Rory and Alistair Ep 1. The Head Prefect

Rory MacDonald eased down the handle of the dormitory door with his elbow. His arms were full of cricketing gear and he feared one of the bats was about to tumble to the ground.

He was sweltering in the ninety-degree heat. Would this heat-wave never end? In an ungainly fashion he had the door open and stepped inside. He flashed one of his trademark grins; it split his face in two. In front of him was his best friend Alistair. The eighteen-year-old lay face down on the bed snoozing. He was dead to the world – and totally naked.

Quietly so as not to wake his chum, Rory let the cricket gear fall on to his own bed. Then he sat down and gazed in admiration at Alistair’s body. He was a fine-limbed athletic boy; about five-feet-eight in height. He was hairless on his chest face and buttocks and there was merely down on his legs.

Rory shook his head in amazement. Alistair’s arse and thighs were covered in awesome blue-black bruises. Even from across the room the boy could see the distinctive oval-shaped mark left behind by the hairbrush, which clearly had been applied with some vigour.

Rory looked at his watch; it was time they both got going. He hauled himself from the bed and crossed the room so that he stood towering over his friend. Come on Alistair, he thought, we have a date in town.

Then puckering his lips and leaning forward he planted a wet kiss in the centre of Alistair’s firm left buttock.

The boy awoke like a princess in a fairy-tale.

“Ouch! That hurt,” he grinned.

“Ouch! That hurt,” his friend replied satirically, mocking Alistair’s tone. Both boys exchanged huge grins, puckered up and kissed each other on the lips.

“Pendleton?” Rory asked, nodding at his friends toasted buttocks.

“Who else?” Alistair’s grin never faded. He was not about to let his recent ordeal upset him.

Pendleton was the Head of Wilson’s House. And Pendleton had his own way of instilling discipline among his charges. All the boys who were Head of their House at Willadong Academy were allowed to inflict corporal punishment. There was no set law, but by custom and practice the rattan cane was the instrument of choice. Some Head of Houses used a rubber-soled gym shoe on the youngest of the boys.

Only Pendleton used a hairbrush, applied to a boy’s bared bottom while he was draped across the lap of the Head of House. And, Pendleton did not care about age and seniority. He would just as easily take eighteen-year-old Alistair Crombie across his knee as the most junior fag in the school.

Alistair and Rory were oddities at the school. They were both in their final year at the school, but had never received any privileges. Although they were old enough to be in the sixth-form, they were treated by everyone, masters and fellow pupils alike, as juniors.

They were even required to dress like juniors. Only boys in the sixth-form were permitted to wear long trousers: it was seen as a badge of privilege. The two boys remained in short trousers and would do so until the day they left school. Not that they cared. Temperatures rarely fell below eighty degrees for most of the year; let the “privileged” sixth-formers swelter in their heavy flannel trousers, it was much better to be free to the wind in short trousers.

A short-sleeved white shirt completed the summer uniform at Willadong. Mostly boys did not wear ties or even socks. They would run bare-footed around the school buildings and slip into thongs when outside.

Rory and Alistair could never conform to boarding school life with its myriad rules and regulations. Get up at seven, bed at nine-thirty. Don’t do that; don’t go there. They were more suited to the life of the boys in town. They had made many friends in Woolverton and how they envied them their freedoms. None of the teenagers they knew had fathers who would order them to bend across the armchair for six stingers from a whippy cane because they were out of bed at midnight.

Alistair’s blazing bottom was the result of one such adventure. Bored and unable to sleep, he had climbed through the window and taken himself for a walk. He committed no mischief; he disturbed no boy’s sleep; all he did was to enjoy the moonlight and the clear warm air of midnight.

He was spotted and in the usual matter of course he was reported to Pendleton. Pendleton was not such a huge fellow. He probably was an inch taller than Alistair, but a little thicker set. The Head of House was a fine cricketer and could slog a cricket ball way over the boundary. He had great upper body strength which he put to good use with the hairbrush.

This was not even the first time the eighteen-year-old had been across Pendleton’s knee. The first time he had been ordered to unbuckle his belt and pull down his short trousers, he had been bewildered. He had expected the standard six-of-the-best on the seat; probably whipped in with some force; everyone knew that Pendleton was a bit of a bully. But, to be ordered to go across the prefect’s knee like he was six years old was a shock.

Alistair had no choice. The alternative would have been a visit to the headmaster’s study and a thrashing of a lifetime, almost certainly bare arsed and no doubt with the awesome Malacca cane. That could take a boy’s backside off, leaving him in considerable pain for many days.

