Donald Bluwitt lay on his narrow bed propped up by two pillows. Beside him open at the swimwear page was his mother’s Littlewood’s shopping catalogue. His jeans and underpants were at his knees.
His mother was at the bingo and his two younger sisters at the Guides. Friday night was the only time he had the house to himself and he could masturbate undetected.
His rigid member pointed to the ceiling ready for action. He squeezed a blob of Johnson’ baby lotion onto the palm of his right hand and stroked. One, two, three, whoosh! It shot out and flew up for six or eight inches before cascading all over his pubes and thighs. He closed his eyes exasperated; why did he always come so quickly?
Rat-a-tat-tat! There was an urgent knock at the front door. Donald groaned; who was that? He wasn’t expecting visitors. He was due to cycle over to the Fellmonger’s Arms to meet pals from grammar school soon.
Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat! the urgency of the knocking increased. Donald reached over to the box of tissues on his bedside table and with his jeans and pants at his shins and wiping himself down as he went, he waddled to the window. On the doorstep, looking very agitated and drawing heavily on a cigarette was the Reverend Crick.
Donald pulled his up his jeans and pants and buttoned up while he descended the stairs. Hoping he had eliminated all tell-tale signs of his sinful activity, he opened the door. Rev Crick dropped his cigarette and stamped it underfoot before pushing his way pass the boy into the house.
This was not the vicar’s first visit to the house and he went straight to the front room, with Donald, a little puzzled, following behind.
Rev Crick did not waste time. “Your mother has asked me to have a little word with you.”
Donald blanched. A little word? Had she discovered his masturbation? How could she? Had there been stains on his bedsheets?
Donald was a pious young man. His grammar school was Church of England and he had taken to its teachings with enthusiasm. He read his Bible every day and was very aware of the sinfulness of his recent action. He tried to fight his urges, but he was losing the battle.
“Donald, you are eighteen years old, you should be helping your mother and not giving her a hard time,” Rev Crick began. He had memorised a charge sheet of Donald’s misdeeds.
The boy’s eyes narrowed, what was the reverend talking about? Rev Crick stared back. Not for the first time he noticed how odd Donald looked. His dark piercing eyes were set just a little too close together and his bone structure and snout-like nose made him look like a fox.
Rev Crick’s charge sheet was long and detailed. Donald was getting a bit above himself; he must respect his mother and obey her instructions.
Donald listened passively. He hated his mother and he couldn’t wait to get out of this dreadful house and this stinking village. In a few months’ time, if he passed his school examinations well, he could go to the university and never have to return to the village of Aston Budleigh again.
Donald was a bright boy; he had passed his eleven-plus exam at the end of primary school and went to the grammar, where he excelled. His mother had left school aged fourteen. She had no use for book-learning. He didn’t suppose she had read a book in her whole life. He used to make excuses for her ignorance. There had been a war on when she was a child and she went to work on the land. She didn’t have a chance. For a while, he rather liked to think of his mother as a martyr of “the system”, but then he discovered parents of his school friends with similar histories had made decent lives for themselves. In truth, he thought, she wallowed in her ignorance.
His widowed mother was a char-lady. She cleaned Rev Crick’s vicarage three days a week and on six mornings she did the Hare pub in the village. Donald never drank at the Hare, preferring to travel some distance to the Fellmonger’s: he didn’t want people pointing at him and saying, “His mum’s the cleaner here.”
“Donald, your behaviour to your mother is reprehensible, you are rude, insolent, uncouth, offensive,” the reverend’s list of wrongdoings seemed endless. Donald switched off. Inside himself he knew the reverend probably had a point, but he didn’t care. Very soon he would leave home for good and never return.
“So your mother has asked me to have this little word with you,” Rev Crick said, although he knew the heavy wooden clothes brush he had in the pocket of his jacket would be doing most of the talking.
Working at the vicarage as she did, Mrs Bluitt was fully aware of the reverend’s attitudes on discipline and punishment and she wholeheartedly agreed with them. But, she knew if she ordered her son to take down his trousers and bend across her knee for a spanking he would just laugh at her.
Rev Crick was always happy to oblige when asked (especially by mothers trying to bring up families without a father) to make house calls. Donald needed a father’s guiding hand, delivered with some force to the boy’s bare backside. Donald wasn’t an evil lad, but he was haughty and self-important. He needed taking down a peg or two. And the reverend thought he was just the person to do this.
