Travelers are invariably impressed with Singapore. Immaculately clean, nearly crime-free, peopled with citizens who are unfailingly polite, mannerly, and helpful, Singapore seems like some ideal place that IS what civilization ought to be.
There's a reason for that seeming perfection: a despotic government, ten thousand laws that govern every aspect of daily life, and the largest per-capita police force in the world. Few realize the reason why the police are so respected and obeyed, however -- at the end of the "long arm of the law" in Singapore is THE CANE!
It was the dream of my lifetime to witness a penal caning in Singapore, one of the last nations on the globe to use the cane. The opportunity finally arose when my company sent me there to contract for the production of warm-up jackets and pants for promotional items -- Singapore is one of the biggest producers of finished textiles in the world. Two days after I landed, I learned that a sixteen-year-old Dutch boy had been arrested for spitting on a police officer, and sentenced to eight strokes of the cane!
I've traveled worldwide. I know that when one has a request for something not-quite- legal, you approach the low men on the totem pole. That evening, when my waiter arrived with room service, I casually mentioned the case to him as he uncovered dishes and arranged my napkin.
"Yes, a very bad thing," he said.
"Will they really cane him?" I asked.
"Oh yes! It is only eight strokes because he is a foreigner, no one wants more tourism trouble -- we received bad stories all over the world from the caning of that American boy Michael Fay," the waiter replied.
"It would be very interesting to see that caning, I don't know of anywhere else where people are caned for crimes," I remarked as off-handedly as possible.
"No one sees caning but the guards and the doctor," the waiter said, and I noted that his eyes narrowed and he seemed to be giving me the "once-over."
"Oh, I thought perhaps your government permitted witnesses like we Americans do at an execution," I said, appearing to lose interest.
"I have never heard of it, but if you like sir I will ask my brother, he is a guard at the prison and would know more than I...?" the waiter's tone made it clear I might pursue the subject further.
"Thanks very much, please do that, I really think it might be very interesting," I said. I signed the dinner check, and handed him the usual tip -- with a U.S. $100 bill neatly tucked inside. Now I had only to wait. If he reported me, I could easily claim the C-note had accidentally become folded inside other money and it was all a mistake.....
My answer wasn't long in arriving. The next day was Saturday, and I decided to lunch in my room while I worked on the clothing contracts. I ordered room service, and when it arrived, it was served by the same waiter of the night before. I made no mention of our earlier conversation as he arranged the lunch table.
Then he began: "Oh, sir, I spoke with my brother as you asked."
"Oh? Oh yes, about the caning," I said, pretending the matter had slipped my mind.
"Yes. He says it is a very difficult matter and he will need to speak to his captain to see if such a thing may be permitted. But he said he may not have time, he has some troubles at home..." the waiter trailed off. I picked up the cue.
"I'm so sorry to hear that," I replied.
"No one is ill, I hope?"
"Oh no sir," the waiter said, "But my brother's wife, ah! she gives him no peace. It is her birthday very soon, and as a gift she wants a necklace, rubies! Of course he can not afford a gift like that, but she talks of nothing else." Aha, the pitch at last! I thought.
"It must be an expensive necklace," I remarked.
"Oh yes, very expensive sir! Five thousand American dollars!" Jesus! I thought. Five thousand was a LOT to see a kid get a whipping! But on the other hand -- would I ever get another chance?
"Well," I said, "If he gets a chance to speak to his captain, let me know, will you?"
"Certainly, sir," the waiter replied.
After lunch I went to the gift shop and bought some inexpensive brown wrapping paper, then to the bank and drew five thousand on my Platinum card in hundred-dollar bills. I carefully wrapped the stack of money in the paper, taping the corners neatly. Then I returned to the hotel and ordered dinner. As I expected, the same waiter again appeared to set out the food. Little was said. I gave him his tip, and as he walked toward the door, I pulled the pack of bills out of my pocket and tossed the package on the floor behind him.
"Waiter!" I called, "You've dropped your package." He turned back toward me, saw the paper-wrapped packet on the carpet, and bent over to pick it up.
"Oh thank you very much sir, it must have fallen from my pocket," he said with a completely straight face. He closed the door, and I ate my dinner with an aching hard-on, imagining what was to come.....
Like all well-bribed servitors, the waiter delivered value for money. Sometime during the night, a neatly typed note was pushed beneath my door. I picked it up the moment I noticed it and read: Dear Sir: The matter in which you expressed interest has been arranged. Please accompany your guide when he calls for you at your room Thursday at 1530 hours. Kindly follow all instructions your guide gives to you.
I was nearly wild with anticipation when Thursday afternoon arrived. Precisely at half- past-three, there was a knock on the door. I opened it, and a man in quasi-military dress removed his hat, shook hands, and introduced himself, "I am your guide, sir." I motioned him to come in, and he shut the door behind him. He set down his briefcase and said, "May I be frank with you, sir? It will save much time."
