A boy is surprised to be caught with an illicit substance in his locker, put there by someone he never suspected

By Joanna Jones

I went to boarding school in the south of England in the early seventies. The school, and the headmaster in particular, had a fairly traditional view of discipline. That is, mild trouble might get you slippered, moderate trouble would lead to the housemaster’s cane, and major trouble would lead to a visit to the Headmaster’s office and again a worse experience of the cane.

As most things were dealt with by housemasters, a visit to the Head’s office was indeed to be dreaded. It was rare for a boy to escape with less than a six-of-the-best, and indeed more usual for eight to be awarded. That said it was not that common for a boy to get sent to him; during my time there I think perhaps there would be only one or two instances each year where a boy in my form ended up there.

While I’d had my share of whackings from my housemaster, Mr Hollins, I had never been sent to see Mr Samson, the Headmaster, before this story, which happened in early November of my year in the upper sixth.

It was on a Saturday morning when my housemaster took me to one side as I returned from the changing rooms in my school track suit.

“Mr Samson wants to see you in his office.” He intimated. “I will sort your rugby stuff out.”

I could tell immediately from the serious look that I was not going for a pleasant chat, though for the life of me I could not think what I had done. I wondered if there was a question on the way I had done my prefect duties, but could not think of any recent incident where excessive leniency or zeal could be charged against me.

However, all I could do was give Mr Hollins the bag containing my very muddy boots and kit and set off to the Headmaster’s office. A few minutes later I very nervously knocked on the door.

“Enter!” Called the gruff voice from within.

Mr Samson’s faced darkened immediately he saw it was me. My fear that I was in as yet unknown trouble solidified into certainty.

“Caldwell!” He barked. “Mr Hollins conducted the usual dorm search while everyone was out at sports.”

I looked confused and worried at the same time. I could see he was angry, but I could think of no reason why the search should have produced anything so untoward as to involve him. If someone had said my clothes were not put away correctly, well maybe okay, but that was usually a quiet word from Mr Hollins.

Seeing my apparent confusion clearly irritated him further. “Judging by your reaction you have no idea what this is about then, Caldwell. Let me illuminate you.” He intimated angrily, and produced a small packet.

“This, apparently, is marijuana, or as I am sure you would call it, ‘pot’. Can you explain how a not just forbidden, but illegal substance might have found its way into your locker?”

I recall looking at him in shock, unable to speak. I had heard of the stuff – it was the late sixties after all – but I had never seen it or knew anything about it.

“I don’t know, sir!” I said, near panic stricken. I knew of nothing else to say and the realisation of how serious this was, was rapidly hitting home. This was expulsion territory I was sure.

Mr Samson ignored my denial and starrted again. “I should expel you for this!” He declared angrily. “However, Mr Hollins believes this so out of character that we should give you a second chance. Therefore if you can admit the offence, guarantee me that thus was for your own use only and you have never supplied any others, and finally promise me never to do it again then it is the view that we can exceptionally let you stay.”

I looked at him shocked. The meaning was clear – admit something that was not true or be expelled.

“So only if I admit to this then I won’t be expelled?” I asked for confirmation.

“That is what I said, yes.” He replied, then after a pause he said: “I hope you are not planning on denying this. The stuff was found in your locker, and apart from your housemaster and myself, you are the only one with a key!”

I had no idea how this substance had been planted on me, but there was little option. I decided to lie. “I am very sorry sir, it was a foolish experiment which I picked up and thought it would be interesting to try. I never intended it for anyone else.”

“Very well,” remarked the headmaster. “I am not going to lecture you other than to say if anything happens like this again then you will be expelled. This time, there will still need to be a severe punishment. Get your trousers and pants down and bend over that chair!”

While I had expected that, it is still a sickener to hear it, especially when you know in your heart you are innocent.

Grabbing the chair I turned it, then loosed my belt, and unclipped and unzipped my trousers. Finally before plunging over the chair I pushed my Y-fronts to join the trousers around my ankles. Concurrently I watched Mr Samson pull out a horribly long cane and swish it as he waited for me to complete my preparations.

