The rookie deputy sheriff

new story 2

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Sheriff Connelly stared down his long nose at the snivelling rookie deputy quaking before him. “What a fool. A complete idiot. A waste of space,” he thought. His grey eyes blazed, “What kind of people is the City employing these days?”

Connelly held his temper. Deputy Bahr squirmed. Sweat soaked his forehead and his head beneath closely-cropped blond hair itched like crazy. The room was too darned hot. He could hardly breathe. The words of his boss seemed to be coming from a long way away. Bahr feared he might fall to the floor in a faint at any moment.

Connelly gripped a cardboard folder in his left fist. He waved it in Bahr’s face. “Not good. Not good at all.” This he said out loud. “Is there any one of your duties that you can do without screwing up?” It was meant as a rhetorical question but Bahr hadn’t done too well at school and he missed the subtleties of the sheriff’s lecture. He tried his hardest to answer. His mind was a whirl. He thought of all the different things he did during a day’s shift. He was quite good at helping children across the road when the traffic was busy. He was about to relay this information to the sheriff but Connelly had moved on.

They were at the front desk in the reception area. Things were quiet and no members of the public were around to see Bahr’s dressing down. Sheriff Connelly saw three other deputies standing near the main entrance, they were due out on patrol, but sensing there might be some fun to be had they were waiting around.

“You have screwed up your evaluation, Bahr. It is not good enough,” Connelly sensed the three deputies tense. He paused waiting until he had their full attention. “Yes, Bahr,” Connelly let out a deep sigh like wind searing across a dry desert. “Not good enough.” He tut-tutted and shook his head; every inch the older man concerned about the well-being of his young charge. Connelly was the father and Bahr, the son.

“You leave me no choice,” Connelly frowned. “You do know that, don’t you?” His question was rewarded with a blank stare. It was clear Bahr had no clue what was being said to him. Just in the corner of his eyeline Connolly saw Deputy Orlando nudge one of his companions. Orlando meant, Just wait and see what happens next.

“No choice at all.” Connelly left the words hanging in the air. “A belting. It has to be a belting.”

Bahr’s fair, open face flushed red. “Wor …?” He couldn’t find the words to express the disbelief – or, maybe, shock – he felt.

Connelly shook his head from left to right slowly. “You are, of course, fully aware of Regulation one-nine-seven-six, paragraph C, part little two,” he stared directly at the twenty-year-old rookie deputy. The stupid boy didn’t understand a word. Connolly heaved one of his deep sighs. “The code of discipline as it relates to new deputy sheriffs?” He asked it as a question, but he meant it as a statement.

Bahr couldn’t stop his eyes blinking, “Regulation one-nine …?” he faltered, unable to repeat back to the sheriff the full details of the code. Connelly sighed once more. Across the reception area three deputy sheriffs watched on intently. Deputy Orlando wiped perspiration from his brow with a large, not-so-clean kerchief.

Connelly took a deep breath and repeated the regulation, stumbling as he reached the part about paragraph C. “You do know it, Bahr?” he glowered. Bahr remembered there were a lot of rules and regulations to being a deputy sheriff. Pages and pages of them. He had tried to go through them all but they were written in complicated language and he wasn’t much of a reader.

“Yes,” he drawled unconvincingly.

“Good,” Sheriff Connelly perked up, “You know it says a sheriff may administer corporal punishment at his entire discretion in cases where rookie deputies fail to meet required standards.” He watched without passion as Bahr’s face glowed red hot, his eyes blinked continuously and the boy bit down into his bottom lip.

“We should not delay,” Connolly tucked his thumbs under the belt that was wrapped around his muscular waist. “Follow me.” Without looking at Bahr, Sheriff Connelly stepped from behind the reception counter and entered a small room nearby. Sorrowfully, Bahr shuffled behind as instructed. The room had a table and two cheap armless chairs. Usually it was used when members of the public wanted to speak to an officer in confidence. Today, Connolly had found an entirely different use for it.

