Neighbours peered from behind lace curtains as the policeman propped his cycle near the front gate and carefully untied the string holding the school cane in place on the frame. It was a hot afternoon during one of those glorious summers we used to have years ago.
Twenty miles away, the editor of a newspaper in the far north of England was in his office talking to his deputy and Max, a junior reporter.
“I heard there’s a policeman in Harkensbury who’s taking the law into his own hands.”
“You mean gun fights in the street, people hanging from trees?”
“Where’s Harkensbury …?”
“About twenty miles north of here, on the edge of the moors. A few villages. Farms. Moors.”
“What’s going on?”
“Some copper dispensing his own justice.”
“How do you mean?”
“He catches people but he doesn’t take them to court.”
“What’s he do?”
“You mean children.”
“No, adults too I think.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He spanks people if they break the law.”
“But surely not adults. You mean if you went up there and got drunk and later wee’d up the cemetery wall, he’d take you over his knee and smack your bottom?”
“No, not people my age, I suppose. Young adults I think. People like you Max. In the late teens. Twenties.”
“How likely is this?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“But why would he do it?”
“Old fashioned justice. Didn’t coppers in the past used to give kids a clip round the ear? Take a belt to their arses?”
“Sounds a bit kinky to me.”
“Why would they let it happen?”
“The people. The villagers.”
“Maybe they think it works. Keeps crime down.”
“What crime? It’s in the middle of nowhere.”
“I don’t know. Maybe it keeps the teenagers quiet. I don’t know.”
“But they wouldn’t put up with it.”
“Who? The kids?”
“The ‘young adults,’ the parents. The kids. None of them.”
“Not necessarily. What if they think it works. Or it’s better than going to court.”
“I heard a lot of it is motoring. The kids get stopped on their bikes. Speeding. Riding without insurance and the like. They don’t want to pay fines and have their licences endorsed. So, you know …”
“Some of it’s probably bravado.”
“How do you mean?”
“Like at school. You’re not one of the gang unless you’ve had a spanking off the policeman. They show off to their friends that they can take it.”
“No, I don’t believe it, it doesn’t ring true.”
“Well, let’s say a load of yobs on their motorbikes are up at the moors and they stop at a café or a pub or something and they cause trouble. Then along comes Plod and he says, “You’re very naughty boys. Now, take down your trousers and bend over my knee.” Do you think they’re going to do it? Or course they’re not.”
“Maybe only locals.”
“Only locals. He only does it to locals. If there are outsiders they go to court in the usual way. I suppose he needs to make some arrests. For appearances sake. You know.”
“Well, let’s find out.”
“Max, I want you to find out.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Because you are the perfect person. How old are you? Eighteen? Nineteen?”
“Nineteen, see, you’d be perfect.”
“Perfect? Perfect for what?”
“To go to Harkensbury and find out what’s going on.”
“How am I supposed to do that? I can’t just go in and say, ‘Excuse me officer, but I hear you illegally spank boys’ backsides. Boys’ bare backsides.’ Come on.”
“You could go and suss him out a bit. Go to the police station. Have a look; see if he’s got a cane hanging from the umbrella stand. You know one of those jobs with the curved handle.”
“Look, Max. You can go up there and have a look round. Use your charms. Talk to some locals. Chat up the girls.”
“Girls? Is he spanking the girls too?”
“I don’t know. Find out. He might be.”
“No, their parents wouldn’t let him do that surely.”
“I don’t know, but the girls will know what’s going on. Maybe their brothers have been done. Or their boyfriends.”
“Maybe he does them both together.”
“You know, spanks the boys and girls together. He finds them canoodling behind a hay stack and they both get it. Over the knee, knickers down …”
“You’ve been reading too many porno stories [Laughter].”
“Seriously Max. I want you to go and find out.”
“But… What can I do? What will I be able to find out?”
“Use your initiative lad. What do we know? We know he spanks teenagers like yourself if they commit a nuisance or a crime or what have you.”
“So, test it out. Like an old-time reporter.”
