DESCRIPTION OF A CANING
Im going to give you three strokes of the cane on your bare bottom, Simon.
The boy must have known this was the only outcome possible, but hearing it spoken takes its toll: he grimaces, eyes closing for a second, and I notice clenched teeth as his lips part.
Yes, Sir.
He composes himself again, though his voice wavers. I can only imagine the churning fear in his young stomach as he contemplates what is about to be done to him.
I need not trouble you, gentle reader, with all the details of his offence. Suffice it to say that he committed a caning offence hoping he wouldnt be caught; he was caught; he will be caned. How simple the logic to me, the adult who will wield the stick! How cruel the logic to him, the 12-year-old boy in cornflower blue pyjamas whose bare buttocks the stick will lash into!
Evidence had begun accumulating the previous evening, but I needed a confession to clinch the case. I decided to wait until the morning to confront him: as an experienced housemaster I know that a boy who has just woken up is less adept at prevaricating than he is later in the day. Simon is a bit of a slippery customer: bright, quick-witted, articulate, strong-willed, with a track record of proclaiming innocence in cases where I am convinced he is guilty. At 7.15 in the morning, though, it had been the work of a couple of minutes to get the truth out him. And this is why he finds himself standing in front of my armchair, hands behind his back (resting on that part of his anatomy that I will later be focussing all my attention on!), legs akimbo.
Take off your pyjamas, please, Simon, and put them on my desk.
I move to my chest of drawers where I keep a range of slippers, belts and canes for disciplining the young boys in my charge. I select a cane of medium thickness, the longest of the three I have - I want this caning to leave a very strong impression on the boy, and indeed to pay back a few offences the child has wriggled out of in the past. As I walk over to him I watch him peel off his pyjama jacket: hes a muscular boy though not very big for his age, a plucky scrum-half. He hesitates in his disrobement, eyeing the cane: long, shiny, yellow, knotted every four or five inches - the most feared sight for any boy at St Crispins.
Hurry up, now.
I watch his fingers toy with the button of his pyjama trousers, then watch the garment slide down his slim legs. As bends to pick the pyjamas up I get my first view of the bottom I will be working on: small, firm, each buttock a lean muscle, slightly dimpled at the side. The shadow of a pair of speedos is just visible still - its November and summer tans are fading fast. He walks over and places the pyjamas on my desk
I take the little boy gently by the neck and lead him back to the armchair. I sit down, and he resumes his position - but naked and ready for punishment this time.
Have I caned you before, Simon?
No, Sir.
Does your father cane you?
No, Sir, he just slippers me sometimes.
The cane is a great deal more painful than the slipper.
The boy nods, lips pursed. I have to confess I enjoy these pre-beating conversations as much as my little victims loathe them - they, of course, would rather get the unpleasantness over a quickly as possible. I regard a slow, measured pace as an integral part of the boys punishment.
I also enjoy contemplating the errant child as the dreaded moment approaches. Simon is a brave little chap and hes doing a good job of hiding his fear. It crosses my mind he would make a fine study for a sculptor: hes a beautifully muscled boy, with a natural grace of posture, despite the tension he must be feeling. He pushes of lock of his dark-brown hair away from his eyes - hes very much in need of a haircut, I note.
Do you understand why youre being beaten?
Yes, Sir.
I get up and point to the cushioned seat of the armchair.
Kneel down.
He obeys, but kneels right in the middle of the seat.
Back a bit.
I pull at his thighs until I have his knees just on the edge of the cushion.
Head right down.
I take a warm, bare shoulder in each hand and ease him down, wedging his head at the back of the chair. Then I take a small hand in each of my large hands and get him to grip the back of the armchair - it may help him to take the pain that is rapidly approaching him.
Were getting there, I think to myself. I kneel behind the boy and observe with an expert eye.
Knees right apart, as far as theyll go.
The little boy wriggles his knees until they are wedged into the sides of the chair.
Push your bottom up.
The boy tries, but of course my positioning of him has already exposed his buttocks to maximum effect: the skin is taut and the two bottom-cheeks are nicely pulled apart. Still kneeling, I run my palms slowly around the flesh I am about to punish. As always when caning, I am left with a slight sense of sorrow that I will be lacerating such smooth, soft, rounded skin.
