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About the REAL LIFE SPANKING SeriesThe RLS Series is a collection of _real-life_ stories retold by the Flogmaster. Names and places have been _changed_ to protect the naughty. All are based on the personal memories of individuals and are written in the first person. Literary license may have been taken for a more dramatic presentation.
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Real Life Spanking Series #25--My Education
(*****, M/ffmm, Severe, Teen caning)
A boy remembers attending a strict school. (Approximately 4,412 words. Originally published 1998-06.)
My father and I lived in Africa for most of my childhood. For years he had served in Peace Corps, living as an native, and learning about different cultures and languages. It was during this time that he met my mother, a fine young lass from Britain (her parents had moved to Nigeria when she was eleven), and the two were married. Before I was born they returned to the States, both feeling that I should grow up in America, were it was safer and more stable.
When I was five my mother was killed in a car wreck, and my father began to express interest in returning overseas. His real love was for Africa, for the people. He talked to me for hours and told me how wonderful they were, about their generous and hospitable nature, their remarkable sense of humor, and their stubborn pride regarding their culture. I understood little of what he spoke, of course, but I was keen on traveling to a foreign land. Very little tied us to the States (no relatives or such) and so when I was almost seven my father obtained a position with the American consulate in the Ivory Coast. His expertise of the local dialects and cultures made him invaluable, and he quickly was given important assignments.
For a number of years I went to the American school. This was run by the Embassy and consisted of mostly American Embassy brats. The school was very small and understaffed and as a result the quality of education was very poor. Many of the parents of Americans did home schooling or sent their children away to boarding schools in Dakar or Nairobi or Johannesburg. A few sent them to local schools, but this was rare as all teaching was in French, and few American children had sufficient command of that language.
When I was twelve, however, my father became frustrated with my school's lack of progress and informed me that in the fall I would be attending the local school. The language would not be a problem, he said, as I had mastered French easily. But I was rather frightened. I would be the only white person, I thought. I would certainly be the only American. Then I discovered that my best friend Rob and his sister Melody were also being transferred, and I was less nervous. Rob and I would be in the same classes, which made me feel more at ease. Melody was a year older than Rob, so we should not see her much, which was fine, as she was rather rude and superior. She always got Rob into trouble, so we were not on friendly terms.
As the fall approached, however, the three of us joined together in solidarity against what we imagined was to be a strenuous experience where our race would play against us. In truth it turned out to scarcely be an issue. The kids were polite and treated us no differently than anyone else, and on the first day of school several of the teachers, as they welcomed us, pointed out that we would receive no special treatment. I think that helped us make friends--it would have been difficult had we been singled out as Americans.
The school was mostly black children, but even among these there were a wide variety of races and cultures represented, with kids from Nigeria and Gambia and the Cape Verde islands. About 12-15% of the school were Spanish-speaking, a few actually from Spain but most from South American countries. There were also some Portuguese and a small percentage of British, Belgian, Dutch, German, and French--mostly French--students. I also made friends with some Vietnamese and one Indian boy. It was truly an international school and I quickly found that race made little difference to anyone. We were the only Americans but we were accepted as much as any other.
The Ivory Coast school system was based upon the French system, and as such the lessons were far more advanced than what we Americans were used to. I was astonished at everything we were required to learn. For instance, we all had to take a music class, and the teacher would actually grade you on how well you could sing! You had to be able to identify notes by sound and read sheet music, and for one test we had to make a list of all the instruments we could hear in a recording of an orchestra.
One of the most unusual things for us Americans to get used to was the wearing of uniforms. For the boys it was white shorts that came to mid-thigh and simple dark t-shirts. For the girls it was a white blouse and a beige skirt that came to the knees. Socks for both of us had to be white and the shoes black with rubber soles. I heard from Rob (who heard it from his sister) that all the girls were required to wear standard issue underwear, an inexpensive pale blue variety that apparently covered the bottom cheeks completely. According to Rob, the girls were periodically checked by one of the female teachers to make sure they were wearing regulation underwear! Fortunately guys were not subjected to this indignity and could wear whatever we wanted under our shorts.
