Toby's Education.
By Musuko

It would be an interesting summer, that's for sure.
	I was overawed by the house. By the long driveway leading up to it. By the sleek, black saloon that seemed to float on air as it delivered me to the entrance. By the firm and haughty poise of the suited feline who greeted me in front of the vast facade of pillars and finery.
	“Mister Stephenson,” he said. “Welcome.”
	Usually, when a twenty-year-old student is called “mister” anything, it's because he's in trouble. I tried to smile and look more casual than I felt.
	“You can call me Kyle,” I said.
	“Of course, Mister Stephenson,” said the man, gracefully stepping to the side and gesturing to the door. “My name is Leopold. If you would like to follow me. Your bags will be brought in.”
	As I followed, I tried to regroup my composure. I mean, sure, he was a lion. At least, partially a lion; I could just about make out some faint stripes in his neatly-clipped and greying mane. But he was still a cat. An old cat. Being a wolf myself, I should have felt a natural confidence.
	Yeah...I didn't feel confident. Certainly not as the stately entrance hall swallowed the sound of my footsteps. I felt as tiny as a mouse.
	“The house is open to you,” he said. “You may feel free to explore at your leisure. The kitchen is staffed at all hours and is open for your use. You will find further instructions in your room, and I will be on hand to answer any additional questions you may have. There will be an opportunity for a more detailed tour this evening.”
	I heard a crash from above; the sound of something heavy hitting the floor, followed by the shattering of glass. Footsteps pattered, and a small face peered around the corner at the top of the staircase.
	“Wasn't me,” it said.
	“And that,” said Leopold, with only a momentary glimmer of annoyance in his otherwise perfectly-controlled expression, “is Master Tobias.”

He stared at me from across the glossy dining table. Amidst the gilded candles and silverware that cost more than my car, he sat, his feet up on the table, moodily munching on a peanut-butter sandwich. He looked wholly out of place in this grand room. Perhaps once he was an adorable little kid, with a sweet smile, and those big fluffy bunny ears. Now, though, he was a surly teenager in jeans and an unwashed hoodie. Maybe his ears were still adorable. I had no way of telling; they were stuffed down inside the hood.
	The silence had gone on too long. He just...kept staring at me. “Hi,” I said.
	He swallowed a mouthful and wiggled his toes almost as if he were waving at me. “So you're a pervert, right?”
	I coughed. “What?”
	“Yeah, you're a pervert,” he said. “Took this job. Means you're a pervert.”
	I tried to keep a calm expression, acutely aware of my ears heating up. Some appropriate words from Leopold's emails came to mind; Master Tobias has an attitude problem. When he pushes, you must be prepared to push back.
	“I took this job because your parents felt you were in need of firm guidance,” I said, trying to channel my father. He always had a strong, authoritarian way of saying what he needed to say. From the withering look of disdain Tobias gave me, I guessed I needed some practice.
	“Whatever,” he said, going back to his sandwich.
	“And because you've chased off all your other caretakers. Maybe they felt you needed a male touch.”
	I knew as soon as I said it that I'd made a mistake. I never knew a bunny could flash such a predatory look. He dumped his unfinished sandwich onto his plate, then casually tipped the plate onto the floor as he stood.
	“Keep your male touch away from me, pervert. Go feel up Leo. He likes that shit!”
	I could only stare as he slouched out of the room, kicking up the corner of a rug and swinging the door to a juddering slam against the wall.
	“Mister Stephenson,” came Leopold's voice, from right behind me. I nearly died! I thought the whole sneaky butler thing was just in movies. “May I have a word?” he said.

So, I wouldn't exactly say this was the largest collection of books I'd ever seen; I'd been into my big university library, after all. But it was definitely up there. And with all the grand ornate shelves and shiny brass fixtures, it was as if some aristocrat had proclaimed “build me something that makes me seem sophisticated”. It probably worked. The mass of paper and pulp around me soaked up any sound we made, making Leopold seem very close and imposing as he leaned over a desk, sliding a book across its surface to me.
	The title read “The Paddle and the Strop: Discipline for Schoolboys.”
	“Master Tobias's parents have, I'm afraid to admit, been rather remiss in their raising of the boy,” he said. “Their business obligations have conspired to ensure their continued absence, and their substitutes have thus far proven somewhat reluctant to use the firm hand and traditional techniques the boy sorely needs.”
	“I...see,” I said. I didn't really see. Or, at least, I did...but surely he wasn't suggesting...
	“They did feel fit, however, to maintain their impressive collection of books. Take this one, for instance. Beautiful binding, don't you think?” He patted the book, and I could only nod, rendered mute.
	“And they also granted me complete discretion in how I choose to set the boy straight,” he continued. “Which I am now granting to you.”
	He drummed his fingers on the book.
	“Lovely book, this,” he said. “Feel free to borrow it.” He flashed a smile that contrasted so surprisingly with his demeanour until now I almost laughed. “I must tend to my duties,” he said. “Please excuse me.”
