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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First day of term

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Shoplifting

I am walking down Brocklehurst High Street heading for the Pound Shop. It is late summer and college restarts the next week and I need provisions like pens and paper and such like. Not, if I am going to be particularly honest about it, that I will put them to good use, since college for me is just an opportunity to skive. I know the Pound Shop is a good place to go; not because of the low cost of their products (the clue is in the store’s name) but it is an easy place to steal things from.

I am of the opinion that there is no reason to pay for something when you can take it for free and those of you who have visited such places as the Pound Shop know they have little use for security. I take what I want and simply hide it under my coat and make my leave.

I think this day is to be no exception. I choose Saturdays because; one) it is a little busier than during the week and two) because it is staffed by “Saturday workers” who by and large are school or college kids working for the day and they really couldn’t give  a shit. About anything.

I am making my selection and heading to the sunlight uplands of the high street with a bulge under my coat when I hear a voice call out. It says, “Hey you there, stop!” I am not sure the voice – it is a gruff sound and is clearly a man and quite possibly an older guy at that – is directed at me so I just keep on going. I have a date with my girlfriend and don’t want to be late on account that her folks are visiting her gran this day and the house will be empty for some hours and as they say, “While the cat’s away …”

“You! Stop!” The old geezer shouts again and now people are looking at him and looking at me and some Good Citizen steps in front of me to block my path.

“You!” I turn around and see I was right. It is a man who will never see fifty again, he has a paunch the size of a football hanging over the waist of his cheap dark-blue polyester trousers. His matching jacket is a little too tight and he sweats like he has just run a marathon rather than walking maybe a hundred feet from the shop doorway.

He is a security guard and doesn’t he know it. Now, I know and you probably know too, that security guards are the scum of the earth. They get minimum wage, an ill-fitting suit, and the chance to beat up on ordinary citizens just going about their not-so lawful business.

“Would you please come with me sir,” he says, sneering the word “sir” because he doesn’t really mean it. What he wants to say is, “I’ve got you bang to rights sunny boy, let’s see you grovel out of this one.”

I am standing in the middle of the crowded street seeing my afternoon shag-fest melting in the hot sun. I think about running. I have no practice at athletics preferring to spend my waking hours at Tablet screens or in dark pubs. And, sometimes I do both these things at the same time. I am not fit but I can outrun the old security guard.

I get ready to leg it when the security guard speaks. He says, “I know you. You’re …” and he gives up my name. Both bits. The first name and the last. “You live at The Avenue,” he is triumphant. “I know your dad.”

Now, how old fattyboy here, who is a nobody on minimum wage and who has always been and always will be, knows my dad, who just happens to be the director of administrative affairs at the local borough council and a big cheese in town to boot, escapes me. The news makes me hesitate my flight and next thing I feel his hand on my shoulder and I am going nowhere. Nowhere, that is except back into the shop.

There is a small room close to the self-service checkouts that he takes me to. It looks like a store room, but there is a cheap plastic-looking table, so it might be an office. There is only one window high up in the wall. It is frosted glass and hardly any daylight gets in. Fatty flicks a switch and a dim bulb sparks into action.

Well, Fatty goes on at me a bit, asks me what I’ve got under my jacket, have I got receipts, the whole nine yards. I cough to it. Who cares? The total value of my swag is four pounds. It’s hardly worth the trouble calling the police. It’ll cost the store more money to prosecute people than they ever lose in theft. I know it and I pretty sure Fatty boy here knows it too.

I let him have his moment in the spotlight and I’m just getting ready to say, “Call the cops or let me go,” like we were in some two-bit drama show on cable TV, when he goes to his pocket, pulls out a dirty handkerchief and very deliberately mops his brow with it. I watch mesmerised. He is really a fat, ugly reptile of a specimen. His brownish eyes are dull and I can see he is thinking about something. He is trying out the words he is about to say out loud. It is like he is rehearsing them like an actor in that TV drama I just told you about.

Then he says, “I think I’ll call your dad, let’s see what he has to say about it.” Then he smiles and I see half his teeth are missing and those that aren’t are dirty yellow and decayed. “What do you think about that?” he says. It isn’t really a question because he damn well knows what I think about that. I don’t think much of that at all.

I wonder how he knows of my dad. But if he really knows him at all, he knows that my dad will have my hide when he finds out. Now, “have my hide” is a saying that has been about for decades and means many different things to many different people. But when I say dad will “have my hide”, I don’t mean, “no more movies for a week or two, no more running round with the usual crew”, I mean “have my hide”, as in “take the skin off my rear end”.