Finally I stand up and reach for the cane.
Try to keep still and quiet during your caning, Simon. You will receive three strokes, I remind him - quite unnecessarily, for I am sure the word THREE is etched into his frightened young mind...
I lay the bamboo on the pale skin, and the boys body twitches unusually strongly. I let him settle.
Im going to start.
I raise the rod and bring it down hard, with a satisfying hiss and crack, across the centre of the 12-year-olds bare backside. Theres a muffled squeal and I note muscular contractions in the nude boys arms and thighs and calves, but apart from that he controls himself well. I look at my watch, quite unhurried, intending to allow a full 20 seconds before I administer the next stroke. 20 seconds is an eternity for a young boy, stark naked, agonized bottom high in the air, waiting for the cane to bite into him again. For me, it is a satisfactory period of time to allow the pain to seep into the buttock muscle.
The seconds tick away. I kneel momentarily to take a closer look at my handiwork: its a nice clean weal affecting each buttock equally. I raise the cane again and bring it down with surgical precision an inch above the first stroke. He cries out then subsides into muffled sobbing.
The last stroke will be the one that pays back a few unpunished incidents Im sure Simon was involved in – the Cake Thefts, the Bullying of the Twins, the Breaking of the Dormitory Window. I change my stance somewhat, for I am going to cane low and almost horizontally: I want the bamboo to impact the boys bottom square on, and just an inch above the top of his thighs.
I take the boys squeal of pain as a compliment to my skill as a beater of pre-pubescent boys.
You may get up, Simon.
The nude boy struggles to rise, and in the end I put a hand into each of his armpits and ease him up myself. Hes a picture of misery: now clutching his welted rear-end, now pushing tears out his eyes. I get him into his pyjama jacket, then coax him into his pyjama trousers.
I look at my watch: Im late for my bacon and eggs!
DESCRIPTION OF A STRAPPING
I sit in my office pondering Jakes fate. Ive had about five complaints about him this week, the latest one from the kitchen staff. Frankly, the boy is getting above himself as he approaches the end of his first year in my house: "If Im naughty I might get slippered. Big deal! It doesnt hurt that much." He needs taking down a peg or two, and needs to realise I have resources at my disposal very much nastier than the slipper. I dont want to reach for the cane, though - I do keep that for extreme cases.
A vigorous bare-bottomed strapping is what he deserves! I move to my chest of drawers to select a strap. I have never liked beating with the traditional trouser-belt: its too long, too thin and too difficult to place accurately across the miscreants exposed buttocks. I rummage around and find a suitable implement. I cut it from an old luggage strap long ago: its about 40cm long and 3cm wide, made of good thick leather. When I hold it in the middle between my forefinger and thumb the two ends barely sag. I havent used this strap for years, and feel quite cheered at the thought of exercising it.
Two elements of the drama are in place: the thrasher (thats me!) and the thrashing implement. All I need is the little victim. Its late-June 1976 - perhaps you remember the Long Hot Summer of 1976? On a boiling hot Sunday afternoon I can almost guarantee he will be in the pool, along with 90% of the boys.
I make my way there. Duffer Harris is the master in charge (in charge?? Duffer couldnt keep order in a graveyard!) and its complete bedlam. The noise drops noticeably as I enter the enclosure and seek out Jake. Boys almost visibly sigh with relief as my beady eye passes them by. After a minute of scouring the scene of naked little boys, diving, jumping, splashing, whooping, sprawling sensuously on warm flagstones, I spot him and walk over.
Put your shorts on, Jake, and go up to my room.
What have I done?
Well talk about that later, young man.
Im in no hurry to return to my room and deal with the miscreant. Now the remaining boys realise that the sword of Damocles is not about to descend on their bottoms the atmosphere lightens.
Sir, throw me in.
Look at my dive, Mr Benson!
Why dont you have a swim, Sir, its lovely.
I take Lucas up on his offer to be thrown into the pool. Beckoning Ricky over, I take Lucas by the armpits while Ricky grabs his ankles. We swing him from side to side and on the count of three, launch him, limbs flailing and squealing with excitement, into the water. It would be easy to stay all afternoon, but I have some serious thrashing to do.
