In the last instalment of this history I described my first ever caning. I was in my second year at Manor School. I was nine years old and was given three strokes of the cane on my bare bottom for ragging in the dorm after I and, three other boys, had been sent there as a punishment. I am now going to move on to my fourth year at the school. In the intervening period I received my fair share of canings and the odd slippering. When I moved up to Middle House (the headmaster never did think of better names for the houses) I no longer had to suffer the indignity of bare bottom beatings. But any idea I may have had that the pain would be less when my buttocks were protected by thin school trousers was soon forgotten: generally speaking the canings became more painful as each year passed.
It was the Easter term and I was 11 years old. Staughton, who was in the year below me and whose mentor I had been in his first term at the school, and I had been helping the games master to tidy the cricket pavilion (which was being used for rugby kit) after games. As a result, we got to the changing room and showers after the other boys had already left. As we stripped for our shower I was aware that I had a totally involuntary erection. This was not a particularly new experience and it was hardly worthy of any comment. Had it not been for the conversation which it led to, I am sure it would have passed from my mind completely within days.
My younger readers, brought up in an era of "streetwise" children, will need to understand that, in those days, eleven year old boys at private boarding schools were remarkably innocent when it came to _s_e_x_. Of course, we knew something, rather dimly, about these things. But our knowledge was very limited. It is, perhaps, remarkable to the modern reader that I felt no embarrassment at all as I removed my games shorts to reveal my small but decidedly erect member. As far as I was concerned, it was just one of those things that happened to boys of our age. There was no need to feel ashamed about it. But, as you will see, I was beginning to be aware of some _s_e_x_ual feelings associated with the phenomenon. What we said that afternoon in the changing room has stuck in my mind ever since as marking the first moment at which I reflected on the unusual effect which corporal punishment had on me. It was Staughton who spoke first.
"Hey Lineham, it's funny when that happens isn't it?". He was pointing at my erection.
"Yeah, it just sort of pops up for no reason at all. Lots of boys get it though."
"I know. I do sometimes. It's a bit uncomfy but it's quite fun in a way. Miles says he can make it happen by thinking things. But I don't know what."
It was at this point that I suppose I must have begun to give serious thought to this question of how one "made it happen". I don't think I had ever deliberately done so, but I was clearly dimly conscious that certain things did tend to lead, sometimes, to a hardening between my legs. It is a sign of our innocence that, having mused on the point for a few moments, I quite happily explained to my friend how I thought you could "make it happen".
"I think I know what Miles means", I said. "You know when you see someone's bum after a swishing?"
"Yes".
"Well, if you look at it and sort of think of what the swishing must have been like, that sometimes makes it happen. So I 'spect that's what Miles thinks of."
"I 'spect so", said Staughton, entirely accepting this rather implausible theory from his former mentor. "Next time someone in my dorm gets swished I'll try it."
Having solved this little mystery, we headed for the showers, chatting about much more important things like who was going to be selected for Saturday's match. My erection must have subsided as quickly as it arose and the incident was all but forgotten. Except that I found myself more and more thinking back to the conversation as I realised, over the following weeks, that thinking of "swishings" did seem to be a pretty good way of "making it happen". I never discussed the point again. Perhaps I was sub-consciously aware that there was something not entirely healthy about these thoughts. Neither do I know whether Staughton's experiment produced any results. He never mentioned the point again. Maybe he, too, was starting to become more aware.
