The African Mall

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“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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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

What a jolly jape

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“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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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Max of the ‘Champion’ 1. The policeman

british-police-helmet-bobby-35629338

Neighbours peered from behind lace curtains as the policeman propped his cycle near the front gate and carefully untied the string holding the school cane in place on the frame. It was a hot afternoon during one of those glorious summers we used to have years ago.

Twenty miles away, the editor of a newspaper in the far north of England was in his office talking to his deputy and Max, a junior reporter.

“I heard there’s a policeman in Harkensbury who’s taking the law into his own hands.”

“You mean gun fights in the street, people hanging from trees?”

“Where’s Harkensbury …?”

“About twenty miles north of here, on the edge of the moors. A few villages. Farms. Moors.”

“What’s going on?”

“Some copper dispensing his own justice.”

“How do you mean?”

“He catches people but he doesn’t take them to court.”

“What’s he do?”

“Spanking.”

“Spanking?”

“Yeah, spanking.”

“You mean children.”

“No, adults too I think.”

“Adults?”

“I don’t understand.”

“He spanks people if they break the law.”

“But surely not adults. You mean if you went up there and got drunk and later wee’d up the cemetery wall, he’d take you over his knee and smack your bottom?”

“No, not people my age, I suppose. Young adults I think. People like you Max. In the late teens. Twenties.”

“How likely is this?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“But why would he do it?”

“Old fashioned justice. Didn’t coppers in the past used to give kids a clip round the ear? Take a belt to their arses?”

“Sounds a bit kinky to me.”

“Why would they let it happen?”

“Who?”

“The people. The villagers.”

“Maybe they think it works. Keeps crime down.”

“What crime? It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it keeps the teenagers quiet. I don’t know.”

“But they wouldn’t put up with it.”

“Who? The kids?”

“The ‘young adults,’ the parents. The kids. None of them.”

“Not necessarily. What if they think it works. Or it’s better than going to court.”

“I heard a lot of it is motoring. The kids get stopped on their bikes. Speeding. Riding without insurance and the like. They don’t want to pay fines and have their licences endorsed. So, you know …”

“Some of it’s probably bravado.”

“How do you mean?”

“Like at school. You’re not one of the gang unless you’ve had a spanking off the policeman. They show off to their friends that they can take it.”

“No, I don’t believe it, it doesn’t ring true.”

“Why not?”

“Well, let’s say a load of yobs on their motorbikes are up at the moors and they stop at a café or a pub or something and they cause trouble. Then along comes Plod and he says, “You’re very naughty boys. Now, take down your trousers and bend over my knee.” Do you think they’re going to do it? Or course they’re not.”

“Maybe only locals.”

“Eh?”

“Only locals. He only does it to locals. If there are outsiders they go to court in the usual way. I suppose he needs to make some arrests. For appearances sake. You know.”

“Well, let’s find out.”

“What?”

“Max, I want you to find out.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Because you are the perfect person. How old are you? Eighteen? Nineteen?”

“Nineteen.”

“Nineteen, see, you’d be perfect.”

“Perfect? Perfect for what?”

“To go to Harkensbury and find out what’s going on.”

“How am I supposed to do that? I can’t just go in and say, ‘Excuse me officer, but I hear you illegally spank boys’ backsides. Boys’ bare backsides.’ Come on.”

“You could go and suss him out a bit. Go to the police station. Have a look; see if he’s got a cane hanging from the umbrella stand. You know one of those jobs with the curved handle.”

“Oh…”

“Look, Max. You can go up there and have a look round. Use your charms. Talk to some locals. Chat up the girls.”

“Girls? Is he spanking the girls too?”

“I don’t know. Find out. He might be.”

“No, their parents wouldn’t let him do that surely.”

“I don’t know, but the girls will know what’s going on. Maybe their brothers have been done. Or their boyfriends.”

“Maybe he does them both together.”

“You what?”

“You know, spanks the boys and girls together. He finds them canoodling behind a hay stack and they both get it. Over the knee, knickers down …”

“You’ve been reading too many porno stories [Laughter].”

“Seriously Max. I want you to go and find out.”

“But… What can I do? What will I be able to find out?”

“Use your initiative lad. What do we know? We know he spanks teenagers like yourself if they commit a nuisance or a crime or what have you.”

