I cannot believe Dad has taken my jeans down and bent me across the kitchen table for a spanking…. It’s so embarrassing. And it doesn’t even hurt. I really need to get my own place.
The world has gone mad this past few years. It started when the New Democrats came to power. They convinced people that the country was going to the dogs because of the young people. Discipline, they said. That’s what they needed. People fell for it; they wanted it to be true. So, it was easy to bring back corporal punishment in schools. The cane was everywhere.
At my school two lads – Sixth-formers, eighteen years old – were publicly caned. In assembly. I can’t remember what they had done. The headmaster, odious bastard, really let them have it. They put a small wooden armchair on stage and they had to bend over it. The first lad was a big beefy bloke. Rugby player, I think. He towered over the headmaster, but that didn’t matter. He had to offer up his bum for the cane. Big arse. He was growing out of his school uniform and the pale-grey trousers were as tight as a drum when he bent over. Terrific target. I can see it now. Acres of space. The headmaster had this weird, demonic, scowl on his face. He was enjoying himself way too much. The Head had a big, thick cane; one with the curved handle that had suddenly become all the fashion. He showed it off, flexing it to show how much it could bend, and swishing it through the air. I swear there were gasps of horror from some of the kids in the first year.
Swipe! I can hear the tremendous crack it made when the Head let fly and it whacked against those stretched trousers. The poor kid nearly jumped off the chair. I know I would have done. I’d have been running, howling through the hall and out the door and I wouldn’t stop yelling until I got back home. He took it very well considering. Imagine eighteen years old and made to bend over the chair so an old man can whack your arse with a cane. And in front of hundreds of people. You’ve got to hand it to him.
The other one didn’t do so well. He was howling even before the headmaster tapped the chair with his cane and snarled, “Bend over!” It wasn’t a pretty sight. “No, no, no,” he pleaded. It sent a shudder through me. We all despised him. Later, we said what a coward he was. As if any of us would have done anything differently. Two teachers had to throw him across a table and hold him down while the headmaster did the dirty deed.
Yes, times had changed. After the cane was brought back into schools it wasn’t long before they had corporal punishment in universities. Some appointed a special ‘Dean of Discipline’ to dole it out. No more missing lectures or handing in rubbish essays. Not unless you wanted a very sore bum. They would have special times of the day when the students had to queue up for their whacking.
A girlfriend told me that at Brocklehurst Uni. at first the head of the academic department was the one who wielded the cane. Except in Media Studies where she was, the head was American and he used a paddle, which is a block of wood like a miniature cricket bat. Soon though any lecturer was allowed to put a student through it. I heard one fellow would make a lad bend over his knee. Right there in front of the tutorial group. Imagine – twenty, twenty-one – trousers at the ankles, underpants at the knees, going over the tutor’s knee to have your bare arse slapped.
No one made a fuss. What could they do? If you didn’t take your medicine you’d be expelled from university and that would be the end of your life. No qualification, no job. They have work camps now for the young jobless. If only half the stories I’ve heard about them are true, you do not want to end up there. So we all do as we are told and take our spankings like good little boys.
Once the universities did it some bright spark realised that apprentices in the workplace shouldn’t be immune and now just about anyone under thirty can get their arse blistered by just about anyone in authority. And don’t get me started on them bringing back the birch at the law courts.
A fellow off the telly – some deadbeat actor in a soap – started talking about how parents had to take their responsibility in bringing up their kids (the lads especially) to be model citizens. Maybe he had shares in a factory making canes and paddles, because I can’t see how any of this was his business. That’s where my own dad comes in. Like his mates at work he thought this was a very good idea. Nobody asked me, of course. Dad’s a simple soul and he didn’t really think it through. A spanking is supposed to hurt, that’s the whole point of it. You are supposed to be in fear of getting done, or if you’ve been spanked, getting it again. Dad’s spankings are like being hit with a feather. True, he takes down my trousers and leans me across the table, but the slaps on my bum are like fleabites. True, I feel a right idiot, I am twenty years old, but otherwise it’s all a waste of time. Not that I’m going to let on to him. I don’t want him bringing home a swishy cane.
My friend Trent tells me his dad takes him into the kitchen and sits in a chair and he makes Trent take down his trousers and bend over his knee. Then dad pulls down Trent’s pants and spanks his bare arse, just like he was a little kid. He uses his mum’s hairbrush or a bedroom slipper; he even uses a table tennis bat sometimes! It goes on for hours, Trent says. I didn’t believe him at first, but then one day when I scoffed he whipped down his jeans and pants and pointed his bum at me. You could see the outline of the brush all over his bum. The bruises were a mixture of violet and purple. I don’t envy Trent and I hope my dad never meets his dad to compare notes on behaviour moderation.
Well, Dad’s finished spanking me know. “Let that be a lesson,” he says. I try to look suitably abashed and pull up my trousers. I stand awkwardly for a few moments in case Dad can think of anything else to say. He is dumbfounded and embarrassed, so I put him out of his misery and go up to my room. I don’t bother checking the damage because I know from un-painful experience there will be nothing to see.
Picture credits: British Boys Fetish Club
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