This is my first submission to this site. I was very excited to find OTD Memories because I had several corporal punishment experiences while growing up and I have always wanted to share my memories of them with someone.

Let me start by saying that I am now a 64 year old man living near New York City. I grew up in a time when corporal punishment was much more accepted than it is today. I’m sure that some of the things that happened to me would merit jail sentences in today’s reactive society, but way back then people thought differently than they do now.

My first experience occurred when I was eight years old. Both of my parents worked and as a result I spent my after school hours at a day care center which I believe catered for children up to the third grade, which was my grade at the time.

We got snacks on arrival each day and were then sent out on to the playground if the weather permitted.

Our playground monitor was a young woman who I would guess was in her early twenties. Miss Trapasso was the heart throb of all the little boys. She was tall and slim and always wore the classic ‘short shorts’ of that era along with tight T-shirts. We all tried our best to impress her whenever we could, but we also knew that you didn’t want to get on her bad side because she was VERY strict when it came to following the rules.

Although I had never witnessed it, I heard that she spanked both boys and girls who misbehaved. Most of the time I was a well behaved child and followed the rules carefully, because I dreaded the idea of being spanked in front of the other kids.

There were two girls at the day care center that I wanted so much to impress. They were my age and were in my class at school. One was a red head and one was a blonde. The blonde was named Cathy and she was a mischief maker, often getting in trouble at school, but on her best behavior at the day care center.

The red head was Kelly and although she was generally better behaved than Cathy, when they were together they conspired in all sorts of pranks.

I was continually trying to hang around with them and they were continually trying to avoid me. I’m sure I made a pest of myself, but I hoped that they would eventually pay some attention to me.

On the day of my first experience we were all out on the playground on a warm sunny day. Miss Trapasso was sitting on her lawn chair in her regular place at the far end on the playground. As usual, I was trying to chat up Cathy and Kelly and was being ignored. They started to walk away from me toward the other side of the playground and I trailed along behind.

In the middle of the playground, about half the distance to Miss Trapasso, was a large apple tree. There was a big limb that stretched out from the tree which was just high enough to make it enticing for little boys to want to swing on. Although a few of us had jumped up in the past and did a noble Tarzan swing while walking back from our playground time, we had recently been told in no uncertain terms that this was strictly forbidden. One of the boys had lost his grip while swinging and ended up on his back on the ground and the center was afraid someone would get hurt.

As we approached the limb I glanced up at Miss Trapasso and saw that she had her back to us and was talking to one of the kids. So in a moment of bravado I ran ahead of the girls and jumped up and grabbed the limb. As I began my swing I heard a load crack and the next thing I knew I was on the ground and the limb was on the ground with me.

Everyone ran over and gathered around including Miss Trapasso who looked very concerned. Once it was established that I wasn’t hurt, Miss Trapasso’s look of concern turned to an ominous look of anger.

“What were you told about swinging on the tree?” She yelled. “You see now why we said that? Now you’ve broken the branch and ruined the tree. You are going to be punished right now!”

I was terrified. I had never seen Miss Trapasso so angry. She grabbed my arm and pulled me across the playground toward her lawn chair. All the kids followed including Cathy and Kelly.

When we reached her chair she sat down and I stood in front of her.

“You know you weren’t allowed to swing on that limb. Do you have anything to say for yourself?” She demanded.

I stammered some lame excuse and already felt like I might cry.

“You’re going to be spanked. Now come over here and pull down your pants.”

An electric shock seemed to pass through me. I couldn’t believe that she wanted me to pull down my pants in front of the other kids. I hesitated then took a step closer to her. It was then that I glanced at the other kids and saw to my further embarrassment that Cathy and Kelly were standing at the front of the group not more than six feet away and they both had smiles on their faces.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Pull down your pants.”

Miss Trapasso’s demand gave me little choice, so without looking at the other kids I slowly pulled down my pants.

I was wearing a T-shirt that came down to my belly button so everything from there down was in full view. I had on the usual white briefs that kids wore then and I tried to put my hands over my groin as best I could.

Without further delay Miss Trapasso grabbed my hands and pulled me across her lap. I lay there waiting for the first strike to fall as she continued to reprimand me for what I had done.

Then to my great shock she grabbed the waist band of my underwear and pulled them down to my ankles. She did it so fast that it took a moment to register what had happened. Then all at once the strangest feelings came over me in a rush. The most prominent was complete embarrassment that my bare bottom was now on display for all to see, but there was also this very weird feeling because I realized that my little boy parts were now pressed against Miss Trapasso’s bare thighs. I knew nothing about sex at that age, but the feeling of it had a strange effect on me.

Those feelings were immediately wiped out as her hand cracked across my bottom and the pain overwhelmed me. She struck hard and fast without let up until I was squirming about wildly and crying out load.

I don’t know how long it lasted, but eventually she stopped and told me to stand up. I stood facing her and immediately covered myself with my hands.

“Put your hands on top of your head or you’re going back across my lap.”

I slowly put my hands up and stood there in front of Miss Trapasso with all of my boyhood on display, also knowing that my bare bottom was on full display to all the kids standing behind me.

“Now I want you to apologize for what you did!”

I stammered out an apology through my sobs.

“Now apologize to the other kids for breaking our tree.”

I repeated my apology once again.

“No! Turn around and look at the others and apologize.”

I couldn’t believe what she was telling me to do. I didn’t want to turn around. I didn’t want everyone, especially Cathy and Kelly, to see the front of me. I started to lower my hands, but was immediately told to keep my hands on top of my head. When I continued to hesitate I was asked if I wanted more spanking.

I slowly turned around and faced the others while looking down at the ground and once again repeated my apology.

“Put your head up and look at the others when you apologize.”

I slowly looked up and looked right into the eyes of the two girls. Their eyes met mine for a moment and then, with big smiles appearing on their faces, they looked down to see what was on display.

With my embarrassment complete I was told to shuffle over and stand facing the fence with my hands still on my head and my pants around my ankles until the play period was over. I stayed there with my face and my bottom equally red until all the kids had filed back inside. When I was finally allowed to pull up my pants and go inside with the others, I found Cathy and Kelly waiting just inside the door both laughing and letting me know that they had seen ‘my little thing’. I had finally gotten their attention.

JS

The biology and science labs were one and the same and served a dual roll. It was my third year when Susan and I fell foul of Miss H******ton-H**per who we knew as Miss H.

An igniter for use with a bunsen burner had been left out; it was an opportunity not to be missed. Could you light the gas from the gas taps that were built into the benches? The answer was ‘Yes’ as we were soon to find out. Unfortunately the flame didn’t go unseen by a livid Miss H.

“You two, see me after class!” Was her reaction.

It was too late to regret our actions and as the other girls departed she moved her stool to the front of the class. Susan was the first to be invited to bend over it. Her skirt was folded back and that was all I could really see. What I did see was the slipper raised high only to descend rapidly to the area where her bottom would be. I might not be able to see much, but I could hear Susan’s howls of disapproval, for Miss H had a powerful arm when applying the slipper.

After six mighty slaps the slipper had done it’s job and Susan raised herself from the stool, tears streaming down her face, and I was invited to take her place. I bent over the stool, took hold of the legs and waited for the ritual to begin.

But there was a problem; my tight skirt wouldn’t flip. I was thinking my luck was in and my skirt would have to stay in place but, no, Miss H had another solution and I had to take it off. There I was, now stood in my knickers before being ordered back over to await the first crack of the slipper. I didn’t have to wait long and fully understood Susan’s howl. I screamed my displeasure as water filled my eyes. As each stroke landed, the pain and discomfort increased as I wriggled and squirmed while laying across that stool, tears streaming down my face as well.

As we both stood rubbing our bottoms, the lecture began. We knew we were stupid and shouldn’t have done it while she was around, but common sense doesn’t always prevail and she had a way of putting it into words. Finally we were dismissed and we couldn’t get out quickly enough, but a loud shout called me back. I turned to face her.

“Going to your next lesson in your knickers then?” She chortled. In my haste to get out, I’d forgotten to put my skirt back on.

Annie

I am 39 now. However, when I was 10 my then boyfriend and I went truant. Yes, we got caught. I remember going into the headmaster’s study. Oh boy! A strap and a cane lay across the desk. Pete had been here before. He had to step forward and bend over. Trousers were removed and four strokes with the strap planted. Then the headmaster swished the cane. He told Pete to drop pants and bend over the desk. Six of the best stripes appeared across his bare backside.

Pete stood up with tears running. He did not know whether to cover front or back. The headmaster then gave a lecture. He let me leave my butt tingling as I thought I too would get it. But I didn’t.

RG

As a fourth year, it was a girls only Biology class with Miss H whose speciality was dissecting all manner of things. We had already had dead mice and frogs and today it was to be bull’s eyes. With a couple of the girls already being sick in the sinks, my mouth, I’m sorry to say, got the better of me so much so that I had to report back at break time. It did have the desired effect and shut me up for the rest of the lesson.

At break time, I reported back guessing what she had in mind for me as I and a number of girls had been there before. Miss H had a teenage family of her own and made full use of her training when it came to discipline at home, so she kept telling us. As expected, her own stool, which stood taller than ours, was in position awaiting my arrival, as was a slipper which was resting on her table. She never minced her words and with ‘immature’ and ‘grow up’ ringing in my ears I removed my blazer and positioned myself over the stool.

I knew I had only myself to blame and from previous experience knew this lady could seriously sting a girls bottom. This time I had a short skirt which could be flipped back.

