Fake News #11

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Sen. Magistrates Welcome New Judicial Caning Law

EXCLUSIVE Brocklehurst Bugle

Senior Magistrate Col. CET Thumpington-Smythe of the Brocklehurst Bench has welcomed the new law allowing male offenders up to the age of 40 to be caned on the bare buttocks.

Col. Thumpington-Smythe (pictured above) said young men especially needed a severe dose of discipline.

He told the Brocklehurst Bugle in an interview, “There is too much juvenile delinquency in this town. Most young men are ill-mannered and rude. They need to be taken down a peg or two. A good dose of the cane will soon put them straight.”

He said there was a particular problem with cannabis smoking among students.

“I should gladly go myself to Brocklehurst University and personally cane every student who has ever taken drugs. A sound six-of-the-best on the bared buttocks is what they need.”

The new law allows magistrates to impose caning sentences for a range of offenses that previously only carried fines or community service.

Col. Thumpington-Smythe said, “I and my colleagues will not hesitate to impose caning sentences. This will be in addition to the other sentence options open to us.”

It is not clear who will carry out the canings. Brocklehurst Police Superintendent Mr. Harry Hardnose told the Brocklehurst Bugle the courts would need to make that decision. “I suppose we can train up police officers to do this. Perhaps one of the lads with big muscles in our rugby team could do it. We need someone who is strong and can leave his mark on the offenders.”

Col. Thumpington-Smythe said, “I should be glad to undertake the thrashings myself. We don’t want some namby-pamby liberal wet in charge. The boys must suffer. They must bleed for their crimes.”

Residents of Brocklehurst also welcomed the new law. Mr. Eric Sloop, aged 45, a shop manager, of The Avenue, Brocklehurst, told the Bugle, “I can think of a few louts who hang around Widdicombe Woods drinking and whatnot who would benefit from a trousers-down, bare-bottomed spanking.”

Mr. Ernie Flynn, aged 52, also of The Avenue, has circulated a petition asking the courts to make the canings open to public viewing. He said, “I think it is proper that residents see how their council taxes are being used.”

He said he had already collected nearly 50 signatures from residents of The Avenue alone. Others who would like to sign the petition can contact him on ______________

Picture credit: Unknown

More Fake News stories here

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Approved School Santas

used drawing santa claus squad cane

Mr. Jossop, the headmaster of Lansbury Approved School for young offenders, peered through his rimless glasses. Mr. Kochinhand, his senior housemaster, was a kindly man, but this was a hare-brained scheme. It was fraught with danger. It was sure to be a disaster.

“The Rotary Club are one-hundred-percent behind it, headmaster,” Kochinhand beamed.

They would be, Jossop grimaced.

“What could possibly go wrong, headmaster?” Kochinhand was not to be deterred.

Jossop’s eyebrows shot heavenwards. Everything, he thought. Everything.

The Rotary had organised it all, Kochinhand had explained. Young children all over town would get a visit from Santa Claus. The orphanage, the children’s hospital, the many charities that gave meals to the children of destitute families.

“And they want our lads to be the Santas,” Kochinhand could not stop beaming. “It’s an excellent idea, don’t you think, headmaster? It would give our boys a chance to show responsibility,” Kochinhand wrung his hands together. “What could possibly go wrong?” he asked again.

Lansbury was a school for young criminals. Four hundred boys, up to the age of nineteen, crammed the dormitories and classrooms. Thieves, robbers, repeat offenders. They shouldn’t be let loose on poor defenceless children, Jessop thought.

What could possibly go wrong? They could abscond. That’s what. It was by far the biggest headache approved schools faced. They weren’t prisons; they were just boarding schools. Slightly more secure than the most expensive fee-paying schools in the land, but boarding schools nonetheless.

Absconding. That was why the boys were forced to wear ridiculous uniforms. Brown short trousers and beige knee socks. Up to the age of nineteen. Any boy on the run from approved school would be immediately spotted by the public. Especially in the depths of winter.

They always came back. Then, they would be up before Jessop. Bent across his desk, resting on their elbows (his preferred position), while he lashed his stout but whippy cane across the seat of their short trousers. Eight strokes for the sixteens and overs. Six of the best for the rest.

“So, headmaster,” Kochinhand was not letting this go, “Do you approve?”

No, Jessop was sure, he decidedly did not approve. If he had his way, the boys would be locked in their rooms over the so-called “festive season.” They were nothing but trouble. Keep them there until New Year had come and gone.

But, life was never so simple. Many important people, those with influence, belonged to Rotary. They would not take kindly if he and his school turned down their offer.

“Go ahead, Mr. Kochinhand,” he sighed. “But, you take responsibility for it mind.”

Beaming from ear-to-ear, Kochinhand left the headmaster’s office. Jessop leaned back in his chair and groaned.

Despite his cheery demeanour, Kochinhand was not confident the boys would sign up for Santa. Never volunteer, was the mantra of the approved-school inmate. Why should they help the bosses?

“It’s for charity,” he told the surly senior boys. “Helping poor children.” He hoped that would strike a chord, for every one of the lads he cajoled was from a deprived family. His reward was silence and indifference. In despair, he slouched off to his study.

