In Cape Town some years ago there was a Children's Home run by a Mr and Mrs Long. They employed a house mother—I forget her name, we'll call her Miss Henning--who was about 27 at the time—and the home was to all appearances unremarkable: a casual observer looking through the gates might see in the playground children aged 9 – 14 who attended local schools but lived in the home.
When the scandal broke it was splashed all over the newspapers. For it turned out that the children were ruled by the rod in way that was unacceptable even in that society at that time where boys were subject to corporal punishment wherever they found themselves. Mr and Mrs Long, and Miss Henning, too, caned the boys so hard and so often that in some cases the weals on the boys' bottoms never really healed and when the authorities did a surprise inspection acting on a tip, they found that a couple of the boys had severely whipped buttocks far beyond what was reasonable.
Mr and Mrs Long were tried for cruelty to children and sentenced to 10 years' imprisonment. The house mother was jailed for a shorter term. And the case was forgotten. All of this is true, and you can find it in the archives of the South African newspapers of the time.
During the time of the trial, one boy in Cape Town, who was about 16 at the time, followed the case with avid interest. His name was Jonathan Wright, and he had had personal experience with the home, just once, in a manner that he could not forget, and it was a secret he had shared only with one close friend at the time.
His experience had happened four years previously when he was 12. Back then, in his last year of primary school, every day when he walked to and from school, he walked past the children's home, occasionally glancing in at the gates. The home was sandwiched between two very long roads and would have made a very useful short cut on the route to and from school, but Jonathan did not think his cutting through would be welcomed, so he always walked round the very long block.
Jonathan came back to the present and laid down the newspaper. He remembered seeing some very striped bottoms on his short visit four years previously but none that would warrant an arrest in South Africa, a veritable mecca for the raising of boys "by hand" (a phrase so charmingly written into a Dickens novel).
Jonathan had been raised in a middle class family that largely avoid corporal punishment, so he had mostly not been raised by hand, but he had occasionally been subjected to it at school—nothing, however, like that afternoon at the children's home.
Jonathan glanced down at the front-page picture of the Longs and cast his mind back again down the four years since he had seen then. Four years may not seem a long time, but from 12 to 16, it is a long passage.
Jonathan was 12 and on his way home from school. He had had detention and was in great danger of missing the next episode of one of his favorite serials on Springbok Radio. As he passed the gate of the children's home, he thought again what a useful shortcut it would be. There were boys milling around in their grey shorts and white shirts, having recently come home from school. Jonathan himself was in grey shorts and a white shirt. If he slipped through, he would blend in quite nicely and could slip through to the other side before anyone noticed.
He was looking forward to a quiet few hours at home alone. His mother was out of town and his father had told him he would be working late and then had a business dinner engagement. He would listen to the radio, do his homework, and then perhaps go round to the house of Eric, his best friend, before fixing himself some supper.
16-year-old Jonathan continued perusing the news article. According to the newspaper, Mr Long was only peripherally involved with the boys. They were largely at the mercy of his wife and the house mother. It was for that reason, probably, that things turned out as strangely as they had those four years ago. For it was Mr Long who was on playground duty and started to line the children up just as 12-year-old Jonathan was about half way across to the other side.
He saw Jonathan heading in the wrong direction. He strode over to him, grabbed him by the ear, and firmly placed him in line. Jonathan was too taken aback to respond, and by the time he was ready to, the line had started to move. He decided he'd await his chance to escape. Since no talking was allowed in line, none of the boys could ask who on earth had just joined the line.
The door opened and the boys filed in. Jonathan started to feel distinctly queasy as the heavy wooden door banged shut behind the line of boys filing up the stairs. Once they were in the dormitory, Mr Long told them to do their homework and to be sure it was done before the 5:30 showers. Then he closed the dormitory door and disappeared.
There was an immediate clamour as everyone clustered around Jonathan and demanded to know who he was. When Jonathan explained, there was general merriment.
"You can try going back down the stairs," said one boy, who introduced himself as Tim, "but if Mr Long catches you you'll be for it!"
"How can I get in trouble if I don't even belong here?"
