Apologies, this piece was meant to be posted during lockdown. Forgot. Visited my favourite disciplinarian a couple of weeks ago. Perhaps I should go back for my own birching, given my abstraction and indolence. Alfred Roy
Wainwright and Colefax
Sgt Colefax
I
have to say that yesterday was a very good day. I have the best job in the
world and yesterday I had one of the best jobs. Mustn’t show too much
enthusiasm of course, that wouldn’t do. Just doing my job, doing it efficiently
and expertly. That’s why they gave it to me. If boys have to be birched, and
they do, best to give the job to someone who knows how to do it properly and
with some force. If you birch their backsides hard enough chances are they
won’t be back here again and that is what you want. Wainwright agrees with me.
He couldn’t do the job himself. Well, he could but not as well as me. Has said
so many times. Sgt Colefax, he says to me, I do not know anyone who whacks
boy’s behinds more expertly than you. You hit them hard, you hit them accurate,
you hit them with rhythm, and, if I may say so, you hit them with the finesse
of a consummate expert. You could have been born for the job, he says, I
couldn’t do it, at least not as well as you. I reckon he could do it, birch a
few bottoms, if he didn’t have so much sympathy, empathy, whatever, for them.
Especially the younger ones. He knows they deserve it, the courts have
sentenced them, and he wants it done as do all here. He knows that a few hard
whacks of the birch on their bare arses will set some of them on the straight
and narrow, especially if we catch them young enough. But he prefers to help
them through the ordeal, and it is an ordeal, rather than wield the dreaded
twigs himself. And, as he has told me many times, he is always happiest when I
am on birching duty. The little buggers probably don’t appreciate it as we are
pulling their trousers up but, he says, they have just had their bums whacked
by the best in the business. An expert. And that was certainly the case
yesterday. Beautiful little arse that boy had. Plump and creamy. And well
pronounced. I enjoyed, no, I relished birching him. Wonder what today will
bring?
Saw
Wainwright an hour or so ago. He seemed in a right pickle. Busy day for you
today Mr Colefax, glad it’s you on duty. We have got four of them today,
magistrates seemed to be in a right old mood. Even the ten year old got
sentenced to four strokes. That surprised me, thought they might let him off
with a warning but their chairman was in one of his high dudgeon states. Causes
problems for me though, like to keep them in separate rooms before we take them
down to the birching block and we only have two. So I have scheduled, with the
inspector’s permission, two for 2.00pm and 2.30pm and the other two for 3.00pm
and 3.30pm. Think it might work if the doc is available. Long wait for the
second two lads, which I don’t like, but blame the magistrates I say.
Wainwright paused and looked at me. Or blame the miscreants, I said. So how
many each? Wainwright looked at his notes and frowned. Four, as I said, for the
ten year old and eight each for two twelve year olds caught pinching paint and
trying to sell it. And the fourth one, I said. An old friend, Wainwright said,
you have had him before. Rather nasty fourteen year old ginger lad. He’s been
sentenced to six months and twelve strokes of the birch. Can you cope with all
that lot Sergeant? I smiled at him and told him thirty odd strokes in a couple
of hours was well within my capacity. I once birched seven lads on the same day
and never broke sweat. Got through a few birches though, which reminds me I
better go and check my stock.
Constable Wainwright
Right,
I think that’s all sorted to satisfaction. Have got the first two in the
holding cells and the doc is checking out the ten year old. Thought he ought to
go first, looks terrified, and then Mr Colefax can deal with the ginger lad.
Sorry to say I can’t have much sympathy for him seeing as he has been here
before. Checked my records, when he was eleven. Four strokes then, twelve this
time. And six months. Some never learn. Get these done and then I’ll bring the
two paint pinchers down. Three hour wait for them to get their arses tanned
which is much longer than I think is desirable. Not much we can do about it
Wainwright, the inspector said, if they give us four in one day someone has to
wait. Hope that ten year old is going to be allright. I know Colefax will go
pretty easy on him and use the lightest birch but if he is not bawling his eyes
out before we start, in my experience he certainly will be during and after it.
Even at his lightest Colefax’s birchings come as a major shock to a very young
behind.
Just
finished with the ten year old. Boy did he bawl. He was whimpering when I took
him down and when he saw the birching bench and Colefax, birch in hand standing
at the side of it, his tears just burst out. I felt sorry for the young lad.
