School caning, aged 19
Original Fiction – for adult eyes only
At 4.30 precisely I stood outside the
Headmaster’s Study. On the oak panelled door, a shiny brass plate read Dr B. O.
Bennett (Oxon.) – Headmaster. I bit my lip and knocked faintly on the oak.
“Come!” My hand quivered as I dealt with the
brass handle and pushed against the heavy door. The headmaster’s huge mahogany
desk came into view. Seated behind it was a diminutive man, dressed in a formal
suit. To his left hanging from a coat stand was his black academic gown. His
mortar board cap was on another hook. Dangling close by were two curve handled
rattan canes.
I stepped into the room – I was expected;
indeed, I had been summoned. The headmaster, pen in hand continued to correct
an essay. With a flourish he wrote a comment (having been taught by him, I knew
it would have been far from complimentary) then he screwed the cap onto his
fountain pen and condescended to acknowledge my presence. “Close the door boy,”
he sniped.
I took my time. I knew why I had been called
to the study and I had a jolly good idea how my visit would turn out. I was in
no hurry. When the door was safely in position, Dr Bennett glowered, “Stand
there boy!” He waved a hand indicating the front of his desk. I did as
instructed with my hands behind my back and head slightly bowed; the classic
“naughty boy” pose.
“Where is your blazer and cap?” he grizzled.
I was dressed in shirt and trousers. It was the height of summer and
temperatures were reaching record levels. The heat did not deter the headmaster
from wearing a full suit at all times. I was a little surprised that he was not
also in his academic gown.
I mumbled should I go and get them and he
snapped the single word, “No!”
He left me standing while he pretended to
read through another of the essays he was marking. It was one of his tricks, to
keep the boy before him waiting. He knew – and the boy always knew – what was
going to happen but the headmaster liked his little power trip. He was a tiny man;
I doubt he was even five-feet-six. What is it about short men and power?
Hitler, Napoleon, Dr Bennett, they were all the same.
“You were at assembly yesterday morning,” it
was a statement posed as a question. I knew where this was going. There was no
point in denying anything. “Then you heard my instruction?” He meant that he
had once again reminded we boys that the town centre was out of bounds at all
times during the day, including the lunch hour. I agreed I knew the
instruction. “But,” he intoned, “You took it upon yourself to visit Johnson’s
during the lunch hour.” Johnson’s was a bookshop in town. I had been spotted by
a junior master who probably wanted to suck up to his boss. Hence Wright, a
first-former had been dispensed to the sixth-form common room to deliver the
message “Attend Dr Bennett’s study at four-fifteen.” Most of my pals were about
when Wright arrived. I was the main topic of gossip throughout the afternoon.
It was no use telling the headmaster that I
was nineteen years old. I was in fact in my third year in the sixth form. I had
taken my A-levels and stayed on an extra year to prepare for entrance
examinations to the Oxbridge universities. As a nineteen-year-old I might be
expected to make my own decisions about lunchtime activities.
I doubt if Dr Bennett knew my age – my
birthday had been the previous month – and if he did, he would not have cared.
It made no difference if a boy at his school was eleven or nineteen, he treated
us all the same. That is, he treated us as if we were all eleven.
He did not say so in as many words but Dr
Bennett probably wasn’t bothered that I had gone to buy a book, his concern was
that I had disobeyed his instruction. I had broken a cardinal sin of schooling. I did not know
my place. I had to be taught a lesson. Once Dr Bennett was satisfied he hauled
himself from his chair and took the two or three paces necessary to reach the
hatstand. My eyes followed his movement. There was no need to do so as I knew
precisely what he was going to do.
There were two canes hanging from the stand.
One slightly shorter and thinner than the other. First, he took hold of the
smaller one. He peered at it closely as if he had never seen it before. He
turned to face me before flexing it between his hands and swishing it once or
twice through the air. He grimaced. He was a ham actor – and a pretty bad one
at that. He replaced the cane and took up the second one. He repeated the
charade and this time satisfied that it was up to the job he pointed with it at
a spot a yard or two behind me. “Bend over and touch your toes.” He then
slipped off his jacket and carefully hung it alongside the spare cane.
This happened in 1965 at an all-boys’ grammar
at a time when corporal punishment was commonplace in schools and at home. I
mention this because I know readers will be amazed that a headmaster – or
anyone for that matter – thought it appropriate to cane a nineteen-year-old
boy. These were different days. To begin with we were not legally adults until
we turned twenty-one and in the second place, we had been socialised (as the
academics would say) into accepting corporal punishment as normal. Indeed, it
was not the first time I had been caned. I’d be surprised if there was a single
boy who managed to get through his entire school career without getting a sore
bum on at least one occasion.
