The escapee (or Blakey on the run)

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The bars across the window had been sawn through weeks before. They hadn’t been fixed. Money was tight. There were more important things to worry about. Blakey pulled open the sash windows. It was almost dark. The rest of the “students” would be down in the recreation rooms in the hour before bedtime. Now, was the perfect time. He lowered himself to the ground. Crouched, just to check that there were no master around. The coast was clear. He ran towards the gate and was through it and on the road through the Widdicombe Woods in seconds.

It was hardly The Great Escape. Central Industrial School was an establishment for young offenders; chiefly petty, but persistent criminals. Society looked them up in school where they learned a trade before being allowed back to live among decent folk.

It wasn’t high security prison. Really, it was just like an ordinary boarding school; except for the bars. Inmates – or “students” as the authorities preferred to call them – escaped from time to time. Nobody at the schools cared too much; they always got caught. Some found so-called “freedom” tough and handed themselves in. When the masters – as they called the “warders” – found out Blakey had absconded they wouldn’t lose too much sleep.

Blakey wouldn’t get far. The uniform he was forced to wear would give hm away. Someone would soon spot him and know he was on the run. There are not many nineteen-year-old boys running around wearing blue short trousers. And certainly not in November.

No sirens were sounded; no road blocks set up. Blakey wasn’t a murderer or a rapist, breaking into gas meters was his speciality. In time local police would be informed.

Central Industrial School was two miles outside the small town of Brocklehurst and that was Blakey’s destination. He had a girl there. Blakey had needs. So did many of the students at Central Industrial School. It was the way they met those needs that upset Blakey. He needed the real thing and Doris, his girl, would see to it that he got it.

He lasted nearly two whole days. Two officers in a police car took him back. Capt. Harris, the “headmaster” and chief “housemaster” Mr White were ready to receive him. Preparations had already been made. Before the police car had made it to the end of the school’s drive, Capt. Harris gave the order, “Take him down to the gymnasium.”

Blakey made no protest. He didn’t struggle. Calmly, but not meekly, he followed Mr White. There was an eerie quietness about the place. Students were in classes in the main school building. The gymnasium stood on its own at the far end of the school grounds, a little behind the football pitches. It was cold, a frost had not melted and Blakey’s feet crunched along the ground as he trudged to his fate.

Mr White was silent. He had nothing to say. He didn’t care to ask why Blakey had run away; why the boy had done it in the clear knowledge that he would be caught. And what would happen to him upon capture. There was no secret about these things.

The gymnasium was a dilapidated building constructed mostly of wooden slats. It was cold and damp, uninviting at the best of times, even less so on this bitter winter’s afternoon. The door had been left ajar. “Get in,” Mr White barked. He stood aside to allow the nineteen-year-old absconder to enter ahead of him. Mr White feared the lad might try to make another run for it. The gymnasium was dark and dank, and almost completely empty. The first thing Blakey saw as he entered was Mr Albion; another of the school’s housemasters. Mr Albion taught mathematics. He also held a special role in the school. One that made him both feared and hated by the boys.

Blakey blinked hard. It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He saw Mr Albion standing behind an old, worn down vaulting horse. But that was not what startled Blakely. Behind Mr Albion and lined up against the wall were three huge enamel buckets and poking out of each of them were a bunch of birches, each soaking in what appeared to be dirty water. Blakey couldn’t stop his eyes from blinking rapidly. This time it wasn’t the poor light that had his lashes flickering. It was trepidation. He peered closely and even at a distance he saw each birch rod was a cluster of nine or ten leafless branches three feet long and tightly bound at the base with sticking plaster.

“Step forward, stand in front of the horse,” Mr Albion barked. Blakey hesitated. He wanted to comply; he couldn’t get his body to agree. “Hurry up Lad!” Mr Albion did not try to hide his impatience or his disdain for the “student” standing before him. At last Blakey’s legs were able to obey and he stood, unsteady on his feet. He heard little of what Mr Albion said next, he was staring at the leather horse. It was about four feet off the ground and had four short and sturdy wooden legs. Attached to each of these legs, around eight inches from the ground, were heavy leather straps. There could be no doubt of its purpose.

Only then did Blakey notice Mr Albion had moved towards the enamel buckets. Now, he stood gripping a bound birch rod in his hand, its long and thin twigs provocatively splayed.

“Remove your clothes,’ the terse order seemed to be made by a voice from a very long distance.”

Blakey croaked. His throat was dry, his legs shook and his stomach lurched with sickening fear. He couldn’t formulate a response. Mr Albion repeated himself, “Remove your clothes. All of them. Make a pile over there.” He swished the birch rod in the direction of a near corner. Water droplets flew from it and left a damp patch on the floor near his feet.

Blakey’s body once more refused to move. The enormity of his situation dawned on him. The horse, the straps, the birch, all threateningly combined for an attack on his fragile body.

Mr Albion glared at the wretched boy in front of him. “Do as I say and we can get this over and done with.”

Blakey could still not speak but his body responded. He was on some kind of auto-pilot. He removed his jacket and let it drop to the ground. His baggy, ill-fitting shorts fell to the floor the moment he released the belt. His shirt was next. Then he was dressed only in undervest and drawers. He stood, eyes now pleading with Mr Albion.

“Everything. All of it. Naked,” he roared, no longer speaking in sentences.

Blakey put his fumbling hands underneath his vest and, nervously pulled the rough material over his head. As he did so he smelt his own sweat. His armpits were rancid. He dropped the vest at his feet. Then, he slipped his thumbs inside the waist of his grey, woollen drawers. Like all of his clothes they were ill-fitting and they were soon down to his ankles. Immediately, and instinctively, he clasped his hands in front to hide his privates.

“Step out of them,” Mr Albion swished the birch rod again. “Kick them away. Right out of the way.”

