The sneak thief’s caning

I was a long way from home on the other side of the world, just travelling like a lot of young people did. I was exploring how other people, different from me, lived; seeing different cultures in the raw, experiencing new things. But I got a bit more than I bargained for the day I stole a Smart phone.

I was in a crowded market, packed elbow to elbow with hundreds, thousands possibly, of people when I saw my chance. One stall completely open to the elements was stacked high with every conceivable gadget. There was the latest from Apple, Sony’s newest wizardry all within hand’s reach. Back home these things would be locked behind glass and security guards would be standing close by.

Here, on a market stall in the back of beyond they were there for the picking. They were knock-off counterfeits, I guessed that, but even so who could resist having the very latest Smart phone? I wanted one, but I could not afford it, so I decided to steal it.

I cased the joint, as criminals of the past probably never said, and saw there were only two people attending the stall and they were constantly busy dealing with customers. It would be easy. I joined a crowd of customers pushing and shoving against the stall and bided my time. Then, when I was sure the stallholders could not see me, I sneaked a phone into my pocket and casually walked away.

I surprised myself. I was coolness itself. I had no nerves at all. A snatch theft, perfectly executed. Or so I thought.

Moments later there were two policemen, one on each of my shoulders. The police station was only a couple of minutes away and I soon found myself seated on a long, hard, wooden bench outside an office with a faded sign: Inspector.

I was not so cool now. A witness had seen me stealing the phone and now I would face the full force of the law. The police station was crowded; I was not the only thief they had captured that day. Soon the bench became quite crowded. There were two boys, young men really, dressed in school uniform, looking a bit odd in their khaki short trousers and a well-dressed man somewhere in his late twenties.

The two schoolboys were engaged in animated conversation, they seemed quite agitated, but I could not speak their language so had no idea what they were saying. The man just stared at the dirty floor tiles beneath his feet.

After what seemed like hours, but was probably only five minutes, the man was called into the Inspector’s office. After a few minutes, he came out, looking shocked, and a police constable led him away.

Then it was the turn of the schoolboys. They were called in together (obviously partners in crime) and they too exited after some minutes and were led away. One of the boys appeared to be crying.

Then, it was my turn. The Inspector’s office was small and dirty. He sat behind a small ramshackle wooden desk. In front of it were two beaten up chairs, one had a ripped seat cover and dirty sponge poked out.

The Inspector was exhausted; he looked like he had not shaved for a week, and I could smell he was in dire need of a shower.

He waved to me to sit down and wearily he looked at me across the desk. He seemed surprised to see me there. He did not see many foreigners in his office, he told me. He spoke to me as if I was a half-wit, and only later did I discover that foreigners who were caught up to no good by the police generally slipped the arresting constable a couple of US dollars and they went away.

If I had known the protocol I would never have had to face the ordeal that I would remember for the rest of my life.

The Inspector was in no mood for small talk. He read the charge sheet: theft of a phone. I did not deny it. He did not ask why I did it. If he had all I could say was I stole it because I wanted it and I thought I could get away with it. It was a gadget; it was not as if I had been starving and had stolen food to eat.

The Inspector looked one more time at the charge sheet and then stared me straight in the eye; I could smell his rancid breath.

“I can give you a choice,” he said, “In this city offenders can be given an ‘off the record’ caning for minor offences such as these. No records of your crime will be kept. We like it because it reduces police paperwork and court time.”

I must have looked dumbfounded and the Inspector must have felt he needed to sell the idea to me some more, “You could go to the Magistrate and possibly get a fine, or perhaps go to prison for a few days.”

I knew I could not pay a fine and the thought of prison horrified me; how would inmates treat a young foreigner like me? But, could I endure a caning as an alternative?

Before I had a chance to respond, the Inspector was talking again. “Think yourself lucky,” he smiled, but he was not joking, “In some parts of this country they would cut off your hand for stealing.”

I was silent, not knowing what to say. What would a caning be like? Corporal punishment back home had been confined to the dustbin of history. Would it be like in the olden days? Bend over touch your toes while the headmaster whacked a whippy cane into the seat of your trousers?

The Inspector was getting impatient; he had many more ‘customers’ to see before his shift would end. “You have no choice really do you?” he said, not unkindly.

No, no choice, I agreed.

