Caneability - Part 2

by Mike Ward

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Only a few days after their first round of canings my three young lodgers were readying themselves for the Easter vacation. There were solemn promises from two of them that they would work hard and continue their revision programmes over the holidays while they were at home with their families. I smiled indulgently. I had been a student for long enough myself and knew well that few undergraduates could ever stick to a proper schedule of study once they were away from college. But I sent them off happy in the knowledge that as well as their promises to remain dedicated to the search for knowledge they had also drafted study-contracts setting out just what they intended to achieve over the coming fortnight. If things worked out as I expected, I would have two unhappy young gentlemen standing before me at the start of the next term, each fully conscious of the penalties for failing to complete the agreed workload.

That left one lodger who wasn�t going to be travelling home for the holiday, and right now, a week into the holiday, he was lying across my lap, his bared backside developing a very healthy and charming blush as I spanked him. It was just skin on skin, just spanking him by hand because he had been so sweet and polite when he asked me to go gently on him. So I agreed that instead of thrashing him with the senior cane straight away, I would warm his bottom with a spanking so that he might be better able to take the caning that he so richly deserved. How did he end up in this position? You just wouldn�t believe what the young fool did this morning. Let me go back a few days as I continue to smack this young flesh. It�s quite all right, it really doesn�t take much mental effort to spank a boy when he is in this position.

It had suited me just fine, for the one who stayed behind was number three, the third of the lads in the queue for that first caning session, the smallest and most impressionable. And I certainly had plans for him. I had placed a caring hand on his shoulder as we waved the others off at the station, and suggested that perhaps we might take a stroll into town and have a little chat over coffee about his own study-contract for the next two weeks.

The coffee itself was dull as ever. What can you expect from a department store caf�? But our little chat was very productive. It seemed totally reasonable to me to suggest to the lad that as I was also on holiday I didn�t really want to be landed with the extra task of supervising his studies and behaviour. I simply expected him to act with a certain degree of maturity and to address himself to the books on his desk for five or six hours each day. That would still leave plenty of time for exercise and any other acceptable forms of relaxation that took his fancy. We spoke for a bit about that word, �acceptable�, and he clearly wasn�t overjoyed with my insistence that pubs and night-clubs were definitely out. Afterall, there was still the minor matter of his having been grounded along with his companions until the end of the summer exams. I held out the possibility, however, that if he acted responsibly he would be free of the daily supervision that I had felt obliged to impose on the three youths over the previous days.

On the other hand, of course, if he failed to act responsibly he knew that he could expect to be treated accordingly. So you see; it really was in his hands. On the way out we passed through the menswear department as I needed a handful of new shirts, although that may just have been a pretext on my part to bring my young charge through the adjoining boyswear section. I still had a notion that it would be a pleasant thing to put this incredibly slim and short nineteen year-old back into boy�s clothes. He really did look utterly ridiculous in his usual get-up of baggy jeans and t-shirts that had so obviously been designed with a larger youth in mind.

I suspect that it may not have escaped your notice, dear reader, that I have a bit of a thing for the idea of older lads in boyish short trousers. It�s just one of those things. My heart warms to see a tall lad dressed in a way that suggests that parental controls are still firmly in place; so much healthier for society than the thuggish attire of so many boys and young men. And back then, at the start of the holiday, I was still nurturing the hope that young number three here could be made to see the sense of ditching his feeble attempt at looking much like any other older teen in his cheap urban fashion wear. It didn�t take much to imagine how much smarter he would look if he had opted for a pair of shorts like the fawn coloured school shorts worn at one of the nearby prep schools by all of its boys in the summer term. Actually, it was incredibly easy to imagine as I had selected a pair of those shorts from a rack in the boyswear department and was holding them up to my young lodger�s waist as if eyeing them up for size. He positively blushed. Very charming indeed.

Of course I didn�t buy those shorts then and there. I felt content that we had silently exchanged an understanding. As I had said over coffee. If he acted responsibly and demonstrated a mature approach to his studies and life, then I would treat him as a mature and responsible young man. The corollary really did not need to be stated.

And it had been a lovely week. There were a few tasks around the house and garden that needed attention, and some preparatory research for a forthcoming project, and all in all I had sipped my evening whisky wrapped in the richly self-satisfied glow that comes with striking even little things off the �to do� list. My remaining lodger seemed to be putting in plenty of time at his desk, and I was happy to pay him in cash for a few hours of toil in the garden. Naturally I didn�t want to be thought of as unnecessarily mean; I paid well above the minimum wage. And with each pound that I handed over I tried to work out the odds of this youth using the money wisely.

If only one could bet on the likelihood of another human being acting recklessly!

Excuse me for a moment while I give my complete attention to this squirming body on my knees. My hand is actually beginning to feel quite sore and as the object is the punishment of the boy rather than pain for me, I think it�s time we switched to an appropriate instrument of discipline. And joy of joys, here to hand is a rather useful training shoe, kicked off by the young man as he squirmed and squealed. Very appropriate indeed. I�ll just start off with a few whacks across the back of his legs. Very satisfactory. I do like the sight of that first smack on fresh flesh. Just wait a moment while I get into a rhythm; I want to get these spanks flowing smoothly from the hips all the way down along his thighs. Such a little screamer! Well, he will want to be properly warmed up because he�s going to be getting a rather severe introduction to that new senior cane of mine.

So, back to this morning.

He�d gone out. He came back. There�s nothing unusual in that, it�s what people do if they don�t want to be stuck at home all day. He was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of white soccer shorts. He�d worked up a bit of a sweat, as if he had been running, and all in all I thought that there were more unpleasant things that one could have to look upon in the morning. He greeted me; and that was where his downfall began.