An observer of this scene might have been surprised to witness what happened next. There were no abject pleas for mercy. No cursing and swearing. No struggles. No unseemly fight as Blakey fought to escape the terrible ordeal that was ahead. The lad allowed himself to be led by the arm to the horse. There he was bent over and tied, first by the hands and then by the legs. The downward slope of the horse meant that his backside was raised unusually high. In a moment his bare behind would feel the first kiss of the birch. Two hard, round hairless buttocks quivered as Mr Albion gently touched the splaying twigs against the naked flesh.

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Then, he raised the birch and remorselessly, and with a skill honed by experience, lashed it down across the upturned naked cheeks. Blakey yelled. He was no stranger to corporal punishment, his backside had been blistered by any number of whippy, rattan school canes. This was different. The cane delivers a single blow each time it falls, the birch causes more pain, owing to the number of thin supple rods. The more Blakey yelled the more Mr Albion lashed the unrelenting birch across his arched backside. Each combined thrash of the individual twigs found every inch of the lad’s mounds.

By the third stroke Blakey was lurching both to the left and the right. By the fifth stroke, realising that unremitting straps held his naked frame firmly in place, he begged for release. On the eighth he sobbed uncontrollably. “Please sir, no more. Please!’

The ninth stroke of the birch caught the underside of Blakey’s buttocks. “No more. Oh god, no more.”

The tenth and eleventh strokes lashed across the dividing curves of the young and, still smooth, backside. The twelfth stroke, firm and true, fell hard across the centre of all that had gone before.

Mr Albion’s birch had done its work for the final time. The last stroke embedded itself in the bare flesh and, having left a final mark, dragged down the outstretched legs and rested.

Blakey gradually ceased his screaming but continued to sob and bleat. Even that faded away to nothingness until, eventually, an eerie silence and stillness fell upon the gymnasium. Only the picture of a beaten lad, stretched naked across a vaulting horse. Mr Albion and Mr White left and did not return for ten minutes but, when they did, a still and exhausted lad had resumed his quiet sobbing.

Then the man who had birched Blakey’s bottom gently released the restraining straps and, just as gently, lifted him off the horse. For a moment Blakey was unbalanced and dizzy but, as Mr Albion put a steadying hand on his shoulders, his own hands moved to ease his burning rear. In silence and with much difficulty Blakey climbed back into his clothes.

“Come with me, that backside of yours needs some attention,” Mr White demanded and he led the way from the gymnasium, a bulge in his right hand trouser pocket causing him to limp a little.

 

 

Picture credits: Hotspur / Unknown

Other stories you might like

Changed Times 6. Birched live on TV

The sneak thief

Trousers down. Over my knee

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Another adventure at Camp Cottage

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See also: Adventure at Camp Cottage — click here

 

Julian bounded into the sitting room. The sun was shining brightly. My, the boy thought, what another gay day. The sun has been shining every day since I came to Camp Cottage to spend the summer with my Uncle Dick and Aunt Fanny.

“Does the sun never stop shining, Timmy,” he chortled to his cousin Timothy. The boy looked up from the map he was studying hard. “Only at night time, you chump!”

“Oh, ha! Ha! Very funny,” Julian loved his cousin, they had become great friends and he knew he was going to have a super hols being with him, but he was a little nervous that he was being made fun of.

“Well really, old chap!” Timothy beamed, his smile lit up his face. “Of course the sun always shines. Wouldn’t life be extremely dull if it didn’t.”

“It rains back home in the city,” Julian retorted glumly.

“That’s why you have to come to the country to have adventures. It never rains here in Westmoreland!”

“Jolly, super, I’m so glad I came.”

“Yes, I bet you’re jolly pleased that your mother and father left you behind when they went touring war-torn Europe taking Bibles to peasant people.”

“Oh rather! I am eighteen years old and could have stayed in our family house in the town, I suppose, but Father thought it would be better if I came here to Camp Cottage.” Julian pulled up a chair and sat beside his cousin at the dinner table. Only then did he notice he had a map unfurled in front of him. It was all yellowy and looked frightfully old.

“What’s that?” he asked cheerfully.

“It’s a map.”

Julian frowned, in case Timothy was pulling his leg again. “What’s it a map of?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant and not let on that he was desperately excited to know the answer.

“It’s a map of hidden treasure,” Timothy said, running his hand over it.

“Gosh! Hidden treasure, how thrilling!” Julian ejaculated, unable to contain his excitement. “Where did you get the map?”

Timothy beamed so that his whole face lit up. “Oh Ju!” he laughed, “You are such a Town Boy,” he ruffled his cousin’s untidy brown hair. “Don’t you know the country is practically full of maps of hidden treasure? Why, around here people practically trip over them all the time.”

“Golly gosh!” Julian still could not hide his excitement. “Where is this hidden treasure?”

“Who knows? It’s hidden, silly!” Timothy beamed and ruffled Julian’s hair again. He liked the way it felt so soft in his hand.

“Oh Timmy!” Julian huffed, “You know what I meant.”

Timothy beamed! He loved to tease his cousin, but he also wanted to share his secret with him. He hoped they would go off together on an adventure to find the treasure. “It’s an old school building just a few miles from here at Curran. It was abandoned at the start of the war. Look!,” he pointed to the top left hand corner of the map. There is a hidden cupboard of some sort behind a wooden panel. All we have to do it locate the room, find the panel and hey presto! the treasure is ours.”

“Yippee!” Julian screamed. “What an adventure! When can we go to discover the treasure?”

“Let’s do it right now. It’s such a beautiful summer’s day. We can cycle there. I have my bike and you can borrow my brother’s.”

“What a spiffing idea!”

“Yes, I’ll get Joanne, our family cook, to make us a picnic lunch. We can have Spam sandwiches and sticky buns!”

