Return-Path: 
Date: Sat, 17 Feb 1996 14:22:30 +1100
Message-Id: <199602170322.OAA29757@budapest.ozonline.com.au>
X-Sender: jozwill@pop.ozonline.com.au (Unverified)
Mime-Version: 1.0
From: jozwill@ozonline.com.au

Out of Retirement Part I

The results my students had achieved somehow came to the attention of the then headmaster of ---- College, a prestigious private school. I received a most courteous letter from him, inviting my to visit the College and to take afternoon tea with him. Whilst mere curiosity led me to accept this invitation, when I left the College I had accepted a teaching position! I had at first sight all but fallen in love with the spacious surroundings and gracious architecture of the College. Whilst myself the product of a private school, that school was relatively young. ---- College boasted a long and honourable history, a history almost as old as that of Australia following English settlement, and this history somehow permeated the corridors, buildings, and classrooms I visited with the headmaster prior to taking afternoon tea in his study. When he suggested that I might consider employment at the College, I immediately indicated my interest in such an appointment. 'That's settled, then', the headmaster had said, poured me a second cup of tea, and continued describing incidents from the lives of some of his illustrious predecessors.

I left with my head in the clouds. Only later did I realise that my teaching responsibilities had not been specified or my salary negotiated, but I need not have concerned myself. My responsibilities were considerable, but not improperly demanding. My salary was more generous than I had dared dream. By the end of my first year at ---- College, I felt perfectly at home. I belonged.

The years passed rapidly. My students sitting for the University Entrance Examination invariably out-performed most candidates from other colleges and schools. Indeed, it became a public expectation that the 'top student' in mathematics would come from ---- College. Not a few of my students became, in time, mathematicians respected in academic circles, and some even reached the exalted heights of a professorship in the discipline. I published two school text-books which became, in this admittedly specialised genre of writing, 'best-sellers'. In brief, the fates had smiled upon me when I accepted the then headmaster's vague invitation to become a part of ---- College.

I faced but one problem. Discipline at ---- College mirrored the system of discipline obtaining in the great private schools of England. Corporal punishment was the norm; the cane was the specified instrument of punishment. My problem was not an aversion to administering such discipline. On the contrary. I was aware that I derived a measure of pleasure from employing the cane. It seemed to me improper that I should ever utilise such authority as I possessed to gratify my own -- to me inexplicable -- tastes. I therefore used the cane but sparingly. As it happens, that was sufficient. The 'discipline of mathematics' in a sense ensured 'discipline' in my classes. The overwhelming majority of my students experienced a sense of growing mastery and the increased self-confidence born of that mastery. Hence few were the occasions when incomplete assignments or disruptions during a class necessitated my instructing a miscreant to report to my study at the end of the school day.

Yet occasionally such an instruction was appropriate. I followed the established procedures precisely. The miscreant would be asked if he could proffer a good reason for being spared a caning. Never once was such a reason proffered. The offending boy would then remove his school jacket, pull his shirt tail out of his trousers and roll it upwards, and then bend over the back of a large arm-chair. I would take a fairly heavy rattan cane from a closet, instruct the boy to adjust his position if such adjustment was needed so that his buttocks were conveniently positioned for my purposes, state how many strokes of the cane I intended to administer, and systematically execute the specified punishment. Inasmuch as my students all came from the penultimate and final years of schooling, I was permitted to administer up to twelve strokes. I never administered less than six: an offence meriting less than six did not, in my opinion, merit corporal punishment. Nine or twelve was the typical sentence.

Apparently I acquired over the years a reputation as a 'caner' of all but unequalled severity. Or so several ex-students whom I had had occasion to cane but who chose in later years to visit me informed me. One such ex-student I recall saying, 'Mr X caned all the time. It was a joke. You rarely caned. But when you did, we knew all about it! Any senior being told to report to your study knew precisely what he was in for. It used to hurt like hell, and the weals took weeks to fade. It was all I could do when you gave me twelve cuts not to bawl my eyes out like a baby! I kept control while I put on my jacket, shook hands, and left. But when on the other side of your door I was grabbing and squeezing my behind like crazy!' Oddly, none of the ex-students I had caned seemed to bear any grudge. Not one of them suggested, even for a moment, that his punishment had not been deserved.

Yet, as stated, at the age of sixty-seven I retired. The school and innumerable 'old boys' contributed towards a most generous farewell gift. I had, it would seem, become almost an institution. So many ex-students applied to attend my farewell dinner that the original plan to hold that dinner within the school precincts had to be abandoned and the local town hall hired for the occasion. I was both touched and flattered.

My farewells made, my study cleared, and a long, unhurried tour of the classrooms in which I had taught quietly and pensively taken, I left ---- College for the last time. I took with me most of my books, various personal effects, and a multitude of wondrously happy memories. I also took with me, for reasons I care not to explore, a recently acquired cane.

The initial year of retirement was a delight. For the first time, I travelled abroad. Those travels were memorable. For example, an ex-student who headed the mathematics department at a well-known US university invited me to spend some time with him and his family, and further invited me to prepare and deliver to the faculty he headed a lecture on the teaching of mathematics at a secondary level. I accepted both his invitations. The lecture gave me a golden opportunity to lament the scrappy and unsystematic approach to mathematics that had become in recent years so fashionable in Australian schools. Apparently the same process had occurred in the USA, and my lecture was received with considerable approval. I was stunned when a ridiculously generous honorarium was given to me, but flattered by the subsequent publication and unexpectedly wide distribution of my lecture.

I delighted in every moment of my travels. Yet I was not sorry when these travels came to an end and I returned to my home. I had plans to write further articles on the teaching of mathematics, and even toyed with the idea of 'updating' my once widely used text-books. Life, or so I thought, would be full and rich.

The reality was otherwise. I felt homesick for ---- College. Procrastination became my middle name. Yes, I would put pen to paper and begin writing those planned articles, but not today. Tomorrow, perhaps. Time passed so slowly and so tediously....

Had this not been the case I would not have considered even for a moment a request made in a touchingly respectful letter I received. It was from an ex-student. A relative of this ex-student, a relative who happened to be a citizen of South Africa, had made contact with him. The nineteen year-old son of this relative had, against his father's advice, terminated his school career at the age of fifteen. He had entertained dreams of a career as a technician in the music industry, and had decided that further schooling was time wasted. Three years in that industry had led to his being 'mugged' by reality. He had realised that this industry was not for him. Belatedly, he also had become aware of the considerable academic potential that was his. He wanted 'another chance'. He wanted, in short, to satisfy the requirements for entry to a university.

