Fake News #1

z used paddle cop naked (2)

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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Charles Hamilton the Second



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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Charles Hamilton the Second



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.”


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.


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.”


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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Charles Hamilton the Second



The African Mall

z used sjambok-105-cm_l

“You want to give me lashes?” the 23-year-old youth’s jaw quite literally dropped. His heart pounded, sweat soaked the back of his shirt.

The tall, security commander grunted, his lips forming a sneer. He shared a glance with a guard; a shorter, fatter version of himself.

Pierre’s eyes watered. The heat was oppressive. It was a tiny, airless room, hardly furnished. A rickety wooden table and a plastic chair. Nothing else. The room smelt of stale sweat, it made Pierre gag. Somewhere there was a faint odour of urine. The grimy green-coloured walls oppressed him.

“You’re not in the United States now,” the security commander barked. Pierre tensed. He hated it when people mistook his accent for American. He was from Ontario, for chrissake. That’s in Canada folks, he wanted to scream every time people did it. Don’t blame me for Donald Trump.

But he knew now would not be a good time for a lesson in geography.

“We have rules here,” the security commander’s eyes blazed. “We have ways of dealing with people like you.” He flexed a thick leather sjambok whip between his hands, his sneer morphing into a cruel smile. “Don’t think you’re getting away with it, just because you’re American.”

There he went again. American. For an absurd moment Pierre wondered if he could convince the man he was Canadian, he would let him off. Swipe! The whip swished through the air with speed and strength. No, it was clear the security commander wanted his pound of flesh.

“Stealing is a serious offence in Botswana.” The leather flew again.

It was a modern shopping mall, no different from the ones back home in Toronto; a little smaller perhaps. Pierre had pocketed a cake of soap. Nothing more. That’s all he wanted. He and his friends back in Canada stole whenever they could. Why pay when you don’t have to was their creed. Some people stole as their way of screwing the system, sticking it to the big corporations. Some people stole because they were poor, Pierre didn’t. He stole because he wanted something for nothing. Simple as that. Everyone he knew of his age felt the same.

“If you go to court you will be fined and get lashes on your bare buttocks,” the security commander tapped the whip menacingly against his right leg.”

“But I’m not a kid,” Pierre protested.

The security commander snorted, “Ha! Here, we lash the bare buttocks,” he rolled the words bare buttocks around his tongue enjoying the sound it made, “of men up to the age of 40.”

Pierre’s knees buckled. Suddenly, he remembered a story he had read in a local newspaper. Some taxi driver had been lashed with six strokes on the bare buttocks after he got into some ‘road rage’ thing. The guy was twenty-nine years old.

“The choice is yours,” the security commander drew in his breath. Mr Reasonableness. He only wished to serve. “I can lash you now or you can go to court, get a fine and get lashed.” He leaned into Pierre sprinkling him with spittle when he spoke. “And, it would be all over the newspapers. American lashed on bare buttocks.” There he went again, relishing the words

Pierre turned his head. The smell of stinky breath made him want to retch.  It wasn’t much of a choice. His eyes darted across the room. The two guards blocked the exit.

“Don’t even think of running,” the security commander read his mind. He raised the sjambok, poked it towards Pierre’s face and grinned, showing the only seven teeth he had in his mouth. Pierre flinched in revulsion.

The commander turned toward his companion, his head hardly moved. It was enough, the guard opened the door, stood in the corridor and called urgently in a language Pierre could not understand. Moments later a second squat burley guard was on the threshold. No words were spoken, everyone knew their role in this drama.

The room was small, it took the two guards only three steps to cross it. Pierre squealed. He flew through the air. One guard had his arms, the other his feet. The wooden legs shook violently as the youth’s body hit the gnarled table. Eventually, they stuttered to a halt. Pierre had no breath left. Face down on the table. Shoulders pinned at one end, legs held at the other. Trapped. He wriggled his hips and waist, he jerked his buttocks left and right; then up and down. No good. He was trapped. Held securely. Going nowhere until his captives said so.

The table top was hard beneath his body, his nose and mouth pressed into the rough wood. Pierre felt his heart thumping against the table, he could scarcely breathe. The strength of the guard at his shoulders was overwhelming. Pierre couldn’t move is head enough to see his captors. What were they doing? He didn’t have to wait long to find out.

The security commander’s tongue darted from his mouth, licked his lips and popped back inside. He eyed the youth prostrate before him; took a deep swallow and let the tongue do the lizard thing once more.

Pierre was not tall, nor especially small. He was neither fat nor thin. His yellow-patterned tee shirt had risen up, revealing a hairless back. His baggy basketball shorts had ridden down, showing three inches or more of underwear.

The security commander inhaled deeply and slowly let the air escape; he sounded like a steam engine settling down. Silently, he reached forward and held the elasticated waist of Pierre’s shorts. The youth bucked his buttocks, writhing in a futile attempt to stave off the inevitable. It took three tugs to get both the shorts and the underwear to Pierre’s knees. A howl of protest bounced off the walls.

The youth’s temples throbbed, his eyes moistened. His vile persecutors could see into his crack. Pierre had not showered for days, that was why he stole the soap. Despite mounting humiliation, he still had the presence to wriggle his body, keeping his dick and balls under his body and away from view.

