It was only my second week of teaching at the school when my first ‘Punishment Duty’ came around. As the hours of the day ticked by, I thought back on the headmaster’s words during my induction at the school a week earlier.

“Once or twice a month, every teacher is asked, on a rotational basis, to take ‘Punishment Duty’. You’ll be named on the noticeboard, and students who have been sentenced to a thrashing must report to your classroom by 3.15. They will bring the cane, which they collect from reception, immediately after the last bell. Reception double check that parental consent for corporal punishment has been given, so any pupil that tells you otherwise is lying.

If there is more than one student, one can wait outside or inside the classroom at the teacher’s discretion. For minor infractions, being loud or running in the corridor, for example, a green ticket is issued. That means they get three strokes. For serious misbehaviour, they get a blue slip, which entitles the bearer to a proper six-of-the-best. Strokes are delivered on the backside, never the hand. Have you ever thrashed a pupil before, Ms. Rodriguez?”

“No, Sir.”

“Well, don’t go easy on them. If you get a reputation for being soft, it’ll cost you. You can’t thrash them on the bare backside, of course, but underwear is fine if you really want to make a statement. Aim for the lower buttocks, where they sit. Position is up to you. Some teachers have them touch their toes. Some get them to brace themselves against the wall. In my view, the easiest is to have them lie across the desk.”

“Ok.”

“I’ll put you down for Tuesday week. They must be there by 3.15. Any story as to why they are late should be checked and, if it is untrue, they automatically get a second blue slip, on top of the slip they already have.”

And now the day was here. In just half an hour, I would be delivering my first caning. Maybe my second caning too; I hadn’t been given a list. That was filed at reception, not with the teacher.

As my class tidied up the classroom prior to going home, I couldn’t help but think back to the one caning I received, as a schoolgirl long ago.

****

I had played field hockey at school. One day, we were playing a match with another school. There was a foul and a brawl erupted, which I was involved in. The whole team was sentenced to six strokes or a suspension. Three sets of parents opted for a beating, Laia’s, Carlota’s, and mine.

We were to report to the headmaster at three o’clock, wearing our PE kit. Canings were always delivered in PE kit at my school. Opinion was divided on why this was. Some said a girl’s skirt provided more protection than a boy’s trousers, so it was a gender equality thing. This sounded unlikely to me. Others believed that changing was part of the ritual of the punishment, providing a solemn moment to reflect on what we had done before facing the music. Some said it was just a tradition. Some believed that the material for our gym shorts was specially chosen to be light and thin, making it easily protective. Whatever the case, that was the rule.

We all changed out of our uniform in grim silence in the changing room, then walked together down the hall to the dreaded office. Laia knocked.

“Enter.”

The headmaster stood behind his desk. Sitting in the corner, to my surprise, was the school secretary, Mrs Rodriguez. I didn’t think of it at the time, but I now know that for a male teacher to cane girls, a female witness was required. In his hands was a long, thin, rattan cane. When we were all lined up, he swished it theatrically downwards through the air. The cane moved with terrifying rapidity and made a terrific whistling sound. The thought that it was soon to be applied to my body was unnerving. Even aged seventeen, I recognised that air whip as a power move.

He told us all to turn around, face the wall, and put our hands on our heads. We obeyed, wondering who would be thrashed first.

“Carlota,” he said. “Come here.”

Next to me, I saw Carlota turn and heard her shuffle forward nervously.

“Touch your toes.”

I wanted to turn around, to see what was happening. By twisting my neck very slightly, I could just see the headmaster out of the corner of my eye. Carlota, however, was beyond my field of vision.

The headmaster raised his arm. There was a terrible swish and then a thud as it struck Carlota’s rear end. I heard Carlota gasp. The headmaster’s arm went up again. The same whizz-crack was heard.

Being in the room and hearing but not seeing was very effective as part of the punishment. It raised your expectations to a height.

The headmaster raised his cane again, and it whipped down for the fourth time.

I risked a proper glance and turned to look. I could see her white shorts, but there was no indication that she had lately been struck. Her long, brown ponytail hung loose across her neck. Carlota’s upturned bottom was swaying gently, perhaps trembling a little.