The hum was not a pleasant sound to my ears.

“Eight strokes!” He intimated.

Expected, but still a further sickening initimation as he gently pushed the cane into the bare flesh. Then a few ominous taps before the first cut, which duly landed with an almighty thwack.

Despite having experienced the cane before at the hands of Mr Hollins, this was something else. Either the two years intervening had dulled my memory or he was laying it on far harder with a more fearsome implement. It took a lot of resolve to remain in position.

As for the remaining seven, it is difficult to describe the agony as they were slowly doled out. Despite never having come near to crying before, I found tears escaping as I tried to cope with the pain which was nothing like I had ever felt before, to say nothing of the fact that I knew it was innocent.

Then it was over. I tried to listen to the lecture as I slowly made myself respectable again, but then I was distracted by a motion at the window. Instinctively I stopped and stared at it.

Mr Samson immediately saw that I had turned away and was no longer listening to him, and said angrily: “Face me when I am talking to you boy! Or, have you not had enough?”

I certainly had had enough and immediately replied: “S.sorry, Sir, but there was a face at the window.”

He looked incredulously at me and immediately stormed over and whipped the sash up, allowing the air in from what was actually his private garden, strictly off limits to any pupil.

He first looked out, clearly seeing nothing before looking down and along the wall to his left.

Suddenly he tensed and blew up. “Mary Louise Samson! Get yourself into my study this instant!” He bellowed.

I heard some faint plea, abruptly terminated by a: “Right now, young lady!”

The Head was breathing deeply and clearly apoplectic with anger as he turned to face me. The fact that the younger of his two daughters had been spying on my punishment had obviously infuriated him.

As for me, I felt my privacy had been invaded. A young woman, who I knew was eighteen or nineteen and home for the weekend during her first term at university, had seen me half naked tearfully and not totally quietly taking a thrashing. Talk about humiliation.

However, not wishing to interfere, and being keen to leave the irate Head, I moved towards the door saying: “I am very sorry, sir,” And made to open it.

However, the Head had other ideas. “No, wait,” he demanded. “My daughter owes you an apology at the very least.”

Reluctantly I stood to one side in the room, taking the opportunity to wipe my eyes with my sleeve, though I doubt it made much difference, and then gently rub my very sore backside. Normally this was forbidden until well away from his room, but Mr Samson’s mind was clearly elsewhere and he was not objecting.

A couple of minutes later, Mary knocked lightly on the door and entered. She glanced at me nervously and hurriedly dropped her eyes at the rather angry, possibly even contemptuous, look I returned.

She left the door open as if to let me go, and was shocked when Mr Samson told her to close it.

Glancing at me again, she faced her father.

“Spying on my study! You know that is forbidden! I am ashamed of you! What have you got to say for yourself?” He asked angrily.

“I am sorry dad!” She pleaded. “I heard that a boy had been caught with drugs and was just curious. I shouldn’t have done it…”

“No you should not! How would you have felt if he had spied on you getting dressed for example? I expect I would have had to expel him. No?”

I watched, still rubbing my poor bottom, as she blushed and looked at the floor under his tirade.

“I cannot believe that a daughter if mine would do…. Wait a minute.”

I recall clearly that pause, and the changes in tone as a realisation crossed him.

“How did you know about the drugs? Mr Hollins came straight here.” He asked.

Mary was now blushing furiously as she stammered: “I..I can’t remember. I don’t know…really…dad.”

As her voice tailed off I could see that, at least in front of her father, she was a terrible liar. She kept glancing guiltily over at me, though I could not see if it was embarrassment at me being there or something else.

However, her father was putting two and two together, and wondering if it made four. I watched her face drop horrified as he demanded “Mary, turn out you pockets!”

“Daddy..” She begged.

“Now, Mary Louise!” He demanded.

