Further Flogging, Fun & Fortitude Fantasies
It has not been the best of times for Claude Derango's small film production school where boys learn the basic techniques of cinematography, acting, editing and other post production work. His company Kid Flick Productions, KFP, with annual sales approaching one hundred thousand dollars is one of the biggest in America's officially estimated, twenty billion dollar child pornography industry. While few would dispute that KFP videos are among the best of their genre being made, competition from Russian boy porn makers has seriously cut into their traditional markets. Like many other American entrepreneurs Claude is unhappy with free trade, outsourcing and globalization.
Claude leans back in a black leather armchair on which someone has crudely stenciled PORN DIRECTOR on the back, and looks around at the three young boys sitting across from him in his studio. A large video camera is set up on a dolly and two compact hand held models are sitting on a long table against the wall at one side. A variety of lights, props and other paraphernalia are stacked in a corner. A series of various backdrop rolls are suspended from the ceiling along an adjacent wall while another is decorated with a number of poster sized blowups of boys, over life size portraits and boys in various nude and lascivious poses, including two of those in the room.
The graying director leans forward and in a concerned voice says, “You guys already know things aren't going too great. We got all these righteous crusaders spewing their moralistic venom and if it weren't for my connections at the Statehouse the cops'd be all over us. I don't what I'd do if the Republicans ever lost. And then to top it off we got bootleggers ripping us off weeks after we release the stuff, but the really big problem is the god damn fucking Russians, the damn Rooskies, they're flooding the market. And it's not just them, there's the fucking perverts, that's another reason why we're having bottom line problems. It ain't you guys. You all know it's not your fault, you guys are great, you can fuck, suck and smarm with the best. The fucking pervs got no product loyalty, no national, Buy American spirit. The pervs are just as bad as all these patriots driving Japanese SUVs. They don't care where their porn comes from. The bottom line is that boy porn's becoming a hard sell.
“Are you saying we're not getting our full scholarships?” demands Pablo, a sultry Latino teen with soft full features and a smudge of dark fuzz on his upper lip.
“You'll get your share, don't let your cum get curdled over it. There'll be more, I still got a couple of videos from our last shoot waiting for buyers
“If you can sell them”, Pablo's not convinced, “It's been over a month since we put them out you know. You said there was buyers waiting, remember that scene you spent a bundle on renting that piggery, and we all had to wallow in mud with little piglets to satisfy the guy's porcine fetish? How many others are going to get off on us getting it on with little piggies?”
“Yeah, well, 'excrement eventualizes' as they say. But you guys ahould be glad they weren't three hundred pound porkers. You gotta be patient guys, and remember it takes a while to launder our cash flow to you through those scholarships, I mean you guys are officially fee paying students.”
“Yeah, and that's where you get rich, from our 'fees', right?” teases Roger, a pleasant and impertinent young teen with long red hair falling over his freckled face.
“You all saw those Russian videos. They weren't all that good, the boys looked pretty bored, and sure they did everything, absolutely, but it didn't seem like they were having much fun.”
“They got some real cute boys, yummy yum.” Volunteers Roger
“But they can't act, and really don't know how to fuck. In one it looked like the kid was drugged.” Pablo contends.
“They sure do a lot of kissing, that looks neat.” enthuses Timothy, a slim, young looking blond of thirteen, the youngest of the bunch. “Psuh, psuh, psuh.” He puckers.
“OK, OK guys, cool it. As I told you before, we can't compete in terms of costs. That's the bottom line.”
Roger quips, “Because you have to pay us so much?” It takes a while for the boys to stop laughing.
“That's got nothing to do with it, it's all the fault of globalization, and the presidents talking to each other. I mean if we were producing soy beans or something like that we'd get subsidies and protection from cheap imports. The government has no respect for our industry. Like everyone points to the big Mafia payoffs the guys in Russia have to make, but they forget they got one stop corruption there. Here you have to pay off a whole slew of officials and swindlers… and know how to blackmail. Still, it boils down to the Rooskies.”
“Yeah, yeah, we know, the Rooskies, and the fuckin', fickle pervs, you keep telling us.”
“They're both pervs,” Claude insists, “the Rooskies are probably pervs too because of all that communism they used to do. That may be why their porn is getting better.”
“Because they're pervs? Roger looks around, “And you're good because you're a perv too?”
“Just because we have our own fun doesn't mean I'm a perv, and when you get down to it it's not just the Rooskies, Things are getting tight all over; there's the Czechs, the Brazilians and even the Ozzies. They've pretty well got South East Asia sewn up, cops and all, but I'll tell you one thing, all those Flip and Gook kids won't ever take the place of white boys, everybody wants white boys, especially the Chinks.
“What's this about White boys?” Pablo the Latino teen asks.
“You're white enough.” Roger states with authority.
“Yaaay, white boys!” Timothy cheers.
Claude continues, “We're gonna fight back, our strength is Enterprize and Innovation, that's what made America great.”
Timothy jumps up “Yaaay America! We can beat the Rooskies anytime we want. We beat them to the moon even when they had a head start”
When the boys calm down Claude continues, “You remember last time I mentioned something about spanking porn, and showed those clips from a German video?”
“That stuff was crap, The guy had no idea what he was doing, it was out of focus and he knew nothing about lighting or using a camera.” Pablo is contemptuous,
“And the kid just lay there while he got whacked, I bet he was drugged or something.” Timothy adds.
“It was pretty bad, but you'd be surprised how much that crap goes for, even old stuff like that. There's lots of pervs out there that like that kind of stuff. Anyway, when I was down in the state capital last week one of my contacts told me the big producer of boy spanking porn up in Canada just got busted bigtime, and the field's wide open, but it's got to look real, very real and professional. It's rumored that the Governor is a big fan of this shit.”
“So you're thinking…” Roger begins
Timothy butts in, “I never liked them Iraqi loving wimps anyway. Fuck the Canadians!”
“So what're you thinking?” Pablo sounds interested.
“Well, it's an idea. I talked to Miles a few days ago, he's interested”
“In getting spanked?” Roger wants to know.
“No dummy, in making some spanking videos.”
“It's about fuckin' time we did something.” Timothy states.
“We could spank you,” Roger volunteers.
“Seriously guys.” Claude tries to focus things.
“I could probably get into it.” Pablo muses, “I used to get spanked a lot, my old man was always taking the belt to me. He sorta gave up a couple of years ago when I turned fourteen, figured I was getting too big to big to spank, but I sure don't like being grounded all the time. And I got paddled by my hockey coach a couple of times, once the whole team got paddled when we let these hicks beat us. We went on to win the cup that year.”
“So you could say you're experienced?”
Pablo laughs, “Yeah, and I get to spank my ten year old bro when the old man's away.”
“How do you like that?” Claude asks.
“It's OK, I only use my hand but I make sure he gets a good blistering, and he usually ends up bawling his head off. It's sorta fun, and after I usually let him look at some of my chicky porn mags so there's no hard feelings.”
“I still get spanked at home.” Timothy puts in. “I don't tell nobody about it but my dad still uses this strap on my bare ass, it fuckin' hurts and you can see the marks for more'n a week.”
“So you're experienced too, is that what you're saying?”
“Too fuckin' experienced, and it don't take much talent.”
“Do you cry?” The tall? Latino inquires.
“I used to, I'd wail an' holler. But not any more, even when I get extras for sass. I stopped when I was ten, I just decided not to. I ain't no little kid any more.”
“Another thing,” Claude points out, “some pervs like the boys to cry.”
“I just figured out how not to.” Timothy objects.
“We'll just have to beat you more until you do.” Roger quips.
And I don't see why I should get spanked, most kids my age don't, and my dad never strapped my big brother after he was ten.”
“Maybe you're naughtier than your brother.” Roger teases.
“Fuck you. You don't know him, I don't even smoke cigarettes like him.”
“Or maybe you got a cuter ass?”
“Fuck off, my dad ain't no perv.”
“What about you?” Claude turns to Roger..
“I hardly ever got spanked, Mom used to slap my bottom sometimes when I was five or six, don't remember much. But some of my buddies used to get it, I can remember the kid next door getting wailed on, I could hear it, and his bum had all these black and blue bruises days later. Like I figure I could do it, but my ass don't come cheap.”
“Well, are we gonna do it? I don't wanna sit around all fuckin' day.” Timothy's getting impatient.
“Well, we can't really get started until our star arrives.”
“Your luvvy boy?” Roger teases.
Claude ignores the comment, “When Miles phoned he said he had to feed his rabbits first, and the snow may have slowed him down.”
And how fuckin' long will that be?”
Just then there's pounding at the door and Claude lets Miles in. A strikingly handsome, well built fifteen year old with jet black hair and a clear, pale, milkmaid's complexion enters. He shakes a dusting of snow off his jacket and toque, hangs them up and joins the others..
“Jesus, it's cold out there.”
“I'm planning to warm you up.” Claude teases.
“Yeah, I bet. I looked at those websites you told me about, all those S&M pervs and all those stories about how they got it from the headmasters when they were kids. Like all that ceremony, you'd think they were going to hang the poor kids. Six of the best and the birch. Wow! They even called them executions. No wonder the Brits are tough. Another site even had photos of what those canes can do, pretty heavy stuff, and then I found some really gruesome stuff. Those S&Mers, awesome man, I'm not as big a perv as I thought.”
“I thought you'd like it.” Claude sounds smug.
“Hey Miles, did you ever get spanked? Timothy wants to know.
“Naw, my parents didn't believe in spanking, and I was a goody goody anyway. The most pain I ever felt was when I broke my arm.”
“No experience like me.” Roger says.
“I'm sorta curious. A year ago when I turned fourteen a buddy gave a birthday spanking. I got him to use his mom's hairbrush he'd told me about. Jesus, did it ever sting, I was still sore the next day. Another time I suggested I spank him but he wouldn't go for it, but he gave me twenty which was more than enough.” Miles is definitely into making a spanking video. “I'd really like to know if I could handle an old style caning. That would be awesome.”
With all the boys there Claude launches into one of his speeches: “We gotta give the pervs what they want. They can get oodles of 18+plus stuff, not just slick commercial stuff but a lot from eager amateurs who don't mind a sore butt for the fame and glory of starring in a video. These pervs are almost as hung up on age preferences as the fucking boylovers. They want to see young guys, real young guys, schoolboys, guys your age and younger into situations were they are; spanked, paddled, belted, strapped, switched and caned, all real hard so the boy experiences pain which he has to deal with. For some pervs it's the stoicism, the anguish and suffering, the ordeal, it's so heroic, the boy and his pain, like the boy and his dog. And some just like it cruel; the punishment, the stripes, welts and bruising, the kid howling and pleading.
The whipping scene, the man hurting the boy, can be written many ways. Sorta like sex, you gotta pace it, think of the perv jerking off, give him enough time and if the poor fucker hasn't creamed by the time you fake it, he can replay. Some pervs are gonna want you to act tough, some will want to see you bawling your head off, but all will want to see that you're hurting. Something like when you're faking an orgasm.
“Uhh a uhh a uhh.” Roger pants.
Spanking's sort of a fetish thing. Remember when we did that flick where you all had to lick those high black boots I bought?
“And those silly bras we wore.” Roger adds.
Timothy has a complaint, “I don't mind getting spanked so much but for once I'd like to be on top doing the fucking. I don't like just getting it all the time.”
“I keep telling you, when you got another inch, and maybe squirt. But there probably won't be any fucking anyway.”
“No fuckin' sex?”
“Not much, maybe none. Like half the pervs into this kinda stuff aren't even gay, they're a different breed. They like seeing boys get spanked, spanked hard. A lot like to see boys with hardons when they get spanked, and maybe some wanking after, it's a cliché, but nothing hard core. But if any of you guys can pull off a cum shot while you're getting spanked that would be awesome, the pervs would really eat that up, and I think a little extra bonus would be in order.”
Timothy protests, “That ain't fair, 'cuz I can't cum yet.”
“Yeah, but you got other things going, like you got no hair down there. We need you Tim, we need you for 'paedo appeal'. I figure that's a big part of the market, they spank them a lot younger than they fuck them. ”
“But it means I'm being exploited more than the others, and I should get a bonus.”
“Yeah, you're exploited, you're all exploited. What d'you expect, I'm exploited. Welcome to capitalism. ”
“These pervs like to see boys facing painful ordeals, trembling with fear as they await their doom, or cocky and impertinent, but they also, a lot of them , want to see determination and grit. They also want to see reddened flesh, ridged oozing welts, and maybe a touch of blood. Like you gotta know what buttons to push. You guys are going have learn how to look like you're suffering on camera. I'll see that you get some help from whatever you're being beaten with. I figure real pain helps you to act like you're really suffering.”
“No kidding.” Roger dummies, “how'd you figure that out?”
“There's also some pervs who like to see boys being humiliated, made to feel ashamed in front of others, made to stand in the corner with his red butt on display. Worse still, told what a nasty, sinful little bugger he is. Maybe that's how it was for some when they were little and it turns their cranks, but I can tell you right now that we ain't gonna do anything like That. I can't think of anything as psychologically harmful, and cruel as humiliating kids, and we're not gonna encourage it.”
"But it's OK to encourage spanking?” Pablo wonders.
“I don't think spanking's cruel, abusive maybe, some kids may even like it, but I don't think many pervs got kids anyway, it's all fantasy. Like I never spanked my kids.”
“Glad you're not a perv.” Roger puts in.
“We should never forget that America is a free and democratic country and no boy should ever have to be humiliated, particular for crass commercial purposes. This business of putting down kids, especially when you're gonna beat them, is sick.” Some boys seem perplexed. “Like guys, in all the flicks we've made, have I ever made you feel bad, ashamed or humiliated?”
“How about that one where Pablo keeps on blowing me after I go crazy and freak out, weren't that humiliating?” Timothy interjects.
“Brown on Blond you mean. I don't think that was humiliating, it showed you expressing your climax with energy and ecstasy. You captured the essential essence, very professional I thought.”
“But I didn't want to go that far. It was awful when he didn't stop, I didn't know you fuckin' told him not to.”
“A director has to make artistic decisions, and I think that scene of you getting blown was one of your best. You looked so angelic and innocent as you writhed in ecstasy.”
“Agony, you mean.”
“Look, I can see the pervs creaming themselves right as you freak out, and a little touch of sadism can add some zest. It looked great edited down. The pervs liked it. It's hard to get good feedback these days but I'm told clips of you squealing your head off were all over the Net. Somebody even snuck one on to You Tube for seven minutes. Just think, all these guys creaming themselves because of you, be glad you don't have to clean up all the mess… You should be proud of yourself.”
Timothy ponders a moment, “Yeah, I guess it is sorta neat knowing guys are getting off on you all the time. Too bad I don't get a royalty every time they cum. Like I'd be a millionaire.”
“And pervs are gonna be creaming themselves from watching you guys getting your asses beaten. Never forget, creaming's what porn's all about.”
Pablo, “I hear some pervs don't even need porn; they jack off to pics of stars in magazines and ads. I bet some stars like Logan Lerman and Dylan Patton have generated millions of orgasms.”
“I wonder how many gallons that'd be?” Roger inquires.
“You gonna do the spanking?” Pablo asks Claude
“Well, I was thinking about it.”
“I bet you'll like that, eh?” Roger teases.
Claude ignores the snide remark, “I don't plan on doing all the spanking, but I think most pervs would prefer to see someone older spanking boys, and pervs are where it's at.”
When Pablo gets up to go to the john Claude admires his nicely formed ass with more than his usual prurient interest. It's not the first time he's thought about spanking boys' asses, but now with it a distinct possibility, he's really turned on.
The boys sit around exchanging spanking stories and anecdotes they've heard as Claude encourages them with questions. After a while he brings out a package and unwraps some “toys” as he calls them; a two foot leather strap, a martinet with several tapered leather thongs about fourteen inches long, a hickory paddle PROPERTY OF THE MONTGOMERY COUNTY SCHOOL BOARD printed in small letters on the handle, and a long whippy cane he says is just like the ones they used to use in English schools. The boys examine the instruments with curious interest and pass them around. Pablo smacks the strap down on his denimed thigh and looks around as if he's not impressed. Timothy grabs it, says it's not as heavy as the strap he gets on his bare ass, and asks Roger to give him a good one across the ass. He claims he can hardly feel it. They experiment with the martinet but it only tingles through their jeans. “It's only for bare skin, and you can use it practically anywhere. And don't play with the cane, they can easily leave marks through your jeans. I want you guys in pristine condition when we start.”
“Yeah, sure.” Roger shrugs.
Miles and the other boys confer among themselves while Claude makes some hot chocolate and snacks. “Hey, I know what,” Roger says brightly, “we could do one where we pretend we're CIAs, and we torture Iraqi terrorists like in those videos.”
And looking around, “Hey Pablo, you'd make a good Iraqi.”
“Yeah, and you could shit on my history book and pretend it's one of them Korans.”
Timothy points to Roger, “How about you being an IRA, you look sorta Irish, like they used to get the shit beaten out of them.”
“Careful Tim, you'd make a good Jap POW.”
“You think I look like David Bowie?”
Just as Claude comes back with refreshments Pablo contributes, “What about those Nazis? I hear they did some neat things.”
“You mean like pulling out fingernails?” Claude says, “Or crushing balls?” The boys become more subdued. “We're not doing torture flicks, just spanking and whipping.”
The cane is waved around and flexed, and then tried out on the leather armchair. When the boys get overly enthusiastic he makes them stop, he can't afford another chair like it right now. After the boys settle down Claude explains what he's thinking about. He tells them that the spankings will be extremely painful, especially with the cane although he will be holding back a bit. “I don't want you guys screaming and thrashing around, but showing you're really hurting looks good. I think the pervs will like that. Remember, with three cameras we can edit so it looks like you're getting a lot more than you actually are.”
It only takes a few minutes for him to negotiate with the boys, they are all keen on the new venture but insist on a lot more than what they usually get. Claude suggests three shoots which will take about a week. Claude has already figured out some basic scenarios and discusses them with the boys. They have to plan things out, time the whippings because of recovery time. Claude talks Timothy into taking a hard, relentless bare bottom hand spanking in the first shoot. He explains that he hopes the bruises will be gone in a week so he could do him again.
“Fuck you! My mom's smacked my ass so many fuckin' times. That's little kids' stuff, I ain't getting spanked two times.”
“What about we do the spanking first, and you can choose what you like for the other. I can't think up everything.”
“How about one of those dungeon scenes like you see in cartoons with the guy hanging from a wall making some joke?”
“OK, I think we can work that. Now about your spanking, I'll tell you how I'll do it. You're gonna get a lot of real hard smacks, we have to do a lot of long takes for the pervs, some of them are old and really slow to cum. It'll look like you take over a hundred hard spanks, but with three cameras, close ups of your expression and your ass getting pounded, there's a multiplier effect. Parts could be looped and then cosmetics can enhance the effects, but you should still get maybe forty. It'll hurt as much as any belting I figure because I'll have to hit hard enough to make your buns jiggle and bounce. The pervs'll look for that.”
Timothy's impatient and they can shoot this one in a few hours. The boys set up one corner of the studio to look homey with a bed, bureau, chair, a few kids games and a backdrop with rock posters for the father/son shoot. The electrical and equipment don't take the experienced boys long to get in place. Roger will appear briefly as a smug and taunting older brother before he takes up one of close up cameras. Pablo, will take the master shot and Miles will experiment with his ideas on the other. All the boys know how to operate the cameras from their considerable experience making regular boy sex pornos.
For the father/son spanking shoot Timothy insists on real prank at the beginning where he can bust something to justify his spanking, and he suggests the big pot with the fig tree. “No!” Claude promises he will find something else. He has in mind an old chandelier that will fall and smash as the minimal opening credits are displayed. Timothy will get the job of letting it fall. CRASH BANG Tinkle. Why, will not be made clear but it makes a big mess with all the broken glass.
CAMERAS Claude leads Timothy on scene and over to the bed.
“You realize of course Rupert, that I have to punish you for this. I have been far too lenient in the past and have decided to spank you mercilessly, a thrashing you'll never forget.”
“But Dad, it was an accident.” Timothy dressed in baggy contemporary clothes contritely hangs his head.
“I suggest you stop your whining if you don't want extras for impertinence.”
“That's it, you're getting an extra ten spanks. Now over my knee, and take down those stupid hip hop pants, I mean the crotch is below your knees. In my day, in the seventies we always dressed sexy in shorts for our spankings.” Claude couldn't resist. This line will be edited out of the straight version for the spanking perv purists. With both close up cameras working Claude surveys the narrow, pale but well muscled mounds which in the X-rated version Claude will lasciviously fondle and probe first.
Like a pianist poised at the keyboard Claude is ready. Roger pretending not to, stares at his little brother's ass with a faint smug smile. Hard, loud, percussive slaps open the spanking, handprints are discernable, and then it moves to a regular rhythm of moderate determined blows, the flesh shown depressed and then bouncing as he is spanked. Timothy's face, confident at the beginning begins to grit with determination. His cock is caught full but not hard. The determined, angry if somewhat obscured visage of the punisher is periodically caught, although at other times Claude appears to be enjoying his role immensely, certainly more than he should. The rhythm and sounds of the spanking dominate, a cut allows the colour to be enhanced and a brief respite for Timothy. Claude jokes that maybe he should wear gloves to protect his hands. Timothy scowls and tells him to fuck off. Snickers are heard. Pablo suggests that painkillers for Timothy would be more appropriate. Claude won't allow it. He claims it's not safe to turn down the feeling of pain, maybe a good idea later. He explains that it's not like when you're learning to get fucked.
“Can I at least have a drag on a cigarette.” Timothy begs Pablo.
Claude adamantly refuses to allow it, and the rhythmic spanking begins again, the images accrue, and with a few slow, loud, extra forceful final blows, which will tell the pervs it's time to cum if they haven't already, it's over. Claude has a few tears for the father/son cathartic climax, and careful of his sore parts tenderly hugs Timothy to his chest, and kisses the sobbing, clinging boy on the neck and forehead. It is the Moment; forgiveness, love and hypocrisy. CUT
“You fuckin' fucker, you didn't need to do it That hard.” Timothy glares at Claude as he rubs his ass.
“Timmy, wait 'til you see the rushes, I bet you'll love them. You should be thankful that I want your ass unblemished for the next shoot in a few days.” After a few 'fuck yous' Timothy goes off and sulks before returning to have 'father' lovingly rub some lotion on his sore bum and conduct a little hanky panky for the X-rated version.
On the basis of his research Claude figures that school beatings are the most popular fantasies and maybe they could do two, one especially for the British market. “The Brits are a big market for this kind of stuff, and I think as a gesture of appreciation of the loyalty they've shown us in the Middle East we should do a caning shoot.”
“What's caning?” Pablo wants to know.
“It's beating with a stick, sort of like a switch, that was traditional over there. Remember, I showed you one? It's supposed to hurt more than the paddle, and I figure it'll be harder to fake things.”
“You mean like what that Michael Fey kid got in Singapore?”
“The school cane won't leave permanent scars.”
The boys like the idea, lots of roles, they suggest a Texas schoolboy paddling, Pablo and Roger have the Texas drawl down pat. Claude wants to cane Miles's bottom, he doesn't know why he didn't think of it months ago when the lad was a bit more malleable. The idea, the concept has taken roots and the desire is growing. Miles has a lovely ass, firm and full to match his husky build, and it's beautifully displayed though the pale tan denim. He never really studied Miles's ass thoroughly before, he was too much of an early adolescent cock man. Ah, the months I wasted. Yes a British schoolboy caning is The logical, if not automatic choice. The boys go along with the idea and consensus leads Miles to offer himself and his butt. Miles could play the role of a prankster or smoker who got caught by the fiendish Headmaster, Claudius Bushby Harrow, and invited to his study for tea and a bakers dozen with some hanky panky for X-rated version. Miles likes the 'role' and can affect an English accent of sorts. Miles believes that Claude will owe him big time for it.
Roger, Miles and Pablo work out lines for a Texas schoolhouse scene with two of them getting paddled. Claude works out the details for a prison strapping starring Pablo, and scripts a dungeon flogging starring Timothy for the final shoot.. He figures, With all the overcrowded prisons in the country a jail flogging scene might just add a little political cachet, can't hurt to try. They'll shoot the jail scene tomorrow.
If there's time Claude wants to make a quick sex porno after to take advantage of all their welts and bruises which he thinks would look sexy. One must take advantage of available production values He expects the boys will be pretty horny after.
For the prison scenario, Claude gets Pablo to help him make a simple double “A” frame, sort of like an easel, out of construction lumber to serve as a flogging rack. While it looks strong it's not, the nails are way too short. A blank wall that's been scruffed up a bit provides an austere backdrop. He plans on overlaying some Tchaikovsky to the soundtrack to create the right effect although he'd prefer an American composer. CAMERAS With Timothy on the big camera and Miles picking out details, and himself changed into a semblance of a guard's uniform, Claude slowly leads Pablo, displaying the boy's nicely muscled and oiled torso in the hard light of the concentrated spots, towards the frame where he cinches him in place with some rather flimsy buckle straps. Roger in a GUARD T-shirt stands at attention, unmoving, emotionless to one side. Timothy captures Pablo's limp and helpless attitude. He will largely have to restrain himself while he's being flogged, and be careful not to break the frame. The scene is half way between Nineteenth Century England and contemporary Singapore. Miles made up as an adult and in a white 'doctors smock' and stethoscope briefly checks Pablo's chest and lower anatomy before taking up his camera again. Claude had explained earlier that a sentence will be read out off camera at this point, and slams down the somewhat undersized prison strap on Pablo's firm mounds with a loud thwack. Being concerned that the marks and bruises won't show up very well on Pablo's darker skin he starts wielding the strap with all his strength, regretting that he didn't buy the heavier thirty inch strap instead. However, brilliant welts soon convince him his worries were unfounded and he slackens off a bit. Meanwhile Pablo's boyish face contorts, his eyes convey horror, muted screams escape his lips and finally an expression of grim determination sets in. He certainly doesn't look as if he's acting. Claude will be delighted when he sees the takes. By the end of the fourteen stroke, twenty lash sentence Pablo's ass is battered and bruised, and the close ups show just enough blood to create a nice gory effect. However the master shot is not all that impressive but it beautifully captures Miles, back in his smock, lovingly soothing the Latino's bruised buttocks. Pablo retrieves the cigarette butt and relights it.
“Hey Claude, that was getting awful heavy for a while. I thought we were gonna fake it more. How come you were hitting me so hard?”
Claude doesn't think Pablo would grasp the market aspects of his situation, it's hardly Claude's fault that Pablo has darker skin and he didn't know how well the welts would show. But he admits to himself that he enjoyed whipping Pablo more than he expected. It was fun! He is coming to realize that he has sadistic proclivities and may have got carried away a bit. He hugs the sweat drenched boy feeling his warmth and heavy breathing and feels a tiny pang of remorse as he looks into the boys big dark eyes. He kisses his cheek and receives a smile of forgiveness. There's something about suffering boys that touches his heart. He doesn't think he's cruel, but he will try to be more careful in the future When he sees the master take he realizes he needs to practise his form, and that the uniform sucked. A big mirror would help him practise.