She pulled back the skirt to reveal my knicker-clad bottom and, knowing the slipper would soon be arriving, I gripped the stool harder. I wasn’t wrong, it slapped into my bottom with a frightening slap. I couldn’t stop myself yelling at its intensity. After slap two I yelled louder and longer before lap three landed. The fires of hell were now burning in my bum and the tears began. Slap four and I was now getting more distraught, kicking my feet and rolling about on the stool. Slap five; I could hold on no longer and was up off the stool frantically rubbing at my throbbing bum, before assuming the position once more. I felt totally humiliated now as the skirt went back once again and Miss H let fly with her slipper. Up off the stool I shot, my hands once again on my knickers and howling like a girl half my age.

Break was nearly over by the time I left, my bottom feeling twice its size and my ego reduced by half.

Annie

Having watched a science teacher blow the lid off a tin at school, I decided to replicate the experiment at home. It wasn’t difficult, 1 tin can with lid, some match heads and a heat source known as the gas stove. Now I was set to show my brother Peter how it was done.

Firstly, I dropped a large number of match heads inside the tin and firmly replaced the lid, then I placed the tin over a burner and ignited it. It didn’t take long before there was an almighty bang as the lid took off towards the ceiling and the smell and smoke of used matches spilled into the kitchen. Mum was in like a shot, looked at the pair of and told us to get ready for bed. Going to bed would have been better, getting ready implied she hadn’t finished with us and it wasn’t long before we were back down in our pyjamas. In her hand she had the dreaded hairbrush and I had to remove my pyjama bottoms and bend over her knee for a well deserved good hiding. When she had finished with me my bottom was on fire. I stood there in buckets of tears, rocking and rubbing for all I was worth as Peter went through a similar ordeal across mum’s knee before she sent us to bed.

I followed Peter up the stairs, both of us still minus our pyjama bottoms and me staring at his punished rear and thinking: ‘What went wrong?’

The following day it was school for us, still feeling the effects of the previous night in my bottom. I was unaware of what effect it was having on Peter but sitting down was still unpleasant for me as I squirmed around on the seats. Still, at least it was over and could only get better. Mum had certainly put more effort into the hairbrush than normal.

It was mid afternoon when a message arrived in class for me to see the headmaster after school. I wasn’t unduly worried for there was no reason to be. It was only when I saw Peter leaving his office I put two and two together and realised mum had something to do with it.

Peter had left with a smile on his face, so I still had no reason to worry. It was more likely to be a telling off over the event. How wrong could I have been? Mum had certainly bent his ear that day and he was not happy. I was to blame, not Peter, and I couldn’t disagree and expected to be marched next door to see the headmistress and her cane.

Good news, or so I thought, followed; she was unavailable for a few days and I knew the head did not like caning girls. But, and there always is a downside, he would use the slipper instead. The Secretary was called in to witness before I assumed the bending position, and it was she who raised my skirt out of the way to reveal my tightly stretched maroon knickers to the daylight.

‘Better than a caning,’ I thought, especially on an already sore bum. Then the ‘but’ came to fruition; ‘twelve strokes’. I couldn’t believe what he said next but he wasn’t kidding and it was twelve strokes I got from his slipper.

I trudged my way home to face mum, who already knew the results of her complaining by the time got home. She’d had to accept to head’s decision about Peter. I, on the other hand, could hardly sit down even if was the slipper and not the cane as she had hoped. Both of us were grounded, not that I had any inclination to go out for some time.

Annie

Being caught fighting in the school yard could only lead to one conclusion as myself, my cousin and a more senior girl were soon to find out. I wasn’t in the fight, just trying to help my cousin who was taking a pounding from the bigger girl, but the head didn’t see it that way. I was involved and that was good enough to warrant the cane in her eyes. After a long lecture we were lined up outside her office with our hands on heads, with me last and my cousin second last. Neither of us had been caned before, not at school anyway.

The canings were to be one by one and it didn’t take long for a crowd  to congregate near to her office as we stood there waiting. It was horrendous listening to the proceedings, knowing that I would very soon be the focus of attention and my stomach was tying itself in knots. I already knew the majority of punishments from her were taken touching toes, skirt up and knickers tightly stretched, as opposed to the holding out your hands as happened at many establishments.

Outside the headmistress’s office, it was hard not to hear what was going on inside. I clearly heard the order for the senior girl to touch her toes and, after a short pause, the whistle and crack of the cane. This was followed by the second crack landing. These were received in silence. I was beginning to get the idea this wasn’t too much different to the slipper. After the fourth crack landed to the sound of a light yell, there was a pause and then the girl emerged, tear streaks down her face, and she walked off quickly, though rubbing her sore bottom.

When my cousin entered, I felt this wasn’t too bad; probably similar to one of mum’s canings. Listening carefully, I heard her being ordered to bend over and I waited for the first whistle and crack as before. What happened next sent a shudder of fear running through my body. The scream was a howler. The second stroke landed and she cried out louder and longer. I was now in a state of total panic.

The room quietened before the third; then more cries and screams. By now I was quite literally ready to run, but my legs were glued to the spot. A short lull and then the fourth crack landed and the screaming and ranting went on and on. My cousin eventually emerged. Her red, tearful eyes showed the state of emotion she was in as she staggered down the corridor, clutching her skirt and rubbing what must have been a horribly throbbing bottom.

Now it was my turn. I was told to touch my toes and try to stay in position, then my skirt was the ceremonially positioned out of the way. I was now in position presenting my bottom for a painful thrashing. The headmistress apologised for having to cane me. A loud swish concluded with my piercing scream as that cane cracked viciously into my knicker clad cheeks. There was a slight delay before the effects reacted within me and the pain seemed to follow after a short spell. Now tears streamed down my face. I was up, trying to dispel the pain from my mind as best I could. I knew now why Sarah had emerged in her state of anguish.

The Headmistress ordered me back into position (not easy when you know what’s coming next). It was another cracking blow to my already smarting bottom and, like Sarah, I screamed louder whilst unable to resist rubbing my knickers any longer.

As number three approached, the Head must have been tiring of the crying and posturing of naughty girls she was trying to punish and she physically had to reposition me, as I was incapable of doing it this time. Another almighty swish and I was off again. This was beyond anything I could take and I was now totally uncontrollable.

It was only with the threat of my knickers coming down that finally found me ready for the last stroke which flew into my tightly stretched rear. Tears flooded down my face, my hands rubbing my searing cheeks. I was given some time to compose myself before she opened the door and ushered me out. There I was outside her office, a bawling fourteen year old, hands rubbing her rear end and unable to walk down the corridor with the pain. Fortunately the audience had gone back to their classes. Then an arm grasped mine. My cousin had recovered enough to assist me to the girls toilets, away from prying eyes.

As the pain subsided a little, we made the decision to retire to a cubicle and remove our knickers. I had the urge to see the damage. Four horrifying burgundy lines stretched across my pale unblemished bottom. Sarah had fared no better and it was going to be hard for us to go to class and stay seated. Yes, the class did know where I was and, yes, they all wanted to see what a cane could do. Providing it was private, whipping up your skirt and dropping your knickers for a viewing session was quite common, and very pleasurable in the right hands.

Annie

I went to a grammar school in the 1960’s and received my fair share of slipperings and canings. But there is one which sticks in my memory more than the rest and a resultant second caning later.

In my first four years at the school all teachers used the slipper, and the cane was reserved for more serious offences. That changed in my last year when a new headmistress was appointed. She stopped teachers using the slipper and deemed that minor offences would earn a detention and serious offences would be reported to her. More than 3 detentions in a term or 6 in a year would also warrant a visit to her office. She also stopped caning girls on their hands and decreed that all canings would be on the bottom over one item of clothing only.

I was 16 at the time and I finally got caned by her in the second term of my fifth year. Some of the girls challenged me and my friends to a game of strip poker during one lunchtime. We sneaked to a room where we thought we would be safe and the action commenced. We were so engrossed that we failed to hear an approaching teacher. I am not sure who was most shocked, the lady teacher or us, when she opened the door and came across semi naked pupils. She ordered us to get dressed and follow her.

We were taken to the headmistress’s office and told to wait outside. After a few minutes the teacher who found us came out and we were invited in. The headmistress read us a long lecture before advising us that we were all to receive 6 strokes of the cane for playing strip poker and a detention for being out of bounds. We were to serve our detention the following day after school. The headmistress then sent 2 of the girls and the boys outside and kept one girl in her office. I lined up immediately after the two girls as I did not want too long a wait for my fate.

It was not long before I could hear the cane swishing and it was followed by cries of pain from the girl. She finally came out with tears running and rubbing her bottom.

Then the second girl went in. She got the same punishment with the same result. By now the 4 of us were very frightened especially when the second girl came out with tears streaming down her face and rubbing her bottom.

The third girl went in and I listened intently to the swishing cane which was followed by her cries of pain. It was not long before she came out with tears running and rubbing her bottom hard.

It was then my turn to enter the room. I was ordered to remove my blazer and stand behind a chair. The headmistress then told me to drop my trousers and bend over the chair back. I was ordered to hold the chair legs and the headmistress adjusted my posture until she was satisfied. I felt her lift my shirt up and soon felt the cane touch my bottom. The first stroke soon followed and I felt a pain like I had not felt before. Five more strokes followed with each one appearing to be harder than the previous. I was crying out after the third stroke and tears were running down my face.

Finally I was told to stand up. I was ordered to get dressed and eventually dismissed. I quickly left the office rubbing my bottom profusely as I went.

This was by far the hardest caning I received at school and my most embarrassing. The new headmistress had certainly left her mark!

