Firm Traditional Discipline - Continued

by Mike Ward

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Time passes slowly in the corner, it always does. Even a few minutes standing with my nose against the wall and my hands on my head can feel like an hour. A longer time in the corner feels like eternity. But at least when I'm standing in the corner my bottom is not being thrashed. From time to time my mind switches back to the throbbing in the muscles of my backside. It takes a good thrashing to achieve this sensation, the spasms as my body tries to deal with the fact that it has just suffered a painful ordeal. But the waiting always comes to an end and when I hear Daddy shuffling some paper at his desk, and then getting up and walking over to the corner where the canes were kept, I know that my waiting will soon be over and that in a few moments I will be suffering a fresh round of corporal punishment.

"Come over here boy".

I move to the centre of the room and stand to attention before him. He uses the tip of the cane to lift my cock up into the air. "A long way to go before you can claim to be a man. Isn't that right boy?"

I respond in the affirmative and for some reason, something in his tone, something about the way that I am standing naked before him and knowing that he has all authority over me, I actually feel that what he says is true. That my penis is smaller than those of real men, that I have a boy's prick as befits my status in Daddy's house.

I bend over. This time I am told to reach out in front of me and place the palms of my hands on the floor. I have to really stretch to do this and move my feet apart so that I can achieve a level of stability. I feel as if I must now present an interesting target, low to the ground but with my bottom pointing upwards and invitingly for the punishment that I am about to receive. Not that Daddy needs any invitation.

"That latest attempt at an essay was complete drivel. You should be totally ashamed of yourself. A nine year-old could do better! And you like to think of yourself as quite the big boy! You will receive nine strokes; one for each year of your mental age. What age are you boy?"

"I'm nine years-old Sir".

"Quite right boy, quite right".

As usual I count them out. "One Sir, thank you Sir". He works his way methodically across my savaged bottom. I find it really difficult to keep myself in position and my arms are already trembling from taking the weight of my body. But it doesn't take very long. "Nine Sir, thank you Sir". Once again there is real pain. I wait. The seconds pass by but Daddy has not yet told me to stand up and I have long learned that the boy who wants to avoid additional punishment will remain steady in position until he receives the order to move.

"Stand to attention boy".

I stand and I am shivering and trembling and incredibly conscious of the fact that my body is silently screaming at my mind and demanding to know just how much more of this awful punishment it is going to have to undergo before I see sense and call a halt to this scene. I have been thoroughly and skilfully punished and I really want to curl up in a bed and just cry myself back to a state of calm and well-being. But instead I stand, shivering because I'm naked and it's cold, trembling because I'm still trying to deal with the pain that has been inflicted on my bottom. Daddy is standing beside me just to my left. His left hand is gently rubbing my tummy, his right hand is moving slowly and lightly over my backside. He is whispering, over and over again, "There, there, there".

I must be in some sort of trance. His comforting me seems to underscore my regression and suddenly, and for the first time as an adult boy, I start to sob like a child. I'm promising Daddy that I'll be good, that I'll do better next time, and I'm begging him not to punish me any more. I am manoeuvred back into the corner. Daddy tells me that he knows that I want to do better but that my punishment is for my own good and there will certainly be lots more of the cane and strap if I continue to do so badly at my lessons.

I am left in that wretched corner for ages. There are sounds of pots and dishes being moved about in the kitchen, cupboard doors being closed, Daddy moving around. Then I hear Daddy go upstairs. At one stage I hear the sound of a saucepan boiling over, that hiss of liquid on hotplate. I try to deal with the conundrum that I have been told to stand in this corner but I can hear that something needs attention in the kitchen. I dare not move and the saucepan boils over again. Daddy comes downstairs quite fast. I smell onions being fried and my stomach churns. I'm very hungry. I was sent to bed without eating anything after lunch. Today I had two pieces of toast for breakfast followed by a tomato sandwich for lunch. I had that cup of hot chocolate in the park. That's it for over twenty-four hours. I am absolutely ravenous. "Please God, don't let Daddy send me to bed again without dinner". At this rate I'm going to soon shed that extra weight that I've been carrying for years. Maybe that's his intention; a new approach to dieting, thrash those pounds or be thrashed. I must be beginning to recover from my earlier punishment if I can manage a few reasonably adult thoughts but I can't hold them. My mind is switching back and forth between childish prayers and feeble jokes.

Upstairs in my bedroom I dress myself in clothes that have been left on my bed. Daddy has told me to get ready for dinner and to make sure that I am neat and tidy. I feel ridiculously pleased that I am being allowed to put on my good school shorts and a pair of trunks. They are just that bit more generous in cut than the punishment shorts or briefs and will feel more comfortable against my punished bottom. One of my own grey shirts is also there on the bed and a pair of the plain kneesocks, so it's an all-grey outfit except for the yellow trim on a v-neck school jumper which I did not bring with me but it fits well. My sandals have been left beside the bed and having put them on I go downstairs and into the kitchen. Daddy smiles at me and says that I look very smart indeed and I feel proud to be praised even for so simple a thing as dressing myself properly.

