Public Birching

z used naked stocks restrained outdoors (1)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


“The lady. The one who was robbed?”

“No idea.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Picture credit: Unknown

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Fake News #11

used drawing cane hold (6)

Sen. Magistrates Welcome New Judicial Caning Law

EXCLUSIVE Brocklehurst Bugle

Senior Magistrate Col. CET Thumpington-Smythe of the Brocklehurst Bench has welcomed the new law allowing male offenders up to the age of 40 to be caned on the bare buttocks.

Col. Thumpington-Smythe (pictured above) said young men especially needed a severe dose of discipline.

He told the Brocklehurst Bugle in an interview, “There is too much juvenile delinquency in this town. Most young men are ill-mannered and rude. They need to be taken down a peg or two. A good dose of the cane will soon put them straight.”

He said there was a particular problem with cannabis smoking among students.

“I should gladly go myself to Brocklehurst University and personally cane every student who has ever taken drugs. A sound six-of-the-best on the bared buttocks is what they need.”

The new law allows magistrates to impose caning sentences for a range of offenses that previously only carried fines or community service.

Col. Thumpington-Smythe said, “I and my colleagues will not hesitate to impose caning sentences. This will be in addition to the other sentence options open to us.”

It is not clear who will carry out the canings. Brocklehurst Police Superintendent Mr. Harry Hardnose told the Brocklehurst Bugle the courts would need to make that decision. “I suppose we can train up police officers to do this. Perhaps one of the lads with big muscles in our rugby team could do it. We need someone who is strong and can leave his mark on the offenders.”

Col. Thumpington-Smythe said, “I should be glad to undertake the thrashings myself. We don’t want some namby-pamby liberal wet in charge. The boys must suffer. They must bleed for their crimes.”

Residents of Brocklehurst also welcomed the new law. Mr. Eric Sloop, aged 45, a shop manager, of The Avenue, Brocklehurst, told the Bugle, “I can think of a few louts who hang around Widdicombe Woods drinking and whatnot who would benefit from a trousers-down, bare-bottomed spanking.”

Mr. Ernie Flynn, aged 52, also of The Avenue, has circulated a petition asking the courts to make the canings open to public viewing. He said, “I think it is proper that residents see how their council taxes are being used.”

He said he had already collected nearly 50 signatures from residents of The Avenue alone. Others who would like to sign the petition can contact him on ______________

Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

Book. Collection of Spanking Stories


Charles Hamilton II’s Collection of Spanking Stories

Here’s another free-to-download book containing a selection of my favourite male-on-male spanking stories. It has some of my earliest writings and some of my most recent. I hope there’s something for every taste from military, judicial, dad-and-son, the vicar, my best friend and many more besides. All characters are aged 18 or over.

The book which also has many illustrations runs for more than 26,000 words.

Please enjoy.

Click on the link below to download Charles Hamilton II’s Collection of Spanking Stories


Picture credit: Mancspank

For more free-to-download books click here


Fake News #4

z used restrained horse (1)

Court Sentences Rude Son to Caning

EXCLUSIVE Brocklehurst Bugle

A disrespectful young man was given a painful reminder to mind his manners when talking to his mother when Brocklehurst Magistrates’ sentenced him to six strokes of the cane on the bare buttocks.

The court heard how rude 24-year-old Lawrence Jarosy, visited his mother’s house in Widdicombe Woods Road, on 29 September. He was in search of something to eat. When he was told there was no food for him, he “went berserk”.

Mr. Arbuthnot Featherington, prosecuting, said Jarosy was rarely at home. “He treated the home like a hotel and his mother like a skivvy. He was constantly disrespectful to his mother.”

Featherington added, “When he was told there was no food prepared for him, he went into the kitchen smashing open cupboards. Eventually, he found a tin of baked beans, but when he was unable to find a tin opener, he threw it at the wall, all the time cursing at his mother.

“Eventually, he rushed from the house and was not seen again until the following day.”

Jarosy told the court he had been drinking most of the day and did not remember much about the incident.

Senior Magistrate Col. A. R. P. Braithwaite told Jarosy, “Your behaviour was beneath contempt. A man of your age should know better. We should all respect our mothers at all times. It is to the great detriment of the nation that the youth of today no longer do this.

Much to the shock of the small crowd of neighbours who attended the trial, Col. Braithwaite said “I am very pleased to say that recently enacted legislation allows me to sentence you to be taken from the court into the punishment cell next door where you will receive six lashes of the cane on the bare buttocks. Take him down.”

Jarosy is one of the first to be sentenced to lashes in Brocklehurst. After sentence he was immediately escorted to the punishment cell which is a room of about three metres by three. It is empty except for a specially-built heavy wooden horse. Jarosy was forced to remove his trousers and underpants before laying across the horse. His ankles, thighs and wrists were then restrained with leather straps.

The cane is about 120 cm long and made of heavy Malacca. It has about five notches across its length and despite its denseness it is extremely whippy.

A police spokesperson said, “When sentencing is to be carried out, a doctor first examines the prisoner to ensure he is fit to withstand the lashing. Then, he is asked to strip from the waist. Wherever possible we like the prisoner to prepare himself. That includes submitting himself across the horse so he can be strapped down.

If he does not do this there can be an unseemly struggle and prison officers will force his trousers and pants off and then tie him down.

The spokesperson said Jarosy seemed dazed when he entered the punishment cell. He passed the medical and presented himself for his lashing “in exemplary style”.

He added that six heavy lashes were laid on with intervals of ten seconds between each. The buttocks were scarred and there was some bleeding.”

Mrs. Harriot Fitzgibbon, who works in a greengrocer across the street from the punishment cell, said, “We heard this eerie screaming, it was like a banshee. All the customers stopped to listen. It was really quite exciting.”


Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

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

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Charles Hamilton the Second


The wrong pub

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Frisson!” Bonzo rarely spoke without sneering.

“Yeah, frisson, it means ….”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

“Yeah, boss.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, boss.”

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

Another affirmative.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please sir, no more sir. Please.”


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


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

The rod tore into flesh once more.

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


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

At Damon’s gym, the birch rose again.

z used birch and marks sting (1)

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Charles Hamilton the Second


The African Mall

z used sjambok-105-cm_l

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second