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Tales from the study2: Six of the best school storiesMale on male spanking storiesBy Charles Hamilton II

The characters depicted in these stories are overthe age of 18 years old.These stories are intended for adults over the ageof 18 years.Text copyright 2016 Charles Hamilton IIAll Rights ReservedDistributed free of charge viawww.charleshamiltonthesecond.wordpress.com1

Six of the best school stories1First sixth-former to be caned32 Pyjama bottoms down. Bend over143 High school reunion244 Smokers365 The headmaster’s guests526 News boy at St. CIGS742

1 First sixth-former to be canedNO SIXTH-FORMER had ever been caned at myschool, so I made history that day.Actually, hardly anyone had been caned inliving memory – it was a “progressive” school andI had thought corporal punishment had beenabolished a long time ago.But, as I was to find out it had only fallen intodisuse and that day it was making a comeback.And, I welcomed its return, thank you verymuch, Sir.I was eighteen years old and for a long as Icould remember I had had a thing about corporalpunishment. I used to fantasize about what it wouldbe like to go over someone’s knee for the slipper orbe sent to the headmaster’s study for six-of-the-bestwith the cane.And, now my fantasy was to come true: or so Ihoped.It was all rather unexpected. I was in no way abad lad, a rebellious teen, or a troublemaker. In fact,I was such a goody-goody I was a prefect at theschool and tipped to go on to university.I had fallen foul of one of the school’s mostfearsome battle-axes: Miss Lowenstein. She really3

was an old crone. One of the ugliest women you’dever be likely to meet, with buck teeth and a gammyleg, courtesy of a childhood bout of polio.She was, of course, a spinster and we boys allthought she was sex starved (as if we weren’t). And,she was a tough disciplinarian. She called herself a“martinet” and woe betides anyone who did not callher “ma’am”. No way were we allowed to call her“miss”, like we did all the other women teachers.She had a mean streak and that’s how it was thatI was about to break the record and take a caning.We had a school magazine, it wasn’t a poshone, professionally published, but just somethingwe cobbled together on an old Roneo printer. It wasmostly short stories and poems (well, doggerelverse really). It was my prowess as a poet that gotme in trouble. I’d penned a verse that did not nameher, but everyone knew who I meant. Somewherein there it called her a “crow” and that she did notlike.So, before I knew it she was onto Mr.Buckingham, the head of Upper School, whining onthat something must be done. And, the only“something” that would satisfy the bat was me bentover getting a sore arse.When I realised I was for it I was not the leastworried. I had dreamt about this for so long. I was4

fascinated by school canings and read lots of storiesand comics that involved schoolboys getting theirbacksides tanned.My favourite stories took place in publicschools which were a world away from the innercity comprehensive I attended. In England “public”schools are expensive private schools, often wherepupils boarded. What they all had in common wasthe thwack of the cane across the seat of the trousersthat rewarded boys who misbehaved.At home I used to pretend I was one of the boyssent for “six on the bags” as the school stories hadit. Often I would dress up in my school uniform andpose in front of the full-length mirror in thepassageway of our council flat. I would bend overtouching my toes admiring the reflection of my bumin the mirror.I never did anything about my spankingfantasy. I was young and we were all very naïve inthose days. We didn’t have Internet then, so Iwasn’t to know that there were plenty of people outthere who shared my interest. Let’s face it therewould have been plenty of people ready to cane aneighteen-year-old schoolboy’s backside raw (andmuch else besides) if they knew he was ready andwilling.5

I had one friend who looking back I think mighthave shared my interest. We were too young toexpress to each other our true feelings and theclosest we got to doing anything was one day, whileplaying in his house, we found some sticks and hada go at sword-fighting. I can’t remember how ithappened, but we moved on from medieval knightsor whatever to naughty boys.To this day, I remember he was willing to get awhacking from me. He bent over the back of thecouch. He was eighteen, but couldn’t quite stretchall the way over. But, I do remember his chubbybuttocks stretching against his corduroy trousers.He made a perfect target and if I hadn’t been so shy,I would have (no, should have) swished the stickinto his arse.But I chickened out. Why? I don’t know. Buteven now nearly fifty years after the event I stillhave pangs of regret.So, I wasn’t about to give up the chance of aproper headmaster’s caning from Mr. Buckingham.I went to a pretty ordinary school and we hadno airs and graces: my school uniform was a verystandard black blazer with grey trousers.My uniform was ordinary and if truth be told Iwas pretty ordinary too: about five-foot-seven, alittle over eight-stone in weight, and properly6

proportioned, not like the obese teenagers you seetoday.At the appointed time I went to the concreteand-glass Admin Block and knocked on the door ofMr. Buckingham’s office. My heart was thumpingas if I had run a mile in a minute to be there.Something exciting was happening here and Icouldn’t easily describe it, but I hoped that after thisafternoon I wouldn’t quite be the same again.I entered on Mr. Buckingham’s command. Iwas surprised to find Miss Lowenstein waitingthere: not only was she determined to make sure Igot my beating; she was going to personally witnessit.Mr. Buckingham had a modern office and itwas very small. With all the filing cabinets youcouldn’t swing a cat (or hardly a cane) in it. Helooked like a typical comprehensive schoolteacher:he wore a scruffy shirt and plain tie. His beigetrousers had seen better days since he bought themat a cheap chain store many years previously.There wasn’t much room with all three of uspresent. I stood as best I could in front of Mr. B’sFormica-covered desk. It was a mess, piled highwith files and school notebooks. Miss Lowensteinmoved out of my eyesight, probably all the better toget a view of what was to happen next.7