Dinner is pasta with a tomato sauce, although I notice that Daddy's sauce has some bacon in it whereas mine is definitely the vegetarian option. Daddy has red wine, I have water. He has observed my gaze and guessed my thoughts. "Yes my boy, it's healthy food for you from now on if you're going to be one of my boys. My lads are fit and trim". He goes on to outline his views on the schedule of exercise that he would propose for me. He thinks that I should start going to a swimming pool four or five times a week. I think that I would be mortified to be seen in public having had all the hair on my body removed. But Daddy is being very nice to me and I dismiss that concern as one that need not arise if, in the end, I simply choose to make this a one-off encounter. After dinner there's the dishes and of course cleaning up after meals is a chore for children, so I get to spend some time with my hands in hot water being amazed at just how many pots Daddy managed to use in cooking such a simple meal.

When I am finished Daddy calls and I join him in the sitting room. He's watching the news on the television and he has one of those flame effect gas fires and the room is pleasantly cosy. He indicates that I am to sit on the floor with my back against the couch on which he is relaxing. I cross my legs and feel quite comfortable, enjoying the heat from the fire as it gradually warms my legs. Daddy is running his fingers through my hair and I feel very happy to be allowed to sit with him in this sanctum. The weather forecast shows that there is a strong possibility that the next day will dawn with the first frost of winter and I think about how I will feel if Daddy takes me out again in short trousers. The news is to be followed by highlights of a match that I would love to watch but instead I am sent up to brush my teeth and remove my clothes. Daddy gives me strict instructions that I am not to go to the toilet but that I am to wait until he comes up to get me ready for bed.

When he does come up to my room I am hauled over his lap for my bedtime spanking. It's just a few smacks on my bottom and down the back of my legs but it's part of the ritual for boys like me; adult schoolboys never get to go to bed unsmacked. Daddy doesn't take me through to the toilet, instead he has me lie down on the floor and he folds a nappy around my waist. "Boys who wet have to wear protection". I cringe at those words as I suddenly remember my mother threatening me with nappies when I was about eight and she was frustrated with the fact that I was wetting my bed nearly very night. She didn't carry the threat out. Instead I was brought to the doctor and prescribed medicine that was supposed to help. I'd forgotten that threat until this moment and I flush with the shame of the memory. Daddy sees me going red and says that I am quite right to be embarrassed about having to wear nappies for bed at my age. He has no idea of how deeply I feel those words cut into me. That night I fall asleep fairly quickly; I am sucking my thumb.

Naturally enough I wake up during the night and deal with the inevitable. For a while I lie awake in the dark and torture myself with memories of plastic sheets and worst of all, those mornings as a teenager when I woke up wet having been teased by a couple of months of dry nights. It was as if my mind would kick in and remind me that I was nowhere near as mature as I thought. In the morning Daddy writes another big W on my bedwetting chart. He has the audacity to look disappointed in me even though he knows full well that he specifically refused to let me go to the toilet, and to think that I am going to get spanked for this and subjected to another cold bath. Over his lap I actually let slip the words, "It's not fair Daddy". He laughs at his protesting little boy.

Daddy has me dress in my smart clothes again. He hands me a pair of the sock with navy turnover tops, watches as I knot a tie, and instead of the jumper he finds a navy blazer with a school badge on its pocket and I put that on. Downstairs, in the hallway, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I do look smart, the blazer is a very nice touch and I am grateful that Daddy is letting me wear my big boy short trousers instead of the tight little shorts he had me wear the day before. I am left in the study and told to make sure that I commit that poem to heart properly this time. It's incredibly quiet outside; Sunday morning in the suburbs. Daddy is cooking again, there is the smell of meat roasting in the oven. I look over the poem and once again I enjoy the image of that schoolboy whizzing downhill on his bike. I only hope that I can manage to learn it off by heart and please Daddy by reciting it clearly and perfectly.

"Say, heart, is there aught like this in a world that is full of bliss? ... "

I rub the front of my short trousers and my cock responds immediately so that I have an uncomfortable erection in my tight underpants. Four nights without a wank, no wonder my little peter wants some more attention. But I dare not. I place my hands flat on the table and concentrate on the poem. The table is in the bay window looking out to the front garden and every now and then my attention is caught by a passing car or people walking by and glimpsed through the perimeter hedge. I am actually trying to imagine how any of those who have gone past would respond if they knew what was going on in this house when I have the terrifying realisation that someone is not just passing by. A man, in his mid thirties and wearing a suit, has turned in at the gate and is walking up to the front door. I stare down at the book again but not so quickly that I don't see him smile as he climbs the steps and glances in my direction.