The fifth stroke looked terribly hard. It landed right on the soft part of her bottom, just above her thighs. Carlota wailed. The secretary saw me looking and gestured for me to face the wall. I did so, and the awful swish and the thud resounded throughout the room for the last time.

“Stand up. Face the wall with your hands on your head.”

It was Laia or me. I prayed that it would be me next. I just wanted this awful saga over with.

Next to me, Carlota was crying softly.

“Hands on head, Carlota. No rubbing. Mireia, here.”

I turned, my heart in my mouth. Remember, it was my first real beating. I was seventeen years old, but not feeling myself as a confident and mature girl. When I’d taken three steps, I heard the time-honoured words of doom, “Bend over!”

I complied, grasping my ankles, feeling my muscles tighten. I was glad the other girls were not watching! I began to think of happy memories. At first, I thought of playing with our puppy. But the blood was rushing to my head, and the images didn’t stay for long. I was rudely jerked back to reality by the first stroke of the cane landing on my bottom.

It was so hard, I almost overbalanced. It took a second for the nerve endings to awaken, but when they did, a burning line of pain sprang up across my lower backside from left to right. I’d only been struck with a slipper or a hand before, and a stroke of the cane caused a level of pain I’d not prepared for.

The headmaster paused, then I heard the swish again. He landed it on almost exactly the same spot. It was then that I came to an awful realisation. As the pain flared up again, worse than before, I realised he was not hitting my bottom randomly, he was aiming the cane to cause maximum discomfort, and he was doing it by both attacking the softer, less muscled underparts and striking the same region each time, to layer pain upon pain.

I tried the happy thoughts trick. I thought of eating ice cream in the sun on holiday, and playing volleyball with my friends, including my crush, on the beach. But when the fourth stroke bit into my flesh, a lump sprang up in my throat. After the fifth, there were tears in my eyes. I’d hoped to keep silent. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of crying or squealing.

The sixth stroke broke me. Tears started rolling down my cheeks.

“Stand up and face the wall. Hands on your head. No rubbing.”

I limped back and stood next to Carlota, who was, by then, a bit calmer.

“Laia. Come here and touch your toes.”

I closed my eyes as Laia was thrashed. I wish I could have closed my ears too. My sore bottom was still throbbing angrily, but the ferocious, burning sting that had immediately followed each stroke eased quite quickly.

Crack! Crack! Crack! Laia did a better job of keeping silent than Carlota or me. After what seemed like a much shorter time than my thrashing had taken, Laia was back at our side. She wasn’t sobbing, but there were tell-tale glistens of water in her eyes.

“Turn around,” said the headmaster. We all did so, our lips still trembling.

“I have it on good authority that your opponents in hockey and combat have been punished as well. Try to make this your first and last caning. Now, get out and go home.”

In the changing room, we were quiet, each wrestling with our own pain. I looked at my bottom in the mirror, and I could see the red lines and swelling where the cane had struck. The pain was easing, until I put my skirt back on, then it briefly flared again.

But as we slung our bags over our backs to leave, Laia said, “I’m sorry. That was my fault. Thank you for standing up for me at the game.”

We all hugged. In some way, sharing the experience in the headmaster’s office had brought us closer together.

****

And now it was my duty to recreate the experience for some poor schoolgirl I had only known for a week. As the clock ticked towards 3.15, I began to hope that no-one would show up. I dismissed my class at three and sat fidgeting behind my desk, waiting for a knock. At exactly 3.14, one came.

“Come in!”

The door opened. Claudia Perez and Blanca Crespo both entered the room. Blanca was carrying the cane behind her back, oddly, I thought, until I realised she’d been trying to conceal it so other girls wouldn’t realise where she was going and why.

“Blanca, Claudia. You have your slips?”

“Yes, Miss.”

They handed me two green papers.

Blanca C. Caught canoodling with a boy from St Peters. Six strokes.

And

Claudia P. Caught smoking behind the bike sheds. Six strokes.

I looked up at the two girls. Blanca, tall and with long black hair, was blushing slightly. Claudia, half a foot shorter, blonde and with cheeks flecked with acne, looked the more nervous of the two.