The vicar was coming to the end of his sermon. “You need to be punished for your disrespectful behaviour. That is the real reason for my visit. I am going to spank you.” He saw Donald’s bright eyes flash with indignation, so added for good measure, “Very hard indeed.”
Rev Crick took off his worn sports jacket and placed it on the dining room table. He extracted the wooden brush, then turned to face Donald and waved it at the startled boy.
Donald had remained silent throughout the reverend’s lecture. He had been brought up in the discipline of the Church and although he might never obey his mother, he would do anything that Rev Crick said. Donald knew the Church, represented by the aging vicar who stood before him brandishing a brush, was infallible. If it was deemed he needed a very hard spanking, a very hard spanking he would take.
The boy watched impassively as Rev Crick pulled a chair away from the dining table and placed in the centre of the room. Then he sat down, straightened his back and spread his legs.
“I want you to take down your jeans and your underpants, Donald,” it was a calm instruction, kindly said. At that moment Rev Crick saw himself as a loving father about to punish his misbehaving son in God’s name. The bare-bottomed spanking would bring the boy to his senses and he would behave well to his mother in future.
Donald’s rather pale face flushed. He hadn’t expected this and he hesitated.
“Come along, Donald,” the reverend smiled fondly. “It isn’t a proper spanking, not in God’s eyes, unless it is on the bare.”
Donald bit his bottom lip as he tugged at the belt on his jeans. As he undid it and reached for the top button of his jeans, he stopped suddenly.
“Come on Donald. Please don’t make me have to do it for you.” After years of experience spanking bottoms, the vicar believed an important part of the punishment was to make the naughty boy prepare himself. It was his way of acknowledging his penitence and repentance.
But, Rev Crick had misread the situation. Donald hesitated because he knew his pubes and thighs were splattered with dry cum. How could the vicar not notice?
But, there was no way out. The boy opened his jeans and let them drop to his knees. His tight yellow-and-green-striped briefs clung to his buttocks and his cock and balls. There were no obvious signs of staining; perhaps he had wiped himself more thoroughly than he had thought.
Donald tugged his pants to his knees. He was not embarrassed standing half naked in front of another man. They did it all the time in the physical ed. changing rooms at school. Modesty might be a Christian virtue, but not to the sixth-formers at the grammar school, where willies were often waved in the showers after a rugby match.
Instinctively however, Donald cupped his hands in front of his cock. Rev Crick sat silently, but the rate of his breathing had clearly quickened.
“Come and bend across my knee, Donald.”
Donald had never been spanked, nor had he witnessed a spanking, but intuitively he knew what was expected of him. He took two paces forward and stood on the vicar’s right hand side. For the first time he noticed how worn and shiny were the older man’s trousers. Then Donald pressed into the vicar’s left knee as gently he eased himself over the lap until his stomach dug into Rev Crick’s bony legs.
Donald stretched his arms out ahead of him and rested both palms of his hands flat into the shallow pile of the carpet. He lifted his head and focused his vision on the battered sideboard across the room. Behind him he bent his knees slightly and rested the tips of his toes on the ground. Instinctively, he had placed his bared buttocks in the perfect position to receive the blows from the reverend’s brush.
Heavy rancid smells of tobacco smoke and stale sweat drifted into Donald’s nostrils making him gag a little.
Donald screwed up his eyes waiting for the first blow. He had never been spanked before and he was entering unexplored territory. Just how much was this going to hurt? Rev Crick had promised a very hard spanking. What exactly did that mean?
He would have to wait a little longer to find out. The reverend rested the brush on the small of Donald’s back; the boy was a little surprised by how heavy it felt. If Rev Crick chose to put some beef into this, it could cause the boy a high degree of arse pain.
Donald felt the vicar cup first his right buttock and then his left. The vicar made gentle circular motions with his hand, as if he were taking the measure of each cheek. Once satisfied with that, he then explored the back of the boy’s thighs. Donald could feel the vicar’s fingers brush his hairs giving him a tingling sensation.
Then, Donald felt the vicar pick up the brush. He was almost ready to go, but first he took a firm grip with his left arm around the boy’s waist. Pinned in this position, Donald would be unable to escape the onslaught of the heavy wooden brush as it performed its task of reforming this puffed-up and arrogant teenager.
The cold surface of the brush rested on Donald’s left cheek, and he felt it tap, tap, tap as the reverend picked his spot. Instinctively the buttocks clenched.
“Relax Donald,” tap, tap, tap, “There will be less bruising if you stay relaxed.”
