Rev Crick paced his study in silence. The heavy tick-tock, tick-tock of the clock echoed around the room. With slightly trembling hands he reached into his cigarette packet, extracted a Capstan Full Strength and lit it from the stub of one already between his lips.
Ten minutes past twelve. When that boy arrived home, he would give him such a caning. He stared at the clock as the second hand dragged up to the twelve hand. Eleven minutes past twelve: where the hell was he?
Bob’s curfew was ten-thirty; it always had been; ever since he moved in as the vicar’s paying guest. The damn boy knew that.
He sat back in his armchair, trying without success to relax. Tick-tock, tick-tock, the clock droned on and on.
It was cold and rain was starting to drizzle. Bob, his jacket collar turned up against the elements, trudged down the main A-road from Tylesbury to the village. The buses had stopped running hours ago and it seemed now all respectable people were tucked up in bed – which is where he should be. Why weren’t there any cars on the road? Why couldn’t he thumb a lift? At this rate would have to walk the whole five miles to the vicarage and whatever Rev Crick had in store for him.
What a miserable night it had been; and it wasn’t over yet.
It had been a woman, of course. A lovely young thing, she was. The nineteen-year-old had lost count of how many drinks he bought her. He knew he had missed his curfew, but he was in with a chance. Of that he had convinced himself. What a fool. The last bus left, the pub closed and she waved goodnight and went home with her friends, leaving Bob bereft. The prick teaser. Women, he assured himself, they were all the same.
At last he was home; damp and footsore. Damn, the downstairs light was blazing. Rev Crick was up. Waiting.
The vicar pulled hard on his cigarette and stubbed it out alongside a dozen others in the ashtray when he heard a key turn in the lock. Thank the Lord, he whispered. The boy was home safely. Now, all thoughts of prison cells or the mortuary slab were dismissed.
Rules were rules and punishments were most effective, the reverend believed, when delivered immediately after the offence had been discovered.
“Wait outside my study,” Crick told Bob even before he had finished taking off his coat. Bob stared blankly. He didn’t know exactly what was in store for him, but he knew it would result in a very sore bum.
“Come in,” the vicar ordered when he arrived at the study.
The two of them entered. “Stand there,” the vicar indicated a spot in front of his desk. He sat down and interrogated the boy about his whereabouts, and why he was late. He satisfied himself that no other offence had been committed beyond the late curfew.
Crick reached into his desk drawer and took out a key, then moving towards the tall cupboard within the book shelves he unlocked the door.
Bob already knew what the cupboard contained: an array of disciplinary instruments, including a large number of swishy rattan canes, most of them with the traditional school crooked handle.
Crick ran his hands across several, taking his time to select the right cane for the job. He chose one that was slightly longer and thicker than most of the others. Satisfied, he closed and locked the cupboard door and pocketed the key.
He turned to face Bob and rather dramatically swished the cane several times in thin air. It had the desired effect: Bob, who usually had a ruddy complexion paled significantly.
He pointed with the cane. “Go stand by the Chesterfield,” he ordered.
The couch was a huge padded beast and Bob was unsure whether he would be tall enough to reach over its back in the required position to receive his thrashing. He hesitated.
“The other side,” Rev Crick indicated the arm of the Chesterfield. That would be big enough to accommodate Bob and give him ample room to raise his big bum high for the cane.
“Bend over.” It was a stern order and one to be obeyed.
Bob stretched over the arm of the chair, secretly relived that he hadn’t been ordered to drop his trousers: or worse yet, his trousers and his pants.
“Keep very still, boy and push your head right down into the cushion.” Bob pushed himself further down into the couch, raising his bottom well up for the cane. His firm bottom stretched his now very tight trousers.
The vicar had quite a target to aim at. Bob might only be nineteen, but he was a strong man. In some parts of his body he had muscles on his muscles. Rev Crick admired Bob’s strong back stretched across the Chesterfield. His meaty buttocks were positioned high over the arm; they quivered a little as they awaited the inevitable agony the cane would induce.
The reverend was no sadist, but he believed that corporal punishment should hurt: a lot. Otherwise what was the point of inflicting it at all?
Bob folded his arms in front of him and buried his face in them. He could feel a tap, tap on the stretched fabric of his trousers as the vicar tried to find his spot.
The vicar stood back a little to Bob’s left. He took aim, gently tapping Bob’s bottom with the cane. He then lifted it above his right shoulder, paused, and then all but threw his entire body into bringing the cane down across Bob’s vulnerable, waiting backside, right in the middle creating a red line. The teenager felt nothing for a split second before the pain exploded. His back arched as his head snapped back.
Bob’s whole body tightened as the next stinging lash cracked across the chunky mounds of his backside. His eyes closed, then opened again as the pain throbbed. Huff, huff, he drew in deep breaths in a failed attempt to deal with the pain with deep breaths; but he hurt and ached.
It took all his resolve to stay in position, head pressed down into the leather; his bum raised high submissively for the reverend to do his worst. Bob chewed his bottom lip and did not cry out, but tears were starting at the back of his eyes.
The lightning flash of the cane once more whipped through the air towards its waiting target. That was when tears escaped as Bob failed to cope with the pain which was nothing like he had ever felt before. Every sense in his body focused on the agony in his bum.
The reverend was taking his time. Slash, the whippy rod flew through the air landing with such a thwack, the sound of rattan on stretched trousers resounded around the study. The cane lit a burning white-hot stripe. Even through his trousers he knew the cane had made an effective welt across both buttocks.
The vicar might not be a sadist, but he was determined to make Bob pay for the worry he had caused. Three more strokes landed, each one a little lower than the previous, yet all in a one-inch band on the bottom half of Bob’s bum. As the final stroke cracked across his sore seat he let out a roar, all his restraint was gone and tears washed his eyes.
“It’s over”, Crick said. “You can get up now. I think you have learned your lesson, haven’t you?”
Bob rose from the couch and gingerly straightened himself. Tentatively at first, he touched, and then carefully clasped, his raw and ravaged buttocks.
He was more or less in control of his feelings now, and was massaging his injured rump as vigorously as he could, trying to rub away the pain.
Rev Crick was satisfied with his handiwork. He was also relieved that the night had ended in a satisfactory manner. Earlier, he had visions of Bob laying in some hospital ward somewhere, the victim of an accident. But, that wasn’t the case. It was just Bob being thoughtless and forgetful and he had paid the price with a sore backside.
He slipped his arm around Bob’s shoulder. “It’s late, go to bed,” he said, ushering him towards the door.
Bob’s eyes were still wet and blurry as he made for his bedroom, where he would cry a bit more because his bum was throbbing madly and the pain was killing him.
He quickly crawled into his bed naked, flattened out on his stomach and sobbed himself to sleep.
Episode 5 is here
Previous episodes of The Spanking Vicar
Episode 1: the new tenant
Episode 2: the reckoning
Episode 3: the house call
Charles Hamilton the Second