Mr. Graham took the cane from under his left armpit and gave it a sharp swish through the air. He looked straight at me and gave his sadistic, tight little smirk.
"Collins, you will please give me the birth date of Simon Bolivar," he said.
I sat there, my bottom stinging and burning from the six he had just given me about ten minutes ago because I had not been able to answer another question about the history lesson we had had to memorise. I stood and I felt my face flush red. I had not studied this lesson; for some reason I had worked on a previous chapter by mistake and now was at a loss at each question Mr. Graham fired at us.
"I want an answer, Collins," he snapped, flexing the cane with great gusto.
I gave him a date.
"Come up here," was his only reply and I sighed. I slowly took my tender, aching backside off the hard wooden surface of the desk bench and approached the masters dais for the second time this morning.
"It is obvious that you have not learned the lesson very well, my boy," he continued, "and when a boy is lazy and neglects his studies, the best remedy is an extra-sound thrashing. Isnt that right, boy?"
"Yes, sir," was the only correct reply to questions such a this.
"I am glad you agree. This time we will see if a caning across the bare backside will be more fruitful," he said, looking at me with his hard, dark eyes. "Take those little shorts down and, if you wear them, your underpants as well. All the way down to your ankles, please. Then bend over the desk."
When Mr. Graham resorts to the cane in class, it was not uncommon for him to have the boy bare for his whipping, so I complied without protest. A protest would have been ineffective anyway, because school rules permitted this in certain cases and when masters presented their cases against a naughty schoolboy, who do you think would win?
I lowered my shorts (I wore nothing underneath, compliments of my "mothers" instructions) and bent over the wide desk. I held on to the far edge as best I could since I hardly managed to reach it even on tiptoes. Then I felt the masters fingers taking hold of my shirt tail and lifting it up to my neck. I lay there, uncomfortable on the hard surface, the edge biting into my thighs, only too aware of the throbbing stripes covering the lower half of my buttocks. I knew all the boys and girls in the room were staring at my bare bottom with great interest. They had all watched my previous caning, of course, but that one had been over my shorts. Not that this hadnt hurt me just as much; the cloth of those shorts was very thin and, particularly the area where I sit and where the cane normally lands, was particularly threadbare.
I felt the cane pass lovingly across the wealed areas for a moment, then it rose and after some anxious seconds, landed with great force across the lower bottom. Do I have to tell you how much that stung? It must have found precisely a previous welt because it drove me up the desk and off my feet. I gasped with the searing pain. And that was only the first. He never told me how many strokes he intended to give me, so I was kept in the dark, deprived even of the comfort of knowing how many more were left to endure.
Numbers two and three were even lower down and took in the underside of the buttocks and the beginnings of the thighs. I particularly hated those because the stripes showed below the hems of my shorts, displayed to all and sundry, at school, on the streets, on bus and trains. Simply mortifying, and when someone made comments about them, it would be an unbearable shame.
Mr. Graham enjoyed caning me because my "father" (I was an adopted child) had not only agreed to his using the cane, but had repeatedly encouraged the master to cane me as hard and as frequently as he wished. He had told Mr. Graham that I was an incorrigible child and needed this firm discipline at home, so it was even more essential that I be disciplined even more severely at school.
Mr. Graham had listened to this with great satisfaction and had lost little time in applying it with such enthusiasm that I found myself not only across his desk sometimes several times a day, but was also reported by him to the headmaster for some "exemplary" swishings with a most fearsome cane or, all too often, a well-soaked, long, green birch rod. Usually, this great man required several rods before he had finished with me because he whipped so hard he used them all up very quickly (after just one dozen).
Anyway, here I was for the second time within two hours after the bell rang for morning classes, shorts around my ankles, bare bottom invitingly elevated for the cane, in full view of my mates in the classroom beyond, like an actor on the lighted stage, performing for a rapt audience viewing the spectacle from a darkened auditorium.
Strokes four, five and six were directed a millimeter above the previous ones and now I started to cry. The pain was excruciating and spread through the entire area of my buttocks and legs. All was in flames.
Mr. Graham clamped the cane back under his arm and looked at my prostrate figure, trembling and sweating, across his desk. He must have liked the view because it was several minutes before he again took the cane in hand.
