by Susan Thomas
"Come, come girl, you may put your clothes on again." I moved very slowly and bent my knees in order to get hold of my knickers and shorts. I pulled them slowly over my welts and the soreness was exquisite in its unpleasantness. If you have never been properly caned on the bare bottom don't believe any nonsense about it being easy to take for it isn't. Before I turned around I wiped my nose and face with a handkerchief.
When I faced him he told me I could go, but I wanted him to understand how I felt. He had caned me but I didn't resent it. I understood why he had done it. "I want to tell you something, Mr Obaaro. I admire you and all that you do here. I am really sorry for having upset you and being a nuisance. I didn't mean to be."
He looked very surprised but also pleased. He waited for a moment before saying anything. "Well, well you have surprised me. I think I have been contributing towards your education and I think also to your growing up. That is good but I would prefer not to educate you with the cane any more."
"I would prefer that too," I said with great sincerity. As I left to go and examine my welts he patted me on the shoulder in a kindly way. I was determined that he would have his wish and that he would never cane me again. He never did but that didn't mean that I remained punishment free. It is amazing, isn't it? After eighteen years and never even a spanking I managed to get four quite serious thrashings in just a few months. Yes, I did say four - I had the switching in Cyprus, two canings from Mr Obaaro, and finally... well let me tell you the whole thing.
There was a shower room for the senior girls and I had to use that. It had a bare concrete floor with concrete faced walls and the shower heads just stuck out from the wall with no partitions at all. There was a drain in the middle and a bench on one side. I wasn't used to public showering like that but knew that even if the water went off at times and was only heated by the sun I was very lucky to have the facility. I used to go there after the lights out for the senior girls, but I really needed more than one shower a day so it happened I went in one time and there were three of the senior girls in there. I stripped off and we all went to shower at the same time. One girl had a real sponge from the sea, it had been given her by a relative who, although unable to look after her, did visit and give presents. The girls had so little in the way of personal possessions that she was very proud of her sponge.
It was all quite harmless, just the usual silly nonsense that you get with any group of kids. One of the other girls snatched the sponge and held it above her head. The owner tried to retrieve it and the sponge got tossed to another girl. The owner jumped at her and it got tossed to me. A fine old game of three against one started, and there were giggles, shrieks, yells and... well, general mayhem; none of it was nasty at all, and the girl whose sponge it was, was enjoying the game too. Then we noticed someone standing there, it was Miss Rankin. Miss Rankin was a senior teacher who had come out from Scotland some forty years ago. She seemed to have been dried out by the African sun, was nearing retirement, and was noted for her fierce discipline and lack of humour.
We closed together for mutual support and Miss Rankin looked disapprovingly along the line. "Are you aware that you could be heard on the other side of the compound?" We all looked at each other and shook our heads. "Then are you aware that you have attracted the attention of a large group of wee boys who have been trying to get a peek in to see what was happening?" We looked at each other quite horrified and again shook our heads. "Please do not pretend, however, that you were unaware of the strict rule prohibiting anything other than showering here in this bath house." There was dead silence not merely because the last was not a question, but because we had all known and simply forgotten it in the fun of the game.
"You girls," and here she looked very hard at me, "have got to understand that you must set an example for the good. Do you understand... the good? That is to say not the downright silly. Since you clearly have not set such a good example I need to make an example of you." At this point she again gave me a hard look and went on, saying, "I intend to give you something to remind you all of what is expected of you. I shall go and get my strap. In the meanwhile there are four corners and four of you, so you can put your silly noses each into its own separate corner and await my return. No need to get dressed."
Miss Rankin had left a Scotland that was had still been using the strap as a means of correction and saw no reason to change, irrespective of whatever the Scots might be doing these days. She had changed the practice of her younger years by applying the strap to the bottom rather than the hand, but having made that great change she decided 'enough was enough' and was still strapping with fervour. We were stark naked, remember, and being stark naked for a shower is one thing, but stuck in a corner waiting to be strapped is quite another. I simply couldn't believe the amount of trouble I seemed to get in.
I waited with a great deal of nervousness as this was now completely outside my experience. Soon she was back, and we had to turn around to see her standing in the middle of the shower area with a wicked-looking strap. I had to stand and watch while each of the senior girls in turn walked up and 'touched their toes'. This literally meant bending over and touching one's feet with the fingers. Miss Rankin then put a considerable effort into swinging the strap and bringing it down hard across the girl's bottom. The 'crack' it made in that concrete shower area was both deafening and frightening. When the strap landed it seemed to compress the bottom cheeks and wrap around them. The cheeks then sprang back when the strap went away and the marks became clearly visible. It was obvious that staying bent over under Miss Rankin's strapping was no easy matter and the girls gasped and yelped their way through a dozen each. Then I had to step forward.
