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STORY : "The Young Offender" by Lupercal (MF, judicial caning)

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Lupercal

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Mar 24, 2006, 9:04:04 PM3/24/06
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THE YOUNG OFFENDER
A fantasy by Lupercal

By the mid-90's the situation in the island nation of Yurandi had
reached crisis point, with crime rates at epidemic level. The problem
being identified as being primarily one of out-of-control youth, the
government in Georgetown had responded with the Young Offenders Act, a
typically West African solution to what it claimed was a uniquely West
African dilemma. In essence the Act was little more than a return to
the British colonial system of borstals and reformatories, although
the Georgetown government had trumpeted the new laws as the cutting
edge in legal thinking. Politicians are like that, and in a cultural
backwater like the Democratic Republic of Yurandi, who's to argue? Not
I, that's for certain. I and my little mission in Tomboka were guests
of the government. It paid to remember that. And besides, after the
Obasanjo affair, I'm not so sure I disapprove of the Young Offenders
Act the way I once would have done.

"Why's that?" you say. Allow me, if you will, to explain.

I first encountered Ayoola Obasanjo In August of 1996, just a few days
after she'd been deported home from Britain. She was a feisty,
hot-headed young thing; a girl who was always destined for strife. "My
name is Bobbie," she informed me when we met. "Hmmm .. alright,
Bobbie," I reluctantly agreed. "If you're sure." The local elders were
none to keen on their youngsters taking on European names and, even at
nineteen, a child, and especially a girl-child, was expected to defer
without question. But this nineteen-year-old was adamant. "Everyone
calls me Bobbie," she insisted.

Bobbie was an attractive Katusi lass, curly-haired, dark-skinned and
possessed of the thick pouting lips, prominent thrusting breasts and
conspicuously large posterior so prevalent amongst the girls of that
particular ethnic group, this last attribute made all the more evident
by her stocky, diminutive stature. No doubt she had been well-suited
to the disreputable trade she'd been plying on the streets of London,
and it was not without a guilty pang of masculine lust that I
contemplated her standing there that day, hands on hips, dressed in
the same microscopic shorts and clinging, see-through top she had been
wearing at the time of her arrest. But that part of her life was over,
I told her, and she would be wise, now that she was home again, to try
her best to fit in.

However, the advice of a middle-aged Anglican minister was not advice
Bobbie Obasanjo cared to heed, and within days she had found herself
at odds with the authorities. My attempts at counselling fell on deaf
ears I'm afraid, for, although she was often to be found lurking about
the Mission, it was only for the free meals that she came, I'm sure.
Then, in late September, things drew to a head. Bobbie was apprehended
on the Mission premises after hours, raiding the cash-box. She had
also been spotted, earlier that night, running from the scene of a
devastating fire which had gutted a barn owned by one of the district
elders, a certain Mr Jaimimi. Four cattle and half a dozen goats had
died in the blaze and the Jaimimi's home was badly damaged. It was not
something I, or the Court, was about to forgive. "Miss Obasanjo. You
will be detained for the next three years at Georgetown Girls'
Reformatory," the Magistrate, Mr Bandele, decreed. In addition to
this, he noted, she was to receive twenty-five strokes of the cane,
the maximum allowable under the Act. And that was that. There would be
no appeal and, in the absence of any medical impediment, the caning
would be inflicted within the month. Weeping bitterly, the prisoner
was led away.

It was three weeks later that a letter arrived at the Mission, printed
on Reformatory letterhead and inviting me, as an 'aggrieved person',
to witness Bobbie's punishment which was scheduled to take place the
following Monday. The letter went on to warn that, "Strokes are
administered to the bare buttocks using a 40" x 1/2" rattan cane.
Persons likely to be offended by nudity are strongly advised not to
attend." That won't be a problem, I thought, remembering those skimpy
little shorts, and, with a somewhat shaky hand, marked the date in my
diary.

