I was waiting once again in front of the headmasters study. How many times have I been here before? It seemed I spent more time in front and inside this study than in the playing fields or the dining hall.
One boy went in before me and even though the study was located behind two thick doors, I could still hear the muffled cries emanating from inside. I shivered in the cold hall, sitting on the cold stone bench, hugging my cold thighs. I was cold through and through. I had been sitting here for about 50 or 60 minutes, the last in the line; this meant again no lunch. The boys ahead of me were now probably sitting uncomfortably on their wooden seats in the dining hall, worrying more about the pain in their backsides than the food in front of them. They could probably not even see the food clearly with the tears still in their red eyes. I knew that from frequent previous experiences.
I sat and listened to the cries from the study. It seemed to have gone on for so long! I wondered what the boys crime had been. Not that it needed something very serious to be reported to the headmaster. I cheeky reply to one of the masters, perhaps, or an ink blot on one of your papers. Or even just dropping a book in class, a whisper, chewing gum, whistling, chuckling, and so on and on. Of course more serious offenses such as not having learned todays lessons or being disrespectful, omitting a sir and the like, were dealt with instantly and with greatest severity by the headmaster or by the master in question inside the headmasters study, or sometimes even by both. Some masters liked to make a game out of it. First beat a boy soundly, then send him to the headmaster for strong reinforcement.
We boys took all that for granted. We also accepted the fact that girls were never in this situation and that when a boy and a girl were caught in the same offence, it was only the boy who received a thrashing. But in such instances, both culprits were sent to the headmaster and be reprimanded. Then the boy, with his shorts and underpants around his ankles, would be given a dozen or so real stingers across his bare bottom while the girl was forced to watch. I supposed that this was meant as a sufficient punishment for the girl. The boys did not think it was a punishment at all, especially when the girl watched with a smirk or a big grin on her face. But those were the rules and what were we to do about them?
The cries from the study continued and my stomach contracted more each time. Why was this taking so long? Maybe the headmaster was in a particularly bad mood and that did not bode well for me. He usually reserved his strongest strokes for the last. How many boys had there been ahead of me? I didnt count them but I guessed about six or seven. I had been here more than an hour, I estimated, so each boy got 10 minutes of the headmasters attention. Half of that devoted to a lecture and the lowering of clothes, the rest to the application of the cane, no doubt. In 5 minutes, one could give as many as 2 dozen strokes if the caning was given slowly at 4 strokes a minute or every 15 seconds. Thats a pretty long interval to have to wait while your bum is burning. And 2 dozen strokes from the headmasters cane was no laughing matter. Actually even those famous "six of the best" were no joke either. You can imagine what 4 times that many would do to a boys behind. I shuddered again and hugged my knees tighter. The cold stone was freezing my bottom but that was not going to last much longer. Much too soon it would be put on fire.
At last it seemed as if the cries had stopped. I sat and listened for a moment, then the door slowly opened and ten-year-old Derek emerged still busily buttoning up his little grey shorts. His eyes were red from crying and his face wet with tears. He didnt look at me but just squirmed out the door and limped off to his classroom.
"Peterson, come in," I heard the headmasters voice calling through the open door of the study and I slowly got up and walked in.
"Come on, hurry up, boy," the tall man snapped at me when he saw me shuffling into the room. "Take your shorts down if you can get your hands off your behind for a moment," he continued and I only now realised that I had been holding my bottom ever since rising from the bench outside. I started unbuttoning.
"I see here that you are still neglecting your studies," he said, reading from a note in his hand. "Mr. Graham tells me you are not only lazy, failing to memorise your lessons, doing only half an essay, forgetting to do homework, etc., but you are also showing no signs of trying. And you have been cheeky and disrespectful to Mr. Graham when he caned you for these faults. I do not tolerate such behaviour from boys in my school."
I had my shorts and underpants down by now and stood with them around my ankles. I pulled at the front of my shirt which didnt reach quite far enough for my liking. I stood and shifted uncomfortably as he lectured me for another several minutes about what I did, didnt do, should have done or not done. I had heard it all before and barely listened. My mind was on my cold bottom.
"Over the desk, boy," I heard him finally say in his harsh voice. "Eighteen strokes, my boy, and I consider this as very lenient considering your behaviour. You will count, loud and politely thanking me for each and asking for the next stroke. Any hesitation, miscount, forgotten number, lack of respect and so on will be rewarded with 3 extra strokes. Be warned."
I was familiar with the routine. One, sir, thank you, sir. I need another stroke, sir. That was the phrase we had had whipped into us from an early age. I was twelve now, but had been at the school since I was eight. God knows how many times I have had to repeat this phrase, only changing - always increasing - the number of strokes.
