Have been amusing myself in the lonely weeks of January lockdown. Post Christmas, in normal times, I usually kill winter boredom with the odd heavenly massage or a visit to an enthusiastic wielder of a welcoming cane. Or preferably both if commitments allow. But these are not normal times so I have been passing the days with a few whacking tales stories. This, one of them, is a heavily fabricated tale redolent of a day in the 1950s when I and two friends got caned for spitting. The only similarities is being told to report at four to the teacher's staff room and waiting outside for nearly half an hour. My main memory is that the caning was a tremendous disappointment. Even in those far off days I had a strange mind. Enjoy. Alfred Roy
REPORT AT FOUR
We
all got one, four of us. Report at four. It struck fear into all our hearts.
All
four of us.
No
Brainer. We had skipped a PE lesson run by a dim and useless student teacher. Absolutely
hopeless. Couldn’t even keep a proper register.
Do
a bunk. Go into town. He will never know, never report it. Two hours in the
local snooker halls and cafes. Freedom. Heaven. No one will know.
Except
someone did.
So
report at Four.
Headmasters
summons. And that meant only one thing.
The
cane.
And
the cane in the headmaster’ study was no pleasant prospect.
Especially
as he pulled no punches.
And,
usually, trousers down.
So
it was said.
Six
was bad enough, the tears told.
Six
with trousers down was awful.
Six
strokes of his cane on a bum barely covered was a prospect both painful and
humiliating.
Everyone
said.
And
now four of us faced that dreaded prospect.
Separate
or together?
Or
in pairs?
He
had his foibles, his methods. Our beloved headmaster.
And
we would shortly find out.
We
would be caned. We knew that.
How
and in what order.
We
did not know.
We
just had a summons.
Twitching
cane and twitching headmaster.
Eager
to mark our upturned bottoms.
Trousers
down or otherwise.
We
all read our notes again.
Report
at four.
Knees
trembled, stomachs churned, and bottoms, all four, twitched.
As
they should.
He
was big, over six foot three.
And
built like a rugby forward.
His
arm, the right one, packed a real punch.
So
it was said.
When
he whacked his cane across your bum you did not think of flowers or sunsets.
You just absorbed the fire and howled.
So
they said.
And
they should know.
Fellow
pupils.
Those
who had it, and those who imagined.
Imagined
him taking down your pants.
Imagined
him measuring and taking aim.
Imagining
him whacking his stick into your cheeks and hearing you scream.
They
knew.
And
now it was your turn.
All
four of you.
You
stood outside his door. Snooker halls and cafes long forgotten, dismissed.
Knees trembling. You would be in there soon, bending over, trousers down,
bottom in the air waiting to be whacked. Six times. No more imagination. Now
reality. And now you wanted to pee.
They
said that his marks lasted for weeks.
Get
six from him and the black and purple and crimson stripes could take an age to
fade to green and yellow.
If
they ever did.
You
stand in line. All four of you.
In
his study.
Holding
your notes.
Report
at Four.
He
towers over you. All six foot three. Brandishing his cane.
Threatening.
Four
strokes each boys. Decided. Four each on most of your well deserved backsides.
We
flinch. In unison.
Four,
not six.
A
reprieve. Of sorts.
Your
well deserved fourteen year old backsides.
I
flinch again. I am fifteen. Is that why he said most?
You
two, outside. You two stay here.
To
both see and suffer.
He
points to me and Taylor. As we leave we look across at Bailey and Fox.
Bailey
is already crying.
And
that is before he gets whacked.
We
stand outside the study. Taylor and me. We could run but we don’t. We broke the
rules. We must pay. And in our imagination we do.
Imagining
what is happening.
To
Fox.
And
the tearful Bailey.
Imagine
what is happening to them behind that closed door.
Imagine
crimson strokes of a cane painting their behinds.
Shortly
to be ours.
We
do not speak. We listen.
And
then we hear it. The first crisp stroke.
A
cane hitting a bottom. Bent, proffered, trousers certainly down. Certainly
bent.
And
a howl, quite loud. A howl followed by another crisp stroke, a golf shot, and
another, louder, howl.
Fox
or Bailey, I think it is Bailey, is getting his four.
And
once again I desire to pee.
I
could be in there. I am in there.
I
am watching Bailey getting his.
In
my imagination.
And
when he has, and when Fox has, both tearfully leave. Holding jackets and
clutching behinds.
Behinds
seared and scorched.
And
now it is Taylor.
And
me.
Entering
the study of a twitching cane.
Ready
for us.
I
flinch and wait.
Jackets
are removed.
Nothing
must impede.
Taylor
first. I to watch and wait.
I
hold my breath and pray.
He
drops his trousers when bid.
No
protest, duly submissive.
Surprising
really, as he is such caustic friend. Full face and front on in the playground.
But
here, with the avenging headmaster, cane in readiness, he meekly accepts.
So
trousers come down and he bends over.
His
shirt briefly waving until turned up.
Rolled
into his jumper.
Taylor’s
underpants now resplendent in view.
Blue
ones.
And
taken down.
