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Black Hawk Young Offenders Institution

by Grammarschoolboy

Copyright on this story text belongs at all times to the original author only, whether stated explicitly in the text or not. The original date of posting to the MMSA was: 08 Feb 2018

Black Hawk Young Offenders Institution

The black leather, padded top of the punishment bench was still warm, where the naked groin and stomach of the previous offender had pressed down. The broad leather straps which were being fastened very tightly around Damien Crowhurst’s wrists and ankles, were still damp with the perspiration absorbed from the succession of wrists and ankles of other inmates who had received their punishment for whatever mild offences they had committed.

Damien Crowhurst was no stranger to the padded leather cushioning on top of the dreaded punishment bench, over which it was guaranteed that every single young offender passing through the formidable, big, black wooden gates in the police van, would end up being tightly fastened on more than one occasion during their internment at the Black Hawk Young Offender’s Institution.

A number of buckets, half to three-quarters full of water, provided resting places for the range of canes and birches which would be used very effectively in the course of just one morning’s disciplinary session. And if an offender had been sentenced to a specific number of strokes of the birch by the presiding magistrate, then he would have been given priority treatment by being taken direct to the punishment cell immediately on arrival.

There, in the presence of two or three officers, and of the resident doctor, every sixteen or seventeen year old newly convicted offender would have been stripped naked, and cursorily examined by the doctor, who would inevitably and without hesitation have declared the youth to be fit for punishment. Then, without an undue hesitation, the new arrival would be unceremoniously hauled over the punishment bench, securely fastened with the leather straps, and one of the officers, whose shirt sleeves had been rolled up in readiness, would go through the ritual of selecting a well-soaked, bundle of birch fronds, tightly secured at one end to form a handle; vigorously flick the water off in a succession of swishing sprays; rest the wet fronds on the apex of the fastened youth’s bare buttocks; wait for the supervising officer to declare and confirm the number of strokes due to be administered, and would then forcefully slash the mass of thin, very pliable birch twigs across the trapped, fully exposed, bare buttocks, thereby initiating the offender into the harsh reality of several years reluctant residence in the Black Hawk Young Offenders’ Institution.

Such had been the very recent rude awakening which Damien Crowhurst had been given on his arrival at the remote, grim, and forbidding complex of securely fenced buildings which served as the place of reforming punishment, to which the big-chested, hard-faced, moustached, virginal spinster, Chairman of the Magistrate’s court had sentenced him to be taken, to serve his eighteen month sentence for shop-lifting and willful vandalism.

Now, less than six weeks into his sentence, with the memory of the painful birching he had been awarded, as an integral part of his sentence, still as raw as his bare buttocks had been for days afterwards, he was being secured once more over the all too familiar punishment bench, to receive a total of eighteen lashes with a thick, heavy length of very pliable leather, wielded by the very same officer who had administered the buttocks-blistering birching on that very first day.

While the officers tightened the leather restraints around his ankles, wrists and waist, vivid flash-backs of the fierce birching he had been given on his arrival, filled his mind. The nakedness of his buttocks seemed somehow to be accentuated by the icy cold air wafting over them, and by the realisation that, once again, so soon after that unforgettable, excruciatingly painful ordeal, those same buttocks, still tender and sore, were about to be lashed with vengeful force by the officer who made no secret of the sheer pleasure he derived from handing out official punishment.

Damien Crowhurst was best described as a tall, well-built, muscular Tough-Nut, made so by his ex-army father who prided himself on his totally insensitive, no-nonsense approach to discipline. The broad, thick leather belt which he always wore around his rather thick waist, was frequently and predictably whisked out of the waist-band loops through which it was threaded, to be folded exactly in half, in readiness to lash the bare buttocks of his wayward son, who resignedly lay face down on the single bed in his very small bed-room, with his bare backside raised up over pillows, to await the unforgiving, punitively embracing, biting sting of numerous lashes.

From the age of eleven, when his father had been demobbed after his many years as a regular soldier, and had suddenly appeared as a total stranger to claim his role as the Not to be questioned Head of the House, the broad leather belt had been rapidly whipped out of the retaining loops; folded, and held in the very strong right hand of the very heavily built former soldier, and swung to and fro threateningly until the naked schoolboy was lying full length on his bed, with his hands clutching the sides of the mattress, to ensure that they did not fly to the defence of his bare buttocks, once the belt launched into its savage attack of the two soft, bare mounds of adolescent flesh.

Damien Crowhurst had very quickly learned not to blubber, whimper, plead, protest, beg, or remonstrate in any way. To do so, as initially had been the case, was to add to the fury with which the broad belt took its revenge. I won’t have a wimp as my son!, the ex-Sergeant Crowhurst would vehemently declare as he launched each lash from above shoulder height, with sufficient force to visibly indent the tender flesh of his son.