Fatty grins at me and my stomach turns over. It turns over; one) because Fatty is repulsive to look at and more so when he shows the inside of his mouth, and two) because I do not want to be bent across the end of my bed at home with my trousers at my ankles and underpants at the knees while dad whips me with a thick, whippy, old-fashioned school-type cane he purchased off e-Bay especially for the purpose. I’ve been there and done that and no thank you I don’t need the t-shirt.

z used after pants down bed (2)

Fatty grins at me some more and I swear licks his lips, like he is sizing me up as his next meal. I am silent. What can I say? What exactly does he want?

I find out soon enough, when he wipes that snotty handkerchief over his face again and then he speaks. He says, “I have a little something in that drawer I keep for people like you,” and he nods towards a long drawer that is part of the table as if I can’t work out for myself what it is he is talking about.

He opens the drawer and pulls out a piece of wood. I know right away what it is because I see lots of these last time I’m at the TK Maxx store. It is a chopping block like you use in a kitchen for cutting carrots and onions and what-not. Fatty holds the board by the handle and waves it at me. I realise for the first time the chopping block has another use. The  chopping end is maybe thirty-five centimetres long and fifteen wide and not at all thick. He licks those lips again and his dull eyes blaze now.

He says nothing, but I know he wants to spank me with the chopping board. I am in a jam. I can leg it out of there and go screw my girlfriend, but I know when I get home later dad will be waiting, flexing his curved-handled cane between his hands. I can do that or I can stay and let Fatty do his worst. I know that Fatty’s worst will be nothing like dad’s. I see the blade of the chopping block could pack a punch and might blister my bum, but dad’s cane will rip me to shreds and I’ll still know about it in two weeks’ time.

Fatty might be a mind reader because he says to me, “It’s me or your dad,” and he leaves it at that. He doesn’t say more. He knows that I know what he means. Either way, I cop it. It’s him or dad. If you were in my shoes, what would you do?

“You need to take down those trousers and bend over the table,” Fatty says as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to have a nineteen-year-old kid with his jeans down bending across a table in an airless room on a Saturday lunchtime while he wallops his backside with a chopping board.

“And, you need to do it now,” he goes on, like this is something he does all the time. He licks those frigging lips again.

I close my eyes and see the sight of my bare arse when I look at it in the mirror after dad finished with me last time. Think about Clapham Junction railway lines. I open the peepers again and reach down to my belt and tug it open. Soon my zipper is lowered and my jeans slip down my thigh. Fatty has the chopping board by the handle and is thumping it into the palm of his left hand. He is trying to frighten me, but I say to myself there is nothing to worry about because no way is that piece of wood going to hurt me one little bit when I think of what dad’s cane will do.

So, I shuffles forward like a penguin until I reach the table. I am a tall guy and the table is quite low. I stop and think. How do I do this? Do I spread my legs and lean forward and grab the table and stick my bum out? That would do it. Or do I lay on the table spread-eagled with my legs splayed.

“Put your elbows on the table and stick yer arse out,” Fatty is breathing heavily, but I get what he is trying to tell me. I do as he says. I don’t see myself, but I can tell this puts me in a mightily good position. My head is low, my back arched, my legs are apart and my bum juts out at a perfect angle for Fatty to spank me.

I still have my jacket on so Fatty takes hold of the tail end and moves it away from his target area. I wear mini briefs (my girl’s favourite) and they stick to my cheeks like a second skin. Still, Fatty rubs his hand over my arse to smooth the cotton down some more. It feels like the briefs have ridden up my crack.

The table top is old and stained. It has seen much action. I think I recognise one of the stains and it has no connection to tea, coffee or other beverage. I feel Fatty move away and then I feel a kiss of wood against my stretched flesh, then Wham! The wood cracks into my arse. I get a burning sensation where it lands. Bam! Another hits, just below the first blow. Crack! and so on.

My buttocks are sizzling. The sound of the crack of wood on cotton underwear bounces off the walls of the small room and I think surely the store staff on the other side of the door can hear what is going on. Any moment someone is coming in to see what the commotion is.  I bite my bottom lip as the pain intensifies. It starts at my bum and travels up and down my legs. I keep my position well. I can stand it. Fatty spanks the chopping board across every square centimetre of my bum and wallops the back of my thighs for good measure. I hear him wheezing. Soon it becomes full out coughing.