“Rather!” Julian ejaculated again with excitement, “And lashings of ginger beer!”

The two adventurers went to seek out Aunt Fanny to tell her of their plans. They found her asleep in a chair in the drawing room. “Yes, go! Go! Go!” she waved her arms and pointed to the door.

“I say, Timmy” Julian beamed, “Did you see how red her face was? I think she’s been in the sun too long.”

“Yes. Perhaps,” Julian replied quietly.

Soon they were ready to set off. The journey was about five miles and because both boys were very fit it wouldn’t take them any time at all. Timothy said they would ride through the village and then up into the hills, the school was in a very isolated spot. He led the way through Curran, they passed the post office, the little church and then the much larger pub. Suddenly, Timothy waved at Julian. He wanted him to stop. “What’s up, Timmy?” Julian asked, puzzled at why they had stopped outside a high wall that surrounded what appeared to be an apple orchard.

“I just wanted to get some apples,” Timothy said brightly.

“Apples?” Julian frowned. “Why do you want apples? We could’ve picked them from the trees in the garden at Camp Cottage.”

“Oh, don’t be a silly,” Timothy grinned. “This is much more fun!” He dismounted his bicycle and leaned it against the brick wall. “Here,” he chortled, “Give me a leg up, I’m going to scale the wall.”

“Oh my,” Julian suddenly realised his cousin’s jape. Oh, no, he thought, what a naughty thing to do.

“It’s only scrumping,” Timothy had read his pal’s thoughts. “This is the country, everybody does it,” he explained. “Now link your fingers together so I can stand on them. Julian’s heart raced. He was not usually a naughty boy! What adventures he was having at Camp Cottage! He linked his hands and Timothy stepped into them and with a fine athletic movement he climbed onto the top of the wall and let himself over to the other side.

Julian sat astride his bike, wheeling it backwards and forwards and anxiously looked up and down the road. What if somebody came along! What trouble they would be in! Suddenly, the top of Timothy’s head appeared over the wall, he pulled himself up and tumbled head first to the ground. He grinned at his cousin, “C’mon matey, let’s scarper!” Just as he mounted his bicycle an elderly man, dressed in baggy brown trousers and an old jacket with a flat cap on his head appeared at a gate in the wall.

“Grrr!” he called and shook his fist. “Grrr! I know you! You little blighter Bylton! Grrr! Stealing my apples. Grrr!” His face was purple with rage. The two boys sped off on their bicycles with the words of the angry old man ringing in their ears. “You wait Bylton! Wait till I tell PC Plank, the village policeman, what you did. Just you wait!”

The two boys peddled like fury for a hundred yards and when they were quite sure they were far enough away from the angry old man they stopped to catch their breath. “Oh, Timmy,” Julian said, his voice full of concern, “Do you think he’ll really report you to the village policeman?”

Timothy frowned, “Most likely, yes.”

“Oh dear, Timmy, I suppose he’ll give you the most frightful ticking-off,” Julian’s face was full of concern.

“Yes,” Julian examined the handlebars of his bicycle miserably, “Something like that, I suppose.” He wriggled his bottom on the hard seat of his bicycle. Then, his face brightened and he rummaged in the pocket of his short trousers. “Here catch!” and he threw a lovely juicy apple to his cousin. “It’ll taste all the sweeter now,” he grinned and the two boys munched away.

Oh my! If only they had cycled away and headed on their way to the treasure hunt PC Plonker would never have caught up with them. Instead, before they had finished eating they heard a horrid working class voice shouting, “Oi! Youse two. Bylton and t’other one, you just stay roight where you are.”

“Crikey, he does look angry,” Julian said. PC Plonker was all red in the face. He was a very fat man and he had his heavy blue tunic buttoned up ever so tightly. On such a lovely warm day as this that was a silly thing to do! The poor man was sweating so very badly. “Oi!,” he hollered again and peddled his bicycle until he came alongside the two naughty boys. “I heard all about it,” PC Plonker could hardly catch his breath. “I did indeed. Farmer Giles told me everything. Where are those apples? Give them here” PC Plonker held out his hand but Timothy only smirked. “Eaten. All eaten,” he grinned. “Here,” he opened the palm of his hand, “You can have the core if you want it,” he grinned cheekily.

“Pah! Bah! Bish!” PC Plonker took off his heavy helmet and rested it on the handlebars of his bicycle. Then he took a large white handkerchief from his tunic pocket and shook it about until it was open. Then, slowly, he mopped his brow and his big wobbly jowls. Then, he folded it up carefully and put it back in his pocket.

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“My police house is over there,” he pointed down the country road. “Come with me you little perishers!” Julian blushed to the roots of his hair. “Oh my,” he said, “We are in trouble, Timmy.” His cousin frowned, “You don’t know the half of it, Ju. Really you don’t.”

In no time at all they were at PC Plonker’s cottage. It was a very small house and not at all like Camp Cottage. There was one small room and a kitchen downstairs and upstairs another room and a place for PC Plonker to wash. His toilet was a shed in the back garden.

PC Plonker was so very angry. “Get in there, both of you,” he growled and pointed to the kitchen. It wasn’t very big but there was a wooden table set down right in the middle. PC Plonker unbuttoned his tunic and all the fat from his belly flowed out over the waistband of his heavy serge trousers. Timothy stared at the big, wide heavy leather belt that held up PC Plonker’s trousers. All the water drained from Timothy’s mouth.

“You are nothing but little thieves,” PC Plonker told them. He was very angry and he waved his arms around. “What would your father say if I told him what you did?” Timothy blushed to his roots. He knew what his father would do, if he found out. Oh my! He didn’t want him to find out.

