This is a caning with a difference for Big Red; he has to lie on his back with his legs raised and feel the cane on his butt and the back of his legs, where it really stings a lot. 

There is the constant thought that his junk might get a short two as well, and that adds to the scene. 

There are some lovely welts on the back of his legs as well as his butt by the end, it's a super caning for Big Red

Big Red Caned 

Bad Boys Gang

Punishment4lads

 The Watchman’s Rebuke

A story of blood, deception, and consecrated resistance

The storm had already begun before the thunder spoke. It wasn’t just rain—it was grief. Sirens wailed through the city like broken trumpets, announcing not rescue, but aftermath. A boy lay in the street, his name swallowed by the news cycle, his body outlined in chalk. He was not the first. He would not be the last.

Inside the sanctuary, the lights were warm and the voices rehearsed. The mature stood at pulpits, not to mourn, but to perform. They spoke of destiny, of favor, of breakthrough—never of blood. Never aching. Never of the youth who were dying outside their doors.

The watchman stood just beyond the threshold. He had not slept. He had not shouted. He had simply watched. His eyes carried the weight of too many funerals, too many manipulated minds, too many immature hearts seduced by spectacle. He remembered Paul’s warning to Timothy: that the time would come when sound doctrine would be rejected, replaced by myths and manipulation. That time had come. It was here. And it was killing them.

He stepped forward—not into the pulpit, but into the silence. His paddle rested at his side, not as a weapon, but as a witness. It had been used—not to punish, but to restore. It bore the marks of covenant, not control. He laid it down at the altar, and the thunder cracked above him.

The sanctuary trembled. Not from his voice, but from the truth. The coverings fell. The lights flickered. And for a moment, the spectacle collapsed. The watchman did not gloat. He did not rage. He simply spoke:

His voice was not loud, but it was holy. It carried the weight of fidelity—the kind that weeps, not wavers. The kind that rebukes, not abandons.

From the back of the sanctuary, a few youth entered. Not all. However, some did not come for comfort. They came for the truth. They laid down their weapons. They picked up the paddle—not to strike, but to remember. They made a covenant—not with the Church, but with the sacred.

The watchman remained. Not as a hero. Not as a leader. But as a witness. His weariness was not defeat—it was consecration. And the sanctuary, cracked open by thunder, began to rise again. Not with strategy. Not with spectacle. But with sorrow. And joy.

 

Raj told Tom that he had never driven a car faster than 80 miles per hour, but Tom knew right away that was a lie. 

Off camera, Raj told Tom that he had actually driven 120 miles per hour. He said it as though his lies weren’t important,

and anything said while the cameras were off didn’t matter. He was concerned that admitting to driving that fast could cause him legal trouble.

Tom puts Raj over his knee and begins spanking him by hand and with a strap and flog. 

You can see the urgent nervousness on Raj’s face as he struggles to figure out what he should say to lessen his punishment.

 Raj is very respectful and obedient, but he has a certain amount of spanking coming, no matter what! He’s not talking his way out of this one.

Caught Lying

Spanking Straight Men

When Fidelity Feel Like Betrayal

 

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When Fidelity Feels Like Betrayal

Tonight, I sat with the ache again. Not the ache of failure, but the ache of faithfulness. The kind that whispers, *“You could be more visible if you were less reverent.”* The kind that makes you wonder if staying true to sacred discipline means turning your back on opportunity, collaboration, even relevance.

I’ve watched studios drift. I’ve held back images that couldn’t carry the weight of ritual. I’ve written stories that refused to exploit pain—and in doing so, I’ve felt the silence grow louder. Not because I’m wrong. But because I’m faithful.

And sometimes, fidelity feels like betrayal.

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The Ache of Staying True

There’s a loneliness that comes with consecration. When you choose restoration over spectacle, covenant over content, you begin to feel the distance. Not just from the world, but from those who once walked beside you. Collaborators fade. Invitations stop. The algorithms don’t know what to do with sacred things.

