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A Slave-Boy's Whipping

by Tristan

Copyright on this story text belongs at all times to the original author only, whether stated explicitly in the text or not. The original date of posting to the MMSA was: 21 Dec 1999


Eleven year old slave-boy Michael entered his master's study, closing the door behind him, and surveyed the big, plushly furnished room nervously. Not daring to delay, the blond lad quickly stripped off his pale blue tunic (all that he was wearing), and folded it neatly onto a side table. He looked at the simple garment longingly. He wouldn't be wearing it for some time now. Naked now, he walked over to a corner where two ceiling high bookcases met, and took up his position, at attention, legs straight, arms at sides, nose inches from the corner. A position all the slave-boys, and the master's own sons, had been before to await punishment.

Michael had a naturally very fair complexion to complement his blond hair, and although he was a little short for his eleven years, his body was strong and hardened from hard work. Unlike slave-boys on other estates, Michael and his friends did not have bodies covered in scars. They were generally well looked after. However, his startling white bare bottom still reflected partial pink hand prints from the painful spanking that the supervisor had given him when she'd found him loafing in the kitchen - missing his duties again! It may have ended with a few firm strokes from the strap if she hadn't noticed then and there that Michael had also had his fingers in the kitchen budget - to steal money to buy sweets. Now the master himself would be dealing with the little slave-boy. A painful prospect indeed.

Michael knew that his master would not be lenient. He was a kind man usually - another master may have hanged the little boy for stealing, but Michael's master understood the pranks of boys and punished far more reasonably. However, Michael had first hand experience on the man's skill at giving hidings, and his master believed that a firm dose from the cane was the best cure for naughty little boys. Michael had no doubt that his master would soundly thrash his bare little bottom.

The door of the study opened, and Michael heard the heavy tread of his master as the man entered the room.

"Is there any reason why I shouldn't give you a damn good hiding, boy?"

The deep voice was behind him.

"No Master," Michael responded. No other reply would have been acceptable.

"Fetch the cane,"

Michael left his place in the corner of the room and crossed to another large, built in cupboard. Every boy on the estate was painfully familiar with that cupboard and its contents. Opening the cupboard, the boy reached into a shelf that was just below his eye level and removed the cane that was kept there for one purpose - tanning boy's backsides. The weapon was just under a meter long, thin as a man's baby finger, and glowed a dull yellow in the subdued light of the room. The naked boy crossed to the middle of the room where his master was waiting for him, and handed his bulky disciplinarian the stick. It was times like this when he realized how big his master really was, and how little he was in comparison. Even when the man had carried him to the doctor when he had broken his leg six months previously he had not appreciated the real size of his master.

After handing over the cane, Michael stood in the centre of the room, hands on head now, feet thirty centimeters apart, head lowered. Flexing the cane in his large hands, the man walked around the boy and stood behind him. He admired the child's strong, lithe young body, remembering his own days of fat free fitness. The boy sniffed slightly, and his master knew that the child was already battling to hold back the tears. He always made sure that when he gave Michael, the oldest and one of the brightest of his slave-boys, a hiding, it hurt. He intended to give the little boy before him a blazing bottom today.

"Bend over,"

Keeping his legs absolutely straight, Michael quickly bent at the waist, pressing his fingers firmly on his toes, presenting his bottom for the cane. Faced now with the young boy bent over in the traditional submissive punishment position, the man tapped the cane on the perfectly rounded little twin mounds before him. Such a small target for the painful thrashing that was about to be laid across it.

He lifted the cane up, past his shoulder, ready for the first lash. As he lifted the stick, the man noticed that Michael's knees were trembling slightly in fearful anticipation of the first inevitable lash. The cane snapped smartly across the boy's upturned little bottom, making a loud crack in the quiet room, biting into the tender white flesh of his lower buttocks. Michael gasped with the burning pain, but naturally kept absolutely still. The hiding had only just begun.

After a suitable pause, the master whipped his canr across his little slave-boys naked bottom again, eliciting a similar yelp from the bending boy.

"This is for repeatedly not doing you chores, boy," the man announced. He snapped the stick for the third time across the little boy's exposed behind, "and you still have three to go. Then we'll deal with the issue of stealing!"

Michael squirmed and nearly leapt up as the fourth hard lash bit down low across his poor bare bottom. He was never prepared for how painful a good caning from his master really was, even although he had been naked in this position several times before. Knowing that he was in danger of leaping up before the hiding was done, the lad reached back slightly and grabbed hold of his ankles - this would help him maintain his position.

The man smashed the cane hard across his slave-boy's bottom again, taking note that the boy had grabbed onto his ankles in an attempt to remain bending for his caning. That was always a sign from Michael that he was really suffering through a hiding. But there would be more to come. Hidings for slave-boys in this study always meant that a very sore lad would emerge, unable to sit comfortably for some time. Michael's thrashing today would be a particularly painful session. Taking a long swing, he caned the boy again, right in the crease where his legs and bottom met.