PC Plonker stood by the doorway of the kitchen and put his hands deep into his pockets. “Well young Bylton,” he growled at Timothy, “Youse been here before, youse knows what’s to ’appen.” Timothy’s mouth opened and closed but he couldn’t think of anything to say. “Youse was caught red-handed, youse was,” PC Plonker said with a glint in his eye. “Don’t blame me …” PC Plonker stopped talking then and Timothy and Julian both stared at the policeman as he took hold of his own belt and unbuckled it. Their eyes popped out on stalks when PC Plonker took hold of the belt and pulled it fast that whoosh! it came away from his trousers and flew through the air. PC Plonker’s belly was so fat his trousers didn’t fall down. Really, he didn’t need a belt at all. Well, not to keep his trousers up!.

PC Plonker folded the belt into three so that it was about fourteen inches long and he held it by the buckle. He swiped it against the leg of his trousers. His eyes narrowed and he stared right at Timothy. “Well young un,” he growled. “You know what to do.” Then he glowered at Julian. “You too, matey!” Julian stood still. He was very frightened. He didn’t like the look of that belt in PC Plonker’s hand, not at all. But, he didn’t know what PC Plonker wanted him to do. Julian looked at his cousin. He knew Timothy would know.

“Do like this,” Timothy whispered and then he undid the belt of his own corduroy short trousers. Julian gaped. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Slowly Timothy unbuttoned his trousers and let them fall down his thighs and his legs to the floor. “Go on,” he nodded to Julian.

Poor Julian was very flustered. Now, he knew what PC Plonker meant. Now, he knew why the policeman had taken off his belt. Oh my! Julian could feel tears welling up in his eyes. Oh my! He had been a naughty boy and now he was to be punished. He didn’t say a word, he just undid his own short trousers and he blushed to his roots when he saw his own underpants. But, he let the short trousers go and they whistled down to his feet.

PC Plonker snapped the belt between his hands. The crack! it made echoed around the small room. He stared right at Timothy and then he nodded at the boy. Timothy understood right away. He didn’t need to have it explained to him. He looked at his cousin and with his eyes he told Julian he must follow what he was about to do. Then, he turned to face the kitchen table. He nibbled on his bottom lip for a second and then he leaned forward. He went so far that his stomach lay on the cold wooden table top. He reached his arms out ahead of him and he gripped the edge of the table.

Julian watched. He was astonished. He could see his cousin stretched over the table and he saw the way the boy’s bottom was raised high. The underpants had stretched right across his buttocks and up into the crack between the two cheeks. “C’mon, lets-be-aving-you,” PC Plonker gasped and then because he didn’t think Julian understood, he explained, “Bend over the table, next to yer partner in crime.”

Oh my! Julian was so scared. He had never been spanked before. Not ever. Not even as a very little boy. He wanted to say something but didn’t know what to say. If his father ever found out about this he would be so ashamed. Stealing! That was a crime. People went to prison for that. Somewhere in his head he heard a little voice. It was very faint, but it was also very clear. “Take your punishment,” it said. “You are a very naughty boy. You deserve to have your little bottom spanked.”

So, Julian shuffled over to the table and stood alongside his cousin. He could see him from the corner of his eye. Timothy was face down, with his stomach and chest along the table top. He held his bottom high and also gripped hold of the far edge of the table. Julian licked his lips and slowly let himself fall forward. In no time at all, he was spread-eagled alongside his cousin.

Oh my! PC Plonker looked down at the two naughty boys. What delightful targets they made. How he hated the posh boys from the village. They thought they were so much better than people like himself. Ha! Ha! He’d soon show them. He gripped hold of the belt at the buckle end and swished it though the air. Then, he stood very close to Timothy. The eighteen-year-old boy’s bottom twitched. It was the backside of a very naughty boy and was no stranger to punishment, but that didn’t stop it shivering in anticipation of the pain to come. PC Plonker held the belt high and swished it down with all his might and it smacked really hard across Timothy’s bottom. The naughty boy grimaced and closed his eyes tightly.

Then, PC Plonker took a step to his right so that he could get a good aim at Julian’s posterior. PC Plonker smiled when he saw the cheeks tighten up and pretended they were hard rubber balls. It was their way of trying to protect themselves. Whack!! The leather hit Julian right in the middle of his right cheek. PC Plonker hit him no harder than his companion, but Julian had never been spanked before and because of that it seemed to hurt him much, much more. He whistled through his teeth, the pain was like nothing he had felt before.

PC Plonker went back to Timothy and walloped him once more. Then it was Julian’s turn again. PC Plonker went from one to the other lashing his belt across the backsides of the two very naughty boys. Poor Julian; he twisted and turned with every stroke of the heavy, leather belt. His head nodded up and down, it hurt so much. But, valiant little fellow he hung on tightly to the table’s edge and not once did he jump to his feet so he could hop up and down and rub his scorching bottom.

Oh my! Timothy was a trooper. PC Plonker spanked him every bit as hard as he did Julian but Timothy was no stranger to corporal punishment. Yes, his bottom was sore but the belt was nothing compared to the swishy rattan cane that his housemaster used on him at school. And his father’s wooden paddle was harder and heavier than even PC Plonker’s thick belt. Timothy knew he could take it. He closed his eyes, kept his bottom high and held on tightly to the table. He would let PC Plonker get on with it. His punishment would be over soon enough.

Well, PC Plonker didn’t count the number of times he lashed those naughty bottoms, but he made sure that there wasn’t any part of them without dark-red lines. They were everywhere, right on the crest of the cheeks, and all over the mounds themselves and into the undercurves. PC Plonker even landed a few across the back of their thighs. On the naked flesh! Oh my! How that hurt. Even Timothy had to admit to himself that that hurt.

