Police Cadet Pettigrew stood head bowed, heart racing. His face was drained of colour. He jerked from one foot to the other. Ashamed. Humiliated.
The nineteen-year-old shuddered. Soon tears would flow like a stream going down a hill.
Police-sergeant Harris growled. “You damn fool. You bloody idiot.”
Pettigrew shook some more. He clasped his hands behind his back, but he could not stop them shaking.
Harris paced the room. It was a small room. An old wooden table dominated it. The policeman’s boots echoed on the bare floorboards. “Idiot. Fool,” he muttered over and over again.
Pettigrew’s brown eyes that usually sparkled with merriment stared blankly. His mind raced. His career was ruined. His life was over. He might even be sent to prison.
Sgt Harris frowned. The fifty-two-year-old father of three and grandfather of two had thought he had seen it all before. But, Pettigrew took the biscuit. Harris was a career copper. He was solid. Dependable. The bosses could rely on him. That’s why for the past ten years he had been in charge of the police section house. It was where young single policeman lived. It was a hostel, or, Sgt Harris liked to think, a dormitory. Like at a boarding school.
If the section house was a boarding school, Harris did not like to think of himself as a headmaster. He was more like a family member, he hoped. Like a stern uncle, perhaps. A stern uncle who was called upon from time to time to instil discipline.
The police liked to call itself a “force under discipline” and “Uncle” Harris was the living embodiment of this discipline.
“What were you thinking of lad?” Harris frowned, genuinely puzzled. “Why were you at that cottage?”
Pettigrew choked back tears. He could not answer. He hardly wanted to admit it to himself.
The “cottage” in question was a public lavatory on the edge of the municipal park. He had gone there looking for company. It was an urge. He could not control it. There had been a young man; not much older than Pettigrew himself. An athletic man; easily six-feet tall. The man smiled. Pettigrew would swear he even winked. They entered a toilet cubicle. Pettigrew undid the zipper of his trousers. The man pulled out a warrant card. He was a police detective.
Homosexuality was illegal. The newspapers called it “evil.” Known homosexuals lost their jobs and their homes. Their families disowned them. Often they were sent to prison.
“Coppers go cottaging to catch fairies,” the Sergeant sighed. “We are provocateurs; we are not the perverts looking for sex.”
Pettigrew heaved. He felt a lump of vomit stick in his mouth. He swallowed it down. It left a bitter taste in the back of his throat.
“We also look after our own,” Harris’ eyes blazed. “You are lucky DC Brightwater told me first.” Harris let the announcement hang in the air. He paced the room, then rested his buttocks on the edge of the desk and looked Pettigrew up and down. He was a new recruit; he had been in the force about three months. He was nineteen, but with his fresh open face, dark brown eyes and long curling lashes, he looked much younger. He was about five-feet-eight, thin and wiry. If you put him in a blazer, he could easily pass for one of the lads at the local grammar school, the Sergeant reckoned.
He had a soft spot for Pettigrew. The boy had a sunny disposition. His smile could make a dull day, sunny. He loved to laugh.
If news about the cadet’s indiscretion in the lavatories became public, his life would be ruined. That was too high a price to pay. The Sergeant knew the boy’s life could be turned around. There was hope for him yet.
A damn good thrashing would do the trick. Or at least, it would be a start. Sgt Harris was old school. He believed a “good clip round the ear” for errant youngsters was professional policing. Except “a good clip” was a euphemism for something much more severe. His charges at the section house had become acquainted with his methods.
There were upwards of twenty young men at the section house. All were red blooded males (well, nearly all of them). They were boisterous and got into scrapes. Drunkenness was an especial problem. That and women.
Only the previous week Sgt Harris had slashed twelve strokes of a whippy rattan school cane across the bared buttocks of Cadet Youngerman. He had smuggled a girl into his room. How the hell did he expect to get away with that?
The cadets were not yet twenty-one years old. They were not legally adults. Sgt Harris was in locus parentis, he stood in for their parents.
The youngsters did not complain. Corporal punishment was part of their lives. The cane was habitually used at school and many fathers were not averse to taking slippers and belts to the backsides of misbehaving sons. Even those in their late teens.
The cadets preferred that news of their misdemeanours went no further than the section house. They did not want it on their formal dockets, on the record for the rest of their careers.
“Wait there,” Harris hauled himself off the desk and left the room. Pettigrew stood staring at the far wall. Tears flowed down his face.
Moments later, Harris returned. In his right hand he held a long strip of leather. The razor strop was thick and heavy. It had long ago ceased to be used for its intended purpose. It no longer sharpened razors, but it had a new role in life; beating the backsides of young police cadets.
“Stop your crying, lad,” Sgt Harris spoke harshly. He hated it when a cadet could not take a thrashing. They were trainee coppers. They were supposed to be tough men. Not cry-babies. He expected them to submit themselves willingly to punishment.
“I’m giving you a second chance,” he spoke as if reading from a prepared script. Harris was a gangling, thin-haired man with a hook nose, tiny blue eyes of ice and a sloping forehead. He surveyed the small terrified cadet in the most censorious manner. He droned on and on in a cold and hostile manner.
Pettigrew heard none of it. His head buzzed. His blood pressure was off the scale; he feared he would vomit at any moment. He could not keep his eyes from blinking.
