Hello again. My wife Sara has insisted that since I shared one of her stories with you in an earlier post, I should balance it with sharing one of my own. So here goes…
I went to a Catholic school in Ireland in the sixties and early 70s. These were mostly run by the Christian Brothers – who, let me tell you, were far from Christian!
Their methods of handling children were positively Spartan in nature. There were two straps, called ‘leathers’ used for corporal punishment. There was a short one, for use on the child’s hands, which you would get for any minor transgression. Then there was a longer strap, which was used for bottoms.
This bigger strap was the preserve of the Head Brother and as often as not delivered on the bare bottom at full force. If your transgression was of a sufficiently serious nature as to warrant a trip to ‘The Office’ you were put on what was known as ‘Four O Clock Report’.
We all passed that office on our way out of the building every evening at four, when we went home. The office had a glass door leading to the outer office where the secretary worked, and you could see the condemned lining up to meet their fate. On the occasions where you were simply passing, you breathed a sigh of relief that you were on the right side of the door. I don’t think I ever passed it with less than three culprits in situ, waiting to be dealt with.
This brings me to the most memorable of many times that I found myself on the wrong side, and I have to say with hindsight that my punishment on this occasion was well-deserved.
In this era, chocolate and other sweets were something of a treat – not something that, even at 14, you could have every day. If we had some, we often shared our good fortune with our friends and vice-versa.
However, there was one lad – we’ll call him David – who had the knack of being present in any group sharing goodies but never seemed to have some himself to share.
Fed up with David’s constant sponging I got an idea to teach him a lesson. At the time, there was a laxative in the form of a chocolate bar called Brooklax. I doubt it’s still available, but am open to corrections on that. [Editor’s note: brief research suggests that it is still available in several countries!]
In any case, the normal dose was one or at most two squares. I gave him David a whole bar, not telling him what it was. This was lunchtime and to my disappointment nothing happened in the afternoon. We went home that evening and to be honest I forgot about the whole thing.
The next day David was absent, but I thought nothing of it. The following day was a Friday and he still had not returned, though.
About mid-morning, the principal brother came in and called me out of class. Now, our teachers usually called us by our Christian names so – rather like when your parents use your full name – I knew being called out by my surname was not going to end well!
Once in the corridor, I was grilled about what I had given David. I was informed that he had been very sick indeed as a result and that subsequently I was on four o’clock report. So it was that while everyone was going home to enjoy their weekend, I found myself making my way through the glass door of doom.
I was presently joined by four other equally crestfallen boys resigned to their fate. At about five past four, the brother breezed in with the dreaded instrument of punishment already in his hand. “You,” he said, pointing to me “back of the queue!”
I knew that couldn’t be good news and even the female secretary, who at around 19 was only about five years my senior, looked at me sympathetically. I had often idly wondered if she enjoyed each evening’s auditory entertainment of bottoms being thoroughly smacked, but tonight such thoughts were far from my head as I began to realise how deep in trouble I was.
The first boy was called in and soon I heard the dull thud of strap meeting trouser seat, coupled with the whelp on each impact. The tearful boy emerged and was duly handed a tissue by the secretary from a box on her desk.
The second boy suffered the same fate but I jumped when the third entered and was soon followed by the report of leather meeting bare buttocks behind the door.
I calmed down a little when, after the fourth boy went, we were back to the duller sound of a trousered bottom being whipped. In retrospect, I don’t know why this should have calmed me, as I knew my own offence was on the higher end of misconduct. I also don’t know why, given my circumstances, I was sporting a massive erection in my pants and experiencing a heady mixture of terror and arousal.
The last boy emerged, openly sobbing, and I nodded knowingly to him as I passed him on my way into the execution chamber.
“Now”, the brother said “can you please explain to me why you did such a thing as to basically poison another student?” I muttered: “I wanted to teach him a lesson.” “You what? Speak up!” he snapped, “I wanted to teach him a lesson, sir.” I repeated.
I was suddenly aware that the typewriter in the outer office had fallen silent. “Did you now?” He said menacingly “Well, I’m going to teach you a lesson you won’t forget in a hurry.” My knees were literally about to give way as the enormity of my situation hit me.
He went on to ask me what the standard punishment in his office was. “Six of the best, sir,” I replied obediently. “And for more serious offences?he inquired. “A dozen, sir.” “Well boy,” he replied menacingly, “I think you need to receive double that.”
He opened the door to the outer office. “Norah, can you get Brother Connell for me, please? I need a witness for a punishment this severe.” I was openly crying by this time, but I heard a quiet assent from the secretary.
But my humiliation was not yet complete. After about 10 minutes, the secretary returned, saying that she couldn’t find Brother Connell. I often wondered, given what happened next, if she had in fact looked all that hard for him. Maybe she thought this was an opportunity too good to miss?
To nobody’s surprise, the brother told her that she would have to witness my strapping instead. “If you don’t want to, of course that’s all right,” he assured her. “But if so I’ll have to defer his punishment until Monday.” “No,” she replied, “I’m happy to see him get his due.” Her answer filled me with a strange mixture of relief, embarrassment and arousal, the latter probably because I knew this would be on my bare backside.
“All right. Trousers and pants down, and bend over the desk,” came the command. I looked furtively at Norah as I dropped my trousers, who was watching with keen fascination. The bulge in my underpants already betrayed the erection inside them, and my penis sprang free as I peeled my pants down.
Like most boys, I was aware of the routine, so I placed myself in the well-rehearsed position over the desk, legs slightly apart. This helped you to brace yourself after a stroke, but of course it also meant everything between my legs was also on display to both the other people in the room.
The first lash of the strap knocked me forward and I let out a yell and jumped up, clutching my backside – and giving Norah the first proper glimpse of my engorged penis. Now, I must tell you there was none of this starting over of many school CP stories. No, it was more menacing than that. The brother simply said: “I’ve got all night if necessary – my meal isn’t until 6.30, anyway. You’re not leaving this room until you have taken your full punishment!”
I got back in position. The brother had a large blotter on his desk, which was already well stained with the tears of the boys beaten before me. Let me tell you, I added my own to them in copious amounts over the next 20 minutes. By the next time I jumped up all my arousal had disappeared, and presented a much more pathetic figure, with tears and snot like a five-year-old getting his first smacked bottom.
Although I did my best to stay down during the rest of the punishment, I did jump four or five more before the whipping was finally over. When the last stroke landed on its target, my knees gave way and I slumped on the desk, bawling my eyes out. I don’t think I even heard the door close but when I finally composed myself, Norah had gone.
When I emerged, all blotchy faced, she was putting her coat on to go home, it being five by this time. She smiled at me sympathetically but said nothing.
She did also hand me a typed, standard pink ‘punishment slip’ to take home, outlining my punishment and the reason for it, for my parents to sign.
This slip saw me start my Saturday morning face down on my bed, pyjama bottoms around my knees and my welted bottom on display, for another six with the belt, this time from my mother.
Futhermore, although grounding was not common in our house (smacked bottoms being the preferred method of discipline), I was also ‘confined to barracks’ for the weekend, during which I was also not allowed to watch my favourite show, Dr Who (no taping back then you missed you missed it!). I also had to write David a letter of apology. All in all, you could say I was taught a good lesson.
I see Norah from time to time. She is now in her 70s, and she usually nods and smiles when we pass in the street. Despite what she saw that day, we’re not well enough acquainted to stop and chat, but I often wonder if she still remembers witnessing my lesson – and all the other things that went with it!
Contributor: George