Twice in one day

 Original Fiction – for adult eyes only

 

 A neighbour who had recently moved to the house next door was rummaging through the attic when he came across a box of what he thought was rubbish. In it he discovered the diary of an eighteen-year-old boy, written in 1964. For some reason, he thought I might be interested in reading it. I was; and here’s an entry that you might like too.

May 5, 1964  

 

My bottom still tingles while I write this. I have just finished an encounter with Dad, or more to the point, Dad’s slipper. I’m eighteen for pity’s sake but still there I was in the room Dad likes to call his ‘study.’ Me across Dad’s knee, my trousers at the ankles. Then, Dad pulled down my underpants so they were scrunched up beneath my buttocks. He walloped me on my bare bottom with a slipper, one of those with the leather soles that his father (my grandpa) left him in his will. The slippers are some sort of family heirloom, handed down and used by one generation of fathers after another.

It’s been a lousy day.

It started this morning. We had a free period and although the school rules forbid it, me and two other fellows dashed into the town. We’d done it before and so had many other sixth-formers. We are seniors after all and ought to be trusted to manage our own affairs like adults. What I didn’t know – because I had skipped attending – was that the headmaster had made an announcement in school assembly specifically forbidding any boy from leaving school premises without permission.

Just our luck that Mr Harrington, the stern history teacher, saw us. He’s not the sort to let a matter like this rest. So, at lunchtime we got a summons to the headmaster’s study.

The three of us, me, Anthony and Timothy, stood nervously outside his study door. We weren’t the only boys waiting for the headmaster. There were two lads from the Fifth and one youngster who was wearing short trousers which donates that he’s a first-year boy. The fifth-year lads were facing the wall with their hands on their heads. I wasn’t sure if they had specifically been instructed to do this or if they were regular visitors and knew the ropes.

There was no way we seniors were going to do that. We had our dignity to uphold. It was bad enough that we had been called to the headmaster’s study. I think all three of us were trying to muster the courage to face the inevitable. We knew we were in deep trouble.

In all my nearly seven years at St George’s Grammar I’d never been inside the headmaster’s study, it felt like walking into a different world. It’s an imposing room, made dark by all the wood panelling around the walls. A huge desk, bigger than a double bed, dominates, but my attention was mostly drawn to a plush leather armchair that seemed out of place in the middle of the room. Instinctively, I knew we would become acquainted with that before our visit had ended, and we would not be luxuriating in it.

The headmaster’s stern presence filled the room, and I couldn't help but feel small and insignificant. He spoke in a measured tone, going on about the importance of adhering to the school’s rules and preserving its reputation. His words were like a heavy cloud, hanging over me, suffocating my spirits.

Mr Hawthorne was stern and unyielding. Some might say he was being very pompous but at the time I couldn't help but feel a sense of guilt and shame.

Then came the moment we had been dreading. He had been sitting behind that desk and he hauled himself to his feet. He stands over six feet tall and it is said he was quite a rugby player at his university and in minor clubs. He must be in his fifties now but he still has the bearing of a tough man.

In the corner of the room was a hatstand and almost obscured by the head’s flowing black academic gown were two curve-handled canes. From what I could see they were both a little over three-feet long and one was a little thicker than the other. Without a word he reached up and selected his weapon of choice. He turned to us and while flexing the cane between his hands he lectured us some more.

He told us the cane was meant to teach us a lesson. I remember he said, ‘Remember, discipline is the cornerstone of a well-rounded education.’ I have no idea what that means.

Mr Hawthorne pointed the cane at the armchair, ‘You first Cummings. You other boys stand against the bookcase.’ I could see the blood drain from Anthony’s face. None of us had been caned before and at the age of eighteen, and with only weeks to go before we finally left the school, this seemed an odd time to be starting. We exchanged nervous glances. I felt both fear and shame. Fear at wondering how much the caning would hurt and shame that I would have to present myself across the back of the armchair to have my bottom beaten by an older man. There was also the worry that I would not take the caning well and would disgrace myself in front of my two pals.

I don’t know what was going through Anthony’s mind but he did not look too confident when the headmaster ordered him to take off his blazer and leave it on his desk. Anthony’s fumbling fingers made hard work of the task.