	“Hey, uh...” He paused at the door, eyebrow raised. “So...uh. Why me? Why hire me? Why don't you...” I looked down at the book.
	“Why, Mister Stephenson,” he said, “I've known little Toby since he was in diapers. I remember when he was a sweet and lovely child. I'd never be able to be firm with him. You, however...” That smile again. “He doesn't like to be called Toby, by the way. He says he's not a little kid any more. So, you'll certainly not want to call him by that name, Mister Stephenson.”
	I drew the book towards me and picked it up. “I'll keep that in mind. Thank you...”

There were pictures in the book. Well, engravings. This this thing was at least a century old. The language wasn't too ornate, though. And aside from some rather dated references to “the dangerous sin of onanism”, it was rather clinical in its descriptions and depictions. Page after page of small children bent over chairs and knees. Diagrams showing the correct angle for the hand when spanking. Drawings showing comparisons of the various potential spanking implements, complete with descriptions of their effects, and examples of what transgressions they were most suited for correcting.
	As I read, and especially as I looked at the engravings of the young schoolboys of yesteryear this book was written about, I couldn't imagine putting a foul-mouthed teen like Tobias into that sort of situation. For all I knew he'd pull a knife on me!
	I shut the book with a satisfying thud. I looked again at the cover, at the title. Discipline for Schoolboys, it said. Ah...now there was an idea.

It took some work and some co-ordinating; a few of the maids helped lift and carry things. One of the groundskeepers too. People seemed to spring up out of nowhere when I needed them. I could see them cotton onto what I was doing, and they seemed to work harder when they realised. I guessed they were as fed up of Tobias's behaviour as Leopold was. Leopold, meanwhile, was keeping Tobias occupied somewhere in the house, working as a co-conspirator in my cunning scheme.
	I had thought I'd need to improvise the furniture. But the house turned out to be a treasure-trove of surprises, and I had the staff working as very effective guides. It seems the land-owning wealthy never throw anything away; down in the maze-like cellars, amidst crates of antiques and old dusty sheet-covered statues, was a storeroom filled with everything I needed. In two short hours we were done. All I had to do now was sit and wait.
	Toby's face when he opened his bedroom door was a sight that I'd treasure for my entire life.
	“What the fuck?!” he squealed. “What did you do to my room?!”
	Most of those two hours had been spent clearing out the myriad trappings of a spoiled rich kid. Huge king-sized bed? Gone. Television big enough to use as a snooker table? Gone! Games consoles? Electric guitar? Drum set? Mountain bikes...plural? Gone gone gone! We'd even rolled up the carpet to strip the room down to bare floorboards. If we'd had the time, we might even have whitewashed the walls.
	In place of all that luxury, overwhelmed by the large and barren room, stood an old cast-iron bed, with creaky springs, paper-thin mattress, and a scratchy woollen blanket. No pillow. Standing up against one wall was a reversible blackboard on a wooden stand. Beside it was the large wooden desk, behind which I now sat. And in front of it, sitting in a vast ocean of bare floor, sat a small classroom desk-chair, designed to sit children half Toby's age. Everything was old, scored with time, reeking of polish and dust, all remnants from a long-ago time when Toby's ancestors were educated in home schoolrooms with stern mistresses rather than at expensive private schools.
	I stood up. I held in my hand a thin and flexible cane, taken from the staggering collection of such instruments that had been stored in the cellar, the rest of which now resided inside my new desk.
	“I will not have such language in my classroom, young man!” I snapped, emulating my father's tone with more confidence than before. “You're late! Take your seat!”
	Toby hesitated, mouth agape. I watched the cogs whirr behind his eyes. Eventually, he hardened into a scowl.
	“You fucking-”
	I didn't let him get any further than that. With a swish and an almighty crack, I brought the cane down onto the surface of the desk.
	“Sit!” I barked.
	Something amazing happened in that instant. For barely more than a moment, I saw a glimmer of the timid, vulnerable child that Toby must have once been. He stared in open-mouthed shock at the cane. He took two steps towards the chair before his scowl came back. It didn't stop him moving, though. He sat himself down, struggling to squeeze himself into the tiny space between the chair and the desk, and glared icy death at me.
	“When I tell-”
	“No talking!” I snapped, holding the cane up. “Or you'll get this! Understand?”
	He stared, frozen.
	“Answer the question, boy! Do you understand?”
	His lip trembled. He still seethed with barely contained anger. But now it was impotent. It was working. “Yes,” he hissed.
	“Yes what?”
	His eyes narrowed. “Yes sir.”
	“Excellent. Good boy, Toby.” I could barely imagine his scowl could get worse, but there it was. Leopold was right; he hated that name. I laid the cane down and turned to flip the blackboard over. “Today we will be reviewing your times table. Now, pay attention, because-”
	I heard scraping wood behind me, and turned to see Toby on his feet, bolting for the door. In three quick strides I had caught up to him. I grabbed his upper arm and yanked it upwards. He stumbled, dragged back towards me, writhing like a fish on a line.
