The Library of Spanking Fiction: Wellred Weekly


Wellred Weekly
Volume 2, Number 2 : August 19, 2013
 
Articles
Items of interest regarding all things spanking

Corporal Punishment: Archetype, Myth & Reality - Part 2 (cont.)
by Dominic Black

hen I was growing up, spanking was the norm, as was caning at school. I now realise, however, that an uneasy climate existed around this theme... a heavily oppressive, sadistic, sexual atmosphere. To be sentenced to the cane at school, or to be told to 'wait until your father gets home' created an anticipatory dread, not unlike the criminal in the gallows awaiting the hangman's noose at dawn. One time, aged 15, I was sent off playing for my school's football team, actually only finally in retaliation for the mauling I got from the opposing left back. I was the free spirit of the team, the maverick George Best-type, with long hair and snake-like hips, even though I say so myself!. I eventually kicked the thug back in anger and was promptly dismissed. This spelled disaster! Anyone sent off representing the school on a saturday was given a mandatory caning on the following monday, with no room for appeal.

As I left the field, very upset, I got lots of sympathy from team-mates, and from some parents and teachers on the touch-line, including the deputy headmaster's wife who greatly admired my deft artistry on the football field. Her husband, the deputy headmaster, was our football coach at the time, however, and he remained grim-faced and impassive. It would be he who would deliver the caning, and he was feared throughout the school for the severity of his beatings. It only served to increase my shame that his wife was sympathetic, because she knew that I would now face the cane.

I spent the whole weekend in turmoil, hardly eating or sleeping, with my tummy in all kinds of knots. The punishment ritual took on a far greater significance in my mind than the actual sum of the parts, and this is not uncommon, I find, when I have spoken to others about their punishment experiences. Whereas the sensible self might realise that it would all be over in 5 minutes, and quickly forgotten, the emotional self builds it up into a terrifying sacrificial ordeal, with overwhelming levels of shame and fear devouring one, like mythological ogres.

I replayed the forthcoming event over and over in my mind before monday. There were so many unanswered questions that distressed me... would it be 6 strokes, 12 strokes or even more? Would it be across my trousers or my pants? Would it be with his wife present or within earshot (they lived in a house attached to the school), or in his school office where his secretary would be within earshot. Would I be instructed to report to the school nurse afterwards, to have antiseptic cream applied to my bare bottom... perhaps the most humiliating prospect of all, in this situation. The school's policy was that canings were to be administered over a minimum of one layer of clothing, so it was at the discretion of the teacher whether you were allowed to keep your trousers on, or whether you were thrashed across your pants or gym shorts. You could not be beaten across the bare bottom. However, a formal caning from a senior teacher that was not just a salutary Beano-esque six-of-the-best in the classroom, usually resulted in being sent to the school nurse afterwards for health and safety reasons... where she applied antiseptic cream, in case any skin was broken. So she was the only one in this entire procedure who saw a pupil's caned, bare bottom.

In the event, I was instructed to go to his house at 4.00pm, after school on monday. His wife answered the door, and ushered me in, saying her husband would be along in a few minutes. She looked at me sympathetically and ruefully, and offered me juice and biscuits which I was too nervous to accept. She made some small talk about how good a footballer I was, and how I must learn not to retaliate under any circumstances, and that this experience would make me a better player and a better person. But I barely heard what she was saying, as dread and shame threatened to engulf me.

Then I heard the key in the door, and my tummy lurched. The deputy headmaster came in, in his gown. He was a weasley man, with slick-backed hair and sallow, olive skin, looking a little like Josef Goebbels. He merely said to his wife:

"Would you leave us alone for a few minutes please, we have some business to attend to."

His wife left the room, and Goebbels fetched a cane from behind a cupboard. I could hear his wife in the kitchen, as the living-room door was still open.

"Stand over there," he barked, indicating the sofa.

"Take your trousers down," he instructed. I slowly complied, flushing and becoming aware of my heart pounding. How cruel to do this to a fellow human creature, any human creature... to deliberately terrify a boy to the point of him having an adrenalised fight-or-flight response, to make the animal in him feel he might be devoured.

"Now bend over."

I knew his wife could hear all the commands, and would be aware that I was now bending over the arm of their sofa, with my trousers down, awaiting a caning across my pants... the arm where perhaps she might put her coffee or her magazine.

In the event, I received a dozen strokes, and each swish and thwack of the cane would be heard by his wife. I wondered what image she might have of me in her imagination. When I imagined her seeing the cane thwack repeatedly against my pants, looking on sympathetically, I felt consumed with deep shame. Although physically painful, the worse thing by far was the shame.