With my growing understanding, there also became a funny kind of pleasure to be derived from "making it happen". A few days after that conversation, in fact after the match on Saturday in which, despite my age, I was selected to play for the 1st XV, I was again in the changing room. This time there were fourteen other boys present. We were stripping our muddy games clothes preparing for a good hot shower. A boy in the year above me, Timpson he was called, was next to me. I had always rather admired him. He was an extraordinarily good all rounder at every sport. I suppose, if I had given any thought to the matter, I would have said that he was also extraordinarily good-looking. He was tall and slim with blond hair and piercing blue eyes. He was not a particularly naughty boy, but he was mischievous by nature and I knew that he was as familiar with the sting of the cane on his slim round buttocks as most of us were. We were facing each other as we both pulled off our shorts. We were not, of course, wearing underpants. I think I registered that he was, as you would expect, slightly better endowed than I was, but that was not of any great interest to me. It was only as he turned to put his shorts on the bench that I became interested in his nakedness. Across his otherwise milky coloured bottom were four still quite vivid cane stripes. That was, obviously, not a rare sight at Manor School, but I had been pondering my conversation with Staughton and I was almost instantly aware of a strange and rather pleasurable feeling in my loins as I contemplated those neat lines across that (as I now recall it) perfectly proportioned, firm round bottom. I needed to know more. That, of course, was only to be expected. We were all interested, no doubt in varying degrees, in other boys' punishments. So Timpson would certainly not have been surprised by my questions.
"Wow Timpson, those look real stingers, who gave them to you?"
"The boss man, this morning".
"Golly, I've never had a boss man's swishing. Is it bad?"
"Yeah. It was my second though so I knew what to expect. I don't know how he does it, but he somehow seems to be able to give an extra sort of sting to it".
"What did you do to get it?"
"Out of bounds yesterday evening after prep. You know, down in the woods. I went with Brotherton."
Brotherton was also in the 1st XV. I glanced across the room to where he was changing and caught a glimpse of a similarly striped bottom as he began to make his way to the showers.
"Did you get it in front of each other?"
"Yup. I went first so it wasn't so bad watching Brotherton get it. Quite interesting really. I noticed that the boss man gives a sort of flick of his wrist just as the cane hits your bum. That's probably what gives the extra sting."
Throughout this conversation the pleasurable feeling continued. Fortunately, we got to the showers before there could be any outward manifestation of what was happening to me and the jets of water and playful splashings of the other boys soon calmed things down. But this was another stage in my slow understanding of my unusual interest.
That night, when I was in bed, I thought back over what I had seen and what Timpson had said. Sure enough, the feeling returned. This time I allowed it to progress and, before long, I found I had "made it happen". I rubbed it a bit, but I did know that that was a very bad thing to do and I decided it would be better to stop before anything awful happened.
From then on, whenever I saw a recently punished bottom, I would allow my thoughts to dwell on the sight once I was in bed for the night. Nearly always, I "made it happen". But that was all. I still forced myself not to commit the dreaded sin.
Schoolboys can sometimes be pretty foolish. I was no exception. Timpson was something of a hero to me. I kept thinking of his escapade in the woods. In today's parlance, I thought it would be "cool" to do the same as he had done. There was no logic behind it. It was not as though the woods held any attraction, apart from being out of bounds. There was nothing to do there. True, there were stories of a second world war German fighter having been shot down there, but no one had ever seen any sign of it. The chances of my making the discovery, nearly twenty five years after the end of the war, were non-existent. But none of that deterred me. I was determined that I would go to the woods between prep and bed time one evening. I think, probably, what I wanted to be able to do was to tell Timpson I had done it, and got away with it.
One day I confided my ambition to Staughton. We were, by now, firm friends, despite my seniority. He was not my "best friend". That was still Rowntree. But he was getting close to being able to share the honour. I explained that I was sure there must be something left of the German fighter. Maybe it would just be the pilot's helmet. But even if that were all I found it would be something to be the first boy to prove that the story was right. Staughton, too, became enthused. And so it was that we made our plan for the following evening.
Getting out after prep was no problem. We had decided to use the changing room window rather than one of the doors. The chances of being seen by a master or prefect would thereby be lessened. We kept close to the wall and edged our way round the building until we were satisfied that we were out of sight from any window through which a curious master might be peering. It was almost dark by then and we were wearing our grey school uniforms. So it was unlikely we would be spotted anyway. We crossed the main games pitch in silence. Once we got to the pavilion at the other side of the pitch we felt it safe to talk. We speculated, as we crossed the second pitch, as to where in the woods the German fighter was likely to be. We both knew, of course, that generations of Manor boys had gone on the same quest without finding anything. But that didn't dampen our enthusiasm.
