A story of three canings. Australian setting.

By Joanna Jones

“The Three R’s”. In this case this has nothing to do with those three pillars of children’s education (Reading, wRiting, aRithmetic of course).

No, it was the nickname that our parents and our friends gave to us; three inseparable school buddies all living in the same street in a well to do area, and all having names beginning with ‘R’: Rachel, Rebecca and Ruth.

All of us were above average brightness, mostly in the top stream in one of Victoria’s top fee paying schools, and generally well behaved.

However, unusually, all of us managed to get ourselves into the (very) small group of girls that were caned in Year 12, our final year of education, in our school in the suburbs of Melbourne, Australia. Not together, but at different times for different ‘foolishnesses’.

Although we now live a good distance apart, we always meet up at least once a year. At our recent informal ‘reunion’, those three punishments of thirty plus years ago came up, and each of us remembered it as the single most unpleasant experience of our school careers.

However, in our discussions, fuelled by a couple of bottles of a very quaffable South Australian red wine, each of us also clearly felt, for different reasons, that ours had been the most unpleasant. Not being able to agree, we each have written down briefly our memories of the particular fateful incident.

Here they are (along with the reasons why we thought ours was particularly awful). As for which is worst, that is for you to judge!

—Rachel’s Story—

It was late February when I fell foul of the rules. The weather was still warm, actually very hot with a northerly wind from the inland on the day in question, and all of us girls were definitely wearing the summer uniform of a light cotton dress.

My chemistry teacher was a Mr London, who certainly knew his stuff, but definitely had a strict streak. He was in his late fifties at the time. His big issue was “safety”; basically never fool around with chemicals and always wear your safety gear – lab coat, safety specs and, when handling anything, gloves too.

While he would tolerate a bit of fun and back chat within limits, compromise his strict safety rules and it was for him an automatic caning. No warnings, no second chances, and no difference as to whether you were a boy or girl.

I can’t remember the exact experiment we were doing. However, the lesson had started in the usual way. After putting our lab coats on, he gave an outline of the chemical principles involved on the blackboard, describing the experiment we were to carry out. Then, in pairs, we set to on the experiment.

Neither Rebecca nor Ruth did chemistry and Mary was my partner. We agreed she would do the first part and I would observe. That meant I did not need to put on the gloves quite then, as you only needed to wear them if actually handling the chemicals. However, I also forgot to put on the safety specs.

Mr London only noticed after a few minutes as he came round to see how we were getting on.

“Rachel Callaghan! Where are your safety glasses?” He asked abruptly.

He had raised his voice, and suddenly the whole class had their eyes on me. I was suddenly aware that indeed I was the only one who had no glasses on, and for that matter no gloves on.

“Sorry, sir.” I said quickly. “I’ll get them on right now.”

However, as I made to pick them up from the desk he stopped me.

“No Rachel, take you lab coat off and go to the office and fetch the cane and book back.”

I stopped and stared at him in shock for what seemed an hour before saying, well pleading really: “Please, sir. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

Mr London replied in that ‘reasonable’ voice that you know brooks no argument no matter how unfair or unreasonable it actually seems. “You know my system. I made it very clear at the beginning of the year what the consequences of breaching lab safety rules are. I am sorry Rachel but that is my final word.”

I could feel my eyes getting wet as I started: “But, please….”

His voice, I remember, was almost gentle as he firmly interrupted. “Now, Rachel. You are only going to make it worse by arguing with me!”

I felt every eye in the class staring at me as I reluctantly stood and took my lab coat off, hanging it on the pegs as I neared the door.

As I walked down the corridor, I was in shock. I tried to wipe the tears away that had trickled out in class on the short sleeves of the dress, but with limited effect. Eventually I decided to risk a quick detour to the girls’ toilets to wash my face.

All too soon I was at the reception window. I suspect the secretary knew immediately what I was here for. One look at a face of nervous misery surely told the story. However, she still asked: “What can I do for you?”

“Mr London asked me to fetch a cane and punishment book.” I rather blurted it out before I lost my nerve.

“For yourself?” She asked. Then as I nodded: “What year are you in?”

