As a boy I went to a Catholic school. It was shortly after World War II. In those days Catholic schools were notorious for their strict discipline, and for the liberal use of the cane, ruler or slipper to keep unruly pupils in line.
However the Catholic school that I went to was different. The Head Master of the school had been imprisoned in a Nazi concentration camp during the war for being a member of the resistance, and several times he was severely beaten. That is why he did not allow corporal punishment in his school.
When one misbehaved one had to write lines or was kept after school. In serious cases a telephone call to the pupil's home brought an angry parent to school and very soon one could hear the sounds of a spanking being administered in the headmasters office, and the screams of the victim of parental wrath.
Franciscan Fathers ran the parish church under which the school resorted. Once a week, on Friday afternoon, a priest came to the school to instruct us in religion. The one that taught us was a sour elderly priest with a sharp sarcastic tongue, with which he managed very well to keep order in class. One day he retired, and was replaced by a very young priest, Father Francis. Father Francis had curly brown hair, blushing red cheeks, beautiful big brown eyes, with long eyelashes. He was young, and pretty, and he had no clue how to keep order in class. Immediately the religion lessons on Friday afternoons deteriorated into an occasion for merriment and disorderly conduct for us boys.
On the second Friday that he came to teach us Father Francis became so frustrated that he grabbed Billy Potter, one of the worst troublemakers, and shouted: "I am going to spank you!" He put his left foot on a school bench, hoisted the boy over his knee and held him in place with his left hand. Franciscan monks wear dark brown habits with a thick white rope around their waist. Both ends of the rope have knots tied in them. This rope is a "flagellation cord", which is meant to be used by the monks to flagellate themselves as a penance for their sins.
Father Francis took the end piece of the rope in his right hand and started to whip Billy Potter's bottom with it. The class, not being used to seeing spankings in school thought it hilarious and after the third stroke started to count aloud with every stroke delivered: "FOUR! FIVE! SIX! SEVEN! EIGHT! NINE! TEN! ELEVEN! TWELVE!" After the 12th stroke a very flustered, red-faced Father Francis stopped spanking Billy and put him back on his feet. A still grinning Billy Potter, demonstratively rubbing his bottom, went back to his seat.
The following Friday afternoons I noticed that boys who had formerly been misbehaving badly had become very quiet. At that time I did not know the reason why.
One Friday during religion lesson I was throwing paper aeroplanes high through the classroom while Father Francis had his back to the class while writing on the blackboard. When he suddenly turned around I was caught.
"Come here Anthony", Father Francis said.
Before I knew what happened I was balancing in the air face down across Father Francis' left knee, and I felt the tip of the flagellation cord "caressing" my bottom. I got the usual 12 strokes while the class was counting out loud, but it really did not hurt much as a pair of shorts I was wearing, made of thick tweed material, protected my buttocks.
The next day, Saturday, school finished at noon, and just when I was about to go home, a boy gave me the message that the German teacher, Mr Wolfsrath, wanted to see me. I wondered why.
Mr Wolfsrath, the German teacher, was only recently employed at our school. He was a figure who possessed a natural authority. Mr Wolfsrath was in his early 40-ties, handsome, very masculine with a bald patch on top of his head. From that bald patch he got the nickname: "Das kahle Wunder", which means something like: "The bald-headed Terror." He was feared, and admired.
I remember one of his first speeches to the class. He said: "Boys, the Head Master has banned corporal punishment from this school. However, it is a fact that the conscience of a boy is situated in his buttocks, and that it takes a cane to activate it." He further said: "As I cannot punish you with the cane, a 1000 lines is the minimum punishment I give."
Soon after Mr Wolfsrath joined our school he became very friendly with Father Francis. He more or less took Father Francis under his wing.
That Saturday afternoon when I went to see Mr Wolfsrath after school he told me: "You have behaved very badly during Father Francis' lesson yesterday. I think we should have a talk about that. Please come to my house on Wednesday afternoon at 4 o'clock. You can go now."
I said: "Yes Sir." and left.
The next Wednesday afternoon I rang the doorbell at Mr Wolfsrath's house. Mr Wolfsrath let me in and took me to his study. There was nobody else in the house. On top of his desk I saw a sturdy cane and a writing pad with a fountain pen.
Mr Wolfsrath said: "Some boys have been behaving abominably during Father Francis' lessons. I had already several of those boys here in my study. I have heard from Father Francis that your conduct is one of the worst. You deserve a good caning, don't you agree Anthony?"
