My name is Elena and I am 13 years old. I attend a private school and am in the 7th grade. Most girls in the class are about 12 or 13 years old, although there is one who is already 14. There are 12 girls and 16 boys in our class. Most classes have about 25 students. We wear uniforms; the girls white shirt, dark-blue skirts that reach below the knees and white ankle socks with black shoes. For the colder months we have dark-blue jerseys and blazers and we wear long knee socks. The boys wear white shirts, dark-blue ties, dark blue shorts and white ankles socks and black shoes. In the colder months they wear dark-blue jerseys. At that time, boys wore their shorts so short that they didn't cover any of their thighs and fit skin-tight. Our skirts, by contrast, were pleated and quite ample. They were also made of two different materials, light cotton in summer and heavy wool in winter. The boys' shorts came in only one kind, thin cotton.
Also as was the custom during that period, we girls sat on one side of the classroom and the boys on the other. At the front of the classroom was a rack with several punishment canes, placed in order of severity, with the thinnest on top and the heaviest on the bottom. These were used only on the boys, since girls were not physically disciplined. We were made to write lines and received extra assignments.
Most classes were dull but geometry was my favourite. For some reason, it was also the worst for most boys. While I was able to work out problems without too much difficulty when the teacher wrote them on the blackboard, most boys made fools of themselves.
And that was when we girls had our daily entertainment. No matter how boring some lessons might be, we could always count on some distraction when it was time for a boy to be called up front for punishment. This was always done with one of the canes on display and always on the boy's bare bottom. It was also great fun to watch the boys during recess between classes with their bare thighs on display, the backs usually well covered with dark cane marks.
So there were many days when I sat, half dozing through the droning lecture of the teacher, when I was suddenly pulled alert by the sharp order, "Enrique, come here!"
We knew what that meant. A stupid little 12-year-old was going to get the cane. Now fully awake, I watched dark-skinned little Enrique slowly rise from his bench, tug at the tight seat of his shorts and trudge towards the master's dais. His face was comically drawn in distress and his mouth was trembling. As he walked forward, I saw some thick, purple stripes across his upper thighs, quite clearly despite the dark, brown skin. He must have had a good whipping not so long ago. I wondered whether he also got it at home. Probably. Most boys did in those days.
As usual, little Enrique was ordered to lower his shorts and, if he wore them, also his underpants. Then he was to bend over the edge of the teacher's desk. The teacher, in this case Srta. Hortensia, would raise the boy's shirt well up his back and walk up to the cane rack. There she would stand, her chin resting on her hand as if in deep thought, to select the proper cane for the boy's fault. Little Enrique would crane his neck to see which cane she would finally choose. Srta. Hortensia would take a the third from the top, swish it through the air a few times, then replace it and take up number 4. She went through the same procedure until she finally decided on number 8. Only two canes were left under that one, so the cane was quite formidable and bare-bottomed Enrique let out a little grunt. He knew his behind was in for quite a bit of pain.
Srta Hortensia swished the cane a few more times, and this time it made a deeper, more threatening sound because of its thickness, adding to the boy's apprehension. Finally, standing behind and a bit to the side of the bending boy she tapped the tip against the boy's bottom, again in a thoughtful mood.
"I think, Enrique, that I will give you twelve," she started, then stopped, still tapping the cane against the trembling brown cheeks." After a few silent beats, she continued, "No, let's make that eighteen. You should have learned that formula by now and it's obvious that you're just too lazy to make an effort. As a matter of fact, perhaps eighteen isn't enough either." Another long pause while Harry sweated across the desk, all too aware of his bare bottom and the watching girls. "Yes, I do believe that Enrique here surely deserves two dozen. Yes, let's make it twenty-four strokes, but let's make them good and hard so the boy can really learn from the experience."
This was enough to make Enrique break into tears. "Oh, please Miss, not so many! My father...last night...I'm so sore..." He was lapsing into the Indian dialogue in his anxiety and the girls tittered.
"Silence, girls," Srta. Hortensia admonished mildly, but she, too, smiled. And turning to the prostrate boy, she added, "If your father punished you yesterday, then I'm sure that today you will learn your lesson even better. I must congratulate your father on a job well done, to judge by those marks on your backside. Now, no more back talk or I'll add a third dozen."
So then we sat and watched as the boy was soundly thrashed. Soon the room echoed with the boy's wails and howls as stroke after stroke landed solidly across those already punished buttocks. I don't have any brothers, or sisters for that matter, and I had never seen a boy beaten before I went to this school. I was amazed at the severity of each stroke and as the punishment proceeded at a slow, deliberate pace, I was awed at deep bruising the cane left in the boy's flesh. Of course I had watched similar canings in class ever since I was enrolled in this private school but, although each caning obviously left hefty dark welts all across a boy's backside. Enrique's, maybe because of his previous beating, seemed to mark more drastically, with thick purple lines across the dark skin, and we could almost see it gradually swelling up.
Not that Srta. Hortensia seemed at all concerned about the buttocks she was whipping. She was concentrating on her aim and the strength of each cut. The boy's screams didn't affect her either. She didn't want to lose count. Previously, she had made her victims count each stroke by himself, but today, for whatever reason, she had not. Perhaps she felt that the boy would be beyond being able to count while absorbing 24 terrific strokes across an already well-marked behind.
After twelve stroke (I did count them), she lowered the cane and ordered sobbing little Indian boy Enrique to stand up and then marched him into the corner in the front of the room where we could all see him, shorts around his ankles, shirt still crumpled up around his waist, bruised, black-and-blue buttocks well on display.