Between the second games pitch and the woods there was a stream which could only be crossed at one place. A small wooden footbridge, which was rather rickety but still useable, spanned the still water beneath. Just by the bridge was a large sign which read "OUT OF BOUNDS TO MANOR SCHOOL BOYS". Neither of us had ever passed the sign before. I suspect that Staughton was as nervous as I was as, after casting furtive glances around us, we stepped gingerly onto the unsteady surface of the bridge. Any school these days which had such a tempting and unsafe structure in its grounds, however strict the rules prohibiting its use, would no doubt be prosecuted and fined heavily for breaching health and safety regulations. But we were not so molly coddled in those days. We picked our way carefully across, avoiding the large holes and gripping tightly to the swaying hand rail. In moments we were in the woods. It was now pitch black, but we had thought ahead. We had both brought small torches and we now fished them out of our pockets and switched them on. There was heavy undergrowth all around us. There had been paths through the woods once, but now they were entirely overgrown. We were grateful that we were both in long trousers. The nettles were almost as tall as us and the brambles looked exceptionally sharp. We shone the torches around to look for a route through. Just to our right we could see that the nettles and brambles had been trodden underfoot quite recently. That must have been, we thought, the route taken by Timpson. We agreed to start there. I went first, the makeshift path was not wide enough for us to walk abreast, and we made our way slowly towards the centre of the woods. As the minutes went by we became less nervous and soon we were talking in relatively normal voices. Occasionally a bird would fly up from one of the trees with noisy flapping wings and we would start at the sound, but we quickly got used to the strange noises in the darkness. We must have gone about two or thr! ee hundred yards when the path divided sharply ahead of us. One route went to the right and one to the left.
"Which way do you think we should go?" Staughton asked me.
I thought for a moment. The bulk of the woods lay to the left. On the right, I knew, there was a lane about fifty yards away.
"It's more likely to be on the left than the right", I ventured, "let's go that way".
So we turned left. How different things would have been if we had gone right instead. We shone our torches ahead of us. The path seemed to wind its way slightly to the right, but it was becoming even narrower and we were having to push undergrowth aside as we went. There was a large tree immediately on our left and another one on our right. It was quite a squeeze getting through the gap between them. But we both managed. Just as Staughton got through we heard a voice from behind the tree on the left and a torch shone straight at us. We froze.
"What are you boys doing here?"
I did not instantly recognise the voice and I could not see past the torch to identify its owner. All I could tell was that it was the voice of a boy, not a master. But it sounded authoritative and I guessed, without knowing it, that we had stumbled on a prefect.
"Just exploring" I said, in as confident a tone as I could manage. "What about you?"
"We are here to check that no boys are out of bounds".
"We". So there were more than one of them. And they obviously were prefects. Just then the torch was lowered and, peering through the darkness, I could make out the faces of Bentham and Aspinall. They were, indeed, prefects.
It was then that I realised that there was a smell of tobacco smoke lingering in the still air. I looked down and, sure enough, at the feet of the two prefects there were two half smoked cigarettes which had obviously been stamped on in a hurry. Bentham saw where I was looking. In a quiet but very earnest voice, he spoke: "I don't think you'll be mentioning those to anyone, will you Lineham?"
"Of course not Bentham", I said in a rather hurt tone. The suggestion that I might sneak on another boy, even a prefect, was deeply distressing to me.
"Good. I think you'd better come back with us. We'll have to give a report to Mr Jamieson of course."
"Of course" I echoed. Mr Jamieson was our housemaster.
"So you'd better check your house notice board after breakfast tomorrow. Oh, and by the way, you will remember, won't you, that we caught you as you were about to cross the bridge".
"Yes Bentham" I said without hesitation.
With that, we turned round and began our rather less exciting return trip.