PC Plonker was a very fat man and very fat people are not very fit. They don’t have much energy and soon the policeman realised his heart was racing away with him. His shirt was soaked with perspiration and his head ached very badly. He might have a heart attack if he didn’t stop soon. So, he gave each cheek two more slaps (that’s eight slaps in total) and then wheezing mightily, he exclaimed, ‘Righty-ho! That’s you done,” and he sat down with a thump on one of the wooden chairs and tried to get his breath back.

Timothy was the first to his feet. He found his corduroy short trousers and he pulled them on and buttoned them up. Julian was not so fast. He stood up but had to hold on to the table for a little while. His bottom was very sore and before he found his short trousers that he had kicked half-way across the kitchen he gave his bottom a good rub. He kneaded them hard, but to his dismay it didn’t seem to ease the ache in his sit-upon. “Come on Ju,” Timothy was dressed now, “Let’s go.” Sorrowfully, Julian stepped into his short trousers and buttoned up. He was still rubbing the seat of his shorts when the pair picked up their bicycles.

“Come on Ju,” Timothy cocked his leg over the crossbar of his bicycle. “We’ve got hidden treasure to find,” he chortled as he peddled down the country lane.

 

Picture credits: B C Freeman / Skipper

Other stories you might like

Summer holiday camp

One hot summer afternoon

The students next door

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The sneak thief’s caning

I was a long way from home on the other side of the world, just travelling like a lot of young people did. I was exploring how other people, different from me, lived; seeing different cultures in the raw, experiencing new things. But I got a bit more than I bargained for the day I stole a Smart phone.

I was in a crowded market, packed elbow to elbow with hundreds, thousands possibly, of people when I saw my chance. One stall completely open to the elements was stacked high with every conceivable gadget. There was the latest from Apple, Sony’s newest wizardry all within hand’s reach. Back home these things would be locked behind glass and security guards would be standing close by.

Here, on a market stall in the back of beyond they were there for the picking. They were knock-off counterfeits, I guessed that, but even so who could resist having the very latest Smart phone? I wanted one, but I could not afford it, so I decided to steal it.

I cased the joint, as criminals of the past probably never said, and saw there were only two people attending the stall and they were constantly busy dealing with customers. It would be easy. I joined a crowd of customers pushing and shoving against the stall and bided my time. Then, when I was sure the stallholders could not see me, I sneaked a phone into my pocket and casually walked away.

I surprised myself. I was coolness itself. I had no nerves at all. A snatch theft, perfectly executed. Or so I thought.

Moments later there were two policemen, one on each of my shoulders. The police station was only a couple of minutes away and I soon found myself seated on a long, hard, wooden bench outside an office with a faded sign: Inspector.

I was not so cool now. A witness had seen me stealing the phone and now I would face the full force of the law. The police station was crowded; I was not the only thief they had captured that day. Soon the bench became quite crowded. There were two boys, young men really, dressed in school uniform, looking a bit odd in their khaki short trousers and a well-dressed man somewhere in his late twenties.

The two schoolboys were engaged in animated conversation, they seemed quite agitated, but I could not speak their language so had no idea what they were saying. The man just stared at the dirty floor tiles beneath his feet.

After what seemed like hours, but was probably only five minutes, the man was called into the Inspector’s office. After a few minutes, he came out, looking shocked, and a police constable led him away.

Then it was the turn of the schoolboys. They were called in together (obviously partners in crime) and they too exited after some minutes and were led away. One of the boys appeared to be crying.

Then, it was my turn. The Inspector’s office was small and dirty. He sat behind a small ramshackle wooden desk. In front of it were two beaten up chairs, one had a ripped seat cover and dirty sponge poked out.

The Inspector was exhausted; he looked like he had not shaved for a week, and I could smell he was in dire need of a shower.

He waved to me to sit down and wearily he looked at me across the desk. He seemed surprised to see me there. He did not see many foreigners in his office, he told me. He spoke to me as if I was a half-wit, and only later did I discover that foreigners who were caught up to no good by the police generally slipped the arresting constable a couple of US dollars and they went away.

If I had known the protocol I would never have had to face the ordeal that I would remember for the rest of my life.

The Inspector was in no mood for small talk. He read the charge sheet: theft of a phone. I did not deny it. He did not ask why I did it. If he had all I could say was I stole it because I wanted it and I thought I could get away with it. It was a gadget; it was not as if I had been starving and had stolen food to eat.

The Inspector looked one more time at the charge sheet and then stared me straight in the eye; I could smell his rancid breath.

“I can give you a choice,” he said, “In this city offenders can be given an ‘off the record’ caning for minor offences such as these. No records of your crime will be kept. We like it because it reduces police paperwork and court time.”

I must have looked dumbfounded and the Inspector must have felt he needed to sell the idea to me some more, “You could go to the Magistrate and possibly get a fine, or perhaps go to prison for a few days.”

I knew I could not pay a fine and the thought of prison horrified me; how would inmates treat a young foreigner like me? But, could I endure a caning as an alternative?

Before I had a chance to respond, the Inspector was talking again. “Think yourself lucky,” he smiled, but he was not joking, “In some parts of this country they would cut off your hand for stealing.”

I was silent, not knowing what to say. What would a caning be like? Corporal punishment back home had been confined to the dustbin of history. Would it be like in the olden days? Bend over touch your toes while the headmaster whacked a whippy cane into the seat of your trousers?

The Inspector was getting impatient; he had many more ‘customers’ to see before his shift would end. “You have no choice really do you?” he said, not unkindly.

No, no choice, I agreed.

A constable came and took me to another building on the police compound. He opened the door and bluntly told me to go inside. It was a big room and at the far end there was a door.

Standing there was the well-dressed man I had seen earlier, but now he was completely naked. A policeman gave me a plastic bag and ordered me to take off all my clothes.

I asked why I had to take my clothes off.

The policeman said, “Cane is on bare bottom.”

