I stayed in my corner the rest of the day, without lunch and, tired and hungry, I duly reported to the headmasters study when I was finally released.
The headmaster, Dr. Roy Wilmington, was waiting for me. There had been three boys ahead of me and when the last one, red-faced and bawling, had emerged and trudged off home, I ventured into the dreaded study.
"Well, Collins," he said, holding slip of paper in his hand, "it seems Mr. Graham is not too pleased with your performance. A dozen with the birch, eh? Seems rather on the lenient side for a boy who, as I am informed, doesnt find it necessary to put a little effort into his school work. One dozen is for little boys who drop a pencil in class." He gave a harsh bark that paraded as laughter.
"Please, sir," I heard myself saying, despite having promised myself not to beg, "Mr. Graham already caned me twice today. "Couldnt you let me off, sir? Just this once?" My voice, even to me, sounded annoyingly whining and pathetic.
Dr. Wilmington did not seem to hear; he was busy selecting one of the birch rods he kept soaking inside a large cupboard. When he was satisfied, he walked over to where I stood, petrified, glued to the floor, trembling like jelly in an earthquake. "Please, sir?"
"Take your shorts down and bring the block over here," was the headmasters reply, shaking some drops off the rod.
I started to cry. "Oh, sir, please dont whip me again. My bottom is so sore. Couldnt you at least postpone it by a few days, sir?"
"I think we are going to make this 18 strokes, what do you say?" he said. "Now bring the block and get into position, unless you want some more. I have no objections to giving you two dozen if you insist."
So I lowered my shorts to my knees and, holding them up with one hand, pushed the wooden block from a far corner of the room into the spot the headmaster indicated. Then I kneeled on the step and bent over the padded top. There were two handles on the far side which I grasped as Dr. Wilmington quickly affixed the straps, attached to the block, to my wrists. Then he adjusted the wooden plank between my knees until my thighs were spread to the utmost and locked them in place. I lay, helpless, with my bare bottom gaping wide open, ready to receive whatever the headmaster decided to administer.
Dr. Wilmington stood over me, birch in hand, and surveyed my caned buttocks. "Hm, it appears that Mr. Graham has worked on that backside of yours good and proper. These stripes are deep and well spaced. Those across the thighs landed well inside where they are the most effective. Yes, Mr. Graham knows how to handle stubborn young boys."
I sprawled there, unable to move, awaiting the inevitable. I felt, more than saw, the headmaster raise the birch, then heard to swoosh as it flew through the air until it landed with a sharp whistle across my lower buttocks. My body shook with the impact and a second later I felt the hot, stinging bite all over my bottom cheeks and in between. What pain! Like a hundred pricks with a hot needle. I wailed out loud.
"Nothing to cry about, boy," the headmaster assured me. "At least not yet. This was just to get my aim. You might feel the next one, though."
And feel it I did. Practically on the same spot, but a fraction lower, the twigs invaded my bottom cleft from below, biting in between my legs as well. I gave another howl and heard the man chuckle.
"Yes, that stings, doesnt it? Lets see how the next one feels."
By the time I had absorbed the first six strokes, I was weeping and sobbing, drenched in sweat, hurting from waist to knees as if I had been flayed in the most tender areas.
"Well, this rod is all used up," the headmaster said with great satisfaction. "Lets take a fresh one." He threw the stump of a rod into a waste basket and went back to the cupboard to retrieve a new one.
The following six cuts were worse, of course, but I couldnt bellow any louder. I was getting hoarse and my twisting and turning on the block, although ineffective to ward off the heavy blows, had tired me out. I lay there, panting, resigned and hurting all over.
"And now for the last six," Dr. Wilmington intoned jocularly, bringing out a fresh rod from his never depleting supply. "You know, I can hardly see Mr. Grahams cane weals anymore. The entire behind is so red and striped, its hard to tell you were caned before." He laughed and whipped the birch full force across my lower buttocks.
By now I was just whimpering as each lash landed, too exhausted to do anything else but hope the punishment would end soon. I tried to count, but even the count to six seemed too difficult as I tried to cope with the burn all over my bottom, so he gave me two more. Only when the headmaster dropped the the remains of the third rod into the basket, did I realise that my whipping was over. I relaxed across that block and wept silently.
Dr. Wilmington stood behind me, admiring his handiwork. "Yes," he said, This has been very good for you. I am sure you will remember to work harder the next time and memorise your lessons properly. I will speak with Mr. Graham to make quite certain that he keeps a tight rein on you and not to spare the cane during class. I will also remind him to report to me any infractions in behaviour so that I can thrash you again. Maybe it will be four dozen next time. Who knows?"
He let me lie there while he packed up his papers into a big briefcase, every once in a while glancing at me as if afraid I would leave without his noticing. Tied down as I was, there was no danger of that; I lay there, buttocks still widely spread and probably bleeding, unable to move.
It must have been twenty or thirty minutes later when he finally unfastened me and allowed me to stand. Not that this was easy for me. Getting off the block hurt my bottom so that I could hardly stand. When he told me to pull up my shorts, I squeaked with agony as I bent, and when I pulled the material over my injured behind, I almost fainted. I got weak in the knees and trembled as I slowly buttoned up.