I bent over the desk and felt the headmaster raising my shirt to my shoulders. As I turned my head, I saw him return the cane he had apparently been using on poor Derek, to the cupboard and replace it with a senior cane of awesome proportions. Long and thick, with a wicked hum to it as the headmaster swished it several times through the air as he approached me.
"Yes, this cane will do very nicely," he said nastily. "Two dozen solid strokes with this cane should make an impression even on an obstinate, obdurate and lazy little boy like you." He stood and studied my bare bottom for a while, then continued, "I see Mr. Graham gave you a little taste earlier today. The marks arent too bad so I wont have to restrain myself. I mean to flog you very severely, my boy and let us hope you will learn your lesson for once."
I felt all bottom, naked and exposed, defencelessly waiting to be whipped. The first stroke took my breath away, it was so hard and so bitingly painful I hardly managed to say the required words. The second was worse and I couldnt get the words out on time, meriting extra 3 strokes. The third, fourth and fifth cuts were such agony that I was screaming already. Usually I could take six without too much fuss, but this cane was much, much worse than the junior cane I had experienced so far. By the time number eight had been reached, I had accumulated another six. At this rate we would never finish. I was starting to get desperate. The first dozen was concluded and by then nine extra strokes waited me. I was blubbering now, and not ashamed to admit it. The agony of each stroke was just unimaginable.
"I hope you feel this, my boy," I heard the headmaster say as he slashed into my buttocks with great force. "I can go on like this all afternoon, if you persist in your obstinacy. Now you will count correctly and on time, in a loud and clear voice, or you will continue accumulating additional cuts. I dont think you will want this."
The cane bit into me low and hard and I writhed and sweated trying to get those required words out correctly. After six of the second dozen, I was close to despair. After eight, I had accumulated an entire dozen of extra strokes. When the second dozen had finally been absorbed, I could feel my bottom throbbing and burning. I also thought it was swelling more at each new stroke.
"Well, my boy," the headmaster said, laying the cane down on the desk, right in front of my face, "Your two dozen have been completed. Your punishment would have been over if you had obeyed instructions. But you dont like to obey, do you? Well, I will deal with that and soon you will realise that it is better to obey. It will save you a lot of pain. But as long as you persist in your abominable behaviour, I will not hesitate in using this cane to instill proper obedience. I know schoolboys your age. They need systematic, severe punishment to keep them in line. And I have no qualms about giving them what they need. Now stay in position until I return. Then we will deal with the extra twelve strokes."
He left me sobbing across the desk. My bottom must have been a bit numb towards the end because the pain did not get better as I waited; it got worse. Gradually the burn increased in intensity and the throbbing took over my entire body. By the time the headmaster returned, my bottom was in renewed flames.
"Well, my boy," the headmaster chuckled as he saw me twist and turn on the hard surface of his large desk. "Not so comfortable, are we? Well, it is going to get even less comfortable." He picked up the cane.
Three vicious strokes across the underside of my buttocks and upper parts of the thighs had me howling almost from the start. The cane laid across the tender, wealed skin was terrible. After six I had accumulated 3 extras. The man beat me with all his strength and each time the heavy cane landed on my buttocks, I felt like roaring with pain. But I had to control myself so that I could concentrate on the count. Even so, when the third dozen had been completed, I was again due a further six extras.
"Peterson, I think you are the most obstinate boy I have seen for quite some time," the headmaster said, tapping my swelling weals with the cane tip. "I really hope you will take these last six - six of the best, I assure you - without need for additional strokes. You dont want to give Mr. Graham reason for punishing you for coming late to class, now do you?"
The cane landed with great force so I was spared an answer. Instead I screamed but managed to count properly. The next one was harder and I thought he was trying to get me to miscount and earn more extras. I controlled myself with great effort for the last 5 strokes and thereby finishing my punishment. He did his best with the last cut to make me delay the count, but did not succeed. The caning was over after - what was it - 42 strokes? I had never thought it possible for a boy to be given that many strokes. Did any other boy in my form? I had to find out.
He let me lie there for 15 or 20 minutes, my bottom a ball of fire, live lava seeming to cover the entire area. But slowly my sobbing subsided.
"All right, boy, get up and pull up your shorts. Then quickly back to Mr. Graham. He is waiting for you, so you better know all your lessons by heart. You may not want his cane across your backside again too soon, I dare say."
He stood and watched as I slowly pushed off the desk, bent to retrieve my underpants and shorts, button the latter and shuffle out of the study on stiff-kneed legs. Each step was agony and I held each buttock gingerly in each of my hands. As I left, I heard the headmaster chuckle and close the door.