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The Magistrate
Deals with a 'conker' collector

by John Lambert

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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: 12 Feb 2018

The police constable was a rather poetic young man. He explained why Martin Dean, the accused, had been summoned to appear before the juvenile court over which I presided.

I was on duty, the officer explained, patrolling my usual beat. I made my way through winding lanes, between high hedges, enjoying the sultry tranquillity of a day whose silence was broken only by the sound of bird-song, the mellow nickering of horses and the occasional lowing of a cow.

The officer’s voice then took on a different, more serious, tone. The accused, having trespassed on private property, scrambled out from under the hedge, more or less in front of me. He saw me and immediate starting running.

You can’t blame me for that! The culprit blurted out. It was an unwise intervention. There was much tut-tutting from the Public Gallery at the defendant’s effrontery. After the interruption an outraged silence filled the court. Everybody stared at the miscreant, united in ill will. Wisely, Dean said nothing further.

I called him to stop, but he simply ran faster. The constable stated when he resumed. Indignation was clear in his voice. I struggled to keep pace, the policeman recalled, Dean was moving at getaway speed but eventually I nabbed the rogue by the collar, the officer explained, and was able to lay him by the heels. The officer then added. Dean yelled unhand me, you cur and then briefly tried the far-fetched pretence that he was lost. A tell-tale blush crept into the boy’s face; it was plain to see the rascal’s guilt.

Indeed, the constable then added tellingly, Dean is well known to the constabulary.

This won’t do young man, I said austerely, as I peered over my glasses and wagged an admonishing finger, it won’t do at all.

I was collecting conkers. I doesn’t matter, I didn’t do any harm. The accused pleaded in a beseeching voice.

Dean had no horse chestnuts about his person when taken into custody. The constable added importantly.

I was unlucky, I didn’t find any. Dean bellowed.

You disobeyed society’s laws in a daring fashion. I took a deep breath. And worse, you see no harm in doing so. I enjoyed the mutters of approval that rose from those in attendance.

It was just a bit of mischief. Dean, who was plainly an argumentative young fellow, added in a voice that was not quite steady. There was a snort of derision from the back of the court.

A birch rod, applied vigorously and frequently to the naked buttocks of a juvenile, is the prefect device to rein in any appetite for mischief. I replied. My remark drew further expressions of support.

Dean’s behaviour has been wholly unacceptable. I stated. Boys must be made to understand the drawbacks of falling foul of the law. No boy can afford to be careless of his reputation, and Dean is a boy with a tarnished reputation. Already, at a young age, Dean is a shady customer. Undoubtedly, corporal punishment is good for the young. A brisk birching will improve the accused’s character immeasurably. I stated with a touch of mustard in my tone. Dean’s expression shifted from one of defiance to one of dismay. He raised his eyes and stared searchingly at me. I decided, once more, to indulge myself in the pleasurable pastime of watching a juvenile having his bare buttocks thrashed with a birch rod.

Six strokes of the birch.

I announced trying to keep the delight from my voice. A moment of stunned and horrified amazement showed on the miscreant’s face. A man in the Public Gallery clapped his hands in delight. Birching youths was a task carried out with brisk efficiency. No delay was entertained, no appeal could be lodged. Justice was instant.


I reached the Punishment Room before the culprit. Sergeant Hawkins was already present. He had about him an air of radiant bonhomie. He took off his jacket and rolled his shirtsleeves up as far as his muscular arms would permit. He then grasped the birch rod and flexed and swished his instrument of punishment. The sergeant licked his lips like a cat at the thought of a mouse. At that moment, Dean was propelled firmly into the Punishment Room by a pair of constables barely older than himself. They escorted him as if to a challenge that he had been shyly avoiding. The rascal wore a troubled expression. He glanced around the room with a high degree of apprehension. Dean’s eyes bulged as if about to burst. His face was white and sheened with sweat. The anxious boy peered at the birch rod. His curiosity was liberally tinged with fear. Hawkins swished the rod. The culprit gulped and took an involuntary step backwards. Dean’s eyes took on a pleading expression.

Other observers arrived and soon the room began to fill up. It must have been frightening for the culprit to behold the look of stern purposefulness on the sergeant’s face and the grim unsympathetic expressions of those who had accumulated to watch him being beaten. Hawkins wagged his birch eagerly as he anticipated crashing the rod across Dean’s naked buttocks. The to-be-birched boy stood with his head bowed wringing his hands. Shame was written on the miscreant’s every feature and in his posture.

Trousers and underwear down! Hawkins demanded in a menacing voice.

To emphasise his authority, the sergeant swished and slashed the birch rod with particular vigour. The culprit blanched and took a step backward before the officer’s hostile gaze. The youth stood congealed, he stared at the birch rod. Dean looked as if he was about to faint. He remained still with his mouth hanging slack. The young man then pulled himself together and unbuckled his belt. Next, he started to fumble with his fly buttons. Dean lowered his trousers to ankle level. When Dean pushed his underwear down, he blushed to the roots of his hair. The two young constables, bustled the culprit across to the birching bench. They then thrust him unceremoniously over the apparatus and started to fasten restraining straps to the rascal’s wrists and ankles. Dean was utterly obedient and obliging during the process. Soon, the officers stepped back. There was almost complete silence. The only sound in the room was that of Dean’s rapid and heavy breathing.


