overthedesk.com
They Do Things Differently There

This is the story of an embarrassing misunderstanding that happened when I was at school in Spain. I go by ‘Rosy’ in Europe, but my name is actually Ng Duc. I was born in Vietnam, and most of my school days were spent there.

In Vietnam, corporal punishment was a daily occurrence at school. On average, I’d say five students in my class were caned per day. I wasn’t often one of them, but I didn’t escape entirely. No-one did.

At school, exceptional cases of particularly bad behaviour were handled by the headmaster. I was never sent to him, but every teacher had their own stick and it was a rare pupil indeed who never felt it. The cane would be used for cheek, poor behaviour, minor lateness and so on. It was noticeable when a whole day passed without anyone getting the stick.

When the teacher wanted to mete out punishment, you would be called to the front of the class and instructed to lie flat on the desk on your tummy.

Another difference was the implement used. As I was to discover, European schools use long, thin and flexible canes. In Vietnam, the cane was more like a heavy ruler. It covered a wider area, but did not swish as fast or as hard.

In other words, a caning in Vietnam had more in common with a parental spanking than a thrashing in Europe. Mounting the desk was similar to being ordered to lay across my mother or father’s lap, for all the differences between a smack from the palm of a hand and a stroke from a stick. Of course, at school your bottom would not be uncovered as it was at home.

As the desk was horizontal and at the very front of the class, when you were in position, you had a choice. You could turn your head to face the wall and avoid the eyes of your peers, who would often be laughing at your plight. Looking away at the wall, however, did mean that all eyes would be on your posterior as the cane whipped down.

Or, you could face your classmates, who would be treated to your every cringe, grimace and rueful smile as each stroke landed. The attention seekers always took this route, and would often ham it up for the crowd. The shyer boys and girls, however, invariably couldn’t bear the scrutiny and turned away.

The last time I was thrashed was about three weeks before I was to leave the school to move to Spain. I knew it was coming. I had been particularly exhausted the night before and had gone to bed rather than doing my homework. I took the decision to sleep rather than do it, knowing full well I would be spanked the next day. Sure enough, when the teacher called for homework and mine was not done, she duly summoned me to the front.

“Where is your homework?”

“I was too tired, miss. I’m sorry.”

“Too tired? Get onto the desk. That is never an excuse, everyone else managed to do it.”

I climbed up, making sure to straighten my skirt and ensure my shirt was tucked in. I gripped the desk, feeling the hard wood on my chest, my tummy and, particularly, my bony knees.

Initially, I faced the wall, but I changed my mind. I knew I was leaving soon. I might as well give them something to remember me by. I turned and looked out at the sea of faces. A few people that I made eye contact with smiled sympathetically; all had been where I was at some point. I returned their smiles. Many were not paying attention at all, whackings being so common.

The teacher raised the cane and brought it down

hard. The sting across my bottom was immediate. There were some giggles from the class. A second, more painful, stroke found the soft region just above my thighs. I squealed at that one. This was a mistake, because the teacher then knew where to aim. The third stroke landed in the same place and I bit my lip, trying not to cry.

“Stay still!” the teacher barked. I had not realised I was wriggling. I forced myself not to move, and a fourth stroke bit into my bottom. More people were watching now.

The teacher paused at this point. For a second, I thought it was over, for a second, that I had received an unusually light sentence. But it was a false dawn.

Swish, crack! went the cane and I felt the burn once more, right where the second stroke had landed. I gripped the desk a little harder, and I closed my eyes. The pain was not as bad as the humiliation of the whole class watching me. There were boys I had crushes on in that crowd after all!

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Eight strokes were deemed enough, and I was allowed to rise. I rubbed my sore bottom as I returned to my desk in the fourth row. As I walked through the classroom, I was treated to a mixture of sympathetic looks, jocular teasing and bland indifference.

One month later, my family left Vietnam and I started school in our new home, Valencia.

