The Library of Spanking Fiction: Wellred Weekly
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Articles
Items of interest regarding all things spanking
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Recollections: Scenes of Prep-School Life DISCLAIMER: This account is guaranteed true within the limits of human memory! While I do not think that these methods of bringing up boys were desirable, I do not feel that they were responsible for my interests in spanking today, since these have developed from feelings I had when I read books at an even younger age!  When I was nine, I went to boarding school. The 1960s had started, the Beatles were about to find fame and fortune, before I left the school Mr Wilson had spoken of the white-hot technological revolution and won an election against the 14th Earl of Home – but our little piece of the educational sector was in many ways as it might have been forty years earlier! Discipline was largely (though not entirely) based upon corporal punishment, usually in the form of a gym shoe wielded by the senior master (Mr N, we will call him), which we observed with awe in the place where it was kept in the corner of the changing room. The cane was also used by the headmaster, but only usually upon more senior boys. From the conversation I heard, it was clear that almost everyone was likely to suffer at least the former punishment, although for much of the first term, I, as a very homesick, very unhappy, little boy with few friends, hoped that I might escape. Yes, I knew from books like Billy Bunter that there was something strangely fascinating about the idea of people ‘getting the cane' (as it had been called at my primary school, where it was sometimes talked about but never actually happened), but I certainly did not relish the prospect in real life – how horribly painful and embarrassing it would be! I cried myself to sleep each evening when the others were courting disaster by talking after lights-out, telling lavatorial jokes or boasting about their fathers' war experiences. Thus it was that on one occasion towards the end of my first term, when the harassed matron found that the noise after light-out was intolerable and told nearly two whole dormitories (sixteen boys) to report to the senior master for punishment in the morning, I was one of just three whose assurances that they had slept through the disturbances were accepted – and who were excused! Even at the time, glad and relieved though I was, I half envied the others – were they about to have an experience which, if I had shared it, would have made me feel in some mysterious way – grown-up? Or even would have made them like me more? The next morning, I learnt, of the thirteen boys, one, the youngest and smallest, was given just two hand-spanks, the two dormitory-captains were given four each with a gym-shoe, and the remainder, two with a gym shoe each. As I saw one boy in the classroom afterwards, talking quite cheerfully, though with one hand on his bottom, I did wonder whether I had missed something! It was quite a different story one day the next term, when I, perhaps more settled in, had the temerity to have a pillow-fight with another boy after lights out! We were ordered by the matron to report to Mr N on his arrival at the school the next day! Before breakfast I was desperately frightened and unhappy, and was consequently teased mercilessly by the other boys. I am sorry to say that I heartily blamed the other boy for getting me into this situation! Gone was any thought of corporal punishment being an interesting experience that I wanted to sample! We had to hang around for Mr N in the front hall after breakfast, and when he came we were solemnly ordered to go and wait for him in the changing-room. There we had to take our trousers off, bend across his knees, and were whacked with the gym-shoe upon our under-pants. The other boy, who had had a beating the previous term, got three whacks, I, for whom it was my first time, got two! When the time came I found that it was not actually as painful as I had supposed, and did not cry at the actual experience, as I had at the prospect of it. Afterwards I could affect nonchalance with the best! I always remember Mr N's final words as we put our trousers on again, telling us to avoid a repetition of these uncomfortable consequences: "I don't like it and you don't like it and I'm sure Mrs C [the Matron] doesn't like it!" But of course it was not my last beating! The next time was some eighteen months later. The changing room had been left in a state of great untidiness. A list was sent round the whole school; every boy on it was to report to the changing room after the lesson before games. I duly attended – some garment with my name on had been found on the floor. I bent over and was given a single swat with the gym-shoe. Because the entire set of culprits did not attend together but went to Mr N in the changing-room separately, this was less dramatic than it might have been. My main memory is of a feeling of resentment that it had been assumed that I had left my own garment out of the locker – it was perfectly possible (I thought and still think) that it had been pulled out by boys larking around! This operation obviously did not have a satisfactory effect on the tidiness of the changing-room, because later that term, the same thing happened again. This time all whose names appeared on the list were ordered to attend the Fifth Form room after changing for games immediately after the lesson. “Oooh, Ernest!” said the master who was taking that class, in what he probably intended to be a jovial and sympathetic way – I was not at all comforted. I suspected that the consequences this time would be worse than last! When I got to the Fifth Form room, I joined the back of a long line of boys who were waiting in a queue. I wish I could remember how many there were – but it was a small school, and even if there were only eight or ten that would still represent ten or twelve per cent of the school roll! In my memory, perhaps faulty, it was perhaps double that many! I can remember the feeling of nervousness and fear as, in turn, each boy in front of me leant over the master's table, got two hard whacks with the gym shoe from Mr N, stood up and left. On this occasion we were not expected to take our trousers down – but that was because we were already in sports shorts! Finally it was my turn! The strokes hurt – but, as I have said earlier, they were worse in anticipation than in actuality. I suppose the feeling of camaraderie helped – we would not have wanted to cry in front of our fellow-sufferers. The scene was one which I can vividly recall – spanko literature actually met the real world that day! The next time I was beaten was for ‘messing around' with another boy while queuing up for the lunchtime meal, about a year after this (aged now 11 or 12). What we had been doing I really cannot remember – he was not a particular friend of mine but the prefect in charge felt that our behaviour had been disruptive, and sent us to the master on duty. Another master would at most have put us in the corner for a while, but the dreaded Mr N was on duty that day! He told us to report to him after lunch. That was not a meal I enjoyed very much, having a wholesome and well-founded dread of what was likely to happen at the end of it! But of course one had to pretend that it was a matter of very trivial moment; we were far too big to cry or get very upset at a whacking nowadays! I remember looking at the other boy laughing and joking with his friends further down the table, and wondering whether he actually felt as dreadful and as terrified as I did. continued...
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