“Y… year 12,” I replied. I suspect she was just confirming. The cane used for Years 10 to 12 was different (read worse: same length but thicker) than that for the younger pupils.

She gave me a very sympathetic look before disappearing to a cupboard and pulling out a cane and small notebook. She placed them rather gently on the shelf of the window.

Another sympathetic look.

How I did not want to pick them up, another step closer to my fate, another seal. However, with no choice I lifted the small notebook, then the cane and, with a muttered thanks, made my way back to the science block.

The cane was just short of three feet long and a light tan colour. As I left the desk I could not resist flexing it slightly. Horribly whippy, and the next thing it was going whip was me!

I felt another bout of tears welling up, and had to concentrate to prevent their escape.

Whereas on the way to the office I had taken my time, returning was a rather different proposition. On the one hand I was in absolutely no hurry to return. However, on the other I had absolutely no desire to be spotted walking the corridor with a cane in my hand.

It was then I realised I could hide it pretty well under my summer dress, holding it under the fabric, as I returned to my doom. The rod felt cool against my bare skin (all I was wearing, given the heat, was the dress, bra, knickers and white ankle socks) as I returned along the corridors.

As it happened the corridors were pretty deserted and I got back to the chemistry lab without being seen, at least at close quarters. Slipping the cane back out at the last moment I took a deep breath, knocking as I went in.

Shaking, I passed him the cane and book, expecting to be sent immediately to get ready in the store room off the lab, where people were ‘done’.

However, Mr London had other ideas.

“Get your lab coat, specs and gloves on,” he said, not totally unkindly. “For the moment I want you working on the experiment and the rest of the lesson.”

He placed the notebook on his desk and hung the cane on a nail in the wooden housing of the blackboard.

We were working near the front of the class, so every time I looked up it was there waiting. Waiting, of course, for me. For me, the rest of the lesson was memorable only in terms of its awfulness. How can one concentrate when the cane that is going to be used to beat you is in your line of sight, more or less right in front of you nose? Needless to say Mary did most of the experimental work, and my notes in my lab-book were rather limited.

For his part Mr London, when he checked how we were doing, acted as if nothing unusual had happened, or was going to occur.

It was a double period and thus I had the best part of an hour not knowing quite when he was going to send me to the room. As the lesson progressed and he discussed the results, then set an exercise to do for the last few minutes, my nerves were frayed as I knew there was zero hope of a reprieve. All the time as he worked on the board that cane was hanging next to him. My eyes looked more at the rod than the notes he was writing, and that I was supposed to be noting down.

Once everyone was working on the final exercise he came across and said: “Rachel we need to have a word in the store room.”

My time had come. I looked feebly at his serious face, then at Mary, who gave me a supportive grimace.

Slowly I stood up and walked to the store room. Most of my classmates looked at me in ways that were difficult to interpret. I wondered how many boys might be using their imagination to picture what was about to happen in that room; not a very pleasant consideration.

The store room was fairly large and had an open area at the front where there were two doors, the one I walked through and one directly opposite, which led to the other chemistry lab. The room stretched the width of the labs and the further area was full of shelves stacked with various bits and bobs; metal cupboards along one wall presumably housed the chemicals.

There was an old lab stool next to the cupboards, which Mr London grabbed and placed towards one side of the empty area. It was immediately clear that the location gave me plenty space to bend over, and him plenty space to swing his right arm.

“I will be back when the bell rings in a couple of minutes. When I do so I expect to see you bent over that chair with your dress up. Understood?”

There was not a lot to misunderstand. I replied in a whisper: “Yes, sir.”

He departed through the other door and had a brief word with, presumably, Miss Thomas, before returning to his own room.

I stared at the stool considering my predicament. I guessed Miss Thomas would be the female witness. She was a kind, approachable young teacher. I was sure she would have let me off for what I thought was my minor error. However, she was not the one making the decision!

In the room I took a brief moment to take a breath and consider. As with virtually all teachers, Mr London was going to cane on one layer of clothing. While I suppose the thicker winter uniform kilt would give some protection, the thin cotton dress would not provide much. Not that my opinion was of any relevance of course. He was going to cane my knickers and there was in reality nothing I could do about it.