Even when the clusters of pubic hair heralded the coming of age of Damien’s genitalia, and similar tufts of short dark hair began to grace the cleft between his maturing buttocks confirming the rapid maturity of the boy who was no longer a boy, but a young man, the broad belt continued to rain down with ever increasing punitive fury on the buttocks which, as he progressed into his early teen-age years, and on into his mid teen-age years, became defiantly impervious to the stinging, smarting, welting legacy of the broad leather belt.

As a mere eleven or twelve year old, he had frequently succumbed to quietly sobbing as he continued to lie face down after his father had returned the belt to the trouser’s waist-band loops, and had left the room, slamming the door behind him. But as a maturing adolescent, the sobbing became a thing of the past. In its place there had developed the more consoling, pain-relieving, groin-churning, stomach-gripping sensation which corresponded with the growth of his prick, and with the compensatory pleasure it created when, with the bed-room door slammed shut, and the sound of his father clumping down the stairs, the hot, sticky column of erect muscle and flesh which seemed to have a mind of its own, hardened further and sent wave upon wave of exhilarating thrills though his entire naked body, in response to the gentle, sensuous stimulation by the fingers which had gripped the edges of the mattress throughout his punishment.

By the time Damien Crowhurst had reached the age of sixteen, the frequent unquestioned command from his father to: Get yerself upstairs, boy! Get stripped, and lie face down on the bed, before I come up!, was still obeyed...but with a deep, slowly burning resentment, and with a gradually over-whelming urge to rebel. Then, when his seventeenth birthday was marked, indelibly, by an extra special bare buttocks lashing for getting too big for yer boots, and thinking yer entitled to do what yer like, when yer like. even the compensatory thrill of a secretive wank off, while his bare black and blue buttocks raged like the fires of hell, could not hold back the surge of angry resentment and rebellion, the tall, muscular, physically developed, sexually mature young man told his father to Bugger off! and then, to the utter dismay of his brow-beaten mother, who had always tried, unsuccessfully, to stick up for him, Buggered off himself, setting off on the path which led to the forbidding gates of the Black Hawk Young Offenders Institution, and to his second visit to the punishment cell.

There, stark naked, being fastened by officers dressed in uniforms which accentuated their manliness, their authority and their potentially alarming, terrifying power and control over the offending inmates, Damien realised that he had effectively jumped out of the proverbial frying pan into the proverbial fire. Instead of a relatively soft mattress and pillows to cushion his naked body while being thrashed, he was being secured very tightly and uncomfortably over a much less forgiving surface, to receive a much less forgiving form of punishment.

And yet, the fire into which he had jumped, was in many ways a fire which was, and had been,burning in his belly and in his groin, and which was being fanned by his now fully-developed manhood. True, the birching he had received on arriving at the Black Hawk Young Offenders Institution, had been painful beyond anything he had ever experienced and imagined. The wet, soaked multiple fronds of the birch had sliced, bitten, chewed, and incised their vengeful wrath into his unprotected and unprotectable bare buttocks, skilfully aided and abetted by an officer whose sheer physicality exuded sexual arousal, stimulated to its highest peak by the gut-churning pleasure being derived from birching the well developed bare arse of a well developed seventeen year old offender.

That excited aroused pleasure had communicated itself to the tightly secured naked offender throughout the whole process during which he had been forcefully propelled by a rapid sequence of events – the sentencing; the hand-cuffing; the isolation in the police van; the induction on arrival behind the huge wooden gates; the intimacy of the fingers, hands and eyes which had examined his naked body; the verbal confirmation of the eighteen strokes of the birch; the short walk along the cold, stone-flagged passageway to the punishment cell, held firmly on either side by sexually alluring, uniformed officers, whose tight trousers glorified their strong, firm thighs and their equally firm buttocks; the initial, chilling sight of the punishment bench and of the well-soaked birch; the prick-stiffening thrill of being secured for punishment, and the realisation that his naked body was pressing down where countless other naked male bodies, mature or still maturing, had been forced to press down, to pay the penalty for their offences...great or small.

Even as the nicotine-stained fingers of the uniformed officers pulled the leather restraints tighter and fastened them securely, the very close, almost intimate proximity of their manly thighs; the masculine scent of their very masculine bodies; their very noticeable interest in, and appreciation of the alluring maturity of the naked offender’s attributes, manifested in the smiles which spread across sexually appealing lips, and in the sparkle of brown or blue eyes; the indescribable thrill of being fastened tightly with leather straps; the inexplicable over-whelming willingness to surrender and submit to the domination of men who were about to deliver an arse-burning punishment with a reformatory leather strap – all this was so different to the uncouth, unfeeling, unsophisticated, unimaginative way in which his father used to leather his backside. The ritual surrounding the punishment of an inmate of the Black Hawk Younger Offenders Institution combined the sheer hell of the physical pain, with that very special reward which would be treasured, fostered and ultimately secretly, privately and silently celebrated, and explosively enjoyed, in the quiet darkness of a narrow bunk bed.


