Mr. Norman


by Winterton4 <Winterton4@hotmail.com>

This story is largely true.

Growing up in South Africa in the Cape province in the sixties, I lived in a culture steeped in corporal punishment. Though it was never used in my home, it was often used at school.

The school I went to starting at age 9 had, when I arrived, a courtly principal who almost never caned. However, in my tenth year, he departed and was replaced by a head who firmly believed in corporal punishment. Oddly enough, he did not have a cane (odd back in those times) but he used a thin baton that was used in school relay races, and he had a miniature cricket bat that was presumably made as a curiosity but which he used for a completely different purpose. I was the recipient of both those instruments, bending over and touching my toes, but although they stung, he did not hit hard, and rarely more than a couple. Such inflictions could occur anywhere - in the head's office, in a hallway, in a cloakroom.

In my eleventh year, a new classroom teacher arrived, a man in his early thirties whom I shall call Mr Norman. He came from an elementary school across town which allowed teachers to cane, and where he acquired a reputation as one who loved to wield the rod. He was famous for his "bacon" cuts, whereby he would make the victim bend over and then swing the cane vertically, just catching the outside of the protruding buttocks. I had a couple of friends who went to that school, and they told me all about Mr Norman, and said they were glad he had left.

Mr Norman had a grin that bordered on a leer, and even we 11-year-olds could tell that he had a strange love of corporal punishment from the way he spoke of it. He was clearly disappointed that he was not allowed to exercise corporal punishment himself, and he looked for opportunities to take errant boys to the head. He once pounced on me for copying another boy's work and on the way to the head's office, told me that if it were him he'd give me 3, and that the last boy to whom he had given 3 had later told him that he had had stripes for 3 weeks. As it was, I got two with the miniature cricket bat and a warning that next time I cheated a note would be sent home.

A couple of months into the year, Mr Norman came into the classroom with a long rectangular parcel. He opened it and, with that grin bordering on a leer, extracted a brand new cane. He said he was sorry he wasn't allowed to use it, but said he would keep it handy to keep us in check, whatever that meant. A couple of times, a misbehaving boy would be called to the front of the room where he would have to bend over and Mr Norman would lay the cane against his trousers and give the lightest of taps. We were all most relieved that he was not allowed to use it. After a couple of weeks he took it home and did not bring it back in.

Mr Norman lived in a house a few blocks from the school and I had occasion to visit there twice, the second visit being by far the most memorable. The first occasion arose from a PE period that happened to fall at the end of the day. We were all sent on a jogging expedition in the surrounding streets to improve fitness, and were encouraged to continue running after school. I was one of those who continued running after school, and happened to jog by as Mr Norman was preparing to enter his house. Until then, I had not known where he lived. In those days, we did not even know our teachers' first names, let alone where they lived. So it was by chance that I saw him, and he saw me. With that notable grin, he invited me in for something cold to drink. It was a hot day, and I agreed. Being dressed in short cotton PE shorts that were fairly tight, I suppose I must have inspired some caning thoughts, but I was so used to that leer and his thinly disguised interest in corporal punishment, knowing also that he was barred from doing anything, I never really paid any attention and was grateful for the drink. I sat in his small living room for a while and we chatted inconsequentially, after which I thanked him and left.

At that time I was a very good English student, but struggled in maths. About a month after the incident described above, we were given a tough homework assignment in maths, which was to count for our grades, and I knew I had made a complete hash of it. Since maths was late in the morning, I decided to improve my performance by borrowing a friend's homework and retiring during morning break to some back stairs where no teachers ever went, and there, using my friend's work as inspiration, I proceeded to improve the quality of my homework.

As sheer ill luck would have it, Mr Norman was rehearsing a play with another class, and it being close to performance time, had scheduled an extra rehearsal during break. The morning break was only 15 minutes, so neither he (nor I) had much time. Mr Norman decided to use the back stairs as a shortcut to the school hall where the rehearsal was being held, and coming round the landing, almost fell over me. My reaction, and my very presence, were ones of such obvious guilt, that Mr Norman stopped to investigate and very quickly deduced, from the two assignment books, what was going on. He looked quite angry, reminded me that this was the second time he had caught me cheating, and said he would take me to the head again. Remembering that the head and threatened me with a note home the next time, I pleaded with him not to do that. The truth of the matter was that my father probably would not have done anything, but the sheer embarrassment and disgrace were prospects that really upset me. Suddenly, Mr Norman gave that grin and said that instead I could come round to his house after school and he would deal with me himself. I knew that anything he did would be more painful than anything the head did, but that was preferable to the note home, so I agreed. And really, I had never been caned before so I did not really know what it was like. The Head's baton and cricket bat had never done much damage.

Still, the rest of the school day I was very uneasy, wondering if I had made the right decision and wondering if I would be the subject of the famous bacon cuts. After school, I got on my bicycle and rode slowly to Mr Norman's house. I leaned the bike against the fence and knocked on the door. The grin that looked more like a leer than ever opened the door and beckoned me in. On the coffee table in that small living room I instantly saw the same cane that had been briefly flaunted in class earlier in the year. I stood still with fear as Mr Norman closed the door.

"Are you ready for the cane?"

I did not answer.

"You know," he continued, "the head did say at the beginning of the year that no teacher was allowed to cane, so we have to think about that. The question is, should I cane you or spank you? We were never told we couldn't spank." And he grinned.

It was a surprising question, and I did not answer.

"I could take down your shorts, put you over my knee and smack your bottom, or I could make you touch your toes and feel the stick as I was planning to. Perhaps I'll let you choose."

It seemed to me to be a choice between humiliation or serious pain, but that cane looked so awful, I decided fairly quickly that I would take the spanking.

Without further delay, Mr Norman pulled me over to the sofa, sat down, and with one yank pulled down my cotton shorts, followed quickly by my underpants. I felt myself go crimson with embarrassment, feeling my 11-year-old instrument flop as the shorts and underwear were pulled over it, but next thing I knew I was over his lap with his right leg slightly raised so that I was jackknifed in position.

"Now keep still," he said, and brought his hand down on my right cheek with a great deal of force. It stung and I gasped. Then he brought his hand down on the other cheek and again I felt a sting. He proceeded to spank me with almost monotonous regularity, alternating cheeks and pausing slightly after each smack. The sting started to feel like a burn and had soon surpassed the pain of the Head's miniature cricket bat through the sheer volume of whacks, I suppose. After I while I started writhing, but that seemed to make him hit even harder, so I tried to stay still. But that proved impossible and I was soon bucking up and down. I could feel his hand bouncing off my inflamed cheeks.

After several minutes he stopped and pulled me up. Forgetful of all modesty, I grabbed my behind and jumped up and down, the tears rolling down my cheeks. The leering grin never changed. After a couple of minutes, I pulled my pants back up, and without a word walked with difficulty to the front door. Outside, I saw my bike still leaning against the fence and knew there was no way I could sit down on it. But I lived in a hilly town, and there were no gears on my bike, so I typically spent a lot of time standing on the pedals even on a normal ride home. This time, I stood far more, but with all those hills, no one noticed.


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