This continues the story I posted as anonymous 'My teacher'. I am having a lot of problems with posts. Some get through and others not. Anyway....
To the outside world we appeared like any other happy family. When my mom married my teacher, Mr Jones, he basically took over discilplining me. At first and until just after their marriage that meant I received a painful over the knee session in the privacy of my bedroom with Mr Jones pounding my sensitive ten year old bottom with a plastic soled slipper. I will never forget the way that thing stung me and how much I had to rub my stinging flesh after he spanked me.
Of course things got worse when he finally adopted me.
He had me call him 'daddy' which I hated as I considered it childish. He clearly loved it, making sure that if we were out in company that I said 'daddy' after each answer or question.
He had persuaded my mother of the need for additional homework. She was delighted that there was a man in the house who would help her only son get into the grammar school. That meant that tests and extra revision were needed.
My friends and palying outside could wait until I had pased my eleven plus exam.
Apparently a cane was also required ''to make sure that Paul', thats me, 'concentrates on his work'. I felt like telling my mother that the slipper was fine but , like most women in the 1060's she just deceided that ''dad is the boss now, darling'' and so my fate was sealed.
It was bad enough that all the other teachers in my school, and the caretaker, knew that I was regularly punished if I did not perform to the 'required academic standard', but now I thought they would all know about the cane my new father had acquired. My friends were also punished by their dads if they misbehaved but now I would be in trouble for general misbehaviour and school work.
I did not tell my friends about the cane.
It was not that long after father had shown me his new weapon that I felt its sting. Dad was proud of his new ''implement of punishment'', as he described it. He showed it to me one evening just before I got into bed. I was in my pyjamas and thought that he was going to hit me with it but on that occassion he did not. Father explained that it was a junior cane, made of rattan, and that he had a larger one for use when I was older. Like most fathers he decided to whip it about in the air and I flinched and he smiled. I was not at all interested in the thing but in my heart I knew that it would not be long before dad would hit me with it. If the slipper was anything to go by I would be feeling it reguarly.
Anyway, it was then put in my closet, and was going to be used if I did not do my work correctly and to a high standard and also for general misbehaviour.
This boy was in trouble.
The weekends were the worst. A test was always set of Friday evenings. I would be sent to the desk in my bedroom. In the summer when fatehr first staterd his testing of me I could see and hear my friends playing in their gardens. I sat in my pyjamas at my desk. It was probably 8.00 pm amd I had until 9.00pm to write an essay (I cant remember what the subject) and also learn twenty words (a Spelling test). Spelling tests were dad's favourite, he always added some really difficult words.
When I think later about how he was sitting downstairs, my mother out plauying cards with her friends and me at his mercy upstairs, unable to concentrate with the heat and the sounds of playing outside, he must have been loving every second, anxious to get up the stairs and deal with his cute little ten year old.
Of course the best thing from dads point of view was that the marks left by the cane on my otherwise small white bottom would have faded by Monday morning so no risk of other teachers seeing them when I changed for PE.
Every Friday for the next four years I received between six and ten red lines on my bottom. Sometimes it was with the smaller cane which stung me like crazy and sometimes with the larger cane which gave me a throbbing pain in my soft young bottom. The smaller cane used to hit my bottom in different places, when I got the large one dad whacked me on the same part of my bottom. Sometimes after a caning he would take me to his bedroom, I only ever had my tops on when I was punished so he would turn me around so that I could see my bottom in his long mirror. He was very proud of what he did to my poor little bottom.
I used to rub it as hard as I could with my father smirking at me saying things like ''lazy boys need their bottoms caning...don't they Paul'' or ''next time I will increase the number of strokes son''. I always got up from my bent over position with a stinging bottom and I never really heard what dad was saying to me because I was too busy crying and rubbing the marks he had given me.