	“Let me go! You're a sicko! Help!”
	I wrapped an arm around his chest and squeezed. I had a firmer grip on him now. He wasn't going anyway. He still kicked and clawed at me, but I was behind him, able to dodge each swipe. Well, almost all. Thankfully, he wasn't exactly equipped with razor sharp claws.
	I dragged the ball of flailing limbs over to my desk. With some quick and careful motions, dodging furious attacks the entire way, I shoved him face-down onto the desk, his kicking legs hanging over the edge. I said nothing the entire way; I didn't yet trust myself to keep up my father's tone. And perhaps a cold stony silence would be more effective. I held one hand on the scruff of his neck, pressing his face into the desk, and yanked his jeans down over the curve of his rear, exposing baggy boxers. After a moment of deliberation, I yanked those down too. All the pictures in the book showed bare rears being spanked and caned, so I figured Toby should get the same treatment.
	“You fucking pervert! I'll call the cops!”
	I raised the cane high above my head. Toby's breath caught.
	“I'm sorry! I didn't mean it! Don't do it!” he cried.
	I whipped the cane down. I thought I was being gentle, not hitting anywhere near as forcefully as when I hit the desk. But the thin rod sliced through the air without resistance, and carved a deep crease across his rear. The cane flexed and wrapped itself against the curve of his cheeks, inflicting its narrow sting from thigh to thigh. I winced at the sound of it; so sharp and loud. I was glad he was in no position to see my expression. I felt him reach up and scrabble shaky fingers at my wrist. He made a feeble gasping sound, and I held still, momentarily unsure.
	I expected screams, or curses, or threats. Instead, what came after that tiny sound of shock, was a trembling, abjectly miserable sob. I lifted the cane from his rear and checked the impact site. No broken skin. I'd done it perfectly.
	“Count,” I whispered. No way I could pull off my father's voice now. It took all the willpower I could muster just to keep from scooping him up and hugging him. I had to remind myself; this was a bad-mannered teenage brat, and it was going to take more than just one lick of a cane to change that.
	“O-one,” he sniffled.
	I let the lack of a “sir” go for now. I lifted the cane again, aiming a half-inch lower than before. I considered being gentler this time. But, in the end, I decided against it. All ten should be the same strength. If I went soft on him now, the whole thing would be for nothing.
	The crack of the cane hitting flesh was less of a shock this time. Still, though, I grimaced. I had no idea how painful this was. I tried to imagine; sharp, stinging pain. That's what the book described. Like a paper cut, perhaps? Like bee stings? And a deeper, throbbing ache that would linger.
	“Two,” he gasped.
	Quicker now; another strike, back up above the first one, laying down a third stripe of pain across his rear. I would run out of room before I managed all ten. I would have to double over, or start on his thighs.
	“Three! Please!” I felt him quivering underneath me. His hand gripped my wrist, squeezing, but not trying to pull my grip away. His toes thudded occasionally against the desk. One ear had slipped out from his hoodie, now draped limp over his shoulder.
	“Four!” he sobbed, as I whipped the cane again, right at the base of his butt cheeks, where they met the thighs. I steeled myself for what was to come.
	“Five!” he screamed, his body bucking against my grip, head rearing up and then thumping back down as I pressed on the back of his neck. He kicked his legs violently, and screamed through clenched teeth. I had laid that last hit right across the first welt. An impact on already-bruised flesh. It must have been excruciating.
	I decided to stop there. I hadn't told him there would be ten, so I saw no problem in changing my mind. For all he knew, I had planned on five. I set the cane down against the edge of the desk and gripped him under the arms, lifting him up and setting him on his feet. His jeans and boxers fell around his ankles, and I quickly looked away, disguising embarrassment by taking up an eraser and wiping the blackboard, my back turned to him.
	“Get dressed and take your seat,” I said, firmly. “I trust there will be no further misbehaviour?”
	“No sir,” he said, in a tiny, stunned voice. I heard his feet shuffling, and then the scrape of wood as he inserted himself back into the chair. I smiled at the tiny yelp of pain that told me he had sat down. I lifted a piece of chalk and turned to face him.
	Humbled. Stunned. Scared. With no trace of the anger from earlier. I was sure it would come back; this wasn't a one-shot cure. This was more like a course of antibiotics. I had a lot of work ahead of me.
	For now, he looked as if I had shaved ten years off his attitude. He clasped his hands together on the desk, squirming. His hood had slipped off entirely, and now his ears hung down over his shoulders, and his mop of unruly hair dangled over his eyes, which looked at me with their full attention. I lifted the chalk to the board behind me.
	“Let's begin. We've a lot of wasted time to catch up on.” I started to write. “Two times two is?”