"Of course," I replied, "Please do."
"Please do exactly as I say, sir, or you are very likely to be arrested. Once we are inside the prison, you have nothing to fear. All are aware we will have a visitor during the Woek boy's caning. Until we reach the prison, however, you are not to speak to anyone. If you are spoken to, please pretend that you do not understand the language, whatever is said to you. I have arranged to make that plausible." Here he opened the briefcase and produced a very convincing photo identification badge, which identified me as a member of the Russian diplomatic legation. This he pinned to the lapel of my suit jacket.
"If you are spoken to, please look at me to "interpret" for you, as I speak fluent Russian. Our dossier indicates you also are fluent in this language...?"
"Yes, I am," I replied, astounded at the resources at the man's disposal -- my passport photo! A dossier that mentioned my fluency in Russian!
"Then let us go," he said. I followed him out the door, downstairs, and into a waiting car.
After a short drive, we arrived at the gate of the prison. My guide showed the guard some identification, and the gate slid aside to allow the car to pass. We drove slowly through the complex of white concrete buildings until we arrived at a one-story structure without windows, where the driver parked and my guide and I emerged from the car. He spoke briefly with a guard at the door, who nodded his head in my direction with a questioning tone in his voice. I didn't hear my guide's reply, but in a moment, the guard spoke into his walkie-talkie, and then there was an electronic click and the door opened. We walked inside.
My guide led me down a short corridor, then opened a door on the left. I followed him to one side of the room, where a straight-backed wooden chair was set against the wall to face the room; someone had thoughtfully placed a rather thin pillow on the seat to act as a cushion.
"Please sit here, sir, and do not speak. Watch." my guide instructed.
"I will return for you when the caning is completed," he said. I sat down and looked around me as the guide made his exit.
Like everything in Singapore, the room was spotlessly clean. In the center of the room was the caning bench. A black leather-covered half-cylinder, the size of half a fifty-gallon oil drum, stood some four feet off the floor. In front of it and behind it were heavy beams on the floor, to which were attached by massive chrome chains four thickly padded restraining cuffs. After a few minutes, I heard sounds outside the door. Then the door opened.
Flanked by a guard on each side, Hans Woek entered the room completely naked. The ache in my groin grew sharper as I let my eyes rove over his young body. He was on the short side, perhaps 5'8", with a nicely muscular build, longish hair so blond it was nearly white, and a thatch of darker hay-colored hair from which sprang a good-sized limp _c_o_c_k_, the head hidden in the boy's foreskin. The rest of his body appeared nearly hairless, with only a thin sprinkling of golden hairs on his legs. To my delight, he was loudly sobbing, obviously in terrified anticipation of what was to come. The guards led him to the caning bench and he was forcibly bent over the padded leather. He struggled a little as the restraints were firmly strapped around his wrists and ankles, then the chains ratcheted tight so his arms and legs were pulled into position. My hard _c_o_c_k_ screamed for release as I viewed his beautifully smooth white bottom, upthrust over the leather semicylinder for caning. The boy's ass was round and full, the skin stretched drum-tight and softly glistening with perspiration under the harsh white fluorescent lights of the caning chamber -- the least glint of gold showed in the deep cleft between those two plumply muscular, absolutely hairless satiny white asscheeks. Now the guard pulled out a heavily padded rectangle covered in dark blue cloth, looking like a bullet-proof vest. This he strapped tightly across Hans' lower back, clearly to protect his spine from an accidentally-misplaced stroke of the cane. As the guard attached the padded protector, the boy began to beg in Dutch -- although I was unfamiliar with the language, I was VERY familiar with the tone of voice!
A door on the other side of the room opened, and the "executioner" walked in. He was a dark-skinned Malaysian, stripped to the waist, wearing tight uniform trousers and boots with soft rubber soles. His head was shaved, but he sported a thin "pencil" mustache. His upper-body development was amazing. His pectoral muscles stood out like squared-off stone, and biceps like oversized softballs bulged beneath skin the color of rosewood. Behind him came the doctor in a white coat, carrying a black bag. The doctor went immediately to the boy strapped to the caning bench, and, extracting a wad of gauze and a bottle of clear fluid from the bag, poured the fluid onto the cloth and began to thoroughly wipe Hans' beautiful buttocks. The sharp odor of alcohol was immediately apparent. The boy's begging became louder and the tone more insistent, yet no one took any notice. All present ignored me, acting simply as if I did not exist.
The executioner opened a rectangular box attached to the wall and removed -- ah, how my _c_o_c_k_ leaped when I saw it! -- the CANE. Golden-colored and glittering as smooth as glass, the malacca cane was a good five feet long, and twice as thick as a man's thumb. The long weapon of punishment was gleaming and dripping from the brine solution it was stored in to keep it supple. With a white cloth, the executioner wiped the cane dry.