Another three fierce, solid strokes landed on my bare bottom and at each my cries became shriller. I clung to the desks edge with all my might, my feet now fully off the floor, flailing harmlessly in the air with my shorts tangled around them. I raised my head, mouth wide open, eyes streaming tears that rolled down my face, and looked beseechingly at the man wielding that awful cane. He just looked silently, dispassionately, back at me.
After a further pause, during which I felt my buttocks throb and burn, Mr. Graham gripped the cane again and went to work. I must confess that I roared like an angry bull during the next three strokes as my lower bottom and upper thighs were given renewed, intense attention. Once I almost slid off the desk having taken my hands back to protect my mistreated buttocks but the only consequence of this foolish action was an extra two really heavy cracks across the thighs.
Only when Mr. Graham announced that I was free to rise, pull my shorts back up and return to my desk, did I realise that my punishment was over. I was shaking as I bent to retrieve my shorts, pull them up, button them and wobble back to my desk. I was still trembling, face wet with tears and feeling sorry with myself, when I heard Mr. Grahams voice.
"Collins, you will please tell us where the Amazon River starts and where it flows into the ocean."
I gasped and stared. My mouth opened but nothing came out.
"Well, Collins, I am waiting." The voice was stern and menacing.
"I - er - dont - know, sir," I finally stammered.
"Stand up, boy, when you talk to me," Mr. Graham thundered and I painfully got to my feet. This simple movement sent shock waves of pain through my bottom.
"One last chance, boy," the master said impatiently, fingering the cane he now held in his hand.
"Oh, but please, sir," I whined desperately, "I am sorry but I didnt learn this part of the lessons."
"Do you know what the penalty is for not studying a required lesson in my class, boy?" he snapped.
"Yes, sir."
"Well, tell the class what it is."
The classroom was suddenly very quiet. An atmosphere of excitement and fear was almost palpable.
"The cane, sir," I whispered.
"Speak up, boy. The class did not hear you."
"The cane," I said more loudly.
"Yes, a sound thrashing with the cane. Step out and come up here." He swung the cane in my direction.
I burst into renewed tears. "But, sir, I just... you just..."
"Tell me, Collins," the master shouted now, "what is the penalty for disobedience?"
I blanched and my hands flew to my sore behind. I swallowed hard and licked my dry lips.
"A - birching from... the headmaster," I finally croaked.
"That is correct," Mr. Graham announced with relish. "Now come up here this instant."
I trudged to the dais and mounted it, standing before the cane-wielding schoolmaster. I was weeping silently, my hands still on the seat of my shorts.
"Stand up straight, boy, and look at me," the man admonished me. "You will lower your shorts and bend over again. You will be punished for not having studied properly. When that is over, you will stand in the corner until the the end of the day after which you will report to the headmasters study. I will recommend a minimum of one dozen strokes with a good birch rod for willful disobedience and disrespect to your master. He may feel that one dozen are insufficient for such offences, but we will leave that to his judgment, shall we? He is not a disciplinarian who will let off lightly naughty, idle, rude little boys."
I bared my bottom and got into position. While I waited for that new dreaded caning across my already well-thrashed backside, he wrote on some paper. When he was ready, he picked up the cane and took up his own position.
Before starting, he read what he had written, words that didnt make me feel any better. "This is a note for your parents. You will have it signed and returned to me tomorrow. It reads Your boy has behaved disgracefully in class today. Not only did he neglect to study for todays lessons, he repeatedly failed to answer questions. He displayed gross negligence and obstinate disobedience. Furthermore, he was extremely rude to me when confronted with his behaviour. I would heartily suggest you re-enforce the schools discipline with your own at home, making certain that the boy is severely punished. Leniency in his case would be a serious mistake. You will find his bottom well marked from the canings he received here and the from the headmasters application of the birch. This is only to be expected and is nothing to worry about, but so you may want to wait a day or two before you deal with the boy. But dealt with he must be. Please sign below to acknowledge receipt and that you will act accordingly which is, after all, only for the boys own good. Well, boy, I am sure you agree that this is what you deserve."
Before I could say anything, even if I had been so inclined, the cane went into action once again and the room echoed with my roars of pain.