The security commander paused, preparing his strategy. Deciding the best way to deliver maximum pain. The American’s bare buttocks were tiny and slim, not much more than cherry pips.  The security commander had lashed many guys in the ten years he had been in the job. Local men were broad at the hips and had large meaty buttocks. The security commander was at a loss. How to proceed? Usually he would slash the sjambok down with maximum force and let the meat in the arse cheeks absorb much of the shock. This boy only had only two pimples for buttocks. The whip would tear him to shreds.

The security commander had no compassion for the youth. He despised rich Americans who came to Africa to steal from the people. He knew for certain this kid needed his arse whipped and probably much more besides. Nobody in his country would complain; schoolchildren; youths and men right up to middle age were beaten all the time. It was part of the culture. The men he arrests and spanks thank him for sparing them the court appearance, the fine the lashing and the resultant publicity in the papers. Everyone also agreed that it saved money, police and court time to administer summary lashings like his.

But, the youth was not local, he was American. The security commander almost spat at the thought. He’d probably have the U.S. Embassy on his case when the flogging was over.

Damn it. Who cared? He looked down at the youth clenching his tiny little bum, instinctively trying to make it an even smaller target, shaking as he waited. The security commander gripped the handle of the leather whip, raised it above his head, circled it a few times and brought it flogging down across the centre of both pimples. A banshee-like howl started from Pierre’s stomach, made its way through is upper body and then burst through his throat. Outside, in the mall, shoppers hurried by, heads down, knowing, but not wanting to, the source of the scream.

Pierre’s eyes saucered, blood sped to his face, his neck was as scarlet as his hind quarters. His body bucked. The two guards held him tightly. He was going nowhere.

Whip! The second slash landed. The youth’s mouth filled with vomit. He gulped it down, choking himself. Two welts ran in parallel across his cheeks. The security commander knew his job. Pierre’s whole body soaked with sweat. His buttocks trembled, raw, aflame.

He lashed a third stroke, the bruises on the victim’s bottom had deepened in colour, Pierre moaned a constant, low abject wail. The security commander tapped the leather whip against the corrugated bruises on the tortured buttocks. Pierre squirmed and clenched and unclenched his cheeks, but he found no comfort. What he craved to do was to rub his battered bum and make the agony go away.

The security commander paused, grinned widely and strolled leisurely across the room, swishing the sjambok as he went. A shiver of satisfaction ran through his body. He returned his attention to the bleeding, bare buttocks squirming on the table top; ready to give them more of what they deserved. After a few moments assessing where to place his next blow, he thrashed another cut deep into the flesh and delighted in the low groan of misery that escaped Pierre’s lips as his buttocks gyrated.

The fifth and final stroke cut deep. Pierre panted to draw in oxygen, vomit once more filled his throat. Weakened now, he couldn’t stop it spurting through his mouth onto the table, the stench of his own sick made him heave some more. He realised that he had been grinding his teeth and his jaw ached. He wailed heartily.

The security commander circled the table, carefully admiring his handiwork. Five high welts ran across the buttocks, almost in perfect parallel. Once had fallen low, just on the crease where the buttocks met the thighs. Pierre would feel the pain of that every time he sat for some considerable time to come.

Blood oozed from the wounds. The bum wasn’t ripped to shreds as the security commander had feared, but it was raw and throbbing. Pierre’s wailing subsided into convulsed sobs, he sounded like a new born calf separated from its mother.

The security commander, tucked the sjambok under his sweaty, stinking armpit and without a word, he strutted from the room, confident that the guards would know what to do with the prisoner.

Three hours later, his bum still tender to touch, Pierre stood in the immigration line, waiting to cross the border into South Africa.

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Charles Hamilton the Second


What a jolly jape


“He’s only gone and done it. I can’t believe it, Dougall’s only gone and done it.”

Geoff Arkwright’s face fell. Surely, not, he thought, he wouldn’t be so stupid.

“He said he would, and by jove he’s true to his word.” Terrence Aspel rushed through the cricket pavilion. His team mates stopped in their tracks.

“I never thought he would do it,” said one.

“I thought he was drunk when he said it,” offered another.

“He’s as daft as a brush,” chipped in a third.

Arkwright hunched his shoulders. He would get the blame, he just knew it. They would say it was his fault. He was captain of the Downshire County Cricket Club Colts, they would say he should maintain discipline.

Well, he thought, bitterly, it wasn’t like being House Captain at school. There wasn’t much he could do. He couldn’t very well order Dougall to touch his toes for six stingers from an ashplant.

“Come on lads, we’re missing all the fun,” Aspel called over his shoulder. He rushed from the pavilion, followed by seven of his team mates. Arkwright watched them go, before despondently following on. It would all end in tears he was certain of that.

Andy Dougall, the club’s opening batsman, had vowed he would strip off and wash himself in the horse trough if the county colts won the national championship. Well, the cup was safely in the trophy cabinet and now the twenty-year-old wunderkind was as good as his word. “Please God,” Arkwright prayed silently, “Don’t let him be totally naked.”

A small crowd had gathered, of course.  Children, businessmen, ladies with shopping. All had stopped to enjoy the fun. It wasn’t every day a fit naked man had a bath in a horse trough.

Arkwright watched glumly. Everyone seemed to take the jape in good spirits. Just wait until a maiden aunt sauntered by, he thought. She’d have the rozzers on Dougall, that was for certain.