He stops spanking me before he suffers a stroke. I stand and without looking at the fat old man who is now struggling for breath, I pull up and fasten my jeans. My bum is sore, but even now it is turning from pain to only a throb. I rub the seat of my jeans and can’t find any trace of welts, but my bum will be bruised for sure.

I pick up my pens and writing paper and without a backward glance at Fatty I leave the office. I am walking down the High Street and I think, how do I explain the bruises to my girlfriend? I think I could just tell her the truth, but honestly who would believe me?

 

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Bible College

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The shoplifter

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Called home

z used otk pants chair beard (1)

Wayne trudged across the glistening pavement. The rain had stopped at last, but not for long, he reckoned. His shoes leaked and he squelched along. He turned the corner and there it was looming ahead of him. Nelson Mandela Tower, damp, grey and ugly. He had thought he had left this all behind.

The street was deserted: even the junkies hated the rain. He opened the huge communal doorway and entered the building. A familiar stink of stale piss overwhelmed him. Gagging a little he sucked in breath and headed for the lifts. Dad lived on the twelfth floor, he hoped to God they were working.

They were. The only bit of fortune for Wayne that night. He stubbed a finger at the call button and waited. Why was he doing this, he wondered. Hadn’t he escaped all this?

A faint whirling of machinery grew louder and the lift door lumbered open. He stood aside to let out a girl, no older than himself, pushing a buggy. A nearly-new born baby slept fitfully. A toddler, hardly two years old, clutched his mother’s hand.

Wayne hesitated. He could just turn around and head back home. He could. He should. But if he did, he knew he could never return. Bridges would be burnt. There would be no turning back.

With heart thumping, he walked into the lift. A too familiar stench of human sweat greeted him. The temperature was rising. Perspiration wet his beard. He rubbed it away with the back of his hand. He pushed button twelve and the lift door closed. He stood feet slightly apart, knees a little bent, hands behind his back and waited. Without realising, he rubbed the crown of his buttocks with his thumbs.

Seconds later the lift shuddered to a halt and lumbering once more the door opened. Wayne stepped out. Paused. Waited for the door to close. There was no further sound. The lift was waiting. Teasing him. One last chance to escape.

Why wouldn’t his heart stop thumping?

He shuffled forward. Dad’s flat was across the landing. The front door gleaming red. Newly painted.

One, two, three. He counted in his head. Over the top.

He leaned on the doorbell. Somewhere deep inside the flat he heard a chime. A familiar cheesy tune. But what was it? He knew it. The name was on the tip of his tongue.

The door opened wide. Dad stood in the threshold. He was a bit on the short side, befitting a man of his generation and social class. He wore a shirt and tie. His trousers were pressed. He had dressed for the occasion. A visit from his eldest son.

“Come in,” he said curtly. “Close the door behind you.”

Wayne watched his father turn and shamble along the passageway. Wayne hesitated. There was still time. He could turn and run, be at the lift before Dad realised he was gone. If it was still waiting he could be gone in seconds.

“Don’t dawdle,” Dad barked.

Wayne kicked the door shut and resigned that matters must take their course, he followed his Dad.

The room was almost bare. A small sideboard rested against one wall and a dining table and two chairs against another.

“Well, lad ….” Dad spoke harshly and then became silent. Wayne had no idea what he was supposed to say. Well lad was it a question he had to answer? Or a statement of fact. Well lad you know why you are here.

Dad glared at Wayne, barely suppressing a sneer.

Christ. Let’s get this over with. Wayne dared not say it out loud, but it was how he felt. He had passed the point of no return. They had said it all in the phone call. There was nothing more to say. Accusations had been made. Excuses offered. There was no mitigation. Wayne had been sacked from his job. Again. That is to say not sacked again from the same job, just sacked from another. Bone idle, his Dad called it. Irresponsible. Can’t act like an adult. No self-discipline.

Well, Dad had a solution for that. If he couldn’t discipline himself, it was up to Dad to do it for him. That’s what dads were for. It was in the contract. The one between parent and child.

Dad walked the three paces it took to cross the room. Ignoring his son, he turned his back, leant forward slightly and picked up a dining chair. It wasn’t heavy. He needed only one hand to manoeuvre it away from the wall and set it down in the centre of the room. Wayne watched, licked his lips in anticipation of what was to come, and did the thumbs rubbing the backside thing again.

Satisfied the chair was in the perfect position, Dad sat down, wriggled his buttocks until he was comfortable and spread his legs by about eighteen inches. Wayne towered above his Dad. The old man’s legs looked thin and insubstantial, as if they would buckle once Wayne put himself in the traditional over-the-knee position.