The dress was a very loose fit in the body, coming to just on the knee in length. The skirt part was not pleated, so lifting at the back to provide access to the target was going to lift it at the front too. I had visions of it falling ‘up’ to my shoulders once bent over, revealing not only my thin white cotton knickers, but my plain white bra also. I would need to be careful.

With the bell fairly imminent I decided I’d better get ready. Certainly I did not want to give Mr London an excuse to increase my forthcoming agonies. Hitching up the dress at the back to the waist I slowly bent over the stool and grabbed the legs halfway down. Unfortunately, as I expected, the hem rode up too far at the front for me to trap it between the stool and my legs and the dress balanced precariously on my back.

My underwear was now fully on display as I waited. I wished the pants I had chosen that morning had been cut a little more fully or that, like some girls, I had worn my scungies’ (athletics knickers). Too late now though!

The bell went. I heard the shuffle of the lab stools as my colleagues, and the class of Miss Thomas, exited to lunch.

I heard the door as Miss Thomas came in. She gave an audible sigh at my predicament, but said nothing.

A few seconds later, Mr London came in.

“Thank you, Angela, and sorry to bother you with this. Miss Cole here started her experiment without the proper safety equipment on.”

All I heard from Angela Thomas was some “Mmmm” noise by way of acknowledgement, and with that he turned his attention to me.

“Right, Rachel, four strokes. You will stay in position until the last one is given.” He said.

I was not surprised to hear four. It was the maximum an ‘ordinary’ teacher could give and almost a standard for anyone in the later years who got it. As for staying in position, he did not need to add that moving could and would mean extra!

Mr London continued: “Come on, get your hands and head right down, keep your legs straight!”

Reluctantly I adjusted my pose, stretching down to grab the low crossbar on the stool. I felt the stretch as I straightened my legs, then the fabric slowly slide off my back and suddenly fall, stopped only by the neck and shoulder sleeves.

Most of my dress was now around my shoulder blades. I am not sure whether the fabric still covered my bra or not now, but basically the only garment between my upper back and ankle socks that was covering anything was the thin cotton of my knickers. I heard Miss Thomas start to make some comment, but was forestalled by the more senior colleague.

Humiliated, I felt a tear of embarrassment as I considered what I was displaying. However, that feeling of embarrassment lasted brief seconds, before the gentle touch of the cane reminded me of the really unpleasant aspect that was to come.

There was a brief moment of nervous anticipation, then a swish and a CRACK!

Unlike Rebecca and Ruth, I had not been caned before so for the briefest of moments I had a ‘that was not so bad’ sensation before a shock as the pain hit.

Despite resolving to take it bravely I screamed.

Desperately I wanted to jump up, but somehow I had enough will-power not to.

Still barely coming to terms with that first stripe of agony, a second crack announced the arrival of the next. Another yell and now tears tricked out my eyes. I could not help it.

The next two strokes added to the agony and certainly I was unable to prevent my lungs giving voice to the pain he was inflicting. The last, low and on bare flesh, was the worst. Everything I had worried about, about how painful the stick would be as I carried it to the class, then spent an hour looking at it, pondering its potential effects, was true!

As soon as that fourth hit I stood, hands going immediately to my poor bottom, They got there before the dress did. Vaguely I noted that Miss Thomas looked rather resigned as she observed my face, tears all over the place. Mr London just looked impassive as I stood trying to assuage the agony he’d inflicted.

Finally, after a minute or so, Miss Thomas fished a piece of paper roll out of her pocket and passed it to me, suggesting I wipe my face and let my dress fall back. I briefly did so, and managed to thank her. With that semblance of composure she left me to follow Mr London back into his lab, where he filled in an entry in the notebook.

That was not the end of my punishment. Still tear stained, I now shuffled back to the reception with book and cane. There was no point to hide it and the corridors were far from empty. My abiding memory was of some cat calls from younger boys and the odd sympathetic comment from a few older girls.

I did not really care that they all knew and I just wanted to be alone.

Back at reception I finally got rid of the cane, but had to wait while the record of my punishment was transcribed into the main book, and a thick black felt pen deleted it from the small notebook.

Finally I could escape to the toilets again, lock myself in a cubicle and have another cry as I cradled my poor damaged rear. As for lunch, I did not bother, any appetite I had was gone.

