I had only been caned once before when I was in Junior School when I was 9, and I wondered what the cane would be like at my senior school. At this school, women as well as men could cane either sex, as each year had a male and female head of year. These teachers not only ran the year, but also taught a subject. It had been two years since my last caning and I had witnessed class canings and slipperings during lessons. Normally it was one or two strokes on the hand or bottom, but for serious offences you would be sent to the head of year for punishment. There, it would be a caning, normally 4 or 6 strokes depending on what the offence was.

The head of year for the first year was Mr S and Mrs R. Mr S was a man in his 60s and was always in a grey suit, taught English and he was a man of normal height and weight and was balding.

Mrs R, on the other hand, was a very large lady. Around 6 foot tall, about 15 stone in weight, ginger hair always pulled back, again in her late 50s to early 60s, large bosom covered by a white shirt and always wore a pleat skirt either Green, Blue or Red. Mrs R taught Art and was a stand-in for the deputy headmistress for the lower school, so her caning duties extended for the whole of the lower school, when required.

It was a cold day in February 1970 and the form was in the Art class waiting for the lesson to start as Mrs R was late. So, the class did what any children would do, talk loudly, run around the classroom, throw paper darts, the usual kind of things, that 11-year-olds would do. It was about 5 minutes after the lesson was meant to start that Mrs R entered the room almost unnoticed. She banged her hand on the desk and told the class to stop talking and get on with their work as she would be back in 10 minutes. With that she left the room. The noise continued almost immediately after she left the room.

Within 10 minutes, she was back. The room was in a mess; paper and paint was all over the floor as were various pencils and crayons.

“Right,” she shouted. “The talking has got to stop and I want you all to clear up this mess. In silence, now.”

All the form got up and moved around the room, pushing and shoving each other.

“I have asked you all to do this in silence. The next person I see or hear talking, I will cane them. Is that clear?”

I replied, “Yes miss, perfectly.”

With that, the red-faced, large lady came over to me and grabbed my arm.

“Ok, you can go to my office, now, and wait for me.”

I left the room knowing what would be coming. On my way to her office, I remembered the caning I had from Miss G in my Junior school, as I climbed the stairs to her office and waited for her to arrive.

After 25 minutes or so, I heard the footsteps of Mrs R climbing the stairs.

“Right, funny man,” she said, “We will see how funny you think you are. Get in my office,” and with that I was pushed into her office.

“Stand there and don’t move,” she barked as she walked over to a large oak-coloured cupboard that was about 4 feet tall. She opened the door and I saw a collection of canes and what was the punishment book. She took a couple of corn-coloured 3-foot canes out that were of various thicknesses and began swishing them. I looked around the office as she continued swishing them around and saw a large leather chair in the corner of the room. Her large frame moving from side to side, her green pleated skirt moving in motion with the canes. She then stopped swishing the canes, selected one, then removed her jacket revealing her large bosom in a white wired bra, the button of her shirt holding everything in place.

“Ok,” she said after the swishing had stopped. “Over here, boy, and bend over the side of the armchair.”

I took off my blazer and put it over her desk and walked to the chair.

“Hurry up, I haven’t got all day,” she barked as I leant over the arm as requested.

“No, no, boy! Get right over! I want to make sure you get the full effect,” she barked.

My bottom was up in the air and my face was pushed down into the seat. Mrs Rhoades walked over and pushed my face right down hard into the seat. I could not see a thing.

“Right, boy, don’t move, get up or wriggle, otherwise it will be an extra 2 strokes. Do you understand?”

I muffled an answer back.

“Now we can begin, funny man. 6 strokes of the cane for you, my lad,” as she moved back.

I didn’t have to wait long as the full force of the cane from the 15 stone 6 foot mid-fifties, powerfully built woman came crashing down on my bottom. The pain hit right across my bottom. She was a very experienced caner; she knew how to apply a cane on a backside.

As I heard the footsteps draw nearer, she barked, “Think it is funny now, do you, boy?” as the second stroke landed with a swish and a crack. Her breath was heavy.

She walked back and then walked forward again.

“When I say quiet, I mean quiet, understand?” as the swish of the cane, and the third stroke landed in between the previous two.

My mind was racing. The pain was worse than Miss G’s caning, but not what I would call severe.

“Don’t move, boy, or there will be more,” as her voice got nearer and the swish and crack of the cane landed a fourth stroke just above the other three. I could not see a thing as my face was down into the seat of the leather chair.

“I hope that I will not see you in here again, otherwise it will be 10 the next time,” as the fifth stroke of the cane hit its spot. That one hurt, but not enough to make me move.

“OK, last one,” she barked. “And this will be very painful,” as she must have walked to the end of her office, ran back towards my bottom, and unleashed a stroke that landed right where the second stroke had landed a few moments ago.

I bit my lip and the seat of the chair, but did not move. After what seemed an age and with my bottom on fire, she ordered me to get up and stand over by her desk. She opened the punishment book and started to write.

As she was writing, she said, “Well funny man, not so funny now. I hope that you now understand simple instructions, and if I see you in here again it will be 10, understand?”

“Yes miss,” I replied.

“Good. Now, you can put on your blazer and get along to your next class,” as she got up from her chair. Moving around from behind the desk, her large ample frame holding the cane in her hand. She opened the cupboard and put back all the canes that she had removed earlier and the punishment book. “Go on, out you go, or you will get some more. Now boy, I mean it.”

With that, I left the room and went to the toilet. My bottom was on fire and I pulled down my pants and felt the ridges that were there. It was a good caning, but not one of the best.