Early on we were told that failure to wear the correct uniform or arriving at school with a uniform improperly cleaned were both subjected to strict disciplinary action. Initially I had no idea what this meant; later I resolved to _never_ have any problems with my uniform.
Discipline at the school, you see, was extremely strict, as we quickly discovered. On just the second day of school we witnessed our first sample. One of the boys in our classes was named Dieju. He was a wild boy, very active on the playing field at breaktime and one bloody good footballer. He would take just about any dare and was rather thoughtless of the consequences of his actions. Over the next year I witnessed him disciplined a great deal, but none shocked me the way that first time did.
Dieju had poking fun at another boy durning the break, and as we returned to class he and other boy were still verbally wrestling. Just before we got to the door the other boy gave Dieju a sharp punch on the arm and slipped into the class and sat down calmly as though everything was normal. Dieju, without a thought of the consequence, raced after the boy and began to punch him several times. Instantly there was a roar of anger and the startled boy looked up to see M. Breton, our history teacher, bearing down on him. In his hand was the long wooden rod he always carried, and he looked quiet threatening.
I had noticed that many of the teachers held these rods, using them primarily as pointers, but I had not realized that the threat they implied was real, though it of course had occurred to me that getting struck by one of those sticks couldn't feel very pleasant.
M. Breton dragged a yelping Dieju by his earlobe up to the front of the room and pushed him toward his desk and barked a command at him. I didn't even catch the words but their meaning immediately became clear as Dieju reluctantly proceeded to drop his shorts and his dirty white underpants and bare his naked ass for everyone to see. It was done so quickly and so perfunctorily I barely had time to be shocked. My heart beat wildly and I stared around the room. Most faces were grim but a few were snickering. Some of the girls appeared embarrassed, and were looking away, but a few watched brazenly. Apparently this was a normal part of discipline.
I barely saw the rod as it flipped upward and whipped down across poor Dieju's bare rump like a lightening bolt. The cracking sound it made as it connected with his bare flesh sent a current of electricity through me and I sat up straight, my palms sweating, and stared at the thin dark welt on Dieju's black skin that was visible even from across the room.
Two more times that rod came down and Dieju never said a word, though when he turned around his eyes were brimming with tears. He hastily and awkwardly pulled his pants back on, not even noticing he was facing the class as he did so, several of the girls giggling at the brief sight of his cock before he hid it within his shorts. Without a sound he marched to his desk and though he gave the class a broad grin as though the show hadn't bothered him, when he sat down nearer to me I saw him wincing and his face was flushed and I knew he was ashamed of himself.
That first caning terrified me. I could not sleep that night, still seeing that rod coming down and the horrible welts it left and wondering if it could happen to me. The next morning I told my father about it and asked him if the school had permission to punish me in the same manner.
"Can they really do that, Dad?"
He nodded. "That's the school policy, boy. Better get used to it, I'm afraid. They don't make exceptions for foreigners. I don't especially like it--I'd rather take care of it myself, here at home, but perhaps the embarrassment of getting whipped in front of your friends will help you keep out of trouble."
I nodded slowly, and a shiver went down my spine. I asked Rob about it later and he said that his father had said them same thing. "Melody saw two boys in her class get it yesterday," he told me as we walked to our first class. "She was crying and carrying on to Dad last night and trying to get him to take her out of this school. Apparently some of the girls told her that girls aren't immune from that sort of thing--they get treated just like the guys, bare bottom and all."
"You're kidding!" I gasped, suddenly feeling a surge in my manhood at the thought of a girl being naked and punished with the rod. "Wow, that'd be amazing to watch!"