It wasn’t that unusual for a senior boy – a
sixth-former or prefect even – to be caned. At university (Durham,
incidentally, I failed the exams for Oxford and Cambridge) I met a student who
said he had been caned by his headmaster when he was eighteen. Because of his
seniority he got six strokes, trousers down across the seat of his underpants.
I wasn’t sure whether to believe him but he was so indignant when telling the
story, I suppose it was true.
Dr Bennett saw no difference between junior
and senior boys so at least I was spared some similar indignity. I don’t
remember resenting the caning. It was just part of school life. Looking back I
wonder if the headmaster was simply lazy. His “solution” to all problems with
the boys: bend them over, whack their backsides with a stick and move on. I genuinely
can’t see the point of caning me for going into the town at lunchtime. What did
he hope to achieve? I suppose if he had called a special assembly and beaten me
in front of all the school as some kind of warning to the others that might
make some kind of sense. But making me touch my toes in the privacy of his
study was pointless.
I can feel some readers thinking: the
headmaster got a kick out of beating boys’ bottoms (and possibly a bigger kick
if the boy was really a young man.) We didn’t think about that kind of thing
back in the day, but having met many men who do have the spanking kink, I feel
confident in saying such a thing never entered Dr Bennett’s head. He had almost
certainly attended a caning school as a boy (again, almost certainly he had been
beaten himself.) To his mind life simply went on: things did not change.
(Now, I think of it, maybe the headmaster who
made his senior boys take down their trousers has a question to answer.)
Dr Bennett moved in
front of his desk. “There.” He pointed once more with the cane. “Face that
way.” The headmaster took his time directing me precisely where to stand (or I
should say “bend.”) He wanted to ensure he had maximum room to swing. “Bend
over. Touch your toes” I bent. I knew with Dr Bennett “toes” meant toes and not
knees or shins or even ankles. To touch one’s toes is more difficult than many
imagine; even for a slim fit boy as I was at nineteen. I did my best, despite
the strain it put on the calves. I bent over and waited submissively for the
headmaster to do the deed.
To give Dr Bennett his due. If a thing was worth doing it was worth doing well. Although as I have said I couldn’t see the point of caning me, the headmaster clearly had another idea. Even the taps he placed across the stretched seat of my grey trousers as he found his aim were delivered with some vigour. They might have had a lesser mortal than myself yapping. He took his time, found his aim, lifted the cane, let it hang in the air for a while and then whipped it with such energy across the dead centre of my bottom that it sank deep into the flesh. A line of heat burnt across my bum. I could feel a welt instantly form under my tight white underpants. “Yeowlllll!” or some such I hissed.
Bent over as I was
and with my eyes tightly shut I couldn’t see the headmaster but I could feel
him and hear the creak of the floorboards as he paced the study. It was part of
his drama. Making me wait. Cranking up the tension. It also gave me time to
absorb the burning impact of the stroke that quickly turned to a searing pain
and then almost immediately into a dull ache. When it reached that stage would
be the time to land the next cut. That is exactly what Dr Bennett did. It
landed a fraction of an inch below the first. Now, I had a searing strip of
hotness about an inch wide running across my buttocks. My knees buckled, my
hips swayed and it was all I could do to stop myself jumping to my feet and
howling while simultaneously clutching at my burning cheeks.
“Keep still boy!” the headmaster hissed and he set
off on another tour of the room. My temples throbbed almost as much as my
backside and tears were getting ready to burst through my closed eyes.
Swipe! Crack!
Number three landed above the first. I let out an anguished cry.
The cane had now cut viciously across both bottom-cheeks. My head automatically
jerked up, and Dr Bennett briskly thrust it down again. “Keep the position” He
didn’t spell it out; he didn’t have to. Every boy at the school knew that if
you jumped up or in some way tried to interfere with the caning extra strokes
would be awarded. I knew of one prefect who had been called to the study to
hold a particularly argumentative fourth-former across the desk while the
headmaster lashed him.
After stroke four,
I went into some kind of auto-pilot. Later I couldn’t remember taking the final
two cuts. I remember hearing the words, “That’s over. You may stand.” It seemed
to be coming from many miles away as if floating on the wind. It was of course
Dr Bennett announcing that he had delivered Six-of-the-best to my upturned
bottom. I might not remember getting the last two but by the time I was allowed
to leave the study my bottom felt like it was twice its natural size and burnt
so much I might have been sitting in a bucket of boiling water. Even without
gently caressing my bum with my fingertips – which of course I didn’t do until
I was safely out of the headmaster’s sight – I knew the surface of my bum was
ridged like a piece of corrugated cardboard.
I hobbled back to
the sixth-form common room where I knew my pals were waiting. We all agreed
that Bennett was a berk and that he had no right caning senior boys. Such are
the rituals of caning I lowered my trousers and pants to allow all and sundry
to inspect my marks. I think my mates’ whistles were in admiration for the
headmaster’s fine work.
Picture credit: Sting Pictures
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