A constable came and took me to another building on the police compound. He opened the door and bluntly told me to go inside. It was a big room and at the far end there was a door.

Standing there was the well-dressed man I had seen earlier, but now he was completely naked. A policeman gave me a plastic bag and ordered me to take off all my clothes.

I asked why I had to take my clothes off.

The policeman said, “Cane is on bare bottom.”

In all my imaginations, it had not occurred to me that the caning would be bare. I was wearing denim jeans cut off above the knee and I had supposed the thick material would have given me some protection against the cane and it would not hurt too much.

The policeman pushed the bag at me, forcing me to take it. “Get on with it. Do you want extra strokes?”

I took the bag and undressed. I was very embarrassed. Nobody ever saw me naked; I only took my clothes off to have a shower.

When I was naked, the outer door opened again and the two schoolboys were brought in. They also were forced to strip. Soon, there were four of us naked awaiting our punishment.

After about five minutes the other door opened and a man wearing an Inspector’s uniform came in. We were told to go through the door.

It was a small open yard with brick walls. There was a sort of a narrow bench with a leather top in the shape of upside down V. Beside it there was another policeman holding a Malacca cane. From where I stood it looked awesome. It was probably a little more than three feet long and although it was about as thick as a pencil, it was extremely supple. I felt my legs wobble at the thought of that thing slashing into my naked buttocks.

z used cane hold kernled (12)The Inspector called the man over to the bench. He had to lean right over it. It must have been very shameful for him as we could see all privates. The Inspector nodded to the policeman who walked over to the bench, raised up the cane, then whipped it across the man’s bottom.

He shrieked. The Inspector nodded and the policeman whipped him again. The man stayed quiet this time but I saw his body go tense. After the next stroke he cried out a little bit more and he did the same for the next two strokes. He was then allowed to stand up.

Then it was turn of the first of the two schoolboys. He went over the bench affecting calmness. After the first stroke he just gasped and on the second one he cried out. The third one brought tears to his eyes. The policeman waited a few seconds then gave the fourth stroke. The boy cried out something that I could not understand. He seemed to be pleading for the beating to stop.

Then a fifth stroke lashed into his buttocks and he was allowed to get up trembling and sobbing.

Then it was the turn of the other schoolboy, the smaller of the boys, the one I had seen crying earlier.  He bent over the bench but after first stroke he stood up again rubbing his bottom. The policeman ordered him to bend over again, but he was crying and refusing. The Inspector and policeman grabbed him, put handcuffs on him behind his back then bent him over the bench again. The Inspector held his shoulders down while the strokes were given. The boy screamed every time, it was terrible noise. When he got up and had the handcuffs taken away he just walked about sobbing and rubbing his bottom.

Then it was my turn. I think that going last was the worst. I bent over the bench and it felt so shameful as everybody could see my bottom and my private parts. I screwed my eyes up tight, every muscle a vice of tension awaiting the coming onslaught. The moment seemed to go on forever.

‘Yeowww!’ I shrieked out in shock and pain. The policeman raised his right arm high and brought the cane down with tremendous power again in a mighty stroke. I was panting and could hardly breathe. I tried to stand up but the policeman just pushed me back over the bench. He whipped me again, any effort I was making to maintain some self-control and dignity collapsed and I burst into floods of tears, yelling out my anguish uncontrollably, tears now pouring down my cheeks.

The fourth one was not as hard as the others, then after that I heard the policeman whispering to the Inspector and I hoped it was over. I had started to relax, then the last lash came. I screamed out and then the policeman tapped my shoulder and told me to get up.

We were sent back inside again. The schoolboys were still sobbing. We had to wait for about five minutes, still naked, before another policeman came back with our clothes. We were then allowed to get dressed and go home.

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

Picture credit: Kernled

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Charles Hamilton the Second

Footballer’s Judicial Caning

z used cane hold military kernled (9)

“One hundred dollar fine; two hundred and fifty dollars to be paid in damages and four lashes of the cane on the bare buttocks. Take him away. Next case.”

The twenty-eight-year-old footballer bitterly resented being in this God-forsaken African country. Tony Jeffries was an important name in European soccer and starred in a top club, but he was still forced to tour the world to these backwaters, just because the club wanted to extend its brand across the globe.

Now, he was to get a different kind of brand across his own globes.