Perhaps surprisingly, the South African University this lad wished to attend was remarkably flexible. It made available to aspiring entrants an alternative to the standard, school-based university entrance examinations. One component of that 'deferred entrance' examination posed, however, seemingly insuperable problems. A relatively advanced level of mastery in mathematics was required.

The situation was further complicated by the fact that the company employing the boy's father had appointed him to an Australian-based position for a year. For a range of reasons, the boy could not be left in South Africa. It was necessary that he accompany his parents to Australia. Yet the requisite examination could be taken, if supervised at the South African Consulate, in Australia. How, the father had asked his relative, could his son, in Australia, best be prepared for the examination in mathematics? Preferably, the examination would be sat some three months after the family's arrival in Australia. If the boy was not by then ready to sit the examination, a further twelve months would have to pass.

My ex-student, rightly, realised that one-on-one tutoring was the only feasible strategy. Would I, he asked me in his letter, consider being the tutor? A fee, more than generous, was mentioned. If truth be told, the fee interested me but little. The thought of an activity that might end my boredom excited me. I agreed to meet with the father and the boy when they arrived in Australia.

The father and the boy, Grant, were again seated in my lounge. I had, prior to this meeting, spent several hours analysing the specified levels in mathematics the deferred entry examination would test. I had carefully examined five past examination papers. I had prepared three one hour diagnostic tests the objective of which was to identify, precisely, what mathematical skills Grant possessed and what skills he had yet to acquire before successfully sitting the examination. I had met with Grant and had him attempt these tests. I had carefully assessed his efforts. It was possible, or so I concluded, that given three months of intensive teaching, Grant could reach the requisite level. That judgement I had made known to the father and to Grant.

Both were clearly delighted. Clearly, my ex-student had not understated my capacities as a teacher. Reference had been made in conversation, actually by Grant, to my reputation, my once widely-used text-books, and the success of many ex-students.

I was willing to tutor Grant. He, clearly, was anxious that I should do so. But his father displayed what I perceived as a slight hesitancy. At last, he voiced what was on his mind.

'Grant did quite well at St -----'s, the private school he attended in South Africa but so stupidly left. He did well for one reason. It was a no-nonsense school. When he did well, he was patted on the back. When he wasted time or slacked around, he was more than patted on his bared backside with an old-fashioned cane. He's the sort of lad who needs just that. I understand that you know how to use a cane. I want to know that you won't be backward in applying a cane across Grant's bared backside. Grant, you tell Mr ---- what you told me.'

The lad cleared his throat and grinned. 'Dad's right. I know it. I learn best and work best when I know that there's a cane in the cupboard and that the cane will come out of the cupboard and do the job it's made for whenever I deserve it. Don't get me wrong, sir. A good caning hurts. But I know me. No cane to smarten me up when I need it and I get slack. It sounds crazy, but that's me.'

For a moment I was silent. Grant was just over six feet tall, tanned, and superbly proportioned. During our first meeting he had bent over to remove a file from his case, and I could not help but notice his well proportioned, 'built-to-be-caned' buttocks. And here were both the father and Grant himself all but demanding that I employ the cane when tutoring Grant! And the references to Grant's bared buttocks, to be frank, aroused me. I had, perhaps to my shame, fantasised about caning a miscreant across his bared buttocks, but had, of course, never sought to realise that fantasy. That fantasy I was all but being pleaded with to realise! The situation was bizarre.

At last I spoke. 'Let me repeat myself. I believe that, given Grant's cooperation, we can reach the required level within three months. It will not be easy. If Grant does not apply himself, all my efforts will be wasted. I also know that, perhaps unfortunately, the cane has its place, even if only as a threatened possibility, in the classroom. If Grant's behaviour should ever be such as to merit the application of the cane, I will not hesitate to apply it. But let us hope that he is sensible enough not to behave in a way that demands a caning. He is, after all, nineteen years of age. A caning of twelve strokes would not be appropriate. A much more severe caning would be required. Let's hope it's never called for!'

Within minutes an agreement was reached. I was to tutor Grant, for six hours a day, six days a week, for three months. Grant's father produced a somewhat amateurish contract we all signed. Conspicuous by its presence was a condition that corporal punishment be administered. I merely insisted that the conditional clause, 'if and when appropriate' be added.

My guests left. I could not resist the temptation. I went to my back room, opened a cupboard, and retrieved my cane. It was admirably supple. In my mind's eye, I saw the tightly clad pair of firm, well-proportioned buttocks revealed when Grant had bent over to obtain what he wanted from his case....

I will not waste time detailing the first two weeks of tutorials. Grant made quite remarkable progress. Yet on several occasions he remarked, whimsically, that the cane had remained 'unseen and unfelt'. Indeed on one occasion he turned his back to me, bowed slightly forward, and clasped his buttocks. 'Thank goodness I did OK in that test!', he said. 'If I had not, these two bum cheeks would be smarting!' It was as though he was, albeit courteously, teasing me. Or maybe hinting at something I chose not to contemplate.

I perhaps should have anticipated it. Suffice to say that I had not.

One day Grant had not arrived by our specified time. A full half hour passed before he arrived. Atypically, he looked somewhat unkempt. His hair had not been combed. He had not shaved. Yet he seemed slightly excited.

I commented, briefly but disapprovingly, upon his late arrival and appearance. Grant said nothing. I asked him to hand over his home assignment book so that I could examine his attempts to apply a relatively simple mathematical procedure -- the difference of two squares -- introduced the day before. Somewhat challengingly, Grant stated that he had lacked time to complete the set assignment. But no matter. He 'understood' the principle perfectly. Rapidly, I prepared a test of ten items to assess his claimed mastery of the concept. I passed the 'test' over to Grant and asked him to complete it. He managed to get but two of the ten items correct.

I spoke quietly. 'You arrived late. You failed to complete your assignment. You managed to get only two of the ten test items correct. By not consolidating what we studied yesterday, you have wasted your time, my time, and your father's money. What do you expect me to do?'

An all but triumphant look flashed in Grant's eyes, but it was quickly curbed. Speaking as quietly as had I, Grant said, 'I expect to be thoroughly caned, sir. I can't excuse my behaviour and you have no reason to tolerate it. Actually, it's overdue sir. The cane cutting into my bum, I mean.'

'The cane it most certainly will be,' I stated. I then stood. 'I shall go and obtain it. Whilst I'm gone, get yourself ready'. Slightly trembling, I left and made my way to the back room.....

When I returned to the front room Grant, stripped down to a small white pair of underbriefs, was standing at attention. I could not but notice the all-too-apparent erection that was his. I placed the cane upon the table. Grant stared at it with seeming fascination. 'Sit down, Grant. Before I cane you, we'll go over the homework and attempt to get matters right'.