“Blanca, if you’re going to meet boys, do it on your own time, not at school. Claudia, smoking is a waste of your time, your money and your health. Right, Blanca, give me the cane, please.”

Reluctantly, she passed me the implement. It was about three feet long, a dragon rattan cane. Holding the crooked handle, I placed my palm on the tip and bent it, then, recalling my master’s air-whip move from long ago, I swished it through the air. Both girls looked nervous. They were shuffling on their feet and wringing their hands.

“Any volunteer to go first?”

“Me, miss,” said Claudia in a resigned tone. She stepped forward. From the look on Blanca’s face, she immediately regretted not volunteering quicker.

“Good. Blanca, go and stand in the corner, please. Claudia, bend over the desk. Lie flat, with your head rested on it. Then hitch up your skirt, please.”

“Oh, miss…”

“No arguments. Just because I am new, do not mistake me for a soft touch.”

I was feeling proud of my calm, authoritative tone as Claudia stepped forward and stretched over my desk. The girls would not have known that I was almost as nervous as they were!

Reluctantly, Claudia grasped the hem of her skirt and pulled it up, revealing black cotton underwear.

Her bottom was duly presented to me, and now I was on stage. I stood to Claudia’s left, raised the cane, and swung it as hard as I could. The cane struck her underwear with a satisfying thwack. Claudia gave a gasp, uncannily reminiscent of the gasp Carlota had given after her first stroke all those years ago. I aimed for the seat, as the headmaster had told me, and swung a second stroke, followed by a third. I must have been doing it right, because Claudia was grimacing and biting her lip. I was glad her eyes were closed. I wasn’t sure I could bear making eye contact with her.

I raised the cane and whipped it down low, striking one of the red marks I had already left there.

“Ow!” Claudia cried out before grabbing her backside with her hands.

“Let go. You do that again, you get an extra stroke,” I said firmly.

Claudia reluctantly exposed her rear end again, and I was able to deliver the fifth stroke. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a solitary tear run down her cheek.

“One more,” I said quietly.

I delivered a stinging crack to her trembling buttocks, then I stepped back.

“That will do,” I told her.

Claudia stood up, arranged her skirt and, to my surprise, curtseyed to me. Rubbing her tear-stained cheeks and dabbing at her eyes, she hurried out of the classroom.

“Blanca,” I said. “Come here.”

Blanca walked towards me. An idea occurred to me.

“Have you been beaten before, Blanca?”

“Yes, miss. By the headmaster, and Mrs. Oriole.”

“Were they both equally unpleasant? Or was one worse than the other?”

“The headmaster was definitely worse, miss.”

“Really? Well, I’ll tell you a secret. The caning I gave Claudia was the first I’ve ever given.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’m still a new teacher, Blanca.”

“It looked painful to me, miss. You made her cry.”

“Yes? Blanca, I’d like to make you an offer. I’m learning how to do this. I’ll give you one stroke less if you tell me how I can do it more effectively.”

“One stroke less?”

“Yes. But you have to be honest. And, of course, this is a secret between us.”

“Ok, miss.”

“Right. Bend over and raise your skirt, please.”

Blanca complied. I drew my arm back, took aim and swished the cane onto her bottom.

Five times, I struck her with a terrific blow. When Blanca stood, her eyes were moist and the skin around her knickers was as pink as they were, but she was not crying.

“So?” I asked.

“Miss, you’re swinging too far. Start closer. It’ll help you aim. It hurts more if you hit the lower area with less power than if you hit randomly with all your strength. The headmaster uses this flicking motion from about two foot away. He can basically give six strokes with only a thin gap between. It’s really painful!”

I digested this critique.

“Ok. Thank you, Blanca. You may go.”

“Thank, miss.”

She made for the door.

“Oh, and, miss?”

“Yeah?”

“You still did it better than Mrs. Oriole!”

I smiled at her, nodded, and Blanca left the room.

I picked up the cane and swished it through the air. As I set off to return the cane to the office, I reflected that my first punishment duty had taught me as important a lesson as it had the two girls.

The End

© Marcella Cabana 2026