The headmaster, briefcase in his left hand, gave me a sharp slap on my tingling bottom, saying, "Run along, now, boy. And dont forget to give that note to your parents. I hope they will have a little talk with you as well. I understand your parents are worried that our school discipline is not strict enough. I hope the state of your bottom will prove to them that it is." He chuckled and propelled me outside. He walked closely behind as I made my way down the halls towards the exit doors. I could feel his eyes on the seat of my tight shorts and on the welts all down my thighs. Then he went off to the parking area and I on my long way home, each step agony.
When I got home, my "mother" was waiting. She was a sharp, angular woman, with thin lips, a long nose and cold blue eyes.
"Mr. Graham rang me up just a few minutes ago," she said, looking at me with disgust. "Cant you ever behave properly? And not learning your lessons? What is the matter with you? Come upstairs with me."
She took me by an ear and dragged me up the stairs and into my room.
"Put your books on the desk and get to work. I want to see a five-page report on the reasons for your canings today and what you have learned from them. If I see any mistakes in spelling or grammar, or if your handwriting is not up to par, I will not hesitate in asking your father to give you another sound thrashing, no matter how sore your delicate backside might be. He may want to punish you anyway for your disgraceful behaviour at school. We will see. Now get to work."
She waited until I had opened my notebook and gingerly placed my "delicate" backside on the hard bench. Only after I had picked up my pencil and started to write, did she leave, closing the door behind her. I heard the key turning in the lock as I bent to my work.
When my "father" called me into his study after supper, and had taken down my shorts, he whistled. "Yes, my boy, I have read Mr. Grahams note in which he specifically recommends you be soundly punished regardless of what your bottom looks like. I tend to agree with him. The many faults he outlines in his note cannot go unpunished here at home. We have adopted you as our son and as such, we will discipline you like a son. Now that your shorts are already down, you might as well bend over and get this over with here and now."
He went to his desk and withdrew the heavy tawse. My heart sank but I knew it was useless to protest. I bent over. Stretching the skin tight across my wealed bottom made each stripe come vividly to life again.
"Knees straight, please," my father said as he took up his position. "You will get ten across each cheek. You deserve two dozen with the cane, but since your backside looks pretty well punished already, tonight it will be the tawse. The day after tomorrow, it will be a dozen with the cane. Tighter, please." Taking me by the nape, he pushed my head down.
My mother came to watch when she heard my first cries of pain. She nodded at each loud thwack as the thick leather whipped across my left or right buttock. My squeals and cries of pain did not impress either of them. After five on each side, my knees began to wobble.
"Knees straight, I said," my father reminded me. "Next time you bend, I will give you three extra on each side."
A few more hard strokes and my mother had to hold my shoulders down to keep me in place. "Give him those three extra," she advised my father, "to teach him proper comportment during punishment."
Near the end I bent my knees again and was awarded another 3 extras, making a grand total 32 strokes across my tender buttocks. When it was finally over, my mother marched me back to my room carrying my shorts.
"I will draw your bath while you undress. After that you will finish your school work and go to bed. I will make sure you get that dozen with the cane on Wednesday first thing in the morning, before breakfast. We have signed Mr. Grahams note, adding that he should not hesitate to use the cane on you each time he thinks it warranted. I hope you will work harder from now on and I dont want to hear any more reports about being disrespectful to a master. We know how important a firm hand is when dealing with young boys and, distressing as it is for us, we will punish you whenever you need it, as severely as may be warranted, until you have finally understood how a boy should behave."
I was lying on my stomach, holding my bottom. The skin was raw and tender, and the entire surface, from mid-buttock to mid thigh, felt ridged and swollen. The throbbing of those stripes kept me awake and I could hear my "parents" talking in their bedroom.
"The boy is really getting out of hand," my mother was saying. "You have been too lenient with him these last few years. A friend of mine, you know her, Judith Dern, has an eleven-year-old and she tells me her husband, Jack, has to cane the boy at least 3 times a week. He has always been a rebellious boy, but now that he is getting closer to puberty, they feel he has to be handled more firmly. They used to give him 6 or 8 with the junior cane, but now, at eleven, he has graduated to the senior cane and a dozen is the usual dose. We have to do the same with our boy before it is too late. He will be eleven in 7 months and we dont want to have the same problems as the Derns."
My father grunted. "I suppose you are right. At least he is handled properly at school. I like that Graham fellow; he knows what is good for boys this age. When I spoke with him last, his remedy for boyish mischief was, in his words, the cane, the cane and the cane. Frequent, severe canings will bring them in line eventually. Thankfully, the headmaster agree with him and enthusiastically birches the boys who are sent to him for correction. Youve seen our boys behind. He certainly know how to apply the birch. I saw the marks all over, into the most hidden nooks and crannies."
"Yes, the birch rod is made for reaching those areas that cant be reached with a cane. I try to use the tawse in those places and it seems quite effective. We just have to use it more often, more extensively, more persuasively, on the boys backside."
"Well, I will use the senior cane on the boy on Wednesday and see how he reacts to that. It is pretty heavy and a bit over one centimeter thick. It should certainly prove effective after a dozen laid on with good force."
This conversation was not too promising and didnt put me in a very relaxed mood. However, after a while, I fell into an uneasy sleep, filled with dreams, dreams of bare bottoms, canes and birch rods. When I was awakened early next morning, I did not feel rested. As I walked to school, my bottom still ached at every step and I felt anxiety twist my stomach. Would Mr. Graham cane me again today? What would happen when my father used the senior cane on me? Very disquieting thoughts that did nothing to improve my school work that day. Mr. Graham was not happy. Or was he?