He pulled a chair into the middle of the room. “Stand there!” he snapped his fingers and indicated a place a few feet from the chair. Miserably, Bahr shuffled into position. The room was even hotter than the reception area. He could scarcely breathe. It all seemed so unreal.

“Leave the door open, we need some air,” Sheriff Connolly spoke as he unbuckled his belt and swished it through the loops that held it onto his pants. Connolly sat down on the chair. Bahr stood and stared. This cannot be happening. This is some kind off nightmare.

“Did your Pappy ever spank you?” Connolly folded the leather belt in half as he spoke. Bahr’s throat was as dry as a camel’s, he could hardly make a rasp when he tried to answer. No, he had never been spanked. Not once. Not even as a very small kid. This was twenty-nineteen, people didn’t get spanked these days.

“OK,” Connolly spread his legs, I want you to bend over my knee.” Bahr’s temples throbbed, his eyes moistened. He looked down at the sheriff’s thick thighs, covered in uniform blues. His big leather boots shone brightly. Bahr hesitated, what if he refused, what would happen then?

Sheriff Connolly read the rookie’s mind, “Don’t forget of Regulation nine-one-three-two, paragraph E, part little two,” he gripped the belt tightly. “Let’s get this over with. We’ve both got duties to attend to. Bend over my knee. Now!” The harshness in the sheriff’s voice startled Bahr. Jesus H. he thought. I’ve got to do this. I’ve got to let Sheriff Connolly spank me. It’s in the regulations.

He shuffled forward until he stood inches from the sheriff’s right thigh. How did you do this exactly? He hesitated. “Bah!” Connolly ejaculated. He gripped Bahr by the left arm and in one continuous tug he guided the twenty-year-old across his knee. Bahr fell with a plop. Before he knew it he was face down with his nose close to the floor. He stretched out his left hand to break his fall and with his other he held tightly to the sheriff’s leg. Behind him his legs dangled in mid-air. He couldn’t see this but his bottom was angled perfectly across the sheriff’s thigh. His pants were so tight they lifted and separated his buttock cheeks. Connolly had a terrific target.

Bahr was facing into the room and did not see the three deputies move closer to the open door, giving themselves ringside seats for the belt-on-britches action that was to follow. Sheriff Connolly was in his mid-forties but he had always kept himself fit with regular trips to the gym. He was as strong as an average civilian half his age. And he demonstrated that when he whipped the leather belt at great speed into Bahr’s rear end. Whip! Whip! Whip! The pain got through, even with thick pants and underwear for protection. Connolly gripped Bahr’s waist with his left arm while his right thrashed the leather belt across the young man’s butt.

Bahr wriggled and writhed. He screwed up his face each time the belt crashed int his tight flesh. Very soon the seat of his pants were shining. Connelly knew the cheeks underneath would be warming up too. He nodded an acknowledgement at the three deputies, telling them through smiles and winks he thought he was doing a splendid job.

Bahr’s legs kicked and his arms flailed. The spanking hurt, but not that much. His reaction was of humiliation and disbelief. Here he was a young rookie deputy across the knee of a much older dominant man getting the first spanking of his life.

Nobody was counting but the sheriff must have hammered home fifty or more lashes before he let up. As soon as the whipping stopped, Bahr wriggled his hips, trying to break free and get back on his feet. Sheriff Connolly let him stand. Once upright, Bahr realised for the first time he had an audience. His sense of humiliation deepened. He stood uncertain what he was supposed to do next. Was he allowed to leave to go back on duty? He made a move toward the door.

“Not so fast buster,” Sheriff Connolly took hold of Bahr’s shirt, turning him so they faced each other. Then, in an expert move, he unbuckled the rookie’s belt and within seconds had his uniform blues in a heap over his boots. Before Bahr could utter his astonishment, his shorts went the same way and the rookie was once more toppled face-down over the sheriff’s knee.