"I shall be giving you extra," she commented, "because more is expected of you." My poor bum could hardly have known what was going on. The first whack nearly knocked me over; the sheer noise of it was frightening enough, but then this band of heat came across my bottom and I gasped loudly. The next one was just as bad, and I could feel my eyes prickle. Once gain the first few were bad although manageable, but the heat and sting seemed to escalate quickly and each new whack was harder to take. By the time she got to twelve I was crying freely and gripping my ankles rather than touching my toes. I knew I had to take the punishment but it was so hard. She only gave me three more than the others but I was on the point of begging her to stop. It was just like having a fire in the bottom, and I could not believe the stinging heat. Later in my own room I found my bottom to be very badly bruised all over, especially my right cheek.
She then made us shower while she stood over us. The water on my bottom just stung the whole time, but at least it washed the tears from my face. She supervised us while we dressed and then we got told off all over again before being dismissed. Never once did she ask us what we were actually doing to make all that noise. It was to be the last of my punishments but I was always very careful after that just in case I offended someone.
Now back in England with my Mum fussing over me 'nineteen to the dozen' (my Granny's expression), I know I have changed quite a bit. I realise that the reason the three of us could manage being 'good girls' was because of the support around us. We weren't good because we had chosen to be, we were that way because it was made possible for us. The implication of that is that kids I had thought of as 'bad' might simply have lacked support. I also realise that different standards and sanctions exist and that under those conditions I might not be a 'good girl' at all. If I am going to be a 'good girl' at University (now only a few weeks away) then I am going to have to work at it. I shall have to set my standards and take responsibility for my failures. There won't be any corporal punishment of course but I am not sure whether that is good or bad. What do you think?
The Castigat Project
I had taken off my tights and knickers (that's pantyhose and panties to American readers) and now the moment had come - I had to go over Dr St. John Vale's lap and get spanked for the very first time in my life. Well I know that if you have
read the first two instalments of my saga you'll be saying, "But she has been switched, caned and strapped." That is perfectly true but I had never been spanked, and until I left school had never received corporal punishment of any kind. When I finished my voluntary service and went up to 'Uni' (university to non-Brits), I had never expected to be on the receiving end of corporal punishment again. Yet as I laid myself across his lap, with Mrs Vale sitting as a prim chaperone (well middle-aged men do have to be protected against their own folly), I was sure this was only the first of many similar sessions yet to come. It was inevitable because I had signed up for 'The Castigat Project'.
After my year's voluntary service I had come home for a while and then gone off to university. It was about my sixth or seventh week of the course when I had the meeting with my tutor, Dr St. John Vale. He was a spare man of middle height, aged around fifty or so. He was kind and patient but always slightly distant, so when we had finished going through my latest work and he had given me some mild praise (and a good many things to work on), I expected to be dismissed. Instead he began to question me. "So how are you finding university life?"
"To be honest, I have been a bit shocked," I said. "I wasn't really prepared for all the drinking and the guys seem to think the girls are just ... well you know. Everyone's language is foul and I thought it would all be... well a bit more serious."
He nodded. "Yes we have had a few 'drop-out' already because of those sorts of issue and more will go by Christmas, but you have found some like-minded friends I am sure."
"Yes, you're right, and I am not going to drop out. Is that why you asked?"
"No, you interest me. I sense that you are striving to set much higher standards that are all your own and finding ways to achieve them. Am I right?"
Well he was of course. I wanted to be the 'good girl' but there was little support for that at the university and so he was right, I was trying to set my own standards and live up to them. Not easy. Soon he had me talking and my punishments in Cyprus and Africa came stumbling out with me becoming very red-faced at times. However, he seemed very matter of fact and listened well, just occasionally prompting me with a question. "I knew," he said at last, "that there was something very interesting about you. Now I would like you to tell me about what you believe you learned from each of your chastisements." I had thought a good deal about that and so it was easy to explain.
"Well, when I was switched in Cyprus I realised how inconsiderate I had been so I guess I understood that I have to think about others more. Then my first caning in Africa was because I failed to take responsibility and say no to the other girls and make sure we made arrangements before going. My second caning was because I didn't take account of the local culture and had just assumed that how I understood things was the same for everyone. Finally, the strapping was because I didn't realise that I had to be a leader. If I had simply given the girl back her sponge none of us would have been strapped."
He leant back with a very odd smile and said, "Excellent young lady, quite excellent. So would you say that for you (and forget all 'political correctness') that these corporal punishment experiences have been useful to your education and growing maturity?"
I sensed that this was going somewhere but I wasn't sure quite where so I replied cautiously "Er... well I suppose they have but they were very painful."
"Quite, yes indeed, and far too severe I may say but nevertheless... I wonder would you like to join us for afternoon tea on Sunday?"
Sunday afternoon was a particularly dead time in my week and so I readily agreed, but I sensed that the subject of corporal punishment was going to come up again. I was right of course.
Mrs Vale was charming but quite a prim and proper lady, and I knew that I had to be on my very best behaviour with her. She was well known for some very high-powered novels and several scholarly works. The tea was not academic but wonderful, a proper old-fashioned English affair with sandwiches and cakes, a real treat after all the grotty student meals. Nevertheless, I felt all the time that there was something other than eating and small talk in the wind. Sure enough, when everything was cleared away the real issue was raised. My tutor leaned back in his armchair, looked at his wife who nodded and asked me a question. "Well, my dear, could you translate for me 'Qui bene amat bene castigat'."
