The Wish

[petergordon]

One of my chores was to put the rubbish bins out which I normally did before heading off for school. But when I was 15, and on this particular Tuesday, I didn’t because I was rushing to get school on time to avoid getting caned again for this offence. A few weeks previously I had got 4 cuts of the cane and was warned by the Headmaster that if I was late again he would double this punishment. All I was thinking about in my panic that morning was the prospect of 8 strokes, or as we called them, 8 cuts. 8 with the cane was the maximum punished meted out at my school and every boy that ever got them was “in bits”. All pretense of being an almost grown up jack the lad dissolved as you saw boys crying rubbing and blubbing after knowing that I had done exactly that every time I had got the cane . So in my cowardly panic I completely forgot about the bins untill I was sitting in the morning double Geography period.

First that realization of remembering something you know you should have done and then that wave of fear that soon follows . It washes over you and I could almost feel the blood draining from my face. O cripes my goose is cooked and gooses are best done roasted which is what my bottom is in for alright. A bare bottom brush spank roasting and my Dad is going to make very sure of that alright. I start to squirm in my desk. Fear does that. The fight or flight instinct shared by all creatures in nature. My mind is now full of tormenting thoughts. Maybe I can race home at morning recess in the hope the dustman hasn’t come, but of course that is highly unlikely and would result in a caning as well as the spanking I will be getting this evening. Nope it’s over his knees for me for sure. I’m 15 and in a couple of years I will be working and driving a car and have a place of my own. But here I am in grey school shorts worrying about getting a spanking that I well know will have me crying like a little boy, and then have to stand in the corner. It’s bum stinging hell after the brush believe me. Maybe short pants IS the only trousers a 15 year old boy like me should be allowed as once more I will be going over Dad’s knees. Corner-time after a spanking is a mandatory part of Dad’s punishment and no rubbing is allowed. He will tell me to stand there and reflect on why my behaviour has resulted in my getting a properly spanked bottom. As the schoolday moves on I trudge from class to class with my legs like lead weights and my tummy churning with butterflies with ever more gloomy thoughts.

Of course there is always the possibility of Mum or Dad having friends over for dinner or someone ‘dropping by’. This is the full nightmare because when Dad spanks me it is always straight after dinner, or tea as Mum calls it, and visitors do not stop it’s execution. I’m a teenager and I should be able to take my punishment like a man but of course I won’t and can’t. It stings so much. Dad makes sure of that. He is a spank artist that with his brush colours my bum cheeks. With visitors he seems to take extra care to show them the high notes his boy soprano can reach to accompany the reddening of my botty cheeks. I know that when Dad is through I will be dancing around the room, rubbing my bum cheeks and thighs in a futile and vain attempt to ease the stinging without concern for the spectacle I am making of myself. Like it or not I am just a naughty little boy that can’t be relied apon to do my chores.

The schoolday has passed with me being in an increasing funk. My cowardice is tormenting me. As Shakespeare wrote a coward dies a thousand deaths. Butterflies and trembling arms and legs are the physical manifestation of the waves of fear I experience. In the privacy of the toilets I have been rubbing my bare bottom while in my minds eye I see my Dad’s thighs. Over Dad’s knees my head’s well down and from there on the carpet I see under his sturdy legs my shorts and undies down around my ankle socks and black lace up shoes on the other side. This gives the back of the wooden clothes brush access to the underside of my bottom cheeks which is where Dad does his worst on my sit-me-down spots. Rubbing I feel this soft flesh with my fingers.

Now I’m 15 I well know in advance Dad’s quota or quantum of 60 spanks. If you count one cat dog two cat dog three cat dog SMACK you get the relentless rythme of those spanks. Up and down the brush goes and my bum is plunged into the brush stinging hell. Each spank joins the sting of the last and it just keeps getting worse and worse as the spanks land in the same places. During these spankings there is nothing in the world except the sting of that brush and I will howl myself hoarse. Dad never says a word during the spanking. He knows I can’t form words as my vocal cords are engaged in my howling and bawling. What a sight and the sounds I will make. I will be over Dad’s knees with my legs flailing the air as SPANK follows SPANK and banging the carpet with my fists as I buck and twist,my head turning this way and that. I am nearly in tears now just picturing it. Dad prefers to brush spank my bottom and the tops of my thighs with spanks on alternate sides working down and then up, giving two or three spanks on the same sit spots. Mum sometimes gives her encouragement with make sure Peter doesn’t sit down for week dear. It’s only an expression but I will wish I could sit on my pillow for the next few days instead of crying into it tonight in my bedroom........ O how I wished