One side line to this caning was that it added to my detentions and I got caned later in the term for having accrued three detentions that term. I attended the detention after school and was recorded as present by the teacher taking the detention. I was then told to go and report to the headmistress along with another boy.

I knocked on the headmistress’s door and we were summoned in. She knew why we were there and the cane was already on her desk. She told the other lad to wait outside. I was ordered to remove my blazer and stand by the chair in the middle of the room as I had done previously. The headmistress then told me to drop my trousers and bend over the chair. She told me to hold the chair legs and adjusted my posture exactly as I remembered it. I was very nervous as I waited for my caning because of my first visit to the headmistress. I did not have long to wait before my shirt was lifted out of the way and the cane touched my bottom.

The first stroke followed quickly and I felt the pain exactly as before. I managed to avoid crying out as I was determined to prove I could take it. The headmistress continued and five more hard strokes followed. I was then told to stand and get dressed before being told to return to my detention. I left the room past the other lad and reported back to my detention. It was hard staying still while writing out chapters of a book for the remainder of the hour’s detention. Eventually we were dismissed and I walked slowly and painfully home.

PJ

I was at a church convention in the local town (I grew up in a village). I and a couple of others had gone straight there from school. I came out and headed to the bus stop to head home. I was attacked by two boys in my year, one of whom was in my class. Both were in uniform and there were two others cheering them on. I was knocked to the floor and had my head split open on the corner of the pavement. Naturally I fought back; how can you possibly not in those circumstances, but my main objective was to get away, which eventually I did. I was taken to hospital and received four stitches to my head. I eventually got home and, after explaining what had happened to my parents and given them the names of the boys involved, and then being with them when they called the police, I went to bed.

In the morning, I went to school as usual. In the third period, just before lunch, I was called to see the Headmaster. As I approached his office I saw the four boys who were involved in the assault. I assumed he had learned their names from the police and was going to sort it all out.

We went into the Headmaster’s office, and were told in no uncertain terms to stand in front of his desk. He demanded to know why we had all been in a fight the previous night, in school uniform, in front of a number of people. No mention of the police. No mention of me being attacked. He looked at me and said “[name], you’re a disgrace. You look like you’ve been in a bar brawl.” My mouth can only have fallen to the floor.  I tried to get a word in and protest, but I was shouted down. “Silence, boy! I will not have this sort of behaviour, bringing disgrace on this school.”

“But Sir, I was only trying to de…”

“Silence, I said! Every one of you has brought shame on this school and you are going to learn how to behave. I am going to give you all the stick. Do you have anything to say?”

His head scanned from right to left as I saw it, and none of the others made so much as a murmur. His gaze came to me.

“But Sir, they attacked me! You can’t…”

“I CAN and I will. How DARE you question my authority?! He pointed to the boy to the right of the line and said: “You, over the arm of that sofa now!” Pointing to the red Chesterfield in front of the fireplace. I tried one more time.

“But Sir, all I did was defend myself…”

“[name] you were one of five boys fighting in public. You are going to be punished. For your insolence, you are going to get six. You were going to get four.” Smirks from the other boys.

The first boy was, by now, bent over the arm of the sofa. The Headmaster moved around from behind his desk, went to the coat hooks on the wall by the door and lifted one of the two canes hanging there. He walked over to the sofa, raised the boy’s jacket and laid on four extremely hard strokes. Boy two removed his jacket and got the same as did the others in the attacking group. They were sent away each as they had been caned, with a: “Now get out, and don’t let me see you back here again, or woe betide you!”

Eventually it was my turn. I looked at him and realised there was simply no point in trying to reason with this idiot. I had to take what was coming. I removed my jacket and bent over the arm of the sofa. Sure enough, within moments first one, then two, then three then four then five and finally, six brutal strokes made up what is traditionally referred to as a ‘five bar gate on my backside. Whilst it did not hurt nearly as much as the horsewhip I was used to getting at home, it really hurt. Whilst not crying as such, tears were running freely down my face. I was told to get up and: “Stop snivelling, boy!”

The anger and injustice and the pique at being told to stop snivelling when he had just give me six and my attackers four was overwhelming. He dismissed me saying, imperiously: “Don’t let me ever see you in here again. Now get out.”

My anger at that point was boiling over at the injustice. It would have taken considerable physical restraint to stop me doing anything I set my mind to, adrenalin was running high. I turned and stalked, with tears on my face, towards the door. I say stalked. And I mean it. There must have been a purpose about me as the headmaster said in what he thought was a commanding tone: “Well boy? What is it?”

I can only imagine what my face must have looked like, as he looked visibly shocked when I turned round. The words I uttered must have cut him to the quick, as I distinctly remember his face change as I spoke, from that of surprise to one of anger that someone would speak to him in this way, to one of a mix of anger and frustration, to, finally one of resignation, deflation and, I like to think, a little shame.

“I was attacked last night, with absolutely no provocation whatever. I had to go to hospital as a result of that attack. I came in here today, thinking I was going to see my attackers punished. I came in here today thinking I was going to get some justice. You called me in here, I thought, to hear my side of the story. My parents have called the police over this incident; yes, they are coming to interview me tonight.”

(His face looked an absolute picture at that one, he clearly had no idea of that, so where he got the information and the names from remains, to this day, a mystery to me).

“Instead, you were only bothered with taking out your anger that someone from this school was seen fighting. Everybody has the right to defend themselves, but apparently not if they are at this school. Apparently school rules are more important than the courts and the law. I was attacked last night by them, and I have been attacked again today by you, for the ‘crime’.” (I loaded that word with every bit of venom I could muster). “Of being attacked outside school grounds. Do you think you have taught me that fighting is wrong? Do you think I didn’t know that? You have taught me never again to trust a figure of authority. You would not listen to my side, and when I tried to give it, you told me you would beat me more. Well done (as much caustic sarcasm as I could muster). Do you think I am likely to ever bring anything to you or another teacher ever again? You have shown me I cannot trust this school or its masters and I never will.”

I turned without waiting for a reply and walked out.

I gave my report to the police that night and included that I had been beaten just for being attacked. Two police officers spoke to me, one man who remained quite quiet and the main interrogator who was a woman. I remember her saying in a somewhat surprised tone: “That doesn’t seem fair,” when I told her. The boys in question were arrested and did not make it into school the next day as they were being interviewed. In assembly on the Friday morning the headmaster spoke with anger about: “Being interrupted in my study yesterday by two police officers,” who apparently had wanted to speak to him about an assault apparently committed by two members of his school, egged on by two others. And: “Woe betide anyone I hear of involved in anything of that sort.”

I passed him later in the day in the corridor and he refused to meet my eye, the prick. Later that evening the police called my parents and told them the boys would be charged the next week. Apparently they had also had a word with my Headmaster. Whilst I had no further information on that front I like to think they told him in no uncertain terms that what he had done was out of order.

That was one of three incidents I had with the cane in my school. I was slippered countless times, but with my father horsewhipping me almost daily I barely felt those. One of the incidents, I was banged to rights and just took it. The other, however, the head was, literally, purple with anger and wanted to cane me on the hands. I point blank refused. Again an injustice was involved. We had been lined up outside the biology classroom when a stream of younger children, I think 3rd years, were walking past. One of them tripped up almost in front of me, and the geography master, with whom I generally got on very well, came up, belted me extremely hard around the head, nearly knocking me down, and screamed at me never to do that again. In some shock I told him I had done nothing. He belted me round the head again, harder, calling me a liar and instinctively I kicked him really hard on the shin. I thought he was going to go down but he straightened up and grabbed my ear and started pulling me away: ”Right [name], you’re coming to the headmaster.”

I was pulled unceremoniously to the headmaster’s study, through the green wooden door with two vertical reinforced glass panels. Remember those? You couldn’t see through them clearly but you could see a vague outline of what was in the room. The geography master outlined my litany of offences, first stating that I had ‘kicked a younger child’ as they walked past me causing them to fall and bang their head.

“It’s not true,” I had interjected, in fear of what was about to happen. That had only brought an enraged: “Silence, boy!” From the headmaster. He finished the story and the head had looked like thunder. “I’m going to teach you a lesson, boy,“ he said, venomously. “A lesson you are not going to forget in a hurry. He walked over to the coat hooks by the door and lifted off one of the two canes hanging there. Vicious looking implement. “Hold out your hand, boy.”

“No.”

I can’t quite describe the look on his face. A mixture of even more anger, surprise, delight that he could now do (in his mind at least) even more to me. I don’t know. Suffice it to say he was not happy.

“Do as you are told and hold out your hand, boy, or woe betide!”

“Mr. B******t hit me round the head, twice. That’s an assault and is illegal. I didn’t do it.”

He was practically screaming now. “Hold out your hand, Boy! Do you want me to call your parents?”

He knew my father was an overly strict disciplinarian. I had been previously beaten on the backside by him and wondered why he was looking to beat me on the hands. In truth I was scared almost witless right now. My grandmother had suffered badly from a hand caning as a child. I also had a piano exam in a few days which would be very difficult if I had taken the caning. My father would have beaten fifteen buckets of multi-coloured whatever out of me. I was infinitely more scared of my father than of this idiot, however angry he was right now.

Not for the first time in my life, but for the first time in school, I felt the need to be absolutely away from the presiding adult’s presence. I ran for the door, screaming: “Call the police if you like! If you don’t, I will!” And ran out, slamming the door hard enough on my exit that one of the glass panes cracked quite badly.