It had all happened so quickly. Last night he and some of the backroom boys at the club escaped their hotel to see a bit of night life. That was a big mistake, the town was a dump and there was nothing to do. They did find a rundown bar and had a few drinks, but nothing too much. Then some locals recognised who he was and muscled in. They would not leave him alone, words were exchanged, punches flew, tables got overturned, glasses were smashed, the police were called, and he ended up in the magistrates’ court.

The charges were violent conduct, criminal damage and causing a disturbance. And, for that, in this country you got your arse caned. Judicial corporal punishment was normal here, the law said men up to the age of forty could be lashed and courts routinely sentenced criminals to the cane.

Jeffries had to sit through two others cases before his own was heard. In the first a twenty-eight-year-old man got a fine and three lashes on the bare buttocks for stealing peanuts from a store. In the second, a man got five cuts for trying to snog a woman who did not welcome his advances.

Corporal punishment was a relic from colonial days when the ruling power used the cane liberally against the natives. They treated the locals as if they were children, no matter how old they really were, and believed that administering ‘spankings’ was the  way to get them to do as they were told.

Today, people believed corporal punishment was a good method of controlling the population and a sentence of lashing was cheaper than sending people to prison.

So, that’s how Jeffries came to be waiting his turn for a visit to the flogging room at the court. He had spent the night in a police cell, but he couldn’t complain. He was given a chance to call his club who contacted a lawyer and his country’s embassy and got the same response: Jeffries was guilty (he admitted that) and he had to take a whipping. It was the law and that was all that could be said about it.

A doctor had examined Jeffries to ensure he was fit to be whipped. All he did was to put a stethoscope to his chest to test his heart and, of course, Jeffries was fit; he was a world-class athlete, after all.

At one time the beatings were held in the police station’s examination room, but they were later transferred to the present room when it was found that the police station ceiling was too low to permit a full swing of the cane.

In the flogging room there were five adults. Two policemen held Jeffries bent over a table, and his trousers were pulled down.

A third policeman flogged him on his naked buttocks.

So great was the pain caused by the chastisement that a handkerchief was stuffed into his mouth to prevent those present hearing his piteous cries. It might also stop him biting off his tongue.

The policeman threw himself into a striking attitude. This was to be no child’s play.

The chief officer called “One!” His colleague raised the cane and smashed it down on the bare buttocks of the prisoner.


The policeman was in no hurry. The second hand of the chief officer’s watch crawled. The punishment must not be hurried. After five seconds that seem like an age, he called, “Two!”

This second one – whew! –  swish! It came underhand and upwards, shattering the bruised flesh.

The doctor took note of Jeffries’s face. It was grey. But the doctor was not concerned. His function was not to stop the infliction of pain but to save the authorities the embarrassment of a man dying under punishment.

Jeffries’s entire consciousness was dominated by the thought of the next stroke – until his torture came to an end or the doctor called a halt.

“Three!” As the third stroke swished home, the footballer lost all sense of his surroundings. A symphony of pain engulfed his whole being. By now, he could no longer keep track of time.

“Four!” Whizz! — slosh! A straight forearm cut fair across the other three lines.

The men let his hands and feet go, he sprang erect with flushed face and suspiciously brilliant eyes. His arse burned as though he’d sat his bare bottom on a hot griddle.

A policeman ushered Jeffries from the room, to ready it for the next customer.

Jeffries could not sit down and was forced to lie on his stomach in the back of a people carrier for the journey back to his hotel. In the privacy of his room he gently eased down his trousers and underpants and examined the four distinct burning lines of pain that adorned his buttocks, it would be a full day before his backside became less painful to touch.

The following day he had to work hard not to fidget sitting in the plane as the team flew home and it took another two days before he could sit without being reminded of that God-forsaken country.

Picture credit: Kernled

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

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Charles Hamilton the Second

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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Charles Hamilton the Second

Approved School Santas

used drawing santa claus squad cane

Mr. Jossop, the headmaster of Lansbury Approved School for young offenders, peered through his rimless glasses. Mr. Kochinhand, his senior housemaster, was a kindly man, but this was a hare-brained scheme. It was fraught with danger. It was sure to be a disaster.

“The Rotary Club are one-hundred-percent behind it, headmaster,” Kochinhand beamed.

They would be, Jossop grimaced.