“Before your time, Max. You know Harry when the ‘News of the Screws’ turned over massage parlours that were really brothels. The reporter would have his massage and then when the girl offered him the extras, you know the sex, he made an excuse and left.”
“So in time-honoured fashion you go up there and cause some bother. I know, you get yourself caught stealing something from the village store. Then the policeman is called and you go back to the station and you know.”
“So, when he’s unbuckled my belt and is pulling my jeans down, I make an excuse and leave! And I end up with a criminal record.”
“Mmmmm. Looks like you’ll have to take the spanking then.”
“Very funny. Anyway, I can’t. Harkensbury is twenty miles away. I don’t have transport.”
“You’ve got your bike.”
“I can’t cycle twenty miles there and twenty miles back.”
“What a fit lad like you. Look at you, you’re always cycling …. Running ….”
“There’s a train station at Falney.”
“Yes, it’s three miles from Harkensbury. On a local line. Get the train up there and cycle the rest.”
“You can cycle around the villages, find out what you can.”
“Get a ticket for speeding.”
“Ha, ha, ha. Very funny.”
“If it’s true, it’s a cracking story.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Crime committed. No court hearing. He takes boys across his knee for bare bum spankings. He loves it. It’s called perverting the course of justice.”
The widow Graveney had been expecting PC Snodgrass and had the front door open to welcome him before he had liberated the cane from his bicycle.
Upstairs, her eighteen-year-old son Albert sneaked a peak from behind the bedroom curtain. The moment he had been dreading had arrived. He had spent the past half hour testing the thickness of each pair of trousers he possessed to decide which would offer the maximum protection during the ordeal he faced. He did not know his effort was wasted: PC Snodgrass had no intention of letting trousers get in the way of his duty. Nor, for that matter, underpants. The policeman had no wish to return to the house; he would make today’s thrashing so awesome, young Albert would never, ever, want to have to bare his backside for Snodgrass again.
Downstairs, PC Snodgrass and the Widow Graveney exchanged embarrassed pleasantries. Albert had not committed a crime, but he had started to get out of his mother’s control: he was surly, rude and constantly disobedient. He needed discipline and if his father had been alive he would have long ago tanned the youngster’s behind good and proper.
Snodgrass offered a private service to a number of women on his patch; there were many widows on account of the mining disaster and a number of young men who were going undisciplined. Mrs Graveney had received a recommendation from Mrs Wheeler; her Thomas had turned over a new leaf after the policeman caned his backside raw and, she was sure, Albert would benefit from the same treatment.
Snodgrass was the only policeman for miles around and on his patch he was the law. Nobody wanted to cross him; this was a law-abiding community of hard-working folk. They believed in right and wrong and if they did wrong, they expected to be punished. That extended to the young folk and the children as well; corporal punishment was as natural in their lives as the sun and the rain.
“Shall we get on with it, Mrs Graveney,” PC Snodgrass had another punishment visit to make later that morning and was keen to get things moving, “Why not call Albert down. Then I find the mothers usually prefer not to be present for the …” he hesitated, “well you know what.”
Snodgrass found that sometimes mothers lost their nerve at the crucial moment and didn’t want him to go through with it. No wonder their children were so ill behaved, if their mothers mollycoddled them like that.
Moments later Albert appeared in the front room. Snodgrass permitted himself a smile when he saw the teenager had dressed in trousers made from a heavy twill material.
Snodgrass had prepared a short sermon, nothing much, just a catalogue of Albert’s misdeeds followed by a homily on the blessedness of mothers and why they should be obeyed. Then he pronounced sentence.
Albert had listened, or at least pretended to listen, without expression to Snodgrass’s lecture. But then: “Twelve strokes, bare bottomed.” the boy’s deep suntan couldn’t disguise that his face had drained of natural colour.
Albert’s mouth opened and closed, like a goldfish. He wanted to protest, but no words came from his throat. But, what could he say; there was no doubt, none at all, that he was guilty as charged. He had been horrible to his mother for a very long time; and now the time had come to pay for his bad behaviour.