Mr. Buckingham didn’t quite know what to say.He called me “Walton,” which isn’t quite my name.He mumbled something about how awful I hadbeen. He actually said my behaviour was “ugly”and I suppressed a laugh at that, knowing that wordperfectly described Miss Lowenstein.I said something nondescript in return and thenhe told me matter-of-factly that he was going tocane me.He moved to a filing cabinet. I hadn’t noticedbefore, but on top of it lay a short stick. This was nocrook-handled ashplant cane beloved of publicschool masters; this was a piece of bamboo, a littleover two feet long and so rigid it would beimpossible to bend it, or get much of a swish out ofit.Then he said the wonderful words I had dreamtof hearing for so long, “Bend over, Walton.”There wasn’t anything to bend over, a desk or achair, so heart thumping madly I just bent down. Hehadn’t given the time-honoured command “touchyour toes,” so I leaned forward a bit and keeping mylegs straight I put my hands on my knees. That wasenough. I was stooped there showing sufficientbackside to serve the purpose.I waited staring down at the worn carpet for the8

It was a piece of bamboo, a little over two feet long and rigid9

first stroke to land, remembering all those times Ihad bent touching my toes in front of the mirror. Itdidn’t matter how much it hurt I would shut myteeth and stick it, just like the boys in the stories Iloved so much.There was no swish as the cane landed on mybum, just a dull thud. I felt it, but there was nosearing pain. The second and third stoke landed.What a disappointment. I hardly felt a thing. Mr.Buckingham’s heart was not in this. I felt terriblylet down.I got six strokes, but there’s no way anyonecould have mistaken them for “six-of-the best.” Iremained bent over after the last one landed. I knewthe etiquette was you stayed in position until youwere given permission to stand up. In the stories ifa boy stood up before being allowed he got extrastrokes. I wouldn’t have minded some more, but Idoubt Mr. Buckingham would have obliged.Eventually, rather absent-mindedly, Mr.Buckingham said I should get up. I did as I was told.Did my face show my disappointment? I can’t besure, but I could see Miss Lowenstein had a facelike thunder. She was not impressed. Had shewanted to see me jumping about from foot to footclutching my bum in agony and choking in fits ofsobs?10

Maybe she did. I’m sure that’s what I wantedtoo.Mr. Buckingham was still holding the cane, notsure what to do with it, or how to dismiss me fromhis office. I don’t suppose he had much experiencecaning schoolboys since corporal punishment hadall but been abolished at the school.Eventually, he summoned up enough wit tosend me on my way.I was in no real pain. In the stories I would havebeen rubbing my backside furiously as I rushedback to my study. I did have a surreptitious feel ofthe seat of my trousers, just a quick rub with mythumb, but there was no sensation there.I knew I couldn’t go to the lavs to inspect thedamage (if there was any) because they would befull of smokers and there’d be no privacy.Instead, I went straight home. Thirty minuteslater I was lying on my bed, my trousers and pantson the floor beside me. I was sorely disappointed. Icouldn’t find a trace of the cane’s marks. It was asif it hadn’t happened. There were no welts orbruises that would last for days and no chance thatI would have difficulty in sitting down at tea timeor have to sleep on my stomach that night.I leaned over and took an ancient storybook anda handful of tissues from the bedside table. They11

certainly knew how to deal with misbehavingseniors at St Tom’s School.Dr. Tulke rose from his writing-table. ToWooton’s surprise, he picked up a cane. Wootoncould not see what the cane was wanted for.Hewas,however,soontodiscover.“Senior boys,” said the Head, “are not usuallycaned at St, Tom’s, but there are exceptional casesthat can be dealt with in no other way. Bend overthat desk, Wooton!”“Eh?”“Bend over that desk!”Wooton - bewildered and dismayed - bent overthe desk.Swipe! Swipe, Swipe, Swipe, Swipe, Swipe!It was not merely “six.” It was as thorough alicking as Dr. Tulke had ever administered; such alicking as Wooton had seldom or never experiencedbefore.It seemed like a horrid dream to Wooton of theSixth. But it was no dream; it was painful reality.Very painful! The Head was a venerable gentleman,but he seemed to have a lot of beef in his right arm.He put it all into that whacking.Wooton fairly squirmed.12

“Now,” said the Head, breathing hard, “youmay go, Wooton! Not another word, or I shall caneyou again! Go!”Wooton almost tottered from the study. He leftwith pale face and compressed lips. His eyes wereburning like hot coals.13