As I mount the stairs to my room I see the young boy outside my door, clad only in a pair of denim shorts (on Sunday afternoons boys wear their own clothes, not school uniform). He has kicked off his sandals, as I require.
I sit in my armchair and stand the boy in front of me, running over his misdeeds and swatting away a few feeble excuses and evasions. Finally I deliver my verdict.
I see from the Ledger that Ive spanked or slippered you seven times this year Jake. It doesnt seem to be having much effect, so I think we need to try something new.
I stroll over to my desk and pick up the strap, slappping it menacingly into the palm of my left hand. Jakes face registers dismay and he mutters something - I believe it might have been "God this is unfair"! Hes a spirited boy, and has never submitted to discipline easily.
Shorts off.
You cant whack me on the bare bum with that! Itll be too hard.
I certainly can - and will. If you waste any more time Ill just strap you harder.
I watch the boy pull down his shorts, his face indignant and protesting.
Im going to give you two minutes to think about why youre getting a hiding, Jake.
In truth, it might be fairer to say Im going to give myself two minutes to examine my 11-year-old victim before I chastise him. Long hours of frolicking naked in the pool over the last six sun-scorched weeks have given the young boy a glorious all-over tan. The buttocks I will soon be inflicting pain on, and even the boys immature little genitals, are golden-brown. I have positioned him sideways on, with the sun streaming through the bay-window behind me to emphasise the tone and colour of the childs skin. His small denim shorts lie around his ankles.
I take a dining chair - its difficult to beat a boy effectively in an armchair - and sit down, beckoning him over. Perhaps from some sudden sense of his vulnerability he clutches both hands over his penis and testicles as he approaches me.
In a trice I have him over my left leg, clamping his thighs firmly in place with my right leg - I know from experience that the boy is an inveterate wriggler whilst being beaten. My left hand rests between the lads shoulder blades, holding the upper half of his body in place. I eye the little brown buttocks I am about to thrash, planning my attack. The boys bottom is perfectly placed: in particular I have easy access to the lower buttocks. I balance the strap across Jakes back and slide my right hand slowly over the sunburnt skin it is my duty to punish.
Six strokes of the strap for general tiresomeness, Jake.
Did the boy mumble something? It matters not! I bring the strap down hard across the central area both buttocks, and feel him buck, but my grip on him is tight. It irritates me that he makes so little effort to control himself when Im thrashing him. Of course, being Jake, each blow provokes an indignant yelp of pain and protest.
Unpleasantly, I land the second stroke right over the first, then change tactics slightly. I decide to concentrate the next stroke exclusively on the childs nearer bottom cheek, bringing the strap down diagonally across the buttock. Again he tries to force himself up, and I warn him he will get further punishment if hes not careful. Symmetry demands I treat his other buttock in the same way.
Oww. Let me go. I cant take any more!
I dont dignify this outburst with a reply. Instead I turn my eye to the area of his bottom just above the light crease that separates his thigh from his buttock. I crack the strap down hard on this sensitive skin - this is what will make sitting down a torment for the rest of the day, and as its Sunday he will have sit through a Chapel service at 7 oclock!
Jakes response annoys me: his hands fly up to protect his bottom (I thought Id cured him of that six months ago) and the howling becomes continuous.
Clasp your hands together or Ill get the cane out for you. And stop yowling. You have one more stroke.
The word cane brings the boy to his senses: dimly he realises things could get much worse. He hasnt yet tasted the cane himself, but he will have seen the welts on Simons backside last week. He laces his fingers together and braces himself for the last stroke of the strap. Again I land it low, just overlapping the previous one.
Overall, the boys behaviour during his disciplining has annoyed me considerably. I decided to make my displeasure felt not by further application of the strap to his well-whipped rear, but by how I treat him after the strapping.
Keep your hands together and get up.
I help him climb up. He eyes me to see if he dares to clutch his bottom, but he sees the steel in my expression. I lead him to the wall.
Hands on the wall and dont move.
I keep him there for ten minutes, occasionally glancing up at his neatly strapped bottom, which the punished boy keeps waggling and twisting in a vain attempt to soothe the pain. When I let him go he flashes me a look of purest indignation. I do like a boy with spirit!