School in Spain took a lot of getting used to. There were all the rules to learn and, of course, the language. I struggled to make friends and was bullied, although not by everyone. Things came to a head one day. I was tired and stressed about some unpleasantness aimed at me by another kid, and a teacher gave me a bad mark.  I unleashed my full repertoire of Spanish swearwords at her. Naturally, I was sent directly to the headmaster’s office.

“It gives me no pleasure, Rosy, but I’m going to have to cane you.”

I nodded curtly. The headmaster reached into his desk and withdrew a paper. He signed it and handed it to me.

“I’ll need you to give me this, signed, tomorrow.”

At this, my heart sank. The caning, I could take. But a letter home from school would certainly mean a sound spanking at home. The headmaster walked across the room. Only then did I see several canes hanging there. He selected one. I saw it was much thinner than the ruler-like stick teachers used in Vietnam. He swished it through the air.

“Have you been caned before?”

“Yes, sir. More than once. Every teacher has a stick in Vietnam.”

“Then you’ll at least know what is coming your way. Let’s get this over with.”

“Yes, Sir.”

And at this point, I did something very silly. I breezily stepped forward and climbed onto the headmaster’s desk, face down! Then, I closed my eyes and braced myself.

“What on earth do you think you are doing?” he cried.

Well, I got up and off the desk like a shot, let me tell you. A second later, I was standing with my hands clasped behind my back.

“I’m sorry, sir. In… At home, I always had to lie on the desk.”

He was rather taken aback.

“You mean that is the position students are caned in in Vietnam?”

“Yes, Sir.”

The headmaster raised his eyebrows, digesting this interesting anecdote.

“Well, I suppose you weren’t to know better. Here, we do things differently, Rosy.”  He paused. “I want you to touch your toes. You may need to bend your knees a little for balance.”

I followed his instructions, feeling the muscles in and around my bottom tighten. My black ponytail brushed my nose and cheek as it fell off my back. My nerves made my legs wobble. I felt my heart thumping against my chest. My palms had grown damp and sweaty.

Now, believe me, lying on a desk in front of a rowdy class of your peers is a very different experience from bending over in an office with a solitary adult. The silence in the moment of anticipation is the worst thing. I would have given anything for a teasing laugh or a jocular remark. Instead, there was nothing, a void. It was as lonely as I’ve ever felt.

There was a click as he picked up the cane from the desk. An agonizing silence, and then a whistle as the cane swished through the air. A thud as the cane struck my bottom. Then silence. As the pain made itself felt across my buttocks, the only sound was a single footstep as the headmaster adjusted his position. Then, the air moved again and the cane bit through my skirt and made my skin tingle.

After two strokes, it was clear to me how much more effective the punishment is when delivered bent over, compared to lying flat on a desk. The sting is sharper and more concentrated. The lack of support to the body took getting used to, though, as did the vague sense of embarrassment at presenting your posterior like that.

The third stroke was so hard that it almost made me fall forward and I had to catch myself on my palms. I squealed, “Owwww!”

A fourth stroke managed to find the same ridge between bottom and thigh that my teacher had struck in Vietnam. Even in the middle of a second thrashing, I remembered that day in my mind’s eye. And the memory of all those friends, now so far away and who I did not see anymore, came flooding back. Between the memory and the pain across my tender bottom, a lump sprang to my throat.

The fifth stroke pushed me over the edge. I burst into tears, which were soon dried by my hair, which swung on and off my face every time I was almost overbalanced by a stroke.

Perhaps sensing that I had learned my lesson, the headmaster’s final stroke was considerably lighter than the first five. He gave me permission to stand up. I left the office in tears, rubbing my bottom.

The story does have a relatively happy ending, however. I did give my mother that letter from school. And, as expected, I was immediately ordered to her bedroom for a spanking. But when I was in position over her lap on the bed (and suitably attired), my mum took a long look at the marks the cane had made, and the bruising around them.

“Did it hurt?”

“Very much.”

Mother paused.

“Then I think you’ve suffered enough,” she said. And she let me go. I was never to be beaten again.

The End

© Marcella Cabana 2025