It’s Thursday morning and I have just returned from taking my nine-year-old daughter to school. I have a freshly made mug of tea and I’m sitting at our small kitchen table. Several legal papers are on the table in front of me. I’ve read and re-read them countless times, so I don’t need to read them again, but I do. I’m already feeling really nervous.
These legal papers tell me I have to report to a prison just twenty miles from here, Lowmore Women’s Prison, where I used to be a serving officer. I did a very silly thing and now I’ve lost my job and have to pay the price. I have to be at the prison at half-past two this afternoon. I’ve arranged for my mother to pick my daughter up from school at three o’clock and take her to her house until I can pick her up.
I had been employed in the prison service for just over two years after studying criminology at university. I’m a single mum, now, with just a part-time waitressing job and little prospects. I can only blame myself for the mess I created.
Four months ago, when on duty in the prison, I was chatting to three prisoners who had always been pleasant with me. I wasn’t so stupid as to let them become friends, but I knew and trusted them. We were in the cell shared by two of those prisoners with the door closed but not locked. When two senior officers suddenly pushed the door open, they found me with my dark-blue uniform trousers halfway down my legs. I was literally caught with my trousers down.
It was quite innocent really. Our chat had been about what underwear I wore underneath my trousers. They teased me that I had very raunchy panties, which I denied, and so I slipped my trousers down to show I was wearing quite plain, fairly brief, white knickers. I was actually pulling my trousers back up when those two senior officers came into the cell and saw me.
I was taken straight to the governor and asked to explain. The prisoners had tried to help me by saying that I had some dirty marks on my trousers and they were just trying to brush them off without actually touching me, but that failed to cut any ice. I explained what had really happened to the governor, but I knew I had broken the rules and there would likely be consequences.
The governor told me I would be charged with misconduct in public office. There were two options. I could be tried at a senior court with a jury and therefore be able to put my case to twelve of my peers, but that court could sentence me to as much as five years in prison. Alternatively, I could plead guilty and have my case dealt with by a panel of three magistrates. That meant the maximum prison time I could be sentenced to would be two years, and probably would be less. The magistrates could also sentence me to other penalties like a large fine, community service and even corporal punishment.
I was desperate to avoid prison. I know my mum would have looked after my daughter while I was inside, but I would miss her terribly and I’m sure she would be extremely alarmed and upset. Also, prisoners are well known to be very hostile to ex-prison officers. Even prisoners I got on well with would likely take advantage of my circumstances and humiliate me, even harm me physically. And prison officers don’t like former colleagues who they feel have let the side down. They most likely would not offer me much in the way of protection.
I chose trial by the magistrates. I had been caught in the act, so to speak, so there was little point in trying to plead innocence in front of a jury and risking the more severe sentencing of the superior court. I decided to accept my guilt and take whatever punishment I was awarded. Pleading guilty also meant I wouldn’t have to appear in court.
My case was heard just over five weeks ago. I had to fill in a long form online, enter my plea of guilty, outline any mitigating circumstances, describe in detail my personal circumstances, and confirm that I wanted the magistrates panel to deal with me. Ten days later, I received their verdict in the post. It was harsher than I expected; five months imprisonment or fourteen strokes of the cane. Far worse than the large fine I was expecting, with perhaps a month or two in prison. The accompanying paperwork did say I could appeal the sentence, but that would risk something even worse if my appeal failed. I had to complete a form saying whether I would accept the verdict and if I did which punishment I would choose. They had to have my answer within ten days.
In one way I was grateful that I didn’t have a large fine to pay. Being a single parent means money is tight. I knew my mother would lend me the money if I asked, but she’s retired and on a fixed income. If I could avoid asking her for money I would. But one month in prison was one thing, five months was something else. I just could not be away from my daughter for that length of time.