He was close to astonished when an hour later Tomkinson, a nineteen-year-old house breaker, knocked confidently on his door. He had six names. All ready to be Santa. “Just give us the sacks and point us in the right direction!” he grinned.

Kochinhand was overjoyed. Jessop suspicious. Why had they volunteered? It could only be they intended to run away. Who wouldn’t prefer to spend Christmas at home than at Lansbury? “I don’t trust them an inch,” he growled. “They’re up to something.”

Jessop had a plan. Next day dressed in his own Santa suit he lined up six Father Christmases. Despite their youth and general thinness, they quite looked the part. Even sour Jessop had to admit that. Jessop paced the ground before them. Tucked under his arm ready to slip into his hand at a moment’s notice was a stout cane. He was rarely seen throughout the school without an ashplant.

He had the air of a sergeant-major as he strode up and down. “Surveillance!” He said the word three times. For emphasis. “You will all be under surveillance. Do not for one moment think of absconding!” The false whiskers covering each boy’s face hid their smirks remarkably well.

Jessop growled his suspicion. There wasn’t a backside in front of him that he hadn’t thrashed in the past few months. Why would the lads want to help the school?

“We’ll be watching you. Like hawks.”

“Ho-ho-ho!” they chanted in unison as they shuffled off to waiting cars, heavy sacks on their shoulders.

 

 

Terry O’Kane, nearly nineteen, habitual shoplifter and house breaker and Santa for the afternoon, stood impatiently. No amount of cheap coloured paper decorations could brighten the dour mission hall.  He knew that green and grey paint. They were the only colours destitute people ever saw.

About thirty ragged children, not a decent meal inside any of them for weeks, sat listless in front of a geezer performing conjuring tricks. By their sides, already abandoned to indifference, were wooden fire engines for the boys and rag dolls for the girls.

O’Kane had performed his duty well. Now, he waited for his chance. There was one more thing to do before he could return to his sleigh and fly off into the night. He inched toward a table, furtively. Watching all the time for movement from the children or their Guardian-appointed overseers. There was no time to lose. There never was in these situations.

O’Kane loved the thrill of it. In a split second he could be away. Job done. Home and dry. Elated. Or, his collar could be felt. A figure of authority gripping him hard. Dragging him to the police station. The Magistrates Court. Approved School. He had seen it all before.

They all watched the conjurer. He was quite good, O’Kane had to admit; although he hated himself for thinking it. The Guardians had moved outside, into the frost, to be away from the stinking children. To smoke a cigarette in peace.

It was now or never. O’Kane slowly backed towards the table. He had already cased the joint. He knew what he wanted. All the usual Christmas fare was there. Turkey. Brussel Sprouts (the kids would love them, O’Kane sneered silently). Cake.

And, in the centre of the groaning trestle table; a plum duff. A Christmas pudding. Satisfied, he was not overseen, the teenager expertly scooped it up with one hand and into his Santa sack. He was through the door to freedom in seconds.

Three streets away at the Baptist Church Hall, Sandy Cockburn (pronounced Co-burn) had given away his presents. Baptists were not renowned for their jollity. These children had clearly leaned the trait young. Cockburn did not much care. He had never liked Christmas. Grownups got drunk, fought with one another and beat their kids. No, as far as Sandy Cockburn cared you could stuff Christmas along with your turkey.

But, he reckoned, this Christmas might be good fun. If the plan worked. It was dangerous; but not reckless. The lads at Lansbury might have the best holiday yet. Some old dame was organising games. The nineteen-year-old scrutinised the room. It was some kind of treasure hunt. They were following clues. Trying to find something. The key was in the Bible.

Cockburn stamped his feet on the ground. The afternoon was getting late, the air chilled quickly. He was glad of the Santa suit; his legs would be turning blue if he was wearing the short trousers of his approved school uniform.

Even so, he wrapped his arms around his body, hugging himself for warmth. How much longer would he have to wait? Suddenly, a movement from outside. A car drew up. Cockburn groaned. Jessop, the headmaster, had returned to take him away.

There was no time to lose. It was now or never. He couldn’t disappoint the other lads. They would never let him forget it. He scoured the room. Nobody was looking at him. The Bible was too interesting. Overexcited, overweight children yelled with glee. They had found the clue.

Cockburn shrugged his incomprehension. Two plates of jam tarts disappeared into his sack.

“Hello, Mr. Jessop,” he said cheerfully, as the headmaster lumbered through the door. “Look how excited they are.” He hoped his tormentor couldn’t hear his thumping heart. “I’m so glad you let me be Santa, Sir.”

Jessop growled. “Go wait in the car.”

“Oh yes, Sir,” Cockburn grinned and made his escape.

 

….

 

“Whatever possessed you to think you would get away with this,” the headmaster was at his most pompous. Even, for Jessop. Kochinhand, the senior housemaster, had made himself scarce. He couldn’t face his boss’s smugness.

Before him, bared-kneed, hands behind backs, eyes downcast slightly, stood six approved school lads. They had eaten the Christmas feast of a lifetime. Pies, cakes, pudding; the works. Fine food that tasted much better for being illicit. Stolen. From under the nose of the hated Jessop and his “schoolmaster” wardens.

