Whackings – and afterwards

I went to a school in north London during the 1970s and the cane was still very much in use. I was unfortunate enough to be sent for a whacking quite a few times during my time there.

The cane was always given at the end of the school day, and there would generally be a queue of unhappy looking boys (and the occasional girl) outside the head’s study. Everyone knew what we were all there for – we all knew we’d be going home with a sore bottom. Sometimes there was muted discussions about the reason for being there, but mostly we were too embarrassed to discuss it, particularly if there was a girl there.

Probably the worst part was being outside and waiting your turn, while listening to the punishment being administered behind the door. The headmaster, Mr Taylor, would normally come to the door with the cane already in his hand and call out the name of his next victim. The door would shut, there’d be a short silence (probably a discussion of misbehaviour) then you’d hear the cane come whacking down. Most kids would try to take it bravely but you heard some cry out after the stroke and a few (mostly younger) boys would cry like they were a toddler getting their first smacked bottom off their mummy.

I’m ashamed to say that even though I knew I’d be in there myself, bending over and getting whacked, I did find it something of a turn-on to listen to the other children receiving their punishment on the other side of the door. I could feel myself stirring in my pants and it would occasionally turn into a full-blown erection, which I would then have to carefully hide.

I used to imagine what that boy or girl’s bottom would look like if I took their pants down after a caning. I had a pretty good idea, of course, from my own experiences, but it was still thrilling. I am, and always have been, a ‘bottoms’ man and bisexual in inclination. I used to love seeing other boy’s bums in the changing rooms, and if there were marks from corporal punishment on them, even more so.

In truth, although it hurt (and of course it was meant to), the cane wasn’t too bad. At least it was quickly over with, and we only ever got it through our trousers (or the seat of a skirt for girls). It did leave marks, though, which would last a couple of days.

For me, the worst part was having the letter home, which had to be signed by a parent and returned. In our house, Mum handled all the discipline and this ‘Notice of Punishment’ would always result in another smacked bottom when I got home with it, in my case my mum’s slipper.

At home, though, it was always bare bottom. Mum would take down my trousers and pants and take her sweet time examining the cane marks on my bum, usually remarking that the headmaster had done a good job but she was about to do an even better one. Then she would get the smacking slipper out of her dressing table and put me bare-bottomed across her knee, big boy as I was. This childish form of discipline continued up to the age of 14, by which time it was truly humiliating.

The worst part of the home smackings was that unlike school, when the cane was applied and everyone moved on, Mum would talk about how naughty you’d been – and the sore bottom you’d been given – for days on end afterwards, even to relative strangers in front of you. That was the real shame and pain!

Contributor: Jack

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