On Monday morning, at 11.45, I went, as per the invitation, to the
District Meeting House near the centre of town. Bobbie, I was informed
on my arrival, had been transported the twenty-odd miles from
Georgetown to Tomboka earlier in the day and was being held under
guard in a room just off the main hall where, I noticed, a large
A-frame had been erected for the occasion. A smart young constable at
the door asked me my name then directed me to a seat at the front with
the other 'aggrieved persons'. In all there were some thirty or so
people present, including several Court and Reformatory officials,
uniformed police, the attendant physician, as well as a
government-accredited journalist and, of course, the entire District
Council of Elders.

Then, at midday sharp, a craggy-faced man in a crisp brown uniform
stepped to the front and, introducing himself as Superintendent Oliseh
of the Royal Yurandi Police, Georgetown Division, opened the
proceedings by reminding us that, "the prisoner, Ayoola Obasanjo, has
been convicted of a number of serious crimes under the Young Offenders
Act, and it is under the provisions of this Act that she is to be
chastised here today." The man's English was flawless and idly I
wondered which of the major British universities he might have
attended. Cambridge, perhaps, I mused, or maybe Oxford. It was hard to
say, so thick was his Yurandi accent. "Sergeant M'wapa will administer
the strokes," he told us and was immediately joined by a tall,
athletic-looking fellow with a shaven head, a bull neck and arms like
a blacksmith's. Then the Superintendent called the doctor forward and,
motioning to one of the Court officers, indicated that the prisoner
should be brought in. The rat-faced little man rose from his seat and
opened a door on the left from which, a few moments later, emerged
Bobbie Obasanjo, dressed in the dark green cotton tunic of a
reformatory girl and flanked by two burly constables, a man and a
woman.

"Fetch her here," the Superintendent ordered, pointing to a spot
directly in front of the A-frame, and, when this had been done,
proceeded to give her a dressing down the likes of which I hadn't
witnessed since my schooldays in the 1960's. Bobbie had been a bad
girl, he told her sternly; a wicked, naughty girl. Not only had she
committed terrible, odious crimes, she had brought shame and dishonour
upon herself and on her family. She had disobeyed and disrespected her
elders and, by taking a false name, had impugned her venerable
ancestors. Furthermore, she had prostituted herself in a foreign
country and, in so doing, had brought shame upon all of her people.
She was an unmitigated disgrace. She was a thief, an arsonist, a liar
and a whore. She was impudent, sly and, worse still, totally without
remorse. "Ayoola Obasanjo!" the angry policeman demanded. "Have you
anything to say before we proceed?"

"I .. I .." Bobbie stammered, groping for words.

"Very well," Oliseh snapped and, turning to the doctor said, "Has the
prisoner been examined?"

"She has," the neat, bespectacled physician answered. "I examined her
myself not two hours ago."

Oliseh nodded. "And have you read the Warrant of Execution?" he asked,
to which the doctor replied, "I have."

The Superintendent nodded again. "In your opinion," he continued, "is
the prisoner, Ayoola Obasanjo, fit and able to withstand the
correction set out in the Warrant?"

"Yes," the doctor said. "She can take it."

"Very good," said the Superintendent. "Constables! Prepare the
prisoner."

Bobbie was then taken in hand by her two guards and her ankles
fastened firmly together with a pair of leather cuffs and shackled at
the base of the A-frame. Another pair of cuffs were buckled onto her
wrists and a stout hessian rope looped through the attached D-ring.
Then the male constable placed his hand at the nape of The girl's neck
and bent her forward over the padded bar at the front of the frame,
while the female guard took the end of the rope and passed it through
a ring at the rear of the heavy wooden apparatus, pulling it tight and
knotting it securely, so that Bobbie's legs snapped straight and her
big, well-developed backside was thrust outward and up, perfectly
positioned to receive the harsh medicine prescribed under the Act. It
was just then that I became aware of the burgeoning tumescence at my
groin. Nervously, I shifted in my seat, hoping no one had noticed, and
once again I felt that stab of guilt I'd experienced the day Bobbie
and I had first met. It's silly, I know. My reaction was perfectly
natural and I'll wager I wasn't the only one there aroused by the
young criminal's adolescent pulchritude, and by the stern ritual of
judicial correction being played out before us. Get over it, I told
myself.

