My One and Only School Caning

Author : Brit

Mr. Stevenson, the Headmaster, put his head round our dormitory door.  "Who's making that disgusting noise at this time of night?  You, Mills?  Right.  Come and see me in my study at 9.30 tomorrow morning."

Uh-oh!   My heart sank way down.  I, Derek Mills,  aged over 16, was at a private boarding school on the south coast of England.  It was in the early '40's, in May, and the time was around 10.00 in the evening.  We senior boys were in our pyjamas, and should have been quietly in bed.  Thoughtlessly though, I had been projecting out silly sounds, practising using my abdominal muscle as taught by the elocution master.   I hadn't realised the noise was penetrating.  But it had penetrated to the Head, who happened to be acting as Duty Dorm.Master that evening.  His, "in my study tomorrow morning, Mills", sounded like only one thing.  We all  knew what that was.  Mr. Stevenson had a reputation as a tough, fearsome, caner.  I got into bed, with a red face, and a heart like lead over my impending fate, short of a miracle (!) . . .

As a normally well-behaved boy, serious, studious, usually around the academic top in my form, I had never had the cane at school.  I'd been slippered as a junior boy several times, of course, across my pyjamas, for talking after "lights out" and so forth.  Depending on who was doing the spanking, this could hurt quite a lot.  But I'd never had the cane, which hurt much worse.  The cane was pretty much a last sanction at our school.  It was given only by the Head, and reserved usually for the lazy and the "act-up" boys, which I had taken care never to be -- until now . . . A beating from the Headmaster, the cane across my  bare bottom at this late stage of my school career, if it was really going to happen to me, was pretty undignified, besides being very painful.   I could only  shake my head over the moronic behaviour that had got me into this mess, so needlessly.


And yet -- queerly enough, in another way -- I was almost looking forward to my appointment with the Head.  This was because, amazingly, throughout my whole life, though I had never personally felt it, I had always had a real fascination over the cane, and corporal punishment generally.  Even at the early age of six or so, I would play at "school" in the kitchen at home, and would always have a toy cane on the scene, hung up by its round handle on a cupboard -- till my Mother removed it, for obvious reasons!  

In the schoolboy magazines of the era, The Magnet and such, I loved reading about boys who obeyed the command of masters and prefects to "Bend over!", and get caned, across their tender bottoms, usually the well-known "six of the best".  ("Of the best", by the way, was no idle description, in the English schools of those days.  For discipline purposes, no school felt it could afford to give its boys the impression that caning was a light punishment.  So almost always the boys were whipped at the full stregth of master or prefect concerned.  At some schools even, the tradition was that, with cane uplifted, the executioner would take a running jump at the bending youth., the harder to thrash him.) 

Later, at boarding school, I always got very excited by slipperings -- as, really, most of us boys did, painful though they were.  And not only the boys -- some of the masters too.  When I was a senior, a junior boy told me that a new science teacher, on dormitory duty, was now making the boys take down their pyjama trousers before slippering them.  "Sadist!", I hissed (enviously and hypocritically!).  This same master later told me he was even planning to equip himself with  a cane.  "What for?", I asked innocently, thinking that in this school no assistant master was allowed to cane, only the Head.  "BOYS, of course!", he said, raising his eyebrows.  So he was obviously "into" CP.  However, before he could carry out his plan, he had to leave the school, under a cloud, he and a female member of the staff! 

Usually we boys never had the opportunity to observe the Headmaster's canings.  But, one afternoon when I was around, the Head did happen to leave his study door ajar, as he "caned off", as it were, a queue of youngsters (who thereby avoided time-wasting detentions).  I saw the whippy stick sink solidly and juicily into one boy's right buttock, and figured that that would have him in tears -- but no!  He left the study red-faced indeed, but still smiling gaily. . .  Of course, it was only a matter of three strokes, or so, and on his clothed bum.

Around puberty, following my caning fixation, I actually acquired a stock of cheap garden canes, and hid them in the back of my bedroom wardrobe at home.  (My Mother, of course, must have come across these, but never said a word to me about them.  She probably thought, "He'll grow out of it.")  I also sent off for a pair of very thin, tight and brief gym shorts.  When the house was empty, I would put these shorts on, tug them up, bend over, and, as I gazed backwards into my wardrobe mirror, attempt to cane my own bottom.  It never really worked, though.   My cack- handed position meant that I could give my bum only a glancing cane-stroke, not the full-blooded forehand drive I wanted.  So these private scenarios were always disappointing.  And anyway the garden canes, being of bamboo, were hollow and light and stiff,  not really satisfactory for punishment purposes.