Nervously she did as she was told. There were a couple of shillings in one pocket of her jeans. In the other there was a key; it looked mighty similar to my locker key.

Her father swooped on it immediately. “My master key for pupil lockers! Care to explain?”

Her glances towards me were now frantic, clearly explaining herself in front of me was not something she had any desire for.

However, my look was hardened. I was also now pretty sure how a sample of ‘pot’ had ended up in my locker. I had indeed been set up, though I had never expected the Headmaster’s daughter to be the culprit!

This time the Mr Samson also looked at me. “David, I am sorry this looks a bit more complicated than I expected. Can I suggest you freshen up and return here in half an hour? Can I also prevail on you not to discuss this matter, at least not yet, with any of your friends, please?”

I rather reluctantly nodded as I said: “Yes, headmaster,” and trying to walk as normally as possible, and desperately resisting the temptation to grip my bottom, given the presence of Mary-Louise Samson, walked slowly to the door and out.

Mr Samson’s angry voice was audible almost the moment I closed the door. It was difficult to keep my word to the headmaster, as my red eyes, washed rapidly but red nonetheless, and slow walk advertised all too clearly that I was a sixth former who’d been thoroughly caned. However, most left me alone after I said I needed time to myself, and a white half truth that the Head was not yet finished with me, meant that I got most of that half hour in my room undisturbed.

I knocked on the door with a bit more confidence that second time, knowing I should not be in trouble now.

As I entered I found the Head standing in, well pacing around, his office. His daughter was facing the fireplace. Her hands were on her head.

Mr Samson looked at me very apologetically and took a deep breath. “It seems I owe you an apology, Brian. My daughter can no doubt explain why she purchased a sample of the stuff and placed it in your locker before the inspection. I am ashamed of what she has made you suffer, and you can be rest assured though I cannot expel her, she will deeply regret what she has done to you, and I should say to me.”

He took a breath. “Mary wishes to speak to you alone.” He said, before adding cryptically: “If she asks you something you are unsure of then there is a letter on the desk that may help. I will be in my residence otherwise.”

With that he left his office and I found myself staring at Mary’s back and rather nice jean clad rear.

I didn’t know what to do as she remained more or less motionless (I think she was shaking slightly) even after her father had left.

I realised that it was up to me to start things. I was caught between (I think) a natural tendency to be polite, especially to an attractive young woman, and the fact that this particular young woman had both set me up for a severe caning and then spied on me getting thrashed with my underpants around my ankles. The throbbing in my backside still reminded me of what I had suffered.

“Mary, turn around!” I ordered gruffly.

She did so, revealing a pensive face, biting her lip. Her hands remained firmly clasped on her head.

“You can drop your hands if you want.” I said very dispassionately.

As she did so, I said rather harshly: “So what is it you want to say?”

She fidgeted as she blurted out first an apology, then some explanation that seemed to be that she knew what she did was wrong but she was curious about the way her father dealt with boys in trouble, and that she chose me. Then she blushed furiously and paused.

Finally she claimed she chose me as she found me the most handsome lad in the school, and had thought so for two years.

I looked at her astonished after her long outburst. Up until then I had fully intended to listen politely and tell her exactly what I thought and then leave her to the ‘tender mercies’ of her father, with the hope her backside would at least be as sore as mine felt.

However there was something disconcerting about her rather desperate look on a, now that I considered it for the first time (the Head’s nineteen year old daughter was someone I would have considered as strictly off-limits before) rather pretty face.

However, it was a pretty face that had nearly got me expelled. I hardened my look and asked the question.

“And what was your plan if instead of caning me I’d been expelled?” I asked rather coldly.

Her face dropped slightly and then resumed that disarming begging look. “I would have admitted it, I would not have let that happen to you, honest!” She pleaded. “Half of it was that I wanted to be caned!”

She was blushing again furiously as I stared amazed. She seemed to be telling the truth, I thought, as she stood in front of me willing me to believe her.