Not enough to want his punishment to be stopped. Little bugger had nicked some
old lady’s purse, deserved to have his arse whacked, but probably not like
this. Judicial. Cold. Four grown men overseeing it. Must have been frightening.
Especially when I strapped him down on the bench and pulled his flimsy trousers
down. Had such a little backside, the two little cheeks would have hardly
covered my hands. I rubbed those hands over his head, often helps, and after
the inspector had said his piece Sgt Colefax did his usual expert work. Four
strokes with the junior birch. He laid them on pretty hard, bit too much in my
opinion, and the young lad screamed for England. Only four strokes but at the
end of it the little bum was lacerated with a multitude of vicious looking
stripes. I let him off as quickly as I could and pulled up his trousers. All
over lad, I said, and he looked at me sobbing and shivering and said ‘Can I go
now?’ It is at times like this that I reckon the friendly belt at home would be
much better than an authoritative judicial.
Sgt Colefax
Those
first two were pretty easy, even if the contrast was illuminating. Problem with
the ten year olds, generally, is their small arses can’t absorb the whole of
the birch. That’s why I cut the junior ones down to a suitable size. I get a
nice swing and the shortened tips cut into the little cheeks very effectively.
No wonder Wainwright calls me an expert. Boy did that one bawl. Didn’t get any
sympathy from me. He wouldn’t have been here, on the birching block with his
pants down, if he hadn’t done something bad. He deserved whatever he had been
sentenced to. And in the bawling boy’s case it was four strokes. I laid them on
as hard as I could, knowing the junior birch couldn’t do too much damage, and
was well satisfied by his reactions and the results. A well reddened arse by
the end. Doubt if we will see him here again. Hope not. A salutary lesson is
the whole point of all this.
The
ginger lad was totally different. He didn’t come in whimpering like the ten
year old and his manner, although nervous, had a small air of defiance.
Wainwright did his usual expert job of preparation and I got the impression the
lad was keen to get his birching over. He readily raised his bum when the
constable started to pull his trousers down and at the same time pressed his
forehead into the top of the leather bench. Seemed to be saying ‘get on with
it, I have been here before.’ His arse was a typical fourteen year olds and no
doubt was well accustomed to being belted. But twelve strokes of the birch was
a different matter entirely, as I shortly intended to make him find out. The
inspector, not for the first time, made his customary inappropriate comment.
Not sure if it is nerves or something else. He has overseen loads so ought to
be used to it. He was quiet when the little lad got his four strokes but not
this time. When you are ready Mr Colefax, he said, you have a nicely full
backside to work on and one I think you are familiar with. Twelve strokes in
your own time, and make him feel them. We do not want him here again. I nodded,
Wainwright sniffed, and the ginger boy just raised his naked arse a little
more. Doubt if he will be doing that when I have finished.
Constable Wainwright
Not
sure that air of defiance did the ginger lad any good. In fact a little
humility on his part may have meant Mr Colefax going a little easier on him,
especially the last two or three. But the cocky way he raised his bum when I
took his trousers down coupled with the inspector’s comments fired up the sergeant.
He had his largest and most fearsome birch in his hand and it twitched
expectantly as the Inspector finished. The lad’s shirt was being troublesome
for some reason and, as I had no intention of comforting him, I took the tail
of it in my right hand and held it away from the exposed backside. In hindsight
I should have made him take it off before strapping him to the bench but my
view is that the only bit of the body we wish to be bare is the bottom being
birched. Reminds the miscreant they are children, not men. Being virtually
naked would dilute that effect. As Mr Colefax says, somewhat disparagingly, I
overthink these things. I think the first lash of the birch on his arse shocked
the ginger lad. He clearly was not expecting it as hard or quick. Colefax lashed
it right across the centre of the lad’s naked cheeks and the instant response
was a gasp and a twisting of his backside. If his slight cockiness and defiance
was in memory of the four he received on his eleven year old bottom that first
crack of the birch told him that this was a totally different ball game. Sgt
Colefax very quickly delivered two more strokes to roughly the same raised
place and all in the room, especially the now squirming ginger lad, realised
that this was going to be a birching of some severity. And there were nine more
strokes to come. I held very tightly on to the lad’s raised shirt.
By
God, didn’t that backside twist and squirm about over the next few strokes of
the birch. It was only matched by the boy’s howling, and boy could he howl.
Every time Mr Colefax lashed the birch across his behind he howled the place
down. After the sixth the sergeant waved the twigs around and decided he needed
a fresh one. The bum was looking pretty lacerated and the boy sobbing for all
he was worth. I think he had never recovered from the shock of that first
stroke, all defiance immediately expunged. Savage pain in the behind does that.
