Punishment at school means punishment at home

by Dick Templemeads

(The next instalment of ‘The Swishing Sixties’ series)

Seven O’clock on a warm sunny evening on Friday 17th July 1964. Alice Mariner looked in her dressing table mirror and liked what she saw.

‘For the last four hours,’ she told herself. ‘I have been a young woman of eighteen and am no longer a schoolgirl.’

Alice had finished at St. Winifred’s Independent School that afternoon, and in two month’s time was expecting to go up to Oxford to read History as her father had done before her.

She turned back to the mirror and rechecked her appearance, her white blouse complimenting the plain black mini skirt, and her shoulder length brunette hair neatly groomed as ever, though tonight had been uncomfortable brushing her hair.

‘I look every inch a lady,’ she thought to herself. ‘Just a pity about my hands.’

The doorbell rang announcing the arrival of Mark, her 23 years old boyfriend, who was taking her out to dinner to celebrate her ceasing to be a schoolgirl. Alice adored Mark who, after graduating two years earlier, was forging a career in the City. Alice opened the door, slung her shoulder bag over her shoulder and joined Mark on the front garden path.

As they headed towards town Mark reached to hold Alice’s hand as he always did, but this time she snatched it away. Feeling rebuffed he sounded like the Beatles as he said: “Alice, I wanna hold your hand.”

Realising she had unintentionally offended her boyfriend she responded quickly. “Sorry Mark, it’s just that my hand is very sore.”

“Okay,” he replied. “I’ll hold the other hand.”

“That’s sore too,” she replied, and held up both palms to display red weals and swollen fingers.

“My God Alice, have you been caned?” Queried a somewhat surprised Mark.

“Yes, at lunchtime,” came the reply. “It’s my own fault. Glenys and Susan suggested to Vicky, Chloe, Sarah and myself that just for the hell of it we should stand outside Mrs Hilden’s study window and smoke. Susan and Glenys have both been caned for smoking before and they thought that, with just two hours of school left, Mrs Hilden wouldn’t take any action. They saw it as an act of rebellion and the other four of us, three of us being prefects I might add, crazily decided to join in.

“When I think about it now it was plain daft, Chloe, Sarah and I don’t even smoke and although Vicky does occasionally she never did at school as she was terrified of the cane, as indeed I was too.

“Anyway, rather than let us off, Mrs Hilden caned us all. Three strokes on each hand for Susan and Glenys as they’d been caned for smoking before, three on one hand and two on the other for Sarah as, though she’d not been caught smoking before, she’d been caned once, and then two on each hand for the other three of us.

“It was agony, Mark, and hurt far more than I’d imagined and I always knew that it must be painful.”

“You poor thing,” replied Mark. “I had it on the bottom at school, as did my sister, but neither of us got it on the hands, which has to be worse in my book, as apart from the fact that your hand is more tender you have the awful prospect of seeing the cane descend.”

“That’s it exactly, I watched the first stroke come down, and inadvertently moved my hand slightly so it caught the fingers. The rest of the time I just held my hand out and shut my eyes. It hurts on the bottom but it’s a different pain, I’d rather have it there than on the hands.”

“I thought you hadn’t been caned until today?” Queried Mark.

Alice blushed then replied: “Not at school, but don’t forget both my parents are head teachers, they use the cane at home. My father caned my brother, though not now he’s at university, and my mother canes me when I’m in trouble. But her rule at home and at school has always been bottom only.”

Then she added: “And if she hears about this from old Hilden, as she’s likely to do because they’re old friends, then I’ll be getting a second dose tomorrow morning. Still, let’s forget about it for now and enjoy the evening, maybe she won’t find out.”

The couple enjoyed a pleasant meal and soon Alice forgot about her sore hands and the event that had caused them. On returning home she stopped at the garden gate to share a passionate good night kiss with Mark, then in deference to her parents 10.30 curfew rule walked through the front door at 10.28, to find her mother hovering in the hall.

“Hello Mummy, did you and Daddy have a good end of year party?” She asked.

“Very nice, thank you Alice,” said her mother who had now moved her face to within a fraction of an inch of Alice’s.

“What are you doing Mummy?”

“Just checking whether you’ve been smoking again?”

Alice tried to brazen the situation. “Mummy, you know I don’t smoke!”

“Well that’s what I believed, yet I heard from Jeanette Hilden that she caned you and five others for smoking this afternoon.”

“Oh that?” Came the brazen reply. “We were just having a bit of last day rebellion fun. Chloe, Sarah and I didn’t even inhale!”

Her Mother’s face coloured.

“So you think it’s fun and clever to stick your nose up at authority just because it’s the last day, demeaning a school and its staff who have served you so well for seven years? I do not think it’s funny for the teaching profession to be denigrated in such a way. Are you starting work at 9 o’clock tomorrow?”