Jessop rose from his chair and strode purposefully across his study. He stopped at the far end, near a row of cupboards. All present knew what was contained inside. He stopped, sniffed the air a little, and returned more sedately to his desk.

“I could send you all to the Magistrates Court,” he leaned into them, eyes blazing. The boys shuffled uneasily. They didn’t need it spelt out. Repeat offenders. Already approved-school boys. The consequences were dire. The birch. Bared buttocks. No question about it.

Jessop straightened. For two pennies, he would have them carted away. Let some bulky prison officer flog the skin off their backsides. But, he couldn’t. The full story would be told. Jessop, had sanctioned the Santa trip. He had personally supervised it. It would get into the newspapers. The national ones, not just the local rag. It would cost him his job.

Oh, he vowed, silently, he would make Kochinhand pay for this.

“But,” Jessop continued. He tried a warm smile. He wasn’t very good at it. He lacked practice. “This is the season of goodwill,” his stare burnt a hole in O’Kane’s forehead. “So, I shall be lenient.”

The teenager relaxed.

“But, not that lenient,” he scowled. “There shall be no magistrate. We shall deal with this here.”

Cockburn stiffened. This was expected. Jessop was fearsome with the cane. Cockburn had been beaten often – who at the school hadn’t? – but he could never quite get used to it. Other lads appeared to shrug it off. Six, eight strokes were as nothing. Cockburn always suffered. The pain of a beating. The resentment of having to bend over in ridiculous short trousers and offer up his arse to the bullying headmaster to whip. He hated it all.

Jessop retraced his steps across the study. This time, he paused at the far end, delved into his pocket, found a key and inserted it into the lock of a tall thin cupboard. Six lads, pulses racing, feigned indifference, at the rattle of punishment canes. They heard, but could not see, Jessop select one from his vast collection and then swish it. It made a terrific swoosh! as it cut through air.

There was a pause and another rattle. The headmaster was not quite satisfied. Somewhere tucked away at the back of the closet was the rod he wanted. “Ah!” he sighed loudly. Found it. He held it between his hands, flexing it almost lovingly. What a beauty. A Malacca cane, a little over three feet in length. Yellow-brown in colour. Straight, not crook-handled like traditional school canes. Quite thin but dense, with notches along it every four inches or so.

Oh, he wished fervently, if only he were permitted to flog them trousers and pants down. The Malacca was designed to take a bare arse off. Blood would ooze and welts would rise. They would stay for a week or more. A constant reminder to the louts before him of just who was in charge. Who was boss. He was. And, they were the scum of the earth. How dare they steal from the poor. How dare they humiliate him so.

Satisfied with his choice, Jessop pushed the door closed. “Face me,” he barked. There was no need for further words. “You know the drill.”

Indeed, they did. As one man, they shuffled across the study carpet and faced the wall. Unbidden, they placed their hands on their heads, waiting submissively. They heard the almighty swish of Malacca cane hurtling through empty air. Once. Twice. Then, three times.

“Right, O’Kane. You first.”

Pale-faced, the eighteen-year-old slowly turned to face his punisher. The headmaster had a lined face. He would say he had earned those lines. A lifetime fighting with young offenders would do that to you. His expression was mean, but so was his character. When had he stopped beating his boys to help them improve their behaviour and grow to fine adults? Now, he did it for vengeance. Revenge that these boys and countless more before him had destroyed his life. There was no helping the likes of them.

“Bend over the desk.”

O’Kane breathed deeply. He stepped forward and leaned headfirst. Soon his forearms were flat on the desktop. His back was arched and his legs spread. His tight shorts rode up into his crack. His buttocks were meaty, but firm. They stretched tightly. Jessop could see the outline of the teenager’s underpants.

There was nothing to be said, only a deed to perform. Jessop took up position a little to O’Kane’s left, placed the Malacca across the underside of the boy’s bum, and bent his own knees. Then, the cane rose towards the high ceiling of the study. Jessop twisted his body as the rod fell and sliced at full force into O’Kane’s arse.

The boy eyes shut tightly. His teeth bit deep into his lip. His head shook like a neighing horse. It hurt. The pain was incredible. Had Jessop seared him with a red-hot poker?

The second and third cuts swiped into the beefiest area of his rear. Again, O’Kane did the eyes shutting and the lip biting. His bum wriggled from left to right. He hated himself for showing it hurt, but he was not in control. This was a reflex action; his body was protesting against the agony being inflicted on it.

Outside the study door, Kochinhand, the senior housemaster, paced the passageway. How he needed to smoke a cigarette. His nerves were shattered. The message from his colleague Mr. Taser had been curt, brusque even. “Attend, the headmaster’s study. Immediately.”

He had heard of the boys’ trickery. The day would not end well for Kochinhand. The distinct sound of cane thwacking against stretched backside confirmed this. He waited, throat dry. Why couldn’t he get his hands to stop shaking?

He had not been told, but he knew Jessop’s mind. Kochinhand must wait until all six lads had been dealt with. Only once they had been punished and sent on their way, could Kochinhand enter the lion’s den and suffer his own painful fate.

