Neighbourhood Watch Vigilantes

new story 2

z used belt bare twosome over car (1)

The houses in The Avenue were big, many were sedate Edwardian monstrosities with attics occupied by teenagers or au pairs. Limed oak or pastel-sponged kitchens extended into pretty conservatories, and garages had been converted into home offices or games rooms. Front gardens were well tended, with not an ugly spotted laurel or dull privet to be seen. The houses didn’t lack in burglar proofing, large metal alarm bells hung warningly over the ornate front doors and powerful lights flickered on and off all night.

The Avenue bordered Widdicombe Woods giving the inhabitants a feeling of almost rural isolation. But across the main road at one end the council estate loomed high and huge. It was the mysterious hinterland from which the residents assumed all crime and chaos originated. Righteous people in The Avenue lived in fear of being mugged, threatened or harassed by ruffians from the estate. On dark evenings, mindful of terrifying newspaper reports of no-go areas and escalating violence, they made sure to only carry small amounts of change as they shuffled off to the local liquor store. At night they carefully took their in-car radios into their homes with them.

A couple of miles away at the Brocklehurst South police station Sgt Astley peered over the top of his glasses at the young police cadet standing before him. “Bloody kids,” he wanted to say, “They never know when to leave well alone.” Instead his jowls wobbled as he shook his head in disbelief and listened to the tale.

Cadet Noble was flustered. “You’ll never believe it Serge, they had the two boys, well young men really, bent over the car. And they had no clothes on. Well, they had shirts but their jeans and pants were pulled down,” he gabbled.

“Steady on, calm down, son,” Sgt Astley could indeed believe it. There were stranger things going on in Brocklehurst every day of the year.

Cadet Noble gushed on, “And they were whacking their bottoms … their bare bottoms with leather belts.”

Ah, a broad smile split Sgt Astley’s chubby face. Now he understood. “Was it the Neighbourhood Watch?” he grinned.

“Well, I don’t know,” the cadet replied uneasily, suddenly realising that he should have more details. He should have interviewed people and taken notes, like a proper copper. He frowned, vaguely aware that his face was colouring. “It was down at The Avenue.”

The tubby sergeant spread his arms wide. “I should have known,” he wiped a hand across his brow. “Were they lads from the council estate?”

Cadet Noble shrugged his shoulders confirming his inadequacy.

“They’re right posh at The Avenue, they don’t take kindly to riff-raff hanging around stamping on their dahlias.”

“But, Serge they were taking the law into their own hands, that’s not right,” Cadet Noble was flustered. That wasn’t why he joined the police force.

Sgt Astley frowned, “A bloody good hiding never did any harm,” he didn’t say it out loud. There was one young lad standing in front of him who would benefit from a belt across the backside; it might knock some sense into him.

What he did say was, “We don’t have the officers to deal with these type of cases. It’s best all round if we just leave it to the residents.”

“Oh Serge,” Cadet Noble’s face flushed red with indignation. “It’s not fair,” he pouted.

Tucker was on the prowl. He had risen from his pit of a bed just after midday. The afternoon was the best time to do his business. The houses were empty. People had jobs to go to. Suckers! It was mid-summer. Blisteringly hot. He showered, pulled on his jeans, picked up shirts from a pile on the floor, sniffed each of them to find the cleanest and tugged it over his head. He tipped cornflakes from a packet into a not-quite clean bowl and soaked them with milk. He was ready for his day.

His council flat was on the edge of the town centre, conveniently situated between the necessary amenities of life (burger bars, pubs, the social security office) and the rich, leafy suburbs. It wasn’t his day to ‘sign-on’ and his pockets were empty, so he would give the centre a miss today. Time to get to work.

The suburbs of Brocklehurst were green and flourishing and no street more so than The Avenue. Big, opulent houses with large gardens owned by rich folk. He’d pick his pal Higgins up on his way.

Eric Sloop and his two chums were on their second glass of gin. They spread themselves out comfortably in the spacious lounge room, in companionable silence. The sun was shining, the gin was splendid. They dozed a little.

Tucker and Higgins had seen the large detached house on a previous visit. It looked unoccupied; and rich for the pickings. Making sure they weren’t seen by anyone they hurried across the road and dodged behind the wall. Tucker was pretty certain that large as the house was there was only one man who lived there, and he was probably a wealthy old git, by the looks of the place. Tucker hoped they’d be able to break in and steal something valuable; he didn’t want much, cash would be preferable, just enough to pay for some booze and drugs. If there was no cash, he’d steal an ornament (these kinds of people always had ornaments) and he’d sell it.

