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