Not knowing where to go or what to do, I went, quite fearfully, back to the biology class and everyone assumed I had been caned. I was still assuming I would be. I never heard another word about the incident. Not one. My relationship with the geography master seemed utterly untouched when I had my next lesson later that week. He spoke to me as normal and I took the cue and spoke to him in exactly the same way. The headmaster never spoke to me again. I think he’d probably given up on me, in his mind. To this day I think he was a bully, a half wit and in the wrong job. If I saw him on fire I wouldn’t piss on him.

Some reading this will think I must have been a tearaway. I was not. I merely had a sense of self at that age and, frankly, as a result of my home life being pretty messed up was probably more of a handful than most. Was I, as one teacher had told me outright, useless beyond belief and would never make anything of myself? I went on to a very prestigious scholarship (Faraday Scholar; money left by Michael Faraday himself) and a doctorate from St John’s College, Oxford. I served on the front line in some pretty full-on actions in the army, and was a senior middle manager in a large pharma company, so I will leave you to make you own judgement on that one. I also keep with me an abiding sense of anger at what was done to me that day, and suffer strong and regular periods of depression at what was done to me at home. I do not believe my parents cared for me. My uncle once said to my father, having just witnessed my father chase me round the house with a horsewhip: “You’ll break the boy’s spirit.” To which my father replied: “I fully intend to.” And I thought my headmaster was a prick.  I regularly cried myself to sleep as a child and still to this day suffer nightmares.

I retain, however, a morbid fascination with corporal punishment. I still think it is absolutely appropriate in some circumstances, particularly bullying. It just needs to be applied with wisdom and an understanding of what it is doing to that child beyond causing some temporary pain.

DP

I am now 60 years old, a man who grew up in a time when parental spanking was usually in my country, Croatia. I remember a lot of my punishments were delivered by my strict mom. Dad did not spank me at all. Mom spanked me always on the bare bottom or on my legs and the palms of my hands. She used many implements; wooden ruler, wooden spoon,, belt and switch. It was forbidden to cry, to move, to cover my bottom with my hands, etc. Before spanking, she lectured me a lot, and after spanking came standing in a corner for one hour. Up until my fifteenth birthday I got thirty strokes and thereafter fifty. I did not have to count.

One summer evening, when I was seventeen, I came home late from a party with my friends and we had been drinking alcohol. Mom asked me where I had been and I lied that I was with my girlfriend.

My mom called her mother and found that I had lied. She noted also that I was drunk. She told me I was going to receive three punishments; a spanking with the wooden spoon for not telling the truth, a spanking with a switch for drinking alcohol and a belt spanking for coming in late.

I had to take my trousers and underpants off. Mom spanked me with the wooden spoon on my bare bottom while in a standing position; fifty swats. Then I got fifty strokes with a switch on the bare backs of my legs. For the switching, I had to bend over a chair. At the end of the punishment, I got fifty strokes with a belt on my bare bottom and legs. For that I had to bend over the chair.

After that came one hour corner time.

The spankings hurt a lot, especially with the switch, without crying. It was the last spanking I ever had.

PP

I grew up in Sydney Australia in the 1960s when corporal punishment of children at home was already starting to go out of fashion, though I suspect it was still the norm. I had been smacked when younger, on the legs, sometimes with a stick, but nothing as formal as a spanking over the knee.

However, I did receive a spanking at primary school in 1960, when I was 8, being drawn over the male teacher’s lap and given several sharp whacks with a pair of wooden rulers on my short pants. He held the rulers in his fingers only and sort of played paddy-whack on our little bottoms. It was only light but it stung. I remember sitting there afterwards thinking my face was probably as red as my bum felt.

I remember also seeing another boy spanked maybe a few weeks before I got mine, and being fascinated by the sight of his bottom, with his pants stretched, being hit with the rulers. The funny thing is that these memories lay dormant for 50 years, and suddenly sprang into my mind about 5 years ago, previously completely forgotten. I remember thinking how strange it was that I had not remembered it before, as I have had a lifelong fascination with CP and bottoms.

Spanking was a reasonably regular feature in popular culture on those days. I remember the one in Elvis Presley’s movie ‘Blue Hawaii’, the ones in the TV series ‘Rawhide’ and ‘Wagon Train’, and the caning in ‘Tom Sawyer’. All were specially noted by me, trying not to make it obvious of course. When I read Fiona Locke’s book ‘Over the knee’ recently, I related strongly to her character as it was like I was reading about myself and I think there must have been a significant element of autobiography in that book. It’s a shame she didn’t write more.

At high school we were still caned in those days; it didn’t stop until the 1990s in NSW, I think, but only on the hand. In fact, it was on the fingers not the palms because of the risk of damage, so already it was tightly controlled, at least in State Government-run schools.

I was caned twice for playing up in class, but the man who did it was not nasty enough to make much impact; it was quite benign really. 3 strokes the first time, 4 the second time (2 on each hand), it only made the fingers throb for a while afterwards, nothing like the extreme canings on knickers I have read about on this website, which would have made far more of an impact on us.

My main memory of my teenage years is in fact of not being punished at home when I felt I deserved it, and after thinking about this for years I am sure I can remember 3 instances when I felt I deserved a good thrashing for some behaviour, but didn’t get it because my parents were followers of Dr Spock. I can even remember thinking at the time that I needed a thrashing and experiencing the inner conflict of feeling I had ‘gotten away with’ something, and the guilt that went round and round in my head afterwards. I think that is actually where my interest in CP originates.

Of course it’s possible that the teacher’s spanking led to those thoughts about deserving punishment, so that it results from pre-conditioning. But there are also the cultural inputs from TV, film, cartoons and novels combined with my own nature; I was a sensitive, small, perhaps timid boy. Perhaps the spanking only triggered a submissive tendency that was there already? Interesting to speculate about, anyway, and there is no doubt about my lifelong fascination in CP, it came from somewhere.

Finally I would like to make a comment about the stories I have read on this website which are mostly are about experiences in the UK and mostly about school. As a libertarian Australian, I find them quite extreme and think that the discipline was authoritarian, that it was intended to control, not teach, and I would say that it highlights a characteristic of British society. However I recognise that others might say that Australians are too individualist and could have done with more of that control themselves.

Also, surprisingly in most cases the recipient telling the story felt it was justified and deserved. This surprises me because obviously I am the product of a lenient regime and I am reading about kids being caned often on their knickers which is quite an ordeal for an early teenage child. But it also reminds me of my own memories of deserving punishment when I was 13 and not getting it, and the conflict that resulted, so maybe it’s not that surprising really.

The story that had the greatest impact on me is Melanie’s account of her caning at age 11; 6 strokes of the cane on the knickers of an 11 year old girl? This wasn’t punishment; this was abuse and I think that headmaster should have gone to gaol. I can well imagine MH coming to terms with that memory in later life, and finally being able to confront it and write about it, which she did with great dignity and feeling and I thank her for sharing so much with us and I hope she did not suffer too much trauma. That could easily have been a life-changing experience for her.

TH

This memory relates to my later school career.

I very seldom earned a school detention, so it was unfortunate that I should get two in the same week, because that meant an automatic summons to the headmaster for a caning. I don’t even remember clearly what the detentions were for, but I certainly do remember the consequences.

As expected, the summons came during the lesson immediately before morning break on the Friday. I was to report to the head’s office as soon as the class was dismissed. I didn’t want to hurry, but knew it would be very unwise to keep Mr Pelsall waiting. Usually, if I passed his door at this time on a Friday, there would be a small queue of unhappy boys waiting their turn for the ‘whack’. This time, I was the only candidate which meant I would have to knock and wait rather than being called in when the previous boy came out.

Nervously, I tapped on the door. A voice bade me enter.

“Ah, Lee! You know why you’re here, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Well, say it!”

“Getting two detentions this week, Sir.”

“Exactly. Nothing to be proud of, is it? Well, you know what to expect. I’d have thought being given the first detention on Tuesday would bring you to your senses, but no, you had to keep on clowning your way through lessons until Mr Carstairs gave you another detention yesterday. I’m sorry, but if the thought of a detention doesn’t bother you, you obviously need a rather stronger deterrent. I’m going to cane you.”

What could I say? “Yes, Sir,” wasn’t very original, but it was all I could think of.

“You will receive two strokes. Understand me, Lee, this caning is for continuing with your misbehaviour, not for whatever it was that earned you the detentions. You still have to serve both of them; one after school today and the other next Friday.”

I was only too well aware of that. I hadn’t told my parents and I hadn’t yet worked out a good reason for being late home from school. That meant there was every prospect of a further spanking at home. My mother was the spanker in our house and, when she took my trousers down, she’d see my cane marks which would spark even more trouble. But Mr Pelsall was still speaking.

“However, if you prefer, you can take an extra two strokes and the detentions will both be cancelled. Two strokes and two detentions, or four strokes and a clean slate. Those are the only alternatives. Which is it to be?”

I was all set to jump at the chance. I’d had two strokes once before. Four couldn’t be that much worse. He must have read my mind.

“Be warned, Lee, I intend to cane you severely, and the pain will get progressively worse. Four strokes will be considerably worse than two. I’m sorry, but it’s the only way you’ll learn what we expect of boys at this school.”

It was still worth a bit of extra pain to avoid two detentions and a good hiding from Mum. I chose the four.

Mr Pelsall opened his desk drawer and produced the ‘black book’, the official record of all canings administered in the school. He wrote some basic details. Then he went over to his cupboard and produced the dreaded cane. It was about 3/8” thick and about 36” long, with the traditional crooked handle; not like the straight and quite stiff cane at my previous school.

“If I were in your shoes, and I did sometimes find myself in your position when I was a lad, I’d want to get this over with as quickly as possible. So, let’s get on with it, shall we?”