“So…”

“So, test it out. Like an old-time reporter.”

“What?”

“Before your time, Max. You know Harry when the ‘News of the Screws’ turned over massage parlours that were really brothels. The reporter would have his massage and then when the girl offered him the extras, you know the sex, he made an excuse and left.”

“You’re mad.”

“So in time-honoured fashion you go up there and cause some bother. I know, you get yourself caught stealing something from the village store. Then the policeman is called and you go back to the station and you know.”

“So, when he’s unbuckled my belt and is pulling my jeans down, I make an excuse and leave! And I end up with a criminal record.”

“Mmmmm. Looks like you’ll have to take the spanking then.”

“Very funny. Anyway, I can’t. Harkensbury is twenty miles away. I don’t have transport.”

“You’ve got your bike.”

“I can’t cycle twenty miles there and twenty miles back.”

“What a fit lad like you. Look at you, you’re always cycling …. Running ….”

“There’s a train station at Falney.”

“Falney…?”

“Yes, it’s three miles from Harkensbury. On a local line. Get the train up there and cycle the rest.”

“You can cycle around the villages, find out what you can.”

“Get a ticket for speeding.”

“Ha, ha, ha. Very funny.”

“If it’s true, it’s a cracking story.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Crime committed. No court hearing. He takes boys across his knee for bare bum spankings. He loves it. It’s called perverting the course of justice.”

….

The widow Graveney had been expecting PC Snodgrass and had the front door open to welcome him before he had liberated the cane from his bicycle.

Upstairs, her eighteen-year-old son Albert sneaked a peak from behind the bedroom curtain. The moment he had been dreading had arrived. He had spent the past half hour testing the thickness of each pair of trousers he possessed to decide which would offer the maximum protection during the ordeal he faced. He did not know his effort was wasted: PC Snodgrass had no intention of letting trousers get in the way of his duty. Nor, for that matter, underpants. The policeman had no wish to return to the house; he would make today’s thrashing so awesome, young Albert would never, ever, want to have to bare his backside for Snodgrass again.

Downstairs, PC Snodgrass and the Widow Graveney exchanged embarrassed pleasantries. Albert had not committed a crime, but he had started to get out of his mother’s control: he was surly, rude and constantly disobedient. He needed discipline and if his father had been alive he would have long ago tanned the youngster’s behind good and proper.

Snodgrass offered a private service to a number of women on his patch; there were many widows on account of the mining disaster and a number of young men who were going undisciplined. Mrs Graveney had received a recommendation from Mrs Wheeler; her Thomas had turned over a new leaf after the policeman caned his backside raw and, she was sure, Albert would benefit from the same treatment.

Snodgrass was the only policeman for miles around and on his patch he was the law. Nobody wanted to cross him; this was a law-abiding community of hard-working folk. They believed in right and wrong and if they did wrong, they expected to be punished. That extended to the young folk and the children as well; corporal punishment was as natural in their lives as the sun and the rain.

“Shall we get on with it, Mrs Graveney,” PC Snodgrass had another punishment visit to make later that morning and was keen to get things moving, “Why not call Albert down. Then I find the mothers usually prefer not to be present for the …” he hesitated, “well you know what.”

Snodgrass found that sometimes mothers lost their nerve at the crucial moment and didn’t want him to go through with it. No wonder their children were so ill behaved, if their mothers mollycoddled them like that.

Moments later Albert appeared in the front room. Snodgrass permitted himself a smile when he saw the teenager had dressed in trousers made from a heavy twill material.

Snodgrass had prepared a short sermon, nothing much, just a catalogue of Albert’s misdeeds followed by a homily on the blessedness of mothers and why they should be obeyed. Then he pronounced sentence.

Albert had listened, or at least pretended to listen, without expression to Snodgrass’s lecture. But then: “Twelve strokes, bare bottomed.” the boy’s deep suntan couldn’t disguise that his face had drained of natural colour.

Albert’s mouth opened and closed, like a goldfish. He wanted to protest, but no words came from his throat. But, what could he say; there was no doubt, none at all, that he was guilty as charged. He had been horrible to his mother for a very long time; and now the time had come to pay for his bad behaviour.

