A Private Caning at Cambridge Part 3

by Peter Thomas Brown <Peterthomasbrown1@yahoo.co.uk>

This is the third in a series of stories arising out of an undergraduate's first year at Cambridge university. See A Private Caning at Cambridge Parts 1 and 2 for the background.

The caning on my football shorts had been severe. Every movement reminded me of the thrashing I had received. And every movement made me tremble at the thought of what was to come.

The caning in shorts had been a lot more painful than in school uniform. As I lay on the bed contemplating this, just a few inches from me lay my black swimming trunks. I could not yet bring myself to put them on. I just that the material would give virtually no defence from the force of Simpson's cane. I wondered how I could stand it.

I thought a little more about Simpson's first lecture when the trio was explained to me. For the last of the trio of canings the master could choose: the boy to be caned would either have to wear swimming trunks or he may be caned on his bare backside.

I realised now what previous recipients must have slowly come to. The master was not being generous in, as in my case, nominating swimming trunks. It was no choice at all.

I toyed with the idea of seeming to braze it out with Simpson. If I said that I had decided to submit to a bare backside beating perhaps it would encourage him to spare me - even a few strokes? No, trying to negotiate with him would only enrage him. My head sunk. I had to face it: another twelve stripes across my backside.

The next day I skipped lectures and kept myself confined to my room. I was consumed by my beating. Even mundane tasks would bring back elements of my beatings. Suddenly everyday sounds seemed similar to the swish of the cane Simpson would do before ordering you to bend over. I was determined not to acquire further strokes in this final session but knew it would be hard. If I was to be caned over the gym horse again I just had to hold on and get in the rhythm of my beating to ensure I could blurt out the number of the stroke.

I tried to rally myself by acknowledging that the experience should end after that 12th stroke tomorrow. Surely Simpson could see that I had suffered greatly on the end of his cane and that I was truly sorry for what I had done. Yes, he had spoken about keeping an eye on me for the rest of term but, so what, I would keep out of his way and give him no excuse.

I worried if Simpson decided to maintain his threat and so, regardless of what I did, I would be a regular visitor to his study for the cane. No, he was a man of his word I decided. And a powerful right arm. That swishing noise again: the moment before the cane was applied.

The day of my final caning arrived. In the morning I could resist no longer. Some of the weals had eased: I should try on the swimming trunks.

Gingerly I pulled them up. Of course they covered the minimum possible and in the mirror seemed to tighten my buttocks. Somehow an even easier target I thought glumly.

Watching myself in the mirror and using my chair I bent over to see the view - the view that Simpson was getting familiar with. Taught upper things, swimming trunk clad buttocks, and through the gap between my legs my upside down head, already grimacing as I imagined what was to follow.

For the final time, at 6.55pm I crossed the courtyard now entirely oblivious to my first year undergrad contemporaries. They were happily engrossed in their existence to fret about me.

The 7 o'clock bells coincided again with my knock on Simpson's door. Dressed again in his gown, this time Simpson already had the cane in his hand - who knows he had probably been practising. He indicated, as usual, his sideroom where I was to change.

As practised earlier that day, I slowly changed from regulation jeans and tshirt into nothing, but my swimming trunks. My breathing had been rapid and nervous. I felt cold: I was, after all, virtually naked. I could not look at myself in the mirror.

I knocked on Simpson's inner study door. "Enter".

I stood before Simpson once again. My hands, shaking now, clasped tightly behind my back resting on backside.

"Sykes. This is the final of your trio of canings. And it is the most severe."

"I see you are presently wearing your swimming trunks. I believe the beating I will give you will be sufficient. If I feel you are not suffering enough however, I will have no hesitation in beating you on your bare backside."

"This is my final chance to impress on you the force of corporal punishment as a discipline for irresponsible teenagers like you. I have two additions to your last caning."

He pointed to his right. The gym horse was again in the place where I had bent over in my football shorts. This time however I could see straps through the wooden slats and longer straps lazily draped over the top part. I was to be lashed to the gym horse. This was obviously going to be painful beyond my imagination.

"As you can see you will need to be strapped to the horse for your punishment. Do you understand Sykes?"

I could barely croak "Y-Yes, Sir".