"The old dodohead doesn't even know you don't belong here. If Miss Henning or Mrs Long had been around, they would have realized that very quickly! Besides, just being in this building puts you in trouble!"
It turned out that the two women were out. Jonathan decided to chance it. He opened the dormitory door as the other boys watched and slipped down the stairs.
Turning the first landing, he bumped right into Mr Long.
"What are you doing!?" he snapped. "Get back upstairs! I'll deal with you at the showers!"
Jonathan retreated back up the steps and into the dormitory.
Tim grinned. "Sorry about that!" he said. "What did Mr Long say?"
"He said he'd deal with me at the showers."
"You're for it now!" remarked Tim.
"What do you mean?" asked Jonathan, feeling increasingly uneasy.
"We all shower at 5:30 before dinner. After showers, they dish out the punishments. You're going to get the cane, I bet money."
Jonathan's eyes widened.
"He can't! I don't belong here!"
"You know that," answered the boy, "and I know that, but Mr Long doesn't! He's daft! He has no idea what's going on. He just knows how to yell and cane."
"Then I'll just leave – I'll run past him!"
"Won't help. The downstairs door is locked. I should have remembered to tell you that before you went down the first time."
Jonathan gestured helplessly.
"Well, when do Miss Henning and Mrs Long get back?"
"Don't know. And it's hard to know whether that will make it better or worse. You're lucky you don't live here all the time! Anyway, I have homework to do or I'll be for it at the showers, too."
Jonathan sat down on a bed with his chin in his hands. There was nothing else to do.
The dormitory was on the second floor. A landing separated it from the showers. At 5:30, all the boys began to strip off their clothes.
"Get yourself a towel out of that cupboard and take off your clothes," said Tim. "Then follow me to the showers."
Jonathan looked round the room. What struck him immediately was that most of the boys had striped bottoms – either purple and ridged or black and fading. If Jonathan weren't feeling so vulnerable himself, we would have found all those round little bums quite interesting. He took off his clothes, took a towel, and headed to the showers. Mr. Long was standing there, a long thin cane in hand, and he tapped a few bare bottoms as they went by, including Jonathan's. Jonathan felt a tiny sting and shuddered. He followed the lead of the other boys, who hung their towels on a long towel rack and then walked over to the showers, their penises swinging.
Mr Long watched as the boys showered. Jonathan felt very conscious of his nudity and as he soaped his buttocks, he did so gingerly, fearful of the coming punishment. How on earth had he gotten himself into this fix? It was ridiculous. A bad dream. He looked at Tim. Tim had a few fading black stripes across his seat; Jonathan's lily white seat would soon look much worse than that unless he could find a way out of this predicament.
The boys showered in silence. Apparently talking was allowed only at designated times, not including lining up outside, filing up the stairs, and having a shower.
"When we're finished showering, we're to line up by the long towel rack and dry ourselves," whispered Tim.
Speaking had been foolish. Mr Long pounced.
"I'll deal with you after showers!" he said, pointing the cane at Tim.
Tim groaned and dropped his head.
Jonathan would have liked to extend the shower as long as possible, partly to postpone punishment and partly to come up with some plan, for he had no ideas on how to get out of this. But the water was getting cold, and one by one the taps were turned off and the boys walked over to the towel rack, lined up, and dried themselves.
"We have two boys who are to be punished," said Mr Long. "You two step forward!" – and he pointed the cane first at Tim and then at Jonathan.
The boys stepped forward, Jonathan's heart palpitating.
"Bend over!" Mr Long rapped at Tim.
The boy bent over and touched his toes, his legs straight, his bottom pushed up and out. It was soft and round and small. Mr Long laid the cane across the center and sawed it as if he were playing a violin. Then he lifted it back and brought it down, hard. There was a heart-stopping crack.
"Owwww" yelled Tim, and he gave a jerk, but otherwise did not move.
The cane swiped down again, catching the boy just below the first stripe.
"Owwwwwwwwwwww!" he yelled again.
Four more followed; each time the cane sank deep into the boy's quivering rump and each time he unashamedly howled, but he never moved from his position.
