Rev Crick has three young university students staying with him as paying guests. In part one his latest lodger nineteen-year-old Craig was caned for his idleness during the past year. Now, he is about to discover that the vicar does more on a Sunday than preach sermons.
It was the first Sunday after Craig arrived as Rev Crick’s latest paying guest. His fellow lodgers Tommy and Bob were in the vicarage garden deep in conversation.
Tommy was rather apprehensive. “I know I’m for it. I think he found out.”
“Found out what?” Bob was intrigued. Whatever it was that the vicar had “found out” would have very painful consequences for his pal.
“I think he’s been in my room. You know the way he does, checking we don’t have cigarettes and booze and stuff.”
Yes, Bob indeed knew. A couple of weeks earlier Crick had found a half bottle of whisky in his room. The nineteen-year-old had hidden it inside a football sock and stuffed it away at the back of his wardrobe, but the nosey vicar had rummaged around among his things until he found it.
That had got Bob a hard slippering: on the bare, of course.
“What did he find? Cigarettes?” Cigarette smoking was a serious crime at Crick’s vicarage and could get a boy a stiff caning. Even though Crick himself smoked like a chimney. The reverend was definitely a man who believed: “Do as I say, not as I do.”
“No,” Tommy flushed pink at the thought of it. “It’s not cigarettes.”
“What then? Not whisky like me. Wow! You’ll get an arse warming if it is.”
The twenty-year-old’s blush deepened and he lowered his voice to hardly a whisper, “No, I think he saw my copy of Parade.”
Bob guffawed. He couldn’t help it. The vicar had been rooting through Tommy’s girlie magazine.
“How do you know?”
“I think it was moved. It wasn’t where I left it, I’m sure.”
“Wouldn’t he have said something by now?”
“I don’t know, maybe he’s saving it up for the Reckoning.”
“Maybe he took it away and had a wank and he doesn’t want you to know.” Bob instantly regretted saying it. He had a big mouth sometimes, he knew that. And, Tommy was such a prude: he hated people using that kind of language.
Tommy wanted to change the conversation. “Are you up for anything?”
Bob thought for a moment. The trouble with the Sunday Reckoning was that you couldn’t always be sure if your misbehaviour had been discovered.
“I don’t know. I’m pretty certain he saw my bedroom was a mess yesterday.”
Suddenly Bob realised Craig was standing just behind him. The new lodger had a puzzled expression.
“What are you two talking about?” Craig had only been with the vicar for a few days, but even in such a short time he had learnt Rev Crick had some decidedly odd ways.
Tommy blushed again and turned away; he didn’t want Craig to know he looked at girlie mags.
Bob smiled. So, the nineteen-year-old didn’t know about the Sunday Reckoning. Well, wasn’t he in for a shock.
“It’s Sunday,” Bob teased his new friend. “Don’t you know what that means?” His eyes shone with mischief.
Yes, of course, he did. “Sunday; it’s church.” But his answer only broadened Bob’s grin.
“Yes,” he had an infectious smile; his whole face lit up. It was impossible not to love him when this happened. Perhaps, not quite “impossible”; Craig was a little irritated. What was it the boys were keeping from him?
“Did Crick not tell you what happens later on Sunday? After supper?” Bob’s teeth were shining though his open lips.
Craig’s eyes betrayed the nineteen-year-old’s impatience.
“Oh, tell him Bob,” Tommy had been listening from a safe distance. “He’s got to know.”
Craig’s heart beat faster; instinctively he knew he was not going to like this. “Know what?”
“We call it the Sunday Reckoning. After supper we all go into Crick’s study,” Bob began.
Craig paled; he remembered the reverend’s study. When he checked his backside in the mirror this morning there were still six distinct marks where the reverend had caned him on his first day at the vicarage.
Bob continued, “Then he goes through our week. What we have been doing. Whether we’ve done all our chores and such like. Then he checks the grades we are getting on our essays at the university.”
Craig didn’t need to hear any more. In his mind’s eye he saw the two curve handled canes hanging on the wall in Crick’s study. “And then he canes us,” he finished Bob’s sentence.
“Actually, no.” It sounded as if Bob had taken offence at Craig. “We get caned for big things; but on Sundays it’s usually the slipper or taws.”
“Or the paddle,” Tommy chimed in, speaking as if the reverend’s punishment sessions were the most natural way to spend a lazy Sunday.
“So you get spanked every Sunday?” Craig needed to understand this. His mind whirled as he recounted the events since his arrival at the vicarage. Had he done anything to earn a sore backside? Was there anything he could do to prevent the vicar blistering his buttocks – whenever he wanted to?
“No,” Tommy nodded his head sagely, “not every Sunday.”
“Unless you’re Ryan!” Bob guffawed and Tommy blushed again.
Bob grinned, “The student who used to have your room.”
“He used to get the slipper every week,” Tommy chimed in. “Come rain or shine.”
“Yes,” Bob laughed, “But he enjoyed it.”
“Yes, he did rather,” Tommy giggled.
“Bent over, touching toes, trousers and pants at his ankles, while Rev. spanked his bare arse with an old plimsoll,” Bob smiled.
“What happened to him?”
“He finished university and went up to London,” Bob laughed. “I’m surprised he doesn’t make a return visit ever week – just for maintenance, as it were.”
Just then the church bells rang. It was time for the church service.
It was eight o’clock precisely and the three young men stood in the study shuffling their feet in front of Rev Crick’s magnificent leather-topped desk. It reminded Craig of his visits to the housemaster at school. They were always extremely painful. Would this be the same? Was he in for a spanking? He couldn’t be sure. Had he broken any rules?