	And from behind me, a tiny voice said “Four...sir.”

I surreptitiously checked my phone for the time while Toby concentrated on his work sheet. I'd printed it from the internet; a page of simple multiplication questions, suitable for eight-year-olds. He wrinkled his nose and scoffed when I handed it to him, but that attitude soon fled when I handed him a blue crayon and told him to use his non-dominant hand. I had to pretend to be occupied with some papers on my adopted schoolteacher desk to hide my satisfaction at watching this cocky teenager grasp a crayon like a toddler, bending over the paper and focusing hard just to make his scrawls legible. With a proper pen, he'd have finished the sheet in minutes. The handicap of the crayon and his wrong hand made it proper work. Every now and then he would grunt in frustration and look up at me. I would just look back at him, an eyebrow raised, and tap my finger on the desk right next to the cane. That kept him working hard.
	Five o-clock, my phone said. And he was just finishing the page. Perfect. I stood up just as he dropped his crayon onto the page and leaned back in his seat. If he had some acerbic comment to make, it was interrupted by the pained gasp that came from forgetting his butt was tender, and sudden movements were a really bad idea.
	“Good work, Toby,” I said, taking the page. I made a show of looking over the answers. “Try to concentrate on your penmanship,” I said, keeping a straight face. “Some of these answers are a little sloppy, especially towards the end.”
	I folded the sheet. “Stand up, Toby.”
	With a grumble that dared not develop into full words, he pried himself free from the chair and stood in front of me, studiously avoiding meeting my eyes. His hands fidgeted at his sides, no doubt resisting the need to rub at his rear. The book had given me an insight into exactly what he'd be feeling right now; an unpleasant insect-crawling feeling all over his welts. The rub of his jeans wouldn't be helping matters either.
	“Time for bed,” I said.
	His head shot up. “B-but...” He looked at the window. I saw his hand move to his pocket, towards the bulge of his phone. He stopped when he saw the warning look I gave him. “But...it's still light out!”
	“The sun doesn't dictate your bed time. I do.”
	I watched him weigh up his options, expression shifting as he teetered between rebellion and obedience. In the end, I think the tenderness of his rear made the decision for him. With a sulky huff, he turned and stomped towards the bed.
	“Where do you think you're going?” I said sharply.
	“To bed! Like you said!”
	“Not like that you're not.” I snapped my fingers and pointed to the floor in front of me. He whirled around and, for just a moment, he wore a venomous look. It disappeared fast enough, but that brief flash was enough to tell me what I needed to do. The book had made it clear; nip misbehaviour in the bud, before it can manifest. I closed the gap on him, staring him down with a calm, dispassionate stare, and grabbed the scruff of his neck.
	“Hey!” he cried.
	I sat down on his bed and dragged him down with me. He tried to twist free of my grip, but stopped with a yelp when I squeezed harder. With my other hand I grabbed his little bunny tail tuft and hauled him over my lap. He realised what was happening halfway down, and his attitude changed in an instant.
	“No!” he cried. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Don't spank me again!”
	I ignored him. I pressed his chest onto one thigh, and his tummy lay over the other, his butt sticking up, head and legs hanging down. He gripped my calf with both hands and dug his fingers in.
	“Please please, I'll be good!”
	I pulled the back of his jeans down until the waistband caught under the curve of his butt cheeks, framing them nicely, pushing them up. I made sure my grip on his neck was firm, then rested my palm flat against both cheeks, feeling the body heat radiate off them.
	“I don't want you to think I'm enjoying this,” I said. I lifted my hand. I felt him tense and grip my leg harder. He lowered his head until his muzzle pressed against my leg, and his ears flopped down, hanging nearly the full way to the floor.
	“I'm doing this because it's for your own good.”
	He blurted out a choked, scoffing noise, and I realised I had blundered. What a stupid cliché. I lowered my hand, settling it once again on his rear, keeping it still.
	“I guess you've heard people say that a lot, haven't you?”
	He said nothing, but his silence was heavy and sullen.
	“Well, I mean it,” I said. “I was hired to come here and-”
	“No,” he muttered.
	“What?”
	“No, I've not heard anyone say that!”
	And then it made sense, and I felt like such an idiot. How could I not see it? Absent parents, his upbringing foisted off on staff, a spoiled teenager, who acted like he's never been told no, never punished, never disciplined, until now. Of course he had never had anyone say “I'm doing this for your own good”. Aside maybe from Leopold, he might hever have had someone who cared enough to say it.
	“You're hearing it now,” I said, softly. I raised my hand, and he tensed again. I brought it down with a firm smack, landing my palm lengthways across both cheeks. He yelped, then made a muffled squeal through clenched teeth. I didn't spank too hard, mindful of his welted rear. It still seemed to hurt plenty.
	“One, sir,” he mumbled, almost too quiet for me to hear. I was almost too stunned to continue.
	“Are you going to disobey me again?”