Then Mr Hawthorne spoke those dreaded words, ‘Bend over the back of the chair.’ My heart raced and it wasn’t even my turn. I couldn’t see Anthony’s face, but I’m sure he felt the same as me. I watched as he wiped his sweaty palms down the legs of his trousers before taking a couple of steps forward; then with more confidence than I felt, he leaned forward and almost dived over the back of the chair, it was as if he were diving into an icy river.

I had a perfect view. Anthony is nearly six feet tall but the armchair was huge and padded and his body sank into the plush leather. ‘Head low, bottom high, legs apart,’ Mr Hawthorne rattled off a list of instructions. Anthony wriggled a bit, raised then lowered his buttocks and in a few moments was positioned to the headmaster’s satisfaction.

I had never noticed before that Anthony has quite a large beefy bottom. We all play a lot of sport, especially rugby, and are well built. Now he was over the back of the chair, his pale grey trousers stretched over his bum cheeks, seeming to lift and separate them. He gave the headmaster a terrific target.

Mr Hawthorne, his expression unyielding, walked over to Anthony and measured his position carefully. He tapped the cane across the highest and fleshiest portion of Anthony’s backside. Then with a deliberate motion, he raised the cane into the air and brought it down with a thwack. From where I stood it didn’t look like much more than a flick of the wrist and it didn’t seem too bad. Anthony, who was on the receiving end, clearly thought otherwise. His knees buckled and his head rose and he whistled through his lips. His buttocks quivered and he struggled to keep them still.

‘Steady boy, steady.,’ Mr Hawthorne muttered as he took his aim once more. The second stroke landed a little below the first; again, it was not a swipe but a firmly delivered blow. Anthony’s feet stomped up and down and he did the wriggling thing again. I began to feel a bit sick in anticipation of my turn.

Mr Hawthorne laid on six strokes – it’s what we call six-of-the-best – and when Anthony was allowed to stand his face was as white as a ghost. He tried desperately not to rub away at his sore buttocks as he made his way to the bookcase.

It was my turn next. What can I remember? A number of things, not in any particular order: the embarrassment (no, humiliation) of being in the head’s study in the first place and having to present myself for a caning. I’m eighteen and surely should be treated like an adult, not like one of those younger chaps I’d seen in the corridor earlier.

The apprehension: I had already seen how Mr Hawthorne went about caning a boy. I knew he would tap his cane across my buttocks to take his aim and only when he was ready would the first stoke land. The atmosphere was terrific. I couldn’t stop my muscles tensing, mostly the arms, legs, and buttocks. I had no control here; it was some natural response of my body to the stress and anticipation of the pain to come.

There was nothing I could do. The headmaster was in control and all I could do was offer him my bum and let him do with it what he wanted.

Then, of course, there was the pain. I know I said that the headmaster didn’t seem to do much more than flick his wrist as he landed the cane, but that was enough to send shockwaves through my body. I can’t properly describe it. The pain was sharp, and it stung both physically and emotionally. The stinging was unlike anything I had ever experienced, and the humiliation of being caned on my bottom in front of my friends was almost unbearable. The tears welled up, but I fought to keep them at bay, not wanting to appear weak. I think I just about managed that.

My bum was alight as I hobbled back to the bookcase. I can’t remember anything about Timothy’s caning I was too busy thinking about myself. The pain had been intense as each stroke landed across my bottom. Mr Hawthorne was an expert at this and he left enough time between strokes to allow the pain of one to start to ease before reigniting the agony with the next stroke. Oddly, however, as I stood in my humiliation I found the pain was quickly transforming into a throb that soon would become something like a warm glow.

Once all three of us had been caned we were quickly dismissed from the study. I don’t suppose we were there for more than two or three minutes. We left with our heads held low, our pride wounded, and our bottoms sore.

After, we couldn’t help but question the fairness of it all. Was corporal punishment really the best way to teach us responsibility and discipline? We had disobeyed an instruction, but did it warrant such physical pain and humiliation? It left us with a sense of unease and discomfort that lingered long after the punishment had ended.

But that wasn’t to be the end of the matter for me.

I don’t know how Dad got to hear about our visit to the headmaster … and so quickly. Brocklehurst is a small town and bad news travels fast and by the time he arrived home from the office he had learned the full story.

