Here are a few true stories from the past when CP was the
normal way to punish in most homes and schools
normal way to punish in most homes and schools
I grew up in a catholic family that believed in the power of a good spanking to change bad behavior. My parents were the kind of people who had James Dobson's Dare to Discipline on the book shelf. They also had two heavy duty wooden spoons that hung on the kitchen wall that were never used for cooking - not food anyway. The spoons had my name and my brother's name painted on them. Relatives and friends of my parents who saw them hanging on the wall knew exactly what they were used for, some people would even start conversations about them. It was so embarrassing.
While we weren't spanked often, maybe once a year, when we were it was always a very memorable experience. If my parents decided that my brother or I, or both of us deserved a spanking my dad would send us to the bedroom my brother and I shared.
He would go to the kitchen and retrieve the wooden spoons. He would enter our room, spoons in hand, and the begging and pleading would start. He would set the spoons down on our beds and bare us from the waist down. Then he would make us sit next to our spoons, bare bottomed, and make us wait for one hour. It was horrible. Eventually the time would come and my dad would return to our room. He would make us stand up and then, one at a time, he would have us hand him the solid spoon, bend us over his knee, and put the spoon to work. Needless to say, the house was a very noisy place for quite some time.
I was 15 the last time I got one. we got it with a paddle but it was a little paddle so it didnt hurt much and it had a funny picture of 2 fat girls on it that were getting spanked. when we were going to get one it was usually after dinner. I would have to get the paddle out of the closet and take it to my room and take off my pants and boxers and wait for what seemed like forever but was only like 10 minutes. when he came in I had to bend over a chair and put my hands on the seat and I wasnt allowed to move at all until it was finished and I had to count the licks out loud.
I was spanked growing up, like most my age did i was only ever hand spanked or slippered at home though it was trousers and underpants down on the bare bottom and almost always over the knee,i dont think it did me any harm,,,,,and it was not abuse it was fair punishment for misbehaving it was something i got till i was 17 At school i was spanked slippered and caned,,,,the cane was really sore and something to avoid at all costs if you could,,,,but i got it on many occaisions
At home a smacked bottom did not feel as bad cause when ever i had the cane or slipper on my bottom at school i always knew that others would hear me being smacked outside in the hall as i had heard other boys getting thier bums smacked there. Basically everyone that had been naughty had to queue up outside the headmasters study at 2 oclock for the smacks. You always tried to explain our case as to why you should not be there but basically 9 out of every boy there would get some big smacks on their bottoms.
The headmaster's deputy is the Reverend Father Walsh. Father Walsh, as far as I know, does not teach, and his only apparent function in the school seems to be the caning of those boys unlucky enough to be sent to his office for offences as minor as turning up late, excessive blotting of an exercise book, or the rare instances of cheek, swearing, smoking or fighting. In one year, I would hold the record for sustaining 42 strokes of the cane on my rear end, in seven agonising bouts, that for the life of me couldn't have been justified by my behaviour. I just seem to have put myself in the way of trouble, been in the wrong place at the wrong time, with the wrong friends and the wrong look on my face.
"Six of the best" is a quaint euphemism for the ferocity of this excruciating torture. One is normally "sent up" to the main building after lunch. On the left as you enter is the school chapel, where a lingering trace of incense from Wednesday's Benediction gives the air in the narrow corridor an unmistakable fragrance: it is the sanctified odour of ritual sacrifice. There is usually more than one victim waiting in a sorry line outside the office. The school settles into an eerie silence as afternoon classes begin: the clock in the hall is ticking slowly; we wait like the condemned, not daring to speak. We continue to wait, and wait, and I know from past experience that this is quite deliberate psychological torture.
I project myself into an imagined future, years hence in the urbane security of adult life, where I can look back upon this trial and others like it with a detached and amused nostalgia. "One day, this won't seem so bad," I tell myself, and this trick will work for me in a number of stressful situations, but only up to a point. The school clock is still ticking and the office door creaks open slowly. Sometimes, I'm called first, sometimes in the middle, sometimes last. Perhaps it's best to get it over with, or then again, if you delay, there's always the chance that the good father may be called to a telephone and cancel the whole disciplinary session because his mother has just died, or perhaps an earthquake will shake the school to its foundations, and I imagine rescuing a grateful Father Walsh from the rubble of his office.
But despite my imaginings, it's a heroism of a different kind that is required here.
"Take your jacket off and put it over the chair.''
The study looks out over the playing fields, where I can see a football being lobbed into the air and a straggling line of cross-country runners. No one seems to have a care in the world out there.
"Bend over, facing the window.''
Sometimes, with some foresight, you can be wearing an extra pair of underpants beneath your grey flannels, but this is as rare as it is unlikely, and an exercise book down your trousers only works in the comics. There is a sudden swish of air in the room behind you and then what feels like a cut from a rapier across the cheeks of your arse. The shocking pain reflexively has you standing bolt upright and winded.