I nodded meekly. Mr Pelsall had caned me before, so I knew the procedure but I still waited for instructions. I suppose I was hoping he’d change his mind and let me off. No such luck.

He pointed with his cane at the chair in the corner. “Take your jacket off. Then place your hands flat on the seat of the chair. And keep still until I tell you to get up. This will hurt, but it will be quite safe as long as you keep your hands out of the way.”

I did as I was told and bent over for my punishment. In truth, I found the preparations quite exciting. Some headmasters would tap your bottom with the cane, getting the position and aim right before laying on the first stroke. Mr Fulwood, the headmaster at my old school, used to do that, and the sensation was actually quite pleasant. But Mr Pelsall was justly famous for his precise aim; no preliminary taps needed.

I heard the cane swish through the air. I felt the impact. A fraction of a second later, came the pain. Not just the impact of cane against my bum, but the excruciating pain as capillaries seeped into the surrounding muscle, later to turn black, blue and yellow as the bruising developed. He waited. The pain was terrifying, but he wasn’t going to deliver the next stroke until the first had made itself felt to the very utmost. Then the second. He was right; it was worse that the first. Much worse. And the third was even worse still. Gritting my teeth didn’t work any more. I let out a groan of agony, trying desperately not to scream out loud.  An even longer wait, and then the fourth and final stroke. Mr Pelsall never used that school cliché ‘four of the best’, but there’s no doubt he’d put extra effort into the last fiendish whack. I did scream aloud. Very loud. And I was crying. There’s no shame in that; it’s OK to cry during and after a caning. It’s boys who cry before the caning who are teased mercilessly for being wimps and cowards.

After what seemed like an eternity, he told me to get up and put my jacket back on. I then had to stand with my hands on my head while he finished the entry in the black book. My God, how I wanted to rub my blazing, bruised buttocks!

At home, I followed the life cycle of my cane-marks in my bedroom mirror. They took days to disappear completely but there was one small consolation; at least my mother hadn’t seen them.

That wasn’t the last time I was caned at that school but, oddly enough, I never received another detention in the whole of my time there.

That caning hurt, but it didn’t totally cure my behaviour. As soon as I left the headmaster, I went straight to find a lad called Alan Bloxwich. We weren’t close friends but we always got on OK, and I wasn’t looking for sympathy.

What mattered was his contacts. He had a sister at the nearby girls’ grammar school. We all knew how lots of the girls liked to look at boys’ cane marks. The girls were never given any sort of corporal punishment, not officially, anyway, but gym mistresses? None of us boys would let the girls see our marks for nothing. So I needed Alan to be my negotiating agent and set up ‘viewings’ at prices ranging from ciggies and sweets to lifted skirts and views of their knickers. He, of course, would expect a share of the proceeds, which was usual. I’d done the same for other lads, and equally got a share.

ML

School always started the same; assembly with the Headmaster on the stage, a hymn, headmaster’s ramblings, announcements, a couple of short prayers and then off to our form room for registration.

It was the middle of prayers when I got the urge to blow my nose; this I did! I blew so hard it could be heard all round the hall. All I could do was act as if it came from somewhere else and luckily we all had our heads bowed. Surprisingly the head just carried on, but when we reached the end of assembly he only dismissed the boys, the girls were to remain until the person who disrupted assembly stood up.

I was totally embarrassed. What could I say? Only a good excuse could get me out of this mess and slowly I, a fourth year, raised myself to my feet. Everyone else was dismissed. It was just me and the Headmaster. He walked over to me and demanded an explanation. Clearly it had to be good, for it was only a short walk to his office (or the Headmistress’s for that matter) and it was a walk I did not want to take. I blamed the outburst on trying to hold back a sneeze and had failed to do so. It was that simple. He was surprisingly satisfied with my excuse and I was sent to registration. Wow! A lucky escape, I thought.

It was about eleven and after break, we were sat in class when the school secretary walked in with a note for our teacher and it wasn’t long before its contents became clear. I was to report back to the Head at the start of lunch. For the next hour I kept trying to smile, but underneath I was getting more and more worried and concentration on the lesson was harder to maintain. End of lesson arrived soon enough and it was now lunch. I set off for his office trying to tell myself it was something and nothing. I arrived at his door and knocked. It was opened by the Headmistress; not a good sign.

I stood and faced him at his desk. After all, there was the possibility that I had got the wrong end of the stick in my mind, but this was quickly blown away. Miss Clark, a teacher who had been sat at the side in the hall, had totally disputed my excuse and was adamant I had blown my nose. That wrong end of the stick was now looking more like the wrong end of a very painful cane. I decided to tell the truth and my next stop was outside the Headmistress’s office with my hands on my head.

She left me for quite a while to ponder my downfall. I was becoming totally embarrassed by the number of students who passed by, some smirking knowingly, some guessing at what was to happen. A small crowd was beginning to gather nearby as I was called in. Even I would have given my high teeth to listen to sounds of someone else receiving a caning.

Now for the lecture about truth and honesty, followed by what was to happen; five strokes of the cane, two for the disruption and three for the lies. I just wanted to get it over with and go.

I removed my blazer and stood on the required spot ready to burst into tears even before it had started.

“Touch your toes,” she barked, loud enough for those outside to hear.

I bent over as best I could. I was now regretting my flash of inspiration, for it was to cost more pain than my crime. She raised my skirt out of the way and positioned herself with her cane. I heard myself gasp as the first stroke hit home. My hands shot to my bottom as the tears started to really flow now, and, in the midst of my pain, I was ordered again to bend over. She raised my skirt again. The second, third, fourth and fifth strokes all resulted with much the same effect as the first.

Now it was over. My poor bottom was throbbing with pain, me dancing round her office, my hands were now inside my knickers and I was rubbing furiously at the same time. After the usual paperwork I was dismissed and allowed to leave. I avoided looking at the gathered pupils outside. My hands were still clutching my bottom, so the legs and knickers of a now developing young lady were on show to anyone stood behind me, along with red stripes on my bottom where my knickers did not cover.

A classmate of mine called Susan had my coat and bag with her. She had guessed I might need a bolt hole and took me to her house nearby. Here at least I was away from the stare and embarrassment, able to lie face down on her bed, with my knickers round my knees and my hands still clutching my flaming rear.

As time ticked by, the pain eased a little as had my crying and sobbing. I moved myself over to a long mirror to inspect my naughty rump. What a sight! Five ferocious stripes marked my bottom; each had been expertly placed and were clearly not going to go away quickly.

We had to go back before we were late and as we did I reflected that I had taken this second caning a little better than the first, which made me feel better, until Susan brought me crashing back down.

“You do realise its gym for the first period? Those knickers will have to come down.”

And down they came, revealing my very recent meeting with the headmistress’s cane and much to the amusement of many of my classmates.

Annie

It was history. I was sat at the back as usual for a lesson I hated. This was the last term for we sixteen year olds, before our exams, and Mr Ellis was at his board trying to cram our minds with knowledge. I must have been drifting in my thoughts when there was a crash against the back wall, which brought me back to reality rather quickly. It was the wooden board duster on the floor next to me.

Mr Ellis turned back to his board and, without thinking, I picked up the duster and prepared myself to throw it back. At the point of launch he turned round and saw it travelling back to the front. I was done for and I knew exactly where I was heading next. My unbelieving classmates’ next sight of me would be squirming back in my seat with red tear-stained eyes and a bottom to match, but that would be later.

Mr Ellis was very calm as he told me to stand up and come out to the front. I knew we were heading for a walk along the corridor, and this we did. I was left standing outside the school office for ages. When he reappeared, he walked past me and back towards the classroom. The school secretary came out and she left me standing, hands on head, outside the headmistress’s office.

It seemed like hours as I stood there. Hands on heads always meant a caning was on the cards; a message to those passing. When the door opened, in I went. The headmistress was absolutely furious and she told me she was considering suspending me for a week, but as exams would soon be here I was to receive six strokes of the cane that lay on her desk in front of me. Could anyone be relieved at that outcome? I was. I would have had to face mum and dad with the news of a suspension.

Lecture over, I was now in a position I hated; bending over with my knickers on parade. The first stroke must have made its mark, for I let out that high pitched yelp that girls often do. I tried to stay in position. Number two landed. I was up, unable to cope with her enthusiasm for punishment. With reluctance, I returned to that spot and made ready for a third, after which I was up again for an encore. The order to bend back over rang in my head, but, by now, I must have been becoming more difficult for her to control me, which isn’t surprising to anyone who has been on the receiving end of the cane. For some reason at this point she swapped the cane for another. The sound of the swish was notably different and when it landed it felt like it had whipped deeper into my bottom than the other had. This was different, the pain unbelievably bad, my hands were inside my knickers and I became panic stricken as I tried to run it off. My headmistress must have seen this so many times before as she never bore any sign of sympathy. Completion of this punishment was probably her only objective. She had to order me to bend over again which, with a good deal of reluctance, I must have. There was another swish that ended with a sizzling crack across a now extremely tender rump. That new cane was three foot plus of pain beyond belief and as my pleas and tears were flowing like buckets, my knickers I thought were in danger of wearing out and likewise the carpet where I shuffled constantly.

I remember the last stroke lifted me off the floor with it’s intensity. I was screaming blue murder. Nothing, I don’t think, could have stopped me and neither was this Head, as she was already doing the paperwork, saying nothing and just leaving me to it.

Just like my previous meetings with her, I was ushered out of the room and with that slow shuffling walk that a caning brings on. I slowly headed back to class, legs trembling and rubbing my bottom as I went.