No, unconventional though it was, Alistair had to submit himself to Pendleton.

The hairbrush had once belonged to his nanny. Pendleton had felt its sting across his own bared bottom many times until when at the age of eight he was sent off to prep school. The hairbrush was the only memento he had of nanny; he stole it from her room the day he found her dead in her bed.

The over-the-knee bare-bottom spanking hurt like crazy, but it was nothing like getting the cane; even when wearing trousers and underpants. Alistair supposed the ordeal was meant to humiliate him. If so, Pendleton had chosen the wrong boy. He dropped his short trousers and unbidden stepped out of them. Then perfecting an air of unconcern, he put his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and lowered them down his thighs and let them fall to his feet, then he stepped out of them too and kicked them a few feet behind him. He now stood naked from the waist down in front of his would-be tormentor.

Alistair was very proud of his body and was not ashamed to be seen naked. His pal Rory was one of his greatest admirers and often they would compliment one another on their anatomy. Rory, for one, had a very distinctive penis; it must have been almost the only uncut specimen in the whole school.

Rory had no idea what was going through Pendleton’s mind as he draped himself across the boy’s legs, lowered his head so he was almost kissing the carpet and keeping his own knees straight, raised his taut athletic buttocks high to receive his spanking.

Wow! Pendleton was in a frenzy. Had some demon taken possession of him? Relentlessly he whacked the heavy oval hairbrush up and down into and across both buttocks. With no respite between smacks, he covered every square inch of buttocks and thighs inside thirty seconds and then he just kept on whacking and whacking.

Alistair had never been spanked like this before, so he was not sure how much it was supposed to hurt. It did considerably, but to his puzzlement he found the pain increased rapidly with the first few dozen slaps and then plateaued. He had gone through some king of pain barrier. After a time, he could feel the heavy wood crunch into his globes but each additional whack did not increase the pain.

The teenager sucked in his breath and waited as patiently as he could in the circumstances for Pendleton to complete his task.

He was beaten quite literally black-and-blue. But, even as he climbed back into his underpants and short trousers Alistair realised the pain had subsided, leaving behind a gentle throb that quickly turned to a warm glow. Some parts of his bum, especially the bit where the cheeks met the thighs were tender to the touch and he might feel the spanking for some time when he sat down on a hard surface.

Pendleton was a young man of few words and he dismissed Alistair without benefit of a lecture. As he exited the study, Alistair turned and flashing his sparking white teeth, he grinned, “Thank you Pendleton, I enjoyed that. I hope you did too.” Then he closed the door and ran down the passageway in case the Head of House had resolved to drag him back inside for a repeat performance.

 

Episode 2 is here.

 

Other school-based stories you might like

Six of the best caning stories 1. The sixth-formers

The padded armchair

Murph in the headmaster’s study

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Caught in their underpants

Mr West was in for a shock when he opened the front door to his house. Discarded on the floor was a white school shirt, obviously belonging to his eighteen-year-old son. Further inside was a green-and-yellow striped tie, this time abandoned across the back of a chair. A pair of grey trousers lay in the doorway between the hall and the living room.

What on earth was going on here? But, Mr West had a sneaking suspicion. He knew his son was untidy but he had never behaved like this.

It was the middle of the day and Richard should be at school, but instead he was at home and his clothes were scattered across the house.

Voices coming from the boy’s bedroom confirmed his suspicions. This was disgraceful, Mr West fumed, he had a girl in there. Without hesitating he marched through the house, approached the bedroom, turned the handle and threw open the door.

And there was Richard and his pal Des, dressed only in their white cotton underpants.

The boys blushed scarlet and Mr West coloured up too – with rage.

What was going on here? Mr West was speechless. He didn’t ask the obvious question: he was too afraid to hear the answer. Two eighteen year old boys in the bedroom in their underwear, in the middle of the day: you didn’t need much imagination to work out what was it was.

Sheepishly, they stood, like naughty schoolboys caught in an act of misbehaviour. What had they been doing? If he had arrived five minutes earlier what act would he have caught them in? Or maybe they hadn’t yet started and he needed to be five minutes later to discover the full horror.

Mr West found his voice, but he still didn’t ask the pertinent question. Instead, meekly, he inquired, “Why aren’t you two at school?”

Both boys stared at the carpet and shuffled their feet in embarrassment.

Mr West looked at the two lads: they could easily be mistaken for brothers. They were both not much more than five feet seven inches tall and slim. They both had the severe short-back-and-sides haircuts demanded by their school. Otherwise they were quite hairless, but Mr West could see from the bulges in the front of underpants that puberty had arrived. He tried not to notice that Richard’s pants were a little too tight, while his partner’s were slightly too large.