The man on the crucifix by the window averts his eyes from the torture; is this really being done in his name? Whish! Up you go.
That even the threat of this barbarity is effective in keeping us compliant, quiescent and largely obedient is not in question. It is brutally effective. I just wonder whether those who suffered this painful indignity ever turned out the way they were supposed to. My suspicion is that, if we were to evolve into responsible and law-abiding citizens, we would do so despite this treatment, not because of it. Any idea that I would become an unquestioning and uncritical follower of the church's wisdom flew out the office window as the final swipe found its target at the seat of my resentment.
I went to a boys grammar school. During my first year at the school I got the slipper several times. It used to sting, especially if I got it during a PE lesson when I was wearing PE shorts. Some of the boys in my class had also had the cane and they all said that it was far worse than getting the slipper. I often wondered what it would be like to get caned but, at the same time, I didn’t really want to find out.
One morning, near the end of my first year at the school, I was late and the prefect who was on duty at the school gates entered my name into his notebook. It was the first time I’d been late and I was only late by a couple of minutes, but the prefect refused to let me off, so I got annoyed and gave him some lip. I got a detention for being late and I thought that was the end of the matter, but the following day I was summoned to the Headmaster. He told me that being cheeky to a prefect was totally unacceptable behaviour and that I would have to be punished. He then opened the draw of his desk and took out a cane and the punishment book. After he’d entered some details into the book he pointed to a spot in the middle of the room and told me to bend over. I didn’t think he’d cane me just for being cheeky to a prefect and I remember my knees feeling like jelly as I touched my toes and realized I was finally going to find out what it was like to get the cane. The three strokes that I received across the seat of my school shorts hurt me ever so much, but it turned out to be only my first school caning. On another occasion I got two on each hand for smoking.
I went to a strict mixed grammar school in the 60's where only boys were whacked. I got the slipper at least once a month . The games master would have regular kit inspections to ensure all kit was in pristine condition, he tended to choose a day after a muddy Rugby match , so we had no chance........He used a size 12 whippy gym shoe across our thin cotton shorts........ our bottoms really stung !! Sometimes he would beat us for no reason and occasionally if there was any talking would line us up in the gym bent over and whack all of us. I only got the cane twice , once for trusncy and once for running down the corridor. The ritual was the same , a summons into his office , a request to bend over a low bench , a flick with the cane to ensure our jackets out of the way . During the caning we had to count the strokes , something i forgot to do so I got 3 extra whacks !! We were not expected to rub our bottoms until we got outside. I suppose looking back the worst thing was that it was sexist and the girls were naughtier as a result because they could only get a detention or lines.
A stunned schoolboy was given a birthday to remember when a stripper performed a no-holds barred routine for him - while he was still in class.
The youngster's mother asked an agency to send a man dressed in a gorilla suit to mark his 16th birthday. But the booking got mixed up and a "sexy policewoman" turned up at the un-named lad's drama class. His fellow students could only look as she stripped off and invited him to rub cream on her bottom.
Now education officials have launched a investigation into the accident at Harold Hill School in Nottingham.
A witness said: "We were in shock!"
I was 15 the last time I got one. we got it with a paddle but it was a little paddle so it didnt hurt much and it had a funny picture of 2 fat girls on it that were getting spanked. when we were going to get one it was usually after dinner. I would have to get the paddle out of the closet and take it to my room and take off my pants and boxers and wait for what seemed like forever but was only like 10 minutes. when he came in I had to bend over a chair and put my hands on the seat and I wasnt allowed to move at all until it was finished and I had to count the licks out loud.
I was spanked growing up, like most my age did i was only ever hand spanked or slippered at home though it was trousers and underpants down on the bare bottom and almost always over the knee,i dont think it did me any harm,,,,,and it was not abuse it was fair punishment for misbehaving it was something i got till i was 17 At school i was spanked slippered and caned,,,,the cane was really sore and something to avoid at all costs if you could,,,,but i got it on many occaisions
At home a smacked bottom did not feel as bad cause when ever i had the cane or slipper on my bottom at school i always knew that others would hear me being smacked outside in the hall as i had heard other boys getting thier bums smacked there. Basically everyone that had been naughty had to queue up outside the headmasters study at 2 oclock for the smacks. You always tried to explain our case as to why you should not be there but basically 9 out of every boy there would get some big smacks on their bottoms.
The headmaster's deputy is the Reverend Father Walsh. Father Walsh, as far as I know, does not teach, and his only apparent function in the school seems to be the caning of those boys unlucky enough to be sent to his office for offences as minor as turning up late, excessive blotting of an exercise book, or the rare instances of cheek, swearing, smoking or fighting. In one year, I would hold the record for sustaining 42 strokes of the cane on my rear end, in seven agonising bouts, that for the life of me couldn't have been justified by my behaviour. I just seem to have put myself in the way of trouble, been in the wrong place at the wrong time, with the wrong friends and the wrong look on my face.