When the six were over, Mr Long ordered him to get up. He only half did so – he remained half bent over clutching his scorched behind, the tears streaming down his face. His face was very red. There were two stripes at the center of his bottom and the rest progressively lower down. He hopped from foot to foot, clutching his bum, his penis swinging left and right.
"Now you," said Mr Long looking at Jonathan. "Bend over and touch your toes!"
The boy, trapped and not knowing what else to do, did as he was told. He felt his bottom jutting out endlessly into space. He felt the cane sawing across the center of his bottom as he had seen happen with Tim; then it was removed and there followed a moment of silence, broken only by Tim's gasps, then a whirr, and the cane slammed deep into his buttocks.
Jonathan felt an explosion of unimaginable pain.
"Ooowwwwwwww!" he yelled.
He didn't think he'd ever been hit that hard. The pain was so great he wasn't sure even where exactly on his bum he'd been struck. Pain radiated in all directions. Then came a second stroke of pure agony and he leapt to his feet. Mr Long pushed him back down, and the third stroke was harder still, a punishment perhaps for having got up—it came like a thunderclap.
"Eeeeeeeeyoooooooow!"
Somehow he made it through three more, keeping his fingers on his toes and his legs straight. There was a long delay and he thought a seventh was coming, but Mr Long then ordered him up. When Jonathan did so, he was howling and clutching his buttocks and swaying like a belly dancer, his hips projected forward.
And it was at that moment that Mrs Long and Miss Henning came in.
"Who is that?" said Mrs Long.
"Who is what?" asked Mr Long somewhat stupidly.
"That boy – he isn't one of ours. Boy, who are you?"
Jonathan was in too much pain and sobbing too much to answer, but he eventually gulped out an explanation.
"I was only.....taking......a........short.....cut!"
After a little cross-examination, Mrs Long deduced what had happened. She turned to her husband.
"You've caned a stranger! Do you want the police around here!?"
She disappeared and came back with a tub of cold cream and a chair. She sat down.
"You, boy, over my lap!" she said to Jonathan.
Terrified he was about to be spanked, but too terrified to refuse, Jonathan staggered over and climbed across Mrs De Long's lap. His striped bottom felt very exposed. She opened the cold cream and started rubbing his buttocks. The touch was agony and he squirmed, but she held him down until she was through.
"You can go back to the dormitory with the other boys until you are able to leave," she said to Jonathan.
The boys all returned to their dormitory, and everyone except Jonathan and Tim went down to supper. The two caned boys lay face down on adjoining beds, still undressed. The three adults watched them for a few moments and then went down the stairs.
Tim, not being a stranger, apparently had not earned the cold cream, and it took him a little longer to recover. Eventually Jonathan got up and started to pull on his clothes, very gingerly.
The light was fading outside. He went down, and Mr Long was there waiting to let him out.
"Sorry about that," he said. "But I suppose you were trespassing so you probably deserved the hiding. And you've probably got away with some things lately that you deserved a hiding for anyway!"
Jonathan did not answer, but sniffed and walked stiffly out of the door and across the quadrangle to the far gate. It was a difficult walk home. When he reached his front door, it was almost dark. He unlocked it and went in. His father was not yet home. He went into the bathroom and turned on the light and pulled down his shorts and pants. He gasped at what he saw: livid raised weals, most clustered across the lower half where he would have to sit. It looked awful. He could see where that third stroke had fallen after he had got up – midway between the center and his thighs, right on the sit spot. That weal looked particularly angry and swollen.
He filled the bottom of the tub with cold water and sat down. He sat for a long time and it felt a little better. Then he went to his room and closed the door.
16-year-old Jonathan laid down the paper for the last time. He winced at the remembered pain. He had had a really hard time sitting down at school the following day and the stripes had lasted for weeks. He had gone to Eric's house after school the following day, told his disbelieving friend what had happened, and had then showed him the stripes. Eric had been amazed.
Jonathan tried to remember what Mrs Long and Miss Henning had looked like. He had been crying too hard to really get a good look at them. He remembered lying across Mrs Long's lap while she applied the cold cream, and an erotic feeling came over him as he remembered. He imagined lying across her lap again with six livid stripes adorning his bum, squirming up and down. Then he went to his room and closed the door.