The boys schoolhouse script doesn't leave much room for a pure spanking version. The next day Claude clears his desk except for a few items, and with Pablo recovered, but complaining that his ass is still throbbing, they move it over to a section of a wall where he's hung a big map of Texas and a United States Marines recruiting poster. A two foot wooden paddle with The Bottom Line inscribed on it hangs beside the poster. Claude more or less duplicated the original hickory paddle in much lighter but weaker basswood. On the other side is a makeshift blackboard with, I must hand in my assignments on time written in sloppy script about a dozen times. CAMERAS Miles wearing an ill fitting, pale blue gabardine suit, white shirt and red tie is sitting behind the desk. His black hair has been gray streaked and his complexion has been coarsened with make up. Rimless spectacles and a modest moustache add a few years at the most. Roger in jeans and a Dallas Cowboys T-shirt is struggling to write another line. With a look of exasperation he turns to Miles, “Hey Teach, mah hand's getting' mighty sore and I'm missing practice, the big game's Saturday, you know… How about jist doin' twenty, huh? …What d'yuh say Teach?”
“You will address me as Mr. Brown … boy.”
“Yes sir Teach.”
“That's better. But sore hand or not, you still have almost ninety more lines to write.”
“You know the consequences of disobedience. One more peep out of you and, you know what to expect.”
Looking at the paddle, “How many, Teach, sir?”
“You're being impertinent, boy?”
“Sorry Teach sir, I just thought.”
“I'll have no more of your insolence, boy. Jeans down and brace yourself against the desk.”
Roger, a smirky grin on his face, removes his T-shirt and lets his jeans fall down to his ankles. He poses coyly showing off his lean wiry body, caresses his pert bum and shuffles around sporting a boner. Meanwhile Mr. Brown removes his tie and jacket, rolls up his shirt sleeves and takes the paddle from its hook. He sees Roger's erection, “Get rid of That immediately, or..”
“You wanna help me, Teach?”
“Get against the desk, you impertinent child. ”
“OK, it's up to you Mr. Teach.” Roger sarcastically comments as he places his hands on the edge of the desk, and legs apart, sticks out and wiggles his puberlant buns. Pablo closes in with a small camera and follows the details of his downy boy form from his nose, to his nipples and navel, and his knees beyond, catching them in all their backlit glory.
“Six for insolence.” Miles barks as he loudly slams the paddle slams into Roger's yielding ass, jarring his whole body. Claude handling the master shot notes both Timothy capturing the facial reaction and Pablo the point of contact. The boys are right on. He's wondering about editing for a split screen format. Three more strokes land and Claude is pleased to see Roger maintain both his blasé expression and boner. Mr. Brown looking dissatisfied examines Roger's reddening rump. “Six for disobedience.” and he slams another four hard blows slam into the redhead's ass. Roger's shows signs of real discomfort but retains some bravado spitting at his tormentor. Claude is impressed. After a break to allow for the application of rouge his ass is examined, lingering a lot longer on the reddening, purpling buns this time, and Mr. Brown announces, “Ten for failing to hand in your assignment on time.” Six more blows fall as Roger remains bravely determined with his erection reviving. Roger staggers off scene into Claude's arms. As he reassuringly strokes the boy's neck and fondles his cock Claude wonders if it might be a good idea to mix Battle Hymn of the Republic into the sound track, and maybe offer Roger some Tylenols.
Roger's spirit quickly revives with therapeutic fondling and he warns Claude, “Next time I'm gonna want double, and next time I wanna whip him, I could tell the bastard was getting his rocks off.” Indeed the take does show Miles' trousers tenting. In a side room Timothy's practised lips take care of Roger's born again boner and Claude serves the boys more refreshments. He gazes at Miles who grins back.
Claude is really looking forward to the piece de resistance, caning his magnificent Miles, the one he madly loves. Ah, the times I've seen, fondled and filmed those lovely buns humping away, and being passionately penetrated, and now they're going to be mines to spank, to cane! He fidgets with excitement, he hasn't felt so horny since he was forty. Fortunately the whole scene has been planned out, and he's even rehearsed the opening sequence with Miles.
Claude has dug out his old college graduation gown and mortar board, and with his remaining hair and beard temporarily dyed black he makes quite a formidable headmaster. He thinks he's got his English accent down for his few lines. They have decided to forego a traditional flogging block because of camera angle problems. Claude wants Miles's full face to be in the master shot, so his desk is called into service again. With a backdrop having a dark wood paneling design lowered the set could be one of England's venerable public schools. The addition of a portrait of the young Queen Victoria, a huge Bible and an umbrella stand complete the effect. Allowing himself considerable artistic license he decides that Miles will not retain his shorts for the caning as was the custom, and that his jacket and shirt will be completely removed, and not just raised to expose his buttocks as was the custom. And he's decided on just one holdersdown to make the scene more intimate; Timothy, oozing sympathy will sooth Miles's neck and shoulders while he's caned.
CAMERAS Miles dressed in a blue crested blazer, school cap, short gray flannel trousers and knee high stockings stands contritely, head bowed and knees tremling before the stern headmaster in his flowing black robes. “I never thought I'd have to cane you of all boys, Throckmorton, and for a sin against Nature, and God. What do you have to say for yourself young man?”
“Nnn… nothing sir, but I never had time to finish.”
“Well, you can be sure I will have time to finish. Go down, Throckmorton.”
“But I've never been caned before sir.”
“One's first caning is always mermorable, and I'll do my best not to dissapoint you.”
Miles bends over the desk looking pleadingly at Claude as Timothy places an arm around his shoulder. The headmaster steps back a few paces and with two running steps goes to strike Miles's rounded, flannel covered ass, but he stops just short of connecting. “It has occurred to me that you won't have time to change before choir practice, and we can't have you attending chapel in bloodied shorts, can we Throckmorton?… So off with them, and your shirt too in case it gets spattered.” Miles slowly and with futile modesty strips to his school stockings and resumes his position. Once his shorts are off one is no longer aware of Miles's knobby knees, just his sleek boy form draped over the desk picked out and made even paler by the spot lights. “Six of the best for sinning against Nature,… and six for God.” In his mind's eye Claude sees the pale sculpted porcelain of Miles's flesh contrasting magnificently with the angry red and purple weals he intends to etch into the soft skin. A a drum roll would be appropriate at this point.
Timothy looks up at him, “Sir, twelve? Isn't that…”
“Silence unless you want a thrashing too.”
Claude gazes down at Miles; there shimmering in the faux gaslight lies his latest holy grail, Miles' very pale, almost alabasterine bottom. The dark mostly phony wood in the background adds depth to the rich amber coloured light. The tiny spotlight over them is accurately placed. Miles trembles nervously but adopts an expression of resolute stoicism. It is after all his first caning. As scripted they go through the lascivious fondling required for X-rated version, Timothy helps, nothing unfamiliar here, before the Headmaster again stands back to gaze upon the pale exposed bottom. Bums are such a lovely part of the young male anatomy, below the knees there's not much of interest, and as for the arms and hands it's what they can do that's important. But bottoms, buttocks, bums and buns. Sweet, smooth soft and sensitive bottoms, ah! Claude suddenly remembers to turn off his poet person and go to work. He takes the cane out of the umbrella stand, bends and flexes it menacingly as tradition apparently requires, and is just guaging his stroke distance, he's been secretly practising for almost a week, and… So soft, so remarkably clear and unblemished. Those finest of tiny hairs, barely fuzz. Will the cane break them? – and such a lovely pale colour. STARK CRUEL PURPLING TRACKS! He raises the cane high. And using his weight as leverage he slams it down into the beautiful buns. The cane bursts upon Miles's buttocks jarring him, Miles is shocked, he never imagined, but he stiffles a scream, wills himself together, and waits. Claude thinks, That look on Miles' face is going to look great, like he's really hurting. He's also pleased with the large, bright weal forming. He's thrilled, and after he lands a second stroke he feels exhilerated, Wow, it's like that time in the Attorney General's office when I first did cocaine. He slackens off a bit and with intervals of several seconds in between three more violent blows land: crack and splat. Miles endures, his face contorted in agony, his flesh bouncing as its cellular structure is crushed causing vivid tracks to form, and the deepest horrible pain. The boys on the cameras catch every nuance, every detail, including his jiggling hardon. After the headmaster takes a break to stretch and have sip of water, he lays on harder, slower blows, just three, which draw a show of blood where two tracks cross. Miles struggles to control himself, his breathing becomes erratic, but he remains determined though his face conveys the intense pain he feels. Claude hopes Miles remembers to thank him and shake his hand at the end as English boys traditionally did. After the last stroke Roger's camera lingers on the boy's sweat glazed and still grimacing face while Pablo closes on the vivid, oozing, darkening weals. When Miles just leans there dazed Claude calls, CUT
Timothy raises his arms, “Yaaay Miles!” The others applaud.
Claude clutches his beautiful Miles to his breast, licks his sweaty nape and is about to praise the lad outrageously when, “Fuck off, my ass is killing me. I gave you what you wanted, now fuck off asshole.”
It's some time before Miles is ready for the après scene where he lowers his britches so the other boys in his dorm can admire his stripes and feel them. Claude who does most of the camera work is pleased with the weeping tracks but adds several lighter cosmetic stripes to make up the number. Miles feels better after some X-rated hanky panky with the boys, and a bit more philosphical about the severity of his caning. “I not sure how big or what kind of perv I really am.” He's convinced Claude owes him big time, it's not like making ordinary boy porn. It is a while before Miles condescends to speak to Claude. He tells him he a lot to learn before he'll let him cane him again.
For the dungeon flogging Claude lowers a dark backdrop with a suggestion of a stone wall pattern to create the dungeon setting. Sand, a couple of bamboo garden torches sprayed black, and fireplace tongs and a poker complete the effect. Pablo wheels the big camera around for the master shot and Miles takes one of the smaller ones. Claude gives Roger a black leather helmet mask to wear. “Do I have to?”
“Yeah, I paid over thirty bucks for it and your face is too pretty to make a good torturer, and you gotta strip to the waist to show off your pecs and abs.” Claude helps Roger oil his torso.
CAMERAS Timothy, wearing only a scant rag around his loins, trembles before Roger who slaps him a few times before he roughly shoves the boy to the floor and kicks him repeatedly. Then with cameras off he and Pablo tie straps to his wrists and suspend him from an unseen beam and tie down his ankles to hooks in the floor. He looks helpless and vulnerable, and won't swing back and forth as he's whipped. Miles, working a small camera closes on Timothy's fear wracked face and wild eyes, an expression he'd practised for a rape scene they did a few months ago. The angled light creates shadows which emphasize the ribs and the ripples of the abs of his stretched body.
Roger's oiled chest glistens in the flickers of the torches and the mask adds a big measure of menace to his presence. He slashes Timothy's pale narrow chest with the martinet, and says in his nastiest voice, “You'd best tell me where you hid your gold.” After a few more lashes he adds, “I'll give you back half, but if I have to turn you over to the Inquisitor you lose everything” He lashes Timothy's chest several more times leaving thin red stripes. “Still think you're tough, eh?” The slim pale boy makes a defiant expression and spits at his tormentor. Roger lashes him across his loins, ripping away his scant rags. Now naked he remains defiant. Roger begins lashing his chest, ribs and belly gradually creating a pattern of fine red lines on his torso. Roger periodically dips the tips of the martinet into an off camera tray smeared with red dye, one of Timothy's bright ideas. Soon Timothy's whole frontside appears raw and weeping and there's just enough real blood smeared around to make it all look genuine. Miles closes to his agonized face and down over the fine lacerations by his nipples ending up at his cock as it receives a couple of lashes. A steady regular whipping continues for a over a minute until Timothy's front side is intricately patterned from his nipples to his knees, and with editing and looping there'll be enough time for even senile pervs to cum. Timothy looks ready for a break anyway, he's hurting and getting out of breath. The welts are starting to look fairly impressive in low angle light, they should darken more, but there's no damage except around his left nipple where several lashes overlap. Claude loosens the straps and asks him how he's doing.
“That was freaky, real fuckin' freaky, an' it was hard work. It don't hurt quite as much, like deep like, but I'd take my dad's strap on the ass any day.” Claude informs him that he will get to try the martinet on his ass next. Timothy's shaking. When he sees Pablo pull out a cigarette and light it, something Claude doesn't allow his young friends to do in the studio, Timothy calls out. “Hey man, can you gimme a drag?” Pablo puts the cigarette to Timothy's lips and the young blond inhales deeply, an expression of bliss on his face. “You, you are my friend for life.” And they kiss like they're little queer kids. Claude wonders if he's a bit of fanatic about tobacco at times. He is happy to see Pablo soon butt it in the fig tree planter.
“OK, breaks over boys. We gotta get going and whip some ass as they say.” A couple of the boys make faces like they're appalled by Claude's corny joke. Pablo and Timothy have an overdone smooch, flaunting it, before Timothy gets turned around and rehung. Roger complains that the fucking stupid mask makes his face itch, but then CAMERAS and he attacks Timothy's back with the whip. He is really laying into the little blond who's determined not to scream. Miles closes in on the overlapping oozing lacerations on Timothy's ass. Claude feels a tinge of concern, it's really starting to bleed, but then Timothy is a tough kid. And the blood will look good in the video. I can see it now: Blond Boy's Bum Beaten Bloody, that would sell. But he knows Timothy will expect and demand a big bonus for blood. Claude has Roger keep it up until he figures the pervs should be ready to squirt again and has Roger whip him in a frenzy for the final twenty seconds front and back, before he calls it CUT. Roger rips off his helmet and collapses, exhausted, with a stupid grin on his sweaty face. Miles helps support Timothy who's a bit unsteady and takes some close ups of his sore weeping nipple. Two minutes later Timothy is stretched out on a sofa with Roger very gently applying lotion to his wounds. Miles very alertly captures the poignant interlude.
There's no time or energy to do any more filming, and not much desire on the part of the boys who are feeling down, sore and uncomfortable. The wind is howling in the darkness outside and visibility is nil, it's a major blizzard according to the radio. The boys will have to stay overnight but Claude is well prepared for this exigency, although beds will have to be shared. He reflects on how stressful making spanking porn is, and decides that when he gets back from his business in the capital he'll treat the boys to a trip to Disney World. Their parents who pay fees for their sons to attend his registered film making classes will, he believes, be glad to give permission for their sons' trip to Florida to discuss work in advertizing, a possible career break for them.
The two versions are marketed under different titles and labels, the four shoots ending up as seven movies, three spanking fetish flicks and four X-rated spanking fetish flicks with hanky panky. Claude talks them into a remake of the Texas schoolhouse flick that can be edited for liberals, and Christian families which shoot the following week. The videos are a great success; despite their flaws they are considered both highly erotic and artistic. They set a new, more sophisticated standard for boyspank porn everywhere. Claude and his fee paying students quickly make several more spanking videos in general, spanking fetish and X-rated versions.
The Russians are wild about them and immediately start making rip offs. The most amazing thing however is the videos wide distribution, particularly in the general non perv versions which minimize the fetish aspect and sexual content. Things really take off when the Texas Schoolhouse paddling remake finds favour with the Texas fundies, and it is instrumental in preventing spanking flicks from being included in the state child pornography schedule. The fundies want Claude to make an educational video for the Christian parents of difficult teenagers but aren't prepared to pay his asking price. Over the next few months KFP puts out ten more boy spanking porn videos all of which receive rave reviews and ready markets. After the ruling of the US District Court for Eastern Texas, the famous blood but no boners decision, boyspank porn takes off wowing audiences at film festivals everywhere, and finds a niche as an art film genre. Justice for JDs, the American title of Claude strapping Pablo inspires the United States Marine Corps to adopt the endurance of severe spankings as their main admission requirement saving millions on psychologists and boot camp employees. The latter however are unionized so the taxpayers don't really save very much in the end.
The English are thrilled and impatiently await the promised sequel, The Birching of Bubble Butt Bryan, as Miles is being marketed. A man posting on a boyspanking fetish site estimates that Bryan's caning generated several gallons of semen on both sides of the Atlantic. Another poster, a man in his late eighties, claims he had his first orgasm in five years. All the boys get generous offers from pervs who wanted to beat, or be beaten by them. Bryan's devotees send him over forty birches, mostly pretty shoddy boy made specimens, for use in the sequel. Little kids around the world send him webcams of their spankings proudly displaying their small bruised and lacerated bottoms after.
The Japanese are less happy as boyspank flicks are cutting into the hard core yaoi market, and nationalists complain that Japanese boys do not need foreigners to teach them how to endure beatings. But most importantly the Chinese just love them, and offer a million dollars for exclusive Asian marketing rights. It is rumoured that they want direct involvement in production so they can learn Claude's trade secrets. Claude is about to sign the deal when the Russians made a twenty million dollar counter-offer, and bidding pushes the assets of KFP to fifty million, plus generous contracts for the boys. The price is still very cheap according to an article in the Wall Street Journal. Miles demands and gets ten million dollars for starring in the birching sequel. Timothy and his father set up their own company, Beltway Films, and churn out videos as fast as his buttocks heal. In between tours promoting recruitment for the U.S. Marine Corps Pablo accepts a lucrative Hollywood offer to play a runaway slaveboy in a big budget epic about a cruel Roman emperor. There are limits to what can be done with special effects so, what with retakes and all, he suffers for every cent. A demanding job and public life are not for Roger, he wants a normal boy's life; parents, peers, pranks and school. On weekends however he operates a discrete and very expensive S&M boutique where clients make bookings to be beaten, or if they are very very rich, they can spank Roger's ass.
With material success the boys are besieged by girls and lucrative offers; all go their different ways. Claude misses his raunchy spunky teen boys, but is thrilled when KFP videos receive the American Porn Producers Association award for the best submissions in the sixteen and under category. The bottom line is no longer a problem and he decides to repay his debt to his loyal supporters and show his patriotic love for America by becoming an activist and establishing the MOVEMENT FOR A TOUGHER AMERICA to spread the boyspank message. He buys five old Greyhound buses and tours from coast to coast with a side trip to Alaska giving lectures, holding seminars and visiting the malls and trailer parks of America where he holds inurement sessions using his patented Rotanflex cane. Boys flock to these sessions to fine tune their fortitude and demonstrate their toughness. Unfortunately Claude's arm gives out after several months and professional floggers have to be hired. Except for Texas where conservative forces prevail the cane rapidly displaces the paddle in American school systems.
Claude Derango is often falsely credited with saying: “Never again will America have to deal with another Viet Nam, Cuba, or Iraq because our troops are wimps and will only fight when they have fancy weapons the other guys don't have. Which when you think about it, isn't really fair.” He wishes he had.
The movement's efforts are rewarded when the President in his annual State of the Union Speech announces his new priority: Federal funding for initiatives to be carried out under his New American Toughness agenda. He concludes, “With a tougher America, and tougher Americans, our global hegemony will be assured for generations.”
The New American Toughness starts early: Parents enter their sons in local contests where they see whose kid can take the most whacks. These neighbourhood initiatives became far more popular than Little League games ever were. On Saturday afternoons, which allow plenty of time for healing before school on Mondays, the malls which host the small local contests are packed with avid fans. Special stands are reserved for small children so they can observe their heroes in action. Groups of short skirted teenage girls form cheering sections for their favourites. It is said that any boy who can show bruises or stripes on his ass is guaranteed of getting laid. Millions of make up kits for phony welts and bruises are sold leading to unprecedented profits for cosmetic companies. The mall owners report that increased food court sales alone justify the expense of hosting the events. Simple grass roots activities like these contests are seen as an effective way of countering drugs, youth crime and assuring America's future greatness.
Fathers spend hours a week coaching their sons in taking beatings without wimping out. At some of the more popular malls boys have to demonstrate they can take twenty strokes of the paddle or a dozen with the cane before they can take part in the neighbourhood contests. Bumper stickers ask: Have you whupped your kid today? In primary schools kids display their bruises and welts in 'show and tell'. Regional, statewide and national competitions build upon the grassroots base. A new feeling of confidence and pride pervades America. A social revolution is sweeping the nation. Al-Qaeda better watch out, we're ready for them.
Unfortunately these contests have come under Congressional attack because some fathers are making side bets, which is a federal offence in children's sports receiving Health Department grants. Also, a few boys competing in the Big Whopper Prize contests have been accused of throwing their beatings by quitting well before reaching the limits of their physical endurance. It is unclear how much money is involved but experts say billions. Doctors employed as medical advisors by the sponsor of the Big Whopper contest, KIDSMACK INSTRUMENTS, appear before the Senate investigating committee. They testify that they have documented proof of at least eleven cases where boys being caned quit before any bleeding has occurred contrary to contest rules and the contracts they signed. The doctors state that in their professional medical opinion these disgusting displays of cowardice by representatives of American youth bring shame on the entire nation, and encourage the forces of international terrorism. They want law and order restored immediately as the contest's TV ratings are falling. People close to the events say there is no evidence the two are related, however the police are investigating alleged incidents of both and promise arrests in the near future. The senators are adamant that the integrity of the contests must be maintained. They also hear of several cases of boys dying in underground endurance contests but dismiss them as propaganda by bleeding heart liberals and apologists for pedophiles.
Elsewhere, in a startling reversal of its previous decisions the Canadian Supreme Court rules: (1.) depictions of the anal region should no longer be deemed child pornography if prominent weals are discernable, and (2.) while anything more than hand spanking of children as punishment remains a criminal offence, if the intent however is to inure the child to pain, any reasonable instrument may be employed. In Britain the reintroduction of caning in the British school system is temporarily held up by issues of gender equality, and also by the radicals who insist that caning should applied universally, as a regular and basic part of the training of every British child, and not be used only for the purpose of punishment. Some even argue that it is human right that no child should be denied. Singapore feeling that its reputation is threatened extends the use of the rotan to parking violators and jaywalkers.
At eighty one and after five years in prison I thought the world would have forgotten about me. However such was my notoriety that the two national networks found out about my release, and while I was able to avoid their camera crews thanks to the warden giving out incorrect information, brief clips of me leaving the courthouse in handcuffs after my sentencing appeared on the evening national news and in the major city dailies.
Within three days of my release from prison I had arranged to move to Toronto. One of my few loyal friends, Boris lived there and promised to help me get established, something I was not looking forward to at my age. TO's a big city and I felt I could lose myself and become just an ordinary person for the first time in many years. I had started to grow a moustache and goatee and felt I would not be recognized in the East. After all the media coverage, I wanted to be anonymous, not to be recognized, and not run into former acquaintances who were embarrassed or apologetic. I wanted to be a complete nobody for a change. I certainly didn't want to meet any of my former fellow inmates who had made my bit more unpleasant than necessary. I had survived with my sanity and basic health intact, but a combination of the depressive prison environment and my chronic debilitating diseases had left me impotent, and I had resigned myself to a sexless existence. After all I was eighty one and what could I expect? But then before I left an old contact kindly offered me one of his Viagra pills, but said I would have to get in the mood when I took it. I bought some gay porn hoping it might inspire me when the opportunity arose.
After arriving at Pearson International I checked in at one of the airport hotels. I was still at the desk when I noticed this pale blond kid with a puzzled look staring at me. He looked like one of those precocious kids you see on televised spelling bees; thin, nerdy, glasses, pale anemic complexion with faint blue veins perceptible around his temples. He was more child than boy, around twelve I figured. “Are you Richard Kraft?” he more demanded than asked in his high pitched voice. My god, is there no escape? I was going to lie, it was none of the kid's business, “You got out last Thursday, didn't you?” What? “I saw it on TV.” It must have been those clips from my trial. So what?, I retorted and I was about to leave; I could if necessary escape to the bar where he couldn't follow. “You like young boys, don't you?” he continued. I wanted to tell him to shut up, people could overhear. Firmly I thought, I explained that I had a right to privacy and wanted to be left alone. “They said you had over a hundred victims.” I wasn't going to dispute that although I was only charged with three counts as the others wouldn't testify. I told the kid the boys were all older than himself. They were all over fourteen, the age of consent, not that that mattered the way the judge interpreted the law. “And they said you showed no remorse.” I wanted to simply tell the kid to fuck off, but I tried to quietly explain that of course I showed no remorse, I had pled not guilty. I did not go into the fact that if they hadn't leaned on those three to get them to twist things around, 'father figure' indeed, I would have got off. Or that one of the other boys, they're all over thirty now, told me that two of them were facing charges at the time. I made an emphatic farewell, headed into the bar where I quickly downed a double rye, and took the elevator to the sixteenth floor, walked back down to the fourteenth just in case, and entered my room.
After resting for several minutes I ordered a snack from room service, took the Viagra as he said it took a while to take effect, and phoned my friend Boris arranging to meet him in the morning. He said he'd found a quiet place for me with no schools, parks or playgrounds within five hundred meters. I didn't mention the kid but I couldn't get him out of my mind. There was something about him, the way he looked at me, more like a stare, which was unusual. I recalled some of the phone calls I got before and during my lengthy trial from what I found out were gerontophiles. I was a bit surprised that there were people turned on by the elderly. Pedophiles? that I could understand, but being attracted to old people like me? There were three who phoned several times and I gathered that they mainly just wanted to hear me talk, and presumably masturbate to my voice while they looked at media pics of me with my white hair and wrinkled brow. It was difficult to get them to say much beyond pleasantries although two of them told quite similar stories about meeting an older man when they were quite young, twelve and fourteen, and succeeding in having some form of sex with them which they described as a revelation or epiphany. I was naturally quite interested, but the men, then in their late thirties and forties held no attraction to me. I did eventually agree to meet one, a hairy muscular jock who lived nearby, and had to restrain his advances. In his early teens I'm sure I'd have found him delightful.