The pair darted round the back of the house. He tried the door. Ha-ha!, it was unlocked. Why were people so stupid? And, thank the Lord that they were.

“Keep a look out,” he mouthed instructions to Higgins, a dull half-wit of a youth. Cautiously, he eased open the door. It led directly into a kitchen. It was a bright, modern room. Quickly his eyes scanned around; where’s the tea-caddy; old people always hid their money in the tea-caddy. He searched through the cupboards, trying not to leave too many traces, but found no caddy, only a box of tag-less tea bags.

He opened and closed all the drawers, no money and nothing of value. Adrenalin pumped through Tucker’s arteries. He was out in the hallway. There was a jacket hanging on a hook. He searched the pockets but found nothing.

There were four doors leading onto the hallway. The house was airless, the heat and the excitement was making him sweat. One of them must lead to a living room, he supposed. Which one? Did it matter? The house was empty, he had all the time in the world. He reached for a door handle, twisted it. It opened easily.

“What the …..!” Eric Sloop shouted, “Who the fuck are you?” He and his two pals lurched to their feet. Tucker stood frozen, trying to survey the scene. At last, too late, his addled brain told him it was time to flee.

“Grab him,” there was no need for Eric to give instruction, his friend Paul already had hold of the youth’s arm. Toby, the third man in the room gripped him by the neck.

“Wor’s going on?” the dim-witted Higgins stood in the hallway, trying to comprehend the situation.

“There’s another one, quick get him.” Inside seconds two intruders had been captured by three less-than-sober residents.

“Housebreakers.”

“Thieves.”

“I bet they’re from the estate.”

They all spoke at once, as they began to understand what was going on.

“Fuck off, leggo!” Tucker had his arms pinned behind his back. Higgins was in a head lock. They were going nowhere.

“Call the police,” Toby said.

“Yeah, right!” Eric sneered. “Fat lot of good that’ll do.” He twisted Tucker’s arm and then pulled his long, greasy hair. He put his mouth close to the lout’s ear. “Do you know if we were in America and you broke into my house, I’d be allowed to shoot you.”

“Yeah,” Paul added his two-penny worth. “Dead, you bastard.”

Tucker struggled, but the strength of his captor was too much.

“The police won’t do anything,” Eric was taking command. “Not even a slap on the wrist,” he mocked. “Total waste of time.”

Paul smiled sardonically, “We know what to do with these two, don’t we Eric.” He slapped Higgins on the back of the head. “Same as we did with the other two.”

“Wor? Wor did you do?” Higgins feared the worst.

“It’s a pity word hasn’t got round your estate. You don’t come and mess with the folks of The Avenue,” Eric sneered, “We know how to deal with hoodlums like you.” He looked across at his companions. “Let’s take them out the front. Make sure the neighbours can see.”

Eric and Paul took an arm each and pulled Tucker across the floor, the lout’s feet skidded across the plush carpet. Tucker’s fear gave him strength, but he tumbled and the two men dragged him into the hallway and towards the door. Toby grabbed Higgin by the arm, unlike his partner-in-crime he gave no resistance, too dumbfounded to fight.

They were soon outside in The Avenue, the street was deserted, Eric toyed with the idea of running from door to door to scrape up an audience. The residents were fed up with living in constant fear of the council estate thugs; they would delight in the spectacle. Before he moved the door of the house at number twenty-seven opened and Ernie Flynn appeared.

“Thieves,” Eric said by way of explanation. “We’re going to whip their arses,” he said calmly as if what he intended to do was the most natural thing in the world. Ernie took the initiative and started working his way from house to house.

“Get them over the car,” Eric had taken control; his friends happy to follow his lead. “No!!!” Tucker wailed and struggled fiercely, but the two men held him forcibly down. He was going nowhere until they said so. Eric gripped Higgins by the arm; the lout came quietly and within seconds was alongside his pal.

“Geroff!!” Tucker was off again. Toby grabbed the lout’s sweatpants and underwear and in one smooth movement pulled both down until they rested at Tucker’s shins. The young man kicked out in fury but missed his intended target.

A crowd was beginning to gather. They saw two men, each aged about twenty, bent side by side over the front of a car, trousers and pants at their shins, bottomed bared. “If I let you go,” Paul told Higgins, I want you to stay there and take it. If you struggle, we’ll tie you to a tree and flog you until you bleed.”