But, twelve and on the bare. He had been caned at school (who hadn’t been?) but that was never more than six strokes, sometimes it was less, and always on the seat of his trousers. It hurt a boy like crazy when the Head of Year lashed his heavy cane across his bum and the last time he got it, a month or so ago, the marks stayed with him for a week. That was awful, but twelve strokes trousers and pants down would be beyond his endurance.

Snodgrass swished the cane menacingly through the air; his intention was to intimidate the boy in front of him and he succeeded magnificently. Already tears were forming behind Albert’s eyes and he wanted to beg the policeman not to thrash him.

The policeman had never in his life had a boy refuse to prostrate himself before him to receive a beating. Once or twice they hesitated before taking up the required position, but they always did as instructed eventually. He knew Albert would not want to humiliate himself by being too cowardly to submit for his punishment.

Albert was shaking like the proverbial leaf as he unfastened his heavy trousers and let them fall to his feet, followed by his Aertex underpants. Instinctively, he cupped his hands over his manhood and blushed deeply at the shame of being naked before Snodgrass.

“Don’t be foolish boy. You have nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Albert blushed all the deeper.

“Bend over the table,” Snodgrass swished the cane at the dining room table.

As if in a trance Albert shuffled the few feet to the table and then, not being quite sure what to do, he leant down on his elbows. The white linen tablecloth slipped under him and he slithered forward.

“Not like that boy,” Snodgrass sneered, “flat on your stomach.”

Albert regained control and lay belly down on the table. It was circular so there was no far edge for the teenager to grip. So, instinctively he folded his arms in front of him and buried his face in them.

Snodgrass was faced with a pair of quivering buttocks. He lined the cane up across the fleshiest part of the cheeks, tapped once or twice to get his aim and then lashed into Albert. This was no love-tap, or token stroke, the policeman wanted the cane to enter the boy through his rear end with so much force that it could possibly exit through his front.

An ugly thick mark grew and redness deepened across the very centre of Albert’s bum. The first stroke seemed to take him by surprise, but the horror of the pain quickly kicked in. This was going to be no schoolboy caning.

Then an even harder stroke cut into the sit spot, making the boy wail. His bottom was now paying the consequences of his impertinence and rudeness to his mother.

Snodgrass was an expert. He calculated the strength of the next three blows to perfection and watched Albert’s squirming bottom for a few seconds before slashing home another three.

Albert was flogged until he sobbed and pleaded and finally fell silent – beaten and ashamed.

Then it was over. Like a zombie, the boy rose from the table and pulled up his pants and trousers. He could feel each and every stroke throbbing.

Snodgrass called up the stairs as he left the house, to let Mrs Graveney know his task was completed. As he retied the cane to the frame of his bicycle, the policemen was pleased to note that the neighbours were still at their windows.

Max is at home. It is night time and he is in his bedroom. His eighteen-year-old brother, naked except for his snugly-fitting bottle-green briefs, is across his knees. Max is pounding down slaps into his brother’s bottom: rapidly and very hard. Max thinks his brother has been taking things from his bedroom without permission: magazines, records and so on. He thinks he might even be stealing cash.

His brother knows he has been a naughty boy and deserves this spanking. He keeps his bottom raised high to give Max the maximum area to aim at. Max lays into him with enthusiasm, but his brother’s bottom is pert and seems to be made of steel. His own hand might be hurting much more than his brother’s buttocks.

Max has had variations of this dream over the past few days. Last night his brother was totally naked, his bottle green briefs at his ankles, but he still remained stoically across Max’s knees. Max caresses his brother’s buttocks, thighs, legs and back. His body is all over suntanned, except for the buttocks which are a creamy, hairless, white: they have been protected from the sun by the skimpiest of swimming trunks.

Again, his brother lies submissively across Max’s lap as he slaps the palm of his hand into his cheeks.

Max recalled his dreams as the train chugged its way to Falney. It was Saturday and he was off to Harkensbury in search of the spanking policeman.

Corporal punishment had been a topic much discussed in the office over the past week. There was an odd story in the journalists’ weekly trade newspaper. It seems an editor in Japan would spank his reporters with a wooden paddle when they made mistakes. This encouraged Arkwright, the aging bachelor chief sub-editor, to declare that he would bring a carpet slipper into the office to encourage the junior reporters (he meant Max, who was the only junior on the newspaper) to spell correctly. Everyone agreed what a good idea this was.