Dad clicked his fingers. He always did that. It was his signal that he was ready for action. Wayne knew the sign. This wasn’t the first time he had presented himself before his dad. He hoped to hell it would be the last.

“Jeans down. Right down,” Dad snapped. Wayne hesitated. Not for the first time that day he contemplated the absurdity of the situation. A twenty-six year-old man going over Dad’s knee for a spanking.

Absurd or not, without protest he gripped the buckle of his wide leather belt and unfastened it. His Dad’s heavy breathing momentarily distracted him. Then he popped the rivet at the waistband and pulled the zipper. The weight of the heavy denim and the belt sent the jeans slithering down his thighs. They rested at his knees. Wayne gripped the waistband and folded them down to his shins.

Dad licked his lips and professed not to notice his adult son was wearing underpants with drawings of motorcars. Truly childish, he thought, impervious to any ironical intent from Wayne.

“Get over my knee.”

Wayne shuffled a step forward so he was directly to the right of Dad’s legs. He looked down, once again noting the spindly knees. Gently he lowered himself forward. His flabby stomach rested against Dad’s right knee and he stretched his torso forward. He rested his fingers on the cheap carpet to steady himself. He looked straight ahead taking note of the slightly open door. It was chipped and in need of painting.

Wayne felt Dad tug the end of his short-sleeved shirt away from the target area, he felt a breeze blowing from somewhere. Dad pressed his left hand into Wayne’s shoulder blades, intending to pin him should the young man resist.

Wayne felt dad’s right hand rub across the seat of his underpants. He was smoothing down creases. He would be ready for action any moment.

Slap-slap-slap. Three stingers rained down, but rather than aim them at Wayne’s ample buttocks his Dad spanked into his bare thigh. Over and over. It hurt. More than an inexperienced spankee might think. A rough palm on bare flesh, especially a part of the body with so many nerve endings, will cause pain. In no time the flesh was raw, glowing deep pink and then red.

Wayne shut his eyes and pressed his hands deeper into the thin carpet. Dad turned his attention to Wayne’s buttocks, hammering his palm into the fleshiest part of the mounds. Involuntarily, Wayne wriggled his hips. It was a reflex action He had no real control, it was his body’s natural way of dealing with the assault being made upon it.

On and on Dad spanked. It felt like hours to Wayne, but it was probably only three or four minutes. Wayne always marvelled at dad’s stamina. He could probably spank all night if the mood took him. Soon he stopped. Wayne lay still, unmoving. He knew it wasn’t the end. Dad had just paused. Now, they would go to the next level.

Dad slipped his fingers into the elasticated waistband of Wayne’s pants and after three tugs had them lowered so that his son’s buttocks were entirely bared. He admired his own handiwork. The bum was a deep pink from the top of the mounds where the buttocks meet the back, over the fleshy curves, into the underside and way down his thighs. This was one well-spanked boy, Dad thought, as he lifted his hand and whacked it down rapidly and a speed. Rat-tat-tat. It sounded like machine gun fire.

Wayne sucked in air, the bristles on his own beard tickled him. He shook his head from left to right, rather like a horse does when neighing. He pressed the palms of his hands flat into the scratchy carpet. The heat in his bum was rising, the pain was growing.

Dad hammered on, encouraged by the imprints of his own palm that were being embedded into his son’s backside.

Sweat soaked Dad’s shirt. His heart raced, his temples throbbed.

Suddenly the door chimes rang out. Dad stopped spanking. A gasp of relief escaped Wayne’s lips. It was over. Saved by the bell.

“Stand up,” Dad growled. “Don’t think this is over.”

Wayne hauled himself to his feet. His bum was hot. He wanted to rub it, but he wouldn’t give Dad the satisfaction.

The doorbell rang again.

“Face the wall. Hands on head. Leave your jeans down,” Dad snapped.

Wayne shuffled like a penguin, put his nose to the dusty wall, interlocked his fingers and placed them on top of his closely-cropped head.

“Ah vicar,” he heard his Dad say. “I didn’t think you were coming. I started without you. Did you bring your canes?”

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The wrong pub

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Frisson!” Bonzo rarely spoke without sneering.

“Yeah, frisson, it means ….”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

….

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

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

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

“Yeah, boss.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, boss.”

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

Another affirmative.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please sir, no more sir. Please.”

“Nine.”

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

“Ten.”

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

The rod tore into flesh once more.

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

“Eleven.”

