My First Caning

6.00 am. Two and a half hours to go. I lie in bed thinking about what is to come. Of course I do. What else would I think about? In two hours, I’ll enter the lion’s den. Well, the headmaster’s study, but it amounts to the same thing.

There’s no getting out of it. The punishment is signed and scheduled. Bunk off, and I’ll just have to take it on Monday. Might as well just get it over with.

Once, I heard someone describe our headmistress as a very serious, experienced caner. This does not bode well for me. Now it’s six-thirty. Here are the questions running through my mind:

How much will it hurt?

How long will the pain last?

Will I be asked to bend over a desk? A chair? Or touch my toes? Grip my ankles, perhaps? Or brace myself against a wall?

What will it feel like sitting down afterwards?

Will my classmates tease me afterwards? Or be sympathetic?

Will it bring me to tears?

I don’t need to ask about clothing. I already know. I have to wear my gym shorts under my skirt. The gym shorts are a very thin layer of protection. The skirt is thicker. As the head teacher is a woman, the awful idea that she might cane my bare bottom has occurred to me, but from what I understand that is not going to happen.

Ninety minutes left. It’s time to get out of bed. The warmth and comfort and safety of the bed has never felt more appealing. It’s almost impossible to get out and face the day that will start like this. It takes me twenty minutes to get up.

By the time I have showered and breakfasted, there is less than an hour to go. I walk to school. As I approach the building, everyone else’s happiness makes it worse. They’re all chatting with friends, laughing. I’m nervous now. Really nervous. I kill time in the library. Somehow, sitting down makes me think of my bottom and it’s impending fate, so I stand.

I sit outside the headmistress’s office. I think of the three different ways I’ve been punished physically in the past. As a younger child, I was held across my mother’s knee and spanked. She smacked my bottom hard, alternating the left and right cheek. I hated it. Not because of the sting, but because of the discomfort of being across her knee, and the humiliation of her baring my bottom.

I was once whacked four times by a teacher in class. There wasn’t much to it. There was no bending over, the teacher just smacked us standing up. Nine of us were stood in line. I watched the others. They all stepped forward, one by one, took their four whacks, and then the teacher passed onto the next student. It stung a little. But it was very quick and informal.

And I was slippered by my dad, twice. That was probably the closest to this experience I’ve had so far. I actually had to bend over for that, and he struck me hard across my knickers about fifteen times. That hurt, let me tell you. I remember being embarrassed because I gasped involuntarily.

Outside the headmistress’s office, there is a girl ahead of me in line. It’s starting now. The headmistress has arrived. She’s in her office. Only a matter of time. And the girl ahead of me is getting tearful.

I don’t know her, but I say, “Don’t worry. It’ll be over soon.”

She doesn’t really respond. The door opens. She is beckoned in. I listen intently. Muffled voices, then crack! crack!

I close my eyes. There are six cracks in all. She’s in there for maybe three minutes. She emerges, tears streaming down her face. As soon as she’s in the corridor, she grabs her bottom and rubs it. Oh dear. Here goes.



The headmistress indicates a spot by the desk. So that answers one question. Her cane is about two and a half foot long. Shorter than I expected. Also, I’d heard they had curved, crook handles. This one doesn’t. I’m half tempted to ask her to let me hold it.

“Did you wear your gym shorts today, Ventura?”

I affirm that I did.

“Good. Hitch your dress up, let me see.”

Satisfied, the headmistress spells out the correct position.

“Bend over the desk. Stretch your arms and hands out so they reach the other side of it. Clasp them together like this.”

I bend over. I hear the swish of the headmistress taking a practice swing. Then she taps my bottom three times. The idea that I could, technically, claim those as strokes to be taken off the six enters my head. No. Don’t be stupid enough to do that.


That stings. I manage to keep quiet.


Ok, that hurts. Intake of breath.


It landed right where the first two were. Ouch. It’s much worse when your bottom is tight like this. I barely felt it when the teacher whacked me standing up. Bending over makes a real difference.



My bum is a hot mess. Hot is the right word. It really feels like when you touch something that burns you. I’d give anything to rub my bottom right now.


“Feeling that, young lady?”

“Yes, miss.”


The sting is really mounting. I just want to be anywhere but here. Dentist, fine. Doctor, perfect. Whoever invented caning must be in hell right now, I decide. Preferably being caned forever.


I curse openly.

“Right, that’s another stroke, young lady.”

Oh, my big mouth! Well, you try staying silent. I grit my teeth and bite my lip. The pain is bad, now. I am silently plotting ghastly acts of revenge against the headmistress.


I moan softly. I can feel ridges in my bottom pressing into my skirt.

I stand, and the very rub of my clothes on my bottom hurts.

I hear the headmistress say, “Don’t let me see you here again, Ventura.”

I step outside, rubbing my bottom, tears in my eyes. To my horror, a boy I really like is just outside. He smiles at me.

“Morning. Painful start to the day, huh?”

I nod. The pain is receding already, but my tender rear end is still very much aware of what has just happened.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I know they call it ‘six of the best’. Well, I got seven. I hope that was her best. I don’t want to know how much better she could have done.”

He smiles.

“I’ve been over that desk. Sit on a jumper, it helps.”

We walk to class together, laughing, flirting. My bum lives to fight another day.

The End

© Marcella Cabana 2023