In all my imaginations, it had not occurred to me that the caning would be bare. I was wearing denim jeans cut off above the knee and I had supposed the thick material would have given me some protection against the cane and it would not hurt too much.

The policeman pushed the bag at me, forcing me to take it. “Get on with it. Do you want extra strokes?”

I took the bag and undressed. I was very embarrassed. Nobody ever saw me naked; I only took my clothes off to have a shower.

When I was naked, the outer door opened again and the two schoolboys were brought in. They also were forced to strip. Soon, there were four of us naked awaiting our punishment.

After about five minutes the other door opened and a man wearing an Inspector’s uniform came in. We were told to go through the door.

It was a small open yard with brick walls. There was a sort of a narrow bench with a leather top in the shape of upside down V. Beside it there was another policeman holding a Malacca cane. From where I stood it looked awesome. It was probably a little more than three feet long and although it was about as thick as a pencil, it was extremely supple. I felt my legs wobble at the thought of that thing slashing into my naked buttocks.

z used cane hold kernled (12)The Inspector called the man over to the bench. He had to lean right over it. It must have been very shameful for him as we could see all privates. The Inspector nodded to the policeman who walked over to the bench, raised up the cane, then whipped it across the man’s bottom.

He shrieked. The Inspector nodded and the policeman whipped him again. The man stayed quiet this time but I saw his body go tense. After the next stroke he cried out a little bit more and he did the same for the next two strokes. He was then allowed to stand up.

Then it was turn of the first of the two schoolboys. He went over the bench affecting calmness. After the first stroke he just gasped and on the second one he cried out. The third one brought tears to his eyes. The policeman waited a few seconds then gave the fourth stroke. The boy cried out something that I could not understand. He seemed to be pleading for the beating to stop.

Then a fifth stroke lashed into his buttocks and he was allowed to get up trembling and sobbing.

Then it was the turn of the other schoolboy, the smaller of the boys, the one I had seen crying earlier.  He bent over the bench but after first stroke he stood up again rubbing his bottom. The policeman ordered him to bend over again, but he was crying and refusing. The Inspector and policeman grabbed him, put handcuffs on him behind his back then bent him over the bench again. The Inspector held his shoulders down while the strokes were given. The boy screamed every time, it was terrible noise. When he got up and had the handcuffs taken away he just walked about sobbing and rubbing his bottom.

Then it was my turn. I think that going last was the worst. I bent over the bench and it felt so shameful as everybody could see my bottom and my private parts. I screwed my eyes up tight, every muscle a vice of tension awaiting the coming onslaught. The moment seemed to go on forever.

‘Yeowww!’ I shrieked out in shock and pain. The policeman raised his right arm high and brought the cane down with tremendous power again in a mighty stroke. I was panting and could hardly breathe. I tried to stand up but the policeman just pushed me back over the bench. He whipped me again, any effort I was making to maintain some self-control and dignity collapsed and I burst into floods of tears, yelling out my anguish uncontrollably, tears now pouring down my cheeks.

The fourth one was not as hard as the others, then after that I heard the policeman whispering to the Inspector and I hoped it was over. I had started to relax, then the last lash came. I screamed out and then the policeman tapped my shoulder and told me to get up.

We were sent back inside again. The schoolboys were still sobbing. We had to wait for about five minutes, still naked, before another policeman came back with our clothes. We were then allowed to get dressed and go home.

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

Picture credit: Kernled

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Fake News at New Year

new story 2

Five louts birched after New Year’s brawl

Brocklehurst Bugle

z used birch bare gym horse sting restrained (2)

Five louts each received 12 strokes of the birch on their bare buttocks for brawling in the street after a new law came into force at midnight on New Year’s Day.

The five, aged between 19 and 21, appeared before Brocklehurst Magistrates on Tuesday. Police Inspector Harry Dorian told the court there had been a series of fist fights in the High Street shortly after pubs closed at 2. a.m. “The louts were quickly arrested and locked up in the cells overnight,” he said.

All five admitted public order offences.

Chief Magistrate Gillingham Jones said, “We will not tolerate this disgraceful behaviour in Brocklehurst. I am delighted that the new law allows me to sentence each of you to a severe birching. I hope it serves as a lesson to you and to all others in the town who think they can terrorise the streets. There is no place for violence in Brocklehurst.”

The birchings were thought to be the first of their kind to take place in the country since a new law was introduced allowing corporal punishment to be administered on males under the age of 30. Punishment took place immediately after the sentence was handed down hours after the offences were committed.

Inspector Dorian who witnessed the birchings said they took place at the gymnasium at the central police station. “Each of the yobs was required to take off his trousers and underpants before being taken one at a time into the gym.”

He added, “They were big cowards and we needed two police officers to drag each of them over the vaulting horse. Special leather cuffs had been attached to it so we could tie them down.”

He said birches had been specially made in anticipation of trouble on New Year’s Eve. He added they would return to Widdicombe Wood later in the week to gather further supplies.

“One of our police sergeants administered the birchings. He is a burly copper and plays prop forward in the police rugby team. He undertook special training.”

A doctor was on hand to ensure no lasting damage was done. Police Inspector Dorian said, “Each one of the louts hollered the place down. They were all weakliness. They were begging for mercy after the first couple of strokes but we at Brocklehurst Police Service are determined to do our duty. Twelve strokes of a heavy birch across naked buttocks does a lot of damage and none of the yobboes could walk properly after the flogging. We had to let them recover in the cells.

“It serves them right. I have no sympathy.”

He warned that there would be extra police on patrol this coming weekend. “We will not hesitate to birch every young man in Brocklehurst if the need arises,” he said.

 

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

Footballer’s Judicial Caning

z used cane hold military kernled (9)

“One hundred dollar fine; two hundred and fifty dollars to be paid in damages and four lashes of the cane on the bare buttocks. Take him away. Next case.”