They were dressed in their “Sunday best”: smart trousers, white shirts and sober ties. Craig hardly listened as the vicar catalogued the deeds of his two companions. Craig’s eyes were transfixed on the two canes hanging on hooks on the wall. The one the vicar had used to beat him was missing, replaced by a thicker more vicious Malacca rod. Even from a distance Craig could see the ridges on the cane every three or four inches along its length. That weapon could really take a boy’s arse off.
“So Tommy, you were late for breakfast on Tuesday,” the vicar intoned.
Tommy flushed deep pink. Thankfully, the vicar did not know why he was late. He had put the girlie magazine to good use. If Rev Crick knew that the young man had been playing with himself, his Malacca cane would be taken from its hook.
“That’s the second time you have been late in a week. I did warn you of the consequences, did I not?”
It might have been a rhetorical question, but Tommy mumbled a response.
“So,” the vicar wheezed as he lent forward and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. “You know what we must do.”
He reached in and withdrew a worn white plimsoll.
Craig blinked in wonderment. He had seen plenty of such footwear at school. Everybody wore them for gym class. But, he had never seen one as worn as this. The sole was almost smooth except where the rubber had perished so much that holes had appeared. Either someone had run a dozen marathons in this or it had been put across thousands of backsides in its time.
Rev Crick walked from behind his desk into the centre of the room. Bob and Craig moved to one side to let him pass. Tommy stood rooted; he knew what was coming next. He was in no hurry to proceed.
The vicar squeezed the springy slipper in his hand, stared Tommy in the eye and said, “You know the drill. Please don’t waste my time.”
Tommy did indeed know the drill. It had been three weeks since he had last been dealt with at the Vicar’s Reckoning. That plimsoll had stung like blazes.
The twenty-year-old had been spanked many times, and often in public. Even so, he never quite got used to it. So, with hands shaking, he undid the top button of his blue pin-striped trousers. They were tailor-made and fitted him perfectly; he didn’t need a belt to keep them up.
Avoiding eye contact with the three other men in the room, Tommy slid the zip fastener and opened the front of his trousers. Gravity did the rest and gently they slid down his legs. Tommy closed his eyes, felt for the waistband of his white Y-front underpants and slowly sent them in the same direction to meet his trousers at his shins.
Craig gaped. He had never seen anything quite like this. The vicar was about to spank the bare bottom of his twenty-year-old lodger. And, the young man was going to let him do it. Yet, in some way that Craig could not quite explain, it seemed perfectly natural. He had himself bent over submissively for six-of-the-best from Rev Crick’s whippy school cane and he knew darn well that when it was his turn to present himself to the vicar for a spanking he would do so without fuss.
Tommy spread his feet a little and bent forward at the waist. He was an athletic young man and his fingertips reached his toes with ease. All the while, his knees remained straight.
Crick seemed eager to get on with the show. He took the tail of Tommy’s shirt and pushed it up the young man’s back so it bunched over his shoulders. Tommy was now naked from his shoulders to his feet.
The young man stared intently at his navy blue tie as it dangled in front of his face. There were dark stains that he hadn’t noticed before. He concentrated hard on it in a useless attempt to take his mind of his rear end that would soon be on fire.
Craig watched intently as the vicar stood to Tommy’s side. That was odd, the teenager thought. He had supposed the vicar would stand behind his pal and whack his slipper across the centre of Tommy’s bum.
But the vicar had a unique technique. Instead of putting the slipper across both buttocks (from east to west as it were) he crashed the plimsoll down on one cheek at a time in a north to south direction.
The vicar squeezed the slipper tightly at the heel end. His hand almost turned white, so heavy was the grip, then with no warning and with surprising strength he spanked the slipper into Tommy’s left buttock six times in rapid succession.
The young man gasped as the first smack splattered into his stretched flesh. By number six, Tommy was breathless. The pain covered the whole cheek. It felt as if the vicar had placed a flannel soaked in boiling hot water across his bum.
Craig had never seen a spanked bottom before. The cheek was coloured a dark pink and the outline of the slipper was clearly visible in three or four places.
Tommy took a deep breath. They were only half way through the punishment. He still had six stingers to take. He closed his eyes tightly and braced himself. He was determined not to let himself down. Especially, not in front of the new boy Craig.
The second six rained down on the right buttock. They were as hard and as rapid as before. Despite his best efforts, a groan forced its way through his pursed lips when the slipper fell a little off target into the back of his thigh.
Then it was over. Twelve whacks with the slipper. Bare arsed. The misdemeanour had been committed and the punishment delivered. All was once again well in the world of Rev Crick and the vicarage at Aston Budleigh.
Tommy rose and dressed himself. Already the sharp pain in his bum was turning to a warm glow. Soon the pain would be gone altogether. Before he climbed into bed later that night he would inspect the damage in the dressing table mirror. The pink blotches would have turned to blue bruises, but even they would be mostly clear by the morning.
“You are dismissed.” Rev Crick waved his hand in the direction of the study door and reached into his desk drawer for his cigarettes.
The three lodgers shuffled out the room. Another Sunday reckoning was over. None of the young men spoke as they each made their ways to separate bedrooms.
Craig lay on his bed. His head was reeling. His mother had insisted he lodge with the strange vicar. He had no choice. He faced three years of bum bruising as he made his way through his university course and there was not a thing he could do about it.
Episode three of the Spanking Vicar is published here. Rev Crick leaves the vicarage to make a house call. The son of his char lady has been getting a bit above himself. It is the vicar’s duty to take him down a peg or two.
Other stories involving clergymen that you might like.
Charles Hamilton the Second