The boys remained silent, still blushing profusely.

Mr West didn’t know how to handle this situation. He was sure he had caught the boys committing an act of abomination.

To give him time to think, he ordered the boys to get dressed.

Five minutes later they stood miserably in the living room, dressed in the white shirts and grey trousers of their school uniform. Neither boy had bothered to put on his tie.

Richard and Des had been friends forever. Mr West knew they did everything together; but he had never thought for one second they also did this kind of thing.

He had a predicament; he had already decided to give his son a sound thrashing. He was eighteen years old. It wasn’t too late to beat the sin out of him. But, what about Des: Mr West had no jurisdiction over him. Should he send him on his way unpunished? For all he knew this boy was a devil who had seduced his own son into this act of immorality.

Mr West was not a man of the world. He could never talk to his son about sex and he had no words to express his disgust at the boy’s behaviour. He knew what the boys had been doing when he came into the house and he knew that they knew that he knew. Perhaps that was enough. Richard would know why he was being thrashed without having it spelt out to him.

“Why are you not at school?” Mr West returned to safer ground. He knew they had truanted and had been caught red-handed. Tearfully, they confessed this crime.

Mr West would use this as his excuse for a spanking but Richard would know he was really being punished for something more serious.

But what was he to do about Des? Then Mr West had an idea. The boy’s mother was a widow and she had enough to worry about without having to deal with her son’s immorality.

“Des, what would your mother say if she knew what you had been up to today?” The boy continued to stare at the floor, hoping he wasn’t really expected to answer this question.

“Don’t you think she would be ashamed?”

Still no sound from Des.

“Do you want me to tell her?”

A response at last, “Oh, no please Mr West, please don’t tell my mother.”

Mr West had hoped he would say this. Now he could put his plan in operation.

“I am going to thrash the pair of you to within an inch of your lives. And, Des I will not tell your mother.”

The boy sobbed quietly. Richard, who until now had scarlet cheeks, turned a deathly white.

Mr West removed a stout plastic Lexan-type paddle from a hook on the kitchen wall, where it was kept as a constant reminder to his sons of the penalties for misbehaviour.

“Now boys, stand behind the couch.” Unnecessarily for there was only one, Mr West pointed to a double-seated couch, furnished with dark blue cushions. It was a perfect height for eighteen-year-old boys to bend across to offer up their backsides for punishment.

Miserably, Richard and Des shuffled to the expected spot. Mr West was an expert in corporal punishment; he had a great deal of experience beating the bottoms of miscreant boys. He knew that boys hated to be thrashed, of course they did, but Mr West fervently believed they benefitted from the experience. He also believed in the ritual of corporal punishment: not for him the taking of a boy across his knee to be followed by a succession of swift slaps into his upturned bottom.

No, Mr West was a man who liked to take his time. He began with a short lecture, “I am going to beat you slowly and thoroughly with this paddle. You may cry out, but if you fail to maintain your position and present your bottom properly for me you will earn yourself additional penalty strokes.”

Richard gulped and felt sick. He had been thrashed by his father several times before, he knew what to expect: it would be agony and the bruises might last for weeks, but the ordeal would not kill him.

He wasn’t so sure his pal Des could take the thrashing so well. This was not helped by the appalled look on Des’s face. Richard knew his friend was never spanked at home but he had been beaten in school; there was hardly a boy who hadn’t, but seeing the look on his face made him realise that what was about to happen was going to be nothing short of dreadful for the boy.

With his little sermon out of the way, one by one the boys were instructed to prepare themselves.

“You first Richard. Please stand closer to the back of the couch and then take down your trousers and underpants.

Des watched mesmerized as Richard went over to the couch back. He admired how well his friend’s buttocks filled out the back of his grey worsted school trousers. He stared, his throat drying up, as Richard slowly unzipped his trousers and then pulled them down until they could fall to the floor around his ankles.

Then equally as slowly, he placed his thumbs into the waistband of his underpants and pulled them down over his slim hips, past his thighs and as far as the knees.

“Now, please lean forward and bend over the couch. Place your hands on the seat cushion and keeping your legs straight push your head down as far as it will go.”

It wasn’t too difficult to comply with the order. He was just the right height.

“Legs further apart, please.” Des’s heart skipped a beat as he saw his friend’s buttocks tighten as the flesh stretched. The bum was so small, but perfectly formed. One swat from the big Lexan paddle would easily cover both cheeks at once.