I think we were all glad of the respite while the birches were changed. The
doctor took the opportunity to look at the boy and minutely inspected his
bottom. I think he can take the second six, he said, no reason to go easy on
him. His words induced an extra howl from the boy and more twisting of his
backside. I pulled the shirt further up his back as he continued to twist and
squirm. His gyrations brought his bottom higher into the air and Sgt Colefax
took that as his signal to lash the seventh stroke across it. The new birch
signalled its arrival and the lad registered his tormented appreciation. The
last five continued the same course, each harder and quicker than the previous
strike, and the lad was screaming by the time the twelfth and final stroke hit
his now lacerated and totally reddened rump. I had rarely seen a behind so
thrashed, rarely heard a boy howl so much, and rarely seen Colefax hit so hard.
This was a birching out of the top drawer and all in the room, especially the
wailing fourteen year old knew it. I released him, brushed a few twigs off his
sorry backside and pulled up his pants. He was still sobbing uncontrollably
when the doc took him out of the room to have something applied to the
smarting. Great job Colefax, the inspector said, if ever a boy deserved a well
thrashed arse it was him. I daresay he will be here again. I somehow doubted
it.
Sgt Colefax
We
have a further delay which did nothing for Mr Wainwright’s demeanour. The doc
had to go after inspecting our first two reprobates and the replacement can’t
come in until four o’clock. Those paint pinchers will have waited four hours
for their birching he said, far too long. Doubt if they will complain, I said,
the longer the better I should say. The magistrates might, he said, from
sentence to trousers down should be as short a time as possible. That’s their
philosophy. I left him to go and check the two birches that I need for our
twelve year old miscreants. I had originally decided on the medium ones for
their eight apiece but something the inspector said made me think that the full
size ones might give them a more salutary lesson. Magistrates considered
sentencing them to the maximum, he said, as the chap they pinched the paint off
is severely disabled. Only their ages dissuaded them. Did they, I thought. The
rules state that senior birches are for those thirteen and above but, with a
little trimming, no one is going to notice and the heavier implement will make
them smart more. Besides old Wainwright will be too busy comforting them and
stroking their hair and the inspector, well, the inspector will have his eyes
glued on their naked behinds. He always does.
Constable Wainwright
Colefax
knows why I care for these lads being birched, or some of them anyway. They
aren’t all naturally bad boys, especially the younger ones. Just broke the
rules and had to pay the consequences. I don’t disagree. A short sharp shock to
their behinds will, hopefully, put them on the straight and narrow and stop
them getting into even more serious trouble later on. Trouble that can lead to
prison or worse. If a hard birch applied vigorously to a soft bare bottom can
stop that then it is worth it. I should know, as forty years ago it happened to
me. I was eleven and a right little bugger. Got involved with some bad kids and
went on a spate of vandalism. We all got caught and we all got sentenced to the
birch. In those days the maximum was thirty six strokes as the officer looking
after us relished in telling. I suppose I was lucky. The magistrate sentenced
me to eight. I can still remember it and even though I wailed throughout I
don’t resent it or hold a grudge against the burly policeman who did it. I told
Colefax one day, some time ago, seeing him in action often reminds me of the
day I got my own arse whacked.
I
had been put in a small cell on my own, waiting for the doctor they said. Need
to make sure that little arse is up for it. I still remember the constable who
grinned maliciously as he said it. I think that is when my sniffling started. I
was scared, alone, and about to be whacked with a birch on my bare bum.
Experiences do not come much more traumatic. I think the doc sensed it and
examined me quickly. He pulled my pants down and told me to lift my shirt.
Being a dutiful boy, generally, I did as I was told and he checked me out.
Perfectly fit for your birching boy, he said, I have no reason not to authorise
it. I reckon I must have blubbed again as he told me to pull up my pants. As he
left the burly policemen who had relished telling me I could get as many as
thirty six summoned me out of the room and marched me down a long corridor. Not
dissimilar to the layout at our police station.
I
shall never forget the awesome sight which met my eyes and it is in the
remembering of that frightening picture that makes me evoke some sympathy for
today’s lads suffering a similar plight. They deserve birching I tell myself
and, frankly, so did I. But I didn’t think so at the time. I was scared and the
tears, never far away, started to flow. The first thing I saw, opposite the
door, was the curved dark leather birching block. Very similar to ours.