It didn’t need a sweet, sheltered old lady. The police found Dougall for themselves. “What the blinking blimey?” Police Constable Percy Perkings exclaimed to his Sergeant. “What’s ’appening at the ’orse trough?” He peered through the summer’s haze. A crowd of people were staring into the trough. Sgt Truscott saw Dougall first. His jaw dropped. A naked man. In broad daylight. It was a scandal.

“Hey you!” he cried as he broke into a run. What d’you think yer doing?” PC Perkins puffed behind him, a startled look on his face.

“Break this up. Move along please,” Sgt Truscott gasped. “There’s nothing to see here,” he added, quite erroneously. The people of Downshire, were by and large a law-abiding lot. The small crowd dispersed giggling and muttering. They wouldn’t have minded if the show had continued a little longer.

“You,” Sgt Truscott’s face was puce, in part from the run he had made on a hot afternoon, and also by his genuine disgust. “Nudity. In public,” he thundered. “It’s disgusting,” Truscott gulped. “It’s against the law.”

Dougall smiled ingratiatingly. He had attended an English public school with delusions of grandeur, he knew how to deal with the servant class. “I am not in the nude,” he sneered, He was about to add, “my man,” when the sergeant took the wind from his sails.

“You look pretty nude to me,” he roared. “It’s disgusting,” he repeated.

“I am wearing a swimming costume.” Dougall flapped his hands around his midriff to draw attention to his trunks. “Not nude at all.”

PC Perkins watched from a distance. The sergeant had a wicked temper. The young boy would do well not to rile him; the constable knew that from bitter personal experience.

“You,” the Sergeant barked at Aspel, “Fetch a raincoat; he can’t stay like this.”

Meekly, Aspel trudged into the pavilion.

Dougall had dried off by the time he had been frogmarched the mile or so to the police station. The duty officer at the front desk didn’t try to conceal his merriment. A half-naked man: they would have a lot of fun with that.

“The charge is lewd behaviour,” Sgt Truscott boomed. “Put him in a cell, we’ll take him before the magistrate in the morning.” He paused, waiting for Dougall’s predictable reaction.

“Magistrate?” his face flushed. In a whirl his future flashed before him. He was one of the top up-and-coming opening batsmen in the country. There was every possibility he’d get his first England cap soon. But, not with a criminal record. Lewd behaviour in a horse trough. The story would probably get in the Sunday papers. He would be a laughing-stock. Downshire would probably sack him.

“But,” Dougall’s voice quivered in protest. “It was only a bit of fun,” he implored. “A jape. A boyish prank.”

Sgt Truscott sneered, “You’re a bit too old for boyish pranks, aren’t you?”

It was a straw and Dougall was so desperate he would clutch at anything. “I’m twenty; I’m not legally an adult,” he pleaded.

“Pah! Do you want me to telephone your father? Tell him you’re at the police station and ask him to come down?” he glared at Dougall. “Shall I ask him to fetch his slipper?”

God no! His father must never know. Dougall would never hear the end of it.

“No, I didn’t think so,” Sgt Truscott turned to the duty officer. “What do you think Fred? What shall we do with the toe rag?”

The duty officer smiled. He had heard his sergeant talk like this before. He had a shrewd idea what was on his guv’nor’s mind. “Is he too old for a good hiding, do you think Sarge?” he stared intently at Dougall, delighted to see the menace blush to his roots.

“Maybe not,” Sgt Truscott turned his back on Dougall ensuring the twenty-year-old would not see the twinkle in his eye. “Shall we call his father then?”

“No, please,” even as the words escaped his lips, Dougall knew he had given the game away. He would do anything to leave his father out.

“What about the cricket club?” Truscott winked at the duty officer, “Is there someone we could call there? A coach perhaps? Maybe six-of-the-best across the backside with a cricket stump would do the trick?”

Dougall’s temples throbbed. He was wretched. His silly prank had backfired terrifically. He needed to keep out of the magistrates’ court at all costs. But, a beating from the cricket coach was out of the question.

“Or,” Sgt Truscott turned on his heels to face Dougall, “What about the club captain. He’s ex-public school isn’t he? I bet he knows how to swing a cane. Eh, what d’you think?” The sergeant could barely suppress his delight as blood drained from Dougall’s face.

“No, please,” Dougall mumbled.

“We’ll who else can there be?” Sgt Truscott stretched his arms and waited. The boy was about to break.

Corporal punishment was the solution, Dougall knew that. He was ex-public school. St. Tom’s was a traditional school: traditional lessons, traditional games and traditional discipline. A stiff caning solved most problems. It hurt like billy-o. But it was soon over and everybody moved on with their lives. He would accept a beating for his foolishness, but not from his father. And, it would be too humiliating to have Arkwright or the club coach administer his caning.

“Well …?” Sgt Truscott asked the duty officer. “What are we to do?”

“Dunno Sarge, what does the young lad have to say?”

The stares from the police officers burned into Dougall. The young man’s heart raced. He felt so foolish. But, he had to speak up. He had to say what was on his mind. He might regret it for the rest of his life if he remained silent.

He gulped air into his lungs. “Could you do it?”

“Do what sonny?” Sgt Truscott’s face was immobile. The duty officer licked his lips.

Dougall stared intently at the worn lino beneath his feet. “You know, could you …?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The silence was intense. It was now or never.

