Written by Chuck, Spanking4Men Senior Writer
[We are stoked to start featuring the literary skills of this blog’s tireless senior writer, the unstoppable Chuck, in a serialized short-story about a cop who takes justice, well, into his own hands. Quite literally, as you shall see. As always your comments and feedback are encouraged and appreciated. Thank you!]
It was a bright summer’s day in a small Midwestern town.
Tee shirt weather, skinny dipping in the creek weather. Young guys hanging out in the parking lot of the local burger joint. Lots of raucous trash talk and even louder rock n roll music from a jazzed up car stereo system.
Black and white police cruiser pulls in slowly, surveilling the vehicles and the young men clustered near them.
The cruiser stops, roof rack red and blues blink on. And the uniformed officer slowly climbs out from behind the wheel, and mumbles something into his portable radio. He slides his nightstick into his duty belt and slowly saunters over to the group of 18 yr olds gathered around a particular pimped up Dodge sedan.
“You got your permit, registration and insurance for that vehicle, son?” the cop directs his question to a tall boy leaning on the driver’s door of the car, with a tight muscle shirt showing off his well-developed chest and abs, and a pair of tight blue jeans showing that the lad is fully rigged out below the waist both back and front.
Slowly but surely, the other boys in the pack begin to move away from the object of the cop’s attention, Timmy Burke. Timmy tries to look tough with a silent sneer on his face, but his little boy cuteness belies his 18 years of growth; and the natural anxiety of a teen confronted by law enforcement does him in.
“Umm officer,” Timmy stammers, “My stuff is at home just a block away. I can go get it if you wanna wait here.” This response elicits a slow, solemn sideways shake of the policeman’s head.
“What’s your name son,” the officer demands in that cold authoritative voice that guilty people all know means trouble. The boy, whose vocabulary is typically chock full of hard language and quick jabs of biting humour toward his buddies, is suddenly choked for words.
“Ummmmm, Timmy, I m-mean Timothy B-B-Burke, Of-f-ficer,” the teenager stammers out. The cop stares the boy into cowed silence, and Timmy suddenly finds interest in the toes of his Nike runners.
The cop’s walkie-talkie blares out some static-y burst, intelligible only to trained law enforcement personnel. It’s meaning, however, was clear to the cop – and and his narrowed stare clued in to Timmy and the boys watching from a respectful distance – Timmy’s ass was in deep trouble.
The officer slowly walked toward Timmy, his right hand reaching back for the handcuffs he carried in a leather pouch at the back of his duty belt. Timmy was now quite clearly in a panic, not knowing if he should run, stand his ground, piss his jeans or what. The cop had the steel bracelets in his hand, and with a gruff voice, he told the boy what to do: “Put your hands straight out boy, and don’t move while I hook you up!”
Timmy and his buddies were startled to hear those words, since police always cuffed you with your hands behind your back. Nonetheless, the boy was cowed into obedience – a definite alteration of his normal mouthy and bratty self – and did as instructed.
Moments later he was being pushed head down into the back seat of the police cruiser. The officer slammed the door locking Timmy inside and then walked back to the bunch of boys hanging near the fence of the burger joint parking lot. He scanned the crowd of the 5 young men, and pointed to the biggest one.
“You” he barked, “Step over here and meet with me!” Intimidated by the commanding presence of the cop and too scared to run, the boy who was singled out slowly inched forward, not sure if he was next to be cuffed.
“You got a name, boy?” the cop demanded. “Yessir, Robbie Jenkins sir,” was the soft and respectful answer from a lad who usually shouted or sneered. The cop made a show of taking the boy’s name down in his notepad, and fixed the teen with a hard stare. “You are responsible for the safety of this car until your buddy gets back to claim it,” the cop ordered, pointing to the Dodge sedan that was obviously Timmy’s vehicle.
“Okay officer, uhh no problem sir, I will be right here with it sir!,” Robbie stammered, and couldn’t step back quickly enough to take some refuge near Timmy’s wheels. He almost tripped over his own feet backing up from the imposing presence of the cop.
Robbie screwed up his courage to pipe up a question to the policeman, “Umm officer, how long is Timmy gonna be gone?” The reply didn’t allay any fears in Robbie’s guts as the cop walked toward his cruiser and tossed back an answer over his shoulder; “As long as it takes me to straighten your buddy out!”
Robbie knew that this meant serious trouble for his friend. The county had recently passed a new bylaw that allowed police officers to assist parents in dealing with troublesome youth, and the rumours that made the rounds included lurid stories of boys getting their butts whipped by angry fathers, while being restrained and held down by willing police officers; and sometimes the other way around.
Nobody knew for sure, since the only guys who were said to have been punished like that were from out of town, ruffians just passing through who had tried to cause a little trouble. The tales told were of those hoodlums being taken to the police station, escorted downstairs to the detention cells, and made to strip and take a serious butt beating with those big, wide uniform duty belts the cops all wear.
Since those bunch were driven back out to the city line and told to get lost, none of the town boys really knew if the whipping part was true or just another scare story made up for their benefit. But no one wanted to be the first to find out. Now, it seemed that Timmy was in trouble, and all his friends instantly thought of the punishment bylaw and wondered if that was about to happen to their friend.
Timmy had heard the same stories, and as most of the town teenagers did, he never believed that he would be visited by this new bylaw in a close and personal fashion. After all, his old man never took too much interest in anything he did, and his mom just kept to herself cooking in the kitchen or the watching TV in the parlour.
As the cop climbed into the cruiser, he put the vehicle in gear and spoke over his shoulder to the anxious boy cuffed in the back seat. “Just sit tight boy, because you soon won’t be sitting well for a while. . .”
TO BE CONTINUED. Stay tuned for Part 2.