For fifteen minutes or so we worked together. Grant was attentive, and quickly grasped the principle in question. A short 'test' of five items resulted in his getting all five items 'right'. During these activities, an expectant excitement, almost an impatience, emanated from Grant. Momentarily, I mused over his initial test performance. A zero score would have made better sense. Yet I cut this musing short.

I sat back in my chair, maintained silence for a moment, then spoke. 'There are several offences deserving of punishment, Grant. You were late, thereby showing a total disregard for my time. You had not bothered to shave or comb your hair. You did not attempt, let alone complete, the set assignment. By so failing to reinforce and consolidate yesterday's work, you forgot all but everything in which we yesterday invested some of our time together and some of your father's money. You performed miserably on the test. How many strokes of the cane do you think are appropriate? I am making you the judge. You have already spoken for the jury and brought in a verdict of guilty. You have already indicated that a caning is called for. Specify an appropriate sentence.'

'May I stand, sir?' Grant asked.

I silently nodded. The lad stood, his erection painfully apparent through the thin, tightly-clinging, white cotton briefs. For a time he was silent, his forehead furrowed and his amiable face contemplative. Then he spoke. 'Sir. You listed four, no five offences. Five inexcusable offences. For my lateness, six strokes across my bared bum. For my untidiness, the same. For not attempting the set assignment, for thereby wasting the hours we spent together yesterday, and for the test result, nine -- no, one dozen -- strokes apiece. That's -- um -- twelve plus thirty-six -- that's forty eight strokes. At least forty-eight strokes. Sir.'

'Then forty-eight it shall be', I said, trying to keep my voice steady. 'Get ready and position yourself!'

The lad glanced around the room. 'I think, sir, over there. You will have room to really swing it, room to apply the cane with full force. Do you agree, sir?'

Silently, I nodded.

Swiftly, Grant removed his briefs, folded them, and placed them on top of his neatly folded jacked, shirt and trousers, which he had piled upon the floor. Resolutely, he walked to the position he had specified. He took a deep breath, and then bowed forward from the waist, slightly arching his back. He then folded his hands and clasped them behind his neck.

Never, in my wildest imaginings, had I envisaged such a perfectly positione d target. The entire buttock area was exposed, save for the surfaces within the anal cleft. The underbuttocks were easily accessible. Neither buttock was so 'tight' that a pleasing, bouncing quiver could not be anticipated when the cane cut into its target. 'Is that satisfactory, sir?' the lad asked.

'That's fine, although move slightly to the right.' Grant shuffled into the position indicated. 'Is that what you want, sir?' he inquired.

'Exactly right' I said.

I picked up the cane and took my position, slightly to Grant's left. I gently 'patted' the waiting buttocks with the cane, noting with some pleasure the resultant 'bounce' of those buttocks. 'Forty-eight unforgettable, juicy strokes. Eight sets of six. Move or clasp or attempt to protect your buttocks during each six and penalty strokes will be administered. Are you ready?'

'Sir'.

Again I contemplated the precisely positioned target. Grant was tanned from the sun save for his buttocks, which were as white as alabaster. Firm, well rounded, and perfectly positioned. I took careful aim. The lad slightly trembled as the cane gently caressed his buttocks. I paused, lifted the cane, and then brought it hissing down, spectacularly cutting into the middle of Grant's rump. For a second, nothing. Then what I can only descibe as a muscular spasm and a muffled 'Ooh!' And slowly a blazing red line surfaced right across the middle of each otherwise unmarked, white buttock..

Silence. Then, although not instructed so to do, Grant spoke. 'That is stroke one of six, sir. Thank you, sir. It is throbbing, sir. Would you please administer the second stroke of this first set, sir?'

Again I took aim. I rested the cane alone the savage weal, gently moving it to and fro. I paused, then again raised the cane. Sneakily, I aimed for Grant's superbly exposed 'bum crease'. The cane cut into its intended, but to Grant unexpected, site, right where his bum met his upper legs. The boy gasped, all but stood, and exclaimed 'Christ!'

'I do not like blasphemy, Grant!' I stated.

'Sorry sir. I didn't mean it that way, sir. I ....'

'I am not interested in what you meant. My only concern is with what you said. A repeat performance will mean two penalty strokes. You understand?'

'Yes sir. Am I to take two penalty strokes for my lapse, sir?'

'Not this first time. But next time or times -- yes!'

'Sir'. A pause. Grant's voice, remarkably firm, again spoke. 'That is stroke number two of six, sir. Thank you, sir. Sorry for almost moving, sir. And sorry for what I said, sir. It really hurt and still is hurting like hell. Would you please administer the third stroke of this first set, sir?'

Without preliminary warning, I slashed the came into his upper buttocks. Again he gasped, all but stood, yet succeeded in retaining his position. I watched the weal take form. Three superbly spaced lines of blazing fire marked Grant's rump. That rump was twitching, clearly involuntarily. 'Keep your buttocks still, boy!' I thundered.

'I'm trying to, sir', Grant managed to say. After a pause he again spoke. 'That is stroke number three of six, sir. Thank you sir! You certainly know how to cane a boy, sir! My bum feels like it's on fire. Would you please administer the fourth stroke of this first set, sir?'

I paused. 'When were you last caned, and caned across your bared buttocks, Grant?' I asked, in an innocuous tone of voice.

'I would say -- about -- two, maybe three years -- aah! -- aah! -- years -- oh my! -- years ago, sir'. During the boy's reply I had cut into the as yet white flesh between the still reddening weal on his underbuttocks and the now slightly bluish weal across his mid-buttocks. His voice had risen after the first exclaimed 'aah!' but had stabilised. Again, the buttocks and legs were trembling, almost like the proverbial jelly.

I waited.

At last Grant spoke, his voice calm. 'That is stroke number four of six, sir. Thank you sir. It won't be long before I earn a couple of penalty strokes, sir. Could you give me a moment, sir?'

'Not too lengthy a moment,' I replied. 'There are two more of this set to come. Then seven more sets. Is that right? Four plus two is six. Seven sets of six give us forty-two. Forty-two plus six is forty-eight. Don't waste too much time, Grant. We're just beginning and I want us to get back to work.'

Almost immediately the boy responded. His voice slightly shaking, he said, 'Please administer the fifth stroke of this first set, sir.'

'Certainly!' I replied. I slashed into the weal on his underbuttocks again saying, 'That's the fifth' and then, immediately cutting into the as yet untouched buttock area between the savage weal on his upper buttocks and the bluish weal on his mid-buttocks, continued 'and that's the sixth!'