“Would you beat me,” he whispered.

“Speak up sonny.”

Dougall had never before thought much about the police. He had no opinion about them one way or the other. Until now. Now, he hated them with a passion. He gulped in more air and curled his fingers into fists. “Would you beat me,” he enunciated clearly.

“Say, please.”

Dougall’s fingernails bit deeply into the palms of his hands. “Per-lease.”

“I think that could be arranged, don’t you officer?” Sgt Truscott strode towards the back of the police station. “Follow me, lad. Come this way.” Sorrowfully, Dougall skipped down the corridor after the quickly disappearing policeman.

The room was usually used for interviews. There wasn’t much furniture. There didn’t need to be. There was a small wooden table in the centre surrounded by four chairs; and not much else. Sgt Truscott silently moved the chairs to the edge of the room; they would be of no use for what he had in mind.

Slowly, he unbuttoned his jacket and slid it off his shoulders. Seconds later it was in a heap on one of the chairs.

“Take off your raincoat and put it over there,” Sgt Truscott nodded to his own jacket. Dougall thought he was calm, but he couldn’t get his fingers to obey him. At last the buttons were undone and the coat removed. Sgt Truscott drew in breath. He couldn’t remember the last time he stood so close to a nearly naked man. The swimming trunks fitted Dougall snugly and the outline of his cock and balls was visible. It took an effort, but Sgt Truscott didn’t stare.

Instead, his own hands shook as he unbuckled the belt that held up his baggy serge trousers. Dougal stared intently. It was a long, thick, wide strip of leather. It looked terrifically heavy as the sergeant folded it once and then again until he had a punishment strap about a foot long.

Truscott ran the tip of his tongue across his top lip. “Shall we get this over with then?”

Dougall answered with an almost imperceptible nod.

“Climb up onto the table. Lay flat out.” The sergeant watched intently as Dougall stretched himself across the worn wooden table top.

“It helps if you fold your arms and rest your face in them,” the sergeant spoke kindly. He saw Dougall’s muscles in his back ripple as he manoeuvred to get into place. The twenty-year-old was some athlete. There wasn’t an ounce of spare fat on his body; his legs were like tree trunks and his bottom was firm and round. Almost absent-mindedly, Sgt Truscott reached to the waist of the swimming trunks and tugged slightly. Now, they fitted like a second skin. The crack between Dougall’s cheeks was clearly defined. The young man made a terrific target.

The crack of leather on stretched cotton bounced off the walls of the tiny room echoing two or three times before petering out. Dougall shut his teeth. It hurt. More than he might have imagined, but he was no stranger to corporal punishment. He screwed up his eyes to absorb the pain and settled himself for whack number two. It wasn’t long in coming. The sergeant twisted his own body and sent the leather scorching into the underside of Dougall’s buttocks. With his prey lying flat in front of him, the punisher was able to choose his target with great accuracy. Had the boy been bent across the table or over the back of a chair, a great deal of his flesh would have been hidden away from the direct line of the lashing leather.

Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! It was a long, thorough whipping, deep and cleansing. It was slow but steady with each stroke precisely placed. Dougall silently counted them all and when Truscott reached thirty the sergeant stopped.

The young man’s eyes shone. His rear end throbbed. His heart raced, blood flew through his arteries. His ears felt like they would burst. His lungs were raw. His body was thoroughly beaten; but he had lived.

“Stand up. Get back into your raincoat. Get out.” Sgt Truscott could not get rid of the boy too quickly. Dougall had no desire to stay. It was over. There would be no appearance before the magistrate. No scandal in the Sunday newspapers. His chances of an England cap remained strong. Gingerly, he hobbled from the room and limped down the passageway to the front door.









It was still sunny. Summer was not yet quite over. His bum felt raw. It was a scorching sensation very unlike the pain from six with the cane. It would take some time for the burning to fade.

He must at all costs resist the temptation to sit in the cool water of the horse trough to relieve his suffering, he smiled to himself as he set off back to the cricket club to collect his clothes.


Picture credit: The Champion

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Charles Hamilton the Second


A walk in the valley

It felt good to feel the sunshine on their faces. Fresh, clean air in their lungs. The valley was spectacularly green. Spring. The season of renewal. They stepped lightly, no, they almost skipped, away from the pit village. They had their secret place. Where they could be safe.

The coal mines were booming. The war was coming; the economy was booming. Double shifts were worked by all. They worked underground for fourteen hours at a time. Things looked good. To some. God was in his heaven.

Their place, a clearing in the wood. Not far from the beaten track. But far enough. Another world. A place where Dai Jones and Alun Owen could be themselves.

Dai saw Alun’s Adam’s apple slide up and down. Saw him blink more quickly. Press his lips together. He saw that he wanted it. He closed his eyes, felt his breath on his face. His hand on his cheek, throat, neck. Their lips met and an electric shock went through his body. He kept his eyes closed, felt his lips so soft, his hands gliding across the small of his back, his stubble, the smell of coal dust and his taste. It struck him how natural it felt.

“Quickly,” he breathed and raised both arms above his head. Alun whipped Dai’s shirt over his lover’s head. Then Alun raised his own arms and they both were half naked. Big, strong chests. Rippled muscles. Their bodies interlocked.