Standing one side of it was a tall policeman with lots of flashy buttons on his
tunic and the frock coated doctor who had pulled my pants down for a cursory
inspection. But it was the man on the other side, the left, who drew my
attention. He was at least twice the size of me and had thick and glistening
arms. I knew that because he wasn’t wearing his policeman’s jacket and his
white rolled up shirtsleeves contrasted with the flesh displayed. And in his
right hand he held the most vicious looking weapon I had ever seen. The long
and thin birch rod, far thinner than I expected it to be, tapping menacingly
against his left palm. And destined for my behind. I trembled, legs shaking so
much I thought I would collapse. The flashy buttoned man read out the charge
and the sentence and ordered the policeman behind me to prepare me. Eight
strokes of the birch, he said, to his bare posterior and I trust, we all trust,
he will learn his lesson. None of the cringing inappropriate comments our
inspector blurts out. Just we hope he will learn his lesson. As he said it the
man behind me pushed me forward to the bench and, at that moment, I knew that
the lesson was about to be learnt in the most painful and humiliating way.
The
next five minutes were seared both on my backside and my memory forever, at
least the memory. I shall never forget it. Hands were quickly tied either side
of the birching block and a thick leather strap was drawn across my back and
roughly tightened. Within a couple of minutes I was held firm and prone. The
curve of the bench, well designed, holding me in just the right position. I was
sniffling really loudly by this time and those sniffles increased when PC
thirty six strokes, I still remember him as that, roughly pulled up my shirt
and tucked it into strap across my waist. And then, seconds later, his rough
hands grabbed at the waist of my trousers, fortunately very loose, and pulled
them down to my knees. I had no under drawers and my nudity was instantly
displayed for all to see. As all boys do in such circumstances, I instantly
squeezed my cheeks together desperately trying to reduce the size. I heard him
snigger and in that moment I think I hated him even more than the burly
policeman who held the birch.
When
you are ready sergeant, the inspector said, eight strokes of the birch. I
sniffled again and three seconds later I wailed. The first stroke of the weapon
registered when I first entered the room, connected with my upturned bare
behind. I have never forgotten it, not the sting or the pain. And I never
forgot the next seven which relentlessly followed at a few seconds intervals.
It must all have been over within a couple of minutes but during it, and long
after, I seemed to wail and howl for England. The burning pain in my bum was
incredible and I rose stiffly and sobbingly subdued when they released me. I
recovered, as lads do, but apart from the birching I took away two abiding
memories. The malicious minder who had marched me down and roughly spread me on
the birching block, sniggered again as he untied. A nice well thrashed arse, he
said, pity it was limited to eight. He said it softly, but with relish, and I
doubt if anyone else heard. I was still on the block, trousers still down at my
knees, somehow unable to readily move, when my chastiser came near. Get up lad,
he said, all over and you took it well. And he gently ruffled my hair as I
gingerly rose. But it has to be done, you’ll realise that one day.
I
wasn’t sure I agreed with him then or even later. My bum was burning too much
for that and I had the scars for weeks. But strangely the only real bit of
kindness I had been shown in that room came from the man who thrashed my arse.
I told Sgt Colefax all this sometime ago, trying to explain why as much as I
approve of lads being birched when deserved, it should be done with kindness
not cruelty. He just laughed. You are a strange bugger Wainwright and the
strangest thing is that the sergeant who birched you could have been my
granddad. He was a lovely man, he said, but a serious disciplinarian with anyone
who strayed. He laughed again. I think he rather liked the idea.
Sgt Colefax
Well
I must say I enjoyed that. Given that we were running late there was only ten
minutes between the two birchings. Two very pleasant young arses, two very
pleasant birchings. Doesn’t do to show too much enthusiasm, professionalism is
the key, and old empathetic Wainwright oversees things much better than the
inspector. He was his usual cringing self. I mean, take the first lad. Fresh
faced blonde youngster with the fear of God in him. Thought he was going to wet
his pants when he saw the bench and me standing beside it. Birch in hand. The
modified adult one I intended to use. Wainwright did his usual considerate job in
putting him on the bench and pulling his trousers down so lovingly I thought
this man is getting even softer. Inspector broke the mood. He really is a prat.
Well Mr Colefax, he said when the pants were pulled down, I think that is the
nicest bottom we have had all day. I trust your eight strokes, delivered with
your usual style, will make this young lad regret it. He looks made for the
birch. I had to agree, a rich and creamy arse so pronounced you could hardly
miss, but why does that inspector prat have to put it into words. Think what
you like , I do but can’t talk for Wainwright, but amplifying it is stupid.