"Also I would not want you to miss out on the forcefulness of this punishment."

He pointed to a long mirror which was placed between the horse and the back of the room. At first I could not understand such was my fright.

"During the first six strokes Sykes I require you to look in this mirror and watch the strokes as they land on your backside. If you do not, we restart the 12 strokes".

The whole situation was bizarre. I could barely comprehend this additional detail but had no time to think.

"Sykes. You are ready for your last beating. Stand in front of the gym horse".

I moved slowly over feeling increasingly vulnerable.

"Sykes. You will know receive 12 strokes of the cane across your backside as your final punishment under the trio. You will have been taught a severe lesson by the end. Would you agree?"

"Yes, sir. I have been thoroughly punished sir and am verry sorry sir."

"Sir, the beatings I have received have made me think hard about what I did wrong sir. And I know sir that when you have finished punishing my backside today sir that I will have received a full and deserved thrashing. I will not let you down again sir".

"Well said, boy. I am glad corporal punishment has taught you a lesson".

Another pause as Simpson shifted across the room and then stopped.


"Yes Sir"

"Bend over".

For the second time I embraced the gym horse. Hands straight to the bottom, legs slightly at an angle and most of all, my backside being exposed.

Simpson moved swiftly around my. Both hands were tied: not too tight, I guess he knew I would need to strain on them. My legs were pinioned more tightly. Finally the longer straps criss-crossed over my back. And then I was ready.

My breathing was ever more shallow.

"Count down from 10 to 1".

I was much quicker in calling out the numbers know, almost trying to forget what would happen when I said "0".

The moment came. SImpson seemed to take a huge run up. I raised my head and looked at the mirror. I could see his dark trouser legs, the slip flap of the gown and then the smallest sight of something light brown. it was too quick to see at first then I saw a long indentation across my trunks. The sound was next. I had been caned harder than ever before.

I strained against the straps but was as determined as before to call out "One". Simpson slowly returned to his spot. I could see the mirror out of the corner of my eye slowly counting down to my next excruiciating stroke - my backside was already on fire.

The same movement: I seemed better able to follow the advancing cane in the mirror this time which meant I could pathetically try and prepare my backside. The indentation was higher up this time but no less painful and my head reared up and strained the straps once again.

Strokes three to six were similar but I kept thinking of those numbers.

After the sixth stroke I dropped my head. My work with the mirror done.

Simpson paused. I thought this another ruse to prolong my thrashing.

Then quietly and without a word he moved up and pulled down, gently as he could, my swimming trunks.

Instinctively I turned to the mirror. Red lines criss crossed my backside. Here was Simpson's handiwork for all to see. Simpson was standing close to. Then I sensed and saw it at the same time. The cane was resting on my reddening backside, so innocent almost. But it was looking for skin to apply new red lines to. I dropped my head, aghast at the sight.

Simpson drew back again. His closer spot and the aiming were used to great effect. I could not look but stroke seven had been placed on virgin skin. I yelped out the number.

Eight, nine, ten, eleven. My tears were all over my face. But I was able to remember this was my last stroke. I just had to call out the number.

Simpson took a long walk back - he moved the mirror out of the way. Then this strong rugby player took a hugh run up before swishing the cane into my bared backside with force that almost made mebreak from my bonds. I bit hard and "twelve" was splurted out.

After an age- and I could hear his deep breathing, Simpson released the straps.

I could not move and he hauled me up. "Stand up" he barked.

A few seconds more and I was able to stand. Tears welled down. "Pull up your trunks".

I could not even tell they were still lowered at the back. Robotically I pulled them up. As they snapped back I wavered once more.

"your trio of canings is complete Sykes. And I believe that the force of the punishment has eliminated the original wrong."

"I believe you will keep your nose clean the rest of this term. You know where you will end up if you do not. After that, our relations will be as they should have been, friendship and the good living of an undergraduate life here. Understood?"

"yes sir".

He outstretched his arm to shake my hand. I gingerly lifted my right hand and shook his.

I walked very slowly from his study. It was over. Corporal punishment was far harder than I had expected but it had saved me. Honour was saved all round but those weals would take time to heal....

Thanks for all comments on the earlier stories. Any more welcome.

More stories by Peter Thomas Brown