It might take a while but...

Trust a South African girl to go one step furher than the girl in white whose bottom became the focus of everyone, especially Uncle Nick after a certain wedding...

South African model, Candice Boucher made very sure that full attention was paid when stepping onto the red carpet in Cannes...

And I can now go to bed nursing my rather tender bottom, but it is with a smile...


Wordless Wednesdays: Proud

I , Woman, am that wonder-breathing rose
That blossoms in the garden of the King.


School Canings – Institutionalised Discipline and Corporal Punishment Part 3

Some more from HH...

Thursday Night Hit Parade – Four or More Marks

Thursday nights were not the favourite time of the week in our Boarding House. In fact, we dreaded them! It was the time when all accounts were settled!

I described last week how if you received four or fewer Marks in a week, you were required to attend the Head of Houses’ Hit Parade. This week I will tell you about what happened when you got five or six Marks for bad behaviour in a week. To be awarded four or more Marks in a week was not terribly difficult to achieve. The process was pretty much the same as I described in last week’s posting. The only difference was that you had to report to the House Master.

However, I have to add that the Prefects were often reluctant to diminish their pleasure by giving us more than four marks. We found that if you had four marks and were going to be given four hard “flaps” by the Head of House you could then get away with murder! There were occasions where they had little option but to add a fifth or sixth Mark.

Say, you were sitting on four Marks and were in a group who were late for assembly; you would all be given Marks. It was the individual offences that there was a degree of latitude given once you had achieved the maximum sentence from the Head of House. A visit to the House Master was an event that would certainly provoke feelings of anxiety. We were all shit-scared of him. He was a fearsome looking man, who stood at least 6 foot 2 inches tall. He had played competitive rugby and was as strong as an ox. Six of the Best from him was something to be avoided – especially when your bottom was clad only in thin cotton pyjamas.

He was also not averse to having a couple of Brandies after a long day. I have no doubt that these dulled his senses somewhat. I am sure that most times he had no idea how hard he was hitting us!  The queue outside his office was seldom more than three or four boys – more often than not, the same faces would appear on a regular basis. We were all dressed in our pyjamas– long in winter and short in summer - and dressing gowns and all of regulation style. 

The tension outside his office as we waited for him to answer our knock was far greater than outside the Prefect’s Room. We knew that we were going to be whacked seriously hard. We would usually play “Ching Chong Cha”, while waiting outside, to see who would go first. There was nothing worse - especially on a cold winter’s night - having to wait your turn and listen to your mates getting butts caned. At the same time, you would hear the impacts from the Prefect’s room, which was not more than 20 metres away. You could also see the caning of your mate through the frosted glass of his office door. Unnerving I can tell you.

When your turn came, you would mount the steps to his smallish study. You were advised that you had received five or six Marks and that the punishment was six of the Best. It did not matter that you may have only received five marks, you still got six strokes!

You were instructed after a bit of a lecture to bend over, lift your gown and touch your toes. We all knew exactly where to stand. There were no further preliminaries and the next thing you heard was the “whoosh, thwack” of the cane on your near bare backside. Other than the impact, there was no immediate sensation of pain. This started to develop – and then develop rather quickly into a white-hot streak across your bum and right hip. He was very keen on “wrapping” and the spots where the tips landed stung unbearably! The next stroke landed with exquisite timing just as the first stroke exploded into agony. And the next and the next …

t was a matter of honour to remain stationary and to not give him any indication of how much it was hurting – although we both knew, it was hurting like hell. When he had finished with us, we would stand up, look him in the eye, and say “Thank you Sir”. Then with as much dignity as we could muster, walk out of his office, down the stairs and head to the bathroom to inspect our marks!

In recent years, I have given many canings – and some hard ones at that. I know I use a thinner and lighter cane than was used on us at School, but I have never seen marks left on anyone’s bottom that equated with those we had at School. After a mere six, we would be left with welts that were half an inch wide and at least a quarter inch high. The colour ranged from scarlet to deep red to blue. If any of the strokes had overlapped, there was certain to be blood. The marks would last anything up to 10 days and the bruising often three to four weeks.

The problem arose when fresh marks were laid down on top of existing marks or bruises. So often were we beaten that it was seldom that our butts had time to heal properly. A flogging by the Head of House on a Thursday, with the dreaded Army Boot, would invariably overlay any existing marks. That was when you could spring a serious leak! It also needs to be noted that my Housemaster was feared, but by no means the most feared caner in the School. That honour was reserved for the Deputy Head of which I shall tell you more of next week.


Protective gear...

Okay, I do appreciate that most men prefer bottoms in something like this...

or even maybe this...

