I’ve already told you about my first encounter with the cane, at the hands of my father when I was a mere seven years old. Now I want to tell you about my first experience of the same implement in school.
As I mentioned last time, I grew up in the late 50s. We were a fairly poor family until we inherited a lot of money when my grandad died when I was 11. Three years earlier, though, he had already paid for me to start at an all-boys private school.
In about my third week at the school I kept turning round in class and talking. The teacher warned me about my behaviour few times, but I took no notice.
Eventually I was called to the front of the class. My teacher told me that I was going to be made to do as I was told. Heturned a chair round so the back faced the class, then reached on top of the blackboard and took down the cane. “Maybe three strokes of this across your bottom will make you more obedient,” he remarked.
Strangely, at this point I wasn’t all that afraid. The cane didn’t look as scary as my dad’s. I always got far more than just three whacks and I figured it would be trousers and pants on too, so would not hurt nearly as much as when my father beat me on the bare bottom.
To my shock, however, the teacher also told me to take my trousers and pants right down and bend over the chair, with my bottom facing the class. I was now a little scared as I took my things down but still didn’t think it would hurt as much as Dad did. Besides, my shirt and vest were covering my bottom and would help protect it.
No chance. Shock two came when as my teacjer got hold of my shirt and vest and pulled them up to my neck, leaving my bottom fully exposed to be caned, clearly to the delight of the other boys.
The third shock came quickly afterwards. A loud smack and the most intense sting across my bottom I had ever felt. It was far worse than when Dad caned me and the sting was increasing all the time. Worse still was knowing I was going to get two more. Both of these hurt more than the first stroke and left me crying and grasping my bare backside.
When I finally got up, I carefully pulled up my pants and trousers over the three burning lines on my bottom. Back in my place, I found I could not sit down properly and had to sit almost on my side.
About six hours after being caned I was home and my bottom was still smarting. Mum looked at the marks and told me that if I did not do as I was told at school, I would get far worse beatings. As always, Mum was right and certainly when I moved to my secondary school at 11, I found out just how painful it was to get six of the best on the bare.
Fortunately, I was to escape further punishment on this first occasion. Mum said that she wouldn’t tell Dad this time that I had been caned at school, or he would certainly beat me again.
At the tender age of eight, I had learned that teachers didn’t hold back when using the cane – and just like at home, it went across the bare bottom and others could see. It was something I was going to experience many times during my school days – and the dreaded words ‘bend over’ still ring in my ears even now.