Sgt Harris held up the razor strop. He was showing it to Pettigrew, but the cadet’s body might be present in the dingy room, but his mind was elsewhere.
Crack! Harris smashed the leather strop across the top of the table. The noise echoed around the room. It brought Pettigrew to his senses.
“I seem to have your attention now,” the Sergeant snarled. “Let’s get this done.”
Pettigrew knew of the Sergeant’s methods. He had been one of a gang of lads who had gathered around Cadet Youngerman to marvel at the stripes across his pale backside. It looked like a map of Clapham Junction railway. Pettigrew gulped down more vomit as he watched his tormentor grip the strop tightly in his right hand and gently tap it against his own leg. It was a fearsome weapon.
“Take down your trousers and underpants and put yourself over the table,” Sgt Harris said, waving the leather strop for emphasis.
Pettigrew’s hands refused to obey. He reached for his belt, but could not unfasten it. It was as if he had never encountered a belt before.
“Pah!” Sgt Harris exploded. Never before had he encountered such a boy. What a fairy. He could not even present himself in a manly fashion.
“Come here,” he sneered and moving forward he slapped Pettigrew’s hands away from the belt. Then, he undid it. Pettigrew’s humiliation was total when the Sergeant, unbuttoned the cadet’s fly buttons and tugged the trousers to his knees. He felt his cock twitch as the old man gripped the waistband of his white Y-front underpants and roughly pulled them down. The nineteen-year-old police cadet was now half naked in front of the man who within seconds would thrash the living daylights out of him.
“Now, put yourself over the table.”
Pettigrew wiped tears from his face on the sleeve of his shirt. Then turned to face away from the Sergeant. Slowly, very slowly, he eased himself forward. As his genitals touched against the cool dark wood, he felt his cock stiffen. It was not fully erect, but it was on the march.
Pettigrew closed his eyes. He tried to think of something pleasant. Something that would help him endure the coming minutes. He failed. All he could think was that he was lying face down across a table with his bare arse pointing upwards and his crack and hole on full display for the older man.
Sgt Harris took up his position behind the cadet. He took a moment to observe the backside presented before him. Unlike Youngerman’s which were large and fleshy, these buttocks were small and round. There was hardly any meat in them. There was no “give” at all. They were hard and firm.
He gripped the handle of the razor strop, took his aim across the centre of Pettigrew’s bum and let fly.
The cadet gasped. It felt like someone had placed a hot iron across his backside. Even after just a single stroke his bum throbbed like mad. And then the Sergeant hit him again. Another wave of hot pain surged across his bum. He almost jumped up. He had never felt anything like it before. Then Harris hit him again, a lot harder this time and Pettigrew’s feet shuffled and slipped on the bare floorboards as he absorbed the sting.
Sgt Harris took his time. The next four slashed harder still into the cadet’s buttocks at twenty-second intervals. He rubbed the strop across Pettigrew’s arse. He was in no hurry. The lad needed to be taught an exemplary lesson. No more cottaging for you.
The agony of the bare-arsed thrashing travelled throughout his body; blood pumped everywhere. He thought his ears might explode. It also rushed to his groin. His erection was stiffer. He could feel his cock pressing into the hard wood beneath his body.
The lashing went on and on. Pettigrew gave up trying to think pleasant thoughts. He simply cried his way through the unbearable, hellish onslaught; waiting for the torture to end.
Sgt Harris was a desk-bound copper. He was not a fit man. He never took exercise. He put all of what strength he had into the whipping. Soon, he was gasping for breath. His own heartbeat raced. Sweat poured down his neck. He was nearly in as bad a state of distress as the fit nineteen-year-old lying submissively before him.
Harris made one more monumental effort. He lashed a further six stokes rapidly so they landed on exactly the same area of Pettigrew’s red-raw backside. He was rewarded by a piercing squeal from the cadet. The boy’s body wriggled and writhed. He was wracked with pain. He gripped the far end of the table as if his life depended on it.
His body jerked up and down. His stiff penis rubbed against the table.
“Oh my God. No,” the nineteen-year-old cadet groaned. “Noooo…” But, he was powerless to prevent a swoosh! of cum from exploding from his cock. He felt a hot damp patch spread across his belly before it soaked into his shirt.
Pettigrew lay gasping, like a goldfish out of water. He was doubly humiliated. He had been thrashed bare-arsed and had not taken it well. And, he had ejaculate, down himself as if he had enjoyed being flogged by the older, masterful, Sgt Harris.
Harris looked on horror-struck. Never before had one of his charges reacted like this to a thrashing. He was dumbfounded. Speechless. He did not know what to do. What was he supposed to say?
He looked down at the heavy leather strap in his hand, as if seeing it for the very first time. He turned on his heels. At the doorway, he paused and spoke to the sobbing youngster. “Get dressed and return to your room.”
Later that night Sgt Harris is in bed. His wife is gently snoring. He dreams that it is not her beside him but Cadet Pettigrew. They are not making love together; oh no. Harris tells himself they are merely cuddling. He pets and preens the teenager’s buttocks.
The next week Pettigrew is back at the lavatory. He is dressed in tight blue cotton shorts and an open-necked yellow shirt. He waits at the urinal. A middle-aged man approaches him and smiles. They go into a cubicle. The man grab’s Pettigrew’s crotch. The cadet reaches into his pocket and withdraws his warrant card.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second