Rob grinned at me. "Yeah. I wish my sister would get it, too! Last night she told Dad about those fireworks I had hidden under my bed and he took them away and gave me a dozen with his belt to boot!" He rubbed his bottom and shook his head sadly. "He hardly ever whips her. It's just not fair."
I nodded in sympathy but class was starting and we could no longer talk. For the next few days or so nothing much happened. One boy was made to stand in the corner and another was given one stroke of the cane across the palm of his hand, but that was it. It wasn't until the second week of school that canings became a regular part of our school life.
I think there were a couple canings earlier in the week, but they faded from my memory when we saw our first girl caning. She was a tall Spanish girl with long dark hair and a nice smile. Her name was Camilia. She showed up late one morning without an excuse and didn't have her homework assignment done either--she said she had forgotten it, but that was debatable. The teacher, a Madame Vichee, didn't even hesitate, but ordered her to fetch the cane. Madame Vichee did not carry hers about the room but left it hanging near the blackboard.
We all watched breathlessly as the girl slowly went to the front and retrieved the cane. She gave it to the teacher and bent over her desk, which unfortunately for us guys, was positioned sideways, meaning we only saw Camilia's profile during the caning. Madame Vichee flipped up the girl's skirt and immediately tugged down the girl's panties to mid-thigh and proceeded to give her two sharp strokes full across her bottom. I secretly hoped she'd get more, and I felt guilty afterward, for I knew that even two was a painful punishment.
But then the teacher ordered her to stand in the corner for ten minutes, so we did get to see Camilia's round bottom after all, her checks trembling as she waddled over to the corner and stood holding her skirt up, her panties still at half-mast. Her bottom clearly bore twin lines of red--traintracks, if you will--across both cheeks. The marks showed up considerably better on her lighter skin than on any of the boys I had seen, and I wondered how the marks would show on a white girl.
Canings became a regular part of class after that, with scarcely a day going by that someone didn't receive a thrashing in front of the class. Mostly boys were the recipients, but the girls were certainly not forgotten. If I had to put numbers on it I'd say about one caning for a girl for every four or five boy canings, though of course there were exceptions. I did note that generally girls were usually given less severe canings than the boys--two or three strokes seemed typical, while I'd seen boys get up to six.
It wasn't until a couple of weeks after that that our trio first tasted the cane. It was on a Friday evening and I arrived at Rob's house to stay the weekend. His sister Melody opened the door. I saw she seemed rather distant, rather strange. She didn't give me her usual wisecracks and scorn, but simply nodded and waved me inside. She seemed to barely notice me, and I found her behavior rather puzzling and a bit frightening. Then Rob told me what had happened.
Melody had gotten the cane. Yes, earlier in the day she had gotten several answers wrong in her mathematics class during a verbal quiz. The teacher had therefore assigned Melody to do twice as much homework by the next morning. But Melody had spoken rudely to the teacher, and as I result was given the cane in addition to the assignment. It was to be only two strokes but apparently the girl had struggled and refused and created such a fuss that the teacher ended up giving her four, though three barely counted they were so out of alignment and badly struck as the girl was wiggling too much. The teacher had finally been required to have two boys hold Melody in place. He had sent her home with a note for her father informing him of her disobedience and lack of cooperation, suggesting that the headmaster cane her properly on Monday, unless he wanted to deal with the situation himself.
Rob was gleeful as he told me this news--Melody was in deep trouble. Her father was going to give her the strap tomorrow and he was going to personally escort her to the headmaster on Monday and watch her be caned.
"Dad told her that he was ashamed that she can't even be adult enough to accept the consequences of her actions with grace and dignity, so he wants her to learn!" whispered Rob to me as he shut the door to his bedroom. "He said she will be caned until she accepts her strokes without resisting, so she had better learn to cooperate quick, 'cause none will count while she's struggling!"
I could scarcely believe this news. On the one hand I had figured that Melody's smart mouth and impertinent nature would likely endear her to the cane, but on the other she had seem so frightened of it I had thought she would never do anything to deserve it's use. Now it seems she had managed to receive it not once, but twice (after Monday, that is), before either Rob or me. The reasons for Melody's subdued behavior were now quite obvious to me.
