The Library of Spanking Fiction: Wellred Weekly


Wellred Weekly
Volume 1, Number 2 : November 22, 2011
 
Articles
Items of interest regarding all things spanking

Recollections: Down with C.P.
by Patxi

This is the first of a series of articles concerning recollections of schoolday spankings.

Four strokes of the cane delivered on a boy's pyjama clad bottom by some jumped up whipper-snapper of a house prefect for talking in the dormitory after lights out. That was my first night at boarding school: I had just turned eleven years old. Next morning all new boys were given a talk by the headmaster. We would find the school rules on the notice board: we were expected to read them and learn them quickly as the school prefects would not tolerate any infringement. They had power to beat us (we knew that already!) but we were not to moan about it. We should learn to accept our beatings like men, good for us apparently, and we should always think of the honour of the school... there would have been more of this claptrap but I can't remember.

Of course, C.P. was nothing new to me. I'd had my legs smacked several times in junior school and once got caned with a ruler on both hands for being caught pinching Sheila Metcalfe's bottom in morning prayers but so what? Life was like that.

However, this C.P. regime into which well-meaning parents had thrust us was something new and we learnt very quickly to adapt. We had to. Being caught out of bounds, going into shops, late for roll call, late for anything, talking after lights out, you name it and those prefects were ready to pounce: a criminal abdication of responsibility, surely, by those in charge for there was nothing soft about a prefect's beating. Never given straightway, 24 hours was usually allowed to elapse before the dreaded summons came, then one was stretched tight across a table and sentence duly carried out by some vigorous young athlete, four, five, six strokes. Oh and I should mention that a line was first solemnly chalked across one's trousered bottom as an aiming mark.

Did it do any good? No. We still broke bounds, went into shops when no-one in authority was around, learnt how to lie our way out of trouble, to pass the blame on to others (provided one was superior in strength and build) and of course violence begat violence. I'm not saying that bullying was rife but it did happen and to be honest when found out was not tolerated by those in authority though there was an underlying sentiment that a little bullying never did a boy harm: do him good, teach him to stand up for himself. To my mind and in my experience, it only fostered cowardice. Fact of life, what chance had a smaller, weaker boy against a more powerful one?

So, leaving aside parental or judicial discipline, do I believe in corporal punishment? No, not as I've detailed above in the way it was practiced I don't: clumsy, unthinking ritualistic nonsense which did more harm than good and thank heaven has been abolished.

Luckily for me after three years of this nightmare a new headmaster came, prefects were no longer allowed to use the cane and the number of beatings and the more absurd rules dwindled. Life would never be normal of course compared to the outside world but a far more kindly understanding regime prevailed than went before.

This then is the background to the following: make of it how you will.

We were into the second year of the new regime and I would be fifteen. Sunday mornings we were allowed an extra hour in bed and as sometimes happened scuffles, playful scuffles broke out. All good fun only this time the one I was involved in turned nasty, tempers flared and others joined in... on my side: my opposite was not popular. I am deeply ashamed of what followed. Relishing my role of chief instigator and protagonist this poor boy was set upon in a particularly vicious manner. Fortunately it was stopped in time by the housemaster himself, attracted by the row. Apart from the poor victim we were all to go down to his study immediately. Two strokes each (he was not a hard-hearted man) of the cane and we were back in the dormitory. Bit of a joke really.

Late afternoon he called me into his study. A word about him: a very clever man with degrees in law and chemistry, much given to solving intricate mathematical puzzles, the only master in that place ever to show me real kindness, he did much to encourage my growing love of music and would invite me in to listen to his records of Sibelius. I would sit in front of a blazing fire, transported to a world away from the insensitivity outside.

He came straight to the point. He had been led to believe I was solely responsible for the outrage that morning, If this were true he was both shocked and deeply disappointed with me. He proposed to give me twelve strokes of the cane. Was it true? It was my turn to be shocked. Twelve!! Unthinkable: six was the norm, I'd heard of eight or nine in the past but twelve! Best to say no and walk out unharmed. Get out of here quickly!

Even now I cannot understand why I said yes: bravado, personal honour, unable to face his certain contempt, pride (the guy who took twelve strokes) I don't know but as though from far away I heard myself say yes.

I wish I could record I behaved stoically. I didn't, it hurt so darn much. In experienced hands a cane is a vicious implement and he was experienced enough. At one point he even had to push me back down over his settee. Afterwards this miserable wretch skulked behind the shrubbery in the headmaster's garden until some semblance of composure returned.

I never told anyone and to the best of my knowledge it was kept a secret. The marks on my bottom were impressive, slow to clear and I had to be especially careful when changing in the dormitory or for games.

I never bullied again, not through fear of retribution but rather because the pain of what I had done was brought home to me, physically and mentally. 'No man is an island entire of itself.' Sounds silly but he made me appreciate I was a part of the world which surrounded us all, in it and of it... 'never send to ask for whom the bell tolls.' In fact I grew up, suddenly, a child in mind no longer, fortunate to be dealt with by a man who knew what needed to be done, and that is why a retired schoolmaster up to the year of his death always received from me a greetings card every Christmas wishing him, sincerely, all health and happiness for the forthcoming year.

Can it be that antediluvian headmaster was right all along? Does beating make a man?


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