But, twelve and on the bare. He had been caned at school (who hadn’t been?) but that was never more than six strokes, sometimes it was less, and always on the seat of his trousers. It hurt a boy like crazy when the Head of Year lashed his heavy cane across his bum and the last time he got it, a month or so ago, the marks stayed with him for a week. That was awful, but twelve strokes trousers and pants down would be beyond his endurance.
Snodgrass swished the cane menacingly through the air; his intention was to intimidate the boy in front of him and he succeeded magnificently. Already tears were forming behind Albert’s eyes and he wanted to beg the policeman not to thrash him.
The policeman had never in his life had a boy refuse to prostrate himself before him to receive a beating. Once or twice they hesitated before taking up the required position, but they always did as instructed eventually. He knew Albert would not want to humiliate himself by being too cowardly to submit for his punishment.
Albert was shaking like the proverbial leaf as he unfastened his heavy trousers and let them fall to his feet, followed by his Aertex underpants. Instinctively, he cupped his hands over his manhood and blushed deeply at the shame of being naked before Snodgrass.
“Don’t be foolish boy. You have nothing I haven’t seen before.”
Albert blushed all the deeper.
“Bend over the table,” Snodgrass swished the cane at the dining room table.
As if in a trance Albert shuffled the few feet to the table and then, not being quite sure what to do, he leant down on his elbows. The white linen tablecloth slipped under him and he slithered forward.
“Not like that boy,” Snodgrass sneered, “flat on your stomach.”
Albert regained control and lay belly down on the table. It was circular so there was no far edge for the teenager to grip. So, instinctively he folded his arms in front of him and buried his face in them.
Snodgrass was faced with a pair of quivering buttocks. He lined the cane up across the fleshiest part of the cheeks, tapped once or twice to get his aim and then lashed into Albert. This was no love-tap, or token stroke, the policeman wanted the cane to enter the boy through his rear end with so much force that it could possibly exit through his front.
An ugly thick mark grew and redness deepened across the very centre of Albert’s bum. The first stroke seemed to take him by surprise, but the horror of the pain quickly kicked in. This was going to be no schoolboy caning.
Then an even harder stroke cut into the sit spot, making the boy wail. His bottom was now paying the consequences of his impertinence and rudeness to his mother.
Snodgrass was an expert. He calculated the strength of the next three blows to perfection and watched Albert’s squirming bottom for a few seconds before slashing home another three.
Albert was flogged until he sobbed and pleaded and finally fell silent – beaten and ashamed.
Then it was over. Like a zombie, the boy rose from the table and pulled up his pants and trousers. He could feel each and every stroke throbbing.
Snodgrass called up the stairs as he left the house, to let Mrs Graveney know his task was completed. As he retied the cane to the frame of his bicycle, the policemen was pleased to note that the neighbours were still at their windows.
Max is at home. It is night time and he is in his bedroom. His eighteen-year-old brother, naked except for his snugly-fitting bottle-green briefs, is across his knees. Max is pounding down slaps into his brother’s bottom: rapidly and very hard. Max thinks his brother has been taking things from his bedroom without permission: magazines, records and so on. He thinks he might even be stealing cash.
His brother knows he has been a naughty boy and deserves this spanking. He keeps his bottom raised high to give Max the maximum area to aim at. Max lays into him with enthusiasm, but his brother’s bottom is pert and seems to be made of steel. His own hand might be hurting much more than his brother’s buttocks.
Max has had variations of this dream over the past few days. Last night his brother was totally naked, his bottle green briefs at his ankles, but he still remained stoically across Max’s knees. Max caresses his brother’s buttocks, thighs, legs and back. His body is all over suntanned, except for the buttocks which are a creamy, hairless, white: they have been protected from the sun by the skimpiest of swimming trunks.
Again, his brother lies submissively across Max’s lap as he slaps the palm of his hand into his cheeks.
Max recalled his dreams as the train chugged its way to Falney. It was Saturday and he was off to Harkensbury in search of the spanking policeman.
Corporal punishment had been a topic much discussed in the office over the past week. There was an odd story in the journalists’ weekly trade newspaper. It seems an editor in Japan would spank his reporters with a wooden paddle when they made mistakes. This encouraged Arkwright, the aging bachelor chief sub-editor, to declare that he would bring a carpet slipper into the office to encourage the junior reporters (he meant Max, who was the only junior on the newspaper) to spell correctly. Everyone agreed what a good idea this was.