Having said that, boy did I enjoy the first birch stroke across that delectable
arse. The lad winced and gasped with pleasurable aplomb. I said I enjoyed my
job.
He
had steeled himself for it. You can tell. As I lay the birch twigs across the
centre of his behind the twitching stopped and he went very silent. This is it
the lad must have thought. I am going to be birched, on my bare bum. Hold your
breath, keep still and it might not happen. It did. I lashed the birch down
with all my might and he gasped and squirmed as much as if I had hit him with
burning candles. Perhaps that is what it felt like. I placed the birch across
his behind a second time and again he stilled and held his breath and,
strangely, seemed slightly to raise himself. Almost offering what the inspector
thought of as the nicest bottom of the birching day. I raised my arm to its
fullest height and lashed down the second stroke across the same central area
of the naked cheeks. And for a second time he gasped and squirmed and then
stilled when I rested the twigs on him again. It went on like that for all
eight strokes, almost a ritual dance between arse and birch rod. First the
gasping and squirming when I struck, and then the stillness and silence and
raising of his bum when the rod rested on his nether cheeks for the next stroke.
A fascinating, unfamiliar, ritual. I can usually deliver eight strokes in less
than two minutes; this young lad took me nearly five. But it was worth it,
nasty red stripes covered his entire backside by the last and the gasping, not
surprisingly, turned to sobs. But after that last stroke he once again went
still and even after Wainwright removed the restraining straps he still lay
there. Shirt up his back, trousers around his knees, lacerated bare bottom
kissing the air. Still, silent, unmoving. Good birching, strange lad.
Constable Wainwright
I
reckon the first of the two twelve year old birchings unnerved old Colefax a
little. Never seen him like that before. Reckon it affected the second one,
that boy was dealt with so quickly he hardly had time to get his trousers down.
Howled through all his eight strokes and was in and out of the birching room
within about five minutes. But the blonde lad, well that was different.
Inspector couldn’t resist making a comment as we were all leaving. Good days
work Colefax, and you Wainwright, very good days work. That blonde chappie bit
of a strange one though. Only twelve, but if I didn’t know different I would
say he was almost enjoying it. Do you know different inspector, I thought.
Doubt it. We get all sorts in here and one or two of them seem to take it in
their stride. Rarely from Colefax though and usually a bit older than the
blonde lad. He looked scared to death when they brought him in but I noticed a
change as I tied him to the bench. He was still struggling a bit but he seemed
to relax when I pulled his trousers down. Almost, and I say this carefully,
almost as if he was conditioned to it. And when Mr Colefax laid that birch,
bloody convinced it was an adult one, across him he went still as a duck pond
and raised himself up. Offering himself. It went on like that throughout.
Colefax was definitely spooked by it. Didn’t stop him whacking the arse as hard
as he possibly could and getting a few howls and gasps into the bargain. But
spooked all the same. Especially as no matter how hard he lashed his birch rod
into that pleasing behind it still raised itself, dutifully, for the next one.
Like a well trained dog who regularly gets whipped. And I became even more
convinced that this lad both took and accepted beatings stoically, if not
pleasurably, after it was over. He lay still on the bench for an age, pants
round knees and red wealed backside in the air, no desire to get up or get
dressed. I had to nudge him. Strange lad, strange birching. And as he left,
still sobbing a bit because it clearly hurt, he said something even stranger. Thank
you sir, he said to Mr Colefax, my father would approve, you beat so well. It
is the first time ever that I have seen the inspector lost for words.
The Inspector
A
most satisfactory day, some excellent birching, and some excellent backsides.
Two in particular. There is something very satisfying in seeing Mr Wainwright
strap the boys down and bare their bottoms. And it amuses me to see the reactions.
Bottoms of all shapes and sizes quivering and twitching in anticipation of what
is to come. And do those bottoms wriggle when Mr Colefax gets to work. An
expert wielder of the birch. I think it was a piece of administrative genius
when I paired him and Constable Wainwright together. Much my best team in these
matters. Wainwright gentle and sympathetic and Colefax stern and eager. One
comforts and the other concerns. And I think they appreciate my little
comments. When a boy’s bottom is pleasing, as some surprisingly are, it does
not hurt to mention it. I think it puts everyone at their ease. Except the boy
being birched of course. That would never do.
Alfred Roy (2020)