And yet, I keep writing. I keep refining. I keep holding the line.

Because this work—this blog, these stories, this theology—isn’t a career. It’s a covenant. And covenants aren’t built for applause. They’re built for altars.

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The Seduction of Spectacle

Spectacle is easy. It’s loud. It’s marketable. It doesn’t ask for nuance or covenant—it asks for reaction. And in the world of storytelling, spectacle often masquerades as depth. Pain becomes performance. Discipline becomes domination. Restoration is replaced with revenge.

I’ve watched how quickly sacred things get repackaged for consumption. A paddle becomes a prop. A posture becomes a pose. A ritual becomes a scene with no aftermath, no reflection, no joy. And the audience applauds—not because they understand, but because they’re entertained.

But I didn’t come to entertain. I came to consecrate.

My stories aren’t written to exploit ache. They’re written to honor it. To stretch it. To let it breathe until it becomes covenant. That’s not spectacle. That’s sanctuary. And sanctuary doesn’t trend.

There’s a reason studios drift. There’s a reason algorithms ignore. Because restoration is quiet. It’s layered. It’s slow. It doesn’t sell like spectacle does. But it heals in ways spectacle never could.

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The Waiting Images

There’s a scene I’ve been holding. Not because I don’t believe in it, but because I refuse to rush it. It’s been sitting on the back burner, waiting for the right visual—one that can carry the weight of ritual, posture, aftermath, and restoration. Not just an image, but a witness.

I’ve tried to manifest it. I’ve described the paddle, the attire, the stance, the covenant that follows. But the tools fall short. They render discipline as punishment, posture as performance, aftermath as silence. And I refuse to let that be the final word.

Because this image isn’t just for me. It’s for the bruised who need to know that correction can be sacred. It’s for the brothers who’ve never seen joy follow ache. It’s for the sanctuaries that have forgotten how to restore.

So I wait. Not passively, but prayerfully. I refine the scene. I stretch the symbolism. I hold the line between realism and reverence. And in that waiting, I remember: fidelity isn’t fast. It’s faithful.

The image will come. When it’s ready. When it’s true. When it can carry the covenant without collapsing into spectacle.

Until then, I write. I consecrate. I wait.

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A Covenant, Not a Career

I didn’t start on the altar. I started on the stage.  

I endorsed the spectacle. I posted the scenes that drew clicks. I stood beside productions that confused pain with power. Not because I didn’t care—but because I hadn’t yet seen the cost. And when I did, I stepped away. Not with bitterness, but with reverence. Because fidelity isn’t about where you begin. It’s about where you choose to stand when the ache becomes unbearable.

I didn’t start this blog to build a brand. I started it to build an altar. A place where ache could be named, where discipline could be restored, where joy could follow ritual like a sunrise after a storm. And every time I choose fidelity over visibility, I remember: this is not a career. It’s a covenant.

A covenant with the bruised. With the brothers who’ve never seen restoration. With the sacred spaces that have been emptied by spectacle. With the stories that refuse to be diluted.

So yes, sometimes fidelity feels like betrayal. To the systems. To the collaborators. Even to the self that longs to be seen. But it’s not betrayal. It’s the priesthood. It’s prophecy. It’s the long obedience in the same direction.

Tonight, I write not to be heard, but to be faithful. Not to be liked, but to be true. Not to be followed, but to follow the ache until it becomes joy.

And if you’re reading this—if you’ve ever felt the silence grow louder when you chose reverence over relevance—know this:

You are not alone. You are not wrong. You are not drifting.

You are faithful. And that is enough.

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 Why Taben Rael Exists**

Taben Rael exists because the bruised deserve more than silence.  

Because discipline without restoration is violence, and restoration without ritual is incomplete.  

Because Black men deserve sanctuaries that do not shame their ache, but honor it.  

Because covenant must be seen, not just spoken—etched into posture, paddle, and aftermath.  