Many of my readers may be surprised at this turn of events. After all, Staughton and I had just been caught breaking one school rule by two prefects who were breaking two school rules (they were out of bounds and smoking). It is certainly true that, if the headmaster had heard what they had been up to, he would have had no hesitation in giving them both six of the best and removing their prefects' ties for good. And yet they were going to report us for being out of bounds, apparently confident that we would not mention their own crimes. I suspect that more explanation of the ways of English boarding schools in the 1960s may now be called for. The most important rule in the schoolboys' code of conduct is the rule which absolutely prohibits "sneaking" on other boys. A sneak is the lowest of the low. He will be beaten up and "sent to Coventry" (meaning no one will talk to him) without hesitation. The only boys who may report other boys to masters are prefects. They are exempt from the rule because it is generally understood and accepted that the well being of the school depends on prefects having authority over other boys. But they, too, are boys and it is, or was then anyway, equally understood and accepted that to sneak on them would be disgraceful. So it was that we would never in a month of Sundays have dreamt of reporting Bentham and Aspinall to a master for being out of bounds and smoking and neither did we feel in the slightest bit that we were being treated unfairly in being reported ourselves.
Word of our escapade soon got around Middle House. There was much speculation about what our fate would be. No one doubted that we would be caned. The only questions were whether we would be punished by Mr Jamieson or by the "boss man" and how many strokes we would get. Mr Jamieson was a hard caner, as I knew, but I also knew, from many reports, that the boss man was harder. As to the number of strokes, many favoured six, but I was drawing some consolation from the fact that I had only seen four stripes on Timpson's bottom. Even four, however, would be bad. I had no doubt that, whether it was our housemaster or our headmaster, considerable force would be put into the punishment. I went to bed that night dreading what the morning would bring. Strangely, however, I had no difficulty in sleeping and, as far as I can remember, my dreams were not troublesome.
Of course, when the bell rang for early morning cold baths and I woke, the events of the previous day and our impending interview with Mr Jamieson flooded back into my mind. Even if they had not, my fellow fourth formers would have ensured they did before long. There was much discussion, as we all plunged into the freezing water in turn, about what my unmarked bottom would be looking like after break. But I took it well. I knew I would have been doing the same if someone else had been the victim. At breakfast I even managed to eat all my soggy fried bread, bacon and tomatoes. After breakfast I went to the Middle House common room to check the notice board. There was not much point in doing that, I knew, but it was as well to confirm what my movements were to be in break. Staughton was there ahead of me.
"We're the only ones", he said as I joined him.
"What's the view in your dorm?" I asked him. "Mine mostly think it'll be the boss man."
"Same here. Most say it'll be six too, but you said Timpson only got four so it may not be so bad".
Morning lessons seemed to pass far too quickly. If I had been thinking logically, I would have wanted my punishment over and done with as soon as possible. But I wasn't. All I wanted to do was put it off for as long as I could. That, of course, would actually make the punishment far worse. The waiting was in fact almost as bad as the sting of the cane. But that analysis was not one to appeal to the mind of a naughty eleven year old boy.
Break came and Staughton and I presented ourselves at Mr Jamieson's study. He was not there yet and so we had to stand outside advertising our predicament to countless other boys. Once more I was conscious of a tummy churning over with fear, shaking legs and clammy hands. Finally our housemaster arrived. He was looking dark with anger. I did not feel encouraged. He threw the door open and pointed inside.
"Get in there now" he barked at us. We obeyed. He followed us and closed the door. He strode over to his desk, sat in the chair behind it and glared at us. Our own eyes fell, as those of schoolboys in our predicament always do, to our shoes. We waited for him to speak again. But he seemed to be in no hurry. He knew how uncomfortable this silence was making us and he was not eager to put us at our ease. Finally he spoke. And his tone was menacing.
"For the form I must ask you whether you have any excuse to offer. But its only form because I can't imagine that you could say anything which might lead me to conclude that you don't deserve the most severe punishment either of you has ever had." Another pause. "Well Lineham?"
"No Sir. I mean I have no excuse Sir".
"Staughton?"
"Me neither Sir".
Another long pause. Then he passed sentence.
"You will report to the headmaster after afternoon lessons. You can be confident that you will be severely thrashed. Get out".
The interview had been brief. But he was a past master at making small boys feel even smaller. A longer and more expansive telling off could not have made us feel worse than he had achieved in a few moments. And now we had more hours of waiting before our punishment was to be administered. I think we did both wish, as we left the study, that we had been punished there and then. The long wait for the boss man's "extra sting" was not going to be pleasant.