“What could possibly go wrong, headmaster?” Kochinhand was not to be deterred.

Jossop’s eyebrows shot heavenwards. Everything, he thought. Everything.

The Rotary had organised it all, Kochinhand had explained. Young children all over town would get a visit from Santa Claus. The orphanage, the children’s hospital, the many charities that gave meals to the children of destitute families.

“And they want our lads to be the Santas,” Kochinhand could not stop beaming. “It’s an excellent idea, don’t you think, headmaster? It would give our boys a chance to show responsibility,” Kochinhand wrung his hands together. “What could possibly go wrong?” he asked again.

Lansbury was a school for young criminals. Four hundred boys, up to the age of nineteen, crammed the dormitories and classrooms. Thieves, robbers, repeat offenders. They shouldn’t be let loose on poor defenceless children, Jessop thought.

What could possibly go wrong? They could abscond. That’s what. It was by far the biggest headache approved schools faced. They weren’t prisons; they were just boarding schools. Slightly more secure than the most expensive fee-paying schools in the land, but boarding schools nonetheless.

Absconding. That was why the boys were forced to wear ridiculous uniforms. Brown short trousers and beige knee socks. Up to the age of nineteen. Any boy on the run from approved school would be immediately spotted by the public. Especially in the depths of winter.

They always came back. Then, they would be up before Jessop. Bent across his desk, resting on their elbows (his preferred position), while he lashed his stout but whippy cane across the seat of their short trousers. Eight strokes for the sixteens and overs. Six of the best for the rest.

“So, headmaster,” Kochinhand was not letting this go, “Do you approve?”

No, Jessop was sure, he decidedly did not approve. If he had his way, the boys would be locked in their rooms over the so-called “festive season.” They were nothing but trouble. Keep them there until New Year had come and gone.

But, life was never so simple. Many important people, those with influence, belonged to Rotary. They would not take kindly if he and his school turned down their offer.

“Go ahead, Mr. Kochinhand,” he sighed. “But, you take responsibility for it mind.”

Beaming from ear-to-ear, Kochinhand left the headmaster’s office. Jessop leaned back in his chair and groaned.

Despite his cheery demeanour, Kochinhand was not confident the boys would sign up for Santa. Never volunteer, was the mantra of the approved-school inmate. Why should they help the bosses?

“It’s for charity,” he told the surly senior boys. “Helping poor children.” He hoped that would strike a chord, for every one of the lads he cajoled was from a deprived family. His reward was silence and indifference. In despair, he slouched off to his study.

He was close to astonished when an hour later Tomkinson, a nineteen-year-old house breaker, knocked confidently on his door. He had six names. All ready to be Santa. “Just give us the sacks and point us in the right direction!” he grinned.

Kochinhand was overjoyed. Jessop suspicious. Why had they volunteered? It could only be they intended to run away. Who wouldn’t prefer to spend Christmas at home than at Lansbury? “I don’t trust them an inch,” he growled. “They’re up to something.”

Jessop had a plan. Next day dressed in his own Santa suit he lined up six Father Christmases. Despite their youth and general thinness, they quite looked the part. Even sour Jessop had to admit that. Jessop paced the ground before them. Tucked under his arm ready to slip into his hand at a moment’s notice was a stout cane. He was rarely seen throughout the school without an ashplant.

He had the air of a sergeant-major as he strode up and down. “Surveillance!” He said the word three times. For emphasis. “You will all be under surveillance. Do not for one moment think of absconding!” The false whiskers covering each boy’s face hid their smirks remarkably well.

Jessop growled his suspicion. There wasn’t a backside in front of him that he hadn’t thrashed in the past few months. Why would the lads want to help the school?

“We’ll be watching you. Like hawks.”

“Ho-ho-ho!” they chanted in unison as they shuffled off to waiting cars, heavy sacks on their shoulders.



Terry O’Kane, nearly nineteen, habitual shoplifter and house breaker and Santa for the afternoon, stood impatiently. No amount of cheap coloured paper decorations could brighten the dour mission hall.  He knew that green and grey paint. They were the only colours destitute people ever saw.

About thirty ragged children, not a decent meal inside any of them for weeks, sat listless in front of a geezer performing conjuring tricks. By their sides, already abandoned to indifference, were wooden fire engines for the boys and rag dolls for the girls.

