A Caning in Detention

You? Again? Why am I not surprised? You always find a way to get yourself in the kind of trouble that lands you back here. Why do never learn? What is it that makes you so insolent? …I am really at the end of my tether with you, boy.

Well, you understand the procedure. We will both remain here, inside, on this gloriously sunny afternoon. You do realize what an enormous inconvenience this is to me, I hope. I hope that you are thinking of something other than yourself.

Because that’s the trouble, isn’t it. You’re a selfish, lazy boy, and you are always thinking with your prick. Does it shock you to hear me say that? You have been caught, several times now, despite remediation, touching yourself in unspeakable ways, publicly and provocatively. You are showing disgusting behaviour, and you are not leaving this institution until it has been thoroughly corrected. Do you know why the administration brought me in? To teach nasty little slugs like you the difference between right…and wrong. Clearly, you have no idea. My methods are, perhaps, unconventional, because the mental aspect is so very strong. I am here to re-educate you.

How are you feeling? Confused? Nervous? Anticipating? Do you know what you’ve got yourself into? I think you do, actually. I think that you do this on purpose. You sick twisted little creature, you act out deliberately so that you can end up here, in trouble with me. I’ve seen boys like you before. You don’t look at girls your own age, do you. You show off that deformity between your legs so you’ll get time with Mistress. This behaviour is pure compulsion. You’re like a dog salivating at its own bell. So simple you are, little pup. So incredibly basic. What is running through your mind right at this moment? It hardly matters, soon you will have no room for thinking. I aim to make you highly focussed on the present.

Pants down. Yes, everything off. Quick, quick, I’m not standing around for the good of my health. Hands on the desk. Bum up. I said: bum. up. Look at you. Exposed, vulnerable, bent over in front of me. What would your friends say if they saw you like this? I can only imagine the burning humiliation.

I can smell your fear you know, the sour stench of your deep shame. What are you holding onto so much shame for? We need to beat it out of you.

How many times? How many marks should we leave on you? Well, that all depends on your recent display of vulgarity. It says here on your report that you were found to have your hands down your trousers at ten to three this afternoon. If we add a zero to the three to balance the numbers, that gives us ten and thirty. Ten multiplied by thirty is? Three hundred, that’s right. So that’s three hundred strikes with the cane.

I’m still deciding if that’s 300 on each side of your bottom. And more on your belly and thighs if you even squirm an inch.

You can see that I have a splendid collection of implements, different lengths, widths, weights, and all measured to give a particular sensation. Feel this thick bamboo impact your sit spot. I see you didn’t flinch. Of course. I’m starting you off gently. It’ll bruise, but it shouldn’t sting overly much. Eyes on the floor, boy, don’t let them wander so hungrily over my body. I keep my blouse buttoned up and my belt mercilessly tight. For that, you’ll get the thin rattan cane. It feels like electricity, like hot sparks searing your behind. Are those tears in your eyes? Good. My instruction is getting through to you.

How many strikes was that? What do you mean, you weren’t counting? Luckily one of us is paying attention. I’ve struck you 50 times. It felt like more, did it? Well we’re going to have to start again, and add an extra 50 onto the regime. Oh don’t wriggle like that, you’ll only make it worse for yourself. We’re both going to stay here until we’ve reached the end of the regime, and I for one would like it to be over as quickly as possible, to be relieved of your miserable company. I’m having dinner with the Dean and I will not be made late by your inability to count in sequence.


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