Though the pain diminished in an hour or two, it took a day or so to be able to sit and sleep fully comfortably, and I certainly never forgot to wear my lab glasses and gloves again.

As to why mine is worst? Well having your body mostly exposed to an older man was bad, but for me the worst was the anticipation in fetching the cane, and then staring at it for an hour before getting it, coupled of course with the humiliation of carrying it back with a miserable tear-stained face advertising to all what had happened me through the fairly busy school corridors after. That took a long time to live down and made it particularly horrible in my view.

—Rebecca’s Story—

As both Rachel and Ruth would no doubt tell you I was generally a quiet, rather intense person at school. Normally I was scrupulously well behaved, but I had a reputation for being intensely competitive, both academically, and at sport. While academically I was ‘there-or-there-abouts’ in terms of being near the top of the class, at sports it was a mixed bag, being fairly good at many, but certainly not exceptional.

Being competitive is a two edged sword; good in moderation, but too much can be an issue. My other character trait was certainly nothing other than negative. I had, and although I control it better now still would acknowledge I still have, rather a short temper.

That temper, in younger years, had cost me on a few occasions, with a slippering with my dress lifted over the teacher’s knee aged eight (and yes the boys were present, and teased me for days after); and a two stroke caning in that secondary school for an altercation with another girl, when I was in year 8, being the two most memorable.

It was an unholy combination of competitiveness and temper that led to my ‘experience’ in year 12.

Like Rachel’s experience, it was near the beginning of the school year, in early March in my case, when I fell foul of the rules.

My school sport was hockey and I was usually (just) in the first team for my year group. That of course meant that in my final year I should have a good chance of being in the school’s first team. However, as players from younger years were eligible for the so-called first XI (although with subs the ‘pool’ was sixteen) the competition for places was far more intense.

The trials for the school hockey teams were held over the first three weeks and the thirty to forty of us were gathered together at the end of the last session on a Thursday evening to be told who was to be in the first and second teams.

I guess you could split us into three groups. Seven or eight were a ‘shoo-in’ for the main team, just over a dozen or so of us borderline for places in the pool of sixteen and the remainder were going to be in the second team. Quite a few of the younger girls not making it would be playing for their year group teams.

The coach, Miss Hawkes, started with the usual platitudes about how tough a decision it was, that good performances could change things (although in reality it was pretty final) and how the younger few would have other opportunities, and how important the second team was for strength in depth.

All very well and good but most of us just wanted to know if we were on THE TEAM, of course. She then went down our names in alphabetical order by surname, saying either firsts, under 16 or 17 (for those still young enough), or seconds. Finally, she came to Rebecca Jacobs.

I took a breath of nervous anticipation. It was not to be. “Seconds,” she intoned and moved to the next name.

Desperately disappointed I shrugged and schooled my face to be neutral as best I could. I did not hear any of the other names after my own as we all waited for her to complete the list.

Once done, we were dismissed to the changing rooms with the final: “You all did very well and whatever team you are on I expect you will do very well for the school.”

We all trooped in to the changing rooms where those chosen were of course ecstatic, and those not showed mixed emotions. A few like me were hiding our disappointment with various degrees of success. The few younger ones audibly consoled themselves with: “There’s always next year,” and the remainder were philosophical, having always expected to be on the seconds.

What I had not realised was that Kathy Russell, like me a borderline case, had been selected for the first team. She was my least favourite year-mate and it would be fair to say we both disliked each other pretty intensely. She made no bones about rubbing my nose in the fact that my hockey was not up to her first team standard.

Possibly true, but I might argue that the competition for my type of place (winger) was a little tougher than hers (defender). However, whatever my feelings, I should not have risen to the bait. The banter gradually turned more bitchy and by the time we were all in the large communal showers our friends were trying to calm down an argument that was becoming decidedly ugly.

Eventually my disappointment and anger got the better of me and, to my regret and shame, I slapped her very hard in the face when she made one snide remark too many.

Cue bedlam as we ended up wrestling (and scratching) on the floor with friends joining in on both sides and others trying to break it up.