 

Picture credit: The Hotspur

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Book. Collection of Spanking Stories

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Charles Hamilton II’s Collection of Spanking Stories

Here’s another free-to-download book containing a selection of my favourite male-on-male spanking stories. It has some of my earliest writings and some of my most recent. I hope there’s something for every taste from military, judicial, dad-and-son, the vicar, my best friend and many more besides. All characters are aged 18 or over.

The book which also has many illustrations runs for more than 26,000 words.

Please enjoy.

Click on the link below to download Charles Hamilton II’s Collection of Spanking Stories

collection-of-spanking-stories-vol-1-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Picture credit: Mancspank

For more free-to-download books click here

 

Fake News #4

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Court Sentences Rude Son to Caning

EXCLUSIVE Brocklehurst Bugle

A disrespectful young man was given a painful reminder to mind his manners when talking to his mother when Brocklehurst Magistrates’ sentenced him to six strokes of the cane on the bare buttocks.

The court heard how rude 24-year-old Lawrence Jarosy, visited his mother’s house in Widdicombe Woods Road, on 29 September. He was in search of something to eat. When he was told there was no food for him, he “went berserk”.

Mr. Arbuthnot Featherington, prosecuting, said Jarosy was rarely at home. “He treated the home like a hotel and his mother like a skivvy. He was constantly disrespectful to his mother.”

Featherington added, “When he was told there was no food prepared for him, he went into the kitchen smashing open cupboards. Eventually, he found a tin of baked beans, but when he was unable to find a tin opener, he threw it at the wall, all the time cursing at his mother.

“Eventually, he rushed from the house and was not seen again until the following day.”

Jarosy told the court he had been drinking most of the day and did not remember much about the incident.

Senior Magistrate Col. A. R. P. Braithwaite told Jarosy, “Your behaviour was beneath contempt. A man of your age should know better. We should all respect our mothers at all times. It is to the great detriment of the nation that the youth of today no longer do this.

Much to the shock of the small crowd of neighbours who attended the trial, Col. Braithwaite said “I am very pleased to say that recently enacted legislation allows me to sentence you to be taken from the court into the punishment cell next door where you will receive six lashes of the cane on the bare buttocks. Take him down.”

Jarosy is one of the first to be sentenced to lashes in Brocklehurst. After sentence he was immediately escorted to the punishment cell which is a room of about three metres by three. It is empty except for a specially-built heavy wooden horse. Jarosy was forced to remove his trousers and underpants before laying across the horse. His ankles, thighs and wrists were then restrained with leather straps.

The cane is about 120 cm long and made of heavy Malacca. It has about five notches across its length and despite its denseness it is extremely whippy.

A police spokesperson said, “When sentencing is to be carried out, a doctor first examines the prisoner to ensure he is fit to withstand the lashing. Then, he is asked to strip from the waist. Wherever possible we like the prisoner to prepare himself. That includes submitting himself across the horse so he can be strapped down.

If he does not do this there can be an unseemly struggle and prison officers will force his trousers and pants off and then tie him down.

The spokesperson said Jarosy seemed dazed when he entered the punishment cell. He passed the medical and presented himself for his lashing “in exemplary style”.

He added that six heavy lashes were laid on with intervals of ten seconds between each. The buttocks were scarred and there was some bleeding.”

Mrs. Harriot Fitzgibbon, who works in a greengrocer across the street from the punishment cell, said, “We heard this eerie screaming, it was like a banshee. All the customers stopped to listen. It was really quite exciting.”

 

Picture credit: Unknown

More Fake News stories here

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Fake News #1

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Juvenile Crime Stats. at Record Low

Special to Standard-Recorder

Police in Mason Creek have a unique way to cut down on juvenile crime. It is fourteen inches long by three inches wide and made of hard maple. The old fashioned paddle is making a comeback.

Police Chief Paddy Callaghan said the small community pop. 1,789 had waged war on punks. “We don’t want them here. We are sending a clear message,” he told the Standard-Recorder in an interview.

The blue-collar community was dismayed by the number of young people who visited the town from the City of Mason, fifteen miles away. “They came looking for trouble, driving fast and drinking beer. They were a huge burden on the police resources,” Chief Callaghan said. “It was costing thousands in taxpayer dollars to put these punks through the criminal justice system and that’s money better spent on local townspeople.”

Now, when juveniles get pulled over by the cops they can expect a hot time. “We don’t blow smoke. Off come their clothes and then it’s a bare-butt spanking.”

Mickey Costello (not his real name), aged 18, experienced the new regime at first hand. “Me and the guys were driving through Main Street and shot a red light. We got pulled over by the cops. We had been drinking and there were empty beer cans. A big cop went to the trunk of his car and next thing he’s waving this paddle in my face.”

Chief Callaghan explained juveniles were given a choice, they can spend the night in jail and then take their chances in front of the judge next day. That way they get a fine or some kind of community service, such as picking up litter around town. Or they can take swats.

“Most of the punks take the swats,” Callaghan said with a grin. “Word has gotten around that we take no nonsense in Mason Creek. They expect to be spanked if they break the laws.”

Costello said he was made to take off all his clothes and bend over his car. “I got six swats on the bare butt. Man, I was raw. I had to run around a while before I could sit back down in the car.”