The rest of the morning passed quickly. Lunch, for both of us, involved no more than picking at our food. My first lesson after lunch was Latin, taken by the headmaster. He made no mention of our forthcoming appointment, but I felt decidedly uncomfortable for those forty five minutes. I then had double maths, never my favourite subject. My concentration was not, I think, at its best, especially as the end of the lesson drew near. I think I was probably fortunate not to get into more trouble for "day dreaming" in class (in fact, of course, contemplating what my bottom was shortly to feel like). It was with a heavy heart that I heard the bell ring for the end of afternoon lessons. I wanted to make my way as slowly as I could to Mr Spencer's study, but I knew there was no time to dawdle. There was only a fifteen minute break before PE in the gym and I knew that it was going to be quite tight fitting in a telling off, a caning and then getting changed into gym kit. So I walked quickly to the dreaded room.
Staughton arrived a moment after me. The red light above the door was on and so we had to wait. But it went out in moments and was replaced by the green one. I as the senior of us, stepped forward to knock on the door.
"Enter". Just the one word, but it struck terror into our hearts. I gave my palms another wipe on my trousers and opened the door.
"Come in, come in", he said impatiently. We stepped in and shut the door behind us. I saw his hand move to the switch on the table in front of him. The red light was now on. We would not be disturbed.
"So, you went off in search of the German fighter then?" His tone was surprisingly friendly, no sign of the anger demonstrated by our housemaster earlier in the day.
"Yes Sir", I stammered. "Sorry Sir".
"Well I'm not going to drag things out any more. I'm sorry I couldn't deal with you this morning, but I'm afraid I was busy. You must have had a pretty rotten time waiting to see me."
"Yes Sir", this was Staughton.
"Very well, I'm not going to bother with a telling off. I think I can make your foolishness clear to you in a more direct way. I admire spirit in boys, but sometimes I have to take steps to dampen it a little. That time has come with you two. Lineham, I am going to give you four strokes of the cane. Staughton, you will get three."
With those words he rose, crossed the room to an umbrella stand and removed a long cane. Most of the masters did not have canes with the traditional hooked handle. But Mr Spencer did. I suppose it was about three feet long, thin and very whippy looking. He gave it a couple of swishes through the air and, apparently satisfied with it, pointed it at me and then at the centre of the floor.
"Bend Lineham. Feet six inches apart. Clutch your ankles. Don't bend your knees."
I walked shakily forward and took up the familiar position. I could feel that my thin grey trousers were tight across my bottom. I gripped my ankles firmly, to stop the shaking, and waited for the worst. There were four very gentle taps of the cane on my bottom before he swung the cane back and then forwards again. The crack as it hit my bottom seemed deafening. At first, for a second or two, I could not detect the famous "extra sting". Yes, it was very painful, but it seemed not unlike what I was used to. But then I felt it. What he had done, I think, was to use his wrist movement to accentuate the whip effect as the cane curled round my right buttock. It was in that area that there most definitely was an extra sting. I gripped my ankles more tightly and bit my lower lip. Another four light taps. Then another agonising meeting of cane and boy's bottom. Yes, the right side of my right buttock was certainly getting the worst of it. The rest of my bottom was as painful as normal after two strokes of the cane, but further round, to the right, there was a sting which was a great deal worse than usual. Another four light taps. Another loud crack of cane on bottom. Even more extra sting. I could feel my eyes beginning to water. I blinked as much as I could. My eyes had to be dry before Staughton saw them. I felt the now familiar four taps. Then the fourth stroke connected with what seemed exceptional force. My bottom was more painful than it had ever been. I longed to jump up and rub it. But I also needed more time to blink back the watering from my eyes. I was given it. Mr Spencer allowed several seconds to pass before telling me to stand. I blinked furiously and succeeded in forcing back the imminent tears. As I rose, there would have been no sign on my face of how close I had come to committing that unheard of weakness of "blubbing" during a swishing. I grabbed my bottom, not caring about showing how much pain I was in, and walked back to my earlier position. I could even fe! el the stripes, or so it seemed to me, through the thin material of my trousers and underpants. The pain was appalling, but I knew by now that it would soon begin to ease. I remember that I had been holding my breath throughout the punishment. I now let it out in what must have been an audible sigh of relief. Now I was going to watch Staughton get it. I was in far too much pain to allow those pleasant feelings in my loin to reappear but I fear I did resolve to watch closely, so I could recall the scene later.