I ate my snack, changed into a robe and with some lube handy I started looking through the porn mag starting in on a photo story, Bob and Steve make hay, about two cowboys. Steve was a young dark slender type I could imagine as sixteen and Bob reminded me of a boy I used to know. I was soon pleased to see that the Viagra was beginning to work, I stopped and decided to put the service cart outside the door so I wouldn't be disturbed when I came to the hot and heavy scenes. Then just as I push the cart out my door the kid appears, slips past me and heads straight for the bathroom. I call after him but he locks the door, turns on the shower, and twenty minutes later emerges wrapped in a huge towel. “The Fairmount has nicer bathrooms.” he knowingly informs me. The kid's not even cute, well maybe in two or three years, and I'm not happy with having him in my room. Without written parental permission I'm not supposed to have any contact with anyone under eighteen. He's skinny, pale all over, and except for bluish veins on his neck and temples, no colour or definition to his flesh. As far as my proclivities go they could keep boys locked up until they're at least fourteen. The kid, he told me his name was Jason, appeared all but sexless. Coyly pulling the towel apart he asked, “D'you like me?” It wasn't until I saw his own arousal that I realized my own which I tried to hide. I told him I didn't think it was good idea, and that he should put his clothes back on and leave. He makes a series of provocative poses dangling the towel in front of himself. “Lemme see it.” he asks as he tugs at my robe and my cock springs free. I try to resist but when he grabs it I waiver, and he comments, “Wow, that's some schlong.” Thrilled and apprehensive I let him handle it, it's many years since my cock's been so hard. I'll let him jack me off, and maybe suck his tiny twig since he's so eager. I lie back on the bed and gently pull him to lie beside me. “What're you doin'?” he asks. I explain my plan. He looks at me as if I'm stupid and demands, “I want you to fuck me.” It's my turn look askance and I tell him I can't do that, I'm too big and it would hurt like hell. He seems offended, “No way. I've had a lot bigger things in me, I had this cucumber almost twice as big in me and it didn't hurt.” I don't want to fuck him. I don't like fucking boys anyway, and if I try I go soft. But my cock is not going soft and he's slathering it with lube. “Now, do it.” he orders. I protest and tell him I don't have a condom. “So, ask the bellhop, they got 'em. D'you want me to ring for one?” I felt trapped. Having little choice I try but no way will my cock go in his little hole, his whole ass is only a foot wide. I lay him over my lap getting winded just from the effort of positioning him. His tiny hole loosens as I lightly massage his sphincter but he's immature, his cock maybe three inches, only his balls have started to grow. “Use your thumbs in there and pull.” After some effort I manage to stretch it and with great effort I shift him onto the bed and mount him easing my cock in. “Push. Push harder.” I fear I must be causing him a lot of pain but after catching my breath I slowly begin to fuck. I'm not used to such strenuous exertion. He thrusts and rotates his hips panting heavily. “More and faster.” Forgetting my heart condition I try to oblige. He lets out little squeals and moans and I am reaching the point of no return, I am… Suddenly he twists free and dashes to the bathroom. I hear the shower again and in a few minutes he comes out dressed, and without a word leaves. I return to Steve and Bob but I think the Viagra's worn off as I'm unable to continue. I never saw the kid again.
Andy and his father Arthur have had a remarkably close, trusting and even affectionate relationship, particularly since Andy's mother died five years ago when he was ten. The athletic boy is bright, cheerful and inquisitive but can be very stubborn. Dad encourages his son's various interests and takes him and his friends on excursions and camping trips. The boy has proven himself responsible and Arthur allows him considerable independence. Arthur and his son are the envy of other single parents.
One day after watching the evening news with the latest grisly news from the Middle East Andy, who follows FOX news regularly, offers an opinion, “Hey Dad. Why don't we just go all out, and get those terrorists, I mean they're killing thousands and thousands over there with their IEDs and suicide bombs. It's like our troops there aren't doing anything to stop it. I mean how can we make Iraq into a democracy with all that going on?”
“Well son, it's not that simple, the terrorists are hard to find, and we don't even know who they are most of the time. It's really hard to get good intelligence.”
“Somebody must know who they are and where to find them, a lot of people must. Like all you'd have to do is that every time you find someone doing something suspicious, you start torturing them, and sooner or later you'd find a terrorist or somebody who knows some. I bet it wouldn't take long to get all of them that way. I figure we're way, way too soft.”
“Well son, we do use torture, we don't call it that but the President says it's OK. The problem is, is that it doesn't work all that well in practice.”
Andy ponders a moment, wiggling his freckled nose and scratching his closely cropped head. “I don't mean just stripping them naked and all that sex, dogs and shitting on books stuff. That's nothing, even that tying wires to them you showed me in that magazine don't look like real torture where they beat them, really smash them up, and squeeze their balls. Now that would really do it to you. We'd find out who they all were pretty quick.”
“We do use Real torture as you call it son. We beat them bloody, smash their balls and a lot of other stuff, but as I say it doesn't work that well. If there's time other methods work better. Most of the suspects probably don't know anything to begin with, but we can't be sure so our guys have to keep at it. Interrogations can go on for weeks. The real terrorists can be pretty tough and keep their secrets for months, even years like that Canadian teenager at Gitmo.”
“We torture kids?”
“Look son, if we figure they might have some useful information we'll torture anybody, even little kids. We don't torture their women much because they never know much anyway, but boys are treated like men in their society. It's not that we don't try hard enough son. It's war over there.”
“But how could they take being beaten and tortured like that, and not tell?”
“They do. It's incredible what some people can take. Even young boys.”
Andy is not wholly convinced. “Maybe the terrorists would, but we wouldn't really torture little kids, would we?”
A few days later on an underground website Arthur follows he comes across a leaked or rogue video clip from Senate hearings, and thinking that it might be something Andy would be interested to see he replays it for him. The boy is fascinated and incredulous as a soldier holds an Iraqi boy looking about twelve while two others beat him with sticks, trying, according to the voiceover, to get him to reveal the whereabouts of his father, a terrorist leader. Blood streams from cuts on the defiant boy's face. He starts screaming as he is subject to some unseen torment off camera and finally he loses consciousness before telling them anything.
Andy is horrified by the cruelty, he finds it hard to believe, but even more he is awed by the terrorist boy's grit. “I was starting to feel sorry for the boy even if he is a terrorist, I don't see how how he could hold out and not tell.” Arthur again mumbles something about war being war, and that the boy would probably be killed anyway. “I couldn't have taken a tenth of what he did, and I always thought we were the toughest people in the world.”
“We've gotten awful soft here in recent decades son, the bleeding heart liberals have ruined the country, things like schools not being allowed to employ traditional means of discipline.”
“If the terrorists are tougher than us do you think they'll win in the end?”
“I don't think so, our soldiers are better trained and have superior weapons, but look what happened in Nam. I think we used to be tougher. When I was a boy in the military academy it was nothing for kids to get beaten, some teachers would beat you just for talking in class or late assignments. I got caned on the hands quite a few times and a couple of times I got it on the bare ass from the vice principal. I had dark bruises for over a week. Things were very different, pretty well all boys got beaten then.
“Did they cry a lot?”
“Not at the academy, it wasn't done, it wasn't cool to cry and if you did the other boys might ridicule you. But when my dad took a strap to me I would, he wouldn't stop 'til I did. My ass was bleeding a few times.” With Andy's eager questions prodding him Arthur relates some graphic details of the beatings he witnessed and was part of. “Nobody thought much about being beaten back then, it was just something that happened to you. You'd have been spanked but your mom didn't believe in spanking, and there were only a few occasions when I thought about it anyway. You were a good child, and after our dear Cynthia died I didn't think of starting. You were lucky, you've had it pretty easy.” Andy isn't sure and tries to imagine what it was like when his father was a kid. A few times he tries smacking his ass with his belt which doesn't really work although he gets some nasty nicks on his belly. Andy keeps thinking what it would be like to be beaten like his dad was. He wishes he'd been spanked at least once so he'd know. And he keeps thinking about the terrorist boy being beaten. A week after seeing the video he tells his father, “Dad, I wish I could be tough like a terrorist boy.”
“What do you mean son, tough like a terrorist?”
“I mean be able to take it and not wimp out – like that terrorist boy we saw, that was unbelievable. I been thinking about it. I tried to get this big kid who hangs around the boxing gym to beat me up, I wanted to see what it was like. He's built like a gorilla, I called him everything I could think of, I even I called him a chickenshit ape and a motherfucking faggot, but he just ignored me. If anyone called me a faggot I'd punch them out but good.” Arthur nods his approval. “Finally I tried to punch him but he just grabbed my arms and told me to cool it. I spat on him and finally he threatened to call the police if I didn't stop harassing him.”
“Well son, that's the world we live in now.”
“I even tried spanking myself with my belt, it didn't work too good, all I got was some marks which show above my gym shorts. I thought of asking my buddy Roge to belt my ass but I figured he'd think I was crazy or something.”
“He probably would.”
“Yeah, he still gets spanked at home and hates it. You should see his ass sometimes.”
“Really, You think I should?” Arthur quips.
“Daaad, you know I don't mean that.” They both laugh. After thinking a moment, and with a serious voice Andy asks, “Dad? I'm curious, I know you may not like the idea but could you give me spanking like you used to get? I can't think of anyone else to ask, and at least you know what it's like to be beaten.”
Arthur looks into his son's eager expressive eyes and pert boyish face. He notices the fuzz growing on his upper lip and a hint of maybe acne for the first time. “Now I'm thinking you are crazy. Have you got any idea how much they hurt?”
“It wouldn't be like you were punishing me or anything Dad, it'd be just so I can find out what it's like. Please. I'll mow and rake the lawn every week, and try not to forget the garbage, OK Dad?”
Arthur feels put on the spot, he's a permissive parent and doesn't like refusing his son's requests without a good reason. He definitely doesn't want to beat his son, he's hasn't considered spanking him for years. The strangeness of the situation almost seems perverse, but he knows Andy's extremely curious, and also how determined he can be when he sets his mind to something. On second thought it is a tempting prospect. He could give him more than a token spanking but not one like he used to get when he was a boy; Andy could have no idea of the pain and agony. But then…
“We could pretend you're one of our soldiers, and I'm a terrorist boy, and I could even be naked like in those pictures, and I know where there's an old dog collar. You could smack me around before you beat me to make it more real.
I am not,” Arthur realizes he's giving in to his son, “going along with any silly fantasies. You're not proving anything by getting beaten, but if you insist I will give you a spanking, a good hard spanking on the ass, but that's all. I'll make sure it hurts, maybe as many as eight or ten licks, and you can expect some bruises.”
Andy's face brightens and he leaps on his dad's back hugging him. “O Dad, thank you, thank you. You're the greatest.” He bubbles on. “I don't care about bruises, I want you to beat me until I tell you stop so I can see what I can take.” Arthur's not sure how much that would be, but seeing the delight in Andy's face he begins to feel better about the idea of beating the boy. “I love you Dad.” He kisses his dad on the cheek. Arthur hugs Andy and figures it could be an interesting, maybe bonding experience. They decide to do it after dinner in Andy's bedroom, which has more headroom than the basement.
Arthur becoming keen on the idea begins to consider the possibilities. He would need to use something that wouldn't cause any injuries beyond welts and bruises. He experiments with a belt which is too floppy, and even doubled over is difficult to control. He considers making a strap by contact cementing two pieces of the belt together which would a make a formidable instrument, something like the strap his father used on him. But then he recalls the school cane, and figures something like that would be more appropriate for the occasion. He locates an old broken fishing rod that's been lying around for years, cuts a three foot length of the carbon fiberglass shaft, swishes it around and practices flogging a cushion. It's nicely flexible and as wicked as any school cane he's seen. He cuts it down to just under thirty inches and finds it works much better. He knows how it could hurt, that deep intense pain of the cane, that seems worse than that of straps or paddles. It will be a challenge for Andy, and he starts to look forward to his task, and seeing how his son takes it. Six strokes would be an ordeal and he figures ten at the most.
While he told Andy about getting caned at school he didn't mention that he was briefly a prefect in his final year and had caned several junior boys, a few illicitly on their bare bums. Memories of this excite his mind as he prepares to beat his son. He remembers caning one of his best friends, and how stoutly he took it, and how he became passionately in love with him. Of course that was back then in an all boys school, and didn't mean you were a faggot or anything. He also thinks back to the cruel beatings his father gave him; the hysterical beratings, the ugly demeaning names he was called, and how his father would tease him with delays and false reprieves, refuse to tell him how many strokes he was getting, and deliberately aiming for tender areas. He is not a sadist, it will be straightforward caning, one or more sets of six.
Andy barely controls his excitement during dinner eating very little. Arthur shows him the cane he's made and suggests he try it out on the leather hassock mentioning that it is a lot tougher than his skin. After a few flurries which instill some apprehension in Andy they go up to his bedroom which Andy has tidied. Arthur's never seen it so neat and compliments his son. He notices two posters new to the wall back of his bed: Che Guevera and Arnold Swartzkoff, presumably there to witness his caning. “How would you like me Dad?” Arthur understands the question and dismisses the joke potential. The boy sounds so naïve. Arthur suggests over the end of his bed, and to make it higher they place the extra sleepover mattress on top of it. Andy unselfconsciously undresses except for his socks under his father's gaze, and drapes himself over the end. “How's this?” Arthur looks on approvingly but then decides he's still a bit low and takes a pillow which he places under the boy's pubes. Andy anxiously and impatiently waits. Inside, he's more excited than he's ever been and tries to imagine the unknown pain. He's glad he got his dad to go along with his plan, but somehow his dad looks different and he thinks of him in a new way. But he mainly focuses, self consciously on what is coming, the pain: Can he take it? Dad said boys didn't cry in those days, He must impress his dad, he didn't think of that before. He must show his dad that he can take it like a man. He sets his mind.
Arthur hasn't seen his son nude for several years The boy has matured, his genitals are spurting and garlanded with sparse hairs, his skin glows and his nipples are swollen and sensitive, with the blush of puberty, and he has a lean, handsome, muscled form. He notices how clear and lightly fuzzed the globes of his narrow ass are. He does not admit how sexually attractive he finds his son, but consciously dwells on how sexy he must be to girls… and faggots. They would love to get their filthy hands on him… on his lovely body. Anger ignites in his mind. It wasn't so bad when he was a kid before the gays spoilt things. It used to be kids coyuld fool around a bit and it didn't mean a thing, but now they're ruined for life. Fucking faggots, they should locked up all the faggots and throw the keys away. A frightening image of Andy's violation erupts briefly in his mind. Fucking faggots! He inwardly screams. Suddenly he springs forward and slashes the cane angrily into his son's flesh which soon raises an enormous welt across his buttocks. And then he sees Andy's gritted teeth and grimace, and knowing that what he is dealing with, the excruciating pain, Arthur's passions cool. However he's glad he made the first one hard; help his son get over this silliness. He watches Andy's expression closely as slams another blow into his buttocks, and is pleased by the boy's stoicism. Any thoughts of going easy are forgotten as he becomes involved in the ordeal his son is going through; unconcerned about the pain and bruises he's inflicting, he's tuned into his son's spunk and fortitude and feeling a new admiration for him. He wants to hurt him more. Tears of love flow down his cheeks as he slams more stripes into the raw purpling buttocks.
As the hard cruel strokes continue Andy feels his resolve eroding as the horrible intense pain takes over his world. It's nothing he's known. He mustn't cry, his dad wouldn't have. He gasps and sobs but wills himself not to scream out. He thinks of the terrorist boy, he is the terrorist boy. He grits his teeth and fights the pain.
Arthur studies his son's reaction, his expression, and feels a poignant empathy for him. He's on his side, he wills him to resist, you can take it, and feels an erotic thrill in beating him which is momentarily accompanied by a twinge of guilt about enjoying it. He's pleased with his caning, his force and accuracy, and his son's grit. He can see that Andy is having to struggle to control himself. After six strokes he stops but the boy pleads, “More, more.” The terrorist boy took a hell of a lot more than that.
Arthur looks at Andy, he's really hurting and he's tempted by pity, by some sort of compassion for his suffering son, but he knows the boy wants to try more, and he?... He begins working more blows into his son's ravaged buttocks, and with slightly less force attacks the backs of his thighs. It's more than six, several more, it's more than he can remember boys at the academy ever taking, and when Arthur sees how the raw overlapping weals are starting to ooze he knows his buttocks have had enough. Andy is becoming exhausted but remains determined. Arthur hesitates, and then he rolls him over, raises the cane and looks into his son's eyes. His attitude invites more and Arthur less vigorously than before canes the inside of his pale thighs and down the flexed muscles of his belly to his pubes leaving bright but not bruising stripes. As the blows continue agony takes over Andy's expression, he moans and starts to writhe, his breathing becomes irregular, he's reached his limit. Arthur tells his weeping, red eyed son it's over, and that he's proud of him. He explains that any more beating could lead to injuries. “There are veins and arteries close to the surface on the thighs, and bruises put a burden on the heart, that's how many beating victims die.”
It takes Andy a moment to accept that it's over. With more bravado than realism he maintains, “I coulda taken more.”
“Maybe, but why?” Andy breaks down and cries and Arthur sitting beside him hugs him careful of his tender parts. The boy snuggles in to his chest as he holds him close and strokes his head and neck. The boy looks into his eyes and manages a smile through his tears. Andy has never seemed so precious before, it's like when he was just a little boy and he weeps to have such a wonderful son. They remain entwined for a while before Andy feeling uncomfortable stiffly stands up.
“Oh, is my ass ever sore, and my legs.” Arthur tells him it'll get worse and that he'll be sore for a day or so. He examines the angry darkening welts he's etched on his son's soft, pale, downy skin. Ugly, horrible, yet at that moment they seem to embellish his son's adolescent beauty. There'll be some showy bruises, badges of his fortitude. He he said boys didn't cry in those days, feels enormously proud of his boy and squints to suppress his tears. He fetches some lanocaine crème from the medicine cabinet, and with Andy lying on his stomach he very gently dabs it on the worst of his contusions. He lightly massages his son's back and shoulders and when he's finished he kisses him on the back of his neck. He brings him some juice and an Advil, and they share some chips and talk about various things and plans for the summer. Andy puts on some of his favorite music and they both listen quietly lost in their thoughts.
Much later Arthur places a light sheet over the restless boy. The pain and discomfort keep him awake and he doesn't sleep until Arthur gives him another painkiller and applies more crème to his sore spots. Next day he's quite uncomfortable, uncommunicative, not up to doing very much, and feeling down and sorry for himself. The day after however his spirits are back and they talk very briefly about the “spanking”. “Well Dad, I did prove something, I proved that I don't want to do that again, but I'm glad I did.”
“And you know what son? I'm glad I spanked you, it made me realize how much I love you.”
“You were magnificent Dad, it must have been hard for you. Thanks, I mean it. I love you. And I never want to be a terrorist boy, or a soldier.” They hug, both teary eyed.
The Sri Krishna Gardens Vegetarian Restaurant, Galle Road, Colombo S.L. 1994
Sri Krishna Gardens is typical of Colombo's ordinary restaurants, sometimes more accurately called eating houses. They are simple, fast and cheap: McDonalds could teach them nothing about efficiency. They are not places to dawdle or read. The SKG is across the busy road from the inn I stay at. At dinner I squeeze through the congested gap between the take out, 'short eats' counter, and the cashier. When it's very busy one of the barefoot white saronged waiters will point out an available chair at the long tables on either side. I first rinse my hands at the large three tap metal sink next to the tank of hot water that the thin stainless steel plates are rinsed in before reuse. A waiter hands me a scrap of newspaper from a pouch to dry my hands. The others at the table usually nod and I often get the standard tourist greeting, “What country?” In the fifty plus times I've eaten here I've maybe seen two other white foreigners. One of the waiters marching up and down the busy centre aisle promptly takes my order and the basic food, hoppers, rice, thosai, wodi is often there in seconds. Servers follow putting daubs of orange and green sambal on your plate and ladle out dahl and curries. I eat with my right hand pressing the components together first, and drink my water and tea with my left. A plastic pitcher and bowl enables me to rinse my fingers periodically and an alert server will hand me more scraps of paper. Spoons are available on request but there are no forks or knives. The place bustles eighteen hours a day, go. go, go.
Every time I eat there I'm asked if I want anything more, and every time I want to say a certain busboy, not the cute little one, nor the polite tall one who looks about eighteen, but the one in between, who when he catches me looking gives me a heart melting smile, dawdles and maintains eye contact until I have to turn away. His sarong nicely reveals the contours of his behind, and once when I was rinsing my hands at the sink he was beside me retucking the front and I got a glimpse down. I couldn't see anything of course, but it was nice to look anyway. I wonder if he's one of those orphans who are exploited for a pittance that I read about in an expose. I would like to exploit him more remuneratively but the take out is strictly vegetarian. In fact their food is so spicy and tasty, and the names of the dishes so unfamiliar, that it took a while before I realized it was all vegetarian food. A couple of evenings ago when the place was quiet and I had my little autofocus with me I took a roll of the staff at the restaurant. They were all eager to pose. I got some good pictures although only a couple of the boy I like, ordered reprints of those I wanted and handed out a set to the staff. This made me, their only foreign regular, a minor celebrity at the SKG.
I have fantasies that the owner, who looks like a well tanned Archie Bunker, asks me if I would like the boy. I say yes and promise to bring him back early next morning. But then what to fantasize gets difficult: I lock the door to my room behind us. Well he could look at the two hundred odd travel photos I've got taped to the walls. [Or we might know some card game in common] I could tell him about the photos while my hand massages his shoulders and neck. “This is Trinco, this is the Koneswaban Temple by Swami Rock where mis-caste lovers leap to their deaths, this is the famous Banyan tree, etc.” I might ask him if he'd like to bathe, assuming my modest bathroom is superior to the one he's used to. But then he might use the towel as a bathing robe as is the custom here. Everyday outside my window in the laundry area twenty males of all ages have dipper baths more modestly than most people use swimming pools. He starts to lock himself in and I tell him, No – I want to see him nude while he bathes. He's not coy about undressing and I fold and put his shirt and sarong on the bed. I'd kiss his forehead, lean in the doorway and watch him as he splashes himself all over, lathers energetically, scrubs vigorously and rinses thoroughly, dipper after dipper, pouring it over himself, his hair, his armpits and his crotch. His performance is lively, natural and aesthetic. I am delighted and drink him in. I dry him off, firmly on the chest to avoid tickling, vigorously massage his scalp, and down his back and thighs only gently patting those parts I most want to stimulate intensely. I finish with his feet, massaging them and running the towel between each toe. He completes drying off his crotch and crack, and dresses.
I must now take the initiative, but how? He will be sleeping beside me tonight and if something doesn't happen I won't get any sleep. With language useless for communication, perhaps conveniently so, I begin stroking his neck and shoulders again as we sit side by side on the bed. He doesn't resist. I work down his back and spine, then his fingers, hands and arms, and down his chest to just inside his sarong. By a circuitous, perhaps devious route I end up stroking his stiffening cock through the cloth. I'm anxious to put my greedy lips and tongue to work. I will have reached a critical point in boy seduction – he seems to like the feel of a different hand down there – where the boy should set his limits. But my best laid plans gang aft aglee again as he grabs a pillow and holding it in front of begins frottaging it. His sarong is in the way so he modestly loosens it and rubs himself against the pillow. I can help by holding it. After a minute he cums with a silly smile and shows me his frothy chiz. Then he holds the pillow against me and by signs indicates that I should open my pants and do the same. I feel his stickiness, and with sweet Anura holding the pillow I must say that the arrangement works very well indeed. I sleep easily that night and before my carnal lusts can get it together in the morning he is dressed. I kiss his forehead and he kisses my cheek, and is gone.
I return to Sri Krishna Gardens restaurant many times and always get the nicest smile from the boy who knows naught of my fantasy..
I suppose it would be nice to be able to beat boys, Coach muses, especially if you could beat them on their bare buns. That however hasn't been allowed since the early part of the century, long before his time. Corporal punishment, the deliberate infliction of pain on the flesh, it's an intriguing concept. What would it be like to beat a boy with a strap or paddle? Coach ponders and tries to imagine what it would be like. He knows there were problems with it; punishment books to be kept, having witnesses present, limits on the number of times you could hit them, and a lot of other restrictions. And generally you just couldn't choose any boy to beat, they had to actually misbehave first. He's read all about it, historical accounts and illegal spanking porn archives. He likes the present system, but then sometimes he wonders: WHACK… WHACK… WHACK. Hmmm…
The reoccurring panics about children, children and sex, children and violence, bullying, anti social behavior, and even kids acting like children, and all the resultant pronouncements, tougher policies and new laws have been a boon for Coach presenting him with an abundance of boys to discipline. Ever since 2025 when federal education grants to school boards were tied to the adoption of the National Youth Behavior and Decorum Code, popularly known as Greg's Law, resourceful teachers have been pretty much able to punish any student they choose, but only within the context of the school system. Detentions, which are boring; assignments, which mean more work for teachers; reprimands, which usually involve a lot of bullshit; and for phys. ed. instructors, drills, push ups, laps and other interesting possibilities. Beyond these penalties there are suspensions, and expulsions.
The tragic case of fourteen year old Gregory Watson, who committed suicide because a classmate told him his hairstyle 'sucked', led to a national outcry for higher standards of youthful manners and behavior. The new law targeted such things as; demeaning language, music and T-shirts, anti social behavior, failure to be polite, intellectual bullying, touching another student anywhere without prior permission, criticism of school administration, and failure to hold authorized opinions on questions of national security. It is practically impossible for any boy to spend a week at school without technically violating one or more of the rules and standards set forward in Greg's Law. All suspected violations must be reported so that offenders can be rehabilitated through therapy. Of course most, if not almost all the rules are widely seen as absurd, and teachers generally are quite reluctant to report student violations. Coach only reports the most egregious violations, and then only those of boys who hold no interest for him. In substantiated cases, and very few aren't, violators must after an appropriate suspension, publicly apologize and/or recant, attend an intensive two week B&D (behavior and decorum) program, and sign a pledge of abstinence from future incorrectness. Refusal means immediate expulsion.
While Coach is a strong supporter of Greg's Law he laments that things were better in the early days. Back then kids were scared shitless and were very highly motivated when they saw what the shrinks put their buddies through in treatment. It was great back then. But then kids started learning psychotactics from some websites, and they were able to stand up to all the psychobabble the shrinks put them through, and became less afraid. A lot of the time they were outsmarting the shrinks who then demanded more powers. Now it's getting hard to find boys you can really put through. Kids are however, still extremely wary of being reported. Who wants to lose two weeks normal social life to psycho games? Under threat of being reported Coach finds almost all boys will accept a fair amount of being put through, but only those facing heavier penalties are sufficiently motivated for him to really have his way with them.
It was just a hunch but when Coach sees Allan surreptitiously conceal something on the ledge above the lockers across from his own, he decides to investigate. The ledge is one of several surveillance camera voids in the school, a serious deficiency that the school board has promised to remedy in the next budget. Coach suspects it's some kind of drug, but probably not one of the common illicit recreational drugs. All students are subject to frequent random urine tests and locker searches under the zero tolerance policy. The slightest trace of a large number of prohibited substances warranted immediate suspension, criminal charges and probably expulsion. Drugs of any sort are far more serious than any Greg's Law violation.
When Coach retrieves the tiny Ziplock baggie with six caps in it he has a good idea what's in them. He opens one of the caps. and examines and tastes the gray powder inside. Robusterone, a new difficult to detect steroid that is becoming an epidemic in the school system, especially among the jocks. Not the best steroid but probably the easiest to acquire. Coach himself swears by Vilusterone which has fewer side effects, but then he is only subject to annual checks. He figures Allan must have had a premonition as all students in his class were subject to a random drug strip search just before lunch period.