Connolly took a moment to admire the sight before him. Bahr was a fit young man, with a muscular chest and flat stomach. Now that they were presented to him in their nakedness Connolly was able to see what magnificent buttocks Bahr had. It was a butt that cried out to be spanked. Connolly was happy to oblige. Their creamy white surfaces were already criss-crossed with reddish lines where the belt had performed its task. Now, Connolly set about performing his duty with a renewed will.

Bahr’s buttocks clenched. It was a natural reflex as the crack of the leather connecting with naked flesh resounded around the small, airless room. Each crack sounded like a pistol shot, there were no layers of clothing to muffle the noise.

Connolly got into his rhythm whipping at a rate of about one lash every ten seconds. Soon every square inch of bare flesh was coloured sunset red.

Connolly paused but he kept his tight grip on the rookie’s waist. The young man knew it wasn’t over yet. With his own uniform soaked in sweat, the sheriff prepared himself for an almighty onslaught.

Swipe! The leather belt now landed with maximum force. The belt rose and fell in quick succession. Bahr’s pants and shorts were at his ankles and restricted his legs from thrashing about too much. If he had not been wearing huge leather boots he would have kicked his clothes clear across the room.

Still the relentless pounding of his backside continued. He couldn’t help but yelp, just like a little whipped puppy. His arms flapped and his body struggled from side to side. He looked like he was trying to do the doggy paddle in a swimming pool.

Without letting up on the downward strokes, Sheriff Connolly grabbed Bahr’s right arm and roughly shoved it up his back pinning his hand against the shoulder blades. Bahr was going nowhere until the older man said so.

With Bahr restrained in this way the sheriff could do as he wished. Bahr was at his total mercy, not that the sheriff intended showing any of that. Bahr had no choice but to lay face down, bare bottom high to receive a severe spanking.

The belt went up and down; up and down; at considerable speed. The rookie gasped in air, but couldn’t fill his lungs. Every time he tried to suck in oxygen he had to wheeze out breath to counter the intense pain that was running from his buttocks and engaging every nerve in the body.

His tears flowed freely and snot ran from his nose. At that point Sheriff Connolly stopped, he rested the belt on the small of Bahr’s back. He had his own problems breathing. It was time to finish before he suffered a stroke. The sheriff released Bahr and without waiting to pull up his pants and shorts he ran howling from the room. Connolly watched him go and wondered silently how long it would take the idiot rookie to realise there was no such thing as Regulation one-seven-whatever. When would he notice that day’s date?: The First of April.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Keynes College Caning Case

z used drawing canes (1)

Chief Inspector Morose gulped on his fourth pint as he studied the written report in his hand. Another killing at a college. Oxford would soon surpass those villages at Midsomer as the murder capital of the world. Just then Sergeant Lois hurried into the pub. Morose hated working with a girl but these were modern times. How he hated modern times.

“Lois,” he said gruffly. “Knock on doors, find witnesses, get Scene of Crimes to check the room where Professor Blenkinsop was found, get fingerprints, search for a weapon.”

Sgt. Lois looked on in admiration. What a terrific detective, she thought. It would never have occurred to her to do any of those things. “What will you be doing, sir?” she asked. “I’ll have another pint,” Morose said handing her his empty glass.

At Keynes College Jack stared from the window of his room onto the deserted quadrangle below. In his mind he visualised himself in Prof Blenkinsop’s room. “This essay is atrocious. You should spend more time in the library and less in the Student Guild,” the professor spoke through his bushy beard. He was a short rotund man, almost as wide as he was tall. Jack stood, feet slightly apart, head bowed. Memories flooded back of unpleasant visits to his housemaster at St. Tom’s. He watched slack-jawed as the professor waddled towards a cupboard. It was tall and thin and was part of a especially-designed glass-fronted bookcase that ran along the entire length of one wall. Prof Blenkinsop delved into his pocket and retrieved a bunch of keys. Slowly, almost as if he had never seen them before he searched for the one he needed. His breath was shallow as he unlocked the door, opened it an reached in.

Jack blinked in disbelief. Now, it really was a trip back to schooldays. The professor held a dark-yellow whippy cane. He turned and faced the student, flexing the rod as he did so. He swished it trough the air. It made a tremendous whoosh! as it went. It was thicker than the canes they used at St. Tom’s, but had the traditional crook handle.