"Six of the best" is a quaint euphemism for the ferocity of this excruciating torture. One is normally "sent up" to the main building after lunch. On the left as you enter is the school chapel, where a lingering trace of incense from Wednesday's Benediction gives the air in the narrow corridor an unmistakable fragrance: it is the sanctified odour of ritual sacrifice. There is usually more than one victim waiting in a sorry line outside the office. The school settles into an eerie silence as afternoon classes begin: the clock in the hall is ticking slowly; we wait like the condemned, not daring to speak. We continue to wait, and wait, and I know from past experience that this is quite deliberate psychological torture.
I project myself into an imagined future, years hence in the urbane security of adult life, where I can look back upon this trial and others like it with a detached and amused nostalgia. "One day, this won't seem so bad," I tell myself, and this trick will work for me in a number of stressful situations, but only up to a point. The school clock is still ticking and the office door creaks open slowly. Sometimes, I'm called first, sometimes in the middle, sometimes last. Perhaps it's best to get it over with, or then again, if you delay, there's always the chance that the good father may be called to a telephone and cancel the whole disciplinary session because his mother has just died, or perhaps an earthquake will shake the school to its foundations, and I imagine rescuing a grateful Father Walsh from the rubble of his office.
But despite my imaginings, it's a heroism of a different kind that is required here.
"Take your jacket off and put it over the chair.''
The study looks out over the playing fields, where I can see a football being lobbed into the air and a straggling line of cross-country runners. No one seems to have a care in the world out there.
"Bend over, facing the window.''
Sometimes, with some foresight, you can be wearing an extra pair of underpants beneath your grey flannels, but this is as rare as it is unlikely, and an exercise book down your trousers only works in the comics. There is a sudden swish of air in the room behind you and then what feels like a cut from a rapier across the cheeks of your arse. The shocking pain reflexively has you standing bolt upright and winded.
The man on the crucifix by the window averts his eyes from the torture; is this really being done in his name? Whish! Up you go.
That even the threat of this barbarity is effective in keeping us compliant, quiescent and largely obedient is not in question. It is brutally effective. I just wonder whether those who suffered this painful indignity ever turned out the way they were supposed to. My suspicion is that, if we were to evolve into responsible and law-abiding citizens, we would do so despite this treatment, not because of it. Any idea that I would become an unquestioning and uncritical follower of the church's wisdom flew out the office window as the final swipe found its target at the seat of my resentment.
I went to a boys grammar school. During my first year at the school I got the slipper several times. It used to sting, especially if I got it during a PE lesson when I was wearing PE shorts. Some of the boys in my class had also had the cane and they all said that it was far worse than getting the slipper. I often wondered what it would be like to get caned but, at the same time, I didn’t really want to find out.
One morning, near the end of my first year at the school, I was late and the prefect who was on duty at the school gates entered my name into his notebook. It was the first time I’d been late and I was only late by a couple of minutes, but the prefect refused to let me off, so I got annoyed and gave him some lip. I got a detention for being late and I thought that was the end of the matter, but the following day I was summoned to the Headmaster. He told me that being cheeky to a prefect was totally unacceptable behaviour and that I would have to be punished. He then opened the draw of his desk and took out a cane and the punishment book. After he’d entered some details into the book he pointed to a spot in the middle of the room and told me to bend over. I didn’t think he’d cane me just for being cheeky to a prefect and I remember my knees feeling like jelly as I touched my toes and realized I was finally going to find out what it was like to get the cane. The three strokes that I received across the seat of my school shorts hurt me ever so much, but it turned out to be only my first school caning. On another occasion I got two on each hand for smoking.
I went to a strict mixed grammar school in the 60's where only boys were whacked. I got the slipper at least once a month . The games master would have regular kit inspections to ensure all kit was in pristine condition, he tended to choose a day after a muddy Rugby match , so we had no chance........He used a size 12 whippy gym shoe across our thin cotton shorts........ our bottoms really stung !! Sometimes he would beat us for no reason and occasionally if there was any talking would line us up in the gym bent over and whack all of us. I only got the cane twice , once for trusncy and once for running down the corridor. The ritual was the same , a summons into his office , a request to bend over a low bench , a flick with the cane to ensure our jackets out of the way . During the caning we had to count the strokes , something i forgot to do so I got 3 extra whacks !! We were not expected to rub our bottoms until we got outside. I suppose looking back the worst thing was that it was sexist and the girls were naughtier as a result because they could only get a detention or lines.
A stunned schoolboy was given a birthday to remember when a stripper performed a no-holds barred routine for him - while he was still in class.
The youngster's mother asked an agency to send a man dressed in a gorilla suit to mark his 16th birthday. But the booking got mixed up and a "sexy policewoman" turned up at the un-named lad's drama class. His fellow students could only look as she stripped off and invited him to rub cream on her bottom.
Now education officials have launched a investigation into the accident at Harold Hill School in Nottingham.
A witness said: "We were in shock!"