Though Rob and I both wished we could have watched Melody take the cane, we did not get that honor, though we did ride to school with her on Monday and watch as she, her face black with gloom, was led by her father to the headmaster's office. We hung around nearby and listened, and after about ten minutes we heard the caning start. She was given six strokes, and I guess she took them well, because they were regular and monotonous in nature, about thirty seconds between each stroke. When she emerged, red-eyed and wiping tears off her face, she was very quiet and pensive and did not speak to anyone, but went straight to her first class.
Melody's behavior improved after that, but for some reason Rob and I began to slack. Rob was the second of the trio to taste the cane, and it happened about three weeks later. He and I had been fooling around and chasing each other, when he ran around a corner and smacked into Madame Boujec, a tall, stern-faced, gray-haired woman we had nicknamed Madame Bitch. She was carrying a huge load of books and of course everything was scattered about and she fell hard on the ground. She was livid and almost purple with rage and she immediately ordered Rob to fetch her cane.
As her classroom was just a few doors down this did not take long and I approached and helped her pick up the books while we waited--she had never seen my contributions to Rob's running, and I, though I felt sorry for Rob, was not about to join him. When Rob was back with the long thin stick she made him turn and drop his shorts, and right there, on the sidewalk outside the building, she gave him four vicious cuts of that cane. As the main games courtyard was not far away quite a crowd had developed to watch the caning, but Rob did America proud, scarcely blubbering at all except on the first stroke, which must have been outrageous as it was his first ever. He did cry, but he was silent and held his position, but I could tell that he was in sheer agony. He told me about it later and said it felt like she was putting a branding iron across his ass, but it wasn't until the next week that I truly understood what he had meant.
I had been fortunate enough to stay out of trouble up until that time, but my luck was running out. I steered onto the straight and narrow for a few days after Rob's first caning, but boys will be boys, and soon I found myself in the headmaster's office.
It all began with two noisy girls, Saliyama and an older British girl named Heather. At this point neither Rob or I had had any sexual experience with girls--though it was becoming a greater and greater concern on our minds. Heather and Saliyama were best friends and their favorite pastime was to tease the boys. Rob and I did not understand the nature of their teasing, however, and took it quite personally, especially when it inferred that we were weak or childish.
One day after a rousing post-lunch soccer match the monitor rang the bell to call us back in. Rob and I were sweaty and exhausted and depressed because our team had not managed to score a single goal the entire half hour. Then we found Heather and Saliyama standing near us and taunting us.
"You two ought to play with the little boys," said Saliyama with a impertinent smile. "Yeah," hissed Heather. "You couldn't even score with an open net!"
Well, this made us angry, of course, and we were already in foul moods, so the language of our response was certainly most ungentlemanly. We cursed the girls and told them to shove off and they reacted with more fiery words and soon we were in the middle of a veritable word war.
"Will not!" cried out Heather as she stuck out her tongue at me. "Kiss my behind!" added Saliyama.
"Fuck you!" exclaimed Rob.
"Shitbrains!" I yelled at them both.
The girls pretended to be shocked at our language but grinned back and Heather said sweetly, "Go fuck yourself, dickhead!"
"Bitch!" said Rob. "You're both fucking bitches!" I screamed, and suddenly the girls grew very quiet and just a touch pale. As one Rob and turned and saw Madame Vichee standing quietly and watching us, a shocked expression on her face.
"What foul language!" she exclaimed. "All of you, come with me immediately!"
Heads low, hearts pounding, we followed, our feud forgotten. Now we were all prisoners in the same boat, and we looked at each other in alarm as we saw she was taking us toward the headmaster's office. She knocked and went in, and shortly emerged with the headmaster. His name was M. Miteron, a large portly Frenchman. He ushered us into his office and the four of us sat on his couch and looked around nervously.