He couldn’t believe he had just said that. Where had those words come from? Paul felt sheepish as he released his grip and was mightily relived when the lout stayed still, submissively offering up his naked buttocks.

Eric unbuckled his own belt and with one continuous movement had it free of his trousers and doubled up in his hand. It was wide and thick and he knew from experience it could do some damage to a naked behind. Paul followed suit.

Eric was the first to go: after all it had been his idea. The belt was about twelve or thirteen inches long, he took up position behind Tucker and found his aim. The lout liked his beer and this was obvious from his flabby waist and loose buttocks. His legs were hairy but his bottom was creamy-pale. That was until the first three lashes of the leather belt struck home. While Eric thrashed Tucker’s rear end, Paul made his own preparations.

He approached Higgins from the right hand side. It was a difficult angle for Paul would have preferred to be on the left. He gripped the belt in his right fist and moved behind the thief to get a better aim. It was more difficult than he realised.

The first lash missed Higgins’ bum completely and landed on the top of his thighs. The lout let out a piercing yelp, his legs buckled and his hips swayed, but he stayed in position.  Not discouraged Paul repositioned. This time the belt landed right across the very centre of both cheeks: a result. The belt lashed again and again into the increasingly reddening cheeks.

Meanwhile, Tucker felt the belt lift away from his bottom. A split second later it returned at speed and force and caught him on the underside of both cheeks. Air hissed through his clenched lips. His mouth opened wide and a faint groan escaped. Before he could regain composure a second, then a third and a fourth cut lashed across his bottom.

The crack of leather on two sets of stretched buttocks disturbed the still afternoon. The small crowd of onlookers stared in silence; it had been a long time since many of them had had so much fun.

Tucker shut his teeth. His bum hurt. Then there was a short respite as Toby took off his own belt. Splat! The leather exploded once more across the thief’s  buttock cheeks delivering a searing sting that took his breath away. Before he could regain his wind he felt another stinging band and he bucked frantically and his legs danced. Toby made certain the strap toasted every square of the target which was by now blazing.

Paul twisted his flabby body and sent the leather scorching into the underside of Higgins’ buttocks. With the upturned bottom in front of him, Paul could choose his target with great accuracy. Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! It was a long, thorough whipping.

From a safe distance and unobserved Police Cadet Nobel recorded the proceedings, shielding the screen of his tablet from the sunshine.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Fake News #6

z used restrained twosome outdoors

Public spanking after

disgusting cafeteria prank

Special to Standard-Recorder

Students at Mason Creek Community College took revenge on two of their own with a public spanking after they had played a disgusting prank with a salad.

Marco  Berkovitz and Raphael Benitez, both aged nineteen, took a small bottle of salad dressing from the college dining hall into the restroom, took turns to ejaculate into the bottle, and returned it to the cafeteria to watch other students consume the dressing.

They got the idea from a stunt in the film “Jackass: Number Two”, it was reported.

The contaminated dressing was used during five lunch periods before it was routinely cleaned and refilled by cafeteria staff.

Rumours spread about the prank that school authorities called an “unusual and disgusting” incident. Eventually the two teens admitted involvement.

College authorities have called a meeting of the Disciplinary Committee for 3 June but students say the committee is powerless to impose the severe sanction that the action merits.

So, a group of students stripped Berkovitz and Benitez naked Thursday and tied them to a telegraph pole close to the entrance of the College. A notice reading, “Public punishment. Do your civic duty and take the whip to these delinquents” was placed above their heads.

One student who did not want to be named told the Standard-Recorder in an interview, “Just about every student who used the cafeteria stood in line. They cut switches and used them to whip their butts, but they were too reedy and easily broke.”

He said students then took off their leather belts to continue the punishment. “They were very effective. Soon their butts were red and raw.”

A witness to the incident said, “There were a dozen or more young people at any one time, lashing the two teens over and over. They yelped and groaned but not much more. I think they were trying to accept their discipline.”

Other students reportedly used a large wooden paddle that they borrowed for the occasion from Mason Creek High School which is situated a block away.

Police Chief Paddy Callaghan declined comment to the Standard-Recorder. He would only say, “We have not received an official report about the incident.”

 

Picture credit: Unknown

More Fake News stories here

 

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Charles Hamilton the Second

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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

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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Charles Hamilton the Second

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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.

 

Other stories you might like

Lazy students home for the hols

The military camp

A maintenance spanking

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com