Right, Crowhurst!

The cold, harsh voice of the supervising officer broke into the fantasy world into which the seventeen year old had unconsciously sought to escape from the reality of what was about to happen to him. The icy coldness of the punishment cell suddenly spread its chill over his naked body once more, and for a moment that chill became icier as the officer recited aloud the details of the offence for which the sentence of eighteen lashes with the reformatory strap had been very speedily awarded.

Perhaps this will teach you to show greater respect for those in authority over you, lad. You’ll soon learn that in this establishment you obey every order, what ever that order might be, with immediate, unquestioning obedience. continued the supervising officer. Officer Wilson, commence the punishment!

The shuffle of heavy boots on the stone-flagged floor, signalled that Officer Wilson, whose uniform trousers fitted intimately around his rugby player’s buttocks and thighs, and whose eyes always seemed to be hungrily feasting on the naked body of any offender awaiting punishment, was positioning himself to deliver a buttocks-quaking succession of lashes with the thick, heavy length of very supple leather. An eerie silence accentuated the icy coldness of the punishment cell. Damien, fastened so tightly that he could barely move a muscle, sensed the intrusive gaze of the officers in the cell as they waited for Officer Wilson to deliver the first lash.

The leather strap landed with a thud, sinking into the crown of Damien’s naked buttocks, and evoking from him an involuntary grunt of surprise. For a few seconds. while the narrow, heavy wad of thick leather continued to embrace the offender’s seasoned buttocks, the seventeen year old was conscious of a dull, heavy ache, which then suddenly inflamed into a searing burning sensation as soon as the leather strap was lifted away.

The sound of the supervising officer’s cold, dispassionate voice declaring One! broke through the buzzing sound which had invaded Damien’s head, and before that verbal confirmation had fully registered itself, the narrow length of thick, heavy leather returned to embed itself in almost the same narrow band of burning flesh.

The impact of that second lash unleashed a concentrated wad of searing pain which became magnified as it mingled with the legacy of the first lash. The supervising officer’s dispassionate voice intoned the appropriate number, and Damien braced himself to determinedly fight back any vocal reaction which would give satisfaction to Officer Wilson, or to the supervising officer and his other comrades.

The thick, narrow length of leather continued its dutiful assault on the defiant bare buttocks. It systematically created an ever-widening red, purple-bluish coloured band which gradually spread to cover and discolour most of the seventeen year old’s slightly hairy, creamy-white buttocks. Hisses of rapidly sucked in air seethed through the offender’s clenched teeth, providing the only audible indication that the lashes were succeeding to some extent to deliver the intended very daunting painful, reformative punishment. But Damien’s father had done a very good job in unwittingly preparing his son for the punitive hardships of the particularly harsh penal system of the Black Hawk Young Offenders Institution.

Just as he had gradually built up a combination of physical and mental resistance and resilience to the scarring pain of his father’s broad leather belt, slashing into his bare buttocks, so now, in the more terrifying, oppressive, hostile environment of a Young Offenders Institution, that same resilience, underpinned and strengthened by even stronger, more determined resistance, came to the seventeen year old’s aid. Damien gritted his teeth; clenched his fists; screwed his eye-lids tight, and silently talked himself through the ordeal, while Officer Wilson, faced with an abnormally, stubbornly defiant, stoical, and seemingly unbreakable teen-age hunk, raised the stakes by launching each successive lash of the thick, heavy leather strap with incremental levels of force, as well as with carefully calculated accuracy, to ensure that every one of the eighteen lashes to which the young offender had been sentenced, would leave more than its mark.

Thus it was, as the leather restraints were eventually unfastened, the offender with masses of red, purple, blue and black weals was allowed to ease himself away from the leather-covered punishment bench; straighten up; regain his balance, with hands hovering forlornly and helplessly around his raging buttocks, and wait for permission to leave the cell, to return to the relative privacy of the dormitory he shared with other offenders, there to cautiously pull on the coarse, ill-fitting, chafing offenders’ uniform, before resuming his daily duties.

The seventeen year old was not unaware of the way in which, with guarded admiration, the officers had watched him straightening up from the padded bench, and had uninhibitedly allowed their eyes to rove with overt approval over his entire naked anatomy, focusing particularly on his scarred buttocks, while he waited for the command to Dismiss. Officer Wilson was noticeably pleased with the results of his determined efforts to administer an effective punishment of the sort which would earn him a favourable report to the Governor. After all, promotion was hard to come by. So it was essential to not only make a lasting impression on each naked offender, but also to make an even