Strangely, no sound emerged. But he clearly was having problems holding his position. His savaged rump was quivering, and his legs were trembling. But he made it. 'That is stroke number five and stroke number six of six, sir. Cousin Michael was right, sir. You know how to use a cane, sir. Thank you sir.'

I was silent. Then, very quietly, I said. 'Set one. The first of eight sets. You may stand and retain your composure.'

Grant all but leapt upright, clasping and squeezing his buttocks. He arched like a bow, thrusting his pelvis forward and kneading his buttocks as he did so. He was behaving as though he could squeeze the pulsing surges of pain from those buttocks. I slowly walked around him, looking with amusement at his 'forward thrust' privates. The erection had gone. Slowly, however, as he kept squeezing and rubbing his rump, the erection returned.

'Time for the second set!' I announced. 'And this time six in rapid succession. Remember, if you move or try to protect yourself there are penalties! Get your rump back into position!'

Grant repositioned himself. 'Is that right, sir?' he asked.

'Perfect!' I replied. 'Now keep still for your own sake!' Rapidly, I briskly administered six full blooded strokes. At the third he began wailing in a strangely high-pitched voice, which increased in both intensity and height as I administered the fourth, fifth and sixth strokes. But, to his credit, he held his position, albeit trembling, tensing his clasped hands, and shaking with audible sobs! 'Stay there for a moment and feel it smart!' I ordered, and stay there he did.

At last I relented. 'Very well. Set two. Two of eight. You may stand.'

Grant again all but leapt upright, clasping his buttocks and again arching his back by thrusting his pelvis forwards. 'Ooh! This is pure hell! My poor bum!"

Amusingly, he began literally jumping, clasping and squeezing his buttocks as he did so. 'Oh please. Not just yet. Give me a moment. Oh hell! My bum. Thirty-six to come ....'

Systematically, the remaining six sets were administered. Two sets were administered with the rapidity of the second set; four sets were administered with deliberate slowness and precision. To my utter astonishment, no penalty strokes were incurred.

I will never forget his voiced register of the sixth stroke of the eighth set. 'That is stroke six of the eighth set. Thank you, sir. Oh sir, please sir, it so hurts sir. Thank you sir. Please give permission to stand, sir. Please sir. Quickly. I can't hold it much longer!'

'Just stay put and remember why you had to submit to this punishment,' I replied. I watched the boy struggling to retain his position, his entire body twitching and jerking in what must have been sheer agony. I then, without warning, slashed the cane across his quivering rump. He gave a quickly suppressed shriek, but succeeded in holding his position. 'That's it!' I said. 'You may stand'.

Grant pranced around the room, back arched, buttocks clasped, and unashamedly sobbing. I just bemusedly watched the nude boy attempting to 'work off' his pain, feeling remarkably detached. After two minutes or so had passed I left and returned the cane to the back room. When I returned G rant was still naked and still nursing his writhing rump. His sobbing, however, had ceased.

'Have you something to say, Grant?' I asked. I waited, wondering what reply his prior experiences with the cane might have conditioned him to make.

With extraordinary dignity the boy stook to attention. To my utter amazement, his penis again became erect. 'I have been punished deservedly, sir, and thank you for my punishment. Do you wish me to register my assessment now or later, sir?'

Somewhat puzzled, I said, 'Now!'.

Gingerly, Grant moved to the table. 'May I stand while I write it, sir?' he asked.

'You may!' I replied, fascinated.

Grant leaned slightly forward so as to write on one of the sheets of paper on the table. I looked with fascination at his buttocks. Some twenty minutes previously they had been alabaster white. They were now stunningly crimson, criss-crossed with savage weals. Blood had trickled from some of those weals, one track having made its way down his right leg almost to the back of his knee. The ravaged buttocks were still twitching.

'Before you write, let me check the anal cleft, Grant' I quietly ordered. 'Reach around, grasp each buttock cheek, and pull them apart'.

Silently, the boy did as instructed. His tight little anus came into view. Surprisingly, the flesh of each buttock which formed the anal cleft was well reddened, even though no weals were apparent. 'I see these buttock surfaces have also been affected by the caning', I remarked. 'That is fortunate. There is no need to use the crop to warm up untouched areas! Get on with your assessment.

Grant's assessment read as follows. "I have often tasted the cane. I had been told that Mr ---- wielded a vicious cane. I did not dream that it would be like this. The first stroke really took my breath away. There was a split second before the cane hitting home and my registering it, but then it registered for sure. I've never felt anything like it. My whole bum now feels like it is on fire. I can feel it throbbing and pulsing and burning. The thought of sitting down is too much to take. I cried but am not ashamed that I cried, for this was a full-force caning like I've never had before. A caning for a grown man to take."

Grant finished his assessment with strange formality. "I trust that I cooperated fully so that the cane could be used with maximum efficacy. I am proud that I held position, even though everything in me screamed out to stand and to protect my oh so vulnerable and oh so hurting bum. I hope that you found me an obedient and courteous person who positioned his bum precisely as required and that giving me my caning was not too irksome a task. The forty-eight well deserved strokes have been administered. If after close inspection you decide that an increment is called for, I shall try again to cooperate fully".

Painfully, Grant raised himself and stood to attention.

The final words gave me my cue. I told Grant to take a shower, clean up the bleeding as much as was possible, and to report back for inspection. He did so. I had him turn and bow slightly from the waist, and pulled his buttocks around while inspecting them.

'I am satisfied', I finally said. 'The matter is closed.'

'Shall I sign first or will you?' Grant asked. Again slightly bewildered, I said 'You sign.' Grant again bent over the table and wrote the words, 'Punishment completed' on the sheet. He then signed his name in full. Awkwardly, he pushed the paper towards me. I too appended my signature. Grant held out his hand and I shook it. 'Thank you, sir!' he said. Amazingly, he managed to give me a wry grin of sorts. He then turned, and limped his sorry way to his clothes. Watching him gingerly pulling his tight briefs over his red and raw rump made me smile. He slowly completed dressing himself, then came back to the table and, very gingerly, lowered himself into his chair.

The tutorial continued where we had left off.

Grant's behaviour was impeccable and his progress utterly extraordinary for the next four weeks. Then came a further lapse, and this time a lapse Grant certainly in no way intended. But that is another story.

Out of Retirement Part II

I have previously documented how, after retiring from a not unsuccessful teaching career at the age or 67 years, I agreed to tutor a nineteen-year-old South African lad, temporarily residing in Australia, for the deferred entrance examination to a major South African University. Any reader of this communication unacquainted with my prior report would be advised to defer reading this document until that initial report has been procured and read.

