The Headmaster stands there cane in hand. I fear him. I fear his cane.
I fear the fact that I know that in a few short moments this man will quite deliberately, totally dispassionately, calmly and clinically - for my own good - hurt me.
It hasn't started yet. Hypothetically the possibility still exists that it will not happen. Theoretically he could decide not to do it.
I slowly undo my belt, my fingers are thick and clumsy and shaking. My throat is dry. My heart is pounding. I want this over - but at the same time I want to stall as much as I can. I know he will wait. But he won't wait long.
Now I fumble with the buttons of my shorts - button at the top and fly buttons as well. So awkward. So difficult to manage. But I do manage, and then I slowly pull my grey shorts down, below my knees to my ankles.
My underpants are white, high sided, and tight, no protection at all, but I still want them there to protect. But I know that cannot happen, and it will not happen, and I hook my clumsy fingers into the waist band and slowly pull them down, below my knees, and near to my ankles. The fabric of my underpants and my shorts, now shackle me like cotton and wool legirons. Until now, I could have run - I would not run, but I could have run. Now my own actions, my own clothing conspires to keep me here.
I am exposed, half naked, standing in front of the man who will hurt me so very terribly in an even shorter moment from now. I am not embarrassed that he can see me, although I wish perhaps, that I was. Embarrassment would be a sign that this was abnormal, but it is not. It is normal, and expected, and to this man, barely worthy of a comment or a memory - though to me, it is becoming now the total focus of my being.
I slowly bend forward over the back of the armchair. My tummy rests on the back of the chair as I bend all the way over, so my head is down. I feel my shirttails rising up my back, and I know that my tiny, vulnerable bottom is completely exposed.
I know my bottom, I know very much what a little boys bottom looks like. White, smooth, round, unmarred and perfect. I like my bottom that way. It's cute, it's part of what makes me a little boy.
And I know that he will ruin it. In the shortest time from now, it will be red, and marked with purple bruising lines. It will not be smooth, but welted with harsh raised lines. It won't be my bottom anymore - it will be his creation.
And perhaps that wouldn't be so bad if I knew that he took pride in his work, and in his creations. But I know that he does not. To him, this will be something horrible and ugly, and not at all nice. He is going to hurt me, he is going to mark me, and he doesn't even want to do it. I know that he would like nothing more at this moment than to tell me to stand up and pull up my pants and walk away unhurt, unmarked. I know that's what he wants to do.
And I also know that there is virtually no chance that this will happen.
The cane touches my bottom - just touches it, almost a caress. A shiver runs through my entire body, of terror and resignation. I shift forward so the armchair will give me the most support it can, but also to move my tiny little bottom as far away from the cane as it can get. An inch, perhaps, and I gain nothing because the cane comes with me. But now I feel my undeveloped penis pushed against the rough surface of the armchair. There is nothing between the skin and the chair, not even hair yet. I try to focus on my penis, on the feeling and sensation as it presses into this chair, because I don't want to focus on my bottom so cool, and exposed and just touched with the gentle pressure of the cane. The cane leaves, and I cannot help myself. My bottom is the focus - there is no delusion left.
The first stroke is always a shock. No matter how bad the pain I remember, it's never as bad as the reality. The slashing fire of the stroke that seems to ground itself running down my legs.
And the knowledge - the knowledge that we are now past the point of no return. The caning has begun. He's started, he's committed, he has HURT me. And he will continue.
There is no noise from the second stroke - at least I do not hear it. If a cane falls and nobody hears it, did it really fall? Well, yes, it did and I know it did because the pain in my bottom is growing exponentially every second. This is, experience reminds me the very, very worst moment of a caning in many ways - because there is no way that I can pretend it isn't hurting, and there's no way I can pretend it isn't happening. There is just the knowledge of pain - and the understanding that this has only just started, it isn't even half over, and it's going to get worse and get worse and GET WORSE!
The third stroke, right atop the second. Half over, oh merciful god, half over. The primary pain flows through me, and now I start to feel the secondary pain - the pain I feel on my right hip, where the cane has bent around my entire bottom, and its end has struck with a second force. My eyes are open and I can see ahead of me, but I have no idea what I am seeing anymore. My nerves are tingling and all I see if pain!
The fourth stroke and through the pain hope SURGES! Four strokes is serious! Four strokes is a bad caning for very naughty little boys, FOUR STROKES MIGHT BE ENOUGH! HE MIGHT STOP. HE MIGHT STOP. SQUEAL MORE, SOB MORE, CRY MORE, HE MIGHT STOP HE MIGHT! Time expands, time becomes longer, there is a pause, THERE IS A PAUSE, he might be stopping. I feel my body, other parts of my body, my focus is changing, it's not just my bot-
The fifth stroke and I CURSE HIM, I curse him and I curse the boy who did the deed who put me in this situation, the boy who was so wicked and bad and naughty to do something that would lead to this, because it is NOT ME! I am a good boy! I could never do anything to deserve this. NOBODY COULD! I DON'T DESERVE THIS, and it's been five strokes, and he will not stop now, even though IT IS ENOUGH, IT IS ENOUGH, OH I'm sorry I lied, I did deserve this, I do deserve this and I don't want to lie, but it HURTS, it HURTS, and I am only a little boy! PLEASE STOP, but don't stop, because I lied and I need to not lie again.
The sixth stroke, the last stroke, the pain is growing still beyond all I can imagine, but cannot last forever, and I have survived, I HAVE survived, and I am free, I am free, I am free. But what if... what if I HAVE miscounted, what if he has miscounted, what if it isn't over, what do I do, how do I take it, how can I take it, please help me take it, please make it better.
Words. Platitudes. Hopes that I have learned my lesson. I stand, slowly, shaking, pulling away from the armchair, my hands swing around to my bottom and try to tear away the pain for a moment. Then I bend down and raise my underpants, slowly gingerly over my knees and then over my bottom to where they belong, tight and white and holding in the pain which I want to forget, want to remember, and know I will never fully understand again - until the next time.
Up with my shorts, buttons and belt, my fingers still clumsy, but easier now, and as I finish, I am once again a little boy, a schoolboy, my eyes wet, my cheeks wet, my bottom sore, but once again I am who I am and who I want to be.
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