Fumbling fingers unfastened buttons. Trousers, underwear too, slipped to the knees. Big, hard, stiff erections. Aching. Desperate for relief.

An intrusive sound. The crunching of twigs underfoot. They were not alone.

“Hey, you two, what d’yer thing you’s doing?” An unnecessary question. Police Constable Thomas knew exactly what they were doing. Perverts!

Discovery. Terror. Caught performing unnatural acts. Disgrace. Prison loomed.

PC Thomas stood an imposing sight. He easily topped six feet tall and had once played prop at rugby. He was running to fat but remained a commanding figure. All the more impressive because he carried with him the full force of the law.

“Alun Owen; and you a married man,” the policeman sneered. “Dai Jones, what would your poor mother say?” He spat into the ground as if clearing his throat of a disgusting taste. He peered at the two near-naked men before him, trying not to stare at their by-now limp cocks.

Shivering with trepidation the two coalminers waddled up their trousers and pants to regain modesty. They stood, their upper bodies still naked. Too terrified to look at the policeman. Too ashamed to look at one another.

“It’s the end for you now, you know that?” It sounded like a question, but was a statement of fact. Humiliation and disgrace awaited. “You’ll get thrown out of the pit. From the village. Most likely go to jail.” PC Thomas was simply telling the truth. Without embellishment.

“Why do you do it boys? Why?” He shook his head from side to side as if he were carrying the weight of the whole world on his shoulders.

Tears welled in Dai’s eyes. Why did he feel such shame? Only moments earlier it had felt like the most natural thing in the world. Love between two people. Love given and reciprocated.

PC Thomas stood and watched. Their poor mothers. Alun Jones’ wife. They too would suffer for the perversions of their menfolk. Then, the policeman had an idea. He would do it for the womenfolk, he convinced himself. They didn’t deserve this.

PC Thomas glared. “Back in the days there was this magistrate up in the valleys. He had a case just like yours. Perversion. Do you know what he did?” The two wretched men standing before him could only stare blankly.

“He ordered them to be whipped,” he smiled spitefully. And, in case they hadn’t quite understood, he added, ominously, “Birched.”

The silence was broken only by the sound of distant bird calls.

“We could cut out the middleman, boys,” PC Thomas, cleared his throat which was suddenly dry. “If you get my meaning.” He cast his dark brown piercing eyes around about him. His intention was unspoken, but nonetheless clear. He was searching for suitable rods to make a birch.

Blast! He didn’t say it aloud. That would betray his inner feelings. There was nothing that would make a birch. And, he suddenly realised, he had no twine to bound together a rod.

Dai and Alun remained quiet; eyes downcast. Studying their feet; like naughty schoolchildren summoned to the headmaster’s study.

“There’s nothing here that would make a birch,” PC Thomas stuck his thumbs behind his belt, “but I could use this.” His eyes blazed. “A good leathering, that’s what you need.”

Dai’s face flushed. His eyes moistened. He hated himself for being such a coward. Any moment now he feared he would burst into tears.

Alun’s mouth opened. He stopped himself from speaking just in time. He wanted to tell the rozzer to go to Hell. But he knew he shouldn’t. They had been caught breaking the law. PC Thomas could do anything he wished with them.

“What say, boys?” a wicked grin split his flabby face. Sweat ran down the side of his hairline even though it wasn’t a hot day. “A nice warm whipping, eh.” He rolled the word “whipping” around his mouth, savouring every syllable. He unbuckled his two-inch-wide leather belt and with a flourish pulled it through the loops in his serge trousers. He doubled it up and held it by the heavy metal buckle.

Alun looked at Dai but his pal stared at dead leaves beneath his feet. He would get no answer there.

“Right boys,” PC Thomas held the belt hand so it tapped against his thigh. “Trousers and underpants down.” He raised the belt and slapped it into his left palm. It tingled, but that was nothing compared to what it would do to the two men’s arses.

“C’mon boys, I haven’t got all day.”

This time Alun and Dai did meet each other’s eye. Alun’s impassive cold grey eyes contrasted with the terror stare of Dai. No word was spoken. There was no need. The lovers often communicated without word. They must let the vile policeman have his way.

Alun reached for his own belt and began to loosen it.

“Good boy,” PC Thomas leered. “Now bare your buttocks and go stand close to that tree. Put your arms around the trunk and clasp your hands together. You,” he nodded to Dai, “you go stand by the other tree.”

Soon the two men were naked, except for a puddle of clothing at their feet. Hugging the tree emphasised strong back muscles. Their buttocks were full, but taut. Two penises rubbed hard against bark.

PC Thomas’s tongue poked through pursed lips. He rolled it around his dry mouth. He gulped trying to create saliva. He stood near Dai, his heart racing. The policeman had seen many naked men, but he had never been so close to one. He stifled the urge to run his rough hand across Dai’s almost hairless back and across his big round bum.

Dai almost head-butted the tree as he tensed himself for the strap. PC Thomas raised the belt a couple of inches, felt its weight, then raised it some more. It seemed an eternity before Dai heard the whistle of the leather through the air and it crashed at full force into his arse.  A broad sunset stripe immediately formed across the centre of both cheeks.