The twenty-eight-year-old footballer bitterly resented being in this God-forsaken African country. Tony Jeffries was an important name in European soccer and starred in a top club, but he was still forced to tour the world to these backwaters, just because the club wanted to extend its brand across the globe.

Now, he was to get a different kind of brand across his own globes.

It had all happened so quickly. Last night he and some of the backroom boys at the club escaped their hotel to see a bit of night life. That was a big mistake, the town was a dump and there was nothing to do. They did find a rundown bar and had a few drinks, but nothing too much. Then some locals recognised who he was and muscled in. They would not leave him alone, words were exchanged, punches flew, tables got overturned, glasses were smashed, the police were called, and he ended up in the magistrates’ court.

The charges were violent conduct, criminal damage and causing a disturbance. And, for that, in this country you got your arse caned. Judicial corporal punishment was normal here, the law said men up to the age of forty could be lashed and courts routinely sentenced criminals to the cane.

Jeffries had to sit through two others cases before his own was heard. In the first a twenty-eight-year-old man got a fine and three lashes on the bare buttocks for stealing peanuts from a store. In the second, a man got five cuts for trying to snog a woman who did not welcome his advances.

Corporal punishment was a relic from colonial days when the ruling power used the cane liberally against the natives. They treated the locals as if they were children, no matter how old they really were, and believed that administering ‘spankings’ was the  way to get them to do as they were told.

Today, people believed corporal punishment was a good method of controlling the population and a sentence of lashing was cheaper than sending people to prison.

So, that’s how Jeffries came to be waiting his turn for a visit to the flogging room at the court. He had spent the night in a police cell, but he couldn’t complain. He was given a chance to call his club who contacted a lawyer and his country’s embassy and got the same response: Jeffries was guilty (he admitted that) and he had to take a whipping. It was the law and that was all that could be said about it.

A doctor had examined Jeffries to ensure he was fit to be whipped. All he did was to put a stethoscope to his chest to test his heart and, of course, Jeffries was fit; he was a world-class athlete, after all.

At one time the beatings were held in the police station’s examination room, but they were later transferred to the present room when it was found that the police station ceiling was too low to permit a full swing of the cane.

In the flogging room there were five adults. Two policemen held Jeffries bent over a table, and his trousers were pulled down.

A third policeman flogged him on his naked buttocks.

So great was the pain caused by the chastisement that a handkerchief was stuffed into his mouth to prevent those present hearing his piteous cries. It might also stop him biting off his tongue.

The policeman threw himself into a striking attitude. This was to be no child’s play.

The chief officer called “One!” His colleague raised the cane and smashed it down on the bare buttocks of the prisoner.

The first stroke had been a sort of overhead and downward cut.

The policeman was in no hurry. The second hand of the chief officer’s watch crawled. The punishment must not be hurried. After five seconds that seem like an age, he called, “Two!”

This second one – whew! –  swish! It came underhand and upwards, shattering the bruised flesh.

The doctor took note of Jeffries’s face. It was grey. But the doctor was not concerned. His function was not to stop the infliction of pain but to save the authorities the embarrassment of a man dying under punishment.

Jeffries’s entire consciousness was dominated by the thought of the next stroke – until his torture came to an end or the doctor called a halt.

“Three!” As the third stroke swished home, the footballer lost all sense of his surroundings. A symphony of pain engulfed his whole being. By now, he could no longer keep track of time.

“Four!” Whizz! — slosh! A straight forearm cut fair across the other three lines.

The men let his hands and feet go, he sprang erect with flushed face and suspiciously brilliant eyes. His arse burned as though he’d sat his bare bottom on a hot griddle.

A policeman ushered Jeffries from the room, to ready it for the next customer.

Jeffries could not sit down and was forced to lie on his stomach in the back of a people carrier for the journey back to his hotel. In the privacy of his room he gently eased down his trousers and underpants and examined the four distinct burning lines of pain that adorned his buttocks, it would be a full day before his backside became less painful to touch.

The following day he had to work hard not to fidget sitting in the plane as the team flew home and it took another two days before he could sit without being reminded of that God-forsaken country.

Picture credit: Kernled

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

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Public Birching

z used naked stocks restrained outdoors (1)

George was walking his dog towards the recreation ground one morning when he realised there were a lot of people on the street, all seemingly going in the same direction. He spotted a neighbour Colin.

“Hi Colin,” he said tugging on his dog’s leash to slow him. “What are all these people doing? Is something happening?”

Colin rolled his eyes. “Good morning Rip Van Winkel. Where have you been these past years?” When George failed to respond, Colin went on. “Don’t you watch the news?”

The news?  George was puzzled. “No,” he told his neighbour, “It’s all wars and the economy. Too boring.”

Colin smiled, “Well you do know that about a couple of years ago they passed a law saying that juvenile delinquents could be birched.”

“Yessss,” George replied with some hesitation since he wasn’t at all sure he knew that.

“Well,” Colin went on, “Now they’ve passed another law saying the courts can order the birching to be in public. If the crime is serious enough.”

They were approaching the open piece of land. It was mainly an area of grass. Usually kids kicked footballs and adults walked their dogs. Today would be different.

“This is the first one in this town,” Colin said helpfully, keeping George abreast of what was happening. The News might even be here. ‘Live on Sky News,’ you know.” They had reached the Rec now. “Want a hot dog?” he asked nodding to a row of concession vans. The ice cream man was doing a good trade.

“No I’m good,” George surveyed the scene. There was maybe a hundred people present; mostly elderly. Retirees like himself, George supposed. Nothing better to do than to watch a public whipping. He smelt a strong aroma of onions, Colin had returned.