Back in class, I was expected to take my seat. All eyes were on me as I lowered myself gently down. There is no way a well punished bottom can stay still and mine was no exception. Class over, eager classmates wanted the details; the news shot round the school, It was the talk of the school and I was now in an exclusive club as far as girls were concerned. It was like the medal of honour, I was a member of the ‘full six strokes club’.

This was something I would rather I wasn’t. Well, at the time I did, but not now. I vowed never to be caned again. I should have been, and was on my way for what was likely to be another six, when the gym mistress intervened and gave me six with her stick instead.

Annie

I remember it as if it happened yesterday. Scott was my nemesis all through my middle school years. His taunts and name-calling climaxed one day when we were in 9th grade. Scott’s insults in front of my girlfriend called me to action. I challenged him to a fight, and he accepted. We agreed to meet after school on the football field behind the bleachers.

The word got around among the students that there would be a fight after school. By the time I got to the football field a good crowd had assembled. Word must have reached Mr J, the school principal, because he showed up just as Scott and I were pushing one another but before any punches were landed. He marched us up to the office.

It was obvious that Mr J was angry and in a bad mood. He mumbled something about having to miss an important meeting just to ‘deal’ with us.

 I knew exactly how we were to be dealt with. It was made clear to us on the very first day of school that anyone caught fighting on campus would be paddled and possibly suspended. I knew this when I challenged Scott to the fight, and I was prepared for the consequences. I freely admitted to Mr J that I challenged Scott to fight and mentioned how Scott had been harassing me. Scott denied the charges and accused me of being verbally abusive to him. Mr J made it clear that even if Scott had been verbally hounding me, it did not give me the right to fight with him. He then said we would each be paddled. I was to get 5 swats for instigating the fight, while Scott was to receive 3 swats as a participant.

I started to protest the disparity in punishments but was warned that if I did, I would get even more swats. I decided to accept my fate without any further argument.

Scott was ordered to stand, empty his back pockets, and bend over the back of a chair Mr J had against the wall. Also, he was instructed to spread his legs shoulder-width apart. Mr J wasted no time in delivering three hard, rapid-fire swats across the seat of Scott’s jeans. Scott cried out “ow” after each one and vigorously rubbed his bottom as he straightened up and made room for me.

Then it was my turn.  I unbuttoned tho left rear pocket of my cream-colored cotton slacks, removed my wallet, and placed it on the desk. Next, I removed the comb from my right rear pocket and assumed the same position Scott was in for his paddling.

Mr J did not paddle me in the same way he paddled Scott. With me, he was much more methodical. He gently tapped each pocket of the seat of my pants before delivering one of the most powerful paddle swats I had ever received. Now, this was not my first school paddling. I got three swats in the hallway for chewing gum in class when I was in 6th grade. This one swat stung far more than all three of my 6th grade swats put together! Mr J took his time between each swat as if he wanted the sting to permeate my entire body before delivering the next one.

Like Scott, I cried out in pain after each lick and bit my lip to keep from crying. After my ordeal was over, I rubbed my sore bottom as hard as I could.

Notes went home to our parents, and both of us got whippings when we got home. The funny thing is that after this experience, Scott and I became good friends.

I got a few more paddlings in school, but they were from my baseball coaches for missing practice or goofing off. Dad gave me my last whipping when I was 18 for getting a speeding ticket, but those are stories for another time.

NN

Well, let me tell you about my introduction to The Slipper at school.

I was about thirteen, a wicked age indeed, and with many years of naughtiness behind me, my parents were in despair as to what to do with me. They decided I would fare better in a small private school with tiny class numbers where I could be observed more closely. While corporal punishment was being phased out in some state schools, the private school I was to go to still disciplined their girls this way. I’m sure that influenced my parents’ decision to send me there, as they were firm believers in the rod connecting firmly and regularly with their wilful and disobedient daughter’s backside.

So, on the first day of September, I dressed in the hateful uniform for the first time. Horrible navy knickers that reached my belly button and hugged my cheeks roundly. A stiff white blouse and a black A-line pleated skirt that had to touch my knees AND NO SHORTER! A black cardigan with a yellow piping at the collar and cuffs was par for the hateful course, but the old school tie in the same black and yellow stripe design just paved the way for the matching blazer and the grim school overcoat and heralded the dawn of a dreadful new era for girls school uniforms in general. The hated straw boater with black and yellow ribbons that hung down my back and didn’t quite hide my furious face. There was no getting away from it either. The teachers used to parade the streets of the local area to ensure that their precious girls were dressed correctly on their way to school. Any breaches of this rule were swiftly dealt with by the strict headmistress in morning assembly. So for a little while, I decided to comply.

I soon marked myself out as a trouble maker though. I refused to embroider my gym knickers with my name in sewing class, I constantly forgot my PE kit on purpose and actually quite enjoyed being made to climb the ropes in just my bra and knickers while my classmates looked on, which didn’t quite make it the humiliating punishment it was intended to be. It wasn’t long before I was in trouble every day, and letters home to my parents about my behaviour were flying through the mail like Christmas Bunt Cake.

After one such letter led me to yet another painful trip across my mother’s knee before school one morning, I arrived late to school in a black mood, with a burning bottom and a determination to reach new heights of badness that day. While the rest of the girls were in assembly, I roamed the school looking for mischief. Needless to say, I found it. I mixed up all the books in our school desks and threw some out of the window in an impulsive gesture. I scribbled over my fellow students’ artwork decorating the walls with a fat stick of charcoal I stole from the art room. I raged around the school, leaving destruction in my wake.

Still angry, I stomped towards my classroom, dragging the charcoal along the wall as I went, when I spied the cloakroom out of the corner of my eye. A row of school raincoats hung on a peg for each girl in the school, every coat neatly hung and topped with that most hated object; the school boater. I dropped the charcoal and sloped into the cloakroom.

It wouldn’t have been beyond the wit of man for my teacher to follow the trail of revenge and find the culprit but, as it happened, my teacher came upon me just as I was putting my furious foot through the very last hat in the school.

Needless to say, I was taken straight to the Headmistress’s office where I sat for the rest of the day, working alone. The clock hands moved so slowly that day. When the hands crawled round to half past two I was still chewing my pencil and doodling “I hate Miss Box” on the front of my exercise books when the door to the office was flung open, and my form teacher marched in, looking murderous. She grabbed me under my arm and hauled me to my feet, pushing me out of the room towards the Hall.

As she marched me along, she informed me, that for the first time in many years, a special assembly had been called, and I was to attend. I was surprised when, instead of pushing me down on one of the benches, she walked me to the front of the Hall and up the steps of the stage, to where a chair was waiting for me.

I sat there, squirming, while the rest of the school trouped in and took up the space on the benches while the teaching staff sat at the edges of the Hall. Once the doors had been closed, my Headmistress marched onto the stage and ignored me as she turned to address the school.

“Girls, I shall come straight to the point. I have called a special assembly because this morning, one of MY pupils saw fit to commit a string of VANDALOUS acts against this school! Miss Rosy Lee was not only late for school, she defaced school art with offensive graffiti, destroyed valuable school books and performed some other more childish acts of defiance and drew on the walls like a five year old, which is how I intend to punish her. As her little defiant spree affected all of you in the wilful destruction of your property, I have also decided to carry out that punishment in front of all of you.”

For the first time, I leaned forward slightly and saw, in her right hand, a large black plimsoll. I shrank into the chair and raised my eyes to the heavens as I realised what was in store for me.

The Headmistress went on. “As you know, all offences committed by pupils of this school, can be punished according to our Christian principles, which means a spanking, either with the hand, or for more serious offences, the slipper. Punishments are usually carried out by myself in the privacy of my office. However, Miss Rosie Lee has disgraced herself so badly, and behaved so wickedly, she thoroughly deserves to have her bottom soundly spanked in public. Now let this be a lesson to you girls, this school does not approve of bad behaviour, and what you are about to witness happening to Rosy Lee, could happen to any one of you, should you choose that path.” She turned her steely gaze on me for the first time. “Stand up, Rosy!”

I sat on my hands and stared at the floor. She didn’t give me a heartbeat in which to defy her. She pulled me to my feet, spun me round and before I could squeak, she bent me over so I had to grab the seat of the chair with both my hands. My face flushed instantly with sudden shame, but there was worse to come. With a quick flick of her deft fingers, she took the hem of my skirt and flicked it up and over my back, exposing my navy school knickers and my round buttocks which still bore my mother’s handprints. I squeezed my eyes shut tightly against the mortification of what my classmates could see. To this very day, I still want to curl up into a foetal cringe ball when this moment passes through my mind.

“THWACK!” The slipper smacked me, full force, across both my bottom cheeks, searing them instantly red like a flash cooked steak. I just had time to gasp with pain when the slipper came down again. The Head didn’t count and neither did I. She spanked me good and hard, bringing that slipper down, the sound of that hard rubber sole on my bottom echoing around the silent hall, leaving trails of fire behind it. By the fifth stroke my head hit my fists on the chair seat, which only served to lift my bottom higher. At the eighth stroke I cried out and tears began to course down my face. By the tenth stroke, my legs could no longer support me but the Head wasn’t finished with me just because of that. She gripped the waistband of my skirt and held me up with one strong hand, my feet almost off the floor as I hung limply there, having my bottom beaten as my schoolfriends watched.

At last she dropped me, but she wouldn’t let me fall to the floor and cover my face as I wanted to. She held me by the scruff of my neck, shaking me for emphasis as she told the school: “And THAT’S what happens to naughty, disobedient, wicked girls in THIS school. Take heed! School dismissed.”