Fourteen strokes of the cane was harsh. Of course, I was aware canings were carried out at Lowmore Prison. While I had never been directly involved in administering them, I had on occasions escorted prisoners down to the basement where they were carried out, and then escorted those prisoners back to their cells. The number of strokes varied from just four to a maximum of twenty. Sometimes they were part of a custodial sentence, sometimes women came to the prison just for the caning. Those who received the larger numbers of strokes often were in tears afterwards, they struggled to walk, and clearly they were in a lot of pain. Fourteen was a larger number in anyone’s terms.
I took days ruminating over the options, but each time I thought about it the caning seemed the better choice. I wouldn’t have to be away from my daughter, and there would be no fine to pay. My meagre cash reserves would be safe. Even if I did opt to serve my time in prison, what would my fellow inmates do to me? I’d heard of beatings, even of one former officer being stripped and thrashed with a belt. If I was going to get a whipping, it seemed better to have it done by trained officers. With just one day to go, I went online and accepted the caning. The following day, I received my appointment; 2.30 pm today.
I make myself another mug of tea.
My daughter knew something was up from the time I no longer went in to work at the prison. I tried to keep everything from her, but she sensed my worries and so I explained that I had been really naughty at work and had lost my job there. As my court case progressed, she guessed there was more to it than me merely losing my job. Eventually, I admitted that because I had been really bad I was going to have my bottom smacked. She was really sympathetic, especially when I dropped her off at school this morning, although I’m sure she didn’t realise anything like the full implications.
I turn to thinking about what I will wear. The punishment will be dispensed across my ‘unclothed buttocks’ as the paperwork describes. I knew that already, of course. I intend to drive myself to the prison and back. Is that a good idea? I could have asked mum, but then she wouldn’t have been able to pick my daughter up from school, and I preferred not to have anyone else know what was happening. Loose trousers like tracksuit bottoms seem the best choice. I have grey ones with a red stripe down the sides that will suit. A teeshirt and the tracksuit jacket will complete my outfit. I will not need to look smart for this appearance.
I wonder who will actually carry out my chastisement. It will be done by women I know and had worked with. That will be humiliating in itself. I know there will be three officers in the room when they do it, but will they be officers I once regarded as friends? What will their attitude be? I feel everyone will be hostile. But I’ll just have to put up with that.
At noon, I shower and go into my bedroom, still naked, to dry my hair. I choose underwear; brief white panties and a white bra. I’ll put on white ankle socks later when I pull on my red trainers with the white trimming. Meanwhile, I check myself in the long mirror forming the door to my wardrobe. My underwear looks fit for purpose; plain and simple. I lay the two parts of my tracksuit on my bed; I will put them on later. Time to lay on my bed and try and relax as much as I am able.
I must have fallen asleep, because I wake suddenly and check the time. It’s one-forty; less than an hour to go. I quickly put my tracksuit on, followed by white ankle socks and my trainers. The journey should take thirty to thirty-five minutes, but I’m desperate not to be late. I recall from the paperwork that more than ten minutes late could incur a fine. That is not the reason for my haste. I do not want to appear cowardly in front of my former colleagues. I grab my car keys and I go down to my car.
Thankfully, traffic is light and I park in the prison’s visitor car park at two-fifteen. I sit and breathe slowly in and out, trying but failing to calm myself. At twenty-six minutes past, I steel myself, leave my car and go across to the door marked ‘Visitors’, with my paperwork ready. I press a button and ten seconds later it opens. I’m greeted by Ann Snelling, a former colleague. I smile, but it isn’t returned.
“I’m here…,” I begin, but I’m cut short.
“I know why you’re here. Inside!”
No sympathy there, then. I didn’t know Ann well, but got on with her well enough. It looks like I’m in for the firm treatment.
Ann grabs me by the arm and takes me the few yards up to the reception counter. Another officer, June Griffiths, stands behind the counter with the large appointments book in front of her.
“Julie Rawl…,” I start, but again I’m interrupted.
