During the 1970s, I attended a private Catholic girls school in Yorkshire. It was run along pretty traditional lines, as was usual for the period, and although corporal punishment was becoming less common in schools and homes by this time, it was by no means unusual.
That said, CP was pretty rare at school, and you had to be quite naughty to get it. It consisted of either the slipper (actually an old gym plimsoll) or the cane, both given on the bottom. I never got the slipper, but on one memorable occasion I got the only caning of my life – well, for discipline purposes anyway.
I was 13, and on the quiet had taken up smoking, usually pinching the odd cigarette out of one of my parent’s packets and hoping they wouldn’t notice. Again, this was an era when most adults smoked.
On this particular day, myself and my friend Yvonne felt particularly daring and had bought a packet of 10 Embassy from a local tobacconist – Yvonne told the man behind the counter they were for her mum, and sales practices were far more lax as well back then. Yvonne hid the cigs in her school bag and we made plans to rendezvous at lunch break behind the school’s bicycle sheds (talk about a cliché!) to share a ‘fag’.
We did just that, and thought ourselves very grown-up, although we coughed a lot and I for one didn’t particularly like the taste. However, we snuck back to our lessons afterwards, congratulating ourselves on not being caught.
I was about half way into my first lesson of the afternoon when the school secretary appeared and informed the teacher that I was wanted in the headmistress’s office. I got up rather reluctantly and followed the secretary as she led the way, wondering what it could all be about. When we got to the office, I saw Yvonne there already, with a very pale and worried face.
It was about five or 10 minutes before we were eventually called through into the office of the head, whose name was Mrs Morgan. She looked very serious, and quickly revealed that we had been ‘dobbed in’ about our smoking. Apparently, some local busybody (who happened to know us both) had been walking past. We hadn’t seen her, but she’d certainly seen us, and gone on immediately to the school to let them know about our misconduct.
Mrs Morgan went on to read us the mother of all lectures about protecting the reputation of the school as well as our own health etc etc. “All right, girls,” she said at last, “which of you has the cigarettes?” Yvonne reluctantly raised her hand. “Go back to your class and bring them here.” As Yvonne slunk off down the hallway, Mrs Morgan closed the door.
“Well, while your little friend is gone, we might as well get ready, I suppose,” she said. Mrs Morgan went over to a chair placed in front of her desk and drew it out a little, then she opened a cupboard. When she turned around, I felt the colour drain from my face as I saw she was holding the cane. It was the first time I’d ever seen one in real life, and I knew I wasn’t going to like what was about to happen to me!
“Bend over, please, Janet,” she said. It was like the worst of bad dreams as I took the few steps towards the chair and bent over obediently, my hands on the seat. Then I felt my skirt being turned back and laid over my back. I had my school knickers on but knew in my heart that they would provide next to no protection for my poor bottom.
There was a knock on the door. “Come in!” Mrs Morgan called. I turned my head around to see Yvonne re-admitted, the secretary gazing in over her shoulder with amusement at my predicament. Yvonne’s jaw dropped when she saw the cane in Mrs Morgan’s hands. “Put them over there!” the head told her, and Yvonne put the packet of cigs on the table, right in front of my eyes.
“Janet, brace yourself,” Mrs Morgan said. “Yvonne, you may watch and contemplate your own fate in a moment.” With that, I felt the cane being placed against my buttocks, there was a brief ‘thwack’ sound and then an enormous line of pain flashed across my cheeks. It was like being bitten by an adder! I got six of the best, which in retrospect was at least what I deserved, and cried unashamedly from about the third stroke in.
My eyes a mess of tears, I was ordered to stand back up. I did so, pulling down my skirt again hastily as I did so, aware of a raging fire building and building in my hindquarters. “Swop places, girls. Janet – bend over there.”
I watched now with some kind of morbid interest as Mrs Morgan raised Janet’s skirt over her back, revealing a distinctly non-school pair of knickers. They were plain white, though not in the least ‘sexy’, but they undoubtedly showed more of Janet’s bottom than my own pants had. Janet began to cry before the first stroke was even applied, which cheered me up to some extent, and she screamed loudly each time the cane came down on her behind.
After a couple of strokes, I could see why. The cane was obviously really ‘nipping’ here at either side of her knickers, where her bare cheeks were peeping out. Although my own caning had hurt badly, I could reason that this might be a lot worse, almost like getting it on the bare bottom.
The nightmare ended with Mrs Morgan adding our details into the Punishment Book, and us both being given notes to take home to our parents, which were expected to be returned, signed by mum or dad, the next day. We were then sent back to our classes but we did call in the girls’ toilets on the way back, where we dropped our knickers and inspected the damage in the mirror.
I’m sure everyone in the class knew from my tear-stained face what had happened, but as I sat there trying to recover while still paying attention to the lesson, the initial fire dispersed slowly into a not unpleasant warm glow in my seat, and I was quite surprised to find when I stood up at the end of the period to find my vagina was wet. It was most confusing.
Well, as you can probably imagine, we were both in big trouble too when we got home. Yvonne’s mum gave her ‘the mother of all smacked bottoms’, as she termed it when I saw her the next day. She took down her pants again in the toilets, and I saw that her bum was red, blotchy mess.
My own fate was for my father to take me upstairs, put me over his knee and give me a mortifyingly (for a 13-year-old) bare-bottomed slippering. It had been a long time since Dad had seen my bum or vagina and I think most of my tears were for the embarrassment as much as the pain, albeit I got a damn good hiding. I should add that these difficult lessons worked for both us girls. Neither I nor Yvonne ever went near a cigarette again.
As for me, I found it gave me rather a taste for a sore bottom as I went through puberty. I would occasionally spank myself with my own hairbrush, then furiously masturbate afterwards. When I got married, I revealed my kinky side to my hubby, and he bought a cane for me. So I often find myself bending over for that, or put across his knee for a sound spanking with his hand or slipper. I always end up very wet down there, and great sex follows.
Contributor: Janet