	A long hesitation. “No sir,” he said. I landed another spank, and felt him jolt against my legs. His head lifted up for a moment, his ears framing an anguished, trembling muzzle and eyes scrunched tightly shut. “Two sir!” he gasped.
	“Are you going to get angry at me again?”
	“No sir,” he said. I knew he was just saying what I wanted to hear. I hoped, though, that there was some germ of truth there too. I brought my palm down again, a little harder now, and felt a sting in my hand from the impact. Toby had it worse; he bucked and shuddered, letting out a childish scream, before dropping his head and panting shakily.
	“T-three sir!”
	“Do you understand why I'm doing this?” I asked. Another smack, a little lower this time. His little butt jiggled with the impact.
	“Four sir!” he cried. “Y-yes sir. Because I...because I was bad.”
	“No, that's not why I'm doing it.” I raised my hand, and felt him stiffen in anticipation. So I waited, letting the fear build up. “I'm doing it because I want you to behave better,” I said. “Because behaving better will make you grow up to be a better person. And being a better person will make you happier. That's why I said I'm doing this for your own good. Do you understand?”
	“Yes sir,” he mumbled, with a tone that suggested he didn't really. But that was alright. He would.
	I counted off seven seconds, then swung my hand down. I could swear the air whistled through my fingers. This last smack was as hard as I could make it. Stinging pain blossomed in my palm as it hit his rear. He reacted as if he'd touched an electric wire, kicking his legs wildly, clawing his fingers at my leg, shaking his head. He twisted in my lap, and only my grip on his neck held him down firm. An arm reached up, flailing, trying to reach back and protect his rear. I took hold of his wrist and eased it back down.
	Slowly, his struggling and crying abated. He settled in my lap, panting, limbs and ears hanging limp. I was about to speak when I heard, “five, sir.”
	I smiled, knowing he couldn't see me, and responded with a firm tone, “good boy, Toby. Now, I trust there'll be no more fuss getting ready for bed?”
	He didn't reply. And when I lifted him to his feet, he looked sulkily at the floor.
	No, wait...not sulking. I reassessed. He was deep in thought. He reached behind himself and rubbed at his butt, wincing. I let him do it. I had to fight to hide a smile; it made him look adorable, like a sulking cub ten years his junior.
	“Lift your arms up,” I said. He obeyed without a fuss, and stayed motionless while I tugged his hoodie up and over his head, threading it along the floppy lengths of his ears. I was surprised to see his bare chest beneath, before I noticed the t-shirt tangled up inside the hoodie; it had come along for the ride.
	I crouched in front of him, my hands coming to rest on his hips. I glanced up, and met his eyes for a moment. He was chewing on his lip, worried. This wasn't the cocky brat who called me a pervert before. Gently, I eased his jeans and boxers down together, and forced myself to remain expressionless as his little erection sprang free.
	Well, the book had some rather archaic things to say about this. In for a penny, right? I looked back up at him, with a firm, disapproving look.
	“I can't help it,” he whined.
	“I know you can't,” I said. “But what you can help is whether or not you play with it. I won't discover any stains on your bed in the morning, will I?”
	He hesitated for the longest time, and I couldn't even begin to guess what thoughts were churning around in his head. I did notice that his erection stiffened a fraction more. His hands fidgeted at his sides, mere inches away from it.
	“No sir,” he mumbled.
	“Good boy. I'm going to trust you. Don't let me down.”
	I pulled his jeans the rest of the way down to the floor and helped him step out of it. It wasn't ideal to let him sleep naked, but all his pyjamas were expensive, silk affairs. Far too luxurious. And the scratchy woollen blanket would work best against his naked body anyway. I stood up and pulled back the covers, inviting him to climb into the bed. His sullen expression was broken only by the wince of his sore rear pressing down into the stiff springs...and by the second wince that came when I laid the blanket over his erection and tucked it firmly down under the sides of the mattress.
	“Remember,” I warned.
	“I won't,” he whined. He glanced towards the window, beyond which the sun still shone. He sighed.
	“I know you won't,” I said. I leaned over and pecked a kiss on his forehead. He pouted slightly, and squeezed his hands into fists, on top of the covers. Only inches and a blanket away from temptation. I imagined he wasn't the least bit tired. A few hours laying awake, fighting teenage hormones, would be a good test of his behaviour.
	I turned out the lights, for what good it would do with the sun still lighting up the room, and went to my own room, which was a palace by comparison to Toby's modified bedroom. I lay on my bed, tapped at my phone screen, and typed “male chastity device” into my browser's search bar. The number and variety of results that came up was astonishing, as were the prices. I flicked back and forth between a few. I could go for cheap and plastic, or expensive and metal. The metal ones looked like they would be more secure. But the prices made me wince. I set my phone down and stared at the ceiling. No way I could afford one, at least not before payday.
	Unless...

Leopold stirred his tea and smiled serenely, in total contrast to my own squirming and blushing. I was glad Toby wasn't around to see me looking this way.