Steroids are a much more serious matter marijuana or ecstasy for boys like Allan. Not only would he certainly be expelled, but steroids would spell the end of his aspirations for an athletic scholarship and a career in sports. A cruel fate for a promising young athlete. Coach certainly doesn't want to see that happen to the boy, it would be tragic, and he also realizes that he would be losing one of the best players on his school soccer team jeopardizing his hopes for a cup winning team this year. And Allan is his current favorite. He is the kind of boy that Coach finds himself particularly attracted to, not the prettiest, rather ordinary in fact, but ones with a certain visceral physical quality and defined musculature, and who are sensitive and expressive, boys with spirit and spunk but not resolutely stoical. They must show their feelings but not be wimps. Allan is such a boy. Average in many ways, build, strength, intelligence but with a marked talent for sports. While not a top scorer he intuitively knows where the ball or puck is going to be, and who's open for a pass. A simple honest boy whose face and expressions can hide very little. Coach's fascination with Allan has led him to make a point of keeping a very close eye on him something which has finally been rewarded. Less repressed, more worldly observers might equate his fascination with a covert form of boylove. However Coach recognizes no desire to have sex with the lad, fondle, touch, or even be affectionate towards him. His conscious mind cannot conceive of this. He just wants, desperately wants, to put him through some strenuous after school discipline, and watch him take it.
Coach enjoys disciplining boys, he enjoys pushing, challenging boys and see it paining them. He doesn't like to use the word punishment, but that is what it is. He frequently has boys do push ups, chin ups, squats, laps and rope climbing to make up for perceived shortcomings on the playing field or in the gym. Or some Greg's Law violation. The surveillance cameras have recorded many after hours discipline sessions in the gymnasium as Coach encourages boys to greater efforts in strenuous exercises but is never seen to touch them. It is not unusual for phys. ed. instructors to order push ups and other hard exercises as punishments. In fact given the lack of alternatives other than to report boys to the vice principal, and all the paper work that involves, push ups are a very common punishment. Coach couldn't think of any other boy he would prefer to discipline. Some might claim that Coach has a drill sergeant fetish. In fact he sometimes masturbates to fantasies of being a United States Marine Corps drill instructor forcing young boys through strenuous exercises that test their stamina and grit. His porn collection includes clips from An Officer and a Gentleman and other USMC and army boot camp scenes.
Allan is informed that Coach wants to see him in the school gymnasium after school. The gym has large windows open to the main corridor and is covered by numerous surveillance cameras in line with the policy of ensuring that students are protected from possible dangers that might occur in one on one situations with teachers or each other. Coach checks to make sure the cameras are working properly as he wants to be sure that his entire discipline session with Allan is available for visual scrutiny. He also has three small, well disguised, personal cameras set up to record the scene for his future personal enjoyment. He prides himself on thinking of everything. Except for shaking hands he has not touched a student since 2026.
As he waits for Allan to arrive he recalls other times he's put boys through, mostly Greg's Law cases, but ever so often he gets one where he can push a boy beyond the opportunities created by Greg's Law. There was a boy a year ago where, as now, Coach held a sword over him. He was very anxious to please. I forced his pace, I made him push his compact little body as far as he could, the sweat, the agony. God it was magnificent. He gets hard just thinking about it. It was right after that, that his dear wife Cynthia inquired if he'd started taking one of those Viagra type drugs.
Allan dressed for gym in singlet and shorts reports promptly at three thirty. Coach looks at the anxious, nervously fidgeting eighth grader standing before him. Coach shows him the baggie of capsules. “I saw you take the baggie out your pack and put it on the ledge opposite your locker.” He takes out one of the caps and holds it in front of the boy, “What is this?”
“I don't know what it is, Coach, really.” Coach glares at him in a way that tells Allan that his answer is inadequate. “Just some stuff. Like it's not a drug or anything like that, it doesn't make you feel good… it's just something that's supposed to make you strong.” The boy isn't actually lying but he's hardly forthcoming. Coach knows it would be very stupid for Allan to admit he knew it was a steroid.
He looks the apprehensive boy in the eye, “I can't just let you off because this is a very serious offence, it challenges our basic assumptions of what sports are about, and I must be seen as punishing you severely.” Coach could of course just forget about it or deal with the matter summarily, a few stern words about truth, responsibility and poisoning his body with chemicals, and might well do that with some boys he found unattractive, but not Allan
“You have been incredibly stupid, You have not only violated school rules but you have committed a federal offence. You could be charged, and even serve several years in jail although that's unlikely if your parents hire a good lawyer. You will most certainly be expelled. I don't know how your father would take that. The media could blow it up, you might become a poster boy for a bunch of activists and lobbyists. You know what that means?” Allan nods, fear in his eyes. “Whatever else, it's good bye to your hopes of an athletic scholarship or just playing professionally for a long time.” Allan is in tears sobbing about how sorry he is. Ah motivation. Motivation accounts for his winning teams. Coach continues, “Do you think I want to report you? Do you know it's my legal duty to?”
“Please Coach, don't report me, my father would disown me.”
Coach looks at the boy's pleading face, sweat is already accumulating along the discernable fuzz along his upper lip, his full sensuous lip. His face is flushed with shame. Everything about the boy is revealed to his gaze. Coach does not need or want to see the boy naked. From what he can see, combined with his experience and trained visual sense enable him to visualize the hidden details of his pubescent body clearly. He hasn't seen a naked boy since the Living Pornography Act of 2022 which defined all non intrafamily nudity as living pornography displays, and provided penalties of up to fifty years for exhibiting them. He remembers the school's athletic programs were practically shut down for over a year as they had to provide single occupancy changing quarters and showers for each student separately. Team sports could not be accommodated.
When Coach does not respond to his plea Allan says, “I'll do anything not to be reported Coach, absolutely anything.”
“Anything? What do you mean by 'anything'? I can't see anything that you could do.”
“I heard some teachers like to do things to boys.”
“Would these be anything improper?” Coach has heard rumors about teachers receiving sexual favors but isn't interested. When Allan blushes, quite nicely Coach thinks, he says, “I have no interest in immoral activities or breaking any laws.” It is not clear from Allan's usually telegraphic expression whether this is what he wants to hear. “I'm afraid I shall have to report you.” Allan can barely hold back his tears. “As I said I don't really want to… I regret having to do this.”
“Coach, please.” The boy is starting to cry.
“You lack discipline Allan, self discipline.”
“I'll do anything you say, honestly, I'll do my best.”
“I doubt if that would be good enough.”
“I doubt if it's worth trying, I can't see it working out.”
“Coach? Yes Coach?” a glimmer of hope in his voice.
“I'll probably have to report you anyway, but we'll see how disciplined you can be. We're going to start with you doing ten laps around the gym track with a pack.”
“Sure, sure Coach, I'll do that, no problem.”
“With thirty pounds in the pack. And you're going to have to tell me who gave you whatever was in that baggie. If I report you, the police will be able to get that out of you one way or another, so you may as well tell me now.”
Allan hesitates, anxiety showing on his face, “It was… uh... Roger O'Reilly. But don't tell him I told you.”
“Why not?” Coach is delighted to hear this as Roger is a boy he definitely wouldn't mind putting through some heavy discipline.
“I don't want people thinking I'm a… a rat.”
“Not to worry, if things go well, he doesn't need to know that.” Coach places three ten pound weights in the boy's pack and cinches the ties around his waist so it doesn't move around. “OK, let's move.” Allan sets off around the track with Coach right behind him. The boy is breathing heavily and sweating after five laps. “You're slowing down Allan, you gotta keep it up.” After eight laps the boy is practically staggering under his load. Coach keeps at him, encouraging him to greater efforts and warning him of the consequences of failure. At the end of what he is told is an unsatisfactory performance the boy is ready to collapse.
Coach does not allow the exhausted boy to rest. He has him take off his sweat drenched singlet and before he can get his breathe back he orders him to do a dozen pull-ups. Coach knows that in his present condition a dozen is an impossible demand. Coach stands close to the straining boy watching him pulling himself up again and again. He watches his muscles straining, his ribbed abs, neck tendons and muscles in sharp relief and his hard biceps. Coach has to control his own excitement and breathing as he takes in the spectacle of the boy's exertion. Five is all Allan can manage with any smartness and grace before his sugar starved muscles are tired. “Come on Allan, you can do better than that, now PULL.” Coach watches Allan struggle, his face screwed with effort, scrunched up, it reminds Coach of one of those pug dogs. After seven the sweat pouring off him is puddling in the depressions above his collar bones. “PULL… PULL” The boy is beginning to grunt and pant as he struggles, his face grimaces in pain. Oh, is he ever hot, oh… oh, he's so beautiful, so magnificent, so… “PULL… PULL. You're not really trying This is becoming a farce, I should never have given you a chance.” When taunts and threats can no longer force him to continue Coach tells him, “That's too bad Allan, not even ten. I thought you had it in you.” Immediately Coach him to run laps and follows behind him pushing his pace. Allan tries to say something but breathing heavily he can't get it out. “Faster. What are you slowing down for?”
“I'm… trying... Coach. I'm…”
When Allan begins to stumble Coach taunts, “You want me to let the cops have a go at you? I got no use for wimps who can't take it.” The boy tries to force himself on. Sometimes you gotta get them mad at you, and when you do, it's amazing what they can make their bodies do. I'm sure he hates me right now, but he'll be so happy when I let him off. Allan wills himself to continue and is near collapse. When Allan can't run any further Coach allows the panting dripping boy only a minutes respite before having him get up on the massage table for the push ups so he can better observe and take in his exertions and reactions as he's put through. Coach leans in close his eyes inches from the boy's. “OK Allan, I want you to show me what you can do. Show that you want to smarten up. Show me you want to make it. Forty push ups, 1,2,3 4, no rests, no rocking side to side, just nice clean push ups.” Coach knows he can't possibly do close to that many but that's the point.
“Coach, I've never done more than twenty five, forty would kill me.”
“That's a risk I am prepared to take.”
Allan starts well enough as Coach counts out, “PUSH… PUSH… PUSH.” Coach crouches beside him studying his arm muscles working, watching the sweat form, seeing his expression of concentration change to one of struggle and fatigue. But well before twenty Allan is slowing down, his breathing becoming labored, and his body moist with sweat. Coach is an admirer of the young male form, its shapes and undulations, the subtle differences in texture from the forearms to the shoulders, to the chest, thighs and ankles, the fine often downy hairs, the tiny scars from boyhood misadventures, the face which always seems to sending out messages, the whole body never more intriguing than when it is in motion exerting itself. “PUSH, you're slowing down, you're getting behind. PUSH. Come on, you can do it, PUSH.”
Allan tries, he grits himself and pushes, and again. “I'm… trying.” He struggles to raise himself, not too gracefully three more times and then he rests. The kid is desperate, Coach peers at his contorted face, sweat and agony. Coach can almost cum just looking at his expression and has to adjust his jock strap.
“I didn't tell you, you could rest. Get to it. PUSH.” The boy raises himself again. “You've got to prove to me that you're not going to do this kind of stupid crap again by doing your discipline without a fuss. PUSH.”
The boys strains to raise himself. “I'm… trying… I… I, I'm trying Coach.” Allan just barely makes it.
“That wasn't very pretty, wobbling all over the place. Now PUSH.” Allan struggles, anguish contorting his face. “You have to prove you're worthy of being let off. Now PUSH.” Again the boy strains to raise his body, it's wobbly but he makes it. He quickly lowers himself and tries to rest so his muscles can pick up sugar. “No rest for the wicked now. PUSH.”
“I can't, I can't.”
“You can, you can. PUSH!”
With great effort Allan makes it up once more, his arms are trembling, lungs gasping, and then his arms give way. He can do no more. Coach calls a temporary halt and Allan has a drink of Gatorade. After no more than a minute Coach tells him to stretch, loosen his arms and start again. “PUSH.” The boy begins more slowly, and by the third push up awkwardly shifts his weight from side to side. “That doesn't count. Now again, PUSH.” By the fourth push up Allan collapses again. Coach allows a brief rest before, “Let's go, come on, now PUSH.” The boy struggles. “You want to stay in school don't you? You want an athletic scholarship. So PUSH.” The effort, the slow and painful attempt to raise himself does him in.
“I'm sorry Coach, I just can't do it.”
“What, you can't do a simple push up?”
“You fucker,” resentment is building up, “can't you tell I'm trying my best? My arms are fucking sore!”
“Look little boy, I told you I didn't want to report you, but if you can't complete your discipline – to my satisfaction, I have no alternative but to report you. And the police, I'm sure, will be able to get your friend's name out of you. They can do things I can only dream about, and what they can't or won't do, they'll get other guys to do, savvy? It's a shame, you could have made it big as a pro.”
Allan makes another effort, desperately trying to force himself up. His muscles haven't had enough time to recover, and half way up his left arm gives out. When he gets his breath back he screams, “That's it, I can't, I've had it.” Allan has tears as well as sweat running down his face, tears of anger, tears of frustration. “You some kind of fucking sadist?” Perhaps. Coach mentally concedes.
Coach smiles, he's not big on respect, at least not from boys he's pushed beyond their limit. He looks at the exhausted, defeated boy panting lying on the table, feeling satiated, the boy performed admirably. “Well Allan, it looks like we'll have to try again tomorrow. Three thirty sharp.” Later when he reflects on the session he muses, How could anyone possibly find beating boys more satisfying? The only thing he would like to see would be harsher penalties for Greg's Law violations, maybe jail, so he could push boys harder in ordinary discipline sessions.
The next day is anti-climatic, Allan's arm and shoulder muscles are still stiff and a bit sore. Coach puts him through some strenuous calisthenics for about fifteen minutes until he's starting to drip with sweat, and then he tells him, “OK. I'm satisfied, that's it. I've decided not to report you after all.” The boy is effusively grateful. Coach is looking forward to seeing Roger after school in a few days.
For weeks to come every time he screws his dear beloved Cynthia he will be able to see in his mind's eye Allan's sweaty, straining, contorted face in place of her own. Sometimes he thinks that putting boys through is the only thing that's holding his marriage together.
Loving Parents Learn to Punish
Anyone remember the Dick and Jane primary school readers which contained such memorable lines as: “Look Jane look. See Spot jump. See Dick run”? I say memorable because I was pretty slow in leaning how to sound out letters. Well they grew up and eventually got married, apparently the rumors that they were brother and sister were untrue. Their son Billy born ten months later was perfectly normal with no signs of incestuous inbreeding. Actually Billy was a model child, I say was, because he no longer is, but I won't go into that now. Dick and Jane were model parents. As you may recall from Growing Up with Dick and Jane they came from comfortable, but not too well off families, and careful reading of the texts suggests that they were never shouted at, scolded, grounded, smacked or spanked in any way shape or form by their parents or teachers.
Dick and Jane moved on from their early careers helping children learn to read and now make educational family videos that have proven very popular, and not just with families. Their new career was all the result of one word.
“F**KING MOTHERF**KER!” Every time ten year old Billy tries to put the fifth level on his house of cards it collapses. “Motherf**ker.” It's very frustrating.
“WHAT!” his mother Jane shrieks. She is shocked, she is mortified. “Billy, what's gotten into you, swearing like that. You remember what Pastor Comstock said about profanity, it's one of the insidious sins; Boys start swearing and you don't what they'll be doing next.”
“Sorry Mom, I'm real sorry, I know it's not just bad but wrong too, like real wrong.
“I can't tolerate foul language in my home. I know we've been lax but you're going to have to be punished young man.”
“Sorry mom, I know it's bad.”
“You're still going to have to be punished for using a word like that.” She ponders for a moment, “Your Gameboy, you won't be allowed to play with it for two weeks.”
“It's broken Mom, remember when dad got mad at it and smashed it?”
“Well then, you'll have to give up having a TV set in your room.”
“I don't have one. Remember, we gave it to the Jones' for their cottage?”
“What about your cell phone?”
“I didn't get one. Dad said we can't afford it.”
“Well, I'll think of something, just wait 'til your father gets home.”
Billy saying 'f**king motherf**cker' was a remarkable event, his mother had never heard him utter the slightest profanity before, not even a 'darn'. Jane was shocked, in fact so shocked that all she could do was shriek. Now just plain f**k she could probably have handled, but MotherF**ker, and even though Billy immediately and contritely apologized she felt it necessary to tell him, “We're going to have to talk about your language when daddy gets home.”
Dick and Jane had practically no discipline problems with Billy, who was a very well behaved boy. Other parents in the church and the PTA were envious and wanted to know their secret. Dick and Jane had no secret; it was just their wholesome home environment and Love. Admittedly there'd been the occasional mild admonition and twice over the years Jane, she remembers both occasions, had raised her voice, but tracking mud on the carpet is nothing compared to using that word. Then there was the time they were taking Billy to see a pediatrician when he started screaming, they had to explain she was a foot doctor and not one of those other pedos. Dick had put his hand over the child's mouth. They had always tried to do their best. They both came from God loving Republican families, had childhoods remarkably free from dissention, trauma, and spankings of any sort, and their parents were well off, but not too well off. It seemed only natural and right that Bobby was a good boy. Dick and Jane had nodded sagely when Pastor Comstock had invoked Solomon in his parenting classes, but hardly thought any of it was relevant to their obedient, sweet tempered child.
But this time? When Dick got home and they discussed what had happened and he agreed that simply depriving their finicky, solitary child of his dinner and sending him to his room would hardly constitute an appropriate punishment. He was thinking of another chore he could assign like keeping the bird feeder full when Billy, his eyes downcast comes up to him. Dick demands, “Son, how could you have said such a thing?”
“I don't know Dad. Like I hear it all the time from the other kids, like when shisss... hap… hap, happens, you know, like it helps, and it does sound sort of neat. I know it was really bad; I just wasn't thinking. I'm really sorry. Like it's not anything personal when you say motherf**er.
”BILLY!” Dick grabs his son by the shoulders, “What's gotten into you? You've become a foul mouthed…” He's not sure if he should use the word he's thinking of, at least in front of him. “I don't know what I'm going to do.
“I was just explaining.”
“Jane. That settles it. The boy must be punished. I will support your decision.”
“But I thought the father was supposed to.” Then Jane recalls that Granny Marsha had given them a book on child raising last Christmas but as they'd never had problems with Billy before they hadn't bothered reading it. “Maybe it could guide us in our time of crisis.”
Then Dick remembers he's using it to wedge a door shut in the garage and returns minutes later, “I found it Jane, PARENTS RULE, written by Dr. Rodney Burchall PhD.”
“Well he must know something being a doctor.” Jane exclaims as she looks at it for the first time, “Ah here, 'Chapter Seven: The Temperamental Tens'. This should be it…: You should carefully watch your ten year old child, especially boys, for signs of pernicious adolescent precocity, or PAP. Profanity is the most obvious symptom. A child must not be allowed to destroy his precious, innocent childhood, such a boy by the time he reaches adolescence will be totally uncontrollable, and proof that You are a failure as a parent.” Further on she reads again from PARENTS RULE: “Once a child has been warned any repetition of the offence must be punished resolutely.”
“And did you warn him about it earlier, Jane?”
Jane nods sadly. “I don't know how many times I have warned him about the perils of profanity. I told him in no uncertain terms that certain words were so bad that you must never ever say them. I'm sure he knew what words I was referring to, I'm certain I knew when I was a schoolgirl in the 1950s.”
“How does Burchall say they should be punished?”
“He recommends spanking Dick.”
“I didn't know people still spanked.”
“They must, the book was published only last year. It says that spanking shows you care.” She turns to Billy, “We do care about you. Like your spanking Billy, is to show that we love you, that we care.”
“You could buy me a new bicycle. That would show you cared.”
“Well, I suppose we could giver it a try.” Dick makes a spanking motion. Jane nods. “What could we use?”
“The book says you can use the palm of your hand to spank with, but then The Good Book advises a special instrument, a rod.”
“You mean like a stick Jane?”
“A Biblical rod, but I don't think my spatulas and wooden spoon would qualify.”
“What about that old wooden chair rung?”
“It's too short but there's garden stakes.”
“But they're too brittle.
“And besides they would hurt.” Billy protests, “Do I get to have a baby aspirin first?”
“I don't think so Billy. The book doesn't say anything about that.”
They're trying hard to think of something to use as a rod when Billy brightly suggests, “Dad. What about that new tree you just put in the back yard?”
“Not my peach tree, we're going to have fresh peaches for breakfast in a few years. Won't that be nice?”
Dick who doesn't wear a belt but has a fifties fetish for suspenders ponders for a moment before rejecting their use as an instrument of punishment. Curtain rods? Broom handle? Feather duster? Jane looks up from the book, “Dear, an appendix in the book lists peach as acceptable along with hickory and willow.”
For Billy's sake Dick agrees to sacrifice his new sapling, it would only bear bitter fruit. With a heavy heart lightened by inner feelings of noble altruism, Dick lops the sapling with an old camping hatchet. Jane checks The Good Book and finds the dimensions; finger thick and arm long according to the relevant chapter and verse.
They all sit side by side around the garden table where Jane has set out a snack of cold quiche and orange juice. Billy lends his dad his cub Scout knife and shows him how to strip off the twigs and make it smooth as the book recommends. Dick catches on quickly and soon has it trimmed and almost satin smooth. Billy is proud of his father and gives him a hug, “You did a real neat job, Dad.”
Finally everything is ready. Billy looks at the illustrations in the book and crouches on his bed with his bum stuck up.
“What about his jeans, Jane?”
“The illustration shows them pulled down. It's so you can see the results. Being beginners we should be extra safe.”
Billy quickly pulls down his jeans and undies and hops back into place. “How's that Dad?”
“Just fine Billy.” Dick hesitates before raising the rod. “You know this is because we love you.”
“I know Dad. You do what you think is right. I'm ready for my punishment.”
SMACK “Did that hurt?”
“Jane, do you think I should spank harder?”
“I don't know Dick, but you could try.”
SMACK “How about that?”
SMACK SMACK SMACK
“Dick, his bum is starting to turn red, can that be right?”
“It's OK mom, I can handle it.?
“Are you sure sweetie?”
“I'm OK, it's not as bad as going to the dentist”
“How long are we supposed to spank him honey?”
“Oh here, it says to spank until the child's will is broken,”
“How will we know that?”
“The book says he should be crying Dick.”
“Do you want me to cry, Dad?”
“The book says they have to be cries of genuine remorse.”
“How about this? WAH WAAH WAAAH!”
SMACK SMACK SMACK
“WAH WAAH WAAAAH!”
“I'm so proud of you Dick.”
“WAH WAAH WAAAH”
SMACK SMACK SMACK
“Next time, can I spank him, Dick?”
“I'd like that.” Billy pipes in.
They all hug and kiss, Jane speaks for everybody when she says, “I hope we never have to go through that again.”
Billy has a question, “That word I was spanked for, was it a terrorist word, a sin word, or a sex word, or is motherf**er some other kind?”
SMACK Smack smack
It was a learning experience for Dick and Jane, in fact they'd learned so much that soon they were selling educational videos of Billy's many spankings to family focus groups, churches, and surprising large number of old and apparently childless men. Billy has a new Gameboy and bicycle, a huge new TV and his own cameraphone, and the friends that come with them. The family believes that their prosperity is a sign that God smiles on their endeavors.
* * *
George, are you writing another of those atrocious stories of yours where boys are always getting beaten?
Well, I enjoy writing them, and seeing as no one seems to appreciate my more literary efforts, Why not? Some people like them Marsha, why I even have a couple of fans.
I simply cannot understand how anybody could like reading about children getting beaten, and enjoying their suffering I suppose. If you bother to think about it, it's absolutely outrageous; the deliberate infliction of painful violence on helpless, vulnerable little children, but then, who wants to think about it? I certainly don't think about it, and besides I'd sooner read stories where child advocates and politicians get spanked.
Well it's better than reading about women getting beaten, you wouldn't like that, would you? As you know Marsha I'm a strongly opposed to violence against women, even, perhaps especially in fiction.
We all know that George, you wouldn't hurt a ladybug, and I suppose if you only beat males in your stories it doesn't much matter. But aren't you opening yourself up to charges of sexist discrimination if you just beat your own gender? It's a human rights issue you know.
There's lots of writers spanking fictional girls too. I haven't checked lately but I understand the little girls squeal more and cry a lot.
I suppose, boys don't cry?
Don't be silly Marsha. A lot of readers like their boys to be brave while we beat them. They identify with their pain and fortitude. Things have become easier for the fictional boys, and these days many make it through their floggings with no blubbing. Under the Regime of the Reviewers that now controls the entire archive we can't beat them all that hard anymore. The story archive has standards, I think I told you I had to tone down one story because of a squeamish reviewer. Something about too much blood: Can you imagine? Years ago you used to be able to write whatever you wanted; you could have the most horrendous floggings, blood all over the place. Rape? No problem. Torture? Fine. Even snuff, you name it. Nowadays you have to be careful, fictional kids have got rights and you're pretty well limited to sound thrashings with a strap or cane, unless you want to use your hand. Even fictional slaveboys in Ancient Rome can't be flogged nearly as hard as they could be just a few years ago. Under the new Regime of the Reviewers there's no real freedom of flogging fiction any more. And fictional sex? Forget it. If the boys are under fourteen you're in trouble; they're making life hard for pervs when you can't fuck the little buggers after flogging them. I guess we should be thankful we can still spank the brats' butts in fantasies. Some claim that kidspanking stories work better than kiddieporn images, and that one good story is worth a thousand pictures.
That may be the problem George. Look at the poor pedos, they've banned most of their porn. When this human rights for fictional children movement gets going, how long do you think it will be before they're jailing people for even glancing at one of your stories? Remember how not that long ago they decided that stories about kids having sex was child porn because pedos got off on them, well sooner or later they're going to figure out that some men get off from kid spanking stories, and they'll be worse than pedos. Pedos just want to make love to fictional boys, not hurt them. The police could charge men with physical assault for getting off on a fictional child's beating. That would really throw a Spanner in the works, wouldn't it?
But Marsha, as long as real life spanking of children is legal, we can always argue that we're only depicting a reality. I'll even go so far as to describe my spankers as righteous fundies, and add some verses from Proverbs and a few moralistic platitudes as the welts redden and rise on the little buggers' flesh. Politically, freedom of expression may hinge on real life child beating. If it ceases to be legal we soon might be jailed for writing about it. The precedents are there. Remind me to send a generous contribution to ProSpank.org.
But George, you don't believe in spanking, you never spanked Bert or Prissy.
I know, I never did although I occasionally thought about Bert's cute butt, but… When you get down to it I sincerely believe that spanking is cruel, harmful to both parties, and counterproductive. It perpetuates a cycle of violence; hitting is wrong. It's Abuse! But if it's necessary to protect freedom of expression, I say go ahead and thrash the little real life buggers.
Well I suppose so; it's much more important to protect fictional children than real ones. But you know, the vocal majority probably believes that too. Most of them have faith in fiction, think of that book they're always quoting..