“C’mon, let’s get a closer view.” Only then did Gorge see in the near distance a wooden structure had been built. It was clearly brand new. Never before used, probably. Two posts had been driven into the ground and there was a plank running between them. Three round holes, one quite large and two smaller had been drilled in to it. George recognised it immediately. It was like medieval stocks, the kind where the criminal had his head and arms locked so the crowd could pelt them with rotten fruit and vegetables. A simple contraption, George recognised, but highly efficient.

The crowd had organised themselves well, standing around in a semi-circle on one side of the stocks; everyone would get a clear view. There was an expectant buzz, people talking in hushed tones, showing reverence before the action began.

“Who is it?” George asked. He meant who was going to be birched.

“Young lad, twenty-something,” Colin said, trying to remember details he had heard on the radio that morning. I forget his name. He beat up an old woman. Street mugging.” He curled his lip, “Deserves all he gets.”

George moved from one foot to another, standing still could be quite tiring. “Is she here?”

“Who?”

“The lady. The one who was robbed?”

“No idea.”

Just then a dark blue police van turned off the road and with its lights flashing, slowly it drove across the grass. Groups of people parted to let it through.

“Looks like we’re under starter’s orders,” Colin grinned ruefully.

The expectant buzz was louder. The van stopped and three young police officers got out. All were younger than his own grandchildren, George estimated. One went to the back and unlocked the back door. Another police officer, this one much older, stumbled out. He got his footing n the uneven ground and then reached back into the van. The murmur from the crowd increased ten fold as a young man was pulled from the van. He was tall and quite thin. His dark, unkempt hair fell across his eyes which were blinking incessantly, as if unused to the light. He was also completely naked.

“Bloody hell,” George said, for want of a better expression. A shiver ran up his spine although it was quite a warm morning. Without thinking, he pulled on his dog’s leash keeping the mutt close to his own feet.

The young man’s head was bowed. His hands were cuffed but he managed to keep them strategically placed to cover his cock on balls. The older officer said something in the young man’s ear and pushed him aggressively towards the stock.

The crowd hushed once more. Only then did George realise most of the people in the crowd were women. Why was that, he wondered. Had the men deliberately decided to stay at home. The three young police officers spoke into radios and then began to move the crowd back.

“Come on ladies and gents,” one said waving his arms to encourage movement. George noticed how much the copper looked like the delinquent about to be whipped. While the crowd was moving back, the other policemen readied the stocks.  It was a beautifully simple contraption. The plank split in half and lifted. The criminal’s head and wrists were placed in the holes and the plank was locked together. The stocks were low off the ground so the young man had to bend his back. He needed to spread his legs wide to stop him slipping on the grass. That way his buttocks were stuck behind him at a perfect height and angle to receive the birch.

A tense silence descended on the crowd as the police officer reached in the van once more, this time retrieving a large enamel bucket. Inside, were two enormous birch rods. He placed the bucket on the ground and took hold of one of them. It was about a metre in length and comprised about twenty or so heavy rods. These were bound at one end with twine to make a handle. The burly officer swiped the rod through the air. Droplets of brine fell from it. He swished it once more. It had been soaking overnight. This increased the birch rod’s suppleness, and, so legend had it, the pain it would cause.

The officer took a moment to take his aim; he admired the muscle tone of the lad and his almost completely hairless body. The culprit flexed his buttocks a little in anticipation of the agony he expected as the rods struck home. The crowd held its collective breath. The officer took a deep breath, lifted the birch, then lashed down the first stroke. The hiss that escaped through the culprit’s clenched teeth was drown by the gasp of the crowd. George twisted the dog’s leash in his hand, his heart thumping.

Lash number two fell. That must have hurt the culprit even more, but he was determined not to show it. Number three was directed to the lower part of the cheeks where they met the thighs and the pain was excruciating; the culprit gagged a little and vomit rose to his throat but he managed to swallow it down. Sweat poured from his body, down his half-naked back and into the crack between his buttocks. There were dozens of lines across his bum, arranged neatly from left to right and from the top of the globes where they meet the spine to under the curves close to the thighs. Every square inch of his rear end was scarred. It reminded George of raw hamburger meat.

The police officer, unsure how a man should react during a birching and thinking he might not be whipping the culprit hard enough, laid the next strokes on with extra power. The culprit wriggled his body from left to right, his knees buckled, his feet stamped up and down on the uneven. But his head and wrists were securely fastened. There was no escape.

Swish! Swish! Blood was forming as some birch strokes landed upon those that had already marked the once white and now scarlet bottom. The culprit let out a silent cry; it was a wonder that he wasn’t howling. His agony was intense and the pain had travelled from his blooded buttocks throughout his whole body. His shoulders ached with his wrists were sore. His head ached as his blood pressure went through the roof and tried to burst through his ears. But, he refused to cry out: he would not give them the satisfaction. Nobody in the recreation ground doubted that the culprit deserved all he was getting.

As, cut number twelve thrashed into his flesh, the culprit’s head rose and he bit deep into his tongue to stifle the yell. His tongue would be damaged and he would have as much trouble speaking over the coming days as he would sitting down.

With no word spoken, the police officer returned the birch rod to the enamel bucket and put it in the van. The young policemen unlocked the stocks. The culprit stood unsteadily, his knees buckled. One young policeman grabbed him before he fell, took his arm placed it around his own shoulders and unceremoniously dragged him to van, bundled him in and slammed the door shut. Within seconds the van was edging its way through the crowd towards the road.

“Are you coming?” Colin asked, “I want to see it on the News. They’re bound to show it all day long.”

The crowd was quickly dispersing, group of people muttering amongst themselves, re-living the experience.

“No, I’m going to let the dog run,” George said slipping the lease from the collar. The dog bounded across the recreation ground. George watched it run. Behind him, two teenagers, both a little high, inspected the stocks. One stuck his head and arms through the holes. Trying to see what it was like.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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Fake News #11

used drawing cane hold (6)

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

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