	“So,” I said. “Umm. What do you think?”
	“About locking a chastity device onto Master Tobias's genitalia,” he said. “Or about asking for the household to pay for it?”
	“Both,” I said, feeling my ears heat up even more.
	He set his cup down and reached into a pocket. He took out a wallet, and from it he pulled a shiny gold credit card.
	“The answers to both questions I leave to your best judgement,” he said, setting the card down with a soft click. He slid it across the table to me. I had no idea how high-end this card was, but from the look of it, and the house I now sat within, I guessed it was the kind of card you could buy a private jet with.
	“You may also have some other expenses,” he said. “I notice that Toby's room is rather bare at the moment. And his bed seems rather basic. Perhaps he needs some new furniture? Some...age-appropriate furniture, given the new standard you are setting for him?”
	“Age-appropriate?” I asked.
	He picked up his cup and sipped. “Have you not been treating him like a school boy? A young school boy? One whom you are intending to disallow the self-pleasuring trappings of a teenager?”
	He reached over and tapped the card, smiling.
	“Perhaps you can try dialling the years back even further...”

That card was hot to the touch by the time I'd finished with it. Once I'd included all the various “super urgent bring it to me right away” delivery options, the price had gone up to heights that made my head spin. I'd even called Leopold and told him the amount, asking if he was sure this was okay.
	“Mister Stephenson,” he had said. “This household spends more than that on keeping the lawns mown.”
	Very well, then, I thought.
	The morning sun came, burning through the curtains at four o'clock. I dosed myself with coffee to at least appear bright and alert, and went to Toby's room. I half expected him to be already awake and causing trouble, seeing as how I'd put him to bed outrageously early. But I found him asleep, sprawled under his tangled blanket, one ear flopped down over his face, and with an obvious morning erection tenting the blanket.
	I stood over him for a while, considering how best to wake him. A smile formed.
	I grabbed the blanket and swept it off of him. He jerked awake with a yelp. I gave him a moment to orientate himself. “Whuh?” he said, blinking bleary eyes. I saw him register my presence, and then the presence of his exposed erection. He quickly tried to cover it with his hands.
	“Ah, no!” I said, grabbing his wrists and pulling his hands away. “Didn't I tell you, no touching?”
	“But I wasn't! I was just covering it!”
	I kept hold of his wrists and leaned closer. “Are you talking back, Toby?”
	He opened and closed his mouth. I could sense his mind racing. Poor boy, trying to process all this while half awake. He was probably thinking I was being unfair. And he was right; I was being unfair. Blatantly and intentionally so. After all, as the book said, you don't instil obedience by making your orders easy to obey. You had to challenge them.
	So I stared him down, daring him to challenge my with complaints about how unfair I was being.
	“S-sorry sir,” he stammered, surprising me. I released his wrists and stood up straight, my hands on my hips.
	“Very good,” I said. “Stand up.”
	He clambered out of the bed and stood before me. I locked eyes with him and watched as he writhed in embarrassment, fighting the compulsion to cover up his shameful erection.
	“Now,” I said. “What have you done wrong?”
	“I touched myself,” he mumbled.
	“And?”
	“I...talked back to you.”
	“And?”
	He looked up at me, blinking. “Uh. I don't know.”
	I folded my arms and sighed, shaking my head. “You forgot to speak properly to me, didn't you, Toby?”
	His eyes widened. “Sorry sir!”
	“Better,” I said. “Now, what do you feel should be an appropriate punishment for these transgressions?”
	I swear I saw his erection twitch. It was a good thing that was going to be dealt with soon. I didn't want a little pervert on my hands. He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, and his eyes flitted over to the cane on the desk. I saw where he was looking and smiled.
	“Well done, Toby,” I said. “You're learning fast! How many do you think you deserve?”
	“...one?”
	I nearly laughed. Shaking my head, I said, “no, Toby. Try again...”

Perhaps it was because he was too sleepy to resist me. Or maybe I was making progress more quickly than I had expected. Whatever the reason, he obeyed my order to join me at the desk without a single peep of complaint. And while I was turned to pick up the cane, he lay himself over the desk. I hadn't even told him to. I turned back to the sight of an upturned little butt waiting for its punishment. There was also a teenaged erection bumping up against the wood. I reminded myself that it was just raging teenage hormones and the need to go pee that was causing that.
	The cane thwipped through the air and hit his rear neatly across both cheeks. I had the knack now. It wasn't difficult. Quick, sharp, sweeping motions. Whip, slap. Keep up a steady pace. Don't give him time to recover between each hit. I rested my hand on his back, a reminder for him to keep still. I probably didn't need to; he stayed put, barely squirming. He pressed his forehead down onto the desk, his hands curled either side of his cheeks.