The doctor, finished with his antiseptic preparations, stepped back and nodded to the executioner. The swarthy Malaysian strode forward, the cane firmly gripped in his right hand. Reaching out with the long supple rod, he carefully touched its far end to the bound boy's naked buttocks, gauging the length of the stroke. Hans cried out, and his body jerked in fear, as he felt the cane gently laid on that smooth and tender skin. The exeuctioner stepped far back and made several "practice" moves, lunging like a professional fencer. Now the moment had arrived!
The muscular Malaysian leaned far back, his caning arm bent behind his head and the cane nearly perpendicular behind him. Then like a blur, he leaped toward naked Hans, his caning arm rushing forward and down with the strength of his whole body behind it. The room resounded with a strident whistling WHOOOOSSHH!!! as the long supple cane flew through the air, then CAARRRRRRRAAAAAAACCCCCKKKKKKKK!!!!! It slammed into the boy's upthrust bare bottom with the sound of a rifle shot. For a split-second following the loud crack of the cane, there was silence -- then --
"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!" I jumped in my chair as Hans screamed in agony, a sound louder and more tortured than I would have believed could come from a human throat! On the boy's naked ass, a huge welt bloomed, filling with blood even as it swelled. Hans writhed wildly and the cheeks of his beautiful behind frantically clenched and unclenched, as the unimagineable searing agony of the cane stroke blazed through the nerve endings. The doctor stepped forward and peered at the inch-wide weal stretching across both asscheeks, then applied his stethoscope to the bound youth's back, listening I supposed to Hans' heart -- though it must have been difficult to hear that organ's action over the wild sobbing of the boy. My _c_o_c_k_ ached and burned, shrieking for release, as Hans went on writhing and the executioner reared back for the next stroke of the cane. Quietly I put my hand into my pocket and gripped my almost-painful erection through the cloth, gently kneading the stone-hard flesh.
Again -- WHOOOOOOOOOOOOSHH!! CAAARRRAAAAAAAAACCCKKK!!! The cane split the air of the punishment chamber, crashing with tremendous force across the thick swells where Hans' bottom met his smooth thighs.
"YYAAAAAIIIIEEEEEOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAA!!!" Again, the youth's wild shriek as the brutal stroke seared like white-hot metal into his silken ass-skin. Another broad weal surged up, rapidly dripping blood that ran in trickles down the bound boy's thighs, as his butt cheeks clenched and unclenched faster than I thought possible. Hans struggled and wailed, tears dripping from his nose and flying off his cheeks to sprinkle the grey cement floor. Oh, this was worth every penny of that five thousand dollars! I surreptitiously jacked my raging hard-on through the cloth of my pants pocket as I viewed the caning, the two welts standing out from the creamy skin of Hans' naked bottom like strips of raw meat displayed on white satin. My hand and pocket were soaked with pre-come -- I doubted I could hold out until the eighth stroke!
The caning continued like a ballet of pain -- first the graceful leap of the executioner and the whistling counterpoint of the cane hissing through the air -- then the echoing crack! of wood meeting that tender ass with a terrific impact -- the boy's wild despairing screams as the worst imaginable pain burned into his naked behind like boiling acid -- the doctor's examination and nod to continue the caning. Over and over I reached nearly to the point of orgasm, my balls swollen and aching with need, but I wanted to savor every second of the caning!
An eighth time the executioner lunged forward, the cane hurtling down across the boy's bare ass directly on top of the first stroke, the supple wood biting deeply into Hans' flesh as he screamed in blazing agony. The bound youth's bladder let go uncontrollably, and piss ran down the leather covering of the caning bench and down Hans' legs as he shrieked out his pain. I could stand it no longer; my eyes glued to the boy's wildly writhing buttocks, seared with bloody welts, I exploded into my pants. Shot after shot of boiling sticky come filled my pants as my _c_o_c_k_ burst in release!
The caning was finished. Hans' sobbing and muted screaming went on continuously -- those eight incredibly savage strokes covering his ass with never-to-be-forgotten torment that blazed like an inextinguishable bonfire. The guards gently released him from the bonds and straightened him up from the caning bench, but the boy was too weak to stand. Still sobbing, he was half-carried out the door.
The executioner and doctor exited through the opposite door. In a moment, my guide returned.
"Did you have a satisfactory experience, sir?" he asked politely, without the trace of a smile.
"Yes, thank you, a very! satisfactory experience," I replied. Without speaking, and with that delicacy of taste one finds in the Oriental mind, he produced a small parcel containing a pair of trousers taken from my room -- he had obviously forseen that dry trousers would be needed! -- and politely turned his back while I changed my pants and wrapped the wet trousers in the parcel paper.
I have two items of advice for any traveler to Singapore -- if you can, try to witness a penal caning, for there is nothing like it elsewhere and it is truly the ultimate experience for the true connoisseur of corporal punishment! Lastly: DO NOT break a law in Singapore, or you may find your own naked buttocks on the receiving end of that cane!