When I got downstairs, I think the vicar was on his second glass of sherry. He said the shorter shorts suited me much better and went perfectly with the cap, and he thought I looked very cute. My father said that I not only looked like a junior prep school boy, I had been behaving like one, and so would have to be punished in the time honoured manner.
The vicar nodded understandingly. My father picked up one of his long, thick but flexible rattan canes - more the kind you would use to discipline a sixth former than a junior preppie. The vicar appeared fascinated by it. My father explained that while I was shockingly immature, I was nonetheless an adult schoolboy, and so he had to select the right implement for the task. The vicar said he understood completely.
My father told me he was going to administer twelve strokes to the seat of my shorts, and instructed me to bend over. As I touched my toes, I saw the vicar shifting over on the sofa, to ensure he had a good view of my backside. Then my father whacked my bottom with his cane, very hard. There was a short moment while a line of intense pain burned into my buttocks, then a swoosh and a thwack as he delivered the next stroke, and another intense line of pain.
I could hear the vicar murmuring something to himself between the cane strokes, as my father went on to give me the full dozen. When I was finally allowed to straighten up, I stood clutching the seat of my shorts, hopping from one foot to the other. The vicar was very red in the face and the front of his trousers was tenting quite dramatically.
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