Even if they do start coming after writers you shouldn't worry about me Marsha, my stories aren't very good. The police will go after the better writers first, the ones with lots of gold stars, it's a kind of profiling. I've only got one gold star.
But what about all those red stars you got?
They don't mean you're a good writer, I just regard them as a tally of readers' orgasms.
I suppose that makes sense. But anyway, what's your latest masterpiece about George?
It's set in a traditional English public school which is a cliché most readers know and like. Saves a lot of description and there's lots of plot opportunities within the genre. This story is about a predatory headmaster, I call him HM, who stalks certain boys, he considers himself a connoisseur of boys' bottoms and an artist at caning them. He's always looking out for the perfect canvass ass to paint stripes on.
Very funny George.
However HM doesn't allow his obsession to become too obvious and actually the headmaster is quite a decent fellow, not one of those old fashioned cruel types who just like to flog boys. He's more of a discriminating, sophisticated sadist. It's not so much the bums, but the boys they're attached to that interest him. While he canes a number of boys to maintain the image of an impartial and strict master, he's really only interested in caning certain boys, ones who represent some vague ethereal quality, and that he's taken a sort of platonic fancy to. He thinks of them as enigmatic, and his job is to decipher their true nature. How's that sound Marsha?
He sounds like some kook, some nelly shrink except that he likes to flog his patients instead of prying into their sex lives.
Well the reviewers may let you get away with boys sporting boners, but you can only beat them, no inappropriate touching.
Does HM believe that caning is therapeutic?
Well, to the extent that he certainly feels better after giving a boy a sound thrashing, yes. Would you like to hear what I've written so far, Marsha?
If you're not ready for bed Dear, I suppose I could. I don't have headache tonight.
HM's the headmaster of this small exclusive boys school.
HM. His Majesty? His Merciful? His Most Merciful and Munificent, hmmm.
Marsha, don't be sarcastic when I'm trying explain. I don't want to give the headmaster a name, or describe him physically, so more readers can identify with him, imagine that they are the ones bruising the soft vulnerable buttocks. I also try to describe the boy only generally with a few ambiguous details like: The slanting late afternoon sunbeams streaming in through the tall windows of HM's study backlight the boy's downy buns making them glow as HM raises the cruel senior cane…
Readers are going to go for crap like that?
They'd probably prefer that HM just start slamming the cane into the boy's bottom without all this beating around the downy bum, but it's my story too, and I like a few literary embellishments.
Sounds pretty corny to me.
That's art today.
Gavin Goody & the Head Master
It's a small school and HM makes an effort to get to know all the boys individually, or at least the ones worth knowing. After many years he feels he is a fairly good judge of a boy's character. He's aware of what's going on in youth culture, he knows of the music, videos and latest fads, he spends hours exploring YouTube, and believes he can see the essential person, separate from the 'herd'. He relates to boys socially and watches as they absorb rules, protocols, social graces, and observes how they treat their peers and manipulate them. Only occasionally, incidentally perhaps, is HM one to criticize their affairs. Most boys he quickly pigeonholes and seldom has reason to rethink his original assessment. Certain boys however intrigue him, these are the ones he can't quite figure out, and who have grace and charm but remain enigmas
Gavin is such marvelous specimen of boyhood; healthy, strong, good natured, perfect in detail and deportment. HM did not notice him at first as physically he is very average, if prettier than most, and when he looked a second time, in possession of a very nice bum. He's heard very good reports about the boy: A fine athlete and sportsman who's demonstrated leadership on the field. A caring lad who protects weaker boys from bullies and who helps slower boys with their schoolwork. And he has these lovely buns; narrow, round and pert. Obviously, Gavin should receive a sound beating, a royal thrashing, one that will jolt, push and test the boy. He deserves it. He has earned it. HM goes out of his way to put Gavin on the spot, surprise and test him. Gavin however is bright, entertaining, astute and he has adroit ways to deflect HM's probes. HM knows he has no choice but to beat the boy, beat him severely to find out how strong he is, how stubborn and resolute he can be. After all, it is the job of men to beat boys, to test them, to painfully bruise their fleshiest parts, a Duty no less!
How long do you go on like this, George?
Well I'm just setting up my characters, m'love, there'll be lots of action soon. Just let me go on a little bit: It takes HM over week of intensive stalking and floggings of lesser bottoms along the way before, before he catches Gavin red handed directly assisting a well known dunce with a history essay, practically writing it for him. It's a harmless, even necessary offence in the school, one that he generally ignores, but one that is now the key to his desire.
Come on George, skip to the canings, I think I may be getting a headache soon.
But I thought the scene where HM eavesdrops on them was one of my cleverest. But, all right: Gavin enters HM's high, book lined study and notices several canes in a bucket near the fireplace. He removes his jacket and stands before HM in a trim stylish muscle T-shirt that he probably paid a lot for. HM orders him to strip completely. The boy strips off his shirt and lowers his snug designer jeans, revealing his shear, sky blue sexstore briefs which keep his genitals compact but hide nothing. HM compliments the boy on his exquisite taste and tells him to leave his briefs on. He's much more interested in watching the boy's face, his expressions and reactions, than in looking at his ass as he inflicts pain. He feels some concern over the durability of the translucent material which he doesn't want to rip when he starts slamming a cane into Gavin's pale sensitive flesh. While he contemplates the heavy senior cane, it's less likely to cut the delicate looking fabric, he selects a somewhat lighter one as it allows him to flog with less restraint. HM feels that consciously holding back makes it less interesting, less exhilarating Marsha, do you think it'd be hotter if the boy if the boy tries to tough it out?
I don't care George. When does the caning start?
Sorry m'love. I'll skip a couple of pages if you like, OK?
“Then eight it shall be Goody, I cannot allow impertinence to go unpunished… You will regret it.” He has the boy drape himself over the end of the large sofa with his head turned to the side so he can study his expressions as he inflicts the horrible pain of the cane into his young body. The nervous, sweat moist boy braces him self for the first blow: he's only heard what the cane feels like. HM swishes the cane about and rotates his shoulders as a smug warm up. Gavin wills himself to take it stroke by stroke. His first four strokes only bring teeth gritted stoicism as he expected they would. He's pleased. He likes to see boys take his beatings stoically and watch the movements and changes in expression. He's working on him”: The weals are clearly visible through the shear fabric. Five and six, nicely spaced, deeply bruise the muscle and the boy is in awful pain. HM takes in the wild shaking and contorted expressions of Gavin's normally cheerful face. He stops to take in the tableaux, the boy desperately straining to endure the pain and the horrid feeling in his stomach, and himself poised over with his instrument in hand. It's a challenge, it's almost heroic. With tremendous effort HM manages to make Gavin yelp with the last two strokes. The boy quickly composes himself and HM congratulates him with a tear hidden in his eye.
Then I end it with a short paragraph to tie up loose ends. I may even write a sequel so I don't have to develop new characters.
And men are supposed to get hot and start creaming themselves over this?
Well I certainly hope it gets a few red stars.
I don't see you getting any gold ones.
Sorry, I've got a splitting headache.
Omar like many twelve year olds in this strife torn country hears a lot of things about what is going on, but he doesn't know what to believe, and sometimes wonders if it really matters. He's not sure if knowing a lot of things is a good idea. His father Muhammed tells him that it is dangerous to know some things and advises him to mind his own business and be careful of what he says. After school he often helps his father who is weakened by tuberculosis collect and sort things salvaged from the giant refuse dump beside his house. Omar finds a lot of neat things and makes more from his gleanings which he uses to decorate their tiny home. Colorful tiles cover the dirt floor and pieces of bright plastic and chrome cover the walls.
He knows his older brother Kumar is involved in something and goes to meetings but he doesn't know what they do, and he's only met a few of his friends. They tell him nothing and he doesn't want to know. A couple of times he's gone to big protest rallies with them and once he almost got clubbed by the police. Another time when they were in a different part of the city Kumar pointed out a house where he could go if he was ever desperate, but he would have to be absolutely certain he wasn't followed. Omar made a point of remembering exactly where it was and what number bus stopped nearby. Kumar has also warned older boys not to pester him although Omar didn't really mind their attention. He's busy enough with his own life and has no interest in getting involved in politics and marches. His father Muhammed has advised him to mind his own business and keep his views to himself, and they won't bother him. He often fought with his older son over this.
Four police officers led by Captain Dosanj arrive early in the morning at Muhammed the Scavenger's shanty at the edge of the immense refuse dump where he works as a recycler and finds enough food for his family. After breaking down his flimsy doors the police demand to see eighteen year old Kumar. They want to question him about recent anti-government demonstrations, and produce a photo of him taken at a riot. Kumar, perhaps tipped off by an insider, fled the night before without saying where he was going. Dosanj demands that father tell him where his son may be hiding. Muhammed says he doesn't know and explains that Kumar is a man now and can go wherever he wants. Dosanj, infuriated by the old man's refusal to tell him his son's whereabouts starts beating him with his nightstick on his head, back and shoulders. The old man pleads for them to stop, and after a sustained pummeling on his chest and shoulders he coughs up blood soiling Dosanj's shoes. After more blows he's still defiant. Dosanj's other son, slight, doe eyed, twelve year old Omar, who has been cowering in the shadows, pipes up that his father is very ill with tuberculosis, and might be infectious. Captain Dosanj clubs the old man on his head a few more times leaving it bleeding from several cuts. "I don't think we can get much out of the old man." He looks around the junk cluttered shanty and angrily starts smashing the fanciful decorations Omar had spent so much time putting up. The boy looks on as his art is destroyed and tries to remain inconspicuous.
Then Dosanj stops and noticing Omar announces, "I don't think we can get much out of the old man, but maybe the kid knows where his brother is hiding." Two of the other officers grab the boy pinning his arms behind his back and bring him forward. Dosanj threatening with his nightstick asks, "Well you little piece of shit maybe you can tell us where your scumbag brother is?" Omar claims to know nothing and pleads to be left alone. Muhammed says his son is innocent, that he is only a child, and should be left alone. "Really?" Dosanj asks, and he has one of his men pull down the boys trousers and briefs revealing scant dark hairs on his pubes. Dosanj grabs a few hairs with his thumbnail and finger and yanks them out. "What are these you old turd?" He shoves them in the old man's face. "Only a child you say? I say he's old enough to be considered a man and treated like one." The other cops snigger and nod eager agreement. Dosanj, avoiding the head begins beating the boy on his shoulders, legs and chest. Gradually the blows become heavier and after a few hard ones smash into his chest Omar screams loudly, and protests he knows nothing. It is only when his hysterical screams become louder, and it seems that he has somehow acquired a cracked rib, does Dosanj stop. "Well boys," addressing his officers, "All this racket may disturb the neighbors, I think it best that we take our suspects back to the station where we have more operational freedom." The two are handcuffed and led to the white police jeep as apprehensive neighbors look on.
At the precinct station they are taken directly to the starkly furnished, concrete walled interrogation room where they are seated and offered tea. Dosanj explains, "We have no intention of hurting Kumar, it is merely a case of asking him a few questions. There's always people making accusations, mostly over personal feuds, but we are obligated by the law to investigate all cases impartially. He'll be free to go after questioning, probably before sunset, but it is important that we talk to him. I'm sure you'll understand that we are only doing our duty as professional officers…" Dosanj brings out a package of Peek Freen biscuits and offers them to the prisoners, insisting the boy take one "Now little Omar here, I'm sure you must know some things. We regularly pick up boys your age who act as lookouts and run errands for the terrorists." Omar knows this, and that these boys often disappear. Some of his buddies have told him about mangled bodies of boys turning up in the refuse dump. He's glad he does not know where his brother Kumar went although he knows the location of a safehouse his brother's buddies use. Kumar told him if he was in real danger he could go there, but only if he wasn't followed. He was told how to avoid this. "You finished your tea?" Omar nods.
Captain Dosanj has his men tie Omar against a wall equipped with hooks and loops available for restraint. "Be careful of that rib when you tie him in place and make sure he can't kick." Dosanj inspects Omar's bonds and feels in his shirt and pants pockets. He stares into the boy's face, "Now Omar, have you ever acted as a lookout… or thrown stones at the police?" Muhammed protests that his son would never do those things and the boy denies he ever has. "Would you want to prove that?" the captain sneers. He goes to the room's only cupboard and takes an instrument, much lighter, and longer than his nightstick, and flexes it in front of the boy's face. "This cane should prevent any more cracked or broken bones, like this one." He smacks the boy sharply where his rib is already hurting, causing him to shriek loudly. He grins lewdly. Muhammed again protests his son's innocence. "Shut up, you old putrefying turd. I should beat you until you either talk or die, nobody'd care, but in your state you'd likely die first, and that's more paperwork… I have a better idea. Abdul! Mahmood! Go fetch lots of ice and the big tub." From years of experience Dosanj is convinced that chilling a man's testicles not only reduces dangerous swelling during torture but actually creates opportunities for the infliction of additional pain.
When Abdul and Mahmood return with the ice and tub Dosanj delegates them to work on Muhammed. "You guys need practice." He himself has little interest in the genitals of old men; they are so disgustingly ugly. He watches as they remove the old man's trousers, place him sitting in the tub and dump in pots of ice cubes. In fact Dosanj dislikes torturing old people; even most middle aged men and especially their grotesque balls, are a turn off. It's only boys he really enjoys, and the thought of squeezing and pounding Omar's still immature tight nuts, and feeling him struggle and scream in agony arouses his lust. There's lots more ice. Other things he would delight in doing with the twelve year old in pleasure rather than pain are much more risky in these correct times. Taking his time and periodically demanding answers he starts caning the boy on his thighs, hips and shoulders, and more carefully on his head and the chest. The blows are hard and painful, and although the boy has stopped screaming his agony is obvious as he struggles to control himself.
Meanwhile Muhammed keens and splutters as his testicles are violently assaulted by the two men. Dosanj stops, and tells Omar to watch and listen as he strokes the boy's shoulders and neck affectionately. The boy tries to feel for his father but his own pain is too much. The captain tells him that he'll be next in the tub unless he has some information that's useful to the police. "Maybe you know some things about your brother, and his friends." Suddenly Omar realizes that he does know something and he tries to purge any knowledge of the safehouse from his memory. "We could send you to live with your aunty in the hill country if you like. The President has a special fund for people who help in the War against Terror: anything is possible. Go to America? Would you like that? … Are you absolutely sure there's nothing you want to say before I continue?"
For the first time Omar is fully aware of the stakes and that he must not reveal any information. Even if he does tells them about the safehouse, his body might still end up in the refuse dump mangled. Omar endures maybe ten blows to his thighs, across his belly and about his rib cage without screaming. "Ah, trying to control yourself, are you? Maybe you really know something after all, eh?" He looks accusatively into the boy's eyes and smiles. He puts his face right next to the boy's. He slaps him smartly before the boy can spit. Another two sharp slaps pinken Omar's cheeks and he continues tormenting him with slaps, pats and unwanted caresses. He kisses the squirming boy and ruffles his hair. Just then Abdul informs Dosanj that Muhammed has passed out and that they can't revive him. But looking pleased Abdul adds that the chilling works as the old man's testicles are only the size of small oranges and unlikely to rupture. Dosanj examines the old man as he is lifted out of the tub and stretched out unconscious nearby. Then eyeing Omar, Dosanj calls for fresh ice: Abdul and Mahmood leave to get some. Dosanj is looking forward to his next task, unties the boy and fondles him. "Aren't we going to have some fun? Your little almonds will be like walnuts." Omar doesn't miss the inference. "But, if you have something interesting for us…?" Omar is very scared, he knows he might be killed anyway but he also knows he has be cool. He's desperate. He looks around, thinks, and sees a chance.
As he is led to the tub Omar gives it an all his strength kick sending cold water and half melted cubes skittering over the floor. They act like the marbles or ball bearings protesters use against mounted police. When Dosanj slips and falls the boy breaks free and bursts out the door just as Abdul and Mahmood enter. Omar deliberately knocks the pots of their hands scattering ice cubes all over the floor of the room and down the corridor. If any one of the men had not slipped and fallen Omar would have been caught before he got out of the building. But as it happens he's out the door before the men can get up, and without losing a stride surreptitiously clings to the back of a departing police jeep until it was out on the street. Discovered, he runs, it could just be some common boys' game of bravado to impress their peers, and the chase peters out. He jumps on a passing trolley and begs some coin from the passengers who asked him about his bruises. He tells them he was beaten and robbed by older boys. After a few kilometers he's sure he hasn't been followed and decides to catch a bus heading in the direction of the safehouse. After another ride of several kilometers he's certain he hasn't been followed but carefully tracks his surroundings. He hasn't been followed but a police informer wearing a patterned green taqiyah, who knows him and his brother, spots him and thinks the police might be interested as he is so far from his home neighborhood. He follows at a discrete distance. Omar sees the safehouse and approaches cautiously unsure where to enter. Trying to be inconspicuous he continues on for few hundred meters before turning back. When he passes by the other side of the safehouse he hears his name called: It's Kumar who quickly lets him in and tells him to go upstairs, but quietly slips out himself.
Upstairs Omar finds two young men who give their names as Jason and Noah which Omar suspects are not their real names. He tells them what happened and that his father was still at the precinct station. They question him about his escape and how he got to the safehouse. He has just finished his story when they hear a coded knock and another young man, Khalid is allowed in. Khalid tells them he has already heard about Omar's escape from an inside source. The District Chief had Dosanj and Abdul arrested immediately. The other two died in a shoot out when the young terrorist grabbed an officer's gun. Others speculate that the two men were shot by Dosanj for letting the terrorist escape,or as a cover for his bungling. Both face serious charges and the use of ice torture has been prohibited without the district chief's authorization. There is talk of a big reward for the capture, dead or alive, of the terrorist who is believed to be about sixteen,. Omar learns from Khalid that his father Muhammed is dead, supposedly having suffered a heart attack.
Omar has barely absorbed this news when Kumar comes back. "What did I tell you about not being followed?" What? Omar exclaims, I was careful and he explains how he switched from trolley to bus and kept a careful lookout. "Well, you were followed, I saw him behind you the first time you passed the house." Who? Omar demands. "The man who wore this." He shows them a green taqiyah. "He is a known police informer. I noosed him with a commando wire while he was squatting to shit. But we must move because when the police find him they'll be all over the neighborhood"
After a pause Kumar turns to his brother, "Do you know the penalty for allowing yourself to be followed to a safehouse where a dozen lives may be at stake?" Omar protests that he was very careful, explains the steps he'd taken and is sure he wasn't followed. "The evidence is in my hand, this!" he holds out the taqiyah. "I've seen him hanging around the precinct station. What was he doing here? … We have executed several men for endangering the movement… Omar pleads that he took every precaution but understands that he must admit to letting himself be followed. The lie does not seem to placate Kumar. "I have my duties as head of this cell, to protect it at all costs." Omar's face is ashen with fear. The other men look concerned and confer. Jason questions if severe measures are required in this case, and Noah and Khalid nod their support. After a moment Kumar states, "But Omar must be punished, and punished as a man. We have few options. We don't have prisons and banishment is impractical. I cannot be seen letting off my brother lightly."
After more hushed conversations Noah asks if Omar could be beaten as punishment and there is silence for a minute as the men think. "One hundred lashes." The men who've all observed public floggings soon settle on sixty lashes. A whip is found, not as cruel as those used in public floggings but one that could easily lacerate the boy's tender flesh if used carelessly. Omar is ordered to strip and lie over a large table. When he disrobes all are taken aback by the extensive dark bruises covering his shoulders, chest, hips and thighs. They say they've seen nothing like it and mumble about police brutality. Only his narrow buttocks are more or less blemish free. The men except Kumar agree to reduce the sentence to thirty lashes. Kumar takes the whip and places himself to one side. Keeping his elbow close to his side as he has seen executioners do, he lashes his brother's buttocks with slow consistent strokes. Omar tries to endure the flogging stoically, he wants it over, but near the end the pain overwhelms him and he has to be held. Kumar does not relent and blood wets his deep red buttocks at the end. He sobs and feels he's failed by having to be held.
Not so the others. Jason comes up and shakes his hand with Noah and Khalid behind him. Kumar looking very relieved tells him, "I am proud of you and what you've done today. You're a model for other boys. I'm sure the movement appreciates your contribution. I did not want to have to kill you. God's mercy showed a better way. I am proud of you and what you've done. Your deeds will inspire the movement, killing two of their jackboots single handed. You will become a legend in our struggle with the oppressor. Afterwards Noah and Khalid comfort Omar with gentle words and touches. Jason serves them cardamom tea, dates and olives and they sprawl out on the bed intertwined with all conscious of Omar's sorest spots in their playfulness. He is soon enticed to take a few drags on a pipe the men are sharing, and soon he feels much more comfortable. Later some KFC chicken arrives via a trusted neighbor. That evening while the streets are still busy they move to a different safehouse, and Omar is accepted as a full member of the movement.
The Supreme Court decision came as a shock to the school authorities in Heartland County, just as it did in most of America. Paddling, along with other forms of corporal punishment of pupils would no longer to be permitted in the nation's schools. The Court declared it to be a cruel and unusual punishment, and school boards only had four months to bring their policies in line with the ruling. The case of Angela Touffass had quietly made its way through the appellate system where every court upheld the schools' right to inflict corporal punishment after an original lower court ruling in favour of the comely schoolgirl. Most observers were surprised that the Supreme Court even bothered to hear the Touffass appeal which had long been yesterday's news, and then flabbergasted when the Court in a 6 to 3 decision struck down the laws permitting paddling and other forms of corporal punishment in schools. The Court ruled that any punishment which left marks on the body lasting for more than 48 hours constituted a cruel and unusual punishment, and violated students' rights under the Eighth Amendment to the American Constitution. Rumours circulating in the blogosphere had it that two of the most conservative jurists had unhappy experiences with the paddle when they were boys, and were not ready to forgive or forget.
In another decision two weeks later the Supreme Court ruled against a terrorist suspect held in solitary confinement without charges for seven years who claimed he had been tortured. The Court in a more typical 5 to 4 ruling held that the interrogation techniques he had been subject to such as stress positions, sensory deprivation, electric shocks to the genitals and waterboarding were not torture, and did not constitute cruel and unusual punishments under the Eighth Amendment as they did not leave marks discernable after 48 hours.
In Heartland County the entire school board and all the senior teachers were convinced that classes would become totally unmanageable if principals were not allowed to paddle pupils, or use some other form of corporal punishment. Where would this lead? Dire predictions of America's imminent decline permeated public discourse. The school board called an emergency meeting open to the general public to deal with the urgent matter. With public sentiments outraged and an overwhelming response a large hall was rented. Senior military officers from nearby Fort Fragg, the biggest industry in the county, were invited as the issue clearly involved future national security. Chief among these was Colonel Alberto Morales, Chief of Intelligence and Security Operations, one of the new breed of military officers educated in the humanities and liberal arts.
Rash Limburger, the renowned right wing talk show host captured the concern of concerned Americans when he asked: "How can America maintain global hegemony if it can't even beat its own kids?" Becoming more serious he went on: "Think of the children, the sweet innocent children of both sexes and all genders. Our nation would become a pathetic undisciplined mass without the paddle. We must prove to our children that we love them, that we care about them. If you want to know what would happen without the paddle you only need to look north to Canada. They effectively stopped beating their pupils which resulted in seditious talk about separatism, gay weddings and flooding our country with hydroponic marijuana."
School Board Chairman, Richard Godrath, a tall, thin, silver haired, retired military chaplain and Pentecostal pastor, calls the meeting to order. After opening prayers he repeats the renowned liberal basher's famous question about America's global hegemony and asks: "Really, how can we? How can we rule the rule the world in the tradition of Rome and Britain, our historic God granted destiny, without a flagellum, cane or paddle?" He pauses for effect. "They beat their kids, they beat them hard, in fact the English had a noble and honored tradition of brutal school floggings in their heyday. Look at the British now. All that's left is a few furtive aficionados hiding out in the underworld of the internet." After dwelling, some would say morbidly, on the ominous implications of paddle prohibition, he launches into his sermon with quotes from Proverbs, Numbers and more of Rash's recent rants. Eventually, almost apologetically, he announces that the only reason he's there is to introduce the speakers. He holds his hands out for calm, "I'm proud to introduce you to one of our heroic frontline soldiers fresh from the battlefield… Principal Chester 'Chesty' Braun." A balding athletic looking man steps up to the podium.
The principal gets right to the point. "Thanks Dick, I'm not going to beat around the bush or try to cover up the seriousness of the situation. The people of Heartland County deserve the straight goods." He paints a bleak picture of the situation he will face come fall as the overflowing crowd listens with rapt attention. He warns: "Our children will run wild, they might try to take over the schools. We presently have only two police officers in each secondary school which may not be enough. Senior citizens and virgins will not be safe on the streets, or in their homes for that matter, if something isn't done." He has touched a raw nerve and yells break out. A big burly, logger of a man shouts: "Turn the varmints over to me, I'll show them." He takes off his belt and swings it over his head as cheers erupt from the crowd
When the cheering dies down Chairman Godrath calls to the podium a big heavy set mustachioed man. "The distinguished Colonel Morales, Chief of Special Intelligence recently back from tours of duty in Syria and Cuba. Let's hear it for him guys and gals!" A hearty round of applause follows.
The colonel looks coolly around at the audience, assessing its mood. These are salt of the earth Americans here, and they're concerned. After chiding them for their pessimism he hints that there may be a ray of hope. "As you may recall the Supreme Court made another decision shortly after banning the use of the paddle." He explains the legal complexities and concludes, "The problem is not one of corporal punishment, but one of marks that persist for more than 48 hours. I want you to know that the American military, ever adapting to the changing challenges the nation faces, has in recent years developed considerable proficiency in not leaving marks on bodies. Information extraction has become a sophisticated, and may I add, humane science. Gone are the racks, thumb screws and pincers. We have entered the Post Torture Era!
"There is no reason why the same techniques couldn't be employed for purposes of punishment as well as interrogation." A loud buzz goes through the audience as it digests the implications of this revelation. The colonel briefly reviews some their new, 'mark free' as he prefers to call them, infostraction methods. Some, like stress positions and sensory deprivation, he discards as too time consuming for use in school settings. Others like exposure to loud music would require expensive sound proof chambers and he's not sure if it would be punitive for young Americans, unless perhaps Arab music was used. I'm sure some of it must have subliminal messages. Then pausing and waiting until he has the audience's attention he dramatically announces, "There is however, one proven technique that is inexpensive, relatively simple and quick, and, I might add, extremely effective, I'm talking about the water cure, or waterboarding." Murmurs spread through the audience and then enthusiastic applause breaks out.
"Do you think it's appropriate for schoolchildren?" Principal Braun wonders.
"Well, I understand we commonly used it on boys as young as ten back when we took over the Philippines. No problema." Morales assures him. "The key factor is that it doesn't leave any marks, even on pale tender young flesh."
"That's a good thing in other ways too." The principal observes, "Boys showing off their bruises to each other undermines the basic intent of discipline. Bruises are subversive. With this, they'll have nothing to be proud of."