She continued. “Dad never caned me or my sister. At home it is always my mother and she uses a hairbrush. Though some of those spankings were long and hard, I always wondered how bad the cane was.”

“So I guess he’s going to give it to you now!” I blurted out without really thinking. For the first time I realised the coldness in my voice had diminished a little.

“Unless you want to do it yourself.” She replied, only it seemed to be intoned as a request!

I must have stared at her for over a minute incredulously. Finally she went over to the table and nervously put the letter from her father in my hand. I did not take long to read.

‘Dear David,

As you will now know, my daughter has, to my disgust, admitted planting the drug in your locker. I will leave her to explain he reasons which I do not comprehend. I intend that she is punished severely. She has requested strongly that I should let you part punish her if you desire, for peeking in on you.

I have agreed that you may do so to the same level as I gave you should you agree, or witness me give such a punishment.

If you do not wish to do either, I will be caning her in private. Finally I should let you know that Mary will be punished separately when she next returns from University in three weeks time at home by her mother for purchasing the drug and planting it on you.

Please accept my apologies once again for your unjust punishment.

Yours sincerely,

Henry Samson.’

I looked at her standing legs slightly crossed and her hands twisting slightly in a clasp in front of her as she waited for a reaction. It was taking me quite some time to comprehend that I was at liberty to strip this young woman’s knickers off, bend her right over and whack her with a cane from the cupboard in the corner.

I felt a stirring as I considered that prospect, and suddenly felt very guilty. It did not seem right.

I think she sensed my indecision and reluctance. “Please,” she begged. “I know I deserve it, and I would rather not show myself to my father.”

Finally I succumbed. “Very well, go to the cupboard and choose a cane and bring it to me.”

I saw her face contort as she realised I was going to do it, that her fate was sealed. I think until then she had fully expected me to refuse. I still, to be honest, was unsure if I was doing the right thing.

Slowly she went over to the cupboard and looked at the array of four or five canes inside. She looked back at me questioningly.

“The one you think you deserve.” I repeated.

Finally she took a breath and chose the thickest one, which was second longest, slightly shorter than the one the Head had used on me. I suspected that it would be at least as painful though!

She held it almost reverentially as she passed it to me. Heavier than I thought, but easy to hold. Despite its thickness it was very pliable!

I realised she was waiting for my next instruction. Another quandary. I was not going to cane her on her jeans, but did I order her to take her knickers, or even her top off too? I suspected if I ordered her to strip completely she would have done so, but despite the temptation, and I confess my mind mentally imagined the sight, I thought that was a step too far.

Still undecided I gave the command: “Trousers down!”

She knew it was coming but she still took her time to unclasp the brown leather, well tooled, belt and then the top button. Finally her fingers went to the zip and with a sigh I watched her pull it down to reveal some pale pink cotton as the trouser waist parted.

Soon they were totally visible as she slipped them to her ankles.

“Take them right off.” I encouraged, and watched as she unhooked them from her ankles and stood with her legs bare, apart from her ankle socks. The lower half of her knickers were clearly visible below the hemline of her top, though she had cupped her hands in front of her.

The invasion of my privacy recalled, I ordered her hands to her head, causing the top to rise and her underwear to come more-or-less into full view. Her face was now a deeper shade of pink than her panties, I reflected as I took in the unimpeded sight.

“Not nice, is it?” I asked rather quietly.

Nervously she shook her head in agreement.

The question was whether to make it even less ‘nice’ and to take ‘them’ down or not. Before deciding I told her go to the chair back that I had bent over earlier and to turn around and face it. The knickers were rather full cut and covered most of her bottom, I noticed. Feeling the cane in my hands I decided that, like me, she should feel the cane on bare flesh.

I felt her shiver as I put my fingers into the top elastic of those pink knickers. “Do you want your knickers up between your buttocks or down to mid thigh?” I asked as matter of factorily as I could.

She gave a gasp and there was a pause as she considered. “Do you need to?” She asked.