Revealing
all.
A
shock? Not really.
He,
me, and the headmaster knew they would.
Come
down. Everything, Baring his bum.
It
is four, not six. And this is why.
Taylor
flinches as his bum is bared.
I
admire.
A
lovely bum, a lovely bottom, cream and crisp. Unmarked For now.
I drank it in. Two super naked cheeks,
twitching in anticipation, bent and ready. Lovely orbs ready to be crimsoned by
searing stripes.
Only
four boy, he said, but on your bare behind.
I
could just about see. I was behind our headmaster but he did not totally
restrict my view.
I
saw the raised shirt, the raised jumper, the naked behind. I saw the first
swish of the cane as it landed across Taylor’s buttocks. I saw the first
stripe. The crimson line that registered his caning.
And
I heard the first gasp.
And
the first shuffling forward of feet assuaging pain.
I
was transfixed.
And
I knew I would be next.
I
drank in his strokes. All emblazoned on both his bottom and in my mind.
He
took strokes two and three. I flinched. He shuffled feet and indicated tears.
I
felt his pain, even though it was him, Taylor, who suffered it.
After
the last he rose. Clutching his bottom and sobbing. It had hurt.
The
cane had cut into him and throbbed its message.
He
had changed from an accepting friend in adversity to a crying boy. To a boy,
pulling up blue pants, who knew he had been caned.
And
I was next.
The
headmaster beckoned.
I
moved forward and lowered my trousers.
Slowly
at first, and then with a touch of bravado.
I
pulled them down, the trousers, and bent over.
And
then.
Inexplicably.
I
registered my acceptance.
I
lifted my shirt, tucked it into my jumper.
And
I pulled down my own underpants.
Bared
my bottom.
You
may cane it, I seemed to say, but I prepare.
And
as I gritted my teeth I sensed a perplexing anger.
I
had denied the normal ritual. I had not followed the script and in doing so had
enhanced my punishment.
Taylor
still sobbed but all else was quiet.
You
seem to be keen, the headmaster said.
I
hope I do not disappoint.
He
did not.
I
looked at his carpet and then closed my eyes in readiness.
My
bottom in the air, exposed, to now feel what I had only imagined.
I
trembled, legs quivering.
Felt
the touch of the cane across my cheeks.
Waited.
A
pause.
Then
it, the cane, rose and for a second everything froze.
And
I still had the desire to pee.
And
then the second shock.
Six
for you boy, you know why.
I
didn’t, but the cane stilled any protest.
The
flight of the unfair six began.
I
did not feel the first stroke.
I
heard it crack across my behind and sensed a gasp escape my lips.
But
I did not feel it.
Not
then.
The
burning and searing pain came micro seconds later and as it registered in my
brain the second stroke fell across the same tender place.
It
was then I shuffled forward, still bent, still holding my legs.
Steeling
myself again.
And
the third stroke of his cane lashed into my behind and induced the sobs that
flowed through four, five, and six.
The
fourth cut me low across the bottom of my cheeks and I almost rose.
A
cry escaped my lips and the tears welled.
The
fifth, the unfair fifth, was higher, a bit of my bum not found til then, and I
moved as if to escape the pain.
And
then I stilled, screwed my eyes, gritted teeth again. Held on to my legs so
tight I could still blood.
The
last stroke.
Do
not wait.
Do
it.
Get
it over with.
I
sensed him take aim.
The
cane touched my lacerated behind.
Then
rose and fell in a vicious arc.
Across
the centre of what, not moments ago, was unblemished skin.
Now
blazingly chastised.
I
gasped.
Now
finished.
I
reckon I moved at least a foot forward through the last three strokes.
Especially the last.
Bent
and bending I took them all and sobbed them all.
And
Taylor gasped at most.
Gasped
at the burning fire in my behind and the savage marks across.
Crimson
and scarlet like his own.
He
had seen what I had seen.
He
had felt what I had felt. Almost.
And
the man, the headmaster, who dealt it out was well satisfied.
Gingerly
I lifted my underpants and trousers and rose into a standing position.
I
dressed between sobs and vigorous rubbing of my burning and throbbing cheeks.
Taylor’s
sobs had eased but his rubbing of his bottom still progressed.
This
was a fire that would not fade early.
He
gave us our jackets and bid us leave.
Four
had reported, four had been caned.
In
the manner that all boys should.
Across
their behinds.
Bare
as their mother saw them.
And
now the final two left.
He
had no regrets.
Neither
did I
I
had peed on his carpet.
Just
a little.
But
it felt good.
We
examined our behinds later.
All
four of us.
In
the toilets.
Searing
stripes, painted on virgin boyish bums.
All
crimson.
All
scarlet.
All
admired.
Even
the two that I, assumed ringleader, felt unfair.
Every
weal absorbed.
Every
weal felt.
Every
weal stinging and burning.
And
every weal still throbbing.
And
we wondered. Collectively.
Will
they ever fade?
To
green.
To
yellow.
To nothing.
They
did, eventually.
And
was it only I who sighed with regret?
Alfred
Roy (2021)