Meanwhile M'wapa had armed himself with a frightful looking cane which
he swished menacingly from side to side until the Superintendent said,
"Sergeant! Take charge of the prisoner!" whereupon the big man stepped
forward and flipped up the hem of Bobbie's tunic, tucking it into her
belt at the small of her back. Then, sliding his fingers under the
waistband of her bulging white panties, he skinned the garment down to
her knees, laying bare her callipygian charms for all to see. I could
hear the poor kid sobbing and whimpering, consumed with shame and
apprehension, but I just couldn't bring myself to feel sorry for her.
Not after what she'd done.

The Sergeant then took a brisk step backward and, laying the cane
gently across the middle of the girl's magnificent bum, measured his
distance. Then, satisfied with his aim, he moved back even further
till he stood eight or nine feet to the side of his intended target.
With a dramatic flourish he raised the long swishy cane high up over
his shoulder and, looking round at the Superintendent, signalled his
readiness with a curt tilt of his head.

"Stand clear," Oliseh said to the doctor and to the two constables who
stood nearby, then, consulting a printed paper he'd taken from his
pocket, rounded on the Sergeant, telling him, "The Warrant is for
twenty-five. Proceed!"

Without a word, Sergeant M'wapa launched himself forward - one huge
stride, then another - and then, pivoting round on the ball of one
foot, brought the cane thrumming down across the pretty young
convict's squirming upturned rear, wringing from her a tremendous,
ear-splitting shriek that made me fairly jump in my seat. "Oh my God!"
a woman behind me exclaimed. "My baby! My baby!"

"Hush now, Ayoka!" her male companion admonished. "The Court has
spoken."

"Yes. Of course," the woman said shakily, then fell silent.

I shall never forget Bobbie's baleful, heart-rending cries, the sharp,
meaty 'thwack' of the cane against her naked flesh, and the way her
big black bottom danced and writhed under that fearsome court-ordered
thrashing. The Sergeant, as you would expect, was utterly merciless,
punishing her with such ferocity that, at the fifth stroke, the
Superintendent called a halt so that the doctor might assess the
girl's condition and determine her fitness to receive more of the
same. But this examination, though competent, was merely a formality
dictated by procedure. Sergeant M'wapa was an expert and everyone
present could see that, despite the severity of her chastisement, the
errant miss would suffer no lasting harm as a result of it's
execution. Indeed, it is a testament to the Sergeant's proficiency
with the rod, and, no doubt, to the many extra-judicial whippings he
had meted out before the Act came into force, that, in the course of
her punishment, the unfortunate young woman's tortured hide remained
completely intact, and not a drop of her blood was drawn. Nonetheless,
even at this point, with just one fifth of her sentence administered,
it was clear that Bobbie Obasanjo would not sit comfortably for many
days to come. Five huge ugly welts stood out like thick braided ropes
snaking from hip to hip across her bottom, each as fat as a man's
middle finger, and each a searing line of unbearable anguish, painful
beyond anything the bawling teenager could possibly have imagined.
These the doctor examined closely then turned to the Superintendent
and said, "The injury is acceptable. You may continue."

"Ohh! No! No! Nooooo...!" Bobbie wailed, he face a tragic mask of
brimming, imploring eyes, bared teeth and wide, distended mouth. "No!
No! Pleeeeeeease!!" she screamed, her broad hips arching up and
jiggling frantically in a futile effort to forestall the resumption of
her suffering. But Oliseh took no notice whatever. "Another ten," he
ordered and immediately the Sergeant sprung forward and struck again,
lashing the girl with such force that the whole of her lower body
shook from the impact. A great bellow of pain exploded from between
her lips, tailing off into long tremulous howl as the pain swelled to
torment, and the torment to blinding agony. Then the Sergeant struck
again. And again. And again .. until the ten had been delivered and
the Superintendent ordered another halt, waiting till the girl had
calmed sufficiently then calling on the doctor to examine her further.