It was another glorious sunny day and Max decided to make the most of it. He would be cycling a lot so he chose to wear the shortest shorts he owned. They were beige cords and hardly covered his buttocks. They had a bib at the front that fastened to the back of the waistband by two straps across his shoulders; making the snug fitting shorts hug his buttocks so smoothly you could see the outline of the very briefest briefs beneath . A loose fitting yellow t-shirt was the only other clothing he wore.
Max admired his reflection in the train’s window. He had a deep suntan all over his body; well, nearly all over; as with his brother his buttocks remained white. He was a fit youngster; he cycled and ran and did press-up and sit-up exercises each morning, which toned his body to perfection. He knew the girls admired him when he walked around town, but he was too naïve to realise that so too did a few of the men.
Max’s editor was happy to encourage him in his choice of clothes for this trip, believing that the police constable’s spanking exploits were almost certainly a sexual fetish. When he took one look at Max, the tasty teenager in his skimpy shorts, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off him.
Harkensbury turned out to be a one-horse town; well one-shop anyway. The general stores was about one hundred yards from the police station, so Max thought if he did have to resort to shoplifting they wouldn’t have far to drag him for his spanking. There were one or two cottages dotted about and he could see a church down a lane, but there didn’t seem to be a pub.
Max dismounted his cycle near the police station. It was a basic brick building and even from a distance he could see it was one office with a house attached. This must be where the constable lived. There was no vehicle outside and everything looked locked up; he hoped he hadn’t wasted his journey.
The teenager picked up his canvas shoulder bag, the one he used for carrying the newspaper’s camera and other things like a bottle of water and sometimes a sandwich. The camera was compact, but good enough for his purposes. He took a couple of snaps of the outside of the building and then checking to make sure nobody was about he crossed the road to the police station and peered through the windows. Did his editor really expect there would be a school cane hanging from a hat stand?
Max put the camera to the window and took a picture, before quickly dashing from window to window, imagining he was a spy collecting information about a foreign enemy.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?”
Max didn’t have to turn around to see who was speaking. He knew: the police constable must have just popped out to the store. He turned slowly to see a short squat man in a sweat-stained blue shirt, confirming his suspicions.
“Why are you taking photos through my window? Who the hell are you?”
Max remained silent. Should he lie, or should he tell the truth, “I’m a newspaper reporter and I’m here to expose you as a kinky spanker.”
Before Max could say anything Snodgrass grabbed the camera from his hands and opening the back pulled the roll of film from it – destroying all his pictures.
“Were you intending to rob the police station?”
Still Max stayed silent.
“Get in there you,” Snodgrass grabbed Max by the scruff of the neck and propelled him inside the building. The room was hot and airless. The police constable was sweating profusely, but it wasn’t entirely due to the heat.
“Can I have my camera back please?” The policeman meekly handed it back to Max, who opened up his canvas shoulder bag and took his time returning the camera.
Snodgrass’s breathing was laboured. What a glorious sight. Those legs. Those crazy shorts.
“You know I can do you for attempted burglary don’t you?”
“Oh, Sir, please don’t do that.” It seemed to Max the appropriate thing to say.
“I’m going to have you put in the cells until Monday and then you can go before the magistrate,” Snodgrass couldn’t take his eyes off the boy: that flat stomach; those thighs.
Max remained silent. It was Snodgrass who must do the talking.
“Or, we can deal with it another way.”
“Another way Sir, what would that be,” Max spoke clearly now.
“I can spank your backside for you.”
“You want to give me a spanking, did you say?”
Snodgrass had been clear enough the first time, but he repeated himself nonetheless.
“Yes, I can spank you and the magistrate doesn’t have to be bothered.”
“Spank me, isn’t that against the law?”
“Around here,” Snodgrass sneered, “I am the law.”
The police constable took Max’s silence to mean he agreed to his suggestion so he pulled a straight backed chair to the centre of the room.