	I didn't count, and I didn't make him count. Truthfully, I didn't know how many hits I intended to give him. I kept each impact controlled and measured, delivering the exact same amount of force each time. His little butt rippled with each hit. He yelped and whimpered and hissed air in through his teeth. And then...
	I held the cane still. His shoulders were shaking. I could hear short, hiccup-shaken sobs. I set the cane down and moved my hand up his back to rub between his shoulders.
	“All done now,” I said, quietly. “Let's go get breakf-”
	He launched himself up from the desk. I tensed, thinking he was lashing out in anger. But instead I got an armful of sobbing bunny. He wrapped his arms around my waist and buried his face in my chest. For a moment I had no idea what to do. Then, I stroked the top of his head and made soothing noises.
	“It's alright, Toby. You were bad, but now you've been punished, and everything's all better again.”
	He squeezed a little tighter. I decided to stay quiet. I had no real way to know what was going on in his head, nor what emotions were sorting themselves out in there. I cuddled with him until the sobs died away, replaced by a sullen silence. He pulled his head away and wiped at his eyes.
	“I need to pee,” he mumbled. His hand moved to his erection, which still lingered defiantly, but stopped just short. Well-remembered, I thought.
	“I know you do,” I said. “But it can wait. You can hold it in until...” I tugged my phone halfway out of my pocket, just far enough to peek at the time. “About another hour.”
	I settled my hand on his shoulders and turned him towards the door. “Come on,” I said. “I'll make you breakfast.”
	“But...I'm not dressed!”
	“That can't be helped. You don't have any clothes. I threw them all away.”
	“What?!”
	“Don't worry,” I smiled. “You'll have more soon. In about an hour...”
	He fussed all the way through breakfast. I'd never seen someone look so small and timid. Sitting naked and exposed in that big dining hall would do that to a kid. The staff pretended like they didn't notice, but we both knew that they would be smiling about this once out of our sight.
	“Please can I put some clothes on?” he whined.
	“Nope,” I said, chewing toast.
	“Can I at least go to the bathroom?”
	“Finish your breakfast...oh!”
	One of the staff caught my attention from the doorway. Beyond, in the entrance hall, I could see the open front door and the delivery truck beyond.
	“Your new clothes are here,” I said, smiling.

Suffice to say he didn't like the look of his new clothes as I pulled them out of the box. In one hand I held a sky-blue fleecy sleeper suit. In the other, I held a diaper. He hadn't even seen the chastity device in the bottom of the box.
	“No fucking way!” he shrieked.
	“Watch your language, young man,” I said.
	“I don't fucking care! I'm not wearing that!”
	I gave him a hard look. “That's two swears,” I said. “Don't add a third, or you'll be even more sorry than you are already going to be!”
	He stomped a foot and made a strangled noise of impotent rage. He turned to storm off up the stairs, and bumped right into one of the workmen ferrying large boxes up the steps. He staggered back, and I watched him caught between anger and humiliation; he was still naked, after all. He whirled back around to face me.
	“What are they doing?”
	“Preparing your room.” I lifted the diaper towards him, smiling. “Why don't you let me get you dressed? Didn't you say you needed the bathroom?”
	His eyes widened. “No way,” he hissed. “I'm not putting that on and...and...ugh!”
	“It's either that or do it on the floor.”
	“Then I'll do it on the floor! I don't care!”
	“Baby boys who pee on the floor end up with very sore butts, Toby.”
	He danced from foot to foot. He alternated between glaring at me, and looking around the room, probably trying to seek out options that didn't end up with him diapered or spanked. Evidently, he found none; his shoulders sagged. “Ugh! Fine! I'll put on the stupid diaper.”
	“No you won't,” I said. “I'll put it on you. But first...”
	I grabbed a chair and turned it to face the workmen moving past the open doorway. I grabbed Toby under the arms and hauled him over my lap. His yelp of protest became a low, miserable groan, when his swollen bladder pressed down on my thigh.
	“W-wait...” he cried.
	“You swore twice,” I said. “And you got angry at me. You promised you weren't going to get angry at me. I think that deserves...” I pretended to think about it. While I did, I caught the eye of one of the workmen. We shared a smile. Toby looked over too, and the small wail he made was beautiful music.
	“...fifty spanks,” I said. “Hard spanks.”
	He tried to push up against my hand. His feet kicked. “Noooo! Not here! Not...not in front of...” He looked over at the workmen, who kept glancing our way every chance they could. I noticed that their progress in getting the boxes up the stairs had slowed considerably.
	“P-please,” he wailed. “I need to pee!”
	Nice try, I thought. “Hold it in,” I said. “If you don't...that's one hundred more spanks!”
	I lifted my hand, and he tensed, gripping my leg, his head going down.
	“And while you're taking your punishment, think about how much easier and less painful it would have been to do what you were told.”