But, many years later, it was a different story.  I happened to notice this interesting rattan cane, along with umbrellas, shooting sticks, etc.,  in the window of an expensive luggage shop in Piccadilly, London.  I went in to enquire about it, smelling the leather-aroma of the inventory, and the assistant murmured, "Ah yes -- the Headmaster's Cane."  There were several types there.  Some had the curved handles of my youthful magazine illustrations, others were straight, with a bulbous grip.  I chose a curved-handle cane.  It was expensive -- about five pounds, I think -- but I bought it, and took it to my lodgings. 

This cane, about a half-inch thick,  was obviously a professional weapon.  It was brown- yellow in colour, very hard and pliant, rippling almost like a piece of rope as I whooshed it through the air a couple of times.  It bore an intriguing snake-like mosaic pattern -- AND, I was fascinated to see, its final inch, on the tip, was shamfered down, obviously to avoid any danger of a sharp edge cutting too deeply into the bottom-skin of a bending boy.  Anyhow, armed with this rattan punishment cane, I bent over in my bedroom, stretched my trousers, and gave my bottom the kind of casual backhand flick that I'd done years before in my parents' home.  WOWWW!!!!  I jumped about a foot in the air!  Oh, what a difference!  Glancing blow or not, wherever around my bum this dense, whippy rattan landed, and however slightly -- as I gingerly gave myself a few extra taps -- it really HURT!  Phew!!  What would "six of the best" be like, given forehand, I asked myself, with an instrument like!
this . . .!

I didn't know it at the time, of course -- thankfully! -- but this was the kind of lethal weapon that now awaited me the next morning.  Heart thumping, exactly at 9:30, I knocked on the door of the Headmaster's Study.  "Come in!", came the command.  I entered and closed the door behind me.  The Head was seated at his desk.  He was very stern.  Looking back, I now realise that, with my bright academic record at school and all, including a pretty good showing in the previous July's "School Certificate" exams, I'd really been getting above myself.  The Head was new-ish, and I hadn't bothered to be too respectful to him.  My parents were quite lax with me, and had allowed me to become too full of my own importance.  Mr. Stevenson obviously now saw his opportunity and duty to correct all this, by giving me a good tongue-lashing first, followed by a good cane-lashing.  Carpe diem, as it were.

"Mills," he said, giving me the splash of cold water treatment, "you're a total failure in this school.  You don't pull your weight here, and the masters tell me you're cheeky and impertinent."  And so on, and so forth.  I was shocked and surprised at the force of his unexpected tirade.  I can't now remember all he said, but it was a lot.  I at once realised that I could now say goodbye to any hope of leaving this room with only a mere "talking-to". . .

Sure enough, the Headmaster at last stood up, ceremonially removed his jacket, and rolled up his shirt-sleeve.  Then he went over to a bookcase, produced a keychain, unlocked a long oblong compartment in the bookcase -- it must have been a special "Headmaster's Bookcase"! -- and selected a cane.  He "whooshed" it through the air a time or two.  I couldn't see what type it was,but it seemed to be long and thick.  He moved a chair, seat-outward, in front of his desk, and said, "Take off your blazer.  Take your trousers and underpants down, and bend over there, Mills." 

I gulped.  I could hardly believe it.  "Well," I marvelled to myself, "at long last!"  But were these "Bend over" words actually being addressed to me, a 16-year old?  To me, who had always been a model schoolboy, at the top of my class, etc.?  Was I actually going to be treated like any old "school layabout" boy, who could expect to be spanked a dozen times each year?  Was I really expected to bare my bottom, for my Headmaster to whip me? 

My mind whirled with all these thoughts -- mixed in with the realization that my lifelong fascination with caning was now, after all, and at the end of my school life, actually going to become very real, on a very personal basis!  Mr. Stevenson couldn't know it, but he was the one who was now going to make very concrete my lifelong sexual fantasy over CP, particularly bottom-caning. 

Crimson-faced, but trying to appear unconcerned, I  did as he told me, first putting my blazer on the sofa, undoing my belt and zipper, pushing down my slacks and underpants, and rolling up my shirttail at the back (this last not ordered, but done in order to be "helpful", to show my "responsibility"!).  But, there was a problem.  Ignorant of the traditional usage, since this was my first caning, as a complete amateur, I didn't know how he wanted me, in what position, over the chair -- over the back, over the side, kneeling on the seat, or what?  I stumbled around the chair a bit.  The Head then realized he had a boy in front of him  who had never been caned before -- probably also thinking, "About time, too!"  Anyway, he said,  "Kneel on the seat, Mills."    I then knelt on the chair, facing the back, with my bare round bottom jutting out into the room, quite ready for the cane, as I thought. 

