When I came home from school after my first term away, when I was eight, he read my report, and when he got to the bit at the bottom where it said that I'd received corporal punishment twice, he told me that he was going to give me a whack for each of the two beatings. He made me take down my trousers and pants and lie across his lap. He gave me two stingers with a thin little cane and I howled the place down.

I suppose he thought that I'd behave myself and not get whacked if I thought he was going to cane my bare bottom on top. It didn't work like that, though. Every term since then I've taken the report home and the first thing he looks at is the number of whackings I've had, and then he gives me a stroke of the cane across my bare bottom for each one.

It's really mean putting on the report like that how many times you've been whacked. They must know that lots of dads give their sons beatings because of it. I know that in my form there are about six boys who get a whacking every term when they take the report home, because it's not possible to get through a whole term without any corporal punishment.

In the junior school I used to get about four or five canings a term and so it was that many strokes of the little bamboo across my bare bottom. The worst was the first term in the last year there because I was caned eight times that term. And one of those was when the master on duty caught three of us ragging after lights out. He made us take our pyjamas right off and bend over the ends of our beds and then he gave us four whacks each with the whole dorm watching. When dad had me over his lap with my bare bottom sticking up I thought I was going to die. It felt like that bamboo was cutting right into me and I really howled for that one.

I did try to behave, especially at the start of the term when it was fresh in my mind that he was going to beat me, but I could never keep it up. So every term I would go home with the report in its envelope, wondering how many strokes of the bamboo I was going to get. Of course, I knew how many times I'd been whacked, because like everyone else I kept a careful count, but not all of them got into the punishment book. For instance, the term I got eight on my report I'd actually had fifteen whackings, so I suppose I got off quite lucky.

At that school I got more beatings than any other boy in my form. The only one who came even close was Egerton: one term we had the same number. His father whacked him too, but it wasn't a set number like my dad. He'd just bend him over the end of his bed and whack him with a cricket bat till he thought he'd had enough.

When I was moving up to the senior school, my dad had me in his study for a chat about what it was going to be like. He went to this school too, so he knew quite a lot about it. Then he told me that he was going to go on giving me a whack for every beating on my report, but now that I'd grown a bit I was going to have to bend over the back of the settee and he was going to use a bigger cane. He showed it to me. It was like the ones masters used at school, really long and whippy so it would really sting.

He also told me about the commander calling up a boy's father to watch him get the cane either if he was bottom of the form, or if he got more than ten whackings. And he said if he ever had to come up to school to watch me get a caning he'd give me the same again when we got home. I was determined not to fall into this trap.

If only it was that simple. The first three weeks I was here, I got a whacking every day! Some days I got two or even three. I couldn't seem to follow all of the stupid rules, and prefects kept saying that I was cheeky – or insolent, if they were sending me up to the head prefect for the cane. Of course, I thought they were all going into the book and that dad was going to absolutely kill me when he saw my report with dozens of whackings on it.

Things calmed down a bit after that, but I was still getting the slipper or the cane two or three times a week, and Madman used the bat on my bare bottom four times that term. I was convinced that the old man would lash me from arsehole to breakfast time, and then my dad would take me home and do it all again.

In the end it wasn't as bad as that. In the book I was only two or three whackings over the limit. Father came up and watched as I was made to bend over the back of the chair. I was thanking my lucky stars that he hadn't made me drop my pants because everyone said it was always on the bare arse if your dad was called up. He gave me six. And those six strokes were like every beating I'd had in my entire life rolled up into one, with the cane concentrating every ounce of pain into a narrow band across my behind.

When we got home I was allowed to say hello to mum and my little brother and then I was straight into the study with the report.

"So," he said, when he'd read it. "A repeat of the six you got from the headmaster – but this time with your pants down. And then one for each whacking on your report. How many is that?"

"Nineteen," I said feeling sick. I'd been hoping that he'd just repeat the old man's caning and forget about the number on the report. Not a chance with my dad!

"You won't take them all at once," he said. "I'll give you six now; another six tomorrow, and seven on Monday. You can have a day off on Sunday."

I pleaded with him to give me all of it straightaway, so that it would be over quicker, but he was immovable. And he was right. I could never have taken that many strokes with a cane on my bare bottom in one session. Boys at school used to boast about having two dozen or three dozen strokes at a time from their fathers. A load of lies. The most I reckon I could take of my dad's cane up to now is twelve. Older lads at school get more, obviously. Caxton's brother got twenty, but he's in the sixth form, and he had to spend two days in sick bay afterwards.

That was the worst beating I've had so far. He landed every one of the first six on the same area where the headmaster had caned me. Then after lunch on Saturday he caned me again and landed those six all on the same spot too. I raised the roof, I can tell you. He gave me the last dose after tea on Monday. My bum was well bruised by now and I asked him please not to cane me on the same bit. It was no use. I thought it was slicing right into the meat of my bottom. And when I examined myself upstairs I was bleeding in four or five places down the right hand side. I couldn't sit down all over Christmas and he embarrassed me in front of all the aunts and uncles by asking if I wanted a cushion. I wouldn't have one, though. (Uncle Tim asked me to show him the stripes after tea and when I did he gave me half a crown and said I was a young scamp.)

The only bright spot was that my little brother had started at the school too, and he got seven with the little bamboo across his bare backside.

Well, after that I made sure that I never went over the limit again. There were a couple of terms when I had to beg the head prefect not to write some whackings into the book. Once, he even wiped some out in return for giving me six of the best himself. Even that was better than going up to the commander.

Until this term. I don't know what's gone wrong. I just couldn't keep out of trouble and I've had simply masses of whackings. The other chaps swiped my gym kit on my birthday so that Madman would paddle me. I must have said something because he went completely mental and gave me seven real stingers at the start of the lesson (which, of course, I had to do in the nude) and then another six at the end. Thirteen of the bat on my thirteenth birthday – and in my birthday suit!

I went to see Scudder before he sent the books in to see if he could get me off it. I offered to let him cane me, but it was no use. I've got twenty-three beatings in the book. Everyone reckons he'll give me a dozen with my pants down. And it doesn't take a genius to work out the maths of that.

He's in with the old man now. He was looking grim when he went in and I've had to stand here all this time waiting to be dragged inside and flogged. I can feel my bottom tingling just at the thought of it.