Following what I might call the 'first meeting' between my cane and Grant's buttocks, steady progress towards our common objective had been made. It is perhaps worth mentioning that, following this caning, I initially felt some remorse. Indeed 'guilt' might be a more appropriate word. I had never, in all my long years at ---- College, administered so many strokes of the cane to a lad. True, Grant was older than any student I had previously punished, but four times what had previously been my maximum penalty seemed in retrospect outrageously excessive. That Grant, literally, had 'asked' for that number of strokes seemed somewhat irrelevant to the reality. Again, I had never before, save in fantasy, caned a boy across his bared buttocks. Yet the day after I had caned Grant I had remarked to him, in what I hoped was a detached voice, that I trusted that he had not found his punishment excessive. If anything, his expression signalled surprise. And his voiced answer to my question had been utterly direct and simple: 'Not at all. Why would I?'. Perhaps more significantly, in the days and weeks which followed, his courteous yet amiable attitude became if anything more pronounced.

For two entire days Grant and I had been working on a major component -- actually two components -- of the requirements in mathematics for the South African deferred entrance examination. I conflated these two related components -- first, combinations and permutations, and second, basic probability theory -- and introduced them by relating them to Grant's expressed interest in horse racing! Grant knew about the various complex 'bets' that could be made on such races. We began with so-called 'Quinella' and 'Exacta' bets. The former bet is 'won' if a punter correctly selects and places his money upon the two horses which come first and second in a specified race. The order in which these two horses so win is irrelevant. So long as the two horses have been selected, the punter wins. An 'Exacta' bet is more demanding. The punter must not only select the two horses reaching first and second positions in the race; he must also specify which of these two horses comes first and which comes second. This information, thoroughly familiar to Grant, was all that I need to explain the difference between a 'combination' and a 'permutation'.

If truth be told, Grant clearly enjoyed our tutorials, which utilised this distinction and further horse-racing examples. We worked out how many 'Exacta' bets were necessary to cover every possible outcome, in a race of, initially, ten horses. Ten horses could in theory come first. For each of these, nine horses could in theory come second. Ten times nine gives ninety possible outcomes. All but instinctively, Grant realised that the probability of any given one of these outcomes being realised was, assuming all the horses were of equal ability, one in ninety.

Progressively, we built upon this simple beginning. When Grant had reached a moderately sophisticated level of understanding, I infuriated him by catching him in a verbal trap. I described a possible betting game with playing cards. Three cards would be selected, randomly, from a deck. I would bet five cents on the 'improbable outcome' of two of these cards being of the same suit. Grant would bet but four cents on my losing this 'improbable' bet. Winner take all. We played the game for fifteen minutes. That was sufficient for me to win the one hundred cents Grant possessed at the beginning of the game, even after I had 'lent' him forty additional cents to keep the game going. I suggested that Grant engage in some calculations. He did so, burst out laughing, and said 'You cunning so-and-so! I gobbled down your talk of an "improbable outcome" hook, line and sinker!'

Three days of this strange mixture of the familiar and the unfamiliar, the concrete and the abstract, games with cards and imagined horse races and dice and purely mathematical considerations, culminated my introducing Grant to what mathematicians call the 'binomial distribution', the final topic set in the 'probability theory' component of the deferred entrance examination in mathematics. As was my usual practice, I gave Grant when he left a sheet of problems utilising this concept. By working on these problems for a few hours after he had displayed initial 'mastery' of the concept, what he had learned would, at least in theory, be consolidated. He would have 'short-circuited', so to speak, the brain's inbuilt propensity to 'erase' seemingly unimportant data.

Some seven hours after Grant had left my residence, my door-bell rang. I was startled, as it was slightly after 11.00 p.m. When I opened the door, I found two young men standing before it. 'Is this the home of Grant ----?', one of them asked.

'No,' I replied. 'But Grant attends here daily for tutoring in mathematics. Is there something wrong?'

'Nothing's wrong,' one of my visitors replied. 'Grant left his wallet at the Royal. We noticed it about fifteen minutes after he left. It contained this map showing how to get from the Royal to this address. Grant had told us he came from South Africa. We assumed he needed directions to get home'. He then passed over the map.

I recognised it immediately. If fact I had drawn it and given it to Grant the first time his father had driven him to my home. It indicated a quick, ten minute route from the local railway station to my home. I had provided it so that Grant could make his daily journey to and from my home by public transport. The Royal, a popular local drinking place, was directly opposite that railway station.

'Grant's coming here tomorrow morning,' I stated. 'If you wish, I can return the wallet to him them.'

The two young men hesitated for a moment, then passed over the wallet. 'I know that Grant would like me to thank you,' I said. 'Just wait a moment'.

I rapidly went to my study, removed a ten dollar note from my own wallet, and returned to the front door. 'Please take this,' I requested, 'and have a few drinks on me and on Grant. But tell me, what was Grant doing at the Royal?'

'Hey! There's no need for that!', the taller of the two young men replied, taking the ten dollar note with alacrity at the same time! 'Oh, Grant looked in -- what? -- six, seven hours ago. We were playing snooker. He watched for a time, then asked if we would like to play off as a threesome. He's not bad! And he sure can hold his drinks!'

'And Grant left .... ?'

'Like we said. About half an hour ago. He's a nice guy!'.

I agreed, bade my uninvited callers 'Good night!', made and drank a cup of tea, and set off for bed.

Grant arrived right on time. He looked somewhat tense. I greeted him, we made our way to the front dining room table where we always worked, and, as is my usual practice, I asked for his home assignment book. Silently, which was unusual for him, he procured that book from his case and passed it over to me.

Grant's attempts to solve problems requiring the use of the binomial distribution did not bear examination. Even problems exactly parallelling problems we had worked through together the day before had proved too difficult. No less significantly, his failed attempts had clearly been made in very short time -- whether on belatedly reaching his home or that morning I did not care to guess, let alone ask.

I just looked, without speaking, at the page of nonsense before me. "This,' I at last said, 'is utterly appalling. What went wrong?'

'I don't know, sir', Grant replied. 'I tried to do the work, but it just wouldn't come. I went a complete blank. I'm sorry.'

"What time did you get home, Grant? How long did you spend on this?'

Grant looked sideways. 'It usually takes me, given a good train connection, forty-five to fifty minutes to get home. Say an hour. That gets me home at about 6.00. I have dinner, then start work at about 7.00. I work for however long it takes; two, maybe three, hours.'

I felt utterly furious. Grant was playing with me. He had not lied, but he had certainly attempted to mislead me. But I contained my fury.

'Did you take longer to get home yesterday?', I asked. 'Frankly, what you've given me doesn't suggest twenty minutes, let alone a couple of hours!'

'The train took the same time as ever,' Grant replied. 'Thirty, thirty-five minutes. And the assignment required the usual two hours or so.'