“Rawlinson. Yes, I know,” June says coldly. She makes an entry in the appointments book, presumably to confirm my presence. “Officer Snelling will take you down to the punishment rooms.”
“Hands behind your back,” Ann Snelling commands, and I know I’m in for the full treatment.
I position my hands behind me, still clutching my paperwork, and I feel the metal handcuffs being fastened tightly around my wrists. I’m grabbed again by the arm and led further along a corridor and down some steps into the basement. Another corridor has a number of doors leading off of it, and I’m taken along to a door with a plastic label, ‘Punishment Room 3’ fixed to it. On the way, I hear sobbing from one room and gasping from another. Ann unlocks the door to Punishment Room 3 and pushes me in ahead of her.
The room is small, with just a small bunk bed to the right and a small wooden table to the left. I’ve been in these rooms with prisoners on a number of occasions, so I knew what to expect. Another door is in the wall directly ahead, and I know what is in there too.
“Strip!” orders Ann Snelling as she removes my handcuffs. “Put all your clothes and belongings onto the table, then lie face down on the bed. I’ll be with you shortly.”
Ann then leaves the room and I hear it being locked. I repeat in my mind what Ann said; to put all my clothes and belongings on the table. I knew that usually women were allowed to keep their bras on and even their shirts if they were short enough not to cover their bottoms. I decide to follow Ann’s instructions to the letter; the staff’s hostility to me is already evident without me risking making things even worse, and I do not want to be held down while they roughly undress me.
Two minutes later, I’m standing completely naked. I try the door leading to where I know I’ll receive my caning, but it’s locked. I lay down on the bed, face down, and wait. The minutes drag, and I reckon I’ve been there for at least fifteen minutes. All I’ve heard from outside my room so far are two women being collected and taken back up the steps, and one new arrival being put into a room like mine further along the corridor. Suddenly, someone is unlocking my door. I panic. Ann Snelling is back with two colleagues, Sarah Pimm and Becky McArthur, both former friends when I was a serving officer. By her expression, I think Ann is surprised I’ve done exactly as she told me and I’m completely naked and lying face down on the bed.
Becky jabs something sharp into both my buttocks and I flinch twice. I guess that’s to check I haven’t managed to anaesthetise my bottom in any way. Ann unlocks the door into where I’ll be taken for my caning and closes it behind her.
“You were a bloody fool,” Sarah tells me. “You really deserve what we’re going to do to you.”
“I know,” I whimper. I want to appear brave, ready to take my punishment, but I’m way too panic-stricken for that. I can only lie there, both women looking down at my naked body. I feel they’re looking forward to dealing with me, savouring my unblemished backside that they’re going to help thrash in the next few minutes. Somehow, the waiting seems worse than anything.
Behind me, I hear the click of the door being opened.
“Bring her in,” Ann instructs.
Becky grabs my arm and starts pulling me to my feet. Then Sarah grabs my other arm and I’m being taken into the next room. I see the trestle directly ahead of me. It’s made of metal with the legs firmly anchored to the floor. The top is covered in padded vinyl and leather straps are secured to all four legs to hold my wrists and ankles.
Ann is standing to one side, holding a thin two-and-a-half feet long rod made of rattan cane. She’s flexing it and looking at me being pulled forward and then bent over the trestle. Becky and Sarah secure me over the trestle, strapping me down with the leather bands firmly holding my wrists and ankles. I’m left in no doubt she intends to really lay the cane on hard and that she will enjoy doing it.
I pull at the straps, testing to see how much movement they allow me, and find I can barely move. In a curious way, I find that comforting because there’s nothing I can do to avoid what will come next.
“Fourteen strokes!” Ann announces, as if we didn’t all know that.
I don’t brace myself. I don’t think it would make it any better, any less painful. I sense that all my muscles are taut anyway, so I try to relax and just stay flopped across the trestle.