"That's the advantage of the water cure: it's totally dehumanizing at the time. You win every time." The audience is becoming enthusiastic. "There's no resentment or blowback, some say the subjects may come to love their infostraction technician after a few sessions. I'd even venture that waterboarding has a spiritual dimension to it."
Speaker after speaker from the audience express their enthusiasm for mark free disciplinary procedures, and seem especially keen on the water cure. Cheerleaders scamper around distributing copies of The Water Cure: Securing America's Future, a brochure that the colonel had thoughtfully prepared beforehand. Inside is a free bumper sticker:
PEOPLE DON'T CAUSE MARKS IMPLEMENTS CAUSE MARKS
Mark Free Disciplinary Consultants - Rates on request
After the colonel finishes his peroration he receives a prolonged ovation from the audience, and minutes later the Heartland County School Board unanimously agrees to adopt the new technique. A welcome feeling of relief engulfs the meeting and people once again feel secure in America's future, at least for the time being.
Principal Braun researches waterboarding on the Internet picking up many helpful tips. He finds the subject fascinating and sees an opportunity to get in on the ground floor as an established practitioner before they start licensing them and requiring special degrees. I'll clean up and maybe franchise branches. He wonders if he'll miss swinging the paddle. It sure helps keep me in shape for golf. Two days later he gets to put his new knowledge in practice when Oscar Neddlesum, a chronic ninth grade troublemaker, cheater, liar and thief is overheard calling the principal an "old fart." Braun's heart soars like the proverbial eagle's, or some such thing. If he'd been able to choose one boy, any boy, for the honor of being the first to undergo the water cure, Oscar Neddlesum would be the one. The mere thought of him dangerously raises his blood pressure. The many times he's paddled the stubborn insolent child seem to have had no effect. But now things will be different, very different. He visualizes the helpless boy's frantic struggles and pain wracked face as he is subjected to the cure. It's funny, usually he's unaware of any anticipation leading up to punishing a boy, but he positively drools with excitement at the prospect of inflicting unbearable pain on his nemesis. He immediately calls Colonel Morales and Chairman Godrath and they eagerly accept invitations to attend Heartland County's inauguration of the water cure later that day.
Meeting in his office the principal outlines the Neddlesum case, and the others agree that Oscar is the ideal subject for testing the procedure. Morales explains: "It's simple, you just start asphyxiating him, drowning him, and when he thinks he's going to die, well he'll do anything, say anything to live." The principal suggests that that they give him five minute sessions of the cure for each of the six paddle stroke he would have received. Morales thinks five minutes is too long, telling them: "Few terrorists can hold out for more than two. Two is a more than enough for infostraction, and should work fine as punishment." It is decided that School Nurse Blanche Whyte should attend, just in case.
Oscar, a husky, normally cheerful if impertinent fifteen year old is brought unwillingly to the school infirmary, stripped to his shorts so his clothes won't get wet, and despite his protests and struggles he's strapped down to the emergency gurney with his feet raised. Chairman Godrath sets up a video camera to record the historic event for the statewide conference of school administrators set for the following month. Dick also has a hand held videocam for close-ups. Chesty Braun as principal will carry out the actual punishment with the colonel advising him as necessary. He looks into the camera. "It is an honor to be the first principal in the nation to officially administer the water cure to a recalcitrant pupil. I feel humbly proud…" Oscar's shrieks are disturbing his speech and he's muffled with a pillow. Dick decides to take it again. "It is an honor…"
Chairman Dick Godrath speaks next: "I also feel proud. Not just personally proud, but proud of Heartland County, and its pioneering spirit. "I'm sure other school districts will want to see what we are doing and follow in the County's pioneering footsteps." He sees the planned video as the first step in promoting his new calling; spreading the good news about mark free discipline. Hopefully the video will get me selected as a delegate to the national conference in Washington, DC and I could start spreading the message of hope from coast to coast. He muses aloud; "Perhaps even anti paddling educators will be impressed by the efficacy and mark free humane qualities of the water cure."
Nurse Blanche Whyte stands by with a rag, a sheet of cellophane and a large bottle of imported Evian spring water. The principal was concerned that the local tap water's slight metallic taste might not be healthy. Blanche realizes the momentous import of the occasion and her critical role in it. I must be brave, I must be resolute. I could get promoted or at least reclassified. She must show the handsome principal her dedication to duty. Her heart flutters. Oscar, an increasingly desperate expression on his face, struggles in vain against his restraints. Chesty Braun turns to the chairman, "You ready Dick?" He nods. "OK then, let's roll."
Blanche clamping the boy's head in the crook of her elbow holds the rag over Oscar's mouth and nostrils while Morales leans on his chest forcing air out of his lungs, and restrains him further so he won't injure himself during convulsions. The colonel explains: "Older people have been known to break their own bones as a result of muscle spasms but with less brittle boy bones, I wouldn't worry." Fear pervades Oscar's eyes as the rag is pressed tightly over his mouth and nostrils; he's totally helpless. Nurse Whyte increases the pressure on the rag preventing the boy from screaming as Principal Braun starts pouring on the Evian preventing any air getting through. A few bubbles emerge and then Oscar gags. He struggles frantically but can't move. "I think you've got it… By Jove you've got it there Chesty!"
"What about those veins on his forehead?"
"No problema, they're perfectly normal."
"It's like he's drowning." Nurse Whyte is concerned.'
"Yes. It's supposed to be just like that, nurse. You'll find your job easier if you use the cellophane on top, less pressure is required. And if the facial contortions bother you, just cover them up." Nurse Whyte decides to tough it out; she will show them that she can take it as Oscar struggles violently makes strange noises. Morales offers encouragement: "That's it Chesty, pour it on, you're like an old pro... Good work Nurse Whyte, we couldn't do it without you." Oscar's desperate eyes seem to bulge out of their sockets, his agony is overwhelming. Braun dribbles more Evian on the rag keeping it soggy. Oscar convulses with hysteria, and Blanche for the first time is fully conscious of what she is doing. I must be firm. Chesty Braun is impressed with Blanche's resolute dedication and sees a new woman as she presses the cloth into the boy's piteous face. He knows it takes guts to suffocate a mere boy, and a wave of admiration sweeps over him. She's a tough determined woman just like his dear and recently departed wife. "Only twenty seconds more guys." The session ends in a frenzy.
When Oscar is released so he can sit up he splutters and coughs, and it takes him quite a while to catch his breath. "Great work guys, you're catching on quick." The colonel clasps the others' hands in turn. Chairman Godrath looking very pleased reviews his takes on the video camera and shows the others. "Great work Dick." Nodding towards Oscar Morales notes, "The kid's exhausted. We're going to have to give him more time between sessions guys; it's not like he's a seasoned terrorist."
The next session has barely begun when Oscar signals emphatically that he wants to say something. "Ignore him." Morales advises firmly, "We're punishing him, not asking questions." Oscar quickly becomes hysterical. His terrible ordeal continues and it starts to take its toll as Blanche momentarily quavers and lets a tear run down her cheek. Even Chesty feels a tinge of conscience and only a strong sense of duty enables him to dribble on more Evian spring water. His admiration for Blanche grows as she grittily perseveres, and he feels lust for first time in months. With Oscar convulsing uncontrollably the session ends a minute later, leaving him blubbering and exhausted. He can't even sit up. The chairman congratulates Chesty and Blanche, he knows it's not an easy task to discipline.
As soon as Oscar catches his breath he blurts, "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I cheated on my math exam last semester… An' it was me who let the air out of your tires that time, Mr. Braun, Sir… An' I stole those cafeteria supplies an' sold them… An' I felt this girl's boobs at the junior prom last year... An' I had dirty thoughts about screwing her, please forgive me sir... An' I touch myself down there… I really try hard not to, I really do…Please sir, Mr. Braun…I pray to God… I do, all the time… I…Please, please…"
"You can see why we in interrogation like the water cure, Chesty. All you need is the right questions."
"Colonel, this water cure is beyond my wildest dreams." Principal Braun exclaims. "With it we could also attain new heights of academic excellence. I can envisage every pupil striving to reach their full potential. We need to share this new technology with other districts. I could go on a statewide tour giving practical demonstrations on waterboarding boys. And Blanche, you could be my assistant." He knows they'll have to get separate hotel rooms to avoid gossip. Blanche is delighted and hugs the principal who whispers in her ear and gives it a gentle nibble. She practically swoons.
Colonel Morales raises his voice to get the other's attention, "Look at the kid, guys, not a mark on his body."
They all closely examine Oscar's body as he's hunched over the gurney puking. His red rimmed eyes and nose are runny, puke is dribbling down his chest and he's still gasping, but there's not a single mark on his body. "Not a scratch!" The principal's never seen Oscar so subdued, he's elated and shouts, "It works! It works!" The four adults are overjoyed and all join hands and do a little impromptu dance. Compliments are exchanged all round and the chairman plays a few clips of their recent efforts on the monitor. Dick modestly acknowledges the others' praises.
Oscar slides down to the floor sobbing. He pleads but no one's interested. Finally he blurts, "Please don't hurt me anymore… I've been really bad… I even stole some dynamite and detonators from this construction site… It took me seven trips on my bike… But I couldn't find any terrorists who'd buy it."
The Colonel smiles condescendingly, "Once they start confessing they often get carried away. It's sometimes a bit of a problem. At last count we've had over sixteen hundred confess to masterminding 9/11."
Chairman Godrath has something important to say: "This event has set me thinking, and you know I think we could totally eliminate drugs and immorality from the schools of this county. Teenage pregnancies would become a thing of the past once we break their codes of silence. I can see waterboarding having perhaps more potential in infostraction than punishment. We will make military cadet training compulsory for all, and make humane water cure exercises part of the curriculum. We will get to the truth. I can see the program catching on nationally." He can also see himself as a state senator at least.
In the exaltation of the moment they forget about Oscar's remaining waterboarding sessions; they're trying to decide where to celebrate. Chesty thinks Nurse Whyte should choose. "Blanchy, how about some intimate restaurant in OldeTowne?" She daringly suggests one of the pricier establishments. "Of course we can." Then when they are wondering if they should have imported champagne, the principal remembers Oscar. Not wanting to interfere with their plans they decide to forget about the remaining four 'strokes' of his punishment. "Aren't you a lucky boy to get off so easy, Neddlesum?" Principal Braun teases the miserable boy and ruffles his hair in mock playfulness.
Oscar really does have a lot of dynamite but not until now did he really have any idea of what to do with it. He knows it wouldn't take much effort to reopen the old coal chute into the school cellar, and the old fart's office is right above the furnace.
I was of course disappointed when the candidate I’d worked so hard for lost. My heart had been in my work and I had used every dirty campaign trick I could think of short of labeling our candidate’s opponent a godless terrorist, an idea that was only precluded by his twenty years service as a USM military chaplain. Private investigators could find no evidence, or even a hint of philandering or alcoholism. I even insinuated that he was into sex with young boys, but the kid I’d hired to make the accusations used his down payment to buy some heroin and ODed. There wasn’t time to find and coach another kid. Well so much for the lucrative government contracts I’d been promised had my candidate won.
All was not lost however, I had made some useful right wing contacts and joined a couple of churches. I’ve been eulogized as a true patriot and a man of integrity by a top radio talk show host. Still, none of the offers I got approached what might have been, although one of them did pique my curiosity. KidCare Corporation, a major juvenile prison operator wanted me to make a video promoting their pioneering treatment centre at a remote Caribbean location. I had followed KCC’s struggle with the bleeding heart Librocrat’s campaign against their ToughLoveUltra approach to rehabilitating unmanageable teenage boys. An organized crusade of slander, gross exaggeration and outright lies led to their methods being prohibited in almost all Western countries. The notable exception was the impoverished island Republic of Cariba where El Presidente never forgot the lessons he learned at the School of the Americas at Fort Benning.
I personally support what they are doing. Kids are getting out of hand these days what with pornography, promiscuity, pot, piercings and tattoos, not to mention their nihilistic music and bizarre attire. They need some discipline so they can be controlled. That’s were our school system fails. Also it wouldn’t hurt to slow down puberty a bit, and I suspect there’s a lucrative market for a pill that could do that. I can hear the Librocrats screaming already. But one thing, at least the boys are decent these days if you don’t mind seeing their navels. Girls are showing far too much thigh and cleavage, not that I’d go as far as the Islamists with their burqas.
The money was not all that good but it was a chance to gain a foothold in the rapidly growing private correctional industry. KCC’s slogan, Over one million served under pictures of proud young men in college gowns appeared on billboards everywhere in more affluent suburbs. I knew that KidCare’s methods were controversial and understood that a sensitive approach was required in any promotional work. The Corporation targets wealthy families of the corporate and political elite with unruly sons who needed to be brought in line so that they can serve their parents’ plans and ambitions. I knew a positive message was essential, both for prospective parents and any squeamish officials who might come across it. The frosty post election days added a special appeal to spending some time on a warm tropical island.
KidCare’s head office in Chicago wired me a generous advance and suggested I take a first hand look at their pioneering Camp CanDo in Cariba, and see what I can come up with. The Camp Director, Dr. Wilfred Strapmore a retired English headmaster of the old school, would fill me in on the details. Taking along my trusted assistant and cameraman, Billy O’Reilly, I booked our flight for two days later. Billy was eager to get back to work, knew his job, and most importantly was absolutely loyal.
The director’s son Dennis, a rather unattractive, portly young man nearing thirty met our flight from Miami at CIA, Cariba International Airport. Dennis with a knowing smile on his pudgy face said he’d been looking forward to meeting me after hearing about my “imaginative work for the Polycon’s candidate in the election.” He gripped my hand, “I think we’ll get along just fine.”
We took a taxi to the nearby harbour where a small four seat KCC float plane was moored and we were airborne within minutes with Dennis at the controls. He implied that he, and his father of course, was instrumental my in hiring. “I like your style; it’s what we need to get our message across to the frustrated parents of America and keep certain higher ups inside Beltway onside.” I was surprised by his confident and forceful manner, and he seemed to speak as if he was the one in charge. His father, Dr. Wilfred Strapmore, or “Willy” as he soon began referring to him, is “hopelessly archaic” and has no understanding of modern concepts of control. “He would have been more at home in the 19th Century. However he projects an image and has a certain charisma that appeals to uncertain parents. He is the Colonel Saunders of juvenile correction.
“People instinctively trust him, Bob, his eccentricities are part of his charm. His devotion to the cane is legend, more people are caning their children and it’s gaining cachet as a result. Willy sees it as the beginning of a counter revolution. But he’s so fixed on the cane, which is a shame as Cariba is one of the few countries in the Western world where we can be more innovative in how we train boys. I try to introduce new techniques but Willy insists there’s nothing better than old fashioned caning, six, twelve or more hard judicious strokes.” I express sympathy for Dennis’s position. “He completely ignores other discipline opportunities Bob.” I at least feign agreement. “Think of all the other things you could do to a boy.” Half an hour later we land off a classic, white sand, palm fringed tropical beach, and slowly taxi towards a small dock
We’re eagerly welcomed by the director, Dr. Wilfred Strapmore a tall, white maned athletic man wearing a light tropical suit. His guard stands a few yards off. Dennis introduces his father as the ‘grand old man’ of CP, and the inspiration for ROSC, the Restore Old School Caning movement. After brief formalities where I acknowledge the director’s eminence and scholarship, Strapmore fills me in: “El Presidente is a fervent supporter of traditional methods and has reintroduced caning in the country’s public schools. He recently invited me to attend a ceremony celebrating the reintroduction at a secondary school in the capital, and I could barely keep the tears out of my eyes as three miscreants were thoroughly thrashed.” He raises his gaze to the sky, “There may be hope yet.”
He tells me he attended one of the last great schools in England and claims that the cane helped make him the man he is today. He expostulates at length on the connection between the decline of Western civilization and the abolition of flogging in the school and judicial systems.” He solemnly concludes, “I fear the future may belong to Asia.” I’ve heard about the floggings in Singapore and wonder why they don’t exploit their commercial potential, I’m sure many would pay to watch. He continues earnestly, “Here at Camp Cando, we do what we can to stem the rising tide of permissiveness that threatens to engulf Western civilization.
“Don’t be deceived by what you may hear. KidCare’s promotion likes to call our approach ToughLoveUltra, but it’s just old fashioned, traditional discipline under another name. We just beat the little buggers until they fall into line. And we let them sort things out themselves - none of this anti-bullying correctness - rather than burdening them with psychology and therapy. The ToughLoveUltra is something KCC ad men dreamed up. But if you listen to some of our critics you’d think we were running a Bagram or Guatanamo. We don’t waterboard boys here or force them to listen to loud heavy metal music all day. I would never allow it.
“I suspect that one reason they hired me was to counteract such frivolous allegations. I provide a veneer of old fashioned British discipline which seems to have some cachet with the Yanks.” I nod agreement. “Our discipline may be harsh by contemporary standards but we pride ourselves on being fair, eminently fair. And I would never countenance anything that smacked of torture.”
We proceed up to his bungalow on a low rise beside the central administration lodge. From his office window overlooking the campus the director points out the different buildings and the residents’ cottages. My first impression is that it looks like a resort but then there is no hint of luxury. I notice several boys in dark slacks and white shirts going about the grounds. Dr. Strapmore informs me, “Except in the gym and on the playing field we require long trousers and shirts. Jackets are mandatory in class and the dining hall. Uniforms are another part of our discipline.”
I accept the offered Cuban cigar, compliments of El Presidente he informs me, and we talk about the video I am to make. “It’s not just Camp CanDo, KCC has one other camp here on the island which specializes in treating juvenile sex offenders and potential offenders, and is planning more several more offender camps on the island to meet anticipated demand, all based on Tough Love Ultra and traditional discipline. It’s an ideal set up here in Cariba; El Presidente only requires that we lease our land and purchase our supplies through his agents. Here we are free to pursue our programs’ goals free from government supervision, nagging inspectors, and red tape. I can assure you our methods work.
“Camp CanDo’s name expresses our pragmatic, success orientated approach. We give our clients self confidence, what we call the CanDo spirit that will enable them to accomplish their goals. All our assemblies begin with everyone chanting in unison, ‘CanDo… CanDo...”
Except for his five instructors, all ex US Marines boot camp instructors, and his son Dennis, the staff is recruited from China, and they have only a rudimentary understanding of English which apparently helps make things run smoothly.
The boys, a cross section of privileged American youth, range from twelve up to eighteen: “Most stay two to three years before returning to their families. Remade.” he boasts. “That’s what we do Bob, we remake boys, that’s our business. We take surly, rebellious, drug addicted boys and using the most tried and trusted traditional methods we turn them into clean living, respectful and confident young men.” He turns to his son, “Isn’t that right Dennis?” The young man gives a token nod as if he’s heard all this many times before.
Dr. Strapmore wants me to convey an image of a disciplined, well run camp. He prefers little voiceover, “The video should speak for itself.” He describes the facilities they have including a well equipped gym. “I’d like to see the boys doing strenuous calisthenics, all sixty of them, and climbing ropes and going through our boot camp style obstacle course. There’s a trail up the mountain back of here that we make them climb with full packs which could provide some good scenic shots. We need scenes of them working at their assigned tasks. It’s even good that many of the jobs are absurd as it makes the boys’ application seem all that more impressive. We want it made clear that the boys work, and work hard, and obey. Parents want to see that. They should appear diligent and industrious. However they should look cheerful during recreation time shoots, show them having fun. Parents want to know that their sons are happy.” He shows me a list of possible shoots he has drawn up, and he encourages me to use my own ideas.
The director seems dedicated to his work and a keen enthusiast for traditional discipline. “We are pioneering the past!” he exclaims with a gleam. What a slogan! I like the concept; it appeals to my conservative sensibilities. I was already sketching possible scenarios in my mind: A time machine back to better times?
“And these,” the director proudly shows me a tall dark cabinet with beveled glass doors holding a selection of canes, “are the instruments of our success. For our purposes nothing better has yet been devised.” He removes a thin, very flexible cane “You pay a premium for the best Burmese rattan these days as the government can’t seem to control their rebels.” and hands it to me. “I should have been a Canemore, not a Strapmore.” he quips as I examine the cane. “Simple, very effective, and our lightweight issue trousers do nothing to mitigate the pain of well directed blows. My son prefers to have the boys strip which I don’t think is altogether dignified, but then, we are all males here. He claims it’s to better assess the results so he doesn’t cause any injury, a valid point, but then he hasn’t had my forty years experience thrashing unruly boys. He also experiments with other implements but I highly doubt if any of them are as effective as the cane. And on occasion he gets carried away, but a bit of youthful exuberance is to be expected in a Strapmore.”
I examined a couple more canes and tell him I’m surprised by their flexibility. “You’d also be surprised how severely a boy can be beaten without breaking the skin; it’s all how you do it. However, despite the intense pain some boys can inure themselves to heavy canings, and it can be a challenge to persevere until the lesson is absorbed. Discipline is not for the squeamish.” The director slams a cane into a leather chair to demonstrate his technique. I note the deep depression it creates and its slow rebound. I am suitably impressed.
“I insist on strict rules applied impartially. How better can we instill an appreciation of the principles of justice, fair play and obedience than by being fair ourselves? This means all staff must be eminently fair in dealing with our boys. Practising sportsmanship and fair play is an integral part of our ToughLoveUltra approach which is at the heart of the CanDo spirit. We try to remake them as gentlemen, gentlemen ready to take on the great moral and ethical problems facing the modern world.”
He looks me earnestly in the eyes and I nod soberly. “Boys also need to acquire a certain proficiency in compromise however to prosper in the politics of the world.” I nod with a bit more enthusiasm, and the smile on his face indicates he knows I understood. I’m starting to like the crusty old fart. “My son argues that a balance is required and certain amount of skepticism should also be inculcated.” Dennis looking pleased regards his father attentively.
After a few more points about the discipline regimen the director announces, “Dennis here will be your guide.” The director beams at Dennis and puts a hand on his shoulder. “He thoroughly understands our philosophy and approach and is very keen about our program, especially the corporal side of punishment.” After a pause he proudly goes on, “He is my protégé. I have complete trust in him, he’s a very capable young man, and he’ll gladly help you any way he can.” He himself begs off politely as he has work to do.
I’m happy to leave and notice a very fearful boy waiting to go in. I would like to listen to the caning but Dennis noticing my interest informs me, “You’ll get to see plenty others beaten, Bob.” I tell him that I would appreciate that; I’m curious having never witnessed any corporal punishment. Actually the idea of watching boys being caned intrigues me now that I think about it. What does it feel like? And feel like to do it? I bet that’d be a huge power rush. And to watch their reactions as you do it. “There wouldn’t be much fun watching that wimp get it anyway. It’s far more interesting to watch a stout lad who tries to take it like a man, it’s more fun especially pants down.” I can see that it would and have to agree. “You may even derive some visceral pleasure from observing the procedure if you know what I mean.” I’m pretty sure I know what he means and feel a shiver of excitement in my loins. He notices my arousal which I quickly conceal, and after an awkward moment we both start laughing. Having established a good rapport with the Director’s son he takes me into his confidence.
“Didn’t I tell you, Willy’s a bit of a fossil?” I thought he was putting him down, but then he adds, “It’s his strong point.” I admit I found the old fart a bit quaint, but charming. A man whose 19th Century appearance people find reassuring. After a brief faux debate on modernity Dennis puts an arm on my shoulder, and confides, “I have some interesting ideas of my own.” I encourage him to go on. “I can see the subject, shall we say, ‘fascinates’ you.” I nod. “There is a certain satisfaction - I’m not talking about sex which I think is gross - that one may get from beating boys.” I nod my agreement. “It has probably never occurred to old Willy that some men enjoy inflicting pain, putting it to them, testing boys. Caning is simply part of his job and he beats with a judicious moral fervor that allows no room for conscious indulgence.”
In the time before lunch Dennis takes Billy and me on a quick tour of the camp starting with the central lodge with its offices, a DVD library, and a small infirmary. Separate buildings grouped around a soccer pitch house the dining hall, a small gymnasium, and a woodworking and repair shop. Two well appointed bungalows house the staff and guests, and eight cottages or huts accommodate the teenage residents. Each spartan hut has eight beds and a bathroom.
Returning to the Director’s bungalow I convey my first impressions of the camp as we have lunch in his office. Dr. Strapmore remarks, “Now in the video you’ll be making we can’t actually show boys being physically punished, I’m sure you understand, but we can certainly imply that corporal punishment occurs. You might even show my cabinet; the parents all know the boys are beaten. We don’t allow any phone calls or visits, but letters sent home contain all the gory details… or exaggerations if anyone asks. One lad even claimed that my son beat him on the bollocks, can you imagine? I ordered Dennis to give him a thorough caning to discourage such wild accusations. Letters back indicate that the parents are more amused and pleased than anything else about the tough measures we employ. A few send us emphatic statements of support. Some parents have expressed interest in videos of their sons’ beatings to reassure them of the camp’s dedication to discipline. Much as I would like to oblige our legal counsel strongly advised against it. There could be risks. What we can show is a sort of before and after effect of corporal punishment and provide some comment such as: This boy was caught engaging in unnatural practices.” I suggest we start filming immediately and he agrees.
With Dennis assisting, O’Reilly and I begin by filming attentive boys in the small classrooms listening to their instructors, working at a bank of computers and solving equations at blackboards. We film them playing soccer and climbing ropes in the gym, and later in a quiet and orderly line at the cafeteria. They eat in silence. Dennis informs me that they strictly enforce a rule of silence in the dining hall. Then suddenly there’s an incident and two boys are on the floor being pummeled by the Chinese guards. “Probably talking or complaining about the food.” Dennis comments. “We don’t allow much real protein in their diet as it makes the boys harder to control… The guards like their fun but we don’t let them get out of hand.” After a few hard kicks in the gut the two boys are allowed to get up.
Outside, on the other side of the soccer pitch we watch several clients, as we’re supposed to call them, shooting hoops at an informal basketball court. Dennis introduces us to several boys by name explaining that we are making a film about Camp Cando for television. They are politely curious, asking about the videocam Billy’s carrying, but I find them rather subdued and anxious to please, and wanting to go back to shooting hoops. Dennis engages one, a lean Latino boy Jones who looks about fifteen. As we film the boy Dennis encourages him to ham it up for the camera. “Come on boy, I hear you do a great imitation of the director.” The boy seems reluctant but Dennis keeps roughly prodding him in a joking way, and finally gets him screaming, “No, no no.”