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

At Damon’s gym, the birch rose again.

z used birch and marks sting (1)

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Vigilantes

A group of them were talking in the pub. The beer was flowing. There was only one topic of conversation. Those bloody kids. The ones who congregated around the bus stop at night. Giving innocent folk grief.

“Have you seen the graffiti? The swear words?”

“They drink strong cider, then piss it up all over the bus shelter.”

Everyone spoke at once. They all had horror tales.

“They make racist comments to the Muslims.”

“Did you hear what they called young Garry?” Garry had cerebral palsy. He dribbled a lot. “It was so upsetting for his mum.”

“We should do something about those hooligans.”

“Yes, we should.”

“Whose round is it?”

More beer was drunk.

It had been the beer talking. When they first came up with the idea it was conceived in drink. But, later, in the cold light of sobriety, it still sounded a good idea.

So, they made a plan. It was pretty simple. It would work. If everybody played their part and didn’t bottle out at the last minute.

They chose Thursday night. They needed access to the community hall. It was used most evenings. But not Thursday. So, Thursday it was.

They needed tools. That was a bit more difficult. The thing they needed most wasn’t made anymore. It had gone out of fashion. Time was you’d find them in every school. In many homes too. But, not now.

Old Joe thought he could find a decent alternative, so he was set loose in the nearby woods to see what he could come up with.

The others scoured their homes to see what they could contribute.

It was Thursday night; nearly nine o’clock. It had threatened to rain, but it was clear now. Stars were out. The louts at the bus shelter were swigging cider; smoking dope. There were five of them. A gang of mates. All unemployed and living off the state. All over eighteen, all strong, all able to work. Just bone idle, that’s all.

They didn’t know what hit them. Five family cars pulled up together. Passenger doors opened. Podgy middle-aged men got out. Not the fighting kind. The louts would have made mincemeat of them in a fight. A half-fair fight. But this was no fair fight. They had surprise on their side.

In the blink of an eye plastic shopping bags were over heads and five louts were bundled into backseats. Plastic ties bound their wrists. Cars sped off. Round one had been a success.

Trestle tables had been put out at the community hall. One was covered in fresh switches. Old Joe had done a good job whittling. They really wanted good solid school canes. The whippy rattan kind. With curved handles. But the switches would make a good substitute.

There were also belts and brushes. Someone had found a pair of old-fashioned bedroom slippers. Ones with checked uppers and flexible leather soles. A heavy razor strop took pride of place. Did anyone still use cutthroat razors?

A dozen strong and some not-so-strong men awaited the arrival of the cars. They were psyched up. Waiting. Ready to give the louts the thrashings they thought they so richly deserved.

It was such a simple plan. Each car in turn pulled up outside the hall. Then, the unwilling passenger was hauled inside. A dozen men helped to tie each hooligan over the trestle tables. Face down, backsides high. The perfect position. Legs were tied together with rope. Nobody was going anywhere. Not until punishment had been effected.

They shouted, hollered and shrieked. And that was before a single lash had connected.

Gerry Aldermaston decided he was the residents’ leader. He made a speech. It wasn’t Churchillian; nobody would have followed Aldermaston into gunfire. But he spoke from the heart. The five young men with their jeans-covered arses on show had destroyed the peace of the community. They vandalised common property. Good, honest, decent, people were afraid to walk the streets.

“It has to stop and it must stop right now!” he roared.

Five young men muttered curses. None spoke out loud. The enormity of their plight was clear. They were at the mercy of Aldermaston and his cronies.

“Gentlemen,” Aldermaston spoke to his colleagues as if they were an army platoon. “Down with their jeans. Underwear too.”

That set the five hooligans off again. Whining and cursing and kicking their legs. It was to no avail. Five pairs of naked buttocks were soon on display.

“Come to order, please gentlemen,” Aldermaston was marshalling his troops.

Each resident picked his weapon of choice.

“What a pity we don’t have a proper school cane,” Mr Winstanley sighed aloud. “They don’t make them any longer,” he added. His colleagues muttered their sympathies, all ignorant of the existence of eBay.

Twenty-five residents formed an orderly line.

Aldermaston was enjoying his moment in the limelight. “Gentlemen,” he smiled, “Take your marks. Let punishment commence.”

Then each man stepped forward and slashed his instrument of punishment into the naked haunches of the erstwhile terrorists. One after another they whipped switches, belts, a razor strop, a slipper and assorted brushes across the bared cheeks of the hooligans. Then they resumed their original positions and went around the circuit again. And again. And again.

 

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Lazy students home for the hols

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com