To repeat, I was furious. The relaxed and easy way I had led Grant into the mysteries of combinations, permutations, probability theory, and the binomial distribution, had not been a fortuitous event. Hours of thought and preparation, backed by years of teaching experience, had made this approach possible. And what was the result? A young man playing with words, a young man cleverly side-stepping my questions! Rarely had I felt so angry.

I stood, went over to the dresser, and picked up Grant's wallet. I tossed it upon the table, saying, 'I think that this is yours!'

'Oh! Did I leave it here? Thank heavens! I thought that ....'

"I am not interested in what you thought! And no, you did not leave it here! You left it at the Royal when you belatedly made your departure. Your snooker-playing but honest -- I repeat, honest -- friends brought it here. They obtained this address from the map I drew for you.'

Grant just looked at me. He seemed stunned.

I continued. 'Pack your case. Leave! I usually like games with a point, games such as those we played to illustrate probability theory applied to the real world. But your game, your dishonest word game, I do not like! My time happens to be important to me. Just pack your case and leave! Now!'

'Sir, I .....'

'Leave! You have said enough and done enough. Just go!'

Ashen faced, Grant put his books into his case, stood up, and began making his departure. At the door he momentarily turned and began to speak, but I cut him short. 'Leave!'

He left.

I felt no regrets whatsoever for my actions. I liked Grant and enjoyed watching his mathematical prowess growing. Yet amongst the qualities I most liked were his frankness, his candour, his lack of duplicity. It was precisely these qualities that he had, as I perceived it, betrayed.

Relatively early during the evening my telephone rang. I answered it. It was Grant.

'Sir. Can I come and try to explain?'

'Come when? And explain what?'

'Explain everything. Maybe tonight? I can be there in ....'

'That's quite out of the question. I'm occupied.'

'Then maybe tomorrow morning, sir? Maybe the usual time?'

I was silent for some seconds. I finally responded. 'Very well. The usual time. Good-night.' I immediately replaced the receiver in its cradle. The house suddenly seemed strangely silent.

Grant was seated in an arm-chair opposite me. His usually frank and open face looked strained. His hands were tightly clenched on the arms of the chair.

'Well? You asked to come. You have ten, fifteen, twenty minutes. More if you wish. You stated that you wished to "explain" yourself. Do so.'

His face slightly twisted and his voice unsteady, Grant uttered two words. 'I can't'.

'Then why were you so anxious to come here? Don't waste more of my time! Explain!'.

Making an effort to hold his composure, the boy began to speak. 'When I left I felt fantastic. My elder brother had done probability theory in his final year at school. I remember, because he worked for hours trying to understand it. And he's smarter than me. Yet I understood it! I actually found it fun. I really began to believe that I could pass that exam.

'When I reached the station I decided to visit the Royal and have a quick beer to celebrate. But I got talking. And playing snooker. And I kept playing and drinking and I really don't remember leaving the Royal or travelling home. The next morning I woke up early. I felt sort of empty. I just lay there, trying to work something out. I didn't know what. I just knew that something was wrong, but not what was wrong. Then it came back. I got up, grabbed my book, and began trying to do the work-sheet, but nothing would come. I just felt sick, really sick and "panicky sick" too , if you know what I mean. Then when I got here I just couldn't bring myself to say....'

Perhaps unkindly, I broke into his monologue. 'But you could bring yourself to deceive me, to play games, to treat me with utter contempt'. The boy began to interrupt, but I halted him and continued. 'I have taught for more years than I care to count. I have taught intelligent and not very intelligent boys. I have taught in both the government school system and the private school system. I thought that I had experienced, in my years of teaching, all that there was to be experienced. Yet yesterday proved me wrong. I was treated as I have never before been treated and hope never again to be treated! Forget the hours I spent preparing materials for our tutorials! Forget that we had begun to move within reach of our goal! Just focus upon your words, words worse than lies! Explain those words to me!'

Grant's eyes brimmed with tears. His face was strained. Again he could but utter two words. 'I can't.'

For a time I was silent. Then I spoke. 'What did you do with yourself yesterday after you left?'

In a shaking voice, Grant gave his answer. 'I went home. When I got home I just lay on my bed. After one or two hours I must have drifted to sleep. I awoke and it was about 3.00 in the afternoon. I got out all my correspondence about the deferred entrance examination and looked at last year's paper. I realised that I could answer at least seventy percent of the questions. And they looked ridiculously easy. And I hated myself for what I had done and for what I might have thrown away!'

Again, I was silent. I then said, 'I would like simply to forget yesterday and the day before. I would like to act as though nothing had happened. But Grant, that I cannot, simply cannot, do.'

Grant, obviously fighting to hold back tears, sat forward in his chair and blurted out, 'And you mustn't. You mustn't. But give me a second chance. Give me one hell of a thrashing. I'll take it properly. Then let me start again. Please.' The boy then broke. He leant forward, cupped his head in his hands, and sobbed.

I just sat there in silence for half a minute or thereabouts. I then stood, turned, and walked out of the room.

When I returned Grant had regained a measure of composure. He was slumped back in the chair and looked utterly exhausted. His pleading eyes met mine. 'So be it', I said. 'One more chance.' I then slightly lifted my left arm. The cane, which had been flush with the outside of my leg, came into view. 'But only one more chance. And after a somewhat protracted meeting between this cane and a particular portion of your anatomy!'

Never have I witnessed such a transformation. Relief visibly swept through Grant. He took an enormous breath, rested his head back upon the back of the chair, then slowly exhaled with a spoken 'aahhh'. His whole body relaxed. And my residual anger somehow faded as the irony of Grant's response hit home. He had asked, literally asked, to be 'thrashed'. He had seen the cane. And his reaction was one of profound relief!

I had made two cups of coffee. Grant was sitting erect in his armchair. A total metamorphosis had taken place. His slumped despair had been transformed into his usual alertness, indeed vivacity. Whilst still quieter and more restrained than usual, his casually amiable manner was beginning to reassert itself. He had even managed one or two of his grins. Some minutes spent drinking a cup of coffee, and the 'reconciliation' that activity in some indefinable sense displayed, clearly had helped him settle. Indeed, it had done the same for me. For some reason I had found the encounter draining.

I briefly referred to the remaining topics yet to be covered in our studies, and the course revision, examination strategies, and the 'practice runs' under examination conditions to be undertaken. But then I deliberately changed the topic.

'Grant. You don't have to answer this question. But if you do answer, answer with total candour, with complete honesty.' Grant immediately reddened, but I hastily reassured him. 'I'm not referring back your lack of honesty yesterday. We'll be dealing with that in the very near future. I'm just asking you, if you choose to answer this question, to answer with complete and utter frankness. How do you feel about being caned?'