O’Kane had performed his duty well. Now, he waited for his chance. There was one more thing to do before he could return to his sleigh and fly off into the night. He inched toward a table, furtively. Watching all the time for movement from the children or their Guardian-appointed overseers. There was no time to lose. There never was in these situations.

O’Kane loved the thrill of it. In a split second he could be away. Job done. Home and dry. Elated. Or, his collar could be felt. A figure of authority gripping him hard. Dragging him to the police station. The Magistrates Court. Approved School. He had seen it all before.

They all watched the conjurer. He was quite good, O’Kane had to admit; although he hated himself for thinking it. The Guardians had moved outside, into the frost, to be away from the stinking children. To smoke a cigarette in peace.

It was now or never. O’Kane slowly backed towards the table. He had already cased the joint. He knew what he wanted. All the usual Christmas fare was there. Turkey. Brussel Sprouts (the kids would love them, O’Kane sneered silently). Cake.

And, in the centre of the groaning trestle table; a plum duff. A Christmas pudding. Satisfied, he was not overseen, the teenager expertly scooped it up with one hand and into his Santa sack. He was through the door to freedom in seconds.

Three streets away at the Baptist Church Hall, Sandy Cockburn (pronounced Co-burn) had given away his presents. Baptists were not renowned for their jollity. These children had clearly leaned the trait young. Cockburn did not much care. He had never liked Christmas. Grownups got drunk, fought with one another and beat their kids. No, as far as Sandy Cockburn cared you could stuff Christmas along with your turkey.

But, he reckoned, this Christmas might be good fun. If the plan worked. It was dangerous; but not reckless. The lads at Lansbury might have the best holiday yet. Some old dame was organising games. The nineteen-year-old scrutinised the room. It was some kind of treasure hunt. They were following clues. Trying to find something. The key was in the Bible.

Cockburn stamped his feet on the ground. The afternoon was getting late, the air chilled quickly. He was glad of the Santa suit; his legs would be turning blue if he was wearing the short trousers of his approved school uniform.

Even so, he wrapped his arms around his body, hugging himself for warmth. How much longer would he have to wait? Suddenly, a movement from outside. A car drew up. Cockburn groaned. Jessop, the headmaster, had returned to take him away.

There was no time to lose. It was now or never. He couldn’t disappoint the other lads. They would never let him forget it. He scoured the room. Nobody was looking at him. The Bible was too interesting. Overexcited, overweight children yelled with glee. They had found the clue.

Cockburn shrugged his incomprehension. Two plates of jam tarts disappeared into his sack.

“Hello, Mr. Jessop,” he said cheerfully, as the headmaster lumbered through the door. “Look how excited they are.” He hoped his tormentor couldn’t hear his thumping heart. “I’m so glad you let me be Santa, Sir.”

Jessop growled. “Go wait in the car.”

“Oh yes, Sir,” Cockburn grinned and made his escape.




“Whatever possessed you to think you would get away with this,” the headmaster was at his most pompous. Even, for Jessop. Kochinhand, the senior housemaster, had made himself scarce. He couldn’t face his boss’s smugness.

Before him, bared-kneed, hands behind backs, eyes downcast slightly, stood six approved school lads. They had eaten the Christmas feast of a lifetime. Pies, cakes, pudding; the works. Fine food that tasted much better for being illicit. Stolen. From under the nose of the hated Jessop and his “schoolmaster” wardens.

Jessop rose from his chair and strode purposefully across his study. He stopped at the far end, near a row of cupboards. All present knew what was contained inside. He stopped, sniffed the air a little, and returned more sedately to his desk.

“I could send you all to the Magistrates Court,” he leaned into them, eyes blazing. The boys shuffled uneasily. They didn’t need it spelt out. Repeat offenders. Already approved-school boys. The consequences were dire. The birch. Bared buttocks. No question about it.

Jessop straightened. For two pennies, he would have them carted away. Let some bulky prison officer flog the skin off their backsides. But, he couldn’t. The full story would be told. Jessop, had sanctioned the Santa trip. He had personally supervised it. It would get into the newspapers. The national ones, not just the local rag. It would cost him his job.

Oh, he vowed, silently, he would make Kochinhand pay for this.

