A holiday in a far off clime turns sour, but…
By Old Tom and Susan Thomas
He whipped the cane through the air and the sound electrified me. The swish sent me into a strange place where I imagined bending over, my skirt pulled tightly against my bottom. The cane would swish venomously and now hit my bottom. I tried to imagine how it would feel.
I shook my head and found he was looking intently at my face, a sardonic smile on his.
“Would you like to try receiving a few? You could bend over that chair. A few strokes to find out what it feels like?”
I felt myself whirling into his eyes. He was just so strong, so powerful; his personality magnetic – hypnotic. I could imagine myself doing it, bending over to let him beat me. The desire to give into him built until I felt hot and unable to resist any longer. I would submit to him, longed to submit to him.
It was an effort to laugh. An effort to shake my head. “I really don’t think so,” I said. My voice sounded shaky even to me.
He raised one eyebrow. “You’re stronger than I thought. Well you do desire to experience more. Just not now and now never from me. I only give one invitation.”
I was relieved to leave his company; I had been foolish to go to his house. I had heard he was some sort of dominant who liked to have women under his control. Well he wasn’t getting me. I am not some silly doormat of a girl to be dominated by a man who can’t have a relationship with a woman without controlling her.
The problem was that I couldn’t get the sound of the cane out of my head. At home I went down to my dad’s shed where he had canes for the garden. I’d been forbidden the shed when I was little; not now, of course. I was eighteen and grown up, a management trainee with good “A” levels. None of that wasting money on university life for me, the company were training me at their expense.
Now I had the freedom of the shed. I took a cane and swished it through the air. The sound did something to me every time. I knew boys were caned at school, back in the day. I suppose girls must have been too but probably not as much as boys. Boys are silly and challenging at school, reckless even. They were bound to have been caned a lot, but girls must have been sometimes. I wished I had been at school then so I could get caned just once, just to know what it felt like.
It took several weeks for that feeling to go, and the year slipped by at speed. I was doing well; the top trainee manager. Top of every course, my appraisals were astoundingly good. I was well and truly pleased with myself. My best friend Charlene was not doing so well. Always at the lower end of every ranking, she was scatty and impulsive, a lovely girl and a good friend, but a pickle, as my dad calls such people. It was Charlene, always known as Charley of course, who suggested we go on holiday together.
“No, Charley, I really don’t fancy one of those singles holidays; all boozy guys and drunk girls and falling into bed with some guy I’ll never see again. That’s just not my idea of fun.”
“Nor mine,” she surprised me by saying. “No I was thinking of this one.”
‘This one’ was an island out in the East; we’d be able to go stay in a five star place for relatively little money and be waited on hand and foot. There’d be white water rafting, jungle treks, surfing, water skiing, rock climbing, swimming in the sea and luxurious pool, beach, music, dancing. I drooled and was suspicious of the cheapness.
“What’s the catch?”
“None. My sister went. It’s just cheaper and anyhow the exchange rate is in our favour. The only thing is modest dress. OK to be in shorts and bikinis in the hotel complex but not on the beach; full cossies only and anywhere else arms half covered and nice modest skirts. But the good news is clothes are dirt cheap so we can just go and buy there at a fraction of what it costs here.”
We booked and did exactly what Charley suggested, took minimum stuff in our cases and went on a shopping spree there. The shop keepers advised what was acceptable for us and we relaxed; it was the most wonderful mixture of peoples. There were folk descended from just about every place in the world and all seemingly in harmony. It had once been under British control, so English was widely spoken. The standards of courtesy and honesty were staggeringly high. You couldn’t leave anything without some total stranger chasing after you waving it at you and everyone so polite. For girls, though, modesty was very important. We were careful when walking down to the beach to wear a towelling robe and full costumes when actually on the beach. It wasn’t a hardship as every woman around was doing the same and I loved the light, cotton clothing we bought; so cheerful and so cool.
You will have guessed, of course, what the consequence was for immodest dress. Yes, it was a caning. Old fashioned British caning; not as brutal as some of those you read about for male rapists or stupid young men who commit acts of vandalism but a ‘be very careful how you sit for a week afterwards’ sort. The tourist advisor at the hotel gave us chapter and verse because we needed to be warned. Really the only thing that applied to us was the immodesty. My problem was the warning awoke my feelings on hearing the swishing of the cane, but I controlled myself. No way was I going to deliberately break the law just to get a caning. Besides I strongly suspected I wouldn’t like it if I did get one.