Judge T. I. Oosthutzen III told the Standard-Recorder the townsfolk supported the police action. “We have never known the community to be so peaceful. More power to Police Chief Callaghan’s elbow,” he said.

 

Picture Credit: Man’s Hand Films

Fake News Story #2 is here

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The beach house

Randy breathed in the warm air, summer was on the way at last. It had been a cruel winter with record amounts of snow. But that was then. The top of the car was down, rock music blared from the radio. He was happy as a pig in shit.

He was almost there. Another fifteen minutes should do it. He should arrive by about five. That would give him plenty of time.

He passed the road sign. Belinda Beach Welcomes Carful Drivers. He always liked that joke. Carful. Car-full. A pun on careful. Belinda Beach was a holiday resort, it depended on cars full of visitors. He drove along the beach. The holiday season hadn’t quite begun but the beach was busy. Youngsters mostly. College kids. Drop-outs, those kind of people. The families and the rich folk wouldn’t be here until another week or two.

He pulled the car over. He was here now. The beach house. He switched the engine off and sat, admiring the house. How he wished he could afford such a place. Anyhow, he’d get some use of it over the next few days. He climbed out of the car. He had a job to do. He needed to get the house ready before his boss and his family moved in.

He found the key in his pocket and put it in the lock of the front door. No need. The door swung open with a slight nudge. Clearly, it had been forced. His heart jumped. Burglars. Could they still be inside? Were they armed? He peered inside. Nothing seemed to be disturbed. He decided to take the risk; cautiously he entered.

All seemed in order. There wasn’t much for a thief to take, unless they wanted the furniture. Slowly, Randy entered the living room. Nothing unusual. Same with the kitchen. Emboldened, he tried upstairs. He opened the door to the master bedroom. He peered inside. He didn’t need the skills of the homicide detectives he loved to watch on TV. The bed was unmade.  A bag lay nearby, a used shirt poked from its top. He tried the next room and the one beside that.  There was no doubt about it, he knew the story of The Three Bears. Somebody was staying in the house. Without permission.

Randy cursed to himself. This was a hassle he would rather not have. Who were these people? Beach bums, he answered his own question. Cursing some more he made his way downstairs. He needed to call the police. He didn’t even try the phone in the hall, he knew it wouldn’t be connected yet. He exited the house and made his way over to the beach in search of a payphone.

The police were courteous, but Randy reckoned they didn’t seem much interested. They’d send a patrol car over as soon as they could. Randy hopped from foot to foot with indignation, unsure what to do now. If he went back to the house, would the bums return? How would he deal with them? He didn’t want a fight. He found the packet of cigarettes in his pocket and lit one, inhaling deeply. It was a warm evening, he would wait on the beach until he saw a police car approach the house.

He didn’t wait long. Officers Brady and Colhoun were there within minutes. “We were close by,” the larger and older of the two replied when Randy expressed gratitude for a speedy turn out. They went inside and the officers quickly searched the premises. “Anything missing?” Officer Brady, who seemed to Randy to be in charge, asked.

“Not that I can see,” Randy felt a little foolish calling the police. “But,” he went on, “somebody, bodies, are clearly staying here. Isn’t that trespass or something?”

“Civil, not criminal, you need a lawyer. A court order,” Officer Brady stretched his arms. He had been sitting in the patrol car too long. “To be perfectly honest sir, we are a small town here, with a tiny police force, we couldn’t afford to call this in and put the perps. through the system.”

Randy exhaled, “You mean they should just get away with it?”

Officer Brady bristled. “I didn’t say that sir. We have quite a few of these cases at this time of year. Kids come to the beach with no place to stay and they break into houses that have been locked up for the winter. We have a way of dealing with them.”

Randy was intrigued and said so.

“Well,” Officer Brady warmed to his theme, “It’s all very unofficial, you understand.” Randy nodded eagerly, encouraging the cop to tell him more.

 

@

It was an hour later when Randy heard the beach house door open and voices. “Good evening gentlemen,” he smiled weakly at the two startled teens. “Shit,” one breathed almost inaudibly.

“Shit indeed,” Randy had decided he would enjoy this. He eyed them up and down. They were dressed in identical blue-and-white-hooped t-shirts and denims cut right down to the buttocks. “Fags,” Randy silently sneered. They were about nineteen years old, he reckoned, and judging by their suntans they had spent much of the last few weeks on the beach.

Both looked sheepish. Randy liked that. “So,” he had prepared a little speech, “the police say they have a plan for kids like you who break into houses.”

The phrase “their jaws dropped” is a cliché, but their jaws actually did dip as the teens realised their fate.

“Wait,” one of them said. Randy leaned forward so intimidatingly that the teen dried up and looked sulkily across at his companion.

“I am to call Officer Brady,” Randy rose to his feet. “I have to make a phone call,” he went towards the door. “Don’t bother to try to run away, the cops have taken your bags, they know who you are and where to find you. If you know what’s best for you …” he glared at them with contempt, then left the house.

@

Officer Brady knocked on the door and entered. “Well, well, well. Draper and Bartlett, we meet again.” Despite their tan both the teens blanched. “Hello Officer Brady,” the one who turned out to be Draper smiled weakly.