The master put the cane on the desk, then returned to the bending, crying, naked little boy. Gently, he rubbed some of the sting out of the child's bottom, needing only one hand to cover both cheeks completely. He could feel the heat coming off the thrashed flesh already.

"Stand up and go to the corner," the boy was commanded.

Not daring to touch his own bottom, Michael stood and trotted over to the corner where he had originally awaited his punishment. He assumed the same position as earlies, not even noticing the shelves before him, his mind focused solely on the pain of the six stripes painted across his eleven year old bottom, and fearing the hiding that was sure to follow for stealing.

Michael's master had something new and very painful lined up for the boy, he would certainly appreciate the sting over his already well caned bottom. He crossed to another cupboard, across the room room from where the naked child was waiting, and from it he removed a short whip. Known as a mini sjambok, this whip was shorter than a man's forearm, but thick and tapered, made from elephant hide. Half a dozen strokes would be agony for the eleven year old's bare bottom, even laid on relatively gently as he intended. Michael would learn a painful lesson about stealing.

"Turn around and come here," Michael was ordered, and the lad, face red and wet with tears, turned and approached his master. His eyes were fixed on the short whip in the man's hand. He wasn't sure what it was, but it sure looked painful.

"For stealing, I'm going to introduce your bottom to this sjambok. You'll only get six - this time.'

Michael stared at the whip being held in front of his nose. Instinctively, as any bot accustomed to regular doses of corporal punishment, Michael recognised the sjambok as a far more vicious implement - belt, strap, paddle, cane - that he had ever had his bottom thrashed with before.

His master gestures towards a low coffee table, "Kneel on the table, boy,"

With some guidance, the naked eleven year old was soon kneeling on the low table, gripping the edges with his hands, knees spread wide and face pressed into the soft cushion placed on the surface for him. Bending over for a hiding was bad enough, now Michael had never felt so exposed - bare bottom up and vulnerable, still alight from the caning, almost as if begging to be whipped. He felt the sjambok being lined up on his throbbing backside - unable to clench his buttocks because of his position, he braced himself as best he could for his first ever thrashing from the whip.

The man was satisfied with the boy's position. His lithe little body was taut with expectation, his stripped bottom presented in the perfect position for a whipping. Bending as he was, Michael would not be able to suddenly rise up - the whip would land safely on his naked backside only, not his legs or lower back. The master lifted the whip, and using only elbow and wrist motion, he snapped the whip firmly around his slave-boy's bare cheeks. A white line appeared across the cane stripes. But the line quickly turned deep red, purple bruising forming along the edges of the welt.

Michael couldn't believe the pain. This made the cane feel like a gentle spanking. He was so shocked by the pain of the incandescent line of fire painted across his poor bare bottom by the whip that he couldn't make a sound, or even move! But ten seconds later, when the sjambok licked its fiery path across his naked tail again, he got his breath back and squealed into the cushion. After an even longer pause, the whip was thrashed across the little boy's bare bum again, and this time Michael not only screamed in agony, he lifted his knees right up off the table, bringing them down again with a bang a second later.

Michael's master waited patiently for his young slave-boy to stop writhing. Three welts took dominance now against the poor little boy's behind. He was not unsympathetic. As a boy of Michael's age, he had assumed the same position, naked, for thrashings with the same whip at the hands of his own father. He knew how much it hurt, but also what an effective punishment it was for a pre-teen boy. With a sigh, he whipped the boy again.

Michael thought he couldn't take any more after the fourth, "Please, sire, I'll be good! Please stop!"

"You have two more to go boy. Lower your head and raise your bottom. Perhaps now you'll apreciate the soft life that you have here,"

Obediently, but sobbing softly, Michael pushed his face into the cushion and raised up his burning bottom. There was a pause, and then the whip snapped low across his tail again. He screamed, but this time quickly resumed his punishment position. The end was in sight now. Finally, the last, and hardest stroke whipped across his upraised naked buttocks.

After the hiding from his master, Michael limped to the kitchen to beg the cook to soothe some healing balm on his injured backside. He forgot who he had stolen from originally, so before he could react he was bent over the table, arms and legs tied to the table legs, and battered bottom once again being soundly thrashed, this time with the cook's strap! Eventually she took mercy on the weeping boy and soothed his little bottom. But of course Michael was not allowed to wear anything until his bottom had completely healed from his master's hiding - it took weeks. He had to serve as an example to the younger boys on the dangers of stealing!



If you enjoyed it, make sure you check out all the other stories by this author too!

Show all the stories by Tristan
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