It was another glorious sunny day and Max decided to make the most of it. He would be cycling a lot so he chose to wear the shortest shorts he owned. They were beige cords and hardly covered his buttocks. They had a bib at the front that fastened to the back of the waistband by two straps across his shoulders; making the snug fitting shorts hug his buttocks so smoothly you could see the outline of the very briefest briefs beneath . A loose fitting yellow t-shirt was the only other clothing he wore.

Max admired his reflection in the train’s window. He had a deep suntan all over his body; well, nearly all over; as with his brother his buttocks remained white. He was a fit youngster; he cycled and ran and did press-up and sit-up exercises each morning, which toned his body to perfection. He knew the girls admired him when he walked around town, but he was too naïve to realise that so too did a few of the men.

Max’s editor was happy to encourage him in his choice of clothes for this trip, believing that the police constable’s spanking exploits were almost certainly a sexual fetish. When he took one look at Max, the tasty teenager in his skimpy shorts, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off him.

Harkensbury turned out to be a one-horse town; well one-shop anyway. The general stores was about one hundred yards from the police station, so Max thought if he did have to resort to shoplifting they wouldn’t have far to drag him for his spanking. There were one or two cottages dotted about and he could see a church down a lane, but there didn’t seem to be a pub.

Max dismounted his cycle near the police station. It was a basic brick building and even from a distance he could see it was one office with a house attached. This must be where the constable lived. There was no vehicle outside and everything looked locked up; he hoped he hadn’t wasted his journey.

The teenager picked up his canvas shoulder bag, the one he used for carrying the newspaper’s camera and other things like a bottle of water and sometimes a sandwich. The camera was compact, but good enough for his purposes. He took a couple of snaps of the outside of the building and then checking to make sure nobody was about he crossed the road to the police station and peered through the windows. Did his editor really expect there would be a school cane hanging from a hat stand?

Max put the camera to the window and took a picture, before quickly dashing from window to window, imagining he was a spy collecting information about a foreign enemy.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?”

Max didn’t have to turn around to see who was speaking. He knew: the police constable must have just popped out to the store. He turned slowly to see a short squat man in a sweat-stained blue shirt, confirming his suspicions.

“Why are you taking photos through my window? Who the hell are you?”

Max remained silent. Should he lie, or should he tell the truth, “I’m a newspaper reporter and I’m here to expose you as a kinky spanker.”

Before Max could say anything Snodgrass grabbed the camera from his hands and opening the back pulled the roll of film from it – destroying all his pictures.

“Were you intending to rob the police station?”

Still Max stayed silent.

“Get in there you,” Snodgrass grabbed Max by the scruff of the neck and propelled him inside the building. The room was hot and airless. The police constable was sweating profusely, but it wasn’t entirely due to the heat.

“Can I have my camera back please?” The policeman meekly handed it back to Max, who opened up his canvas shoulder bag and took his time returning the camera.

Snodgrass’s breathing was laboured. What a glorious sight. Those legs. Those crazy shorts.

“You know I can do you for attempted burglary don’t you?”

“Oh, Sir, please don’t do that.” It seemed to Max the appropriate thing to say.

“I’m going to have you put in the cells until Monday and then you can go before the magistrate,” Snodgrass couldn’t take his eyes off the boy: that flat stomach; those thighs.

Max remained silent. It was Snodgrass who must do the talking.

“Or, we can deal with it another way.”

“Another way Sir, what would that be,” Max spoke clearly now.

“I can spank your backside for you.”

“You want to give me a spanking, did you say?”

Snodgrass had been clear enough the first time, but he repeated himself nonetheless.

“Yes, I can spank you and the magistrate doesn’t have to be bothered.”

“Spank me, isn’t that against the law?”

“Around here,” Snodgrass sneered, “I am the law.”

The police constable took Max’s silence to mean he agreed to his suggestion so he pulled a straight backed chair to the centre of the room.

“What are you doing with that chair?” Max asked, as if he really didn’t know.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Snodgrass spluttered as he delved into a drawer to find a large oval wooden-backed hair brush.

“Are you going to spank me with that hairbrush?” Snodgrass had only just met this delicious boy, but already he had concluded he was a bit dim-witted.