"No," the Head said, "Not like that. I want your hips right on top of the chair-back.  Lean right over, and grasp the under-rail."  Well, at the age of 16, I was about 6 feet in height, and couldn't really do as he asked without overbalancing the chair.  Mr. Stevenson immediately realised what was needed. After all, he had been a long-time Housemaster at a public school, and had beaten hundreds of boys over the years!  So he promptly got another chair, and put it back to back with the first.  He then fetched two thick encyclopedias from his bookcase, and put them on the first chair- seat.  "Now, Mills," he said, "kneel on those, and then get yourself well over the front chair", tapping it with his cane.  He and I now had a stable platform for a solid bottom-thrashing, as I fully realised once I was over the two chair-backs, knees well parted, my fingers gripping the front chair's under- rail.  My round teen bum was now perfectly presented, high and tight in the air, and, unpr!
otected, was feeling a bit chilly.  But that was certainly about to change . . .

The Headmaster, back on my southwesterly quarter, swished the long cane through the air again, and measured it against my two quivering teen cheeks.  He then began his slow takeaway and backswing.  Mr. Stevenson was a scratch golfer, and knew all about keeping his head still, getting a proper shoulder-turn, transferring his weight, and using his wrist at the moment of impact.   So,  "WHAPPP!!" he went with the cane, suckily, solidly, right across the middle of my bottom.  OWW- OHHH!!  Brother! Yes, I felt that all right!  My first cane-stroke was a "300-yard" drive, if ever there was one!  I flinched to my right side, before hoisting myself -- ever the politely co-operative schoolboy! -- back centrally over the chairs into my original (perfect) caning position. 

"WHAPPP!!" again -- and again -- and again, at 20-second intervals, deep into my bare bottom-flesh, travelling systematically and accurately down, half-inch by half-inch, towards my thighs. I continued flinching and sagging after each whack,  and then re-hoisting my bum back in the air for further punishment.  That was four diabolical strokes, and it was getting to be excruciating.  The pain built up increasingly for ten seconds or so after each crack.  That was why the Head was taking his time.  "Sixteen years old or not," I said to myself, "if he goes on like this much longer, I'm going to be crying, like a 12-year old." 

And, sure enough, he did go on like that, for another four shots -- eight in all -- on my bare bum.  Strokes five and six were right in my bottom crease, at the top of my thighs.  The last two whacks, seven and eight, were "cross-diagonals", reviving the intense pain of the first six "horizontals".  (I was really getting the 'benefit' of all Mr. Stevenson's long experience of thrashing boys!) At the end, the tears were flowing down my face, sure enough, as I was finally allowed to get down from the chairs, ease down my shirt, and pull my pants back up. 

After all this, I was really expecting the Head at least to give me some kind of encouraging pep-talk -- like, "Let that be a lesson to you, Mills.  Try to do better in future," or something similar.  But I was disappointed.  Immediately I was dressed, without another word, the Head just seized me by the elbow, and jostled me out of his study-door. 

Brother!  That was it.  Service without a smile.  The time was still only 9:40.  I (of course) went up to my dormitory,  tenderly knuckling my backside on the way.  I pulled down my trousers again, lifted up my shirt, turned backwards to the mirror, and inspected the damage.  Boy!  What a picture! Stevenson the Golfer had done a tremendous job!  No blood, but the eight severe welts were very much in evidence, particularly on the right cheek.  What with the horizontals and the diagonals, my trim bulbous bottom looked much like the Union Jack!  (The weals lasted for three weeks, changing colour from red and black to yellow and blue, before fading away completely.) 

I pulled up my trousers again.  To take away the tear-traces, I washed my face, and, cradling it in my two hands, gave my bottom a good rubbing.  Stiff-legged, I then descended the stairs, and took my time about rejoining my senior classmates in school.  I ignored their questioning glances for the moment, but lowered my bum on to my desk seat with extremest caution.  They got the message.

So that was "My One and Only School Caning"!   It sure hurt.  But it took me down a peg or two, much needed at the time.  Too bad for teen boys today that schools no longer have this traditional, very efficient, mode of discipline at their disposal