“Bu ….” Jack began a protest but stopped himself. He wanted to say, “Sir, you can’t do this,” but he knew otherwise. The professor had all the power. He alone would decide what grade a student would get. He was the sole arbiter of success or failure. Prof Blenkinsop stopped his swishing and looked quizzically at Jack, as if only just remembering he was there. “That chair,” he nodded to a low-backed old leather armchair standing against a wall, “Turn it round.” It was heavier than it looked. “Bring it into the middle of the room.”

Jack was surprised how calm he felt. This should not be happening. But, it was, and Jack knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. He had been beaten at school; many times, it was that kind of place. It would hurt like hell, but he would live.

“Lower your trousers. Underpants too. Bend over the chair.” A thin line of spittle dribbled into the professor’s beard as he gave his instructions. A look of incredulity washed across Jack’s face. “Just do as you are told,” Professor Blenkinsop bent the cane again. It made a perfect arc.

Jack hesitated. This was new territory. They had always caned on the seat of the trousers at St. Tom’s. He watched the dreadful professor flexing his cane. The man’s eyes sparkled. He was enjoying himself. Jack’s heart skipped a beat as he fumbled with the buckle of his belt. He supposed it was adrenaline coursing to his brain that made him so light-headed. The belt successful undone, Jack unbuttoned the fly of his heavy twill trousers. Gravity took them slithering down his thighs, past his knees and shins and into a puddle at his brogues. His hands trembled, but he was unsure if this was fear.

Professor Blenkinsop squelched two or three paces across the room. Jack could not watch him as he moved. He still had to bare his bottom. Of course he had been naked in front of men before, but he was reluctant to let this old man see his cock and balls.

“Get on with it, you have nothing that I haven’t seen before,” the professor said truthfully. Jack placed his thumbs inside the elasticated waistband of his white Y-fronts and slid them down, careful that they bunched just below his buttocks. He took a deep breath, rubbed his palms together, and rather like a swimmer going into freezing water, dived over the chair. His trousers were at his feet and his underpants at his thighs. Jack was a little over five-six in height and hardly weighed a thing. His waist was narrow, stomach flat and his buttocks when stretched resembled not much more than two pips.

Jack stared down at the worn seat. The chair had seen better days and as his nose was close to the leather he could smell the faint sweat of the generations of students (himself included) who had sat there during tutorials with the professor.

“Head low, legs apart,” the professor ordered. There was no reason to do this, since Jack was already perfected positioned to receive the cane, but it made the professor feel totally in control of the situation. Jack closed his eyes, waiting. Jack felt Professor Blenkinsop take hold of the long tail of his shirt and pull it clear of the target area. The professor was almost ready. But not quite. “I am going to beat you,” he said, slowly, as if reading from a script. “It will hurt, it is supposed to. That is the point. Do not wriggle about too much and do not try to rise or in any other way obstruct me in my duty,” he continued. Then, after a pause for dramatic effect, he concluded, “Or you will receive extra strokes. Is that understood?”

Jack’s mouth was inches from the worn leather. He croaked a response that the professor quite probably could not hear, “Yes, sir.”

Professor Blenkinsop sawed his cane across the fleshiest part of Jack’s bum; taking his aim. The first swipe caught him on the lower part of the buttocks, just above the thigh. It felt like he had seared a red-hot poker across his bum. Jack’s entire body shuddered and his backside bounced up and down, he had had absolutely no control. It was all a reflex to the intense pain that started at the bottom and ran up and down his legs.

Professor Blenkinsop was in no hurry. To Jack it felt like an eternity, but only fifteen seconds elapsed before the second cut scorched the top end of his buttocks. He shuddered some more and his mouth opened and closed, but he successfully stifled the yelp his body wanted him to make.