I can’t say I suspect nothing when Dennis asks, “You want to see some fun?” I nod. Dennis calls his father on his cell phone and after a brief conversation and a sly wink in my direction tells Jones that he’s to report to the director’s bungalow. The boy’s attitude shifts immediately when told to report, he demands to know why, but Dennis merely repeats his order. My glimmer about what was happening was confirmed when Dennis says, “Old Willy doesn’t take gross insolence lightly.” He suggests we film the boy entering and then leaving the Director’s bungalow. The apprehensive boy reluctantly walks over and enters. A minute later I hear what I assumed is a caning in process. Smiling smugly Dennis counts out ten blows, towards the end we can hear Jones shrieking. “Good old Willy, he probably gave him a couple of extras for making a fuss. He sure has a mean stroke for a man pushing seventy.” Two minutes later we film a half limping Jones leaving the bungalow looking very sorry and rubbing his bum. I try to think what a voiceover might say: A brief trip to the Director’s Office can lead to dramatic improvements in attitude? Dennis laughs when I tell him.
Dennis suggests that the footage of the Jones boy fooling around I’d taken earlier could be edited to prove insolence, if needed. I agree, and even tell him it’s a brilliant idea. I do have to admire Dennis’s daring and flare for such a dumpy looking young man and more so his moral philosophy which is straight out of Chicago, my old alma mater. The neocons could learn from him.
“How would you like to see some real action Bob?” Dennis asks. I’ve never thought about watching boys beaten before but now it seems an exciting concept, and I do want to get to know more about this intriguing young man. I tell him I would be delighted. Dennis adds that we might want to film some beatings for my own personal record, and that if I did he would certainly appreciate copies. I don’t think it wise to refuse and express interest. “Good. What about you? Want to try your hand? If you have any preferences just pick a boy you’d like to see beaten, or to beat yourself, and I’ll arrange it.” I told him I’d keep it in mind.
Then I started thinking about it, I could have a boy beaten, any boy. Wow! You start looking at boys differently when you imagine them being stripped and beaten. I figure good looking, pale skinned boys would be best, but I wouldn’t want a sissy or a nellie. I rapidly become a connoisseur of boy’s bottoms. Then I see one I wouldn’t mind seeing beaten, or maybe beat myself: a sweet, cute 13, 14 year old dirty blond who’s laughing and joking with friends, and he has a full bum for his size. I can tell he’s a ‘good’ boy, and he seems so happy. With his untidy locks he’s quite pretty for a boy, but I think it’s his seeming wholesomeness, his innocence and cheerfulness that makes me wants to beat him. If a kid’s already miserable, what’s the point of beating him? I ask Dennis what he thinks. He studies the child, “Benny just arrived here, and I don’t think he’s been beaten yet, but it looks like he could absorb a decent caning.” I like the idea and we decide to come back for him.
Behind the goal posts at the far end of the soccer pitch two husky ex-Marine instructors are putting about a dozen boys in shorts through some strenuous calisthenics. Billy starts filming them doing push ups as one instructor, a dark muscular, hirsute man about forty calls out, “PUSH… PUSH… PUSH…” and taps a green tamarind switch against his boot. After a count of twenty a pale youngster of no more than fourteen collapses on the grass and claims he can’t go on. “Is that so?” barks the instructor, “Maybe you need a little encouragement, you fuckin’ piece of shit…Now PUSH.” The boy struggles to comply as the instructor lashes the backs of his legs.
“I can’t.” the boy pleads.
“Can do kid. You know the procedure: Let’s hear it.”
The boy forces out the words, “Cando. I cando it. I CANDO it…”
“Now PUSH.” The boy pushes himself up. “Again.” The boy gets himself part way up and wobbles. The instructor lashes his thighs, “PUSH.” The slender boy collapses exhausted and covers his head as the instructor kicks and lashes him. Billy moves in to get close ups of his contorted face and squirming body. “Get on your fuckin’ feet you pathetic little turd.” The exhausted boy stands his arms limp at his sides. “Now DANCE.” He starts to shuffle and sway to some awkward rhythm. “I said DANCE, dance like you’re a disco boy, you miserable piece of shit. Every time I see both feet on the ground you get a swat.” The boy tries harder and gets some bounce into his movements. “FASTER. Faster kid, FASTER.” The switch lashes out as he falters, his calves and thighs become crisscrossed with weals, sharp blows smack into his hips and buttocks and a few bright weals appear on his narrow ribcage. “Can do kid, CANDO.” The desperate boy tries to ‘dance’ but can barely move and loses control, piss soaking through his thin shorts and running down his legs. After a few more jarring blows the boy tries to run but stumbles and goes down. Two boys are ordered to hold him bent over and another is told to pull down his wet shorts and hold his ankles. The boy is already shrieking uncontrollably as the husky ex Marine begins lashing his small buttocks. After what may have been twenty paced stokes they are inflamed and very tender but no skin is broken. The hysterically sobbing boy is left on the ground. “This pathetic piece of shit is excused for now, but the rest of you turds get back in position. You had your break… Now, Twenty one…PUSH…PUSH… PUSH...”
“What did you think of that?” I smile. “The instructors are tough but they don’t get carried away, and the boys are usually easy, and find their own ways to deal with things. Once a guard was attacked from behind, they knew what they were doing and put a sack over his head and fucked him up pretty bad. I had to fly him in to Cariba City for surgery. We had to make a conference call with a Mandarin speaker to get the details. I never found out who did it – there must have been at least three of them, but I sure had a lot of fun trying. We have some very smart clients who’ll go far in life.
“We aim to make our clients flexible with no ethical hang ups. They need that to prosper in the world today. That is why we barely recognize religion around here as any beliefs, or ideals, can interfere with our program. But don’t tell Willy that. However I do admire the Zionist faith that has escaped the chains of Judaism.
“We can’t allow them real money for obvious reasons, but we encourage a money culture. We encourage gambling so that structures of credit and debt develop among the clients, and then we in effect tax their tiny economies with a labor draft so that their debts can be paid. Each hut must provide twenty hours labor a week for yard and building maintenance, kitchen chores, etcetera, and the losers in their gambling games provide the volunteers. Some boys do well I hear, and have the next best thing to personal slaves serving them which in these correct times we can’t call ‘fags’. None of this is acknowledged by any one, staff or client; it can only function by not existing.” I tell Dennis it sounds like it would be as good as an MBA program. “He laughs and adds, “Even if some guard gets an inkling there’s no way he can easily tell us.
“Nor do we neglect the boys’ intellectual development, we feed them FOX TV as well as violent video games. For the brighter older clients we subscribe to the National Review, the Washington Times and the Wall Street Journal. We try to ensure that all boys get lessons, sometimes cruel lessons in Strausian philosophy before they leave. But it’s the beatings that tie everything together, they create, I wouldn’t want to say fear, but rather respect. Beatings are part of their culture which makes them more bearable. Willy thinks they’re bonding. I sometimes think if we stopped beating them all hell would break out. Sometimes a boy resists and you can justify special treatment and have it out with him.
“I’m working on one particularly nasty client now. This boy Roger whom you’ll meet soon tries to make a fool of me, he misinterprets what I say in mocking ways. I beat him, I whip him every chance I get and he pretends I’m not really hurting him, like he doesn’t care. He once dared to correct my grammar and tells all these tales about me, and even said I bashed his balls once. Well it sure wiped that insolent smirk off his pretty face pretty quick. Unfortunately other clients seem to be impressed by his bravado, and this gives him a potentially dangerous popularity which is why I only beat him privately now.
“And the trouble he’s caused, and we can’t get rid of him, and we suspect he’s somehow been in touch with a lawyer. We’d get rid of him if we could but nobody else will take him. Three times now I’ve flown him to Cariba City for court hearings. El Presidente refuses to allow Roger to stay any longer. The child has got no relatives, which also has it’s advantages.” I can see what he means. “Freedom! This is the freest country in the whole wide world. Here we are free to innovate and explore the frontiers of discipline. We are at the cutting edge.” I nodded; we wouldn’t have to worry about visible damage in Roger’s case.
“His Irish mother turned out to be a Pole when the FBI waterboarded her, and now a warrant has been put out for her arrest in Poland. Roger’s a rare charity case we ended up with after the ad agency screwed up and he mistakenly won a scholarship. On paper that kid is costing KCC the eight grand a month we could have got for his place. Well, with a few kickbacks here and there, maybe half that. He’s still an expensive kid even without all the legal costs and lawyers fees, and me flying him back and forth to Cariba City.”
Farther along we approach a work party; four shirtless boys clearing brush along a drainage ditch. “They could be punished for not wearing shirts, alternatively they could be punished for getting them dirty working. On another occasion I might exploit the rules and thrash a boy I take a fancy to… Wait. See the red haired one? That’s Roger, my nemesis. You can’t imagine how much I enjoy tormenting him.” We slowly approach. “Notice the pattern of lines on his back?” I look, it’s almost like faint etching on his skin. “I should first tell you about this rather wicked martinet I picked up on my last trip to Miami, genuine kangaroo thongs, supposedly the best. What you’re looking at is what’s left my first application two days ago. The delightful thing about the martinet is that you can use it on places normally considered too vulnerable to whip. I caught him in a catch-22 and made him strip completely. Lashed him all over, you’ll see, I thought I’d never make him squeal.” When we come up to the boys they leave their tools on the ground and stand in line.
Dennis calls Roger over. “Strip. We want to look at you boy.”
“Can I keep my boots on?”
“I said strip, and be quick about it.” Roger casually removes his shorts and stands naked, arms over his head, while we examine him. I have to admire the intricate pattern of fading weals decorating almost all of his flesh below his neck. They must have been very painful. The densest pattern is around the boy’s groin, as if his genitals had been specifically targeted by Dennis’s martinet. Roger stares in resentful silence. “That was two days ago, eh boy?”
Steeling himself up Roger ambiguously states, “That’s right, sir, I wouldn’t forget. Like you said sir.” Dennis angrily glares at him.
Then Dennis turns to me, he senses I’m apprehensive about touching the sweating boy’s marked body, “Go ahead. You can’t just look.” Following Dennis’s lead I am soon probing Roger’s still tender spots and squatting down, the nasty nicks around his pubes. “We’ve still got a good show of stripes… Haven’t we boy?... He’s healing well; not much scabbing left, in a few days you could barely tell. The little bastard boy is ready for more.”
The boy suddenly glares back and seems to come alive. “Fuck you, I’m no bastard.” I have to admire Roger’s gall and understood the challenge he presents. Dennis slaps his face a few times before the boy just lets himself be fondled and probed, a dumb, clown like expression on his face.
“Boy, wipe that smirk off your face...” Dennis roughly fondles the boy’s floppy cock, “Or do you like having men play with your body?”
“I’m not hard am I?”
ennis explodes, slaps Roger’s face “For that, you’re getting a blackhouse beating. Report to me immediately after dinner.” He turns to me. “And we’ll have the boy Benny you picked join us for a foursome.” I find out that the blackhouse is well equipped and provides total privacy. “And do you think Billy could film the event?” I’m apprehensive. If a video of me whipping a boy got out it could compromise any future political career. Although I don’t completely trust Dennis I agree to filming the beatings. I’ll have Billy avoid my face and concentrate on Dennis, and of course the boys. As we can always edit after I see no problem. We will start immediately.
After dinner we find the boys and lead them to the blackhouse, a tall shed located in a far corner of the property near the main camp generator. It’s a small maintenance shop with a workbench and a selection of hand tools, a table, a bench and small cot. In a large plywood cabinet, Dennis informs us, is a good selection of implements and restraints. Billy pans the contents; canes, straps, paddles, and closes on the two frightened boys.
“Why’d you bring us here?” Roger demands.
“So we don’t disturb people. I want to see how loud you can scream.”
“You’re a fucking sick sado.”
Dennis cuffs and suspends the boy who’s not much more than half his weight between two beams so he’s completely exposed. Dennis studies his helpless nemesis teases with feints and sneaky strokes before slowly and indulgently he canes Roger viciously pulping and purpling the flesh of his buttocks, and then he works a belt into his thighs, back and then proceeds to lash his boyish chest and down to his belly and pubes leaving minor lacerations. Roger controls himself as long as he can but finally starts shrieking with each blow. I can see how some people would feel revulsion at seeing a boy beaten so savagely but I soon overcome any initial squeamishness and become enthralled by the spectacle. It is very real: This is something I want to do. It goes on and on and I feel my arousal become urgent before he finally stops. Dennis is afraid the boy will really start bleeding and Willy would demand a report. Roger’s red eyed, sniffling and sullen when it’s over, and avoids the man’s gaze. Dennis is pleased, “Really got to you this time, eh boy?” Roger is seething but says nothing.
I’ve completely overcome my original squeamishness. I’m inspired and eager to whip a boy; I’ve done it often enough in recent fantasies, and now to face its reality. Benny cuffed to a wall hook, is trembling in fear. His pathetic wholesomeness and cuteness inflame my flogging lust. It’s almost political; I don’t feel comfortable with what he represents, it’s the same feeling I get with lefties and feminists. Dennis helps me string up little Benny with just toes touching, as was Roger. He graciously offers me his special martinet, “It’s a good beginner’s choice, especially for a new boy.” I had already admired its fine craftsmanship and experimented on an armrest. I thank him, and turn to my pretty whipping boy.
“What did I do?... I’m innocent… Please don’t whip me sir. Please. I’ll be good.”
I explain that is precisely why I am beating him. Dennis appreciates my twisted reasoning and encourages me to proceed. I stand lash in hand contemplating the suspended, pale and terrified thirteen year old, his smooth unblemished flesh beckoning me. It’s one of those epiphany moments the Zen Buddhists talk about. I’m up to it, I CanDo it, I tell myself... Cando…CanDo… I have the spirit, the Cando spirit.
I take aim for his pink, puberty swollen nipples and let go. By the third stroke I am getting the swing of things so to speak. I continue striking him across his small chest, and lower, and lower, watching the welts form and the frantic contortions of his face. Watching his reaction adds immensely to my pleasure. Benny’s trying to be brave which makes it even more fun.
I like the control the martinet provides; I get a wonderful feeling of power as I lash the boy everywhere; across his ribcage, belly and up between his legs, and with all my strength across his lovely ass. I’m thrilled as more thin welts form and redden on his pale flesh. I even wonder what it’s like for poor Benny. Agony I suppose, but he’ll get over it. After all it’s just pain.
And how does his pain stack up against my pleasure? I feel the question should be investigated by establishing the respective costs and benefits of whipping boys. This should, with a few experts and the right spin, unequivocally establish that the pleasure I derive from beating a boy is greater than the suffering he undergoes in providing this service. This, as Willy would say, is only fair... Beating boys should be a right.
On second thought that may be going too far. I mean we’re getting so advanced nowadays that with science and good PR you can prove anything if you’ve got the cash. I wonder how much it would take to get Florida orange juice declared a health risk? Or have caning and paddling brought back to American and British schools and jails? I can see opportunities for my talents in either case… By the way, according to Dennis I’m whipping Benny for impertinence, a very useful charge he says... I notice that the poor boy is getting exhausted from his struggles and not responding as much as much as I like. His eyes are red from crying, drool and snot dangle down to his sweaty chest, and his intricately striped body quivers. I release Benny and briefly hold him admiring my handiwork closely. I’m half tempted to thank him for all the pleasure he’s given me, but that would spoil things.
After our sessions with the boys Dennis and I draw much closer and he shows me the finer points of caning and using a belt on selected ‘volunteers’. He regales me with accounts of ordeals he’s inflicted on camp boys, not just beatings, and how much he enjoyed them, “It can get to be an addiction.” and then there’s all sorts of interesting trivia he’s picked up. I’m surprised by how much there is to learn.
I ask Dennis how he feels about arbitrary whippings. He ponders half smiling, “Like Roger’s, and that Benny kid? Hmmm… Actually, unreasonable, unfair, and unjust beatings work out well in practice, in fact overall discipline may be more effective when it’s applied arbitrarily, then no boy, no matter how well he behaves, can ever feel completely safe from a whipping. Ever so often it’s fun to throw in a good measure of blatant leniency which makes the injustices all that more poignant. I mean this the reality they will face if they want to get ahead, or maybe just survive in Washington, Wall Street or even on main street.” Dennis has a valid point and I recall old Willy saying that it was through the wise use of beatings that Eton boys came to dominate the British elite and manage her empire.
“I certainly can’t go along with Willy’s insistence that punishments must be deserved and proportionate. That’s so archaic although we still have to give lip service to the concepts. What if you want to beat a particular boy, find out what he’s like under painful pressure, but he gives you no opportunity? Sometimes I see a boy and wonder what he’d be like to beat. Under the official policy I’m stuck, at least under the old rules which didn’t mean all that much at the time anyway. But we’re living in the 21st Century now and all that ancient crap about equality just fucked things up. Actually there’s only a very narrow philosophical basis behind the conventions of justice, fairness, and equality generally, which must be attacked. We need more imaginative resolutions of certain issues.” At last I see the truth behind reality, my heart soars and new prospects unfold.
“Another thing, contrary to what you might imagine, things can get quiet around here and sometimes it’s a good idea to stir things up. Otherwise you could go for weeks without beating a boy. It’s quite easy to set off a chain of beatings which may be made to seem plausible. When I had the Old Fart cane Jones I told him that I had reason to believe the boy had made insulting remarks about some of our staff. I explained that my source was another boy who had never lied to me before. When Jones was questioned he wouldn’t be able to recall anything, of course, he would deny any knowledge. Jones I’m sure believes he has been falsely accused, and naturally would like to see his accuser punished.
“We will see what we can do, we tell him, and promise him that the guilty one will be severely punished.” Dennis summons Jones to his office and informs him. “It was unfortunate the Director beat you, I am to offer his most profound personal apologies. Despite the quite regrettable incident he trusts that there are no hard feelings.” Jones’s eyes light up, justice will be done. “The Director regrets that he has not yet been able to find out who started these false allegations and has assigned me to investigate.”
Jones, a popular boy, can think of no one who might be out to get him. However after several minutes of intense interrogation, and accusations that he is trying to protect certain named friends, Jones becomes confused, and under threat of another caning he blurts, “It might have been Wally, he called me a nerd once.”
Dennis is pleased, he isn’t particularly anxious to beat Jones. “I always like to start with a clean canvas. Wally sounds like more fun… Now we’re started, I’m sure we can soon persuade Wally to tell us who made him inform on Jones.” My immediate shock was followed by a growing admiration of Dennis. I thought I was smart. He pours us each a Chevas Regal on the rocks and I propose a toast to his brilliance. “And your camera work.” he adds. He’s planning to have his roommates spreadeagle Wally on his bed while he plies a martinet from his chest to knees including his most tender parts, and then have him turned over for a caning. “After Wally we should have a couple more names.”
We set out with Dennis, Bill O’Reilly brings some lighting equipment and an extra camera for me to take close-ups. We enter Wally’s cottage and the boys all stand to the side and Wally is called forward. The pale thirteen year old refuses to say who put him up to informing on Jones and even denies knowing or saying anything about Jones. Dennis asks him if he’s absolutely sure and when the boy says yes he orders him to strip. One of his roommates is made to hold his arms over the bed’s headboard while two others secure his ankles. Dennis has brought along a selection of whips and straps, including his special martinet, which he chooses for Wally’s front side. After again demanding that he tell what he knows, Dennis starts methodically lashing him from just above his nipples, slowly down his belly and groin to just above his knees leaving an intricate pattern of thin red weals. The boy freaks when his genitals are caught causing Dennis to lay on a few more. I capture some great expressions on Wally’s face as he tries not to scream.
Dennis tells Wally that he will get ten strokes of the cane if he doesn’t tell. Wally is shocked by the injustice of his situation and futilely tries to object. “For that you get more strokes after you tell.” Wally screams that he knows nothing and Dennis starts slamming the cane into Wally’s full buttocks sending ripples through his flesh. O’Reilly handles the master shot while I get close-ups of the blows landing and Wally’s anguished face. The boy’s grit erodes, he gives up trying not to cry and he is screaming and sobbing uncontrollably at the end. Dennis is clearly enjoying himself.
When Wally still refuses to name who set him up to inform on Roger he is threatened with another beating. This quickly provides two more names and we move on. As we continue to the next boy’s hut Dennis remarks, “I’ve always thought that a false beating is a more interesting test of a boy’s character.” On thinking about it I tend to agree. Two more beatings provide us with five more names. Dennis is pleased, “The world is unfolding as it should.”
I am chatting with Director Strapmore in his office when his secure line phone rings. It’s KCC’s head office in Chicago. There’s been a major scandal involving charges of physical and sexual abuse at the other KidCare camp on the island which has greatly embarrassed El Presidente, and he has ordered the camp closed immediately. “Cariba’s honour is at stake. We are not a pedo haven!” Staff and clients are being evacuated. UNICEF has become involved as part of a massive international public relations campaign and is lecturing the government on its responsibility to society’s weakest and most vulnerable members. Foreign aid donors are threatening to pull out and the Security Council is debating sanctions. Under international pressure El Presidente promises legislation for the total abolition of corporal punishment in his small island nation. KCC’s head office which has well oiled White House connections manages to obtain a special dispensation to allow Camp CanDo to operate for the remainder of the school term, a mere sixty days.
Dr. Wilfred Strapmore is dismayed, it’s the end of his world, “There’s nowhere else I could set up another Tough Love Ultra boot camp. Caning boys may become a thing of the past! What am I to do Bob?” I am also dismayed as there’ll be no need for the promotional video and my job will be over before I’ve really started. With tears running down his cheeks the Director laments, “It’s the end of an era. You don’t know what this means; future generations will never know what it was like to slam rattan into young boys’ arses, and observe how they take it.” It saddens me too. I share the director’s sentiments and remark how corporal punishment has gone from a near universal practice to being effectively prohibited in the Western world. “It’s the passing of an ancient and honourable cultural tradition.” he laments, “An entire field of wisdom and expertise will be lost to mankind.”
Suddenly I have an inspiration. I’m fairly confident that there is not much available in terms of videos of boys, especially young white boys, showing them receiving heavy floggings, and probably none of it up to the standard of HD television. I tell Wilfred Strapmore that all is not lost, and his eyes light up when I explain the situation. I say to him that we have an ample supply of boys who can be legally flogged, a monopoly in the Western World perhaps, which should be utilized in the little time remaining. I suggest we use the sixty remaining days to create an historical visual record of corporal punishment for posterity’s enlightenment. With no need for the promotional video anymore, and with my equipment and assistant here, I tell him we could create the definitive archive of corporal punishment of young boys.
Strapmore is enthusiastic “You mean we record what we were originally not going to record, and not much else?” Precisely, I tell him. “I have always regretted that no filmed record was made back in the good old days when canings were commonplace. The opportunity was there although there would have been some concern even then about actually recording it. We may not be able to preserve the practice of corporal punishment, but as you suggest we could at least record it while we can to preserve the cultural heritage.” I point out that we now have superior technology and with adequate lighting very high definition is possible.
He’s keen and we start rearranging his office to provide a better backdrop for canings. We move his desk over to where the late afternoon sun would provide back lighting and a golden hue to the proceedings. I suggest that he might consider dispensing with the boys’ trousers as this would have greater production values. The director hesitates but agrees if it is done modestly. “We really should provide reasons for beating them, or it wouldn’t be fair.” I suggest ‘impertinence’. “Yes, yes, the old reliable workhorse for caning lads.”
That night I research what is available on the Internet. Videos of whippings, even heavy beatings of young men, boys over eighteen, can be easily acquired, but I can’t locate any of young teens even on restricted pay sites. Aside from a few Christian sites advertising instruction videos for spanking young children, there are only some poorer quality ones depicting floggings of dark skinned boys in certain former British colonies.
I’m sure there’s a market for quality videos of younger boys 12 to 16 being whipped, and even younger ones if the spanking story archives are any guide. They claim the stories are only are only fantasies, with many posters saying they don’t approve of beating children in real life, but I believe they are evidence for a latent demand for visual depictions of actual boy beatings. Pity we don’t have access to boys seven to eleven.
Next morning I report to the director that we need to coordinate his canings with a production cycle showing camp boys being punished. I go into details of how the archive could be set up with him as maestro. Strapmore is enthusiastic, “Brilliant thinking Bob. That’s the CanDo spirit!”
He opens the drawer at the bottom of his cane cabinet and brings out a bottle of gin, “Do you prefer bitters or tonic?” I try it with bitters – it’ll never catch on. “Such an audio-visual archive will be a blessing to future scholars intent on understanding past disciplinary procedures. It could be our gift to posterity. Some day they may make virtual holographic museums of corporal punishment, and accurate recordings of actual whippings would be invaluable.” I suggest that the archive be named after him. He turns to me with a sparkle in his tired gray eyes, “I heartily agree.” And with another toast and a handshake we launch our venture.
The next day I return to the director’s bungalow with Billy and we film a segment where the elder statesman of corporal punishment, white hair and beard, introduces the viewer to Dr. Wilfred Strapmore’s World of Traditional Discipline by going through his collection of canes, straps, crops and other correctional instruments giving their regional names and a brief history. “While I have a strong preference for the cane I will demonstrate the practical application of each in actual school punishments. I hope viewers will find this presentation both informative and enlightening. I would like to point out that the public is generally unaware of how much punishment most boys can take, actually they’re tough little buggers as our video archives demonstrate. It is my fond hope that this archive showing real punishments of real boys will help parents and others overcome any reluctance to do a proper job.” Might add some canned applause here. Dr. Strapmore goes on to praise corporal punishment’s spiritual as well as practical benefits. He explains that Britain’s historical domination of much of the planet succeeded because their future leaders were routinely beaten in places like Eton, and understood how to utilize it in controlling their colonies. He rhetorically asks. “Would the Americans have lost in Viet Nam and Iraq if they’d had a proper tradition of corporal punishment?”
Later, talking to Dennis I mention that there is probably a lucrative market for authentic hard core, underage boy beating and torture material in satisfying the libidinal needs of wealthy, jaded perverts. “Are you suggesting that the demise of Camp CanDo is a golden opportunity?” Of course. Dennis is enthusiastic, “But I don’t think we should mention this to the old fart. Nor should we mention any commercial opportunities, at least not yet.” I’m convinced we need two archives: one for Dr. Strapmore’s old style punishments, and another for Dennis’s S & M boyporn. The latter should focus on the camp’s younger residents with emphasis on the more photogenic paler skinned lads.
There is work to do. Sixty days gives us little time and we must organize our resources efficiently. After dinner we decide how to plan out our remaining time. Dennis observes, “We have sixty boys and normally it takes up two weeks for the evidence of a typical beating to completely disappear. We could maybe trim that down a bit in practice. This suggests that each boy could be beaten at least four times allowing for scheduling. Theoretically we could film over two hundred and forty beatings.” Knowing a bit more about the problems that come up during production I say we’d be lucky to do half that many. I suggest we save the heaviest whippings for the end when healing time would be less relevant. “Ah, you’re right. Normally you know, we never whip the boys during their last few weeks here so they leave well healed. Parents might question the efficacy of our program if their boys have fresh bruises. Last year we had to pay a cosmetic surgeon twenty thousand to eliminate a prominent scar. But now?”