Bruising! Jeeese! He hadn’t thought about bruises. There was gym class on Monday, how was he going to explain away his bruises?
Whap! Whap! The hard, heavy wood sunk deep into each buttock. A dark pink mark, the perfect imprint of the brush’s head, formed in the centre of each cheek. The boy gasped, with the shock of the assault as with the actual pain it created.
The vicar raised the brush and crashed it into the fleshiest parts of Donald’s bum a dozen times. The teenager felt that all right. The stinging sensation quickly turned to raw pain as each successive thwack cracked into his bottom. Donald pressed the palms of his hands deeper into the carpet and concentrated hard on the sideboard ahead of him. Never before had he noticed there were so many scratches on the tired dark brown wood.
Reverend Crick paused to admire his handiwork. Donald’s bum was beefy and when he wore his rugby shorts they usually clung snugly to it. In their naked state they were round and firm. He had, the reverend concluded, what the Americans might call a “bubble butt”.
The twelve whacks had covered most of the cheeks from the base of the spine to just above the crease. The reverend aimed the next twelve straight into the crease; the most sensitive part of any boy’s posterior.
Donald yelped and squirmed. His attempt to stay focused on the sideboard ended as he swung his head from left to right and up and down, so that now his face was pressed close to the floor.
Without pausing, Rev Crick struck another dozen whacks hard and with acceleration right the way around the circuit from the top to the bottom and the left and the right of both buttocks. Donald’s yelps became yells and his body writhed across the vicar’s knees, but he held the boy across his middle so tightly there was no way to escape.
Rev Crick felt sweat seeping through Donald’s shirt. Soon he would be wringing wet, even though it was a cold November evening and there was no fire in the living room.
Another dozen, entirely on the left cheek was swiftly followed by twelve on the right. Saliva filled Donald’s throat and he felt himself choking, even as his crescendo of “ouchs!” and “ows!” filled the small room.
The heavy wood had landed so many times it was impossible to see the outline of individual brush strokes. The entirety of Donald’s buttock area was one mass of pinkish-red marks. Not one square inch of flesh was unscorched.
That was when Rev Crick turned to the boy’s thighs. The vicar was no medical man, but he assumed there were more nerve ends in the back of a boy’s thighs than in his buttocks. He thought this because whenever he spanked on the thighs even the most stoical boy would howl like a banshee, unable to endure the intense agony inflicted.
Six whacks on each thigh had Donald kicking his legs as if he were trying to swim off the vicar’s lap and away to safety.
The vicar hung onto the boy and whacked another dozen across the backs of both legs. Donald was stronger than he and the reverend knew that very soon he would escape and the spanking would be at an end.
But, not before the vicar landed another dozen evenly spread across the centre of both bum cheeks.
Then, the reverend, himself now also drenched in sweat, released his grip on Donald. The boy rolled off Crick’s legs and fell to the floor, before immediately jumping to his feet and hopping from one foot to the other, while rubbing away at his toasted arse, in the traditional spanking dance.
His dark brown eyes were awash with tears and trickles of snot ran from his nose across his full lips and onto his chin.
But it was the teenager’s long thick cock, flopping up and down before him that caught the vicar’s attention.
“Are you going to be kind to your mother in future?”
Donald still choking with the exertion of his spanking could only nod his head.
“Good. I shall ask your mother to update me on your behaviour and if I hear anything, I shall return with one of my whippy school canes. We’ll see how much you like twenty-four strokes with that across your bare behind!”
All the while he was speaking the vicar could not take his eyes off Donald’s cock. It was a magnificent specimen, but there was something a little odd.
Then he realised what it was. “What’s this?” he exclaimed. “What are these stains? Have you been playing with yourself?”
Donald’s deep blush betrayed his guilt.
Rev Crick was furious. “You filthy, dirty little boy!” he shrieked. “It’s disgusting and un-Godly!”
Donald hurriedly pulled his pants and jeans up in a failed attempt to hide the evidence. His bottom was throbbing like crazy and he just wanted to run to his bedroom and throw himself face-down on the bed and sob his heart out with shame.
The reverend was calming: a little, but not by much. “You have been punished enough for one day. But I will not let this rest. I shall return next Friday to deal with you.”
Donald blinked through his tears in disbelief.
“And, you can expect the thrashing of your life.”
So saying, he reached for his jacket, delved into a pocket and retrieved a packet of cigarettes. He had one in his mouth and was drawing the smoke deep into his lungs before he reached the front door.
Other over-the-knee spanking stories you might like
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second