Number three hit half way between the previous two. Professor Blenkinsop was an expert; he should be, he had enough practice. Jack now had a red stripe about four inches wide across both cheeks. Tears itched his eyes, he snuffled them back. Number four landed on top of a previous cut. How could it not? The professor had already burned most of Jack’s backside. The agony was intense. Jack’s legs marched up and down like a soldier on sentry duty. His hips swayed from side to side. An long, low whistle escaped through Jack’s clenched lips.

The fifth hurt just as badly. Jack’s temples throbbed almost as much as his backside. His right foot wrapped around his left ankle and his buttocks rose and fell, humping the back of the chair. Jack quivered under a series of dry hacking coughs.

Professor Blenkinsop left the worst to last. Jack sensed it coming before he felt it. The professor moved the position of his cane so that it rested in a diagonal from the bottom left to the top right of Jack’s entire arse, then he lifted it away and brought it down with a magnificent crash so that it landed across five previous scars, igniting the agony in all of them. Jack yelled. He jumped up from the chair, but half way to his feet, some schoolboy instinct kicked in and he resumed my position. He remembered the professor’s earlier threat; he didn’t want extra strokes.

Jack lay, bottom on fire, sobbing into the chair. His head ached and his throat was sore from coughing, but his head was as clear as anything he had felt before in his life. The professor waited a moment before he intoned, “Stand up.”

Jack crawled off the back of the chair and stumbled, grabbing hold of the edge of a desk to steady himself. He doubled up to restore his trousers and pants to their rightful place, all the time gulping in lungs full of air.

At the police station Lois recapped the plot so far, “The professor was killed in his study sometime between two and four. He was hit on the head by a heavy object. A granite paperweight is missing so that’s the most likely weapon. We’ve searched the room. We found a couple of canes in a cupboard.”

Morose winced, he hated it when people used Americanisms. “Canes, you mean walking sticks, of course,” he scowled.

Lois let a slight smile curl her lips. “No, canes, as in bend over, touch your toes, it’s six-of-the-best for you m’lad,” she flexed an imaginary school punishment cane between her hands. She was delighted to see Morose flush, embarrassed. Morose wriggled in his chair, suddenly a vision of the buxom Sgt. Lois swishing a cane across Morose’s backside as he bent touching toes came to him. He coughed to hide his nervousness.

“We’ve interviewed colleagues, he had no enemies; he was loved by all,” Lois said.

“Clearly not everyone,” Morose growled. He hesitated, trying to make the next question seem insignificant, “What did you do with the canes?”

“They’re in the property store, logged as evidence,” she answered.

In the basement of the building Police Constable First held a long, thin crook-handled rattan cane in both hands, holding it up for close examination. It was thinner and lighter than the ones he had at home, he thought. But still mightily effective. They would do the job. PC First was four months off retirement, hauled into County Headquarters to see his off his last days hidden away after the rumours of his methods of policing in the sleepy villages of Oxfordshire had reached the ears of the Chief Constable.

“Eh lad,” he called across to Police Cadet Barnaby Wordsworth. “Wordsworth,” he growled. Bloody silly name. Whoever heard of a copper with a poet’s name? The eighteen year old fresh-faced youngster looked up from his Football Monthly “Get these labelled and logged.” Wordsworth continued reading. Preston North End were in with a chance of winning the league. “Now lad,” First blustered.

“All right Jock, keep your hair on.” The joke was wearing thin. Jock First was as bald as a billiard ball. Bloody kids, PC First thought. No respect for their elders and betters. He didn’t say Constable or even Mister First. He placed the cane down on the wooden top of the table. How he would like to put this across the cheeky sod’s backside. And no mistake. Teach him some manners. Just wait, he thought, once he was safely retired he would invite him out to the house. The cadet continued reading his magazine.

Two days later Cadet Wordsworth was reading the local newspaper. “Hey Jock,” he said with the mildest of interest, “It says here they’ve taken in a suspect in the professor’s murder.”

First smiled enigmatically, “Of course they have, laddie. He’ll be confessing even as we speak.”

“Why would he confess?”

“They always do laddie. It’s the only way we ever solve a crime.”

“What do you mean?”