However, my personal choice would rather be something like this...

unless I can convince Uncle Nick that there is NO reason for the knickers to come down...


Spankingly positive?

I can barely describe my happiness this morning knowing that it is Friday. I would be ecstatic if I could skip Saturday and go straight to Sunday as well, but I suppose I cannot have everything I want.  The "miracle" has occurred, and HH’s electrical issues at his office have been sorted out. I am truly happy for him, at least he is again able to run his business, however, that means that I have to present myself to him tomorrow morning. But, I am trying to be positive about my upcoming meeting with him. I will only have nine days to go before leaving for the UK, after he has (again!) utilised his colour co-ordination skills on my bottom. So theoretically speaking, it should then be the last coffee, croissant and paddle date I will have with him before my departure. I mean, really – I am convinced certain confident reasonably positive that I can stay out of trouble until then...


The Spanking

I recognise that shiver going down my back immediately, when his voice softly direct me into a direction that I do not want, feeling the sulkiness settle over me as I am unable to get my own way. I feel the breath leaving my body when my heart starts racing, knowing that he is right and that I am clinging onto some part that wants to remain in control.

I resist that quiet sensation of disquiet slowly creeping over me, as I defy him brazenly, realising that I am playing with a fire that does burn with a heat that I will feel, but unwilling to acknowledge him in my anger. My mouth becomes dry when his voice change into its dangerous silky tone, with his warnings left hanging in the air, and my hope at escaping unscathed is crushed. Outwards I present as sullen, pouting with resentment that I am unable to hide, I am defiant and rebellious as I feel the first pieces of the hardness within crumbling away.

His words are chipped out of pure ice as he lectures me, and I use sarcasm and a stony silence to defend myself, yet I am unable to look at him, my head hanging, as I do not want him to see my eyes. As every word cuts deep into my shame, my guilt burning inside, I am desperate in my need that I do not want him to know, but I can feel the resistance fall away.

As the verdict is spelled out to me, I voice my denial, but my resistance against him, as he takes my arm to guide me over his lap, is slight. I groan in resentment, mumbling underneath my breath, trying to preserve my dignity and avoid voicing my utter humiliation as he lowers my knickers.

I once again make that silent promise to myself, that I will not react, I will not make a noise, I will endure – I will emerged triumphant. As his hand switch from one cheek to the other, the burn increasing in heat every time, I bury my head against my arm, my hand fisting as I am trying to keep back the sounds of my discomfort.

I hear his voice, the words in rhythm with the sound of his hand smacking hard and hot against my bared bottom. My bottom is stinging and the soreness becomes the focus of all my senses. As the pain reaches the point where my anger and panic becomes one, I protest loudly, raging against him, trying to break free. I no longer have control of my body, my legs are moving involuntary, up and down, as I try to twist my bottom away from his hand.

I try to cover my bottom with my hand, but even as he pins my hand down, holding me down, he does not stop, his hand continuing that relentless tempo against my skin. I want it to stop, the pain has become unbearable, my body is shuddering, waves of heat are creating droplets of perspiration on my back, but still he continues. I beg, I am pleading that he must stop; I tell him that I am sorry, but my words are incoherent as my control, my stubbornness slips away.

I feel that deep shudder that seems to come from within the centre of my body, my throat burns as the pain pushes me over the edge, the remaining shards of my control now destroyed. The first sob burn and hurts as it pushes up, but as I feel the tears escaping, my body becomes soft, the rigidness melting away, his hand still smacking against sore, tender skin, one cheek then the other. He finally stops, but I do not move away. I feel the lightness return as my tears are falling, I feel my pain going away with every sob, I feel a peace and quietness, I am calm again.


School Canings – Institutionalised Discipline and Corporal Punishment Part 2

HH continues...
Thursday Night Hit Parade

Last week I described the various levels of punishment with a Private South African Boys Boarding School. This week, I will talk about the infamous Mark system that only fell away when Corporal Punishment within South African Schools was banned in 1994.

As I said last week, you could get a Mark for any minor indiscretion. Most were dished out by the Prefects, although any Matric (Grade 12) Boy could give you a Mark. From memory, most Marks were dished out at one of the three daily Assemblies. We ran a Three Bell System. First Bell was a 5-minute warning, second bell was a 1-minute warning and you had to be in place by the Third Bell. If you were late, you simply received a Mark. If your shoes were not properly polished or you were not properly dressed, or if your hair was not properly brushed or any damn reason they could think of was cause enough to receive a Mark.