Billy and I set up our equipment in the director’s office. We film him giving a lecture about the tradition of corporal punishment to introduce the archive. Different canes and straps are examined and their merits discussed. He explains how employ them to maximize pain and avoid injuries. As if on cue he receives a call and a few minutes later there’s a knock on the door. The director calls out, “You may come in Mr. Brown.” A wiry Black youth, small for his almost eighteen years, cautiously enters the room. “Fighting again Barry? It seems you’ve been carrying out a reign of terror, I understand you’ve beaten up several boys.”
“They all dissed me and my buddy Izzy.”
“You know how I feel about fighting and violence, Barry. Last time you promised Change; I believed you and I had Hope.”
“I was only trying to help him, I really didn’t mean to cause injury, but he was threatening others, and I thought he had a switchblade too, I really did, so...”
“So you stomped on him, is that right, Barry? You’re much older and stronger than him. Is that fair?”
“I figured I’d be dissed if I didn’t, and I didn’t think that would be fair.”
“Well Barry, I think it would be fair to give you a dozen judicious strokes with the senior cane. Get ready, and I want you completely bare this time, not even socks.”
While Dr. Strapmore goes to the cabinet and picks through his canes Barry strips and looks questioningly at me and Billy filming him. I’m surprised how small his cock is. I tell the boy that we’re U.S. government inspectors here to protect his human rights, and we’re filming his punishment to make sure he’s not abused. “You won’t let him hurt me will yuh?” I tell Barry that I will file a report if there’s a serious loss of blood.
After holding the thick cane to the camera and demonstrating its flex the lanky white haired Director sets himself behind the dark boy braced against his desk, adjusts his robes and measures his stroke. “This will be very painful but you’re not to get up until I tell you.”
“That’s not fair, I got human rights, I should have a veto.”
Strapmore turns to the camera, arches his eyebrows, and huffing himself up he slams the cane across the boy’s narrow buttocks. Barry shrieks, and protests it’s not fair. Two more strokes land several seconds apart. The boy is struggling and I get some great close-ups of his agonized face. We break while we wait for the welts to rise and adjust the lighting to better reveal their contours. Billy was right, the cane works well on darker skin, but I still prefer white boys for whipping. Strapmore is an effusive mood as we show him the takes on the monitor. “I say, I look rather dashing in my robes.”
Barry finally gets his sobs under control, “It’s not fair, it hurts too much.”
Strapmore grinning smugly tells Barry, “It’s going to get worse, much worse.” Resuming his labours on the soon desperately shrieking dark boy, he gestures to the camera after each stroke as I close on the battered buttocks. The old man is performing with force and style creating well spaced ridges across the boy’s bottom and the dark flesh is starting to glow. We take another break, the welts or tramlines as they call them are quite impressive, but soon after the director resumes Barry becomes hysterical, he can’t take it anymore and collapses on the floor sobbing uncontrollably. “Wimps, pathetic bullying wimps. I’ve always said the Yanks can’t take it when it comes to the crunch.”
We examine the takes and I start thinking about how to edit them for the archive. Dennis suggests we use restraints to keep boys in place. Strapmore won’t hear of it, “Boys must learn to control themselves during their beatings, that’s the character building aspect of corporal punishment. We discipline boys, not torture them. I will have Mr. Brown return to complete his punishment and I’ll likely add a few strokes for cowardice.”
Billy has started to pack up the lighting when there’s another knock on the director’s door. “Who’s that.” the director calls. A timid voice answers ‘Timothy Robinson sir.’ and he tells the boy to enter. A young, maybe 14, delicate looking child nervously approaches the director’s desk and stands there apprehensively. “Come, come boy, who sent you?” The boy says something about a Mr. Grimes. “And why would he send you up here?”
“Impertinence sir… uh, double impertinence.”
“Well we should see what Mr. Grimes has to say about it” The director calls Grimes on his cell phone. “Double impertinence Mr. Grimes? … He said he was only explaining the first impertinence?… I see. That would be double impertinence.” Turning to the boy, “Do you have anything to say?”
“Oh no sir, I’d be scared to.”
“Then shall we proceed? You may leave on your shirt but all else is to be removed. Then you will face my desk, bend over and grab the other side. Do you understand?” The boy nods nervously and there are several long seconds of silence. “Well Timothy?” The boy wills himself to remove his trousers and briefs and get into position, “Double impertinence usually merits sixteen strokes but as this is your first visit here I am reducing it to an even dozen.” Strapmore cursorily feels the boy’s buttocks. “Not much padding here. I think a light weight cane would suit you.” When the boy is not crying after twelve smarting strokes Strapmore looks at him indignantly, and gives him four more, for ‘impertinence’. I approve; he is a sweet boy.
Dennis and I continue our boy porn beatings all carefully administered to so that their recipients’ skin will be blemish free in two weeks time. Aside from the immense pleasure of beating itself, I am beginning to appreciate it as a type of recreational activity demanding strength and speed, with form and grace. A kind of sport which provides more exercise than I usually get. Dennis is anxiously looking forward to beating Roger again, and although I doubt if he’s ready yet, he calls him in. “We need an assessment.” The boy is told to strip and we examine and prod his motley torso and thighs – nothing really squishy. “You’re right Bob, another week at least.” And turning to Roger, “Aren’t you a lucky boy.”
“Yeah, must be my lucky day. And you guys’re just gonna feel me up instead? Hell, I’ll choose pervs over sados every time.”
Dennis practically explodes. “You fucking insolent bastard! You’re going to get it for that.” He slaps the boy’s face viciously several times and then grabs his balls and twists. Roger writhes in agony on the floor his hands between his legs. “I can’t wait to pound your miserable ass, boy.”
Our work proceeds smoothly and without rushing things we’re on track to produce well over a hundred videos. We don’t even bother with some of uglier clients although Strapmore’s welcome to them. Young and cute seems the best way to go. I’m also convinced that quality is the way to go in boybeating videos, and we start using props, costumes and anything we think might add to production values. I work in a bit of dialogue when I can and I even interview some sorry boys after for viewers who like tears and contriteness, and juicy close-ups of their ‘wounds’.
The day before Dennis is determined to give Roger another full body whipping, he tells me about all the whats and where, and other torments he has planned for his nemesis. He’s just telling how he’s neglected the lad’s nipples when we hear a commotion outside, and we see over a dozen clients running towards the beach. This is highly unusual, boys supposed to walk in file. Strapmore bursts out of his bungalow and screams that they stop. More boys spill out of the cottages and classrooms and follow them. Strapmore is flabbergasted, and enraged. “STOP! Stop, this is rebellion. Stop immediately or I will cane every one of you.” The boys ignore him but he manages to grab one small boy. “What’s the meaning of all this?” and he twists the boy’s ear. It seems that Roger is escaping.
We take after the boys and rush down to the dock. Roger has gotten the engine started but he’s having difficulty getting the plane to go in the right direction, and for a moment I think one the instructors will be able to stop him. Roger awkwardly maneuvers the plane out to open water. It takes him a couple of tries to get the throttle and prop working, and after bumping along on the chop he takes off. Dennis realizes that Roger must have learned a good deal on his flights to court hearings in Cariba City. He will blindfold them as well in the future.
Gaining confidence at the controls Roger circles low over the camp. Wild shouting and cheers erupt from the boys as the guards struggle to control them. The plane turns and dives buzzing the crowd below with Roger waving at the boys and giving the finger to the director and his men, he circles around again and coming in low, pumps his fist and shouts, “CANDO… CANDO…” to the cheering boys, and then steadily climbing the plane heads in the direction of Florida.
Billy O’Reilly confirms that Roger has taken the bag with the master discs containing the full footage we shot, everything including his own beatings. I tell Dennis that he should destroy any remaining footage we may have, or conceal it where the authorities would never find it. I’m sure he’ll choose the latter.
Strapmore questions our concern over the video footage, “It’s not as if there were any sex, they’re merely recordings of traditional old school canings which will be invaluable to future scholars.” I explain that others may not see things that way, and that any adolescent nudity may be deemed child pornography, and with the beatings on top, and as I recall a couple of the boys having obvious erections, I tell him we could all face serious jail time if the videos get into the hands of the police. Dennis agrees and tells him that it’s essential that we get the discs back. Strapmore is shocked. “The police! Jail?” I impress upon him that we must take extreme precautions, and suggest he burn his collection of canes which he reluctantly agrees to. I didn’t consider mentioning the far more egregious footage that Dennis and I had recorded which make his headmaster’s canings look rather tame.
I said I doubt if Roger would voluntarily give the discs to the police, but that they might be seized. Dennis agrees, “He’s not that stupid. Look at the way he clung to the bag of discs after he was rescued, and he still had them when he got into the cop car.
“But how could we get them back?”
Dennis says, “If we can’t find him and get the discs back we should buy them back, no matter what it costs. In either case it would be a smart idea to have him terminated.”
“You mean?” The director is lost for words.
“Ýes, Roger knows too much.”
“If the police don’t get them what do you think he’ll do with the discs then?” Strapmore wonders. I suggest that Roger might use them to blackmail KCC, and we’d all be in deep shit.
The director gets on his secure line and begs KCC send a plane to evacuate them before the police arrive. Head Office can’t understand the panic but Strapmore warns them that the stolen footage, the unedited promotion video stolen by the runaway could be extremely embarrassing to KCC, and Strapmore has no idea how incriminating some of the material is. In a hushed voice he mouths, “Nudity. There’s naked boys being caned.” Head Office immediately promises that they will pick us up at the camp as soon as possible in the corporate amphibian, and fly us directly to Miami for debriefing by Corporate Security.
We all sit around waiting for the ten O’clock TV news, everyone’s hoping that Roger has crashed and drowned in deep water. KCC will admit that they are not entirely blameless, they should have been more aware of the boy’s mental state. Suicide would be very plausible if he’s not found. And of course better security would have prevented it, everyone can agree on that. When there is no mention by the time the news was well into sports our hopes rise.
Then a special Breaking News segment interrupts the program and we see a bedraggled Roger clutching what he claims is evidence of horrendous abuse at Camp CanDo. A lawyer claiming he’s from the ACLU dashes to his side. We are informed that the boy was rescued just off Miami Beach where the plane crash landed in shallow water. The police announce that he is being taken into custody for his own protection and we see Roger still clutching the bag of discs get into the back of a police car with two officers.
After a call from Strapmore El Presidente orders the Cariba Intelligence Agency into action to defend the nation’s sacred honour. He will show no mercy to besmirchers, even runaway boy besmirchers. El Presidente has friends in high places as well as secret agents in Miami known for their ruthlessness. The TV news says that the FBI is investigating possible terrorist connections but the American CIA insists that it has jurisdiction. A call to Chicago confirms that KCC has sent in a mafia black ops team to recover the videos.
Another Breaking News bulletin half an hour later announces a failed assassination attempt on the mystery boy survivor. One of the CIA squads was totally wiped out when it mistakenly attacked an ambulance full of Xe mercenaries. The police car crashes into a small police tank and in the confusion Roger escapes. A further Breaking News bulletin announces that the boy has been declared a suspected terrorist, and that the fugitive is being hunted by the FBI, the CIA, the ATF and the DEA. The public is warned: He is considered dangerous and may be armed. We’re told the young suspect stole a plane, failed to file an international flight plan, landed in a forbidden security zone, and allegedly smuggled violent sadomasochistic child pornography into the country. A reward of 100,000 dollars is posted for his capture minutes after the attack.
Fortunately for Roger a well-to-do pedophile named Fredrick sees the cute red head running along the side of a road and offers him a lift in his Porshe, takes him home, and even offers to share his bed. Roger learns that his ass is not just for beating. Fred the Ped falls stupidly in love with the red haired fugitive, hires a bodyguard to protect him, a lawyer who gets the terrorist charges dropped, and an agent who makes all of them very rich by exploiting the videos. KidCare Corporation is rumoured to have paid fifty million to have the videos destroyed, but then a string of convincing KCC abuse victims come forward and sue the corporation which soon declares bankruptcy leaving wealthy investors impoverished.
Dr. Wilfred Strapmore flees to Malaysia where he may still be caning boys. Dennis writes a book about the New ToughLoveUltra approach using organic, pain causing herbal extracts developed and patented by a major Chinese pharmaceutical corporation, and he becomes very rich. Roger lives lavishly but invests wisely and becomes a popular youth culture hero setting records in T-shirt sales. His smirk adorns the chests of millions. Everyone, except perhaps his lawyer is surprised when Roger on his eighteenth birthday announces he is going to disappear, “I’ve had enough of this shit and I’m buying a new life.” and nobody ever hears from him again. And me? With my hopes for a rewarding political career dashed I discovered I have a talent for preaching, became a born again evangelical devoutly believing in what I used to cynically espouse, and as an ethics teacher in a private religious school I get to paddle a few boys every week.
Georgy Poo, are you writing another one of those Cruelty to Boys stories?
I wouldn’t call them that, Marsha dear. Boyspanking stories maybe, or to be more correct, fictional, age structured disciplinary encounters in the home and institutional settings. Now, where’s the cruelty in writing about that? It was all quite on the up and up back then, everyone did it. And it’s not all cruel, just think, every time we beat some brat we save him from the agony of having to wait even longer. I tend to think it adds a nice sadistic touch if you put the boys through a bit of agonized waiting, contemplating the coming fire in their little bottoms before you actually anoint their bums with character building welts.
My my, aren’t we getting carried away now.
I’m just getting in the mood: I have to get my head into the right space to write. The British schoolboy thrashing subgenre is very competitive and you’ve got to push the right buttons, and it’s also about the easiest place to pick up a lot of red stars, or so I’m told.
But why are you always beating boys, why not say, beating cats.
And petting boys?
Well, let’s have it Georgykins, what’s your latest about?
Just a run of the mill schoolboy flogging story, you know the kind.
Actually, I don’t know George. I can’t get into your man beats boy tales. Somehow they all seem the same.
This one’s different however. It’s about this new master, Mr. Blair; it’s his first teaching job and he’s never caned a boy before. He knows he’ll be expected to and the poor fellow is quite nervous at the prospect. Not only may his reputation among the boys depend on how he performs, but most importantly, it will be the fulfillment of his fondest dream: Beating boys’ bottoms.
Is the hero a virgin caner?
And canee, as we say on the site. Actually he’s a triple virgin; he’s never even watched anyone being beaten either. However, from his earliest memories he’s been fascinated by spanking, mostly of him spanking boys a few years younger. Unfortunately perhaps, he personally escaped anything more than more than mild reprimands. His friends all got thrashed repeatedly but he never even got an ear twisted much to his later chagrin and shame. He was one of those timid well behaved boys that masters tended to spare, and being plain looking probably discouraged them too. And he laments that he never even got to watch a beating the whole time. This latter gap in his experience was not considered deprivation back then, but a ‘blessing’ he was told. In fact his fantasies had no basis in experience allowing his imagination full reign uncontaminated by facts. After puberty they became more bloody and depraved. But he kept his urges under tight control.
Georgy, getting back to what makes it different. What does make it different?
It’s a psychological drama; a tale of Mr. Blair’s inner conflicts. I’m thinking of calling it The Equivocal Caner. I want it be one of my more literary works.
Not one of your ‘smack ‘em, whack ‘em, you can pull up your pants now’, pot boilers?
No. He is a man facing a great moral dilemma.
Are you talking about yourself George?
No. This Mr. Blair isn’t a writer and he’s not half my age, and he has this overwhelming desire to beat boys which he always managed to control.
You’ve certainly managed to control your own flogging lust, you never even spanked the children when you had the chance. Why don’t you make your story into an heroic tale of abstinence. Think of all the temptations and juicy flogging fantasies, you could subject Mr. Baer to.
It’s Blair Marsha, Eric Blair.
Thank god it’s not the other one.
Did you know that the historic Mr. Blair, the great writer, once taught school and actually caned boys?
I do now.
Getting back to my Mr. Blair, he controlled his flogging lust in a cool rational and responsible manner with long term goals. It was a challenge but he knew that if he succeeded in becoming a master he would have a legal if uncertain supply of boys to beat. He would also be in a situation where his actions would not only be condoned but also controlled by the school context; there are limits on implements and the number of strokes, and parents might be upset if their brats have scars when they go home.
So he becomes a teacher in order to beat boys, and so his desire to beat them will be controlled?
Something like that.
Is this why men become teachers?
In this case yes.
And I suppose all this talk about bringing back the cane is part of an attempt to lure more men into teaching?
Well, it could certainly attract more men to the profession, like my protagonist. After all, whatever you may think about the propriety of corporal punishment, restoring the cane to its rightful place would certainly be preferable to go on having boys schooled by women.
You misogynist pig!
Marshykins, you must try to understand the depths of the self denial that poor Mr. Blair has been through; he’s been patient as a saint. Can you imagine how many boys he would have assaulted had he not chosen to pursue his sadistic goals in a legal manner?
Yes, dozens of boys I’m sure, and can you, Georgy Poo, imagine how many men I did not sleep with, but was tempted by.
Marsha! Mr. Blair is just one week into teaching: Any day now he should be able to find a boy who by common consent of the school submits to a beating. He’s memorized the standard penalties for most caning offenses. He thinks he’ll modestly start with a two or three stroker, but then if circumstances warrant, who knows. He doesn’t want to appear too eager, and he hopes his first will be one of the prettier lads, hopefully cute carrot topped Tommy. It’s so complicated. In his fantasies he’s never had trouble creating scenarios, he just does what he wants to the boy until he finds relief, victimlessly of course. Not long ago his imagination was running a very prurient ‘historical series’ where he is a Roman emperor who frequently finds reasons to whip his slave boys bloody. Lately he’s been adapting his fantasies to the more limited parameters of a prep school setting. But now there will be victims: real, living, flesh and blood boys.
I suppose, but by the way, what ever happened to that essay you were writing? The Emmy essay.
Oh that. That was when I got piqued, and venturing outside my usual tame sub-subgenre, I drafted a tale about a clandestine underground market where willing victims sold themselves to sadists. I called it the ‘Masochistic Male Slave Auction’, or MMSA for short. However, I just couldn’t get into describing all the blood and gore the story required, and never posted it. I guess I’m too soft for that sort of writing.
Pity Georgybuns, perhaps you should resign yourself to just spanking boys?
Reviewers can be a problem in other ways. Once I stepped out of my subgenre and I thought to subtitle a story to warn readers that it was not about wholesome home and school spankings, and the reviewer thought that it might get interpreted as offensive by other authors. He wanted, the nerve of him, to delete it. Actually I’d said ‘for those tired’ of them, hoping to attract readers who’re into more extreme fantasies. I of course knuckled under and agreed to them removing the subtitle. (Yes you can) I told them.
Getting back to Mr. Blair: Professionally Blair worries. If he’s too soft the boys will take advantage of him and he’ll lose control of his class. On the other hand he doesn’t want to appear sadistic. In spanking fiction a master just can’t rely on his teaching ability and personality to gain the respect of his pupils. He has to beat them. He has to beat them sufficiently hard to make the point of the tale, but not so hard that sensitive readers might be offended.
Sensitive people read this crap George?
Marsha! The archive is very concerned about the readers’ feelings, they provide icons for each story; the type of punishment and the age of those beaten among others, so readers can avoid things they don’t like to read about. If they only want to read about adults being hand spanked they can.
Suppose they want to read about tots in bondage being savagely whipped and caned?
The archive tries to cater to all tastes, but also to protect the readers.
What about protecting the children? Children are not supposed to read the stories which are for adult entertainment, and I believe it’s only the Canadians that are concerned about the abuse of fictional characters... Now getting back to the inexperienced Mr. Blair and his first opportunity to cane a boy.
Didn’t they teach him how to cane at college? I mean there can’t be that much to it.
I rather doubt it. But I’m sure there’s more to it than just swinging a stick and he may lack confidence in his ability. I understand there’s a knack to it. But you raise an interesting point: You wouldn’t want a complete novice caning a boy any more than you’d want an inexperienced doctor taking out your tonsils. I once read that at Oxford in times past they hired waifs for the graduates to practice their caning on, and gave them a few pence or so a stroke. However I doubt if that would be permitted in these correct times, and also you’d probably have difficulty finding boys willing to be beaten. What about the sons of all these immigrants? Think of the ones who hang out on High Street and terrorize old ladies by their mere presence. I’m sure many of them deserve to be thoroughly thrashed anyway.
Well you have a point, and many are pale enough for the marks to show up well. But I’m sure they’d want a lot of money, maybe five hundred pounds like the adult spanking models get. And I’m sure there’s law against spanking unrelated minors, especially if you’re paying them.
But dear, you’re writing fiction, can’t you just make up your own laws? I would have thought that was part of the fun of writing.
But you can’t change the laws of England for a story set in modern Britain. If you really want different ‘laws’ you have to go to the past or science fiction. The British schoolboy thrashing subgenre has many quite rigid conventions that a writer must respect, not that he can’t indulge in deceit, cruelty and sadism, and a little sex if they’re over a certain age, but you can’t violate the laws of traditional schoolboy punishments. It’s just not done.
Can’t schools make their own laws; that’s what I remember when I was a girl.
No, rules maybe. However, I think a practice caning scenario might make a good historical story for the archive. Think of all these novice masters waiting to take their turn with a cane, exchanging last minute tips on techniques, each hoping to get a fresh boy at his turn, and also feeling their inner excitement building as they wait to demonstrate their caning competence.
That’s enough George, I’ll skip the whipping of the waifs. I can’t see how you can write all these stories about caning boys when you’ve never done it yourself.
Well, I’ve whacked a few pillows and sofas in my time but I know it must be quite different when you’re dealing with a real live boy who’s looking scared and wriggling. Pathos, the cruelty of the master and the determined endurance of the boy. Should he cry, or not to cry? That is the question.
You’re getting carried away again Georgy Poo… And I’m getting tired.
Anyway, I’m just at the point when I have to concoct a reason to beat the redheaded brat, or rather Mr. Blair does.
Didn’t you once tell me that when all else failed you could use ‘impertinence’.
So I did, thanks for reminding me, Marshykins... I have it: Tommy was merely a bit sassy, hardly enough to justify a caning at all. However if it was impertinence he might justify four strokes if questioned, but rebellion, incitement to rebel, a dozen barely seems enough. Political crimes always warrant harsh punishment in the real world, Let me think: There’s been graffiti:‘Mr. REDACTED sux,’ sprayed in the lavatories, and I could find a spray can in his locker, and when he denies it, Voila! Impertinence. Or how about this Marsha: His plotting is interrupted when, checking said lavatories, he sees Tommy urinating in a toilet cubicle with the door open. Pupils are supposed to shut the door while using the cubicles, but that merits no more than a reprimand. However, if he is abusing himself and leaving the door open so others could see, it’s exhibitionism. I think we are well into caning territory Marsha.
Georgie Pie, cut to the quick. Can we start beating the patient lad now?
OK, I’ll skip the part about how Eric set it up, quite cleverly I think, and go to the part where: Blair holding a cane flexed between his hands, he’d seen the pose in a naughty magazine many years ago, informs Tommy he will be beaten and beaten severely.
I suppose he has to dear, but why can’t Mr. Blair just flog away, do it, isn’t that what your readers want?
And readers certainly expect that Marsha, and they’ll get their juicy flogging, but I’m a bit uncertain how Blair will deal with his demons.
He sounds like some lovesick boy masturbating while trying not to.
Here he is Marsha, the moment he’s waited so long for, and sacrificed so much for, and while originally planning a modest, two or three stroke debut performance he’s parlayed his desire into impertinence and hence incipient rebellion requiring eight strokes. He’s ready to cane. He wants to cane but worries that he is being exploitive? Or at least beset by qualms? Sometimes I see Eric as Hamlet.
‘Beset by qualms’, sounds more like you George.
But inner struggles are something both reviewers and readers like; I tried it before and got the most stars ever. Psychologizing adds literary depth.
I thought the whole purpose of the stories was to help jaded old men get some relief, and get you some red stars, or rather gold stars.
If my novels had gotten the reviews they deserve I would be famous, I wouldn’t have to bother with boyspanking tales.
I thought you liked writing spanking stories.
I do, but I like to feel I have other literary talents as well. I write spanking stories because at least there’s a place to post them and get a modicum of recognition.
And red stars dear?
Suppose I write a brilliant and innovative non spanking tale, what can I do with it?
Like your novels the critics trashed, George? Can’t you just add a spanking somewhere.
I do, sometimes just to comply with the submissions guidelines, but it can be difficult to make them fit in. Right now I’m working on a political thriller set in the White House command center during another military intervention. They’re all politicians and military types, and while they all deserve horrendous beatings I can’t figure out how to work any in.
You, writing about privileged imperialists?
Well maybe you’re right, and I and sometimes I think I should write more about real people rather than overworked stereotypes, or maybe something from the boy’s point of view.
You as a boy, Georgy Pie?
Well possibly, but being inexperienced at either end I can more easily imagine myself beating the little buggers rather than being one. As a boy I wasn’t experienced in such matters, and besides, I feel more comfortable giving it than getting it. I say give it to the little buggers as hard as premise, plot and convention allow without much concern for their blazing bottoms.
I suppose you believe that it is more blessed to give than receive?
I could try being the boy, but I’ve always thought of boys with their cute bums and whatnot as essentially ‘spanking objects’ that allow the master to demonstrate his skill, cruelty, sadism, and ultimately his red star rating.
Well, it‘s getting late, are you coming to bed soon, George Pie?
I’ll just be a minute Sweetum.
I hope you’re not too long. I already poured nightcaps for us, your favourite Madeira, my dear, and I put on some Brahms.
No, no, I just have to sort out a couple of things buzzing around in my mind and I’ll be right there Marshykins.
There glowed the pale fleshy buttocks of his dreams, and the cane in his hand was real. He tapped the cane just enough to check the bounce of soft bum. Adrenaline percolated through his body. He’d earned the right to thrash the boy through his sacrifices but he knows that he set it up in an underhand way, but only because Tommy is just so hot. He won’t do this again, ‘only fair floggings from now on’, he tells himself as he swings back the cane. CRACK. It’s not like the pillow he practiced on. It’s… AH! He waits and watches until the red tracks form, and then he strikes again. The boy barely reacts – so much the better. He strikes again and again; he likes the way the flesh shudders when the cane lands. God is this hot! I’d better check on Marsha soon. Tommy was grimly determined but tears wetted his agonized face and snot dribbled on his desk... I’ll leave it at that for now.
You’re too late George, I took my sleeping pill five minutes ago.
Damn women. Where was I? Ah yes… He’s getting to the boy, his grit is eroding. Eric puts all his strength into his last stroke cutting into the tender crease. Tommy shrieks in pain and sobs loudly. He’s done it! ‘And not a bad job for my first caning’ he tells himself as a warm feeling of accomplishment engulfs him. He has mastered the boy, thrashed him beyond his limit, and it all complied with the law, rules and convention. Of course Eric realizes his excess, he will strive to be eminently fair and judicious in the future, and now that he knows what it is like he won’t hit very hard, and he’ll rigorously limit himself to no more than three thrashings a week.