I stammered: "But Sir, Father Francis has already spanked my bottom in class with his rope."
"Yes", Mr Wolfsrath said, "But I have heard that that makes not much of an impression on you boys. What you need is to feel the cane on your bare bottom. Listen well, you have a choice. Either you are getting a caning now, or I am going to write a letter to your parents. Which will it be?"
I had no illusions that the severity of a caning by Mr Wolfsrath would be less then horrific. But on the other hand I knew exactly how my father would react to a letter with complaints about my conduct during religion lessons in school. He would get into a rage and beat the hell out of me with a piece of wood till he had no more strength in his right arm, and then he even might continue with his left arm!
Mr Wolfsrath said: "Make up your mind Anthony, quickly please."
I felt like a lump was stuck in my throat, I could hardly speak. I stepped up to the desk while I was unbuckling my belt, zipped down the fly of my shorts, pulled my underpants down and quickly bent over the desk so that Mr Wolfsrath wouldn't see my genitals.
Mr Wolfsrath said: "Good boy! I am going to give you 12 strokes with the cane. After that you are to stand with your face to that wall with your hands on your head and think about what you are going to say to Father Francis next Friday."
I turned round my head and said: "What do you mean Sir?"
Mr Wolfsrath said: "Well, don't you owe Father Francis an apology?"
I said: "Yes Sir, of course Sir I do."
Mt Wolfsrath said: "Good, let's begin." And at the next second a stroke of red-hot lightning hit my bare bottom.
I gulped for air, let out a scream, got up and danced around frantically rubbing my bottom.
Mr Wolfsrath grabbed me under my chin, lifted up my head, looked me in the eyes and said: "Wrong move Anthony. When you get up before I tell you we have to start all over again. Do you understand?"
I said: "Yes Sir", and at that moment I became aware that Mr Wolfsrath was getting a kind of excitement and satisfaction out of caning me, and that my bare bottom had somehow become an object of lust to him.
I gritted my teeth and bent over the desktop again.
"All right", Mr Wolfsrath said, "Let's start again", which was followed by a hissing sound of the cane, which made another painful landing on my quivering buttocks. A mournful cry escaped my mouth but I willed myself to stay put.
In quick succession stroke TWO, THREE and FOUR landed on my bottom. Waves of unbearable pain shot through my body. I started to cry and shout on top of my voice, promising anything and everything if only the caning would stop. "Please STOP Sir! I will be a good boy Sir, honestly Sir. Please STOP Sir, I will tell Father Francis how sorry I am, Sir."
Mr Wolfsrath said, while he stopped the caning for a moment, "I am glad to hear your good intentions for the future Anthony. But to make sure you won't forget them there are still another eight strokes to come." And before he had finished his words another cane stroke tortured my bottom. And another one, and another one. I screamed like a pig till at last the end of the ordeal arrived with the 12th stroke of the cane.
"Get up!" Mr Wolfsrath said.
With my shorts and underpants still wrapped around my ankles I shuffled to the wall, put my hands on top of my head, and I started my "corner time". Mr Wolfsrath left the study; I couldn't help noticing a bulge in front of his trousers. About ten minutes later he came back and told me to dress and go home.
The next Friday afternoon I went up to young Father Francis with the wheals of Mr Wolfsrath's cane still hurting my bottom, and I told him how sorry I was for having been so disruptive in class during his lessons. Father Francis' angelic face was beaming while he said to me: "I am so glad to hear that Anthony." With his right hand he patted the top of my head and stroked my hair, and said: "I know you are a good boy." I did become one of Father Francis' pet pupils.
The German language was not very popular among us schoolboys. The first little German rhyme we boys taught each other was: "Deutsche Sprache, schwierige Sprache. Dass die der Teufel hole!" which means: "German language, difficult language. That the devil may take it away!"
After my close encounter with Mr Wolfsrath's cane I did not dare to give him the slightest reason for disapproval. I knew he could not cane me during school hours but I did not want to get an invitation to visit his study at home again. After the caning, when doing homework, I gave my German lessons top priority and soon I became number one of my class in German and also one of Mr Wolfsrath's favourite pupils. In my later life I came to live in Germany for ten years and at that time did I fully appreciate the thoroughness with which Mr Wolfsrath had taught me the language.
This is a true story.