We were nearly at the end of what had been a really wonderful holiday (my first without family or school). We were taking a day to sit by the large pool and be lazy having had several days behind us of energetic stuff which included abseiling down beside a massive waterfall, scary but great. Charley got up and went off, I assumed to the loo, and I lay idly wondering if I should have another of their marvellous cooling fruit drinks when I heard a scream and the sound of raised voices and running feet.
Charley came running back looking horrified and threw herself onto the lounger, but not far behind came a group of people. There was a very angry looking old Chinese man wearing some sort of a white coat; beside him was a young nervous police officer with an older tired and cynical looking one, a very upright distinguished looking man of, I think, Malay origin who looked very disapproving; and lastly two very anxious looking hotel employees, one a junior manger of some sort. All of them were talking at once and pointing at Charley who looked scared to death.
Finally the junior manger got some sort of control over the group and began to translate the various stories he heard, not least for our benefit because we only spoke English. It seemed that Charley was accused of immodesty and theft. She’d seen the Chinese man outside through some railings selling the local ice cream. It is delicious without doubt. Wearing only her bikini, she had left the hotel to purchase two ice creams, totally forgetting she had no money and was only in a bikini. The upright Malay looking man had seen her and been scandalised; he had begun an indignant rant. Charley had panicked, dropped the two ice creams and scarpered back to the hotel, but by then the Chinese ice cream seller was also indignant and two passing police officers had joined them in chasing Charley in. None of this surprised me. Charley really is a total Dizzy Annie.
I am not Charley. I have always been sensible. I was always neat and tidy at school. I was always class monitor or prefect or whatever. I have always been careful and sensible and thoughtful, maybe boringly so, but I like being that way. Now, though, something stole over me. I knew what Charley would get and that was the cane and the memory of that swishing sound electrified me all over again. I remembered his seductive voice, “Would you like to try receiving a few?” Now all that good sense flew out of my mind and I gave in for the very first time to impulse.
I clapped my hands loudly to silence them all and said in a clear voice: “It wasn’t Charlene it was me. I was foolish and I apologise. I gave in to an impulse and went to buy the ice creams wearing only my bikini. I am most sorry for the offence. The ice creams were simple panic at the situation and I also apologise for it. Will the gentlemen selling ice creams accept this in compensation?”
‘This’ was the equivalent of twenty pounds and worth far more than two ice creams, more like forty, in fact, as they were really cheap. Well of course they found it hard to tell one European girl in a bikini apart from another wearing an almost identical one and after some puzzlement accepted my story. The junior manager person was great with the ice cream seller and he went off cheerfully. Mr Upright Malay person was not satisfied with the apology, as I guessed he wouldn’t be. He stiffly demanded something which I guessed was along the lines of, “The girl needs a good thrashing,” but Junior Manager didn’t translate.
Junior Manager showed his potential, for he persuaded the two officers to leave me at the hotel with the promise that I would appear in court in the morning. He had my passport, he explained, and really was it wise to put a distinguished European visitor in one of the local prisons? Then Junior Manager (I am utterly unable to pronounce, let alone spell, his name) told me that he would summon the hotel solicitor who would attend on me very soon. When he had gone I had a hard job with Charley. She was all over the place with remorse and good intentions but I managed her and went and put on some modest clothes for my meeting with the solicitor.
The solicitor was a charming man of Indian descent who spoke English in a beautiful old-fashioned way. He must have been at least sixty and was extremely kind but honest with me.
“Unfortunately, my dear young lady, the gentleman that has lodged the complaint is a man of influence. Were it not so, we might be able to get the whole unfortunate incident to be forgotten. Even more unfortunately, the facts of the case are beyond dispute; you did leave the hotel grounds wearing only a bikini. That is not of course to pass judgement on the bikini but…”
I think he would have gone on forever but I gently and politely interrupted him to find out what the sentence might be.
“I am sure that I can convince the court that it was all rather an unfortunate mistake and that there was no intent to offend. I am confident therefore that if you are apologetic in court we can escape with only the minimum penalty.”
He was reluctant to tell me but in the end sighed and said: “Six with the cane but no fine or any further penalty.”
If he expected hysterics he was pleasantly surprised. Although scared I thought it perfect. If that didn’t get this caning bug out of my head then nothing would. In the morning I dressed in the most modest and formal clothes I had and the solicitor arrived to escort me to court in a hotel car. Charley was advised to stay put at the hotel just in case someone disputed the identity of the defendant. I don’t think our solicitor had been fooled for a second. One look at Charley’s guilty face told the story. I think he rather liked me for it and was most kind the whole time.