Grant looked surprised. What question he had expected I know not. But he promptly answered. 'Feel? I just accept it, I suppose. I'm not sure that I've understood your question.'

'Well. Several weeks ago you took quite a caning. Frankly, it was the most severe caning I have ever administered. How did you feel about being on the receiving end?'

Grant paused, and frowned slightly as he thought. 'It's like I said. I just accept it. Look. At St ----'s back home caning was taking for granted. If I had a dollar for every time my housemaster's cane cut into my bum I could buy myself a car! I mean, if you played up, it was "get ready, bend over, and pay up!" That's just the way it was. Actually, when you caned me I was following my old house-master's procedures. You know, counting each stroke, commenting on it, asking for the next stroke, writing an assessment -- all that. I meant to ask if you had minded me following the old and familiar procedures, but I forgot. Did you?'

'No. Not at all. But let me change a vague question into a perhaps strange question. I found myself wondering, after I caned you, if part of you almost enjoyed being caned.'

Grant looked at me, visibly puzzled. 'Enjoyed it? Hell no! The cane hurts, really hurts, when it's properly used. And let an expert like me tell you, you use it more than properly! My cousin had told me that a caning from you was something never to be forgotten, and he was right. I'd say that the caning you gave me was the worst I've ever taken. I honestly didn't think I'd be able to hold my position and take it! But don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining! I had what you gave me, and more, coming. But believe you me, it hurt. Yet....'

Grant paused. Again, his youthful forehead furrowed as he thought. 'Yet there's a sense -- a funny sense -- in which I did enjoy it. No, not 'enjoy' it. It's hard to say. Appreciated it, perhaps. I mean, it's sort of basic, sort of fair. Like I said before, if you play up you pay up! You accept the consequences and take the consequences. And it's like a, well, like a game. No, like a contest. We each know where we stand. You have a job to do and I have a job to you.' Grant suddenly grinned. 'Even though you do all the work and I just stand there, keeping my bare bum in position! But seriously, it's sort of right, sort of natural.'

'In what way like a contest, Grant? I'd like to understand.'

'Well, it's like you win if I break, but if I get through it without breaking, I win. Sort of. I know it sounds silly, but that's how I always think about it. And thinking about it can -- excite me. I mean, I hate it when I feel my bum burning and can't stop it twitching and I'm struggling to stay in position, yet the challenge -- that's the word! -- the challenge of it I somehow like. I guess my full answer to your question is "no I don't like it and yes I do like it". And that's no answer, I know!' As though answering my question had been an effort, Grant flopped back into the armchair, stretching his legs in front of him. He was, I noted, experiencing a full erection.

'I appreciate you answer, Grant. But we had better think about getting down to business. Last time I caned you I asked you to determine the sentence. I asked you to play judge. And you decided on -- what was it?'

'Forty-eight' Grant promptly answered. He sat forward. 'I was thinking last night and this morning about this. If I deserved -- and I did -- forty-eight last time, what the hell would I deserve this time, if there was to be a "this time"? And I honestly don't know what to answer. More, obviously. But how many more? Double? I just don't know.' Momentarily, Grant looked at the floor. I remained silent. Then he lifted his head and looked straight into my eyes. 'I mentioned a thrashing. Maybe a thrashing just keeps going on and on until we both know when it's reached its end. That's all I can think of.'

I remained silent for some five to ten seconds. 'Then this is what I propose, Grant. Thrashed you will be, and thrashed until I'm satisfied things have been put right. It will, like last time, be in sets of six. How many sets, time will tell. I won't go over why we've got to go through this. We both know, all too well.'

Grant stood, and awkwardly thrust out his right hand. 'It's agreed!' was all he said. I shook his hand. 'It's agreed!'.

Obviously again following St ----'s procedures, Grant stripped down to his briefs and stood at attention. The front of his underpants bulged, highlighting rather than hiding his erection. 'I don't have to tell you what's coming,' I stated. 'You're going to take a thrashing to end all thrashings. You'll take it in sets of six strokes, administered full force across your bared buttocks. Any breaking of your position, any attempt to protect your buttocks, any premature clasping of those buttocks, and you'll take additional strokes. Have you anything to say?'

'No sir!' Grant responded. 'Except that if I moved that standing lamp and the side table, you would have more room than you did last time. There might be just enough room for running cuts it you wanted to give me some.'

'Then move them!'

Grant did so. He then, experimentally, assumed the stance that he had adopted for his first caning. Keeping his back straight, be bowed forward from the waist. He then slightly arched his back inwards. He then turned his head to check the space between himself and the far wall. 'Not as much extra room as I thought, sir, but for sure more than last time'. He stood, turned, and questioningly raised his eyebrows. I nodded. 'Get ready'.

Grant quickly lowered and stepped out of his briefs. He folded them, and carried them over to, and placed them upon, his other shed garments. He returned to the area he had prepared, took a deep breath, then again slowly bowed forward and arched his back. Again, he interlocked his fingers and placed his clasped hands behind his neck. His rump invited the repeated caress of the cane.

I took the cane, flexed it, then moved to Grant's left.

Grant's buttocks were again alabaster white, although several fading weals were faintly apparent, particularly on the right thigh extension of his bum crease. I again found myself heartily approving the stance assumed. The buttocks were ideally positioned for caning. Since Grant had merely bowed forward rather than bent right over, the muscles of his bum cheeks were not too tightly stretched. As I tapped the cane across Grant's rump, those buttocks 'bounced' in response. For some reason, that 'bounce' fascinated me.

I rested the cane across the mid-buttocks, pressing forward. 'We begin. The first stroke.' I tapped his buttocks twice, watching them quiver. I then raised the cane, bending my upraised right arm behind my head. I stepped back a pace, then almost 'leapt' forward as I cut the cane with as much force as I could muster into the vulnerable, waiting target. For a split second Grant was still, but then his entire body gave what I can only describe as a spasm, accompanied by a muffled gasp. Yet he held his position, albeit with his buttocks and legs visibly trembling. With detached interest, I watched the weal across both buttocks redden further. The contrast between that blazing line and the whiteness of his upper and lower buttocks was quite startling to observe.

Then came the familiar refrain. 'That's stroke one of the first set, sir. Perhaps the most painful stroke of a cane that I've ever taken. Will you administer the second stroke, sir?'

The full thrashing took twenty-one minutes to execute. Needless to say, this period of time included significantly increasing respites between each set of six strokes administered. How many such sets were delivered, I know not.