With pandemonium in the showers it did not take much time for Miss Hawkes to appear, although it took a little longer to obtain calm. I was doing better in the fight than in hockey and Kathy looked a lot worse than I did as we were separated.

Miss Hawkes was furious. It did not take long for her to get the story from Sarah, who was the shoo-in for first team captain.

The result?

First a long, long lecture on the appalling scenes. Her allusions to seeing a dozen or more naked girls wrestling on the floor of the showers, egged on by about two dozen more, being more appropriate for a mud wrestling competition were probably rather too accurate.

Eventually she declared that all, irrespective of their involvement or lack of it, could write 100 lines for tomorrow: “Brawling in school is unacceptable behaviour for all pupils.”

One girl said she had an appointment that evening and asked for an extension to the Monday. Miss Hawkes was not in a particularly generous mood. She gave a choice to all of them; 100 by tomorrow, Friday or 250 on Monday morning.

There were of course two exceptions: Kathy, and me. Grabbing our ears she escorted us out of the showers and, pausing only long enough for us each to pick up our towels, we were escorted to her office. Neither of us had any opportunity to do much more than hold the towels in front of us as we crossed the corridor to her room. Thankfully the corridor, which technically was communal although a boy should have essentially no reason to be at our end of it, was empty.

Kathy’s face was badly scratched and she was clearly upset as our coach verbally laid in to her. She talked long and hard about sportsmanship and told her she was not indispensable. Her punishment was to be demoted to the second team, and she could write two hundred lines: “Laughing at others’ disappointment is unbecoming behaviour at ******* School.” This was in addition to the other lines on brawling.

Kathy was upset but she was given no choice as she was dismissed in disgrace.

Which left me, in greater disgrace, alone with our still clearly furious coach. Any satisfaction in hearing Kathy’s punishment was very much tempered by the fact I could expect worse.

My lecture revolved around being the first to raise my hands, and the attack on Kathy, and the rather nasty scratch marks she now had. My reputation for having a short temper was also raised. The lecture went on for quite a while before she told me my fate.

First she said she knew I was unlucky not to be on the main team due to the strength of the other girls who naturally played as wingers. She had been going to soften the blow for me by making me second team captain, given my competitive spirit and drive, but that was now out of the question. She had wondered about banning me completely. (I remember being horrified at that) but instead told me I could write the ‘brawling’ line out two hundred times for Monday.

However the worst was saved till last. Unlike all the other teachers, the PE dept had canes. I don’t know the reason. Maybe PE teachers were considered to be a special case, or perhaps the fact that one is changed for the lesson made it less practical to wander through the school to fetch the implement, or maybe it was simply because the PE annex was a good distance from the remainder of the school.

Whatever the case she produced one, told me to put my towel over the back of her chair and bend over it!

I was shocked.

However no amount of begging worked, and eventually with the alternative being a trip to the head and being banned from hockey, I draped the towel over the chair and, now stark naked, bent over.

With my head well down, breasts hanging free, and legs slightly apart, I felt horribly vulnerable.

The four strokes she gave were ‘beauties’. Miss Hawkes was a fairly young teacher, and certainly athletic. Each stripe produced an agonised gasp as it cut into bare flesh.

The last was especially bad, being both hard and low, causing me to cry out. After, I immediately stood rubbing my poor rear as the pain reverberated about it. Although not crying I certainly now felt very sorry for myself.

Eventually after another lecture and watching Miss Hawkes complete a note for me to take to the office with notification of my punishment (no mention of bare bottom) I was able to grab my towel and, part wrapping it around myself, dived across the corridor to the changing rooms.

Seemingly everyone was waiting for me despite being changed. They had heard the sounds and I found my towel taken from me so they could all ‘admire’ the four neatly spaced red lines that decorated the lower half of my behind. As they all received their different lines as a result of the fight there was little sympathy for me, or indeed Kathy.

Kathy was one of the few who did not bother to look at the damage at close quarters. She was clearly still upset at having lost her place on the school first team after only quarter of an hour.

We were now on the same team, and one of us had to make the first move so I went over and apologised to her. She looked surprised, but glancing around and seeing everyone waiting expectantly for a reaction, she apologised back. While we never became ‘friends’, we did at least learn to tolerate each others’ company as a result of those events.