“Now, you please Des.” Richard was staring face down into the soft cushion of the couch so could not see Des make his preparations. But, he would have been proud of his friend.

Guided by Richard’s example a moment ago, he had his trousers and pants at his ankles in seconds. Then, in one move that would have delighted a professional swimmer diving into the pool, he was positioned alongside his friend, with his bared buttocks exposed to perfection for whatever Richard’s father had in store for them.

Both boys were aware of the other’s close proximity but they tried to ignore one another, instead staring ahead awaiting the first stinging swat from the plastic paddle. Richard could smell the sweet breath of his friend and recounted the taste of peppermint he had enjoyed moments before his father burst into the bedroom.

Mr West continued with his ritual, “I expect you to stay in position until I am finished. If you move I will repeat the stroke. Understood?”

Silence, except for the heavy breathing of two eighteen-year-old schoolboys about to have their bared bottoms blistered.

“Richard, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what!”

“Yes, Sir!” came the required response.

“Des, do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir!” said boldly. Richard was feeling very proud of his partner-in-crime.

Mr West took up position. In all the years punishing boys he had never been presented with four buttocks at the same time. Usually, he dealt with troublemaking teenagers one at a time, but for reasons he couldn’t quite articulate he thought it was most appropriate for this crime for the boys to be dealt with simultaneously.

The first swat of the paddle on Richard’s naked flesh was wickedly loud and accompanied by a pitiful: Owww!

Des shrieked loudly and was admonished by Mr West, “Shut up and take it like a man!” as the first of his swats landed and felt as if it had burned a hole through both his bum cheeks.

Both boys were screeching with pain after the third whack roasted their buttocks and enormous welts were beginning to rise. Each boy had the pattern of the Lexan emblazoned across his scorched rump.

It went on like that relentlessly until each boy had received a dozen swats. Not one inch of their exposed flesh escaped; from the top of the buttocks near the base of the spine across the poor boys” globes and into their thighs. Neither boy had much flesh in their rear end and the paddle soon raised dark blue bruises.

So it was that two eighteen-year-old friends were thrashed to “within an inch of their lives.” Perhaps, not literally so, but the flogging would have a profound effect on them, but not in the way Mr West might have wished. Instead it brought them closer together than he might have feared, even in his worst nightmare.

 

Other stories you might like.

 Dad’s despair

The man across the hall

University student late for class

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The shoplifter

“Are you alright Fred?”

It was my pal Charlie, sitting opposite me at the canteen table, a mug of steaming hot tea in his fist.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

No, I was not alright, but I wasn’t about to admit that to Charlie.

It was tea break at the factory and I was reading the Brocklehurst Bugle, our local newspaper. Nothing ever happens in Brocklehurst and we all like it that way. This week was no different. The Mayor had opened this; local councillors were complaining about that; St Francis Grammar School had held its sports day. It was the same old, same old.

Then I saw it. Some kid was in court for stealing a phone from a shop. He pleaded guilty. Fined £150; with costs. It made a big splash in the paper; we don’t have much crime in Brocklehurst.

The kid’s name: Timothy John Mallinson. Aged 19. Address: 17 Albertson Street. My address. My son.

People often say when they’ve had a shock, “I thought I was having a heart attack.” Well, I truly thought I was. I think that’s what Charlie saw.

What the hell did Timothy think he was doing? I thought he was a good kid. He has a job in an office; he has wages coming in every week, why does he need to go round shoplifting?

After, the initial shock wore off, the anger kicked in. It’s all over the paper; everyone I know reads the Bugle. And those folk who don’t will soon hear about it from those who do. Tim had bought shame and disgrace to the family.

Why hadn’t he told me? Did he think I wouldn’t find out?

My anger grew to fury. I’ll give that kid what for when I get home tonight.

I got in from work just after 7 pm and the house seemed deserted. I knew my wife was at her bingo, but I expected Tim, the only one of my children living at home at present, to be around somewhere.

I entered the lounge and there he was sprawled out on his back on the sofa, plugged into his MP3 player, seemingly oblivious to the world.

Tim looks a lot younger than his years: mostly because he’s a bit on the short side and he has a cherubic face. He was wearing white sports socks and baggy beige trousers that fitted snugly at the waist and a short white t-shirt advertising some band I’d never heard of. It showed off his sun tan perfectly.

He had on a huge pair of headphones over his neatly cropped strawberry blond hair. He had one of those fringes at the front that spiked up. I reckoned it made him look a bit like the cartoon character Tin-Tin, but when I pointed it out to him once and said we should call him Tim-Tim from now on, he hadn’t a clue what I was talking about.

He was a very pretty boