At lunch, I lost my temper. I hadn’t slept well. I was stressed about forthcoming exams. Someone pushed in front of me in the queue, and I flipped. We had a fight. It was quite violent, actually, and escalated quickly. Punches and slaps were thrown by both of us. I got her a glancing blow on her chin. She struck back on my cheekbones. Hair was pulled. A child had his lunch tray bashed from his hands. We ended up rolling on the floor. The teacher marched us straight to his classroom. Only then did I learn my antagonist’s name was Maria.

“She pushed in front of me!”

“I didn’t, it was her!”

Blah blah blah.

The teacher was tired and not in the mood for this. I could see him hovering. He could give us detention. Or, what?

“Fighting is never acceptable, but this isn’t just pushing and shoving. You could have seriously hurt or even killed each other.”

“Killed each other? Sir, we wouldn’t have done that.”

“People die from blows to the head. You could.”

He paused, looking at us from one to the other. I could see he was wavering. At last, he made his decision.

“Six each. Get your parents to sign these and bring them to me tomorrow. You’ll report to the headmistress at eight-thirty on Friday.”

“Sir, please. We’ll do detention, anything.”

My adversary and I were united now. I didn’t know if she had been caned before, but I had. We pleaded our case.

He barely listened to us as he filled out the punishment slips. Maria and I left the classroom and we stormed away in opposite directions without another word.

In some ways, the worst part of the whole experience was admitting to my parents that I screwed up and was going to be caned. They scowled at me. They told me I deserved it. They told me they were disappointed in me. That I needed to get my act together. They signed my death warrant.

At my school, when you are sentenced to corporal punishment, you are expected to wear gym shorts under your skirt for the caning. On Thursday night, I laid out my school clothes. I made sure I put my gym shorts on top of my skirt, so there was no danger of forgetting them the next day. Doing so would delay the punishment and likely mean an extra stroke. An evil part of me hoped Maria forgot.

I barely slept that night, though it wasn’t like the first time. I didn’t know what to expect then. This time, I did. It’s the regret that kept me up. Anger with myself for losing it. Anger with Maria. Anger with the teacher for choosing the cane, not detention. Anger with my parents for sanctioning my agony. Wondering if we would get it together, or separately.

That question was soon answered. We waited together outside the office. Maria was quite pretty, in her way. She had blonde, shoulder length hair. We didn’t say a word. It was spectacularly awkward. Maria was tense but not tearful, which made me think it was not her first caning either. We were summoned in together. The first time, I’d had to bend over the desk. On this occasion, Maria was summoned forward and instructed to touch her toes. I watch, determined to take some pleasure in her suffering.

One.

Two.

Three.

I feel a begrudging respect for Maria. She hasn’t made a sound.

Four.

That was a hard stroke. Finally, she gasped.

Five.

I remembered what my bottom felt like after five strokes. I stared at Maria’s bottom, torn between malicious pleasure at knowing how it felt, knowing the person I held responsible for my pain was suffering as I did. Somewhere inside me, though, there is a tiny sliver of empathy for her. My turn is approaching rapidly. Not so much butterflies in my stomach, more like fire breathing dragons.

Six.

Wow! That was a fearsome stroke of the cane. It nearly sent Maria flying forward. The headmistress must have been eating power bars or something. This did not bode well.

Maria slowly unbends, and limps to the corner of the room. Her eyes are puffy and red.

I sidle forward.

“Touch your toes, and flip your skirt up over your shorts, Ventura.”

I did so. I wished I had a more rounded bottom, for protection. I knew Maria was watching me, though, and mine was thinner than hers. Bet she wished her ass was like mine.

Crack!

That I can take.

Crack!

Ouch! I swear inwardly, biting my lip.

Crack!

If it ended now, I could stand. I would nonchalantly nod and exit without tears, a victor. But I know we’re only halfway there.

Crack!

The fourth stroke landed on wounded flesh. I can’t hold it in any more. I squeal.

Crack!

Ok, that’s enough. You’ve made your point. Please.

Crack!

I knew it wouldn’t last long at that intensity, but the pain in my bottom was excruciating. The sixth stroke brought tears to my eyes.

“That will do. Now get out, the pair of you.”

When we were outside, to my surprise, Maria offered me her hand. I removed my hand from rubbing my tender bottom and shook it. We walked down the corridor to the girls loo, reviewing our mutual caning and laughing. The price was painful, but I had a new friend.

The End

© Marcella Cabana 2023