Staughton stepped forward without waiting to be told and bent over exactly as I had done. The shape of his, small, round, firm buttocks was absolutely clear through the stretched fabric of his trousers. I could tell that, like me, he was gripping his ankles very tightly. The boss man stepped forward and, arm outstretched, gave the four taps to his target. I could see my friend's bottom tensing with each one. Then the cane was brought sharply back behind Mr Spencer's shoulder and, moving his whole body round, he swung it forward again with immense force. Sure enough, just as the cane connected, I could see a flick of the wrist and the end of the cane whipping round the right side of Staughton's bottom. "So, that's how it's done", I thought. Staughton moved forward, but only imperceptibly as he felt the first stroke. Then he steadied himself as the four taps followed. Then precisely the same movement of body, arm and wrist produced the second stroke. This time Staughton managed to avoid moving at all. This time I could see the cane actually indenting the flesh. No wonder, I thought to myself, that it hurts so much. The same ritual was followed with the third stroke. But it did seem, as my last one had felt, even harder than the first two. Mr Spencer again waited a few seconds before telling Staughton to stand. I suspect, I am sorry to say, that I was rather enjoying watching his recently swished bottom in that position. But then he got the order to stand. Just as I had done, he grabbed his bottom and rubbed furiously. Mr Spencer now had his back to us as he walked back to replace the cane in the umbrella stand. We winked at each other and both managed a weak grin. Mr Spencer then turned back to us.
"All right boys. Its over now. Try not to be so silly again. Off you go".
With considerable relief we made our exit. I think we would both have liked a little more time to get over our ordeal before facing the other boys in Middle House. But we knew we had to rush if we were going to be changed in time for PE. So we went straight to the Middle House changing room. We were not surprised to find that, although the others were mostly changed already, all were still there awaiting our return from the head's study. We were both surrounded, Staughton by third form boys and me by fourth form. There was little time to chat, but we both gave hurried accounts of what it had been like. Staughton was the first third former to get a boss man's swishing and his status as hero was probably a bit greater than mine (three other fourth formers had already suffered at Mr Spencer's hands). Nevertheless, I felt the warm glow of pleasure which I always got from my peers' admiration after a swishing (as well as the still warm glow from my bottom). I quickly stripped, taking off all my clothes before putting on any of my gym kit so as to ensure that everyone could get a good view. I, too, looked at the stripes and I had to agree with the general consensus that they were just fantastic. I particularly noted that, on the right side of my right buttock, the weals were much more pronounced than elsewhere. "What a technique", I thought to myself, "the boss man is a really terrific swisher".
There was more admiration at bed time as I stood totally naked at the wash basins. The colour of the stripes seemed to be changing every time I looked. I could still feel a very slight pain, but it was of no concern to me. Between tea and prep Staughton and I had had a private viewing of each others stripes. It was then that I felt the first stirrings between my legs after the punishment. But I avoided "making it happen" then and continued to do so until I was safely in bed. Then, after lights out, I happily relived every moment of the swishings I had felt and watched. This time I made it happen with ease and, for the first time in my life, I committed the schoolboy's solitary vice. Even though I was still too young to be able to produce anything at the end, I thoroughly, if guiltily, enjoyed the experience.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
In the next instalment, Prefect to New Boy, I will deal with my last term at prep school and my first two terms at public school. As the title suggests, the theme will be the strange transformation undergone by boys who leave their prep schools as prefects, where they happily sent junior boys to masters for canings, and arrive at their public schools to find that, once again, they are the juniors and, once again, they are the ones who feel the cane on their bottoms. As I said last time, do email me if you find all this factual stuff too boring (or even if you like it).