	I don't know what hurt him more; the rapid impacts of my palm against his bare rear, already sore from repeated spankings, or the humiliation of being spanked in front of these strangers. Truthfully, I didn't really count the fifty spanks; it could have been forty, or it could have been sixty. I stopped when my hand felt like it was on fire, and when Toby was sobbing like a baby boy. I settled my hand on his butt and felt the heat radiating from it. That was most definitely a well-spanked rear.
	He offered no resistance when I lifted him to his feet, nor when I lay him down on the floor into the open embrace of the diaper. I didn't tape it right up; I knelt between his legs and took the chastity device out of the box.
	He stared at it, stuck dumb. It was the most expensive model I could find. Polished to a shine, and exquisitely crafted; a small tube for his penis, and a smooth ring to close behind his balls. The lock was built-in, nice and secure. He flinched when I touched him, and lay still with his hands balled into fists and his eyes fixed on the ceiling, as I manhandled his half-hard cock into the tube. He grunted as I wiggled it in place, squeezing his cock into the tiny prison. Click; it was locked. I gave the device a small tug to check it was secure.
	“There,” I said, smiling down at him. “Now you won't get any more spankings for touching yourself. Isn't that a good thing?”
	He looked over at the doorway. The workmen were gone; probably upstairs, setting up his room. I leaned over and ruffled his hair, smiling at his unhappy pouting.
	“And now let's make sure you won't get those hundred spanks for peeing on the floor.”
	The diaper was ridiculously thick, and soft. It took some effort to fold it up between his legs, over the chastity, and to tape it in place. I could tell just by looking that he would have trouble walking; the sheer amount of material between his legs would force him into an adorable waddle. I pulled over the sleeper suit, and lifted his legs to feed them into the soft and fleecy garment. I stood up and set him on his feet and swiftly finished dressing him, zipping up the sleeper...and fitting a small padlock to the top of the zip, at the back of his neck. Now I knew he couldn't get out of it; more importantly, he couldn't cheat the diaper.
	He gave me a pained look. I responded by kissing his forehead.
	“How about we go see how they're doing with your room, hmm?”
	I took his hand and led him to the stairs. It was a good thing I did; he stumbled at first, and then waddled awkwardly, struggling to get used to the new thickness around his waist. He stopped halfway up the stairs.
	“Please,” he whimpered. “Please sir...please let me use the bathroom. I'm sorry I was bad.”
	“I know you are, Toby. But I'm not going to let you use the bathroom. You use your diaper like a good little boy.”
	He moaned in distress, and I saw the struggle on his face as I led him the rest of the way up. He was desperately holding in a night's worth of pee.
	He gasped at the sight of his room. The workmen were still busy unpacking and assembling, but they already had the crib set up. This was no baby's crib; it was oversized, with a closable lid. This was a crib for older boys. A pink crib for older boys. The classroom furniture was still there, but now there were toys and a play mat and dozens of colourful books full of pop-up pictures and fuzzy felt animals. He squeezed my hand and pressed against my side.
	“But I'm not a baby,” he whimpered.
	“You've been acting like one, Toby. So now you'll be treated like one. Until you learn to behave properly. But don't worry; I'll be here to help you.”
	He closed his eyes, and moaned, defeated. For a moment I didn't realise why, until I heard the soft crinkling noise of his diaper swelling. He had finally lost his battle. I crouched down and hugged my arms around him while he wet his diaper, and while we watched his new room take shape.

I witnessed a transformation in Toby. Once he was fully enveloped in the childish environment I had built for him, he seemed to embrace it. To be fair, he didn't have much choice; it was the path of least resistance. Or, to think of it another way, the path of fewest spankings. I taught him some more lessons, and gave him worksheets to complete. We ate lunch together, cuddled up in his brand new beanbags. I supervised playtime with him. He seemed unsure at first, sitting on his padded rear, possibly grateful for the insulation between his sore rear and the floor, and stared at the blocks and childish toys. But something seemed to click, and before long he was building towers and knocking them down with the other toys, playing out a rapidly growing narrative of super heroes and monsters.
	I caught him smiling, and then laughing. He stopped when he realised I was watching, regressing back into an embarrassed sulk; until I slid down off the beanbag and sat next to him, picking up a toy of my own, and joining in.
	Oh sure, the sullen teenager would resurface. As would the rebellion. But now I knew the tools that would push them back down again. He grew up wrong before, into an angry and uncontrolled young man. Now I was going to help him start from scratch. I only had a summer; he would be back at school again after that. Hopefully that would be long enough.
	And if it wasn't? Well...perhaps Leopold could be convinced to agree to home-schooling Toby. I smiled at the thought. I doubted he would need much convincing...
	“Hey, look,” said Toby, lifting up a plastic dinosaur, to which he had fitted a plastic cape from a superhero action figure. “Super rex!”
	I could see the yearning in his eyes; searching for my approval. That was what this was all about. He needed someone to earn pride from. I smiled back at him and held up my own creation; an action figure I had contorted into a crab-walking monstrosity. “Super rex is no match for Spider beast! Rwar!”