“Yes, that’s the general idea. Now come over here.”

Max put down the shoulder bag on the floor close to Snodgrass’s chair.

“So if I let you spank me, you will drop all charges against me,” Max asked for confirmation.

“I’ve already said that. Now, how do you get out of those shorts?”

“What you want me to take off my shorts?”

“Oh yes, a spanking’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare bottom. Now,” Snodgrass reached over to Max, “tell me how I take these shorts down.”

The shorts might have been the height of fashion, but they weren’t very practical if you wanted to evacuate them in a hurry. Eventually, Max had the bib undone and the shorts at his ankles.

Snodgrass nearly had a heart seizure at the sight of the teenager’s pert bottom inside the smooth cotton of his briefs. The legs and the thighs were the best he had ever seen. The policeman would remember this spanking for a long time to come.

He tugged at Max’s pants and directed them to the boy’s feet.

“Now come here,” he took Max by the arm and guided him across his knees. Max made no attempt to resist and placed the palms of his hands squarely on the carpet in front of himself. He had never been spanked before, nor had he seen anyone spanked and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do, so re-enacting his dream, he held his bottom as high as he comfortably could and waited for the hairbrush to strike.

“So you’re going to spank me on my bare bottom with that hairbrush,” Max asked, as if he needed confirmation.

“You bet, pal,” Snodgrass said and crashed the wood into Max’s rock hard left buttock.

Max didn’t know how much a spanking was supposed to hurt, but he reckoned the one he was getting now, was pretty painful. Actually, the nineteen-year-old would have been in more agony if his bottom contained more fat and less muscle.

Snodgrass loved every whack and spank of it. He raised the hairbrush high and brought it smacking down over and over and over again.

“Ouch, oooh, ouch, that hurts. Stop it please. I can’t take much more of this bare-bottomed spanking.”

Snodgrass had spanked countless boys, but he never encountered one who reacted quite like Max. Usually, they wriggled and squirmed and often they cried, but they never spoke like Max did.

The constable didn’t think much about it, he was enjoying himself too much. He spanked on for five minutes or more, completely toasting the small buttocks and Max’s thighs. The policeman’s breathing was uneven and the heat of the room and the excitement sent his blood pressure sky high. Max was in pain, but he was a very fit young man and he was taking the exertions in his very athletic stride.

Finally, Snodgrass had to admit it; if he carried on any longer he might have a heart attack or even die. It was time to stop.

Once released, Max jumped to his feet. He didn’t want to give Snodgrass the satisfaction of seeing him naked so hurriedly he pulled up his pants and climbed back into his shorts and bib.

Snodgrass was in a bad state, Max could see. Should he call an ambulance? He didn’t want the man to die on him.

“No, I’ll be alright”, Snodgrass wheezed, when Max asked.

“So, it’s over then. You have spanked me and I won’t have to go to the magistrates’ court?” Max asked.

“Yes, it’s over,” Snodgrass gasped.

“Thank you Sir, may I go now?”

“Yes, go.”

Carefully, Max picked up the shoulder bag that had lain on the floor during his spanking and left.

His buttocks were raw, but the pain was already turning into a warm glow. There would be bruises for few days, he supposed, but no lasting harm had been done.

He climbed onto his bicycle and rode away, but the hard seat against his buttocks reignited the pain of the bare-bottomed spanking. After a hundred yards, he pulled over to the side of the lane, as he had always intended doing. Dismounting the bike, he opened the shoulder bag and peered inside. The small tape recorder was still running. He stopped it, rewound a bit and then he pressed play. Bingo, loud and clear: his spanking.

He remounted the bike and despite the discomfort rode at full pelt to the train station with a huge grin on his face. What a scoop!

Episode 2, Max and the deputy editor is here.

Other judicial punishment stories you might like.

The sneak thief

Footballer’s judicial caning

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The sneak thief

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.

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.

 

Other stories you might like.

Footballer’s judicial caning

St Francis Grammar School. Snowballs

In the farmhouse

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Footballer’s judicial caning

“One hundred dollar fine; two hundred and fifty dollars to be paid in damages and four strokes 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.

Other stories you might like.

Footballer’s ‘hairbrush treatment’

The military camp

A punch in the face

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com