“It stands to reason. It saves time. When you’ve seen as many shows – I mean as many cases – as I have you’ll understand.”

Two floors above in Interview Room 2 Inspector Morse and Sgt Lois sat opposite the murder suspect. No solicitor was in sight. “Let me understand this,” Lois said moving the plot along at a tremendous pace. “You say that after he beat you with a cane, he turned around and put it back in a cupboard. Then you picked up a heavy granite paperweight and you hit him on the back of the head.”

Morose studied the young student before him. His dark brown hair was unkempt and his hazel eyes were dull, but Morose knew in happier times they would sparkle. His skin was smooth, he had barely started shaving; it would be twice a week maximum, Morose knew the type. He was shorter than average and clean limbed. Quiet thin, a scholar perhaps, not a sportsman, he imagined. Although Morose couldn’t see because he was sitting on it he just knew he had the most spankable bum.

The student was becoming agitated. “I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t mean to do it.”

“You hit him three times,” Morose coughed. God, his throat was dry, he could kill a pint of Theakston’s Old n Filthy. “Once is manslaughter, self-defence, or an accident. Three times is murder.”

The student convulsed into fits of sobs. Morose licked his lips and stared away into the middle distance. “Well pretty boy, you’re going to jail for a long stretch. Getting six-of-the-best will be the least of your troubles,” he thought as a rather annoying bleeping noise sounded in his ears.

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Fake News #9

z used otk pants chair (200)

Sneak housebreaker gets short, sharp shock

Special to Standard-Recorder

 

A young housebreaker got more than he expected for when he snuck into a house in East Mason Creek Thursday.

He did not know it was occupied by Art Greer, aged 29, a martial-arts expert, and his brother Harvey, 31.

Mr. Greer told the Standard-Recorder in an interview, “He came from nowhere and went into the kitchen searching in cupboards. He didn’t see us in the room next door. I think he was high. When he saw us he started talking very quickly. We couldn’t understand a word he was trying to say.”

Mr. Greer, a UPS driver, added, “It didn’t take any effort to apprehend him.”

He decided not to call the police. “It would have cost taxpayer dollars to get the cops involved. There wasn’t anything they would have done that I couldn’t do myself.

“He was a weak little guy aged about nineteen.  He didn’t put up any resistance.”

Mr. Greer added, “If my brother and I went breaking into neighbors’ homes our Pop would’ve blistered our butts.”

Harvey Greer said together the brothers stripped the intruder of his jeans. “My brother is a martial arts expert, he can handle himself. The punk didn’t stand a chance. Art had him down and across his knee and was spanking him with a clothes brush before he knew what was hitting him.”

Art Greer added, “He tried to wriggle free but I had him pinned down. I blistered him.”

The brothers do not know the identity of the intruder. They say he was dressed in blue jeans and a red coat. He had blond cropped hair. He spoke with a county accent.

“We didn’t really say much to one another. I beat his butt for about five minutes and he howled a lot. That was all.”

Police Chief Paddy Callaghan when contacted by the Standard-Recorder said he had no record of the break-in.

“The householder appears to have dealt with the situation himself. The law allows for this. The punk was lucky Mr. Greer didn’t shoot him.”

The Police Chief said his officers were always on hand to assist householders troubled by young men.

“We have a highly-trained police force, equipped with stout maple paddles and we aren’t afraid to use them,” he said.

Harvey Greer took a photograph of the spanking (pictured above) which he later uploaded to his Facebook page. As of yesterday it had received more than 500,000 views.

Picture credit: TropixxxStudiosdotcom

More Fake News stories here

 

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Fake News #1

z used paddle cop naked (2)

Juvenile Crime Stats. at Record Low

Special to Standard-Recorder

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Picture Credit: Man’s Hand Films

Fake News Story #2 is here

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Charles Hamilton the Second

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The beach house

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Randy was intrigued and said so.

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

 

@

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

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

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

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

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

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

@

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

z used belt stool naked sting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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Expelled from school

An early morning call

The terrible twins

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com