Because joy must follow correction like sunlight after thunder.  

Because the sacred must be layered—not rushed, not diluted, not sold.

Taben Rael exists for the ones who were told they were too broken to be restored.  

For the ones who were disciplined without dignity, and left without covenant.  

For the brothers who need to see that ache can be holy, and joy can be earned through reverence.  

For the storytellers who refuse to trade realism for spectacle.  

For the sanctuaries that dare to begin again.

Taben Rael is not a setting. It is a sanctuary.  

Not a scene. A covenant.  

Not a brand. A benediction.

It exists because fidelity still matters.  

And because restoration is still possible.

Amen.

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🔱 The Grief That Built the College

I did not create this college because I wanted prestige. I imagined it because I was tired of seeing teenage boys bury their future under pistol smoke and prison gates. I've watched Savannah’s youth throw fists in the mall. I’ve seen headlines stained with 20-year-olds who traded their legacy for false loyalty. And my soul—every morning—is tired of grieving.

This college came from the ache.

From the absence.

From the question no one else was asking: Whose fathering the forgotten?

Let’s not dress it up.

It’s not about race.

It’s about the structure that was never installed.

It’s about the correction that was never given.

It’s about discipline—yes, even physical discipline—that was cast away as cruelty, while cruelty took their minds anyway.

At my college, we don’t apologize for firm hands and soft hearts.

We paddle, but we also counsel.

We correct, but we also remember.

And we do it without false sentimentalism.

We are not a prison.

We are a place of reformation.

Where bruises become testimonies and silence becomes strength.

If the world calls it too strict, let them.

If the courts call it outdated, fine.

But I call it necessary.

Because one by one, those boys become men.

Men who remember.

Men who don’t shoot malls, but guard sanctuaries.

Men who don’t curse fathers, but become them.

This is the story behind the college.

This is the ache I refuse to ignore.

🛡️The Creed of Correction

Read aloud by every disciple at dawn before entering the Hall of Accountability.

I was not born for bondage, but I have worn its chains.

 I stood at the gates of ruin, but I was not consumed.  

The street called me son—but the Father calls me back.  

Today, I submit to the shaping.  

 The strike of discipline is not my enemy—it is my rescue.  

The rod does not steal my dignity; it restores it.  

  

 I renounce the gods of chaos, the creed of idols, the brotherhood of brutality.  

 I take up my true name: son, student, servant, seed.  

 I will be corrected and I will not curse it.  

 I will be counseled, and I will not reject it.  

I will be rebuilt, and I will remember who I am.  

I choose legacy over loyalty to the streets.  

 I choose restoration over rebellion.  

I choose the rod and the staff—they comfort me.

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 The Reflections Chamber

The scent of parchment and sandalwood lingers beneath the vaulted ceiling, where thin shafts of sunlight filter through lancet windows and fall upon a corridor of mirrors. Each polished panel bears etched inscriptions—phrases of judgment once spoken, choices once made.

A young man named Joram stands before one such mirror. His robe is heavy, the copper trim catching the light like faded fire. Beneath the fabric, he stiffens—not from cold, but from the weight of what led him here. His eyes scan the engraving: “He mocked the rite that made him whole.”

From the shadows, a figure steps forward—Instructor Thalor, an elder whose presence feels more like conviction than company.

“Read it aloud,” Thalor says.

Joram’s voice falters. “He… mocked the rite that made him whole.”

Thalor steps beside him. “And yet you stand here intact. What does that mean to you?”

Joram’s fists clench at his sides, uncertain. “That I didn’t know what wholeness was. Until I lost it.”

Silence blooms, not as reprimand, but as agreement.

Thalor places a scroll in Joram’s hand—wrapped not in cords of iron, but in olive and ash. “Then this is where reshaping begins. Not with punishment. But with clarity.”

Joram looks again into the mirror. But this time, he sees a reflection not marked by guilt—only readiness.