You could of course receive Marks for walking on the grass, for not buttoning your jacket properly (Seniors did not need to button their jackets, mid-School only needed to button one button, whilst juniors had to have both buttons done up), for putting your hands in your pockets again seniors were allowed to have both hands in their pockets, mid-School one hand and Juniors no hands in pockets! In the Natal Midlands, it can get cold in winter and it was always a great temptation to put your hands in your pockets and hope that no one was watching. Needless to say, the seniors were highly protective of their privileges and few had any hesitation of awarding Marks to boys they caught with their hands in their pockets or jackets inappropriately buttoned.

All marks were recorded in the Head of Houses’ (Prefect) Mark Book. The tally would be done whilst we were at Prep on a Thursday evening. Just before the final Prep session ended, the four Heads of Hoses would walk around the school advising those who had accumulated more than two Marks during the preceding week that they should report to the Prefects Room at 10.00pm. If you only had one Mark, the slate would be wiped and you could breathe easy until the following week. If you had more than four Marks, you were required to report to the House Master’s Study.

This left you about an hour to contemplate your fate – although we all knew how many Marks we had accumulated and what we were in for on Thursday night. The Head of House was only allowed to use a “Paddle”. Our particular House had a size 14 Army Boot, from which the leather upper had been removed – except for the toecap, which was filled with lead. As you can imagine, this hurt like hell!

Having been informed of our fate, we would trudge up from classroom prep and prepare ourselves for bed. If you were on Hit Parade, you were only allowed to wear your pyjamas – no underwear was allowed. At just before 10.00pm we would make our way down to the Prefect’s room. There was invariably a queue of at least 20 boys waiting to receive their just deserts. The other three Prefects were also usually hanging around outside the room – often mocking those who were standing in line to be punished.

The first boy would enter the room and be instructed to bend over a lounge chair. We would then hear the Head of House take the 4-5 step run and a solid Thwack! The minimum punishment was two strokes and the maximum was four. Two or three strokes was usually enough to raise “ruby drops” and certainly if you received four strokes there would be a good sprinkling of blood. Needless to say, that Army Boot was a most unpleasant experience. And so the Hit Parade would continue, with loud Thwacks resounding through the house. It was pretty much like a public execution – everyone knew exactly when and what was happening.

Almost as daunting was the walk through the crowd outside the door after you had been whacked! The Prefects grinning as you made every effort not to touch your butt until you had escaped to the corridor. Those waiting in line also smiling at your discomfort, but knowing that very shortly they would be suffering similarly. A quick check in the large bathroom mirror to see the “footprints” and to wash off any blood – also to cool your bruised and still stinging bottom in cool water. On entering the Dorm, there would be requests to see the marks, so you would have to bare your bum to the whole dorm.

For most of my first three years at the College, I was a regular attendee at Hit Parade. I certainly think as one gained increasing experience the effects began to diminish. I think there was certainly a case of “leather butt” among the regulars. However, as a Junior it was certainly a terrifying experience. Next time I will tell you what happened when we had more than four Marks in a week.


Strike Three...

So there I was on Saturday morning, literally falling out of bed at an hour that any respectable human being will never do. I mean, who in their right mind gets up before 8am on a wintery Saturday morning? Well, apart from me, that is...I had spent a very restless Friday night with the knowledge of a paddling coming up, and the assured fact that I was most likely not going to be able to sit down for a long, long time.

While the rest of South Africa was still snuggled up in their beds, I set off to collect the croissant and cup of coffee for HH. I firmly believe that sucking up to the hand that yields the wood can never hurt anyone...okay, now that was just a bad choice of words. Anyway, arriving at HH's office, I had to find out that the power has still not been restored (okay, this is South Africa - no actual surprise there) and that again there was no option but to postpone the "appointment".

So, I am still in my corner...but I have decided that the one and only baseball rule that I do know, is now going to apply. Strike three - paddle out. Without touching my bottom.



Cancellation of a punishment?

This is me.

Okay, it is not really me, but it could have been me. I have been left standing in the corner and for the record; I hate anything that might resemble corner time. I had to report to HH this evening, but then as I was going through the process of reconciling myself with the fact that my bottom had to meet with a piece of wood in the middle of winter, I received a message. "No power in office, no punishment tonight. You are a lucky Madam". A lucky Madam? A cancellation of the punishment or the joyous unexpected demise of a paddle will enhance my status to lucky. Alas, there is no luck in this story, for the punishment has not gone away - it was only postponed, and even worse, that awful piece of wood is still in existence.

However, I am sure this whole scenario can be regarded as the infliction of undue emotional distress, which in my books should count towards a significant reduction in the punishment due. In addition, if you take into consideration that I am now figuratively being stuck into a corner, waiting for the paddle to fall, credit should also be given for good behaviour. Therefore, in considering all these factors overall, it should effectively mean that the punishment has now been cancelled. Don't you agree?