I hear Daddy opening the front door and there is a cheerful greeting, then all is quiet for a while. I concentrate once again on learning this poem; by now I am actually thinking that I would love to be able to stand up and flawlessly recite each line. I want to do this, not just because failure will bring punishment, because I want to win Daddy's proud appreciation. So once again: "With lifted feet, hands still, I am poised, and down the hill Dart, with heedful mind; The air goes by in a wind". I'm going to do this.

Someone has come into the study and is standing quietly beside me, when he starts to speak I know for sure that it is not Daddy, so it must be this other guy. His voice is cheery but I could do without his salutation, "Hey Pissy-bed, Daddy wants you to come through to the kitchen now." I stand up slowly, not entirely sure that I am happy with having to present myself, dressed as I am, to this newcomer. He is smiling broadly and I smile back. He's wearing school uniform too. His grey short trousers seem to be exactly the same kind as mine and he is also wearing a grey shirt. But his blazer is dark green and his tie and socks have been chosen to match. He offers a hand and we shake. His name is Colin and he is here for lunch and the afternoon.

We go into the kitchen where Dad is dealing with vegetables and gravy. A joint of beef is resting on a plate and it all smells very good. Colin and I are set the task of laying the table and my heart skips a beat when I see that Colin has set four place-mats down. The doorbell rings, it looks as if this is going to be quite the traditional family gathering for Sunday lunch. Colin is sent to welcome the new arrival and I finish off dealing with the place-settings. I look up as Daddy introduces me to the man. I guess that he is in his sixties and he is wearing a blazer and slacks, very much the retired military look. By now I am feeling very unhappy with these developments. These new arrivals have not been negotiated with me and I feel somewhat foolish shaking hands with a stranger while I am so unmistakably cast in the role of the traditional short-trousered schoolboy. But Colin does not seem to be very surprised and I guess that this kind of gathering is not unusual in this household. Daddy is obviously very comfortable on this scene, but there again, I think, why shouldn't he be confident enough to show off his boys when afterall, he is not the one who is being required to dress in school uniform.

As I sit down I relaise that I have heard this man's name before, "Mister Grayson". This is the guy who came round to visit Daddy the other night. The man who said that I should be taken out of bed and thrashed when Daddy showed him my first essay. The realisation that Daddy may have some entertainment planned for the afternoon takes some of the edge off my appetite. Colin is tucking in and making polite conversation and, not wanting to earn a rebuke for being rude, I join in. The conversation rules are simple enough. Colin and I are obviously the junior members of Daddy's household and so we have to talk with boyish enthusiasm about football and the things we have learned recently. Mister Grayson is the old family friend who has a keen interest in our progress. Daddy is the man who exercises strict control over his boys and who, despite current fashion, insists that his sons dress in traditional school uniforms and submit to the discipline of the cane.

Afterwards Daddy and Mister Grayson go into the sitting room and Colin and I are left to deal with the dishes. He has been one of daddy's boys for just over a year now and as he lives quite nearby and on his own he is expected to turn up for afternoons like this as well as for the longer periods that Daddy requires. He has a decent job but there isn't much time in his life for anything else as Daddy has set him some pretty tight restrictions and he has a fitness programme and a part-time postgraduate course to take up every spare moment. But he argues that he is managed to achieve much more in his life under Daddy's discipline than he had in the years since leaving college and getting his first job. Colin tells me that he thinks that submitting to Daddy's authority and becoming a boy again was the best thing he had ever done as an adult. He also shares the somewhat distressing news that Daddy and Mister Grayson take it in turns to host Sunday lunch and Colin has been taken to Mister Grayson's home in Daddy's car while dressed in his school uniform. I'm getting terribly mixed up about all this. Having the discipline and guidance of an authoritative figure might help me sort out quite a few things in my life, but this particular Daddy seems to allow no flexibility. Once you are a boy in his house you are a boy under strict traditional discipline and there will be no arguments about who sees you in short trousers or gets to know that you have had your bottom spanked and caned for misbehaviour.

With the dishes out of the way Colin and I go into the study. Daddy tells us to stand side by side facing a bookcase, hands on our heads, and to wait in silence until he is ready for us. I start reciting the poem over and over in my head and I feel a growing sense of confidence about it as the minutes pass. Mister Grayson is with Daddy when he returns and we are told to turn around, to drop our arms to our sides and to stand to attention like good little boys. The two men sit in armchairs opposite us and once again I feel a bit queasy about the way Mister Grayson is looking at my bare legs. Daddy turns to his companion and tells him that the boys have been learning a poem that he might like to hear and then he asks Colin to recite it.