“So, I evict you from the Hollander’s place and you set up residence here.” Both boys stared at the wooden floor, unsure if they were expected to answer. Officer Brady snorted a laugh. “Well, you can’t say you don’t know what’s gonna happen now.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you see it as an occupational hazard.”

“Oh man,” Bartlett’s eyes shone. Yes, he did know what was going to happen next and if it was half as bad as last time. He tried to get the thought out of his mind.

Randy looked on. He was in his late fifties and it was sometime since he had been a teenager. They didn’t hang out to beaches when he had been young. They left school and went to work. Got married. Raised families. The kids today …  He was roused from his thoughts. Officer Brady was saying something to him.

“I said do you want to deal with this or do you want me to do it?” Randy’s eyes flickered, it took a second for him to work out what the cop was asking. “You’d better do it. You know what to do. You’ve had the experience.”

Officer Brady grimaced. Yes, he knew what to do alright. “Right you two,” he barked like a sergeant-major, “stand over there!” He nodded to the corner of the room. Sorrowfully, Draper and Bartlett shuffled. No words were spoken. What was the point? The cops were in control.

Officer Brady waited until the boys were settled, then he dropped his bombshell. “Right, take your clothes off. All of them. Completely.” It provoked his desired reaction. Shock followed by humiliation. “But,” Draper was close to tears, “last time …”

Officer Brady cut him short. “Yes, last time it was an over-the-knee spanking. Well,” his voice was stern and authoritarian, “that didn’t teach you much of a lesson did it? Let’s do it properly this time shall we. Now strip off.”

The two nineteen year olds stood, rigid, unwilling or unable to move. They watched stone-faced as Officer Brady walked out the room and returned seconds later carrying a bar stool. This he placed in the centre of the room. He studied it for a moment and deciding it was not yet fit for purpose, he looked around the room, noticed a couch and took from it a dark blue cushion. This he placed on top of the stool. Perfect, he thought to himself, just the right height.

“I don’t see you undressing,” he barked. “Do you want me to …?” He left the sentence unfinished. Do what? He couldn’t forcibly strip them naked. Even if he had the strength to do so (which he doubted) how would it look if it became public? Police chiefs turned a blind eye to unofficial corporal punishment. Privately, they welcomed it because it made their own jobs much easier by reducing bureaucracy,  but forcibly stripping young men naked might be a bit too much.

Draper and Bartlett were too naïve to realise this. A moment’s contemplation would have been enough. People – even teens – have rights and wasn’t there something about “due process” in the Constitution.

Draper was first to move. He took the bottom hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head. Randy noticed the guy’s hairless torso was as tanned as his face and arms. Taking his lead, Bartlett took his shirt off too. Did Randy detect a slight rueful smile on Bartlett’s face as in synchrony the two teens popped the buttons on the top of their cut-offs and with a slight wriggle of the hips let them sail to their feet. Neither wore underwear. With a certain air of defiance they stepped out of their shorts and stood naked except for their socks.

Randy reckoned the teens were at too much at ease naked together. Definitely fags, he thought.

Officer Brady unbuckled his wide, heavy, black leather belt and with a flourish pulled it from his pants’ belt loops. He doubled it so the leather was now about eighteen inches long. He swished the belt through the air. “Bartlett, face the corner. Draper, bend over the stool.” He swiped the belt through the air in case there was any doubt what he meant.

z used belt stool naked sting

Draper had already decided he would take the whipping as stoically as he could. He wouldn’t give the bastard cop and this millionaire beach house owner the satisfaction of seeing him beg. He walked over to the stool, halted a foot or so from it, peered down at the dusty cushion, took a deep breath, rubbed his hands together and fell forward. The stool was low enough that his could rest his palms against the wooden floor. He legs were straight and his stockinged feet slipped on the wooden floor.

He waited. He could not see the cop but he felt the heavy officer’s movements through the floor as he took up position someway behind him and to his left. A faint aroma of perspiration drifted over him. Draper’s heart pounded and already blood was rushing through his body. He closed his eyes anticipating the first lash. His buttocks clenched involuntarily as if trying to protect him from the onslaught that lay ahead.

“Relax, relax,” Officer Brady tapped the leather belt across the centre of the nineteen-year-old’s naked buttocks. He licked his lips, raised the belt and with as much power as he could make, whipped it down. To his great satisfaction a sunset stripe immediately appeared where the belt landed. Draper inhaled, held it and slowly exhaled, trying in vain to ease the agony he felt in his rear end.

Randy’s eyes flickered. He had never before seen a man naked, let along one who submitted himself buttocks high across a stool for a leathering from a much older guy. Not realising he was doing so, Randy edged himself a little closer to the action so that he got a better view of Draper’s naked haunches.

Smack! Smack! Two lashes flogged across the under-curve of Draper’s buttocks. His body shook. He couldn’t stop it. His head banged up and down in empty air and he gripped the legs of the stool tightly. Smack! Smack! Two more, higher this time. The whole of Draper’s naked ass was alight. A yelp, like that of a whipped puppy, escaped his lips. Bartlett, who until then had his nose pressed against the wall, whirled around startled by the noise. He blanched at the sight, not only in sympathy for his pal, but in sorrow in the knowledge that it was his turn next.

