The perv has been reading Clive James's memoir of his boyhood days in Australia, Unreliable Memoirs. Not all that good actually; surprising because the perv normally likes James's stuff a lot.
The young schoolboy Clive does something to a female classmate - - hits her by accident or whatever. Here's how he describes the consequence: "And so I kept my feared but wished for appointment with the Deputy Headmaster. [Wished for because CJ doesn't want to appear a nerd, though that's an Americanism I am using, not Australian slang]. He was a tall, slim man in a grey dustcoat. I can't remember his name but I can well remember his quiet, sardonic manner. He pointed out to me that in hitting the little girl I had caused her pain, and now he was about to show me what pain was like. The instrument I had used on the little girl had been strictly banned. The same embargo, he explained, did not apply to the instrument he now would use on me. I was inspecting this while he spoke. It was a long, thick cane with a leather bound tip. Unlike other canes I had seen, it did not seem to be flexible. Instead of swishing when it came down, it hummed. The impact was like a door slamming on my hand. I was too stunned even to pee my pants. The same thing happened to the other hand. Then the same thing happened again to each hand, twice more in succession. That would teach me, he informed me, to hit little girl with dongers. [A donger, James explains earlier, was an ordinary handkerchief folded into a triangle. You held each end of the hypotenuse and then twirled until the handkerchief had rolled itself tight. Then you held the two ends together and rolled the fat center part even tighter with the other end. The result was then soaked in water to give it weight. The more reckless boys sometimes inserted a lead washer or a small rock.] After that description of a donger, all I can say is thank goodness American brats don't carry around handkerchiefs!
When he is an older schoolboy, Clive gets into trouble for throwing a duster at the teacher. "Within seconds I was on my way to the Deputy Headmaster. I was carrying a note inscribed with the numeral six, meaning that I was to get six of the best.
The Deputy Head Mr. Dock, invariably known as Hickery, lacked inches but made up for them with agility. A short, round man he had a long, thin whippy cane. . . He didn't waste time talking. He just opened the note, glanced at it, and reached for the cane. Suddenly I wanted desperately to urinate.
'C- c- c- an I go to the toilet?' I asked bravely.
To his credit, Hickery let me go. Perhaps he was not the psychopath he was cracked up to be. Perhaps he just didn't want a puddle on his floor. I raced downstairs and made it to the urinal approximately in time. My return up the same stairs was glacial, nay asymptotic, but Hickory kindly appeared on the landing to encourage me up the final stages. Since the rules stipulated that the hands be hit alternately for each stroke, Hickory had to change corners of the room before running up to serve. He covered a lot of ground. I found the shock of each impact nothing as bad as the anticipation. Unfortunately, the aftermath was worse than anything that could be imagined. I zigzagged back to class with my hands buried between my thighs.
For those of you who share the perv's fascination with military hazing, Clive James provides a detailed description of his military service. No cp alas, but plenty of petty humiliation that I found quite a turn on.