I was indeed instructed to see the school nurse, who was, I was told, waiting for me, and I hardly dared look at his wife as she opened the front door whilst I gathered myself to leave. It was not an option to avoid the school nurse under such circumstances, because if she reported an absence, another caning awaited, later.

The nurse, a plump, brisk matronly type from Northern Ireland, instructed me to take my trousers down and lay across her lap. Then she pulled my pants down very matter-of-factly and applied Savlon to my hot, stripy bottom cheeks. I remember her tutting and prattling on about how 90% of her time was taken up with applying antiseptic cream to the caned bottoms of naughty boys. When she'd completed her task, functionally, she pulled my pants back up which then stuck to my bottom, rather uncomfortably and embarrassingly. With a couple of pats she ushered me up, and told me to pull my trousers up and be off home.

At my school, and a very good school it was too, caning was almost on the curriculum, along with paedophilia... just after history, but before maths! Our science teacher used to cut the end of his cane with a penknife to make it more like a birch; our Latin teacher used to take a run-up to apply his size 12 plimsoll to our bottoms; our gigantic geography teacher used to pull our trousers up very tight before upending us across his knee, and plumping his huge hand down across our bottom cheeks, and then keeping it there; our lesbian gym mistress used to pull our gym shorts down and slipper us across our pants. These were everyday abuses of authority, which no-one thought to question. It was as if teaching was simply an excuse to smack bottoms. There was often a glint in the eye of the spanker... a positive relish at the prospect of another ritual sacrifice... a sort of conspiratorial accord that pre-supposed that our bottoms were entirely made for spanking, that they enjoyed it, and that they had every right to, and that we also accepted it fairly willingly as something inevitable and deserved.

It was the same at our sister school, too. Many of the girls we went home on the bus or train with, or whom we appeared in school plays with, were routinely slippered across their knickers by lesbian gym teachers built like a Sherman tank, or gangly spinsters with narrow eyes. We often traded stories. I had a crush on a girl called Rowena, when I was 12, a daintily pretty child with a high forehead, centre parting, violet eyes and a coquettish introversion. I came to learn that she had gone into W.H. Smiths with two friends and several packets of crisps, and then sat on the floor eating them (the crisps that is, not the friends), taking it in turn to listen to the latest 45's in the record booth, one day.

Apparently, this was scandalous behaviour! It became an item of outraged gossip... my mother's bridge partners all but condemning the poor girls to exile, and a life of penile servitude in some remote colonial outpost. Mr. Forbes, an alcoholic, wife-beating neighbour from South Africa, proclaimed that what these girls needed was a sound thrashing. In the event, the three miscreants were given six-of-the-best by the headmistress across their knickers, for bringing the school into disrepute. Rowena told me that she also had had to apologise to the manager of Smith's, who had resisted calling the police, after ringing the school, as long as he was assured that the girls would get 'a good smacked bottom'. Upon apologising, he had told Rowena never to come back into his store again, and that he hoped she got such a spanking that she wouldn't be able to sit down for a week... and that if she was his daughter, he would bare her bottom.

Hysteria!!
 
4 comments:
canadianspankee said...
Maybe the writer just forgot to mention it, but there is no mention of any men being caned in certain countries, just the women seem to be picked out for this punishment. I would hope the law would be apply equally but we all know in many parts of the world women are considered second class citizens.

Punishment in schools back in the earlier decades was very common world wide, and although the punishing instrument may have changed the idea of whacking a students butt never changed until years later.

Well done article, interesting facts and it causes one to think
25 August 2013 03:59
Bogiephil1 said...
Interesting story (and kind of scary too!). I wonder about the time frame, i.e., when the writer was in this school (the year) and what grade level it was. I take it also it was in the UK somewhere.

BTW, I think you meant "penal" servitude, not "penile" which has a different meaning entirely. At least I hope that's what you meant... ;-)
25 August 2013 20:32
TomHobbes said...
To someone on the other side of the pond this provides substance to the stories we secretly read back about the public schools of England. It would seem this was far more widespread. Very interesting how deep and detailed the memories are etched of those experiences so many decades later. While I always fantasized myself in that kind of situation it is probably much better I did not experience it quite like the writer.
26 August 2013 17:11
tribemen said...
Nice work and well done. Thank you. Some (not all)of these stories/facts/myths sound like my spanking days in the 60's

JCP
13 April 2014 03:45

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