“Yes Mummy,” came from a now not so cocky Alice.

“Very well, see me in the Drawing Room at 8 o’clock sharp tomorrow morning.”

Alice knew that meant just one thing, a summons to the Drawing Room first thing Saturday morning always spelt punishment.

*          *          *

Despite the summons, Alice slept well; she’d made enough Saturday morning trips to the Drawing Room to know what that involved. She woke and dressed in the uniform of the department store where she worked on Saturdays, which comprised a white blouse, and a black skirt whose hemline was just above the knee, far longer than the skirts she normally wore, but perhaps in the circumstances a good thing. Stretching or bending in a mini skirt might reveal the wheals at the lower point of her bottom.

Under her skirt she wore a pair of diaphanous nylon panties, lemon in colour and trimmed with white lace. She had left school now, so no more navy blue passion killers. Even though she was about to get the cane she eschewed the thicker knickers, beside which her mother was very angry last night, and she sensed this would be a bare bum job.       

When younger, Alice and her brother Peter were punished with over the knee spankings, the number of spanks depending on how badly they had behaved, with very bad behaviour resulting in a bare bottomed punishment.

Peter had earned quite a few but Alice, who was spanked far less frequently, had only had her knickers taken down on three occasions. Their parents decreed that once they were attending Grammar School then spanking was to be superseded by caning.

Peter’s first domestic caning came just several weeks into his Grammar School career, in a week when both he and his sister had behaved particularly badly, resulting in it being one of the few occasions when they witnessed one another’s punishments.

After a sound spanking over her mother’s knee, Alice had drawn her knickers back up and then watched through her tears in awe as her brother, having had his please for mercy rejected, lowered first his shorts and then his baggy white pants and bent over the arm of the sofa, three red tramlines from a caning delivered at school two days earlier standing out in stark contrast to the whiteness of the rest of his chubby bottom.

Peter howled as his father delivered six of the best and Alice, horrified but transfixed by the spectacle, vowed that when she went to Grammar School in two year’s time she’d behave so well that she would never have to undergo the horrors her brother had just experienced. Deep down, however, she knew that, as from time to time she merited a good spanking, it was inevitable that at some stage she’d have to submit to the cane.

Indeed she managed to hold out until three weeks before the end of her first year at Grammar before she felt the cane for the first time. Three strokes delivered to the seat of her navy blues. Since then she’d bent over on ten other occasions, often for three or four strokes, and four times for six, two doses of which had been on the bare.

Emma put her memories to one side as her mother joined her in the drawing room.

“You may no longer be a schoolgirl, but yesterday’s behaviour was totally unacceptable. I realise that yesterday you were caned on the hands and, as you know, I personally only countenance caning on the bottom.”

This was true. Alice’s mother had, throughout her career as a teacher, only caned on the posterior, telling other teachers that she felt it was much safer than punishing on the hands, whilst declining to mention that her theory was based on the fact that she had had her own finger damaged when once punished with a palm caning.

“However,” she continued. “I cannot allow such a blatant display of rebellion and contempt for the teaching profession to go unpunished, so it’s time for the cane again for you, young lady. Skirt up, knickers down and over the arm of the sofa.”

Alice had expected no different and knew how much it would hurt, but no matter how experienced you were, being caned never got any easier to bear.

Her friends who weren’t punished at home commented that the eleven canings she’d had to date were considerable, but she countered this by pointing out it equated to less than two per year, and that her parents could justify their action by the fact that both Alice and her brother were Oxbridge material, so her parents’ actions must have benefit, even if somewhat uncomfortable.

Alice stood behind the arm of the sofa, lifted her skirt above her waist and then pushed her brief lemon panties down to her knees, then in one elegant movement she bent over the sofa’s arm and thrust her bottom upwards.

Her mother swished the cane down. As ever, there was a brief gap between the cane landing and Alice feeling its effect. She drew in her breath but made no sound. Each stroke was delivered at twenty second intervals and each was harder than the previous. By the fourth, the pretty young woman was gasping, struggling to remain stoic, wriggling in a most undignified manner and fighting back the tears which, if shed, would damage her make-up.

To her relief she made it dry eyed, something she’d failed to do the day before. She winced as she pulled her knickers back into place, but her mascara was intact and other than a rather rosy red face, and a slight limp as she walked, she gave no other obvious signs. Thank God her work necessitated her standing.

By the time she met Mark that evening the pain had gone, though a visit to the bathroom showed that the weals would be around for a few days.

The pain in her palms had also gone, so Mark could hold her hand again, and Alice even allowed him to rub her bottom better.

The End

© Dick Templemeads 2014