Dai’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged. His already moist eyes watered. PC Thomas cared little. He turned his back and walked three paces to Alun. Where Dai was hairless, Alun was covered in fur. Thick black hair grew out of his bum crack. To stiffen his courage, Alun clenched his fists, bit his lip and tensed his body. The policeman swiped his belt across the top of the mounds, it made an almighty crack that echoed through the woodland. Alun wriggled his arse at the shock. Close by a flock of birds rose to the sky, startled by the noise.

PC Thomas walked back to Dai and whipped him a second time. Then Alun, then Dai again. Over and over the policeman thrashed his leather belt across their arses.

Later that night, alone in his tiny bedroom Dai relived in it all in his mind. Nakedness. Humiliation. The masterful policeman. The pain as the heavy leather belt flogged into his flesh.

He could feel his cock filling out; it moved up from between his legs, rubbed against his thigh then flopped up onto his stomach. Dai’s hand slowly massaged his swollen penis. Stroked along the full length from base to head. Then let go and returned to the base again. His other hand cupped his balls. A groan of pleasure escaped his throat.

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Charles Hamilton the Second


By order of the court

Mr Creswell paced the length of his front room; it wasn’t a big room and it didn’t take him more than five steps to get from one side to the other. Anxiously he looked at his watch: it was nearly time they should arrive any minute now.

Upstairs in his bedroom his eighteen-year-old son waited, even more anxiously. He knew he was in the most serious trouble possible and within minutes he would be paying for it with his backside.

Mr Creswell stood in front of the bay window, he kept himself hidden from his neighbours behind lace curtains, but he still had a clear view of the street.

Right at the appointed hour a small car pulled up outside the house. You didn’t see many cars in this street and Mr Creswell felt sure his neighbours would all know who his visitors were.

It had been in the local newspaper; in fact, it made quite a big story; it was a most unusual case. Two eighteen-year-old youths including Albie his son had been stealing from a local shop: there was no doubt about it, they were caught red-handed. A few days later the boys appeared at the town’s juvenile court. Mr Creswell expected the worst; a fine or even the short, sharp shock of a spell in juvie jail.

The boys were to get a shock all right, but not the one Mr Creswell dreaded. The magistrate, a pompous ass if ever there was one, Mr Creswell thought, delivered a stern sermon, invoked Jesus Christ and the Bible before finishing his oration with a rousing speech on the quality of mercy.

The magistrate’s idea of “quality of mercy” might not be everybody’s notion. He gave the boys’ parents a most unusual choice. Either the fathers should deliver a sound thrashing to their sons – eight cuts of the cane on their backsides – or they could go to juvenile detention for six weeks.

The boys had no say in the matter, and really the parents had no choice. Mr Creswell was shocked: this was 1956 he complained later to his wife he thought things had changed for the better.

And, that’s how Mr Creswell and his son happened to be awaiting the arrival of the sheriff’s officer, a medical doctor and an independent witness. Any moment now, he expected a second car with local newspapermen to arrive.

Unsurprisingly, the court case aroused a lot of interest in the local newspapers. The boys were not named in the reports, because of their age, but the town was so small Mr Creswell was sure all his neighbours knew his son was involved.

Albie’s partner in crime had been dealt with the previous day. Mr Creswell had been reading about it in the local Advertiser. The account of the boy’s thrashing made his blood run cold: and he was expected to dish out the same treatment to his own son.

The newspaper reported, “The instrument of punishment was a stout four-foot cane borrowed from the town’s police barracks, because, according to a police officer, all schools are closed for the holidays.

“Police officer appointed by the magistrate to supervise the whippings, Det.-Sgt. Joe Wise, arrived in a police car at 7.20 pm outside the western suburbs home of the stepfather of one of the youths.

“The youth, who has allegedly refused to live with his stepfather since his mother remarried, had arrived alone in a taxi at 7.10 pm.

“The youth, big shouldered and tall for his age, entered the home unsmiling and spoke briefly to his weeping mother and his stocky stepfather.

“When Sgt. Wise told the youth to bend over a bed, the youth’s mother ran sobbing from the room.

“Closely watched by the detective, the stepfather raised the cane then brought it down with a crack that could be heard in the street.

“The youth winced with pain, but made no sound as the cane lashed across his buttocks eight times with a one second interval between each blow.

“After the thrashing Dr. Anthony Pound examined the youth for injuries.

“After the boy had been caned by his father, who, Sgt. Wise said, ‘knew his job’, he then told the detective: ‘This is the first and last time this will ever happen to me.’

“Sgt. Wise later told The Advertiser: ‘It will hurt the boy to sit down for a time, but I am really confident he will not come before the courts again.”’

The newspaper report said the boy’s father “knew his job”, well, Mr Creswell thought, that’s more than he himself did. What on earth was he supposed to do? He had never raised a finger in anger to any of his children – he had three boys, and Albie was the youngest. It didn’t occur to him that if he had waved his belt about a bit, his son wouldn’t have turned out to be a thief, but Mr Creswell was too wound up in self-pity to think like that.

Upstairs Albie had heard the car draw up outside the house. He knew that any moment now he would be called down by his father and within seconds he would be getting the most public thrashing of his life. At least he knew what to expect: not only had he read the newspaper account, he had spoken to James, his pal, and gotten his first-hand account.

It wasn’t as bad as the canings he had suffered from Mr West, the headmaster at their school. Now, there was a man who genuinely “knew his job” when it came to crashing a whippy cane into a boy’s upturned arse. He could make the stick lash down again and again on the same spot intensifying the pain beyond human endurance. More than once, James had hobbled out of the headmaster’s study with his underpants stuck to his bum by blood seeping from his wounds.