Pockets and Undercuts

This man knows what he wants...
Gives a new meaning to the song "Baby makes her blue jeans talk"....



Wordless Wednesdays: Frayed Nerves...

There should be a clause that nullifies any punishment when this happens...


South African School Canings – Institutionalised Discipline and Corporal Punishment Part 1

HH wrote a couple of articles about his own experiences during his school days. As he stated in his email, there is a lot of interest in the corporal punishment history of South African schools, however, over time all type of myths and legends were attributed to the subject. Here is his account on what really happened during his school days

My high school years were spent at one of the leading Natal Boarding Schools. Regular canings and beatings were part and parcel of growing up in such an institution. Having had firsthand experience, at the hands of many Masters and Prefects in the School, I thought it might be interesting to Raven’s Readers to gain an understanding of what really went down.

I will start off by describing some of the misbehaviours for which we were flogged and caned. Then I will chat about some of the memorable canings I experienced. There is a great deal of material, so we will spread this over a number of weeks.

I will not embellish or exaggerate what went on. Some of it is pretty horrific and certainly very petty. However, it is what happened. This was the model upon which the school – and many other elite Private Schools – ran. It was a tough place in which to grow up. I do not think it left many mental scars on any of us, but certainly created a lifelong interest in spanking for me. I do think, however, that my interest started long before I went to Boarding School, but that is another story.

What were we beaten for?

Well pretty much anything could earn you a flogging! They were certainly not shy about dishing it out. Certainly, a glance around the communal showers would reveal ample evidence of this fact! 

There were actually a number of “judicial systems” in place. If one starts at the bottom – no pun intended – there was the “Mark” system that was under the Prefect’s control. This system was used to manage the boys’ behaviour within the Boarding Houses. For any misdemeanour, you would get a Mark. Two Marks in a week meant that you would be summoned to the Prefect’s Room on a Thursday night for a whacking.

You could get Marks for pretty much anything – being late for assembly (3 times a day), dirty shoes, incorrect uniform, cheeking seniors, failing to complete fagging duties (these ranged from warming the prefects toilet seats in the morning, to making toast and coffee for them, cleaning their rooms and making their beds etc. etc.) to having untidy lockers etc. Needless to say, it was hard as a Junior to avoid getting at least a couple of Marks a week.

The next level of Justice was meted out by the House Master and other Masters within the House. Any violation of the myriad of House Rules would result in an immediate caning. The normal Masters were limited to 4 strokes, whilst the House Master could give up to 6 strokes. I cannot recall a single instance where less than the minimum was ever given. I also recall that when we were caught by the normal Masters within the House and were told to report to the House Master, we would often plead with him to cane us himself as the House Master was particularly feared.

Some of the infractions for which the House Master and his deputies would cane us included: not being in the House during stipulated times, talking after lights out, fooling around in the dining hall, being late back from Exit Weekends, bunking lessons or sport practice, talking during prep periods and back chat! There were probably dozens of other reasons we were caned, these were just a few that I recall.

The next minefield we had to negotiate was the classrooms and the teachers running the academic side of the School. Similar to the hierarchy within the Boarding Houses, the Junior Masters were allowed to give us 4 strokes, whilst the Senior Masters were allowed to give us up to 6 strokes. All the usual misdemeanours qualified for a caning – being late for class, talking when we should not be, fooling around and not completing homework.

A rather unusual one was with a legendary Science Teacher. If you failed to achieve 80% in any class test, you would be caned. His philosophy was rather simple. If you did not understand something, you had to put up your hand and advise him of that fact. If no hands were raised, he assumed that everyone understood the subject matter. If we did not get 80%, it could only mean that we had not studied and were, therefore, being punished for laziness! It must be said that almost all these punishments happened on the spot in front of the class.

Finally, there were “Capital Punishments”. These were for more serious offences and were usually administered by the Deputy Headmaster. He was allowed to give up to 8 strokes and invariably used a very heavy cane. Bunking out, smoking, repeated offences in the School, failing to greet adults on Campus were just some of the offences that would see you bent over in front of the Deputy Head. An experience most of us sought to avoid.

So when I say that you did not have to try very hard to get yourself beaten, I am in no way exaggerating! There were certainly a couple of “goody goodies” that seldom landed in trouble. For the rest of us there was seldom a week that went by without someone taking a swing at your bottom.