Another half dozen cracked down. Sweat soaked Draper’s long hair, the back of his neck was as scarlet as his buttocks. Another half dozen fell and then six more. Tears ran down his face and snot dribbled from his nose.

Watching on, Randy experienced a novel sensation. He had never met these two teens before this evening, but oh how much he wanted to see them suffer. The heavy leather had raised welts on Draper’s flesh, now Randy wanted them to bleed. On and on Officer Brady lashed his leather belt. Draper was spent, his yelps had transformed into a constant sobbing. He might have been spent, but he would not beg for the cop to stop. He was already utterly humiliated, he needed to keep a semblance of pride.

Officer Brady was not a fit man. His shirt was soaked with sweat and his heartbeat was off the scale. If he didn’t let off soon he might have a stroke. He whipped another half dozen across Draper’s already disfigured cheeks and let off. “Alright,” he wheezed, “you can get up. Go stand in the corner. Bartlett, get yourself here.”

Draper hauled himself off the stool and stood unsteady on his feet. His ass was on fire, it looked and felt like he had sat on a griddle. He stumbled towards the corner and slouched against the wall, still sobbing gently.

Dazed, Bartlett shuffled forward and stood apprehensively at the stool. Officer Brady examined the leather belt in his hands and snapped it so a resounding crack bounced around the room. He looked across at Randy. “Here,” he handed the belt over, “you do this one.”

Randy’s hands shook. Too eagerly, he reached and grabbed the belt. “Get over the stool. Head down, legs apart. As far as you can get them,” Randy barked the order. Bartlett submissively complied. The teen’s hairless crack was open and his hole winked open and shut. Randy patted the teen’s buttocks with the belt, carefully taking his aim.

Smack! The leather landed. Randy paused to admire his handiwork. Yea! He lined up another one, not yet conscious of the bulge in his own underwear that would soon reveal to the room just how much fun he was having.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The wrong pub

Masher stared into the laptop, paused the image and made a screen grab. He had identified six of the lads now. Only one to go.

The door to the small airless office opened and Big Boy Bonzo rumbled in. He nodded a perfunctory greeting and eased his considerable bulk into a swivel chair.

“That the kids from last night?” he growled nodding towards the laptop.

“Yeah,” Masher replied concentrating on the cursor. “The CCTV has picked them all out.”

“Good,” Bonzo sneered. “Do you think they knew whose pub it was?”

Masher let his concentration wander from the screen. “Yeah, we get a lot of college kids in. They enjoy the frisson.”

“Frisson!” Bonzo rarely spoke without sneering.

“Yeah, frisson, it means ….”

“I know what friggin frisson means. Don’t try to bust my balls.”

Bust my balls, Bonzo said that a lot. It’s what gangsters in America said all the time. I’m just busting your balls. Bonzo knew for a fact, he had all seven boxsets of The Sopranos.

Masher returned to his screen. Now he had a clear shot of the last of the troublemaking students.

“There,” he said not trying to hide the triumph he felt. “I can print off their pictures, or email them, whad’ya want me to do boss?”

Bonzo rolled his huge arse on the narrow chair and thought for a moment. “Can we identify them. Do we know where to find them?”

“Yeah, boss. Look some of them are wearing Brocklehurst University Rowing Club shirts. It’ll be easy.”

Bonzo dragged himself to his feet, steadied himself and waved his flabby arms at Masher. “OK round them up. Have them taken to Damon’s gym.” With that he lumbered from the office, satisfied. He would teach the brats to come into his pub and disrespect it. They would regret their brash arrogance. They would pay for it. Bonzo was the head of the largest crime family in the South; he had a reputation to keep.

….

Five hours later a Bentley drew up outside Damon’s gym. A tall, strong black man rushed forward to open the passenger door. He waited patiently while the pile of flab that was the crime boss spilled onto the pavement.

“Good evening, Mr. Bonzo,” the bouncer touched his forelock before turning to open the door. He sucked in his own stomach to make room for Bonzo to squeeze past him and into the building. Upstairs, seven terrified young men waited, hands fastened behind their backs with plastic ties.

“You got them all?” Bonzo sneered to Masher as the crime boss glared at the youngsters.

“Yeah, boss.”

“Who’s the shrimp?” He nodded towards a small dark-haired teenager. His chocolate brown eyes brimmed with tears. All the others stood six feet or more tall. This one was barely five-six.

“He’s the fair-haired one’s bitch,” Masher didn’t disguise his distain. He nodded at a clear-faced blond lad. He too fought back tears. He was tall and strong, his open shirt showing a smooth muscular chest.

“Whaýa mean?” Bonzo leant towards Masher. “They’re fags?”

Masher grimaced, “That one,” he indicated the fair boy, “was half way up the little one’s arse when we found them.” He paused, disgusted. “At three o’clock in the afternoon.”

Bonzo guffawed. “Fairies in a rowing team, who’da thought it?”