Albie also had his share of visits to the headmaster; mostly for minor misdemeanours: smoking cigarettes, repeatedly arriving late for school, or once for truanting altogether. His father knew about none of this, he assumed his son’s backside was not acquainted with the rod, preferring to believe Albie was close to being an angel.

He even, definitely mistakenly, believed he was an innocent party in the stealing; whereas in fact, his son was a well-known delinquent among the town’s shopkeepers and had they known he was one of the boys under the lash they read about in the newspaper, they would have thoroughly approved, and some of them would regret they were not permitted to witness the caning themselves.

Mr Creswell was appalled to see the detective gather the cane from the back seat of the car and then brandish it before him quite openly. He rushed to open the door to let his visitors into the house. If he thought his speed of action meant his neighbours would not get wind of what was happened, he was to be mistaken. Already doors up and down the street were opening and before long a small crowd would gather: adults and children alike. One or two parents, perhaps, encouraged by the Advertiser’s description that the crack of the cane “could be heard in the street.” What an excellent way to teach their own children of the painful consequences of delinquency.

The detective, doctor and witness introduced themselves to Mr Creswell. He didn’t take much notice; he wanted this over as quickly as Albie probably did.

Sgt. Wise took control. “Shall we go into the lounge room? Do you have a large chair or a couch? Something for the boy to stretch across while you do the necessary?”

Meekly Mr Creswell followed him into the room.

“This will do nicely,” Sgt. Wise said eying a green upholstered armchair. “Just the right height.”

Without seeking permission, he pulled the chair into the centre of the room and swivelled it one-hundred-and-eighty degrees so that its back pointed into the room. He took a couple of practice swishes to ensure there was sufficient room to swing the cane high and lash it down into an imaginary backside. The ceiling’s a bit low, he thought, but there was nothing he could do about that, all the rooms would be the same, he supposed.

He handed the cane to Mr Creswell. “Do you know how to use one of these? No, here, let me demonstrate. Philips, if you would be so kind.”

There must have been a prior agreement made between the two men, because with no further ado, the man Philips, the so-called independent witness, took two paces forward and dived, rather too eagerly perhaps, across the back of the chair. Within two seconds, he was in position, head low, bottom high, legs a yard or so apart.

“Stand about a yard to his left, aim for this spot here on the furthest buttocks, that way you will ensure the cane swipes across both cheeks equally. Once you’ve got your spot, pull the cane back in an arc,” Sgt. Wise demonstrated with some proficiency, “and land it across the seat with force.”

To Mr Creswell’s astonishment, Sgt. Wise did exactly that, delivering an almighty swipe across Philips’ buttocks.

“Oww Jerry! Steady on old man,” he said, but he didn’t seem to be too distressed by the turn of events.

“Then repeat the stroke, rapidly, one stroke per second, until you’ve delivered all eight. Try to land the cane as close to the same spot each time as possible.”

He offered the cane to Mr Creswell, “Now, you try it.” With shaking hands, Mr Creswell took the cane and found his position.

“That’s right, look for your spot. Well, done. Now let fly, with maximum strength.”

The cane flew, but somehow along the way, Mr Creswell had lost his target and the cane thwacked down low on Philips’ buttocks, just where they met the thigh.

“Yowlll!” It was a genuine yelp and the guinea pig stomped his feet up and down. “Jesus H. Christ!” he gasped.

Sgt. Wise could see a potential problem. “The boy should remain in position and take it like a man, but if he doesn’t there are two of us to hold him steady for you.

“All right, that’s enough, let’s get the boy down here,” Sgt. Wise continued and to Phillips’ relief (or perhaps chagrin), the practical demonstration ended there.

Sgt. Wise could tell Mr Creswell was far from happy with this suggestion, but he didn’t want an argument. The boy was going to get eight strokes and the magistrate had ordered the father to deliver them. Why, the stupid old goat hadn’t just permitted himself to lay on the thrashing he didn’t know, but Sgt. Wise kept his criticism to himself.

“Call Albert down, Mr Creswell, let’s get this done.”

Albie, buoyed by the newspaper description of his pal’s thrashing, “The youth winced with pain, but made no sound as the cane lashed across his buttocks eight times”, was determined to take his thrashing stoically. He wouldn’t let himself down. He hoped this evening’s newspapers would report the same about him.

He entered the room and was disappointed that no newspaper reporters were present. Such is the world of news: the first boy’s thrashing gets extensive coverage, but when the news repeats itself, it is stale.

The room lapsed into silence, Mr Creswell suspected he was supposed to take the lead, but he didn’t know how.

So Sgt. Wise took control. “Albert, you know why you are here.” He didn’t wait for a reply. “The magistrate had ordered your father to give you eight strokes of the cane. Bend over that chair,” rather unnecessarily he pointed to the green chair.

Albie was on familiar territory, the headmaster had a rather similar chair and the boy knew the drill from his past painful experiences.

Almost as expertly as Philips had done previously, he presented his bottom for the lash of the cane. When he had spoken to James earlier his pal had confessed he was terrified at first, not knowing whether he was expected to take his whacking on the bare arse, but once it was clear he was to keep his trousers on all fear evaporated: the experience would be rather like a routine headmaster’s caning, and although he was certain his bum would be throbbing like mad at the end, he knew he could endure it.