Lessons proceeded for the next 30 minutes during which time Enrique's sobs gradually diminished to some sniffing and hiccups. Then it was, "Enrique, come back here!" and the poor boy started crying again as he shuffled back to the dais, up the three steps and bent obediently across the desk. But he gave another gasp when he saw Srta. Hortensia exchange the cane for number 9.
"Oh, please, Senorita," he whined pitifully, "not that cane. Please! Please no more! I'll study harder, please, Senorita, really I will. No me pegue màs! Duele tanto!" It hurts so much.
"What did I say when you argued with me before?" the teacher inquired in a stern voice. "Well? What did I say, Enrique?"
The boy half rose from the desk edge and stared at the teacher in terror.
"No! Oh, no! Please, Senorita!"
"What did I say, boy? I want an answer," came the implacable reply.
"You - er - you said I - er - I would get - another - oh, - another dozen," whimpered the trembling youngster. His dark cheeks were wet with tears.
"Indeed I did. But you thought I was joking, did you? You paid no attention, did you? Decided it wasn't worth your while to listen to my warning, did you? Well, my boy, you will earn to listen when I say something. You will now receive two more dozen with this cane or, if you persist in your behaviour, with cane number 10. Is that clear, boy?"
"Oh, si, senorita! Yes! Yes, it's clear, " he quickly added when he saw the woman's expression as she wielded the ferocious cane.
The next dozen was a repeat of the first, except for the shrill screams of pain from the suffering lad. They were even louder than before. The boy's buttocks darkened even more and the bruising spread further down the thighs. Then it was back into the corner for another 30 minutes.
But when he was made to bend over the desk edge for a third time, for his third dozen, the boy wailed and cried miserably begging the teacher to be let off. But it was to no avail. Srta. Hortensia knew better than to let a boy off a single stroke. She always said that if you did, the boys would only take advantage and starts screaming after the first few cuts in the hopes of being let off some of their punishment. Enrique was no exception and he had no choice but to take the third dozen. Srta. Hortensia lashed the well-bruised and swollen little buttocks as hard as she was able, but had to ask a couple of the older boys to hold Enrique down. They did this with a certain relish as they watched, now from close up, the cane bite deep into Enrique's tender flesh. No amount of roaring and bellowing out his pain had any effect on the teacher's strong right arm. Number 36 was as hard, if not harder, than number one had been. At last, the howling boy was let go and stood in the corner for another 10 minutes before the class ended.
For the next subject, Spanish, we had another teacher. Srta. Hortensia left and Sr. Guzman made his appearance. By then sobbing little Enrique had recovered somewhat and sat uncomfortably on his hard desk bench. His face was still blotchy with dried tears and his eyes were red.
Sr. Guzman surveyed the class and immediately went to the rack to lift off cane number three. "Well, now," he said crisply, "let's review yesterday's lessons." I groaned. I had tried to study but found that learning another language was just too difficult. I just prayed that he wouldn't call on me.
His first victim was a tall, skinny twelve-year-old boy by the name of Bruno. A bit lighter of skin than Enrique, but also with thick black hair and brown eyes and glasses, he was more of a bookworm than an athlete, at least in my estimation. He stood, rubbing his sweating palms against his thighs. His eyes were on the cane.
Sr. Guzman made him jump through hoops. The questions were fired at him in quick succession and poor Bruno stammered and choked on his English. It was at least a full five minutes (although it seemed even longer to me, and probably even more to young Bruno) before Sr. Guzman stopped.
He pointed the cane at his desk. "Come here."
Bruno bit his lower lip and reluctantly approached and climbed up the three steps to the dais. He stood trembling before the teacher.
"Shorts down," was the next command and Bruno obeyed. He wore no underpants and his shirt was so short that his bottom was already bare. I saw the red stripes across the lower half. I noticed that his bottom was a bit lighter than his arms and legs so the stripes showed even more clearly.
Sr. Guzman surveyed his target for a moment, went to exchange the cane to number five and then returned to the waiting boy. "Over the desk!" he snapped.
Bruno shrieked twelve times, each one louder than the previous and was sent back to his desk holding his flaming behind, now back in his tight little shorts.
"All right, Marìa," Sr. Guzman said after Bruno's crying had died down a bit, "let's see what you can do."
Again the questions came, much slower and, I thought, much easier. Nevertheless, Marìa had a hard time getting her answers right. Sr. Guzman shook his head. "Hasn't anyone studied for these lessons?" he asked. "You disappointed me greatly, Marìa. Get back to your seat. I hope that tomorrow you will have improved. I don't want to give you a failing mark."
Marìa rushed back to her seat and leaned over her English book.
"Tomàs, stand up!" was Sr. Guzman's next order.
Tomàs, a thirteen-year old Indian boy, was even taller than Bruno and, in his brief little shorts, looked all bare legs and thighs, like a wading bird, only his thighs were pretty strong looking. He fared no better than Bruno and was soon over the desk, absorbing eighteen strokes across his bare backside.
So you will understand why I'm glad I'm a girl. I didn't do very well either, worse, I presume, than Marìa, and was let off with a warning. But except for a small boy, David, aged twelve, all the boys who were called to recite their lessons or answer questions, failed and were given a good, sound thrashing. Some of them already had a well-whipped bottom before Sr. Gomez started in on them and they really screamed and howled during the process.
The next subject, European History, was run on a similar basis. The bad boys were soundly beaten, the girls gently admonished. I know you may think this unfair but I don't mind. Boys are rough and sometimes mean to us girls and they only get what they deserve - usually. Sometimes they get more than they deserve but, after all, they are boys and should be used to that by now. Don't you think?