During the 1950s, discipline at my primary school was administered with the utmost seriousness. Only the most unruly children were summoned to the headmaster’s office, where a stern talking-to was followed by a firm caning. The cane was always given as a lesson, never in anger, and each child was told exactly why they were to receive it, so that they might learn to behave properly in future.
Although I never received the cane myself, I learned from other pupils that the process was very formal. The child would knock politely on the headmaster’s door, which was answered by Miss Green, his kind but strict secretary. She would ask the child to wait, and then the headmaster would explain the reason for the punishment. The child would be told, ‘You are to receive six firm strokes for your misbehaviour, so that you may remember to act with honour and respect.’
After a stern lecture, the child would be asked to fetch the cane from the cupboard. Miss Green would hand it over with a grave expression, and the child would pass it to the headmaster. The headmaster would then instruct the child to bend over, and deliver six sound smacks to the child’s bottom. Each stroke was given with care, but firmly, so that the lesson would not be forgotten. The child was always reminded, ‘This is for your own good, so that you may grow up to be a fine and honest person.’
Inevitably, there was a fascination with this sanction, particularly amongst those of us for whom it did its real work as a deterrent. We would often talk to boys and girls who had had it, about what it felt like and – most importantly – what it did to your bum.
One of my classmates informed me that he had seen his sister’s bottom after she had the cane, although she was quite a bit older than us. Apparently, she showed him her stripes and told him that this was what happened if you misbehaved in school. He said she’d had six of the best.
My mind raced – and although I was terrified of receiving the cane, at the same time I wanted to know what it was like. I guess you could say it both excited and terrified me.
At around the age of 10, I acquired my first girlfriend, a lovely blonde haired girl called Susan. She was kind and funny, we spent many hours together roaming the fields behind our houses climbing trees, playing hide and seek, birdwatching, making dens and in general enjoying healthy pursuits. Susan was in my year and class at school, but we kept our friendship a secret as I was slightly embarrassed around my friends.
However, the truth was that I actually preferred Susan‘s company to any of my male friends. I adored her company, and what’s more we often talked about corporal punishment at school.
I should say at this point that Susan was impeccably well-behaved and intelligent. She had an older brother and sister, and the family had moved down from the north of England about a year before. Her home was near to mine and we seemed to form a bond right from the day we first met.
One day, Susan asked me if I had ever been caned. I replied in the negative, and she told me she hadn’t either. However, I did vouchsafe that I’d had several spankings – and the slipper on a few occasions too – from various female teachers before Susan had arrived at our school. The keenest exponents of these more minor corporal punishments were Miss Brown and Miss Green. However, they were not permitted to use the cane.
“I’d be really frightened if I was sent for the cane,” Susan said. I explained that it was rare for girls to be caned, although we both knew about my friend’s sister and her striped bum.
Then I added: “I’d like to be caned one day, just to know what it felt like. Not the headmaster, though (he was a very frightening man) – maybe Miss Brown (whom we all loved for her kindness and beauty, and used the slipper only when truly deserved). Or perhaps Miss Green (several of us boys had a faintly-concealed crush on her too!) My secret confessed, Susan smiled and agreed with me.
One day, Susan and I were playing after school and wandering down the country lanes. As we did so, on impulse I picked a switch from a hedge. It was thin and whippy, and I used my pocket knife to cut and trim it. Mission accomplished, I proceeded to scythe at the lush green flora that grew in abundance, enjoying the satisfying swish as the switch cut through the air.
I passed Susan the switch, and then watched mesmerised as she deftly cut the lush vegetation with her own strokes. I enjoyed the sight of her young, muscular bare arm in action. Suddenly, I had a ‘lightbulb’ moment – and I think the same thought might have entered Susan’s mind at precisely the same time.
I turned to her. “Would you cane me with this stick so that I know what it feels like? Then, if I get sent for it at school, I’ll know what to expect.” Susan smiled. “I would if you want me to – but won’t it hurt?” I assured her that I was very tough. “I’ll probably get sent for it at school some time anyway. You must do it as hard as you can, so it’ll be like school.”
“Well, OK. But this is a stick – not a cane.” I couldn’t dispute her logic but luckily we both knew of a bamboo bush growing in one of the neighbourhood gardens (of course, we had no idea at that time that school canes were made of much more flexible rattan rather than bamboo).