I sort of stumbled around for a bit but eventually came out with, "Who loves well punishes... er... no... er... rebukes... no, no of course... castigates well. Who loves well castigates well."
"...and perhaps a more colloquial expression?"
I had to think about it. All right, maybe I was a bit slow, but I was still a teenager and they were distinguished academics the pair of them, and they made me nervous. "Spare the rod and spoil the child?"
"Not bad, although children are not mentioned and it has a much wider application, but well done. Now let me tell you about 'The Castigat Project'." For the next hour he outlined the project to my growing incredulity.
Now I will spare you his very long exposition and cut it down to the bare bones. The project was a sort of 'action research' based on the premise that abandoning corporal punishment wholesale had been to throw the baby out with the bath water. If you love your fellow man, so to speak, at times you had to chastise. Why restrict that chastisement by failing to use corporal punishment? A small group of academics had decided to re-invent corporal punishment and begin the process of making it respectable again. They named it 'The Castigat Project' for fairly obvious reasons. The first target group were specially selected students who had shown an interest in self-improvement and self-discipline. There were about twenty students signed up at present and a dozen academics supervising them.
When a student signed up a thorough analysis was made of their life and study habits. Areas for improvement were identified and priorities selected. Then the supervising academic helped the student to draw up an "improvement plan" with corporal punishment sanctions to ensure success. They were all pleased with the results to date. "Most promising," was Dr Vale's expression. You find it hard to believe? I can't say I blame you; I just sat with my mouth open, wondering if I had taken some sort of hallucinogenic drug.
"We believe," he told me, "that you would make an excellent participant. You already have some experience of corporal punishment and believe that it helped you. In addition, you have already made efforts to ensure that you remain aloof from the bad behaviour you see around you, an excellent recruit for our project."
I was anxious to get out of the house as fast as possible. Blind panic is what would describe my feelings best, but I promised I would think about the offer and that it would remain confidential. Back in my room with someone's bass music shaking the walls, I thought about baring my bottom for Dr Vale and getting caned as I had been in Africa or switched as in Cyprus. I went hot with embarrassment. Now I know you'll think me strange, but I went over to my desk and pulled my jeans and knickers down and bent over the desk to see if I could imagine Dr Vale punishing me. I have a good imagination and my face went hot and I pulled my clothes up as quickly as if he had been in the room. But the Castigat Project would not leave my mind. There was something about the whole idea of getting a sore bottom for fouling up that appealed to me - a sort of "wiping the slate clean and starting again" feeling. I wasn't keen to be severely caned as I had previously been, but Dr and Mrs Vale had assured me that in Castigat those severe methods were not employed; they used spanking rather than beating. Quite late on in the evening, almost without having made a conscious decision, I telephoned Dr Vale at home and said I would join.
We made an appointment to meet at his house and I sat down with them and went through the whole induction; we analysed my failings and drew up an action plan. I signed a punishment consent form and a confidentiality agreement and I was in. My weaknesses were managing my money (hopeless!) and being on time for anything (a real 'Late Annie'). Then came the bit I had been dreading. Oh, I knew it would happen, but still it was making me nervous and embarrassed. O
ne had to take an initial spanking to prove commitment to the project. No fault had been committed but the spanking had to be taken.
I had worn a skirt deliberately, but now realised I should have left my tights off; I hate the blessed things anyway. I struggled to pull them down together and keep them on, but in the end gave up and took both knickers and tights off. His carpet felt beautifully soft to my bare feet, odd what goes through one's mind when about to be spanked. I really felt awkward going across his knee (or is it lap?) and it took me a moment to get comfortable and to put my bottom where he wanted it. I wasn't sure where to put my hands and was fussing with different positions when he lifted my skirt right up away from my bottom.
I felt very embarrassed, enormously exposed and very glad Mrs Vale was there. He had on some sort of countryman's trousers and they felt very rough and itchy whilst at the same time my bottom felt very cold and sensitive. Although I wanted, and perhaps deserved, to be spanked, I was still awaiting the first smack with trepidation because I had never been spanked before. When it came the smack was hard and stung quickly afterwards. I gasped out loud and gasped again as the next smack came down on the other bottom cheek. Both cheeks stung but I did not want to cry or fuss. Smack, smack, smack - as each one landed on my bottom I wondered how bad it would become. At first I found it bearable, and although it stung to be spanked, being brave was easy. Soon, however, his smacks were landing on well-spanked cheeks, and I found myself gasping and wriggling. "Ooh! Ahh!" became a common sound, and the sting and the heat built up so that I found it quite hard to be a brave girl any more. I wanted to shout out, "Please, please don't. No more please," but then just as the stinging heat seemed to become unbearable it sort of reached a plateau, and although my bottom really felt incredibly hot, it didn't seem to get any worse.
