A first caning by choice

I had attended a fairly strict grammar school in the early 1970s where the cane was used on occasions. Somehow I managed to avoid getting it, but some of my friends were caned and I saw evidence in the changing rooms after PE or swimming and frankly it aroused feelings of both fear and jealousy, and I know I was not alone. Like many boys the cane and the very thought of receiving it held us in awe. However, after leaving the sixth form in 1975 I definitely had a sense of regret that I had never paid a visit to the headmaster’s study for a swishing. It must have been bravado as I am sure if I had stood outside his door I would have been quaking in my shoes.

That long summer I turned 19 while I waited to go to university. My friends were mostly away on their holidays so I decided to go on a long cycle ride to the coast. I packed my panniers and had some cash, but had not booked anywhere to stay or planned a detailed route. I would stay in a B&B if there was one available or even sleep under the stars if the weather was fine.

Off I went and the first two nights I did sleep in woods with my sleeping bag and groundsheet. It was marvellous waking as the low rays of the sun illuminated the oak trees and the birds were chirping loudly. That second morning I was by a stream and stripped naked and washed myself in a deep pool, immersing myself in the cool water. I then stood tall and nude by the pool as I dried and dressed.

The third night, a thunderstorm was threatening to break the hot weather and as I pedalled furious down a country lane I passed a house with a B&B sign swaying in the wind which was getting stronger. Quickly I stopped and turned round and went to the front door. A cheery woman of about 50 answered the door. She said that her room she used for B&B was not available as she had not quite finished decorating it and it would be a day or two before it was ready. A timely rumble of thunder sounded. She then offered me a camp bed in the attic, if that would do. I said it would.

I took my bike round the back, unhooked the panniers and took them inside. She was tall and quite slim and wore a blouse that showed her breasts well, and shorts and sandals. Her legs were bare and shapely. She led me inside and I followed her up the stairs, admiring her backside as we went. There was a strong odour of fresh paint in the house. We went up another flight to the attic where I was to sleep. It was ideal and cheap.

She said she would do some supper and I went down to the kitchen. As I approached I noticed she had an umbrella stand in the hallway and it contained what was obviously a school cane. She was in the kitchen and I surreptitiously picked it up and examined it. Though I had no actual experience of these matters, it looked like a stinger and a bruiser as we would call the canes at school. I slipped it back into the stand and turned to go to the kitchen. Now I am not sure if she had been standing there long or if she had just come out, but we faced each other momentarily before she retreated and ushered me to the kitchen table.

We chatted about various things over supper. She was attractive and lively. After doing the washing up together we both retired to bed. In the hallway she paused to put her door key in a drawer in a dresser. I glanced at the cane. Obviously she noticed.

“It was here when I moved in,” she said withdrawing it and flexing it. “No idea why it was here.”

She went to her bedroom and I climbed the stairs to the attic. A few minutes later I was about to go to the bathroom when her door opened and she walked naked with a towel over her shoulder to the bathroom. From the attic I have to admit that I could not see much apart from half her bare back and her right buttock. I heard the shower running and a few minutes later she walked back again rubbing her hair with the towel. This time I saw her breasts and pubic bush, but took care not to be seen. She seemed oblivious to a second person being in her house. After a few minutes I went and showered and came back to bed.

The next morning at breakfast she asked me about school and university, and the conversation came round to how strict the school was and to corporal punishment. She told me she had once had four strokes of the cane for smoking and how much she was in favour of use of the cane. Inevitably she asked me how many times I had been caned. I told her that I had never had it. My body language must have sent out all sorts of signs to her and then she said: “That is a shame.”

To my astonishment I blurted out: “Yes, it is, with hindsight.”

I don’t know if she was stringing me along but she very cheerily told me that, as there was the cane in the umbrella stand, if I wanted a taste she would be happy to do the honours.

My mind was in a spin. Here I was, a naïve 19 year old with this attractive woman. I quickly reckoned I would never see her again so I asked if she was serious about caning me. She put her cup down, stood and went to the hall and returned holding the cane. She put it on the kitchen table with a clatter. It was fearsome. The cane was yellow with age and about three feet long at least, with the traditional crook handle. It really did look like a serious implement designed to mark a boy’s bottom, or a girl’s bottom for that matter.

The girl next door to us at home had been caned once at her grammar school, so I knew this was the case.

“If you are sure, then let’s do it!” she said cheerily.

I nodded and stood up. She picked up the cane and indicated I should leave the kitchen. In the hallway, she directed me to a living room and turned an old armchair round so the back was facing us.

“How about six of the best over the chair?” she asked.

My throat was dry but I mumbled my agreement.

“Shorts down and bend over the chair,” she directed.

I did not feel in a position to object, so I lowered my shorts as I stood facing the chair.

“Bend over,” she said.

Oh! Those words that had never been said to me before!

I bent over the armchair and put my hands on the cushion. She swished the cane several times and the sound was magical, yet a few weeks before they would have been so awful. The cane was tapped on my bottom. My underpants were tight. The first stroke was quite hard and made me grimace, but it was not as bad as I had feared. At even intervals she laid on five more and they were pretty hard swishers too. I remain convinced that each stoke was harder than the last. The cane made a swish as it descended and then made a crisp crack on my pants. My bottom was aching, sore, throbbing, stinging. How can I describe it?

I stood and rubbed my bottom.

“There! You have been caned!” she said almost with a hint of victory.

I just nodded and rubbed. It was painful, as I expected, and to be frank I wondered how I would have managed in, say, the second or third forms if I had been caned.

I bent to pull up my shorts, but she spoke.

“Let’s see the stripes then.”

Gingerly I lowered my pants and she helped to ease them down. I tried to look but could not see much. She said they were a nice set and that I should go to the bathroom and inspect them. I scurried upstairs and lowered my pants, leaving my shorts by the chair. Indeed they were a fine set of red weals and I spent several minutes studying them.

I went downstairs, taking care to cover my front as I was aroused, and then retrieved my shorts. She was in the kitchen and I noticed the cane back in the rack.

She had a smile on her face as I entered. “There, how was your first caning?”

“Very special but sore,” I replied feeling just a little proud of this moment.

She saw me off and I mounted my bike and pedalled away.

The following evening I was back by the wood and stream where I’d been before. I slept under stars and, as I lay there in my sleeping bag, I thought deeply about my first caning experience and whether I had made the right decision over the years to avoid a caning. Now though, I had joined the club of boys who had received a taste of the cane, and it had been a traditional six of the best.

The following morning I went nude into the stream to bathe. It was just before 6am and as I stood on the side of the stream the sun glistened off the droplets on my pale body. In the sunlight the thick red weals on my right buttock and patches of grey and purple bruising showed up well.

I had several more weeks’ holiday and decided to go and see her again in a couple of weeks.

CR


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