Bonzo waddled across the gym and paused in front of the line of young men. Then slowly, painstakingly, he manoeuvred down the line, like he was making a military inspection. His demonic stare froze each boy. One, a strong fresh-faced lad with a slicked quiff of hair, looked about to wet his trousers.

Bonzo eyed him up and down. “Now,” he spoke to the whole line of men, “I don’t want no one pissing their pants. It stains the  parquet flooring.” He turned to his gangster accomplices and grinned, showing green uneven teeth, “We know that for a fact don’t we.” The four gangsters vigorously nodded their agreement and laughed loudly. The boss had made a joke.

“Do they know why they’re here?” he snarled at Masher.

“Yeah, boss.”

“And,” Bonzo added darkly, “what we’re going to do to them?”

Another affirmative.

“Then let’s get on with it.” Bonzo ran his eye along the line, the way he often did when choosing a girl for the night. “Start with him. The fag.” He nodded at the fair-haired boy. What little colour he had drained from his face. Pointlessly, he struggled to free his hands from behind his back.

“B.. b… b…” he began to protest, but he could form no words. Two sweaty gangsters grabbed him, one on each arm and propelled him towards the middle of the gym where an old vaulting horse had been placed.

One gangster snipped the plastic ties, freeing him, but only long enough for him to be manhandled face-down over the horse. Masher looked on as each of the boy’s wrists were secured by specially-made leather restraints to the legs of the horse. Once this was completed Bonzo walked forward. He said nothing, but stood directly behind the boy wheezing. When the crime boss’s hands reached around the boy and tugged at his belt there was no doubt of his intentions. The boy wriggled his hips but it was useless.

Masher watched Bonzon loosen the lad’s trousers and tug them to his knees. The gangster’s face flushed crimson as he placed his fingers in the waistband of the boy’s cotton trunks and slowly wound them down over his meaty, but firm, buttocks. He left them snagged at the knees. Masher always thought it was a bit “gay” the way Bonzo stripped a boy naked before the whipping started, but he kept his thoughts to himself. He didn’t want his balls ripped off and fed to him.

While Bonzo prepared his victim another gangster known as Nosher fetched a large metal bucket from the corner of the gym. It was filled with brine and heavy. He set it down close to the horse, making sure the lad could see the bucket and its contents. His grin was malevolent. He picked out one of the four birch rods in the bucket and swished it through the air. Droplets of brine splashed on the boy’s face. He screwed his eyes shut, partly because the liquid stung them, but mostly in terror of the ordeal he was about to suffer.

The birch rod actually was made of twenty-four hazel twigs bound together with twine. Nosher felt the weight of it in his right hand. Without the added brine, it was probably a little less than a pound.

“Get on with it Nosher,” Bonzo growled. “We’ve got a lot of work to get through tonight.”

Stung by his boss’s displeasure, Nosher took up position to the lad’s left, he touched the birch rod across the fleshiest part of the (for now) creamy white flesh. He delighted when the boy’s body tensed and he flailed his hands trying desperately to free himself. He felt his heart pounding against the smelly leather top of the horse. Oh sweet Jesus.

“One.” Bonzo liked to be in charge. He knew he had neither the strength nor the energy to inflict floggings. He contented himself with taking a ringside position and directing matters from there. He had a perfect view. He would see the birch rod cut deep into flesh and the blood seep from the resulting wounds. He would lick his lips as a posterior was whipped so hard and so often that it finally resembled raw hamburger meat. It was a bonus (a result, he liked to call it) if the lashed boy howled and screamed with the agony. Let them holler. Who cared? Nobody could hear them. And if they were heard by someone, who would dare interfere with the work of Crime Boss Bonzo.

Nosher took his cue and raised the birch rod high, he swung it around his head, building momentum, before bringing it crashing down across the centre of both buttocks. The boy’s body convulsed, his unrestrained legs kicked behind him, his head threw back and the most almighty yowl flew from the back of his throat.

Bonzo cleared his own throat. “Two,” he called. Nosher did the swirling thing again and landed the rod across the boy’s bum, lower this time. He repeated his convulsion and yelling. Even now, after only two strokes, it looked, from where Bonzo was watching like the whole of his backside was ripped. Welts had risen and three tiny drops of blood seeped down his buttocks.

The more the boy screamed the more Nosher lashed the unrelenting birch across his arched backside. By the eighth stroke, realising that unremitting straps held his naked frame firmly in place, he screamed and begged for release.

“Please sir, no more sir. Please.”

“Nine.”

Nosher whipped the birch rod down, harder than ever. The boy’s bum was already a mass of cuts, the thin whippy twigs ripped them open further. Blood now flowed freely.

“Ten.”

Behind him and therefore unseen by Bonzo, six other young men waited their turn in terror. One, and not the small dark boy as one might imagine, had an erection, longer and stiffer than he had experienced in his life.

The rod tore into flesh once more.

“No more. Oh god, please sir, please sir. No more sir. Please no more. I’m dying.”

“Eleven.”

Across town, five young men from Brocklehurst Cricket Club lurched through the doors of the Beluga. “This is where the gangsters hang out,” one slurred to the others, as he stumbled towards the bar, knocking over a stool.

At Damon’s gym, the birch rose again.

z used birch and marks sting (1)

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com