“What are you doing with that chair?” Max asked, as if he really didn’t know.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Snodgrass spluttered as he delved into a drawer to find a large oval wooden-backed hair brush.
“Are you going to spank me with that hairbrush?” Snodgrass had only just met this delicious boy, but already he had concluded he was a bit dim-witted.
“Yes, that’s the general idea. Now come over here.”
Max put down the shoulder bag on the floor close to Snodgrass’s chair.
“So if I let you spank me, you will drop all charges against me,” Max asked for confirmation.
“I’ve already said that. Now, how do you get out of those shorts?”
“What you want me to take off my shorts?”
“Oh yes, a spanking’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare bottom. Now,” Snodgrass reached over to Max, “tell me how I take these shorts down.”
The shorts might have been the height of fashion, but they weren’t very practical if you wanted to evacuate them in a hurry. Eventually, Max had the bib undone and the shorts at his ankles.
Snodgrass nearly had a heart seizure at the sight of the teenager’s pert bottom inside the smooth cotton of his briefs. The legs and the thighs were the best he had ever seen. The policeman would remember this spanking for a long time to come.
He tugged at Max’s pants and directed them to the boy’s feet.
“Now come here,” he took Max by the arm and guided him across his knees. Max made no attempt to resist and placed the palms of his hands squarely on the carpet in front of himself. He had never been spanked before, nor had he seen anyone spanked and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do, so re-enacting his dream, he held his bottom as high as he comfortably could and waited for the hairbrush to strike.
“So you’re going to spank me on my bare bottom with that hairbrush,” Max asked, as if he needed confirmation.
“You bet, pal,” Snodgrass said and crashed the wood into Max’s rock hard left buttock.
Max didn’t know how much a spanking was supposed to hurt, but he reckoned the one he was getting now, was pretty painful. Actually, the nineteen-year-old would have been in more agony if his bottom contained more fat and less muscle.
Snodgrass loved every whack and spank of it. He raised the hairbrush high and brought it smacking down over and over and over again.
“Ouch, oooh, ouch, that hurts. Stop it please. I can’t take much more of this bare-bottomed spanking.”
Snodgrass had spanked countless boys, but he never encountered one who reacted quite like Max. Usually, they wriggled and squirmed and often they cried, but they never spoke like Max did.
The constable didn’t think much about it, he was enjoying himself too much. He spanked on for five minutes or more, completely toasting the small buttocks and Max’s thighs. The policeman’s breathing was uneven and the heat of the room and the excitement sent his blood pressure sky high. Max was in pain, but he was a very fit young man and he was taking the exertions in his very athletic stride.
Finally, Snodgrass had to admit it; if he carried on any longer he might have a heart attack or even die. It was time to stop.
Once released, Max jumped to his feet. He didn’t want to give Snodgrass the satisfaction of seeing him naked so hurriedly he pulled up his pants and climbed back into his shorts and bib.
Snodgrass was in a bad state, Max could see. Should he call an ambulance? He didn’t want the man to die on him.
“No, I’ll be alright”, Snodgrass wheezed, when Max asked.
“So, it’s over then. You have spanked me and I won’t have to go to the magistrates’ court?” Max asked.
“Yes, it’s over,” Snodgrass gasped.
“Thank you Sir, may I go now?”
Carefully, Max picked up the shoulder bag that had lain on the floor during his spanking and left.
His buttocks were raw, but the pain was already turning into a warm glow. There would be bruises for few days, he supposed, but no lasting harm had been done.
He climbed onto his bicycle and rode away, but the hard seat against his buttocks reignited the pain of the bare-bottomed spanking. After a hundred yards, he pulled over to the side of the lane, as he had always intended doing. Dismounting the bike, he opened the shoulder bag and peered inside. The small tape recorder was still running. He stopped it, rewound a bit and then he pressed play. Bingo, loud and clear: his spanking.
He remounted the bike and despite the discomfort rode at full pelt to the train station with a huge grin on his face. What a scoop!
Episode 2, Max and the deputy editor is here.
Other judicial punishment stories you might like.
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second