Then before I could answer she sighed: “I suppose it’s only fair. They are a bit tight so you’d better take them down.”

I would be lying if I said I was entirely impassive as I gently unpeeled her buttocks and left her knickers inverted around her thighs.

Her feet were tight together and the way her body tapered away from ‘my’ target up to her waist and down along her thighs to her ankles was certainly distracting me from the pain that was in my rear. In fact that pain and all the adrenalin that had run through me as a result seemed somehow to be exacerbating the problem of controlling my emotions.

I picked up the cane and took a few steps away. To calm down I took a few ‘air shots’ before finally returning to stand to her left such that with my arm outstretched the cane tip lay half way across the cheek of her further buttock.

This was more or less the position my housemaster took when I had the misfortune to be part of a group who had got into trouble, and had to attend his office as a result.

I watched her flinch slightly as the rattan touched the middle of her buttocks. With my own bottom still sore and the sight in front of me doing little to quell my emotions, there was little chance of me going easy on her. I raised it slowly then, setting my face, brought it whistling down.

It landed with a satisfying thwack right across the middle of her bottom.

She gasped and said: “Oh..h..h!”

I wondered if her desire to experience a whacking as she had claimed was now over as the impact site changed its colour to a bright red.

Touching the cane slightly lower I once again drew back the rod and unleashed the second blow, just below the first.

This time she held it together better and all I received was a grunt as the result of the cut was dealt with by her senses.

There were two stripes now, and I reckoned there was space to put three above and three below.

She breathing was a little heavier as I drew back the cane for the third time, aiming for the top-most stroke.


Another grunt. She was doing quite well I thought. Most boys were struggling after three on their first caning, even those coming directly into the sixth form.

However, I knew from experience that the next stroke would test her resolve to cry out. I was lining it up right at the base of her buttocks.

I also brought it down harder and it landed perfectly with a loud crack.

She screamed, and for the first time her legs buckled as the fourth stripe reddened in front of me.

I have to admit the adrenalin was up as I looked at the four stripes inflicted. There were two gaps; between the middle pair and the top and, of course, the pair and the most recently inflicted mark at the bottom. I determined to fill the top gap first.

he fifth cut was hard and again led to a scream, and for the first time I heard a sob.

As the sixth cut filled the last gap, completing five fairly evenly spaced lines on the mid to upper part of the target, there was no doubt she was sobbing. There were some half hearted cries of ‘please’ and ‘I’m sorry’ intermixed. She had also now begun to wriggle her bottom to cope with the pain, and her legs had parted enough to give me, at eighteen, my first ever glimpse of what lay between them.

I felt a little guilty, but ultimately was in no mood to let her off.

The seventh was a real beauty and I was rewarded with an almighty scream. She only just held on and her legs parted further as she desperately coped with the pain.

I waited longer until she had stilled before lashing the final stroke down as hard as I could just above the fourth.

She stood immediately, hands going to her rear and turned to face me, any thought of modesty clearly gone.

Through the sobs she kept repeating ‘sorry’ and ‘do you forgive me’. It was over and she had suffered the same as me, so I did my best to reassure her.

With that she collapsed into my arms still sobbing.

Perhaps it took five minutes, maybe longer, before I could gently extricate myself and help her pull up her knickers and put on her trousers.

Finally I was able to escort her out and back to her father’s residence. To my surprise she gave me a kiss on the cheek and said thanks before slipping in the back door.

I never told my friends any of the story, nor even why I had been whacked (other than it was a room inspection problem), it was something private between us.

However, neither of us forgot it. Five years later there was a first reunion for our year, and Mary Louise was there. I soon found we were both living in London and by the end of it she had admitted only coming in the hope if seeing me, and asked me out for a date!

Well to cut a long story short, that date led to something altogether more serious, and Mary Louise is now my wife of more years than I care to consider now. As for whether I had ever dealt with her bottom again (or indeed she mine) that is something between the two of us and four bedroom walls.

The End