Colin starts well, naming the poem and poet in a voice that he has modulated to sound much more like that of a well-mannered youth than a professional adult male, "Going down hill on a bicycle: a boy's song by Henry Charles Beeching". I follow his declamation in my mind, thinking that I may well be asked to take my turn. I'm thrown a couple of times when Colin uses words that I'm not expecting and I begin to be unsure of myself again and lose confidence in my ability to speak these verses without making any mistakes. But what Daddy does ask me to do when Colin is finished is even worse than ordering me to recite the poem. Daddy has moved across to his desk and picked up a cane which he is flexing when he says, "Michael, you heard Colin's attempt at recitation. What mistakes do you think he made?"

I feel trapped. Schoolboy honour definitely requires that I don't get Colin into trouble, and anyway I am now filled with uncertainty. Did he make mistakes during the recitation, or have I made mistakes in learning it off by heart? I'm damned either way so I swallow deeply and venture the only possible response, "I cannot say that he made any mistakes, Sir".

"And why can you not say, you stupid little boy? Surely you are not about to tell me that despite all the time you have had to study it you still don't know this little poem?"

"I'm afraid that is the case Sir".

"Bend over and touch your toes".

Daddy asks Mister Grayson if he would care to do the honours and I see Grayson's legs and shoes as he gets up and walks across to me me. Then I feel him reach around and unfasten my shorts which are pulled down to mid-thigh along with my underpants. He presses a hand against each buttock and squeezes saying, "nice, very nice indeed". Then he steps away and Daddy brings the cane down across my bared backside. It's a simple sixer but they are powerfully delivered and given the weals that I still carry from my previous thrashings I am soon in agony again and begging for mercy.

At the end I am told to stand up straight, put my hands on top of my head, and recite the poem. I do so and receive a smile from Daddy. "Absolutely perfect", he says.

I am so incredibly pleased to receive this simple praise that it takes a moment for the impact of his next few words to reach my brain. "Now, if you know the poem so well you must either know how many mistakes young Colin made and were lying to me when you said that you couldn't say, or you were not paying attention while Colin gave his feeble attempt at a recitation. Which was it boy? Hurry up, I haven't all day to wait for you stop snivelling. Are you a liar or an inattentive little boy?"

I opt for inattentiveness. Surely the punishment for being distracted would be less than for lying. I pray that just this once I may be let off the punishment that I now know, deep in my inner being, to be richly deserved. But Daddy is ready to undermine me yet again. "Well then, we will have to deal with your failure to listen carefully, but first you will have the chance to redeem yourself. Colin will try again. When he is finished you will tell me exactly how many mistakes you believe he has made."

"Colin, speak out that nice poem once again for us."

Dread and terror does not describe my feelings as I listen to Colin's second attempt. I am utterly lost in a world of mixed up schoolboy loyalties and fear for my own brutalised backside. I listen very carefully, my hands held behind my back as I count off Colin's mistakes on my fingers. Actually I think he is making a better job of it this time round. I take a deep breath, "Eleven mistakes, Sir".

"Is that so boy? Eleven mistakes it is then, and as he has had over a month to learn it, he is going to bend over and take two strokes of the cane for each mistake. And you my boy are going to get the same number of whacks with this tawse for your lack of attention the first time around."

What kind of world have I fallen into that I am inwardly relieved and thankful that I am to get the tawse instead of the cane. I've definitely flipped into a strange mindset where my adulthood is long gone. I'm Daddy's boy and glad to bend over as he thrashes my sore thighs with a light-weight leather strap. I'm in pain again but I can take it, for now. It's almost just as painful to watch Mr Grayson pull Colin's shorts and underpants down as he bends into position for his punishment. Twenty-two strokes and it looks as if Daddy has selected the senior cane. I can hardly bear to watch, but I dare not look away.

Colin stands steady as he is caned and counts each stroke out loud and clearly. On twenty-two he is told to stand up and both of us are sent off to the bathroom to make ourselves presentable again. As I splash water over my face Colin gives me a smack on my bum and giggles. "You bloody fool, it was only nine mistakes. What were you thinking of? Next time watch my hands and I'll signal the right number with my fingers. I don't need another caning like that too soon."

I catch his smile in the mirror and mumble an apology while he takes my hand and holds it against his shorts so that I can feel his hard-on. We go down back down stairs where we are left to play snakes and ladders, our backsides suffering the added soreness of sitting on the floor.

Mister Grayson and Colin leave us after tea. It's getting dark and Daddy doesn't let Colin change out of his school clothes but tells him that Mister Grayson will drop him off at his home and that he is to go straight to bed as soon as he gets in the door. I'm sent up to my bedroom when they leave and not long afterwards I find myself in the now familiar situation of having been spanked, nappied, and put to bed early. Only a day and a half to go. How much more pain can there be in store? How many more of these little humiliations?

(C) Mike Ward 2005

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