Two sets of strokes merit mention. During the seventh set Grant lost track of which set was being inflicted. 'That's stroke three of -- I'm sorry, but I can't recall which set. That's stroke three of this set, sir. Will you administer the fourth stroke, sir?'

'Indeed I will,' I replied. 'From now on, keep score in the manner just used. But you'll be taking and scoring strokes seven and eight before this set is completed. It's your responsibility to keep track of the thrashing.'

I executed the two penalty strokes with all the strength that I could summon. The unfamiliar number of strokes might well, or so I surmised, prove too much for Grant to endure without breaking his position. But I was in error. When the eighth stroke had been executed, Grant's entire body was spasmodically 'jerking', his buttocks quivering as though stimulated by an electrical current. But the boy held his awkward stance. Some three seconds passed before Grant spoke. 'That's stroke eight of this set, the second penalty stroke. That completes the set.'

'You may break position,' I stated. Slowly Grant straightened himself, his pelvis thrusting forwards and his back arching. He gently clasped each bum cheek, forcing himself to breathe deeply and 'oohing' each time he exhaled. At last he spoke. 'Oh no, no, no. It hurts, it so hurts. Please. Just let me just take a couple of minutes to settle.'

I let him take his time. Gingerly, his hands explored his scarlet, striped buttocks. Several weals on his right buttock, which was more ravaged than was its neighbour, were oozing blood. He ran his right forefinger along one of these weals, looked at the blood smearing the tip of that finger, sucked it clean, then resumed his exploration. I resolved to move slightly forward for the next six strokes, angling the strokes so that they cut as much into his left flank as into his left buttock as such. I found myself regretting that I could not cane efficiently with my left arm or place back-handed strokes administered with my right arm with the precision and impact I desired.

The six strokes so administered partly achieved their objective, but the right buttock nonetheless still showed more spectacularly the effects of the thrashing being administered. In a further attempt to focus upon Grant's left bum cheek, I moved slightly further to his left and attempted to bring the cane down vertically so that the end three inches of so of the rattan cut from above into the not excessively 'tightened' muscle that was his left buttock. It rapidly became apparent, however, that whilst such 'slicing' stokes stung -- a word actually used by Grant when acknowledging these strokes -- they lacked the impact of more traditionally administered strokes.

The final six strokes I again administered, very slowly and very precisely, with as much strength as I could muster. Maybe Grant's musings about a contest had influenced me more than I had initially realized. Indeed I instructed Grant to shuffle forward so that his head touched the wall in front of him. The additional foot or so of space thereby made available enabled me, or so it seemed, further to increase the velocity with which the cane cut into its quivering target. I had indicated that this set was to be the final set, and that Iwould do all within my power to make each stroke memorable. Whether this knowledge heightened Grant's anticipation of each stroke and thereby itself contributed to the pain actually registered, I do not know. Certainly, Grant yelped in obvious agony as each of the six final strokes hit home. Yet at long last the final stroke was administered.

Stoically, Grant held his position. I realised that, according to his perceptions, he had 'won' the contest. As I looked at his quivering rump, blazing scarlet, criss-crossed with cuts, and smeared with blood that had been 'spread' by consequent strokes of the cane, I felt a strange pride. I had more than adequately performed my role in the 'cooperative exercise' just completed. Strangely, that to me was cause for satisfaction. Yet I was equally proud of Grant. He had no less adequately performed his role, and by resolutely continuing to hold his position he was carrying out that role right through to the thrashing's end.

At last he spoke. 'That's the sixth stroke of this set, sir. The set is complete. Unless you should decide to the contrary, my thrashing is complete.'

I simply echoed his final words. 'Your thrashing is complete'. I then said, 'You may stand'.

After for a time watching Grant roaming around the room, nursing his buttocks and progressively steadying his breathing, I gave him permission to take a shower. After he had done so he returned, carrying the large towel I had provided. 'I could only 'dab' my bum dry,' he wryly observed, 'but the rest of me I've dried properly. I don't think I'll drip on the carpet'.

I simply signalled with my hand for Grant to approach the armchair where I was seated. He understood perfectly. He stood in front of me, turned, leant forward, reached around, gingerly clasped his buttocks, and pulled those buttocks apart. His anal cleft was only marginally less reddened than was the more accessible remainder of his rump. For ten seconds or so I inspected his raw and ravaged buttocks, feeling him involuntarily tense and 'jerk' whenever I explored or squeezed a particularly tender portion.

I sat back and simply said 'O.K.' Grant straightened himself, took a deep breath, and slowly made his way to the table. There he bent over, picking up a ball-point pen and pulling a sheet of paper towards him. Slowly, he began writing, as he had been trained at his school to do, his 'assessment'. I quote from that assessment.

'I still do not know why I behaved as I did. I probably never will know. But I do know that I today experienced the most thorough thrashing I have ever known. Realistically speaking, it is unlikely that I will ever go through such a thrashing again. Yet the memory of it will remain, even when the physical evidence of it has faded and gone.

'I do not know how to describe the neights of pain the thrashing repeatedly reached. Again and again after taking three or four strokes I found myself thinking that the remaining strokes of the set couldn't push the pain level higher. But they did. Repeatedly I tightened my interlocked fingers to the point where these hands and my arms were shaking. Repeatedly I bit into my lower lip so that my yelps were at least partly restrained. I could feel my whole body shaking and couldn't stop my bum twitching and quivering like crazy.

'My bum is still sore, but a sort of numbness is beginning to set in. That doesn't mean that I'm looking forward to sitting down! I'm glad that the thrashing is over, but even more glad that I managed to do what I had to do and took it like I should. As I said last time, I hope that Mr ----- found me cooperative and polite, and that I in no way made his task more difficult when I couldn't keep my bum from trembling and shaking.'

I never had occasion to cane, let alone thrash, Grant again. Our final weeks of preparation passed quickly and, I think happily. When the day of reckoning came, he sat four hours of examinations at the South African Consulate. Immediately following his dismissal, he telephoned me on a public telephone and announced that, and I quote, 'The maths paper was a breeze! I finished with time enough to check through my paper twice!'

Needless to say, Grant passed. Indeed, the anonymous examiners in mathematics indicated, in a note attached to the formal result sheet , that Grant's paper displayed a level of mathematical competence significantly greater than that expected from pre-tertiary students and urging him to consider a double major in mathematics for his preliminary degree.

In time Grant and his father returned to South Africa. Grant took his well-earned university place and commenced his studies. Two years of such studies have now passed. Soon I will celebrating, if that is the word, my 71st birthday. Whilst Grant, with surprising frequency, writes to me and fills me in on his progress, I doubt that we ever again shall meet.

But no matter. I have my memories. And when, very occasionally, I retrieve and fondle my cane, those memories more than suffice.