I was still feeling sorry for myself. We had been caned at lunchtime and I didn’t have a chance to inspect my bottom until I got home later that afternoon. The pain had long since disappeared and so had the warm glow. If I pressed my fingers into my bottom along the lines where the cane had landed I could revive the pain a little. I was surprised (disappointed?) that there were no thick red welts across my bare cheeks. You could hardly see where the cane had struck. I think I felt a bit cheated; the caning had hurt so much at the time that I’d expected to be carrying the scars with me for some time. I think, also, I had rather looked forward to meeting up with Anthony and Timothy later to compare marks.

Dad had hardly put his briefcase down in the hallway before he called me from the bottom of the stairs. I knew immediately from the tone of his voice I was in trouble. Mum too sensed something was up and pretended to be busy in the kitchen.

I came out of my bedroom. ‘Down here,’ Dad growled. ‘Now!’ I knew I was in trouble and once we were in his study (nothing like as grand as the headmaster’s, just a converted lounge really) all he had to say was the word ‘School,’ for me to get the full picture.

Dad was just as pompous as the headmaster. Where Mr Hawthorne had said we had disgraced the school with our behaviour, so Dad told me I had disgraced the family by getting into trouble at school. I knew better than to argue the point. What had we done that was so terrible?

It was then that I saw one solitary slipper resting on Dad’s desk. I was about fourteen the last time Dad spanked me. That wasn’t the first time, but I could have expected it might be the last. Eighteen years old and this morning caned by the headmaster and now to be spanked by Dad and for the same offence which is very unfair.

Dad took hold of an armless wooden chair and set it down in the middle of the room.  Then, he reached over and picked up the slipper. He scrunched it in his right hand as he settled himself on the chair. He waved the heavy, leather-soled slipper at me and said, ‘Take down your trousers.’ The humiliation of the headmaster’s study flashed through my mind. That had been bad enough but now a spanking from Dad with my trousers down.

Dad could tell I was hesitating. ‘Now!’ he ordered, ‘Or do you want me to do it for you?’ Humiliation heaped upon humiliation. Why did I have to do this? What had we done that deserved this? I knew for sure that neither of my two pals would be going across their old man’s knee this evening.

I had no choice. I know Dad means well. He is kind and loving and in his mind a spanking is an act of love. He’s never said as such but I get it. Maybe sometimes when I was younger I did deserve a whacking and it did buck up my ideas and make me a better person. But today, a spanking would achieve nothing. I had broken a small rule at school, I’d already been punished (too severely in my opinion) and we should leave it at that.

Some chance! Just as with the headmaster I had no choice but to obey. I pulled at my belt and unzipped my trousers. As they slipped to my shins I felt like a naughty little boy not an almost adult.

‘Bend over my knee,’ Dad instructed and helped me over his big thighs. I laid there, staring down at his shoes, and just like earlier my bottom clenched tightly. I closed my eyes in a rotten attempt to hide the shame. It didn’t help and moments later things got worse. ‘We don’t need to bother with these,’ Dad said as he hooked his fingers in the waistband of my white cotton Y-fronts. He yanked them down to my thighs, thereby baring my now quivering bottom for my punishment. My humiliation was total.

Dad gripped his arm around my waist so I wouldn’t fall off his knees and set about whacking my bum. I lay there submissively, what was the point of fighting? The sole of the slipper is solid and each slap across my bare flesh echoed around the room. It hurt, but not in the same way the cane had earlier. This was more of a thudding slap rather than a cutting sting. Either way, it hurt. A lot. I shut my eyes. My palms were at first pressed into the carpet but quickly as the pain rose I clenched my hands together, rather like in prayer. My bum was angled over Dad’s knee and my legs dangled in mid-air. I kicked and wriggled (again, a natural reaction to the onslaught on my body) but fought the temptation to cover my bottom with my hands. I wanted this to be over with and show as much dignity as possible (which wasn’t much).

I don’t know how many swats of the slipper Dad gave me but it seemed to be over almost as soon as it had begun. My bum was sore and as I pulled up my pants I was shocked to see how my flesh glowed red. In seconds I was fully dressed and Dad sent me on my way.

Whacked twice in one day. What rotten luck and so totally unfair. I can’t wait until the summer when I leave school. With luck I’ll get a place at university and can get away from home.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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