I do need to stress that we all knew the rules and it was possible, but difficult, to avoid breaking them. We were a group of high-spirited young boys who, for the most part, had little fear of pushing the boundaries. When you were caught, you knew exactly what were going to be the consequences. Therefore, the system was tough but fair. I can never remember anyone saying that they had been unfairly beaten.

Something else that I need to clarify is that we were never beaten on the bare. At times, it was close, but we never had to expose ourselves fully.

Next time I will tell you about the Mark system and Thursday night “Hit Parade”.


I have done it again...

Okay. So, I have managed to do it again. It lasted for a couple of months, (give me the credit for that), but last week my control slipped. Well, to be honest, "slipped" might not be an accurate description. I lost it, completely and utterly.

In my defence, I was tired, cranky and after being stuck at a traffic light for more than 30 minutes, not an ounce of patience was left in my body. The law-abiding fools (like me) sat in this never-ending queue, while others would zoom past; create their own lane, resulting in a traffic jam of note. When I finally managed to get to the front of the queue, having to turn right, the collective taxi driver did his utmost to fit his vehicle next to mine. He failed. The joy of owning a huge 4x4 (or otherwise known as a SUV)!

(Snippet of conversation with Uncle Nick)

"So the traffic light changed, and as I started to turn right, he drove over the traffic island, and cut me off"
"We then had a bit of a verbal conversation" (well I was verbal to the extreme, I might add)
"He then gave me the middle finger, and showed me with his hand to bring it on"
Silence (both parties - I was already having serious doubts in the wisdom of sharing this tale)
"So what did you do?"
"Er...I did. Bring it on, I mean. I er...nudged forward, until I was pinning his taxi down against the guardrail with my car's bullbar"
Snort of laughter, immediately followed by a heavy silence.

No damage to my car or the bullbar - some scrapes on side of taxi.
(He did try his utmost thereafter to get me to drive into the back of the taxi, by slamming on his brakes - but by then, my sanity had returned - and the song "Bat out of hell" was going through my head when I made sure that I am definitely going into an opposite direction than him...)
A lecture about my death wish, my temper and that I should know better.
Moleskin notebook made an appearance...an entry was made - with a threat that I will be eating standing up for a week or something...

My possible way out of having food in a standing position?
(Still needs some refining and work though...)
I distinctly did hear that snort of laughter!


Play Munch

In about four weeks time I will be arriving in the UK. The first activity... make that the second activity I am going to be involved in? At lunchtime, I will be joining a “Play Munch”. Okay, now for clarity sake, for this South African woman, the word “munch” normally refers to the appetite status of someone that inhaled a bit of greenery that is deemed illegal to smoke. You know...”I have the munchies...” I do believe that food and drink will be available, but this will be my first experience of people getting together where spanking is the main thread that all connects us.

I still cannot quite understand what munching has to do with a spanking get together, but then on the other hand, when in the UK do what the British do...not the tea thing though. At certain things in life, I still firmly draw the line. Back to the Play Munch thingy...Uncle Nick is slightly concerned that I might be a tad too tired after the long flight, but then I do tend to be far to curious for my own good. There is NO way that I am not going. I will be meeting people that I have chatted to on Facebook, seeing the real person, hearing a voice...plainly put: I cannot wait!

However, I do hope that any hands itching to get to my bottom will realise that one should not mess with a woman that just had a 12 hour flight, was nicotine deprived and to top it all up, had to go through customs. I have decided that I will be on best behaviour, not backchat anyone, will be demure and properly behaved. I rather do think one should be as nice as possible with UK Customs officials.



It is finally over. A couple of loose ends to tie off, but it is done. I have been classified as a workaholic in the past, and it had never bothered me, but for this past month and a half, a financial year-end was nothing more than a seemingly endless nightmare. I missed reading the blogs, and my blog postings were done sometimes in so much haste, that I would wonder afterwards if I really did put a post out. As time moved on, and my personal time became less and less, I became withdrawn and sad. I was missing a part of me, not so newly discovered anymore, but so important to me.

Nevertheless, here I am, actually feeling nervous and like a new blogger. Not quite sure what to write, but knowing that there is so much I want to say. Yesterday, Uncle Nick was the first to hear the change in my voice, the lightness returning and my joy shining through. He was also the first to know that for once, I was at home and not at the office where I have been constantly, especially over the past three weeks.

For all you that has left comments on my blog, that sent me mails, and still read what I did at times manage to post, a huge thank you. I have some serious catching up to do, to see what has happened to friends, to say hello and that I have missed them. I have however decided, that if I am still in South Africa for the next financial year-end, I am SO going to pull up a "to do list", delegate it afterwards, and go on extended leave. What the hell, if they are not happy with it, they can join the queue to spank me!

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