced at the long, thin yellow-coloured crook-handled cane lying on the table and shuddered nervously at the thought of the wretched thing curling itself around his buttocks. He hated the dreadful waiting. Not that he was eager to have his backside beaten; he knew matters had to take their course. There was no escaping the inevitable and how he wished his dad would just get on with it.
The ticking of the clock echoed around the room. Dad was doing it deliberately, he knew. As if the pain of the thrashing wasn’t enough, dad wanted to increase the punishment by making him anticipate it.
At last, the door to the sitting room edged open. Sam eyed his dad apprehensively as he entered, quietly closing the door behind him. He was a bulky man, well into middle-age. His face was set tight. Nothing would prevent him from doing his duty. The list of Sam’s misdeeds had already been intoned remorselessly by his dad while Sam stood eyes focussed on the Axminster carpet.
Dad clicked his fingers and pointed to a spot close to the dining room table. Sam blanched and shuffled into position. He waited, head bowed, for further instructions.
“You persist in playing the rebel. I think a dose of the cane will teach you some manners and it must be hard and plentiful. That’s the only way to get the message across.”
He picked up the cane. It rattled provokingly against the table top. Dad flexed the wickedly supple yard of rattan effortlessly into a half circle and then swished it through the air as if testing its weight. It was light and whippy, a novice might think it too ineffective as a punishment tool. Mr. Ramsden knew otherwise.
Without thinking, Sam put his hands behind his back and smoothed his fingers over his bottom.
“You know what to do,” Mr. Ramsden was sharp and business like. Unable to look his dad in the eye, Sam unzipped his tight pale-blue jeans and pushed them down to his ankles.
“Bend over the table.”
Pulling up his shirt, he leaned over the table, as he had done so many times in the past. The rule was you had to keep your legs together, with your feet on the ground, and your arms flat on the table. You could wiggle, writhe, and scream all you wanted, but you couldn’t get out of position. You had to stay there and suffer, accept the pain willingly and demonstrate your submission.
Sam reckoned there was pride in being able to take a caning properly. He was twenty years old, it would be shameful to make a fuss.
His underpants were snug and he felt the soft cotton dig into his crack as he stretched forward. “Oh,” he gasped when dad gripped the waistband and slowly, inch by inch, drew Sam’s Y-fronts inside out and down to his thighs. His bum was plump and round, the skin smooth and hairless.
Dad “sawed” the cane across the fleshiest part of his son’s naked buttocks. The cheeks clenched, as if this might protect Sam from the fearful thrashing that was about to start.
“Relax,” his dad, tapped the cane into the underside of Sam’s curves. Then he raised the rattan and took a fairly substantial swing back. Suddenly the tip of the cane vanished in a blur as it travelled at incredible speed with a whistling Swish! followed immediately by the satisfying (to dad) resounding Thwack! of rattan against sensitive flesh.
It landed squarely on the middle of the target area. For two or three seconds Sam felt nothing, then suddenly it seemed like a red-hot poker had been seared into his flesh. He grit his teeth and gripped the edge of the table.
Mr. Ramsden admired the imprint of the cane springing up instantly on the pale skin of his son’s bottom. He waited before delivering his next cut, he wanted the young backside to glow in agony before inflicting further punishment.
Mr. Ramsden believed that speed with which a cane strikes the buttocks was a key element in any caning, the faster the better; and Sam’s plump rump would need a lot of caning. Swishing the cane, he waited and then lashed the stick across the offered bottom. A red stripe flamed the hairless buttocks, it was angled diagonally, higher on the left buttock lower across the right.
Sam gasped; the strike of a hard cane stroke was like an electric shock. Mr. Ramsden swished the cane again and waited a few seconds, observing his buttocks carefully. The next stroke would be squarely across the ripest curve of the round cheeks. Mr. Ramsden caned often; he was an expert. He could place each blow where he wanted it.
Swish! There was a gurgling gasping yelp from Sam. The stricken bottom did a frantic dance. Sam had no control, it had a mind of its own. He settled, concentrating hard on keeping his bottom absolutely still. Despite the torrent of fire that seemed to have been poured over his arse, he managed it.
But, Sam’s bum wobbled as Mr. Ramsden’s stick struck again. Another red stripe blazed across the bottom. Sam gasped, he couldn’t get air into his lungs. He thrashed his head about, like a horse neighing. He clamped his eyes shut. His arms were rigidly extended and his fists tightly clenched.
Mr. Ramsden filled his own lungs, leaned back and thrashed an exceptionally severe stroke. Sam wheezed, another vivid bright stripe appeared across his pale skin. He grunted, gasped, wriggled. Mr. Ramsden whipped him again, and Sam yapped a high, piercing “owwww!”
His whole system leapt with the shock of the intense pain. Bolts of electricity surged through his bum and travelled up and down his legs. His body writhed and the searing pain followed his every movement. His shoulders shuddered and his hands clenched and unclenched on the table.
As if in a trance Sam waited. He was dizzy with the sensations of pain and heat, stabbing through his naked bottom in surging waves. But there was no respite and his dad administered the last four strokes in quick succession. Sam twisted and turned as if to escape the lashing pain, and the compelling pulse in his throbbing bottom. All his senses concentrated on this one aching area.
“It’s over. Stand up.”
Sam allowed himself a long relieved sigh, and he leapt upright, his flat, large palms each caressed a cheek. He rubbed them up and down vigorously, making little jumps as his long fingers kneaded his hot, rubbery buttocks.
The pain in Sam’s welted bottom quickly turned to a warm glow, it was almost quite pleasant. His heart still raced and his head seemed remarkably clear. None of the drugs he had ever taken did this to him. His soldier tingled. It wasn’t at attention yet, but it was on the march. He stood, jeans and pants still at his ankles, facing his dad. Dad’s face flushed as he realised the effect of the caning on his son.
He turned and rushed from the room, leaving Sam to stretch his pants and jeans over his flaming bottom. Still clutching the rattan cane, dad took the stairs two at a time and barged into the bathroom. He had desperate need of a damp face cloth.
Other stories you might like
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second