Dropping the stick, we ran back down the country lane to the garden, where using my pen knife I reached over the fence to cut a long green bamboo switch.
From there we made our way to a quiet field over a mile away, where there was a fallen tree near a stream. One of the tree’s branches was quite low, and I bent over it as Susan gave me one or two flicks with the ‘cane’. These were delivered on the seat of my jeans, and unsurprisingly I didn’t really feel it that much. I was disappointed by the lack of pain. I stood up and took the rod from Susan. “You’ve got to do it harder,” I said. “Like this.” In demonstration, I brought the cane down hard on the branch itself. Disappointingly, in retrospect, it never occurred to me to demonstrate it on my girlfriend’s bottom.
Susan hit the branch firmly a few times, this time cutting the air viciously as she had earlier along the country lane. Feeling deliciously naughty, I took down my jeans and underpants and bent over again, my white cheeks pointing skywards. I remember hearing Susan chuckle and felt her tapping my bottom with the cane. “Go on,” I urged, “do it!”
I heard the cane cut the air and immediately felt it land across my bottom. It felt like a line of fire – I screamed, gasped and clutched my naked bum. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Susan looking horrified. She dropped the cane and began to run away. I shouted desperately after her: “It’s OK! You can do it again!”
Susan came back and picked the cane back up – I noticed a broad smile across her face, and it was obvious she had enjoyed it. Eventually, we agreed that I should take six ‘like at school’, and Susan gave me six of the best with full force. I screamed and jumped throughout, and by the time Susan had finished I was crying openly and rubbing my bottom. Things improved rapidly though, as she offered to rub my bottom too. I enjoyed this for a while, then finally made myself decent and we walked home together.
When Susan and I eventually met again a few days later, she asked me how my bottom was. Again, we went somewhere private and I took my pants down to show her. The stripes she had applied were still very visible, and I’d had to take great care to make sure my parents didn’t see the marks, or else they would obviously have asked some very awkward questions!
I told her I felt more equipped to deal with a caning at school now, thinking that was that. To my surprise, Susan asked me if she could cane me again. I said she could and it became a weekly ritual every time we went to that fallen tree in the quiet field. With my bottom pointing high and proud, I was able to take subsequent canings with slightly more stoicism.
I must have taken dozens and dozens of beatings from Susan and my bottom seemed to be permanently striped during this time, but it was by far our favourite game. Susan would even impersonate the headmaster from his school assemblies in the morning, whilst ordering me to bend over.
Sadly, just over a year later, Susan’s family moved back north and that was the end of that. But we shared some lovely moments – not only my first caning but also my first ‘proper’ kiss. Susan had warned me I wouldn’t enjoy it – but she was wrong and I still remember the warmth of her lips and the taste of her mouth.
As for those beatings, only once were the tables turned. We were alone in Susan’s house, in her bedroom, when she asked me whether I would whip her bottom with the riding crop her sister used when she rode her horse. Skirt raised but knickers sadly firmly in place, I gave Susan one almighty swish, which caused her to sob gently into her pillow, as I rubbed her bottom better.
I never knew what happened to Susan – a year later I started at the local comprehensive and didn’t have another girlfriend until I was 19. Although Susan and I were too young to be sexually attracted in the traditional sense, I definitely feel that these experiences had a big impact on my sexuality.
Incidentally, I never did get the cane at my primary school. The nearest I got to it was when the headmaster was standing in for another teacher. The lesson became rowdy and he sent me to fetch a cane from Miss Green ‘in case I feel like using it’.
When I got to his office, Miss Green misunderstood why I was there, and said: “I’m sorry you’ve been such a naughty boy that it’s come to this, David, but in my opinion you’ve been asking for it for some time.” She selected a cane and flexed it. “I wouldn’t mind caning your bottom myself, if it was allowed.”
I went the colour of a beetroot and my mind raced. For a moment, I almost bent over there and then – I wondered how an adult caning would compare to Susan, plus I could tell her all about it. But of course, what I actually did was blush an even deeper red and explained the situation. Miss Green looked a little disappointed as she handed me the cane to take away!
I didn’t receive the cane again until I was 17, and had left school – but that’s another story. I still often wonder what became of Susan and whether her fondness for caning bottoms lingered into adulthood.