I was pleasantly surprised by the court. For a start, the court room was smartly modern with air conditioning; everyone was extremely polite and quite kindly and there was no shouting or bullying at all. They even provided me with a translator.
The charge of immodesty was read out in several languages. The older police officer gave his evidence and then Mr Upright Malay Man took the stand. It was evident that everyone held him in awe; trust Charley to upset a big shot. To be fair, he was fair. He did not exaggerate what happened, merely stated the facts and then his opinion that young foreign visitors must not be allowed to bring decadent western ways to his pure and upright country.
Then my solicitor was allowed to put the case for the defence, which was it was simple impulse to buy ice cream, forgetting where she was, that his client had been very well behaved until that point but she was young and now extremely remorseful. He asked for the court’s understanding. I was made to stand and apologised profusely, explained I just got carried away and agreed it was silly and disrespectful. I then apologised in English while facing Mr Malay Man. After listening to the translation he sort of inclined his head in reply.
The judges conferred for a moment and gave me a mild telling off and six with the cane. Now with heart beating I turned to my solicitor.
“My dear young lady, I regret that the sentence will be carried out immediately. I shall wait for you and escort you back to the hotel. Be of good cheer it will be over very quickly.”
Two female officers in smart uniform fell in on either side of me and indicated I should walk with them. We left through a door at the side of the court room and along a plain utilitarian corridor and ended up in a suite of rooms one of which was clearly a medical room. A female Chinese looking doctor spoke to me.
“I check you to make sure you fit to be punished.”
She was nice but just asked a few questions and checked my blood pressure before declaring I was fit to be caned. I was in such a peculiar state of mind it is hard to describe. First of all I was in a high state of excitement but with a nasty sick feeling of fear growing inside my stomach. I suppose I wanted the experience but was also afraid of it. The two officers seemed to be relaxing with me. I expect it was because I showed no sign of resistance or protest but just complied with whatever they asked. Then we went through a door into another small room with a sort of clothes stand affair. A small, very pretty officer was in there. She looked older than the others and greeted me in perfect English, just with an accent.
“I am only here to help you and will remain with you until the doctor has cleared you to leave. I will be going in with you.” She stepped back to look at me. “Yes very easy, just take off your sandals and skirt. You may leave on that blouse and for now your knickers.”
I had to ask, just had to: “Will it be a man doing the…?” My voice tailed off.
She looked quite shocked. “No, of course not! It would not be right.”
As we began to go into what I guessed was the punishment room my fear overpowered my excitement and I asked the little officer: “Will it hurt?”
The little officer looked very kind. “I cannot lie; it will be very painful but short lived. We are very strict here but you have been unlucky. You offended the wrong man. Many others would not have complained.”
We went into a surprisingly large room. The floor was tiled and the walls clean and fresh in an off white colour. The smell was odd, a strong smell of disinfectant overlaid with some sort of perfume I couldn’t identify. There was a senior looking officer with a clipboard and an impassive face and another tall female officer in the room. To be honest the tall one looked more like a man than many men. She had a strong face. I think she may have been of Korean origin though quite why I think that I’m not sure. Her short sleeves revealed strong, muscular arms and it was clear from her posture that she was an athletic woman. I couldn’t take my eyes off her because by her side was the cane. It looked long and nasty.
In the centre was a wooden piece of equipment. It was well-made and beautifully finished with all edges rounded and clearly had been lovingly lacquered. I guessed immediately what I had to do; go and stand in front of it and bend over, and in that position it would be much the same as bending over a desk or table. The only difference was blue strapping which was clearly for restraining whoever was getting caned. That frightened me almost more than the caning.
My kindly officer spoke softly to me. “In a moment you must pull down your knickers and then lean right over the bench. The restraints are for your safety and will not hurt you. I will attach the restraints and if they are too tight you must say so. I shall stay right by your head the whole time to explain everything. Do you understand?”
I thanked her and she continued. “Now please lower your knickers and lean right over, stretching your arms out in front of you.”
Now fear took a real hold on me and drove out any stupid excitement I had felt. I knew I was utterly mad to be doing this. I should just have let Charley stew in her own juice. I pulled my knickers down right to my ankles, feeling embarrassed even though it was only women present. I bent over the bench, now feeling very exposed and very vulnerable. The room was cool with the air conditioning and it made my bottom feel cold. My kindly officer first attached a restraint around my ankles. It wasn’t at all uncomfortable but I still couldn’t move them afterwards. The next one went behind my knees and then one over my waist above my bottom. Lastly my wrists were restrained and pulled gently so my arms were stretched. It was incredibly effective; I simply couldn’t move.
