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.