"Quite a mess," the medic observed, gazing down at the Sergeant's
vicious handiwork. For, indeed, the entire surface of Bobbie's big,
muscular behind was a twitching, trembling mass of puffy, swollen
flesh, and it was impossible to tell where one welt left off and
another began. "Quite a mess," the doctor said again.

"That's to be expected," the Superintendent told him. "The question
is, can she take another ten?"

"Oh yes," the doctor replied. "She certainly can."

But Bobbie had other ideas. "Nooooo! Pleeeeeease...!!!" she roared.
"Make them stop! Please make them stop! I'm dying! I'm dying!"

"Nonsense!" the doctor told her crossly. Then he turned back to the
Superintendent and said, "Pay her no attention. The punishment may
continue."

"Good," the Sergeant growled and, without waiting for the instruction,
swung again.

At this renewed assault Bobbie's desperate pelvic thrusts and obscene,
grinding convulsions reached to astonishing heights of wild abandon.
Her hips were in constant motion and I watched in awe as the plump,
fleshy globes thrashed and bounced in response to the chastiser's
powerful strokes, one moment clenching tightly together, the anal
groove no more than a thin dark line, then the next moment swelling
out lewdly, jumping and juddering, bucking and humping and heaving
madly till the Sergeant came at her again and her hips jerked forward,
slamming her belly up against the padded bar. Bobbie's mother, who had
spoken up earlier, was now weeping openly. "My baby! My baby!" she
moaned. "Oh, my poor, poor baby!"

"Hush!" her husband told her again, but the woman was inconsolable.
"Hush yourself!" she spat. "Have you no heart?"

Then, suddenly, it was over. The Sergeant stooped and, retrieving
Bobbie's panties from round her ankles, where they'd ended up in the
frenzy of her caning, pulled them up over her ravaged nates. Then he
untucked the back of her tunic and smoothed it down so that once again
she was decently covered. "Thank you, Sergeant," the Superintendent
said. "You may stand down. Constables! Release the prisoner."

A few weeks later I visited Bobbie at the Reformatory in Georgetown.
"How are you?" I asked. "Fine," she told me. "But, please .. please
call me Ayoola."

"So you've learned your lesson, then," I said.

"Oh, yes sir!" she replied. "I most certainly have."

And she wasn't lying either. Ayoola works for me at the Mission now,
and she has turned out to be one of the most diligent, honest
employees I've had. And next month I'll be officiating at her wedding
.. believe it or not to Sani Jaimimi, the son of the man whose barn
she burned.

So, you see, there's something to be said for corporal punishment. I'm
not suggesting it works in every case. But it certainly did for Ayoola
Obasanjo.

=============================
copyright 2006 by Lupercal
All Rights Reserved
=============================

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domino

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Mar 26, 2006, 2:46:16 AM3/26/06
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On Sat, 25 Mar 2006 02:04:04 GMT, severus_l...@yahoo.co.uk
(Lupercal) wrote:

>THE YOUNG OFFENDER
>A fantasy by Lupercal


Mmmm!!! I do love your fantasies!

thank you for sharing this one

love

domino

Wooz

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Mar 27, 2006, 9:41:38 AM3/27/06
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Whew, intense. Thanks for posting, Lupe ...

Wooz


--
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zprymantis

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Mar 27, 2006, 11:06:07 AM3/27/06
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On 2006-03-24 21:04:04 -0500, severus_l...@yahoo.co.uk (Lupercal) said:

> THE YOUNG OFFENDER
> A fantasy by Lupercal

Thanks! - This is exactly the sort of fantasy I enjoy reading the most.

:)

z

Lupercal

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Mar 29, 2006, 1:50:01 AM3/29/06
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Thanks for the feedback, folks :-)
Domino .. I tried emailing you from your website about gaining access,
but my mail came back undeliverable. Could you advise?
severus_l...@yahoo.co.uk
Thanks,
Lupi

On Sun, 26 Mar 2006 07:46:16 GMT, domino <dom...@Domin-o.org.uk>
wrote:

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