I was taken back to the Head’s office to await collection by my parents who had been told of my misdeeds and my expulsion. They drove me home in stony silence. As soon as we got in through the door, my mother told me in a tight, pinched voice: “Just you get to your room, Rosy Lee. I don’t want to see your face! Your father will be up to deal with you shortly.”

I sat on my bedroom floor, awaiting my father’s heavy footfall on the stairs, dreading everything that sound would mean, and quietly shredding my hateful school uniform with a giant pair of dressmaking shears.

Rosy

Twice a year we heard the dreaded words: “It’s cross country today, girls.” my heart would sink for I hated it. It was a run round the school and its perimeter, more than a cross country, and something I could easily achieve but didn’t want to. As a sixteen year old running around the school in your knickers didn’t seem cool, so I ducked into a gap where dustbins were stored, knowing the line would pass the other side on its way back.

Not only was the idea not original, I found myself with a bunch of other girls pulling the same stunt. As the gaggle passed the other side, we blended in one at a time, then ran back to the gym for a shower. As we arrived back in the changing rooms, the showers were to the right but Miss W, with a piece of paper in her hand, sent me left before ticking my name off and I found myself in a line consisting of those who had cheated. How she knew, I’ve never worked out but after the last arrived back reprisals began.

One at a time we were called into the gym to bend over the leather buck. Miss W’s thick ruler was raised and cracked hard into an offending backside. We expected her to stop at six, but no, she was making an example of us and didn’t stop till twelve. As the first distraught girl shuffled out of the gym, the rest of us stared in disbelief of what was to come. The second girl took her place and we all moved one step closer to our destiny, of which we could do nothing but wait our turn.

All too soon, I was next in the queue and I felt myself shaking at the prospect of my walk to the buck. My turn came and I trudged over to the place of punishment and bent over for my allotted twelve. My resolve to remain stoic was broken after three whacks. I swear she was venting her anger on my bottom as I kicked and screamed as the onslaught continued. At nine strokes she stopped and walked round the buck.

“Do you wish to see the headmistress?” She asked.

Six of the best or three more from her; it was my decision.

“Three more, Miss.” I mumbled through my tears. At least the break had given my rear some breathing space before the final three descended. Like all the girls before me, I shuffled back to the door to join the end of the queue before the last two were dealt with.

Once complete, Miss W lectured us on cheating before dropping the bombshell that we were to return at four to run the circuit again. Once dismissed from the punishment line, we had to shower and change before the last lesson of the day. It had to be double Geography. I was expecting a slippering for no homework handed in last lesson and at four I found myself bending over again for six whacks. Normally this wouldn’t have been too bad, especially from her as she didn’t lay the slipper on with the venom that some did, but after that whacking I got in the gym a smack with a feather would have felt painful.

Then it was back to the gym. Miss W was waiting and aware of my other meeting and, just as the last two of the others set off on their run she told us: “Last one back gets the stick again.”

And I still had to change!

I was off as quick as I could, determined to catch those others up despite my throbbing bottom, but that was the same for all of us. I watched the two of them enter the gym not far in front of me and on reaching the door was immediately ordered to bend over and received another crack with the ruler.

The other two, however much as they thought not being last was all they needed to do, were in for a shock for just about doing enough to leave me trailing in last was a big mistake and Miss W wasn’t going to let it pass. They, too, were made to bend over and, unlike me, got three apiece on top of the previous twelve for not trying.

Now it was time to face mum. Peter, my brother, had already heard on the school grapevine what had happened and told mum I had a hockey practice to attend, but that was to cost me. I had to show him my bottom and let him rub his hand around it. He didn’t really understand at the time why I didn’t dislike it and, to be fair, anything was better than mum finding out the truth.

Annie

This is a true story based on my own personal experiences. It took place in a country forming part of southern Africa and for whatever reason it was the attractive white girls who were mostly selected for caning, be the misdemeanours real or imaginary. I was lucky as I was caned out there only the once, but my sister, I later discovered, was forced to bend over at least twice. She was a bit cagey about details!

Now, I am a 42 year old married mother of two teenage daughters living in the leafy suburbs of Surrey, England. My sister, who is two years older, and I were lucky enough to have been born into an ‘establishment’ family enjoying many privileges the majority of other girls our age could only envy.  We were well brought up, well spoken, well dressed, tall, slim and elegant as well as both of us being told many times we were very pretty.

My father was a high profile public figure here in the UK and in the city where we both attended an up-market private school. I was 15 and my sister 17 when we left England, both at that impressionable age.

One big disadvantage we experienced was, because of our father’s high profile, we were well known as a family and always under scrutiny. Our mother was, in her own way, a little bit snobbish, conscious of our standing in town and at the same time equally prudish. She always insisted when we went out in public we were aware of our postures when, for example, getting into or out of the car, laying on the beach or in a park. ‘You must never let men and especially the locals get a view of your panties, or worse still your honey pot,’ was one of her favourite sayings.

This in fact had quite an effect, more on me than my sister, and I always tried to ensure my underwear or VPLs were well hidden.

The school we attended was a private co-ed school for the children of the good and great, including many other expatriate children as well.  It was run by nuns who showed a healthy respect for punishment when it was required.

The first time I witnessed a caning, I was 16 and the boy in question was called to the front of the class where he was made to lower his school uniform shorts, bend over the teacher’s desk,  his shirt up over his back and his bottom  protected only by his underpants. I could not believe how hard he was caned and his howls resonated in my mind for ages. I spoke to my sister about this and she assured me it happened in her class as well.

Sometime later, a pretty Eurasian girl was called to the front of the class and I realised with a shock what was about to happen, for in my innocence I had not realised girls were caned as well as boys.   Bending across the desk with her school uniform skirt removed, her bikini style brief panties visible for all the class to see, she cut a pitiful sight as she was crying even before the first stroke of the cane fell across her bottom.

To my horror, I discovered that not only did I like what I had seen but hoped someone else would soon be called to the front of the class room, my interest equally keen witnessing both boys and girls being caned. These punishments were fairly regular but without any distinct pattern.

When I was 17 and in the Upper 6th Form I found myself caught up in some schoolgirl pranks which none of us thought much about. A couple of days later four girls, me included, were called to the front of the class. It felt as if my stomach had fallen out as I realised what was about to happen when we were each sentenced to ‘six of the best’. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. All the times I had enjoyed watching others being caned, I realised that just maybe another member of our class might be enjoying in a similar way watching me receiving my first caning.

After the first two girls received their punishment it was then my turn. I felt sick with fear of not only getting the cane and a sore bottom but everyone in the class seeing my underwear when my skirt was lifted.

As I moved towards the desk, our teacher looked at me and said she was very surprised to see me in front of her and that perhaps I was not the little miss goodie two shoes after all. “Maybe this will teach you the lesson I think you deserve,” she said.

I remember trembling in fear as I was bent over the desk, feeling my skirt being raised high up over my back, feeling completely vulnerable and exposed, waiting for my punishment to begin. There was the swishing sound followed by a dull thud and then a screaming pain across my buttocks.

Always the regulation 15 second pause between each stroke, by the third I was squealing and writhing as had the others. When I had received my six I staggered back to my desk and literally could not sit down. The pain and humiliation remained throughout the remainder of the day.

Always conscious of Daddy’s high profile in the town, both my sister and I were always trying to be on our best behaviour when out in public and when at school. I know some of the other students often referred to us as being aloof and prim and proper, but in actual fact that was only when we were out and about and not in the privacy of our home.

My one concern was that my parents never found out I suffered the indignity of receiving the cane and when I returned home later that day I sneaked up to my bedroom and lay flat on my stomach on my bed. Going to the bathroom removing my school uniform skirt and looking in the mirror I could quite clearly see through my thin white briefs the definite dark red welts and bruising. I was sore and subdued for days.

I returned home to England to attend university aged 19 and for ages the memories of those punishments at school remained with me.

Towards the end of my first year at university I started going out with a boy who eventually became a doctor.  We enjoyed many of the same things like music, opera, ballet etc and one night, having been to the theatre, we were in his room enjoying a glass of wine and discussing the evening, when somehow I managed to spill my red wine all over his written study notes.  After we had cleaned it up he looked at me and said: “In my family that would merit a good old fashion spanked bottom.”

By the look on my face he realised he had touched a nerve and went on to ask if I had ever been spanked. When I told him of the punishments at school he became very animated and demanded I give him full details, especially those details of my own caning.

Before I knew what was happening I was over his knee, dress up over my waist and receiving a hand spanking over my briefs. After that, spanking and sex became a regular feature and it was always such a comfort to have my sore bottom kissed better. There were many a night I left his rooms almost crawling back to mine whilst nursing a sore bottom.

I graduated, got a job teaching history and geography, enjoyed more lovers then met my husband and settled down to domestic bliss.  Our two girls came along within two years of each other and life ticked along quite harmoniously, but unfortunately although my husband is a very successful barrister he lacks any imagination in the bedroom and would never consider even a playful smack on my bottom.

Some years after graduating, I discovered my sister had also been on the receiving end of the cane. I have many happy memories of watching and listening to some of my old school chums, boys and girls, enduring agonies of the cane. But my thoughts always seem to drift from my friends to my own first caning with the accompanying mind-boggling embarrassment and humiliation of having my skirt raised to allow all in the classroom to see what I was wearing underneath.

Last summer, I had a period of purposefully wearing tight fitting thin white trousers/skirts and dresses through which my VPLs clearly showed.  On one occasion, having had one glass of wine too many, I even went to a party without my husband, while wearing plain white trousers with dark coloured briefs underneath. I would have had to be blind not to notice some of the looks I got. After all these years I know Mummy would disapprove.