“But,” Jessop continued. He tried a warm smile. He wasn’t very good at it. He lacked practice. “This is the season of goodwill,” his stare burnt a hole in O’Kane’s forehead. “So, I shall be lenient.”

The teenager relaxed.

“But, not that lenient,” he scowled. “There shall be no magistrate. We shall deal with this here.”

Cockburn stiffened. This was expected. Jessop was fearsome with the cane. Cockburn had been beaten often – who at the school hadn’t? – but he could never quite get used to it. Other lads appeared to shrug it off. Six, eight strokes were as nothing. Cockburn always suffered. The pain of a beating. The resentment of having to bend over in ridiculous short trousers and offer up his arse to the bullying headmaster to whip. He hated it all.

Jessop retraced his steps across the study. This time, he paused at the far end, delved into his pocket, found a key and inserted it into the lock of a tall thin cupboard. Six lads, pulses racing, feigned indifference, at the rattle of punishment canes. They heard, but could not see, Jessop select one from his vast collection and then swish it. It made a terrific swoosh! as it cut through air.

There was a pause and another rattle. The headmaster was not quite satisfied. Somewhere tucked away at the back of the closet was the rod he wanted. “Ah!” he sighed loudly. Found it. He held it between his hands, flexing it almost lovingly. What a beauty. A Malacca cane, a little over three feet in length. Yellow-brown in colour. Straight, not crook-handled like traditional school canes. Quite thin but dense, with notches along it every four inches or so.

Oh, he wished fervently, if only he were permitted to flog them trousers and pants down. The Malacca was designed to take a bare arse off. Blood would ooze and welts would rise. They would stay for a week or more. A constant reminder to the louts before him of just who was in charge. Who was boss. He was. And, they were the scum of the earth. How dare they steal from the poor. How dare they humiliate him so.

Satisfied with his choice, Jessop pushed the door closed. “Face me,” he barked. There was no need for further words. “You know the drill.”

Indeed, they did. As one man, they shuffled across the study carpet and faced the wall. Unbidden, they placed their hands on their heads, waiting submissively. They heard the almighty swish of Malacca cane hurtling through empty air. Once. Twice. Then, three times.

“Right, O’Kane. You first.”

Pale-faced, the eighteen-year-old slowly turned to face his punisher. The headmaster had a lined face. He would say he had earned those lines. A lifetime fighting with young offenders would do that to you. His expression was mean, but so was his character. When had he stopped beating his boys to help them improve their behaviour and grow to fine adults? Now, he did it for vengeance. Revenge that these boys and countless more before him had destroyed his life. There was no helping the likes of them.

“Bend over the desk.”

O’Kane breathed deeply. He stepped forward and leaned headfirst. Soon his forearms were flat on the desktop. His back was arched and his legs spread. His tight shorts rode up into his crack. His buttocks were meaty, but firm. They stretched tightly. Jessop could see the outline of the teenager’s underpants.

There was nothing to be said, only a deed to perform. Jessop took up position a little to O’Kane’s left, placed the Malacca across the underside of the boy’s bum, and bent his own knees. Then, the cane rose towards the high ceiling of the study. Jessop twisted his body as the rod fell and sliced at full force into O’Kane’s arse.

The boy eyes shut tightly. His teeth bit deep into his lip. His head shook like a neighing horse. It hurt. The pain was incredible. Had Jessop seared him with a red-hot poker?

The second and third cuts swiped into the beefiest area of his rear. Again, O’Kane did the eyes shutting and the lip biting. His bum wriggled from left to right. He hated himself for showing it hurt, but he was not in control. This was a reflex action; his body was protesting against the agony being inflicted on it.

Outside the study door, Kochinhand, the senior housemaster, paced the passageway. How he needed to smoke a cigarette. His nerves were shattered. The message from his colleague Mr. Taser had been curt, brusque even. “Attend, the headmaster’s study. Immediately.”

He had heard of the boys’ trickery. The day would not end well for Kochinhand. The distinct sound of cane thwacking against stretched backside confirmed this. He waited, throat dry. Why couldn’t he get his hands to stop shaking?

He had not been told, but he knew Jessop’s mind. Kochinhand must wait until all six lads had been dealt with. Only once they had been punished and sent on their way, could Kochinhand enter the lion’s den and suffer his own painful fate.


Picture credit: The Hotspur


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


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