Forearmed with the information, Albie also was convinced it would be agony but that he could take it. He waited patiently, head low bottom high, clutching the seat cushion: but nothing seemed to be happening. What was the delay?

Mr Creswell was seeing his son from a new angle: stretched across the back of Mr Creswell’s favourite armchair, his trousers stretched so tight across his buttocks the outline of his underpants was easily visible. His son was a brat, he realised, he was a convicted thief (and God knows what else his father didn’t know about); he had brought disgrace on his family (even now his neighbours were gathered outside in the street, impatient for the whipping to begin); Albie deserved what he had coming, a very sound thrashing and he was going to give it to him

“Oh, get on with it man!” Sgt. Wise had misunderstood the situation.

Yes, I shall, Mr Creswell thought to himself as he carefully took his aim, then raised the heavy cane high and brought it with an almighty swish and crack into the seat of Albie’s trousers.

The boy let out a yell every bit as piercing as the one Phillips had yelped earlier. His head rose from the seat cushion and his grasp on the cushion intensified. Already his knuckles were turning white.

There was a long pause, then a further swish followed by a loud firecracker explosion. Intense, blinding pain overwhelmed Albie for a few seconds, and then he became aware of a deep and biting ache across his bottom. The stroke had landed full across both cheeks, high across the top of the bum. The stinging was amazing, but it faded quickly.

Outside the satisfied neighbours could hear the unmistakable sound of the cane in action.

Stroke three: Mr Creswell was getting his aim now. This landed almost exactly on top of stroke number one: Albie had never felt pain like it and immediately he cried out and stamped his feet in a dance, as he crushed the cushion between his fists.  Sgt. Wise could not suppress a laugh: just what the brat deserved.

Stroke four slashed down, creating the sorest, reddest line yet: Albie’s bum was scorching like a flamethrower.

Albie was in too much agony to think about it, but if he could he would be pleased there were no newspaper reporters present: he was not taking his beating like James, “making no sound”.

He let out the most unmanly squeal as the next stroke cut into his cheeks.

Now there was no pretence at stoicism as each loud crack of the cane was met by a howl of anguish as Albie gave his vocal cords free rein. He could feel big red weals forming across his twin cheeks and he hollered out as each stroke landed. The caning was worse than anything he had experienced at his school.

He gulped, holding onto the chair, knuckles whitening. And waited… waited…for the sixth… waited… waited… for the seventh, unbearable, as if it had cut straight through him… waited…. waited… and then the final blow and the final crescendo of pain.

His father had sliced the cane down hard again and again until the full sentence of eight strokes had been delivered. The painful payload left Albie slumped exhausted over the chair, tears and snot flowed down his face.

Mr Creswell breathing was hard with the exhilaration he felt in thrashing his youngest son. He had so much power over the boy and he had exerted it. Albie would never forget this day.

“Stand up boy!” It was Sgt. Wise taking control again.

Clearly in agony Albie lifted himself off the chair and unsteadily stood. For a moment he had to hold on to the chair to stop from stumbling. His arse was on fire and he suspected there was blood beneath his pants. The throbbing in his buttocks was intense, unlike anything the headmaster had inflicted on him.

Albie’s tears of pain and humiliation were flowing uncontrollably as he stood unable to look his punisher in the eye.

Now it was time for Mr Creswell to take charge. “Go to your room, stay there for the rest of the day.”

Albie did not need telling twice: in a heartbeat he was out of the room and running up the stairs two at a time to the sanctuary of his bedroom.

Mr Creswell supposed that the doctor would discreetly follow Albie from the room to go examine his injuries, but he did not. The doctor’s job was only to ensure that the victim didn’t actually die under the lash and he was certain that however much in agony he was at the moment, Albie would live.

No more was said as Sgt. Wise and his colleagues left the house. Only as the car was pulling away did Mr Creswell wish he had asked the detective if he would leave the cane behind; he had a mind that he might find occasion to use it again before too long.

Upstairs, Albie couldn’t wait to peel his trousers off and inspect the damage. He was shocked to see his buttocks covered in angry weals, some turning purple and eight fresh red lines, each as thick as his index finger.

Exhausted, he laid face-down on his bed, letting the cool air caress his buttocks. He was too tired to think about whether the magistrate was right or wrong to order his thrashing; he didn’t have the energy to ponder what his friends and neighbours would think of his punishment.

But as he sank into the bed and felt the pain begin to recede, Albie found that he was acutely aware of one thing: he was certain that the punishment had worked. Yes, whatever it would mean, the caning had worked.

A few days later the Advertiser newspaper reported, “Two quiet and restrained youths appeared before the magistrate this morning with their hair well brushed and their ties as straight as the narrow path.

“After he had listened to Sgt. Wise’s report of the thrashing in chambers, the magistrate emerged to tell the youths, one of whom was accompanied by his mother and the other by both parents, that as far as he was concerned he was satisfied with the police officer’s report.

‘“It seems to me you have learned your lesson,” added the magistrate, to which both youths replied in unison: “Yes, sir!”

“The magistrate then dismissed the case against both boys.”


Other caning stories you might like

 The office manager

The vicar delivers

The dope smoker


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second