There was something overly cheerful about his chatter. Then there was his strange way of hanging around and talking in the kitchen when the natural thing for a guy to do after a run would be to say hi and then pop straight off to the shower. Then it came to me; a kind of countertransference. I suddenly had a flashback to a late summer�s afternoon when I was fifteen. I�d come home having been out all day with some friends. We had spent the day mostly just kicking a ball about and moaning about how boring life was, and about how unfair it was that even when you were bored the summer holidays always seemed to just fly by. And then we shared a toolie, a two litre bottle of cheap cider. Hardly a tumbler-full each but it seemed so rebellious and mature at the time. My Dad was at home when I got in and I remember thinking that if I just went straight up to my room he would be suspicious and start asking questions. So, in my foolishness, it seemed to me that it would be safer if I chatted to him for a bit before making my escape. Those words, �oh hi Dad� were the beginning of a long and well-remembered scene in my adolescent life which ended with my body stretched over the back of a sitting-room armchair, my red football shorts, so fashionably short, stretched even more tightly as Dad repeatedly lashed my backside with a length of garden cane.

I learned a valuable lesson that day; never say more than is absolutely necessary. Too many words and you�ll end up giving away more than you intend. It was a lesson that has stood me in good stead during my business career.

And I remembered that afternoon again, realising that while my young lodger�s shorts were of the now fashionable loose cut, everything else was just the same. The natural thing would have been for him to have gone up and showered. Instead he was still chattering away about his plans for the rest of the day. It took a bit of a hunch, but I reached out and drew him closer to me. There was a deep silence. I lifted his t-shirt; if I was wrong this was going to be deeply embarrassing. But how could I have been wrong? Tucked into the waistband of his shorts was a very small paper packet. And in the packet, two little pills. The ecstasy was all mine; I just knew that this was going to be a very lovely day.

We walked through to my study, my hand resting gently on his shoulder. I was flitting between the present moment, and flashbacks of that painful day when my Dad had let rip and really thrashed me. He had been furious and the result was suffered by my fifteen year-old backside. Not six whacks, not even just a dozen like he�d given me that time when he caught me with my fingers in his wallet. He just vented all the fury of a lifelong teetotaller and thrashed away until even the backs of my legs were a deeper red than those pretty little shorts. Well I am no teetotaller. I was going to be calm about this and by being calm I would derive so much more pleasure out of the punishment I was about to unleash on this poor unfortunate�s behind.

Let�s face it, he could have just told me where to go and stormed off to his room. But there was no resistance whatsoever. I told him that I was disappointed in him and in a way that was true. Around here you can get some really worthwhile stuff for only a little more than he must have paid for those two little pills.

But we were not here to exchange recommendations on local dealers. We were here to deal with the serious breach of trust brought about by this young man�s recklessness. There would have to be punishment, it would have to be very painful. It could possibly take up the best part of the afternoon, but I could not bring myself to begrudge him the time. I had made an agreement with him and his two friends and I was just going to have to stick by it.

It must be some kind of inherited instinct but the boy slid gracefully over my lap and made himself as comfortable as he was going to be for the next few hours. His white shorts smoothed over his slim thighs and buttocks as my hand gently circled the thin cloth while I asked him if he truly accepted that he deserved to be firmly punished. It was possibly the most intimate moment I had ever experienced. There was a stillness and hushed silence in the room that was simply very beautiful. The moment lingered.

�Yes Sir�.

It was time to begin. Hand falling repeatedly on those white shorts. Every now and then a little change in the rhythm to keep him alert, every now and then a sharp slap on the back of his legs to break the hypnotic reverie that boys can fall into when they submit to a prolonged punishment. I didn�t bother counting. At some stage I pulled his shorts down to his ankles and continued smacking on the bared skin. Just as he had when I had caned him last week the boy started to repeat, over and over again, the two words, �I promise�. We kept up a long litany of smack and response. Smack. �I promise, I promise�. I suspected that deep in his brain he had found a place that was still occupied by a little boy who constantly found himself struggling between the desire to be good and the sweeter temptations of naughtiness. It was time to give my hand a rest. That trainer of his would do just fine.

As I continue, knowing that duty compels me to work away despite the increasing numbness in my upper arm, I allow myself to plan out a few little surprises for this sobbing youth. Hidden over there, behind some books on that shelf, the third from the left, fourth from the bottom, there is a brand new cane waiting to be christened. It arrived only a few days ago from a workshop in Wales, beautifully crafted, flexible, and very definitely a cane that merits the adjective, senior. I�m going be gentle; there�s no point in beating him senseless. But the severity of his crime and the fact that he had already been grounded suggests that it will be a stroke for each year of his young life. We�ll just have to see how he responds to question, �so, how old are you, boy?�

If I were in his shoes I would consider responding with an optimistic seven or eight. I think that this lad might even be sharp enough on the uptake for that. Of course, if he is, then he will just have to submit to being treated like a little boy of whatever age he pitches for. He still needs a shower but if he opts for a childish punishment I will be compelled to administer an appropriately childish bath. And then we�ll have to head into town and get him a pair of those sweet little fawn-coloured school shorts. He�ll be able to wear them on campus without raising too many eyebrows but he and I will both know that those short trousers carry the full iconic weight of the traditionally disciplined boy.

So what will it be I wonder as I whack the trainer down for what will be the last before I get him to stand and walk over to fetch that cane? Will he have the courage to take the full nineteen strokes? Or will he break down and beg to be allowed to halve his age and return to boyhood, leaving behind the years of adolescence?

Either way, I�m sure that I will manage to extract, however reluctantly, some little pleasure from the hours that lie ahead.

� Mike Ward 2005

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