I recall as a youngster being fascinated by the cane and the idea of someone being spanked, although I wasn’t spanked at home. I do remember watching Billy Bunter on TV; he was always getting caned, so maybe this was the cause. But I do remember such thoughts at age about 7 or 8.
An incident that occurred while staying at my grandparents, who lived in a different town, also excited me. I was playing at the house of a friend there one evening, in the living room with both our mothers present. We were playing round the table and he just stopped running round, stood still with his legs slightly apart and deliberately wet his pants.
His mother was not amused! She took him into the next room where I heard some shouting followed by the unmistakable sound of a belt landing, accompanied by howls. When he emerged, he didn’t look any too happy, clearly having been strapped for his antics. I often wished I had the courage to pee myself like that. And the thought of getting strapped for it too? Well, that made the whole prospect seem so exciting.
At primary school, if you misbehaved, then you would get smacked by the teacher. That would involve either, if necessary rolling up the sleeve, getting you arm slapped, or else, at this time, boys wore short trousers, pulling up the trouser leg, or skirt if it was a girl, just enough to allow the thigh to be slapped.
I remember there was a dinner lady who had a glove she carried with her and used to protect her hand while she gave a slapping. I always used to hope she would never catch me getting up to mischief, because with that glove she used to give your legs a really good slapping. It always used to make me cry.
I got slapped several times and used to fear that happening, yet I found the punishment exciting.
In the junior part of the school, the headmistress had a cane, which was given on the hands, both boys and girls, but not very often. I got it once, but I could hardly feel a thing.
Then followed the 11 plus, which was the system in operation for secondary school selection at that time. I was awarded a place at one of the two local grammar schools for boys. It was for boys only. It was also on the register of public schools and it considered itself a leading player in that circle.
I was the only one from my school to be awarded a scholarship to that school. I remember how it was stated, almost with terror, by some pupils at the primary school, that if you misbehaved at this school, you got the cane on your BOTTOM! The very idea of that seemed to instil horror in the minds of most other students. I remember that threat had for me a peculiar fascination.
Well, I survived at this school for about 18 months, but of course, the inevitable happened. I remember that first occasion well. I knew I had done wrong and deserved to be punished. I had expected the cane to really hurt. After all, there seems to be little purpose in caning someone if it is not intended to hurt.
I entered the headmaster’s study with anticipation. Would this hurt more than getting my legs slapped? After the customary lecture on what I had done, I was told I was to get three strokes. I was commanded to toe the edge of the carpet, then bend over and put my hands below my knees. Those three strokes of the cane were delivered in quick succession.
It had finished and I felt nothing. Then there was a sudden explosion of sting, though not real pain. It certainly produced a good sting, but no more.
I came out of his study feeling really disappointed and cheated. I felt I hadn’t been punished properly. It hadn’t been quite the painful and challenging experience I use to receive at the hands of our dinner lady! This may sound crazy, but I felt I had really wanted it to hurt and make me cry.
Still, the sting was a new and exciting experience. And I went to the toilet and felt my bottom. I could feel the double ridges produced by the cane, and they felt so hot to the touch. That night I admired the red double tram lines in the mirror and could still feel the ridges. The ridges soon disappeared, but the lines lasted abut a week before they faded completely.
So the experience was exciting and left me with the hope it would not be my last caning and that on the next occasion, maybe he would decide I needed to be punished more severely and would this time hurt me and make me cry.
I was caned several more times at school, each one equally disappointing and unsatisfactory. On one occasion, the headmaster told me not to bend over too far because he didn’t want to hurt me too much. He had told me I was going to get six strokes, and I thought this time it might hurt me, but no such luck!
I was left with this overwhelming desire to be caned properly; caned by someone who understood that the sole purpose in caning someone was to make it hurt.
As a young adult, I would fantasise about such things. In those pre-internet, days, making contact was not that easy. But I did eventually find ways to make contact and feel the cane as it was intended, but that is another story, maybe for later.