AF

I like many other pupils, I was not enthused by one of my art teachers. She wasn’t particularly pretty, she was overweight and wore horrible long floral dresses with ankle socks and flat leather sandals which she could slip off to wallop the bottom of anyone she deemed to be needing it. Its use was frequent, packed a potent sting and was not solely for boys, as numerous girls, including myself, found out.

In an all-girls art class, I was messing about with two girls opposite. We were throwing a cleaning cloth back and to until I got spotted, just me, not the three of us as it should have been. It didn’t take a genius to work out what was coming; a sore bottom was on the cards for me.

When told to, I placed my blazer on her desk and stood in front of the blackboard while she fastened my skirt to the back of my jumper with a large spring clip. The ‘getting prepared’ ceremony now over, I had to bend over and wait as she lectured the others on how girls should behave before removing the right sandal from her foot.

I’d seen other girls slippered in this manner but this was new to me and boy! When that first smack landed on my left cheek I could feel the tears welling as the sharpness of the sting took effect. The smack of leather across my knickers must have brought joy to the others as they watched me wriggle and squirm and they probably couldn’t wait to see the effect of the next five that were still to come.

The next smack landed on my right cheek with much the same effect as the previous one, only by now the tears were all too obvious. From this point on, the sandal landed on previously visited flesh and multiplied the intensity of the punishment so much I couldn’t remain in position, much to her disdain and perhaps adding to merriment of my classmates watching my predicament.

After six whacks, a girl knew she had met a expert in extracting the maximum possible pain and humiliation. My greatest regret was I had had a one in three chance of not being singled out. True, I did deserve it, but so did two others. I’d been unlucky and got caught and suffered the consequences on my own.

Annie

 I only got into serious trouble once at school. A few minor things that resulted in lines or detentions but just once I got the slipper.

It all happened because I and a few others got drunk on a school trip. We had gone, during the final year, on a Geography field trip to North Yorkshire over the autumn term holiday at the end of October. On the Sunday night, after we had been wandering around the moors looking at various glacial deposits, some of us decided to have a party. There were six girls and six boys that met up in one of the bedrooms. The boys had brought bottles of spirits, which I think was mainly whisky, and the girls got some coke and lemonade.

After a while we were all a little tipsy, well I certainly was, and things began to break up. One couple who had been snogging for most of the night disappeared quietly, whilst others went off to bed. I was never sure of the time, but I think it was around 8pm. We were busted by one of the teachers doing her rounds. There were just three girls and two boys left in the room. We were immediately sent to our bedrooms, which in my case caused another problem. When I entered the room I was greeted the sight of two naked bodies in the bed. I slurred what had happened and the boy scrambled off the bed and proceeded to leave the room without putting on his clothes. He ran straight into a female teacher who had been summoned to check all the rooms for alcohol.

I cannot recall this but the rumour that went around after was that he was caught with just a smile and a condom hanging off his manhood. The boy concerned was sent home, his parents being summoned to fetch him that night. My roommate would have also been sent home that night but they were unable to contact her parents until late; she went home the next morning.

As you can imagine that was not the end of the matter. I half expected to be in trouble with my parents when I got home on the Wednesday, but they just asked if I had a nice time and complained about how mucky my clothes had gotten!

Upon the return to school on Monday, me and the others caught were made an example of in Assembly. The Headmaster told the school about our disgraceful behaviour and one by one he called out our names and we were made to stand up in front of the whole school before he ordered us all to wait outside his study. There were six girls and four boys. Two of the boys managed somehow to avoid being caught either in the room or when a check was made.

We got another lecture by the Headmaster, with the Senior Mistress standing by his side, before he announced that such appalling behaviour and sullying the name of the school warranted severe punishment. I feared the worst; that we were all going to be expelled. I was wrong. The cavorting couple were awarded six strokes of the cane, as were two the boys who had confessed to bringing the alcohol. The other boy got six of the slipper. The other five of us girls each had their name called out and were then awarded either six or four of the slipper. Luckily I did not have to wait until last to hear my fate. Unluckily though I was awarded six along with the other two found in the room. After we were told that Miss K would summon the girls and deal with them sometime during day, I left the study with tears in my eyes. I was not the only one either.

It was the longest day of my life, well it seemed that way anyway, before just after three the school secretary entered my English class. I was told to report to Miss K by the teacher. The tears returned as I followed her up the stairs and, after knocking, into the Senior Mistress’s office. She was very curt and said something along the lines of ‘no need for further discussions, just remove my blazer, face the window and bend right over’.

I vaguely remember shaking as I bent over and put my hands on my knees before Miss K pushed me further over. The six extremely painful whacks seemed to follow one after another quickly. The first caught me very unaware, in that the sheer force of it made me unbalanced, even though I knew it was coming. I did squeal at one point and tears rolled down my face and onto the carpet. My bottom burned and my legs were jelly by the time I was allowed to stand and face her. The shaking was worse, especially my legs, as she silently entered my name in the book on her desk.

There were no words said other than that I was dismissed and told to return to my class. In hindsight, I should have stopped at the bathroom on my way back but I was racked with pain and the fear that if I was caught I would get some more that I knocked on the classroom door and waited to be called in. I was told to take my seat quickly and I gingerly eased myself onto it. I think everyone was staring at me because the class was told to look at the blackboard and write something down.

This has been my guilty secret for over thirty years as I have never told my family about what happened that day.

E

The class was absolutely quiet as we waited in anticipation of what was going to happen. The silence was broken by the swish of the cane through the air, followed by a loud thwack as it landed across the short trousers of the boy bent over in front us.

Three more thwacks followed before he was told to stand up and go back to his desk. He got up, red and flushed in the face, tears falling down his cheeks. He walked slowly back to his desk where he sat and cried for several minutes.

This was not an uncommon event in my final year at primary school in south London in the early 1950s. The school was an independent fee-paying one and the class, which was being prepared for the eleven plus exams, was taken by the Headmaster. He was an excellent teacher but demanded complete attention and good behaviour, which he achieved largely by the use of the cane.

I can’t remember much about the implement itself except that it was straight rather than having a crooked end, quite thin, very swishy and it hurt a lot. I never understood why, as in theory we wore a lot of protection. Our short trousers were made of quite thick material and were often lined. They also had back pockets which provided an extra layer. Underneath, were a further three layers of shirt, vest and pants which, in those days, were white shorts.

Talking in class or staring out of the window would generally result in one or two strokes across the hands, which was bearable. It took three or four strokes on the same hand to bring on the tears. Such canings were commonplace and occurred several times a day.

About once a fortnight there would be a more serious offence, like flicking ink or writing in someone else’s book. These were when you got called out to the front of the class and told to bend over. You did not have to wait long before the first stroke landed and you were engulfed with pain. The second stroke brought on the tears and after the third and the fourth strokes you tried your hardest not to cry out loud or scream. Those who did were mocked as babies by the rest of the class.

I remember one boy who rose in tears after only one stroke. It took some time for him to recover sufficiently before he was able to bend over again. He now kept looking behind him and, as the second stroke came down, he stood up and ran away from it. The Headmaster followed him, however, and caught him with quite a sharp thwack across his trousers when he wasn’t expecting it. He jumped into the air clutching his bottom and letting out a long piercing wail.

The Headmaster let him off at this point and he was able to return to his desk where he sobbed loudly for what seemed like a good five minutes. We all thought this was extremely funny.

Once or twice a term, usually after being caught fighting, a few of us would be told to remain behind during the mid-morning break. This only happened to me once. Not sure what to expect, I was somewhat surprised when my friend was called out to the front and told to take his trousers down and bend over. The Headmaster pulled his shirt and vest clear, picked up the cane and with a swish and thwack brought it down sharply across his pants. It made me jump and I didn’t really fancy what was coming.

Although my friend remained quite still after this stroke, he began crying after the next, before rising after the third, clutching his bottom and trying to rub the sting away, only to be told that he still had one more to come. He was made to bend over again and receive the fourth stroke by which time he was bawling loudly.

Now it was my turn. I soon realised how little protection pants only gave compared to being fully clothed. I managed to stay in position for all four strokes but yelled loudly after each one. By the end, I was crying profusely and rubbing my bottom furiously, but nothing I could do seemed to relieve the pain.

One boy, who was not present on this occasion, told me afterwards that the best method was to pull ones pants right down to let the sting out and get some air to the bottom. I have no idea if this would have worked.

Despite these canings, there was never any question of six-of-the-best. The Headmaster never gave us more than four strokes and he never got us to remove our pants for a caning on the bare bottom.

Although it was predominantly a boys’ school, a few girls were admitted and there were five or six in our class. They were generally better behaved than us boys, but were not exempt from the cane. Mostly they received it on their hands but I do remember two girls having to bend over for the standard four strokes over their skirts. No girl, however, was asked to stay behind during break, which was a pity as there was one bossy girl several of us would have liked to have seen bent over, skirt down and receiving four sharp thwacks firmly placed across her navy blue knickers.

From primary school, I went on to a boys’ grammar school where the gym slipper and cane were both used, but nowhere near as frequently. They were usually given across trousers, with between two and six whacks, depending on the severity of the offence. If you got into real trouble you could be given six-of-the-best, trousers down, across your white or blue briefs. These had replaced white shorts as the preferred style of underwear, but they gave no better protection against a well-wielded cane. There were rumours that some masters made you take your trousers and pants down for a bare-bottom caning, but I never came across any boy to whom this actually happened.

RMg