A voice called out something I didn’t understand but my kindly officer, who was now sitting on a stool by my head, whispered: “She said to begin punishment.”
Athletic officer swished the cane through the air and the sound gave me a momentary excitement, quickly killed off by my fear. In spite of feeling terrified I didn’t protest or beg or anything. I think it was just stubborn pride, but maybe it was the realisation that it would have made no difference to what was going happen. It’s like bungee jumping. Once you jump, that’s it.
I felt the cane lay across my bottom. I had thought my bottom cold but the hard cold of the cane made me realise how warm and soft my bottom actually was. It was a horribly scary moment. I felt the cane withdrawn and tensed but there was a movement behind me and the cane came back with a light tap. Again a movement, and again I tensed, but again the cane came back with the light tap.
My kindly officer whispered: “She is making sure she lands the cane in the right place.”
Then there was a rapid movement behind me and a terrible blow hit me which seemed to bury itself deep into my bottom. I remember taking an enormous gasp as if sucking all the air out of the room, and then the pain hit. I screeched and tried to stand but of course couldn’t do that, but I could and did wriggle a little. I screamed at my kindly officer: “That hurts!” She reached up and stroked my hair.
Even as she did that the cane struck again. I gasped loudly and then the pain hit and I yelled: “Aaaaaah!” again, trying to rise but unable to do more than writhe slightly. My kindly officer stroked my hair and muttered gentle soothing noises. There were two agonising lines across my bottom and I began to pant loudly to try and get control over myself and the pain of caning.
There was another flurry of movement behind me and then the cane struck once again with its tremendous force. It was unbelievable what that piece of rattan was doing to my soft bottom and I wondered how I could stand any more. I wanted to writhe and stand and scream, and felt a right wimp. The face of my kindly officer went all blurry and I realised I must be crying. I stammered: “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts,” over and over again.
My kindly officer gently stroked my hair and muttered: “Nearly over; half way already.”
The woman caning me must have been strong, for the fourth stroke hit my bottom with formidable power. It buried itself deeply sending a wave of horrifying pain to my brain. I tried to rise again but again could only writhe a little and gasp out: “It hurts; it really hurts.”
My kindly officer used a delicate hand to wipe my tears and whispered: “Only two more, soon be over.”
I tried so hard to be all brave for the fifth and not cry out or anything but it hurt so much. I again tried hard to stand, but the kindly restraints held me firm and my kind officer stroked my face gently and whispered: “Last one, it’s nearly over.”
The last one was the worst. It was a diagonal crossing the previous five. My poor bottom was sure it was applied with greater force than any of those that had gone before. It felt as if the cane had buried itself in my bottom and would remain there forever. I gasped in shock and then the pain hit. It was horrible, awful and monstrous, hitting as it did all those earlier welts. I tried so hard to stand I actually managed to lift myself a whole few centimetres, but any further was impossible. I vaguely remember babbling and crying while my bottom throbbed horribly in so many ways.
I vaguely heard something called out and then my kindly officer was undoing the restraints and helping me to rise. Standing hurt; it seemed to do something nasty and pain shot through my bottom. The other two officers just got hold of my arms while kindly officer pulled my knickers up very gently over my bottom. I found I could walk OK but slowly because my bottom really hurt. The two officers still held me, though, just in case, and we went back to the medical room. The Chinese doctor gave me a quick examination and pronounced me fit to leave. I was helped to dress by kindly officer and I gave her a hug before leaving. She looked very pleased and told me I was the bravest she had all week. That astonished me.
The Indian solicitor was so kind and gave me his arm for any walking. Sitting in the car was horrible and made me wince and gasp a fair bit. It was only in the hotel room, with Charley fussing around me, that I saw just what the cane had done. There were the smooth gentle curves of my bottom and across, standing out, quite literally, were the welts. They were huge, violently red, raised elongated eggs, worse and longer on one side than the other. Where the diagonal stroke had crossed over the welts and marks were particular nasty and it was clear that the skin had been very slightly broken in many places with dark red showing. They said the caning would not be as bad as the ones the men got, but all I can say is I am glad I am not a man. I do know it was true but boy did it hurt and continued to hurt for days. Even on the plane home I was wriggling in discomfort.
We were met at Manchester airport by my parents. I was so pleased to be in England again. I hope and pray that I am never, ever, mad enough to want to have another caning experience.
© Old Tom and Susan Thomas 2015
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