A crack reverberates around the room and a fire whips across my entire bottom. My ordeal has started. The pain is far sharper than anything I have experienced before. I gasp, and then a second stroke lashes my bottom again. The pain is awful, and my eyes become very watery. A third stroke repeats the experience and I’m hurting like I couldn’t believe.
I’m sure Ann is hitting me as hard as she can, but I knew she would. I begin to doubt whether I can ever survive this, but I know I will have to. I will only be released once the full fourteen strokes have thrashed my poor bottom.
Oh, why was I so stupid as to have some fun with those three prisoners? I should have known better. ‘Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile’ was said repeatedly in training. I was only sharing a little fun, just a playful glimpse of my panties to win a dare and help alleviate the tedium for the women.
Reliving the reason for me being secured across this trestle has helped me deal with the agonizing pain just a little. I’ve already lost count of how many strokes I’ve received. All I know is, Ann is slowly and steadily whipping my bottom thoroughly. I try to tell myself I asked for this to avoid imprisonment, which might have been even worse than this. I’m not convincing myself.
Becky and Sarah are just standing there, side by side on my right side. I glance round and they seem enthralled by the sight of the cane thrashing me. I wonder if my caning will remind them to follow the rules so they never find themselves in my situation. I always got on well with both of them, but would I have been ogling their ordeal if one of them was bent across this trestle? I probably would, so I can hardly blame them.
My poor bottom is sore beyond belief, and each stroke is hurting more and more. I ask myself how much longer this will go on for, and I haven’t a clue how many more strokes are left to be applied.
Another stroke lashes across my bottom and the awful pain makes yet more tears flood down my face. I try to fix my mind on the freedom I will have because I’ve chosen to take this whipping. At least I’m still certain I chose the right option.
Another stroke and I’m thinking this must surely be almost over. I wait for the next one, and wait. It doesn’t come. Then Becky and Sarah are releasing me from the straps that hold me down across this trestle. No one is speaking. I wonder if actually it really is all over. I’m fully free now and I could get off the trestle, but will they permit it?
“Get dressed and get out!” Ann snarls, and she and Becky leave.
I slowly clamber off the trestle, my legs unsteady. I hold myself up with one hand on the trestle while the other explores the damage to my bottom. Then I notice Sarah standing on the other side of the trestle watching me. We don’t speak.
Slowly, my legs gain some strength. I stagger to the outer room where my clothes and other stuff are on the table. I find my tracksuit jacket and the several cotton handkerchiefs I put in the pockets. I wipe my eyes with one hand while, the other covers my bottom, although I have no idea what I’m protecting it from. Sarah follows me and stands at the door between the two rooms.
“That hurt!” I say, just to break the awful silence.
“It was supposed to,” she replies.
I realise I’m standing there completely naked, so I find my bra and put it on, followed by my teeshirt. I see my knickers and wonder whether I should leave them off. No, I put them on, standing on one leg and then the other makes my legs go wobbly again. Sarah doesn’t help me.
I slide my arms into my tracksuit jacket and pull it on. Then the trousers. I have to sit on the small bed to put my socks and trainers on, and it hurts. I manage it somehow and check around that I’ve got everything. I’m ready to leave.
“Can you escort me out, please?” I ask Sarah very politely.
She opens the door out into the corridor and leads the way back up the steps and out into the reception area. Ann hands me a piece of paper to confirm that I’ve received my caning. I hear a click and the outer door is unlocked. I head back to my car. Sitting in the driving seat is uncomfortable to say the least, but the sharp pain is slowly being replaced with soreness. I find a clean handkerchief and wipe my eyes. It takes a few minutes before I feel ready to drive.
Back in my flat, I head to the bathroom and strip off again. I feel I need to wash off the prison. Five minutes under the shower and I feel almost human again. As I dry myself off, I go to my bedroom so I can look at the state of my bottom in the long wardrobe mirror. Fourteen long vivid red marks criss-cross both buttocks. But then I’ve seen similar, back when I was an officer at the prison.
The End
© Sara Davies 2025