A constable lifted the culprit’s shirt-tail away. The picturesque shapes of Dean’s mightily attractive buttocks were revealed. The cheeks were taut and firm. At this, undeniably thrilling, part of the boy-birching procedure there was a universal stiffening as all heads turned to appraise the rascal’s naked backside. Those assembled to watch the punishment gawped at the culprit’s bare bottom with intense absorption. This moment of revelation is inevitably followed by a spell of breathless silence. The period of reflection then gives way to whispered conversation, after which most observers adopt studiously blank expressions. The sergeant’s gaze contained a smouldering and hungry gleam. I stared in rapt admiration at Dean’s marvellous buttocks. I felt a tug of jealousy. I was envious of the delightful occupation that the sergeant had landed for himself. Hawkins let out what sounded suspiciously like a sigh of pleasurable anticipation. However, it was clear from the officer’s facial expression that stern mental discipline had trained him to concentrate on his duty, which was to roast the miscreant’s bare bottom. No doubt Dean, in addition to feelings of dread, felt supremely foolish. His current plight, buttocks bared, exposed for all to ogle and about to be birched with alacrity by a determined police officer, was not to be coveted. I and my fellow spectators continued to study Dean’s bottom shamelessly. By now further observers had gathered to watch the birching. Looks of burgeoning excitement filled every face. The assembled throng longed to experience the pleasure of witnessing a youth have his buttocks thrashed.


Hawkins launched himself into action with great zeal. The sergeant’s swing of the birch was so swift it occurred in the blink of an eye. The stroke was of such ferocity that it resulted in a near-collective gasp from those present. Dean let out a grumble of protest after the rod lashed against his rump. A wave of pink suffused a broad swathe of the rascal’s cheeks. My heart thumped uncomfortably with excitement. I placed my hand surreptitiously inside my trouser pocket. I smiled as I allowed my fingers to caress the shape of the big excited hardness within my underwear. Although a large, dour and taciturn man, when birching delinquents Sergeant Hawkins transformed himself into a character of jolly sprightliness. Despite his size the sergeant’s movements were always graceful, a joy to watch, especially when punishing youths. It was impossible to mistake the malevolent relish in the sergeant’s eyes as he appraised the darkening welts and flecks on Dean’s bottom. I noted that the sergeant’s knuckles whitened as his fist tightened its grip on the birch. The officer’s eyes danced merrily as he swung massively to heave his second stroke against the youth’s rump. The rascal’s cheeks were aflame and he acknowledged his misery by groaning loudly. The sergeant was unable to suppress a triumphant smirk as, once more, he positioned his birch rod against the youth’s rosy bottom. Hawkins, with the birch rod held in two hands and his feet far apart, twisted and launched his third blow. Dean moaned after the stroke landed and then wriggled and writhed. The rascal jerked against his restraints, but his efforts to free himself were in vain. Two constables hovered nearby, but Dean never appeared likely to release himself. Several observers chuckled merrily at the youth’s obvious discomfort.


As was usual when Hawkins conducted a birching there was a pause at the mid-point. The policeman whistled a melody with apparent pleasure as he appraised Dean’s battered bottom. Admiration for the decoration on the backside, which was doomed to suffer much further, seemed briefly to deprive the punishment process of momentum. After a pause, the sergeant licked his lips, and I thought I detected that his eyes glistened as he, at last, once more, positioned his birch rod against the youth’s buttocks. Excitement became palpable when Hawkins started to tap his rod across the culprit’s behind. The observers’ faces gleamed. Hawkins delivered a fourth stroke. A loud groan came from the miscreant. We spectators were spell-bound. Hawkins, who exuded a sense of unassailable purpose, peered with undivided attention at the Dean’s darkly pink behind. There was a frown of concentration on the officer’s face as he decided where, upon the culprit’s buttocks, he should next strike. When birching the bottoms of delinquents, Hawkins possessed an ardour that was unquenchable. He birched with formidable ruthlessness, any youth receiving a blow from a birch rod wielded by him was sure to squirm in dismay. A small smile flickered across the sergeant’s mouth, but his eyes were solemn as he gazed at Dean’s quivering rump cheeks. The sergeant finished cogitating about where to position his next stroke. Hawkins patted the birch against the rascal’s rump. The buttock cheeks flinched in anticipation of the blow. Hawkins swung the rod. The birch approached the Dean’s bottom with startling velocity and struck with a reverberating crack that filled the room. Undetected by anybody, I realised that my fingers had been working with increasing vigour. For fear of becoming over-excited, which might have had embarrassing results, I withdrew my hand from inside my pocket and folded my arms. After the penultimate blow the miscreant’s buttocks reddened dramatically. Dean moaned ever more loudly. No matter how many boys Hawkins birched, he always seemed to deliver every blow with a dogged devotion to duty. Each stroke was packed with power. Once more the sergeant swung the birch rod and it slammed against Dean’s backside with wicked force for a sixth and final time. The culprit released a nerve-jarring squeal. The sergeant’s face was splendidly impassive as he gazed at the youth’s thoroughly punished buttocks.


The constables released Dean from his restraints. Hawkins, whose lips lay in a happy curve, wore the replete look of a flagellant that has enjoyed conducting a thorough and well-deserved thrashing. His face was wreathed in a great sly smile, which broadened into something suspiciously like a grin when Dean, at the first opportunity, clutched his much damaged buttocks and gave them a vigorous massage. The boy then moodily fingered the spreading swathe of red across his backside. The culprit, whose face was in a constant state of grimace, had not entirely recovered his composure when he was led away. The observers, all with other business to attend to, melted away. Many gabbled excitably as they made their exits. Several made a point of commending Hawkins on his stellar performance. Opinions were universally glowing. The intensity of the party occurring inside my underwear had diminished but, nevertheless I left the Punishment Room to seek privacy and effect proper relief.

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