I honestly don't remember much of what he said. He scolded us and told us that foul mouths were not permitted at the school, but all I could really concentrate on was the long thin white cane which hung on a peg on the wall behind his desk. At some point in his speech he walked over and took down the cane and my heart practically stopped beating I was so frightened. The girls and Rob looked pale, too. A wave of unreality swept over me. This couldn't be happening, it couldn't, but I somehow knew that there was nothing that was going to stop this from occurring, though I continued to pray for a miracle.
M. Miteron continued to talk but I couldn't hear. Finally I heard him say Rob's name, and then I watched as though in a dream as Rob slowly stood and walked forward on wobbly legs and bent over the headmaster's desk. In seconds it seemed, Rob's shorts and underpants were down around his ankles and the cane was whistling through the air. Rob let out a yelp of pain but stayed down, and again and again the cane came down. Rob's bottom was very pale and white and now bore three parallel stripes of bright red and he was openingly weeping. The cane descended with another fearful crack and Rob lurched and struggled but did not stand up, though he moaned loudly. Two more times the cane landed, this time at angles, the marks crisscrossing the previous strokes. Finally Rob stood and went over to the wall as the headmaster instructed and he stood with his back to us, striped bottom still on display.
Like a dream I heard my name called out but I did not move. I could not move. It wasn't until he put hand on my shoulder that I realized what it meant and I leapt to my feet and dragged myself forward though I was trembling with fear.
I bent forward and put my hands on the edge of the desk, keeping my feet close together. Strong fingers unbuttoned my shorts and then a felt the cool air on my bottom and curling around my privates. I began to cry immediately, terrified and humiliated. Then I heard a crack like a stick breaking and felt a powerful pressure across my ass. Suddenly the pain burst through and I sprang upward as I realized the unbearable stinging of the cane.
"Whhhhaaaa!" I cried out, tears bursting from my eyes. I stamped my foot and shook my head wildly, but my fingers gripped the desk with steel claws and I cried and panted for air. All I knew was that I couldn't let go, couldn't lose my position. I had heard horrible stories of extra strokes for such actions and I knew I did not want more than I was getting.
CRACK! Again the cane came down, a thin streak of fire across my ass--the pain made me dizzy and confused it was so intense. I could barely control myself. I certainly couldn't think clearly. I wept and cried out as the cane came back again and again and again until I thought this was never going to end, I would never be able to breathe freely or be able to stop wiggling. Somehow I endured it. Then I heard the most welcome sound I had ever heard-that of M. Miteron telling me to go stand next to Rob. I waddled over to him, seeing his striped bottom and scarcely daring to imagine that mine looked the same way.
Behind me I became aware of the cane cracking down again and I realized the girls were getting it too. I thought maybe the headmaster would give them less than us, but he did not. Each of us got the full six, and when we stood in a row, naked, blistered bottoms on display, eyes still teary and hearts swollen with grief and self-pity, I think we became friends. I glanced to my right at Heather and Saliyama, both weeping, and I realized how foolish we had been, arguing in such a childish, stupid manner. "We deserved this caning," I thought. "We deserved childish punishment."
Later, outside the head's office, we did not speak much but we did rather curtly apologize to each other and shake hands. "I'm really sorry," I whispered to Heather in English. "We were idiots."
"Yeah, us too," she said with a wry grin. "Your first time, eh?"
"How'd you know?"
Her eyes sparkled at me--she really was kind of pretty, I thought suddenly--"Oh, it's easy to tell a _virgin_," she said with a broad wink. I must have blushed for an hour after she said that! Her added, "But now you're one of us," did cheer me up a bit. At least I hadn't blubbered too much and it hadn't been in front of an entire class.
I never did get caned again. My father was transferred to Kenya that summer, and the school there was an American one. It wasn't a bad school, but it wasn't as strict as the one in Ivory Coast. To tell you the truth, I rather missed it.