However, for me the story of my caning on the bare was soon all round the school, making to my mind the punishment so much worse than the others. To my knowledge I was the only girl in the school when I was there who had the ignominy of the cane on the bare bottom, meaning that it always comes up and is referred to. While now I am more philosophical, that notoriety, in addition to the pain of well applied strokes on direct to my skin, was a constant embarrassment in my final year at school.

—Ruth’s Story—

The unfortunate event that scarred my final year was much later, in the depths of the Australian winter, in July.

I got involved with a boy called Mark in the Autumn and confess I was rather more smitten with him than I should have been.

The School had fairly clear rules about relationships, which can be summarised as: We can’t stop teenage hormones, but not in uniform and certainly not on the school grounds.

However the official rules were one thing, and for the Year 11 and 12s most teachers tended to turn a blind eye to the odd smooch or whatever. Mark and I therefore did have the occasional kiss etc in the school. To start with we were very discreet, but as the weeks went on we became more confident that nothing would happen, and were even quite brazen at times. Apart from the odd mild warning our antics seemed not to be too over the top.

On the Tuesday in question Mark and I were sitting next to each other in assembly. The lecture by the Head was very boring and to cut a long story short we were soon paddling hands with each other.

Hands began to wander to legs and eyes became distracted to each other rather than the front.

We thought we were very discreet, but actually it was more a case of being unaware of the distraction we were causing. I was told later that Mrs Taylor, the Assistant Head, had her eyes glaring at us for much of the last part of Mr Davies’ (the headmaster) speech to us all.

The shock came as he dismissed us.

It was Mrs Taylor who, as soon as the Head finished, said: “The boy and girl in the third back row, yes you two!” as we reacted guiltily to her finger pointing in our direction. “I want to see you both in my office. The rest of you may carry on to your classes!”

I noticed the Head looked rather askance at Mrs Taylor at this point, so clearly he had not noticed anything. However, Mark and I did look a little worriedly at each other as we stood and exited the hall. We soon found ourselves in the relatively quiet corridor where the school management offices were located.

If I’d known what was about to happen I would have not been just a little worried, but panic stricken!

The head arrived back with Mrs Taylor, and they both escorted us into his office.

Mr Davies started angrily. “Mrs Taylor has told me what you were up to at the back of the hall. Half your year were distracted by your appalling behaviour! Miss Carmichael was standing at the edge of the hall and she indicates your hand was a good way up under her skirt, boy. Is this true?”

Mark stared guiltily at the floor.

His hand had indeed been a good way up my thigh, having slid in between the layers of the wrapped front of my kilted skirt. It had eventually found itself sitting pleasurably on my thigh playing gently with the nylon of my stocking tops that I preferred to the tights most friends wore with the winter uniform. I hoped my hand was not going to be discussed, but….

“As for your hand, girl. I won’t describe where it was!” Said the Head’s angry voice.

I blushed. My hand had been gently resting rather higher up and indeed knew that Mark’s ‘third leg’ had been enjoying my attentions.

A brief lecture followed in which the extent of the Head’s anger became clear. The words ‘disgusted’ and ‘disgusting’ featured regularly. I was shocked when he mentioned suspension and phoning our parents.

Mark and I begged him to reconsider, and whether pre-planned or not he eventually had a quiet word with Mrs Taylor.

“Very well” He said turning back to us. “Either suspension till a week on Monday or six stokes of the cane.”

Mark and I looked at each other grimly. There was little real choice.

“I’ll take the cane sir,” Mark replied dully.

As the teachers’ eyes slid to me I felt my heart palpitating as I replied: “I will take the same, sir. I am very sorry.”

“Right then, Mrs Taylor, I think it best you deal with Miss Worthington, while I attend to young Mr Josephs.” Said Mr Davies firmly.

With a final miserable look at Mark I was escorted out and along a couple of doors to Mrs Taylor’s rather smaller office.

Once in, she gave me her own lecture, ‘woman-to-woman’ so to speak, regarding her views that young ladies should behave with more ‘discretion’.

Finally she ordered me to remove my blazer and kilt. Having shrugged off the blazer, nervously I unbuckled the clasps at either side, unwrapped myself and placed it on her desk.

She, meanwhile, retrieved a cane from her cupboard. Perhaps it was my imagination, but it looked a little longer than the one that I had seen (mostly) boys bring to a classroom for a teacher to apply to their rears.

Whatever the case, I looked rather fearfully at it with my stockings now displayed. My blouse still covered my brief, thin pink panties, which had more lace than plain fabric if I remember correctly.

“Grab your ankles with your legs straight,” was the next ‘request’.

I felt a sickness welling up inside of me as I adopted the position. I had got a single stroke of the cane from our games teacher for fooling in the gymnasium in year 7, with half a dozen other girls, which had been a salutary shock. However, that had been a long time ago, and this promised to be incomparably worse.

The skimpy knickers I was wearing did not impress Mrs Taylor, whose next comment made it clear that I should attire myself with more ‘discretion’, in addition to doing the same for my behaviour. In addition to my choice of underwear, she made some comment about tights being more appropriate for school than stockings.

From my highly vulnerable position I was unable to do anything but meekly agree as the touch of the cane indicated that the first blow was being lined up.

A humm and a thwack. The first blow landed sharply on my bottom.

The pain was incomparable to anything I had felt before, and I could not suppress a gasp as it shot through my senses.

A pause and then again a thwack brought the humming sound to an end.

Resulting, of course, in another line of pain.

A short time later, as the effects of the third stroke blossomed painfully, my hands briefly let go of my ankles.

“Hold still, girl,” was the order I heard through the haze of agony assaulting my senses.


The fourth landed low and hard. The first tear trickled out.


“Aaaaah!” I grunted, audibly crying out for the first time. The stroke had been lower still and the cut of my underwear meant that there was no protection at all where it landed. Tears were flowing freely as I waited for the final blow.

Eventually it came; extra hard and right across the middle of my rear. I could not help but cry out as with an almighty yell I stood and hopped from foot to foot, rubbing my behind as best I could.

It had been unimaginably more painful than I expected. The tears flowed freely as Mrs Taylor waited impassively for me to calm sufficiently to wrap my kilt back round my waist.

Finally she escorted me to the main office where I miserably watched the secretary make my entry in the main punishment book.

Mark was already in the office. He was clearly suffering and looking slightly red-eyed. His shirt was half in and half out of his trousers, adding to his dishevelled appearance.

Finally we were dismissed to our class. Both of us took the detour to wash our faces in the toilets. Mark waited for me as I took somewhat longer than him. I noticed he’d now managed to sort his shirt out properly. Finally we staggered off to our English class together, both of us then finding sitting less than easy as a result of the experience.

While Mark and I continued our relationship for sometime longer, we never again risked anything more than a peck on the cheek inside the school again.

As to why it was the worst, well in my view the worst part of any caning is the pain, the pain of each stroke, and the knowledge that one has to hold oneself somehow together for the painful strokes still to come. To me, six-of-the-best is far worse than four, no matter how they are given!


So there now you know our three stories; three canings.

The question we started with was which was the worst?

The cane on your knickers (by a man) with a long anticipation of the rod beforehand?

A ‘unique’ caning not just on the bare but being stark naked?

Or a full six-of-the-best rather than ‘just’ four.

We leave that for you to decide, and all three of us would love to know your opinion!

The End

Note from Joanna Jones

Thank you to those who emailed the site with votes on this story.

Currently the score is:

Rachel: 3 votes

Rebecca: 1 vote

Ruth: 2 votes

I have to admit to being glad that each account scored at least one vote!

Selected Comments (Anonymous):

“I imagine that, if I were a girl, I would least like to find myself in Rachel’s position, having to submit to being caned by a man. I don’t envy any of the three girls, and granted that a 6 stroke punishment is distinctly worse than 4 strokes. But it’s the sheer, utter embarrassment of an 18 year old girl having to obey the order to lift up her dress and reveal her knickers to a man that swings it for me.”

“I would opt for Rebecca’s though … although she completely deserved what she got the added humiliation of being caned totally naked makes her punishment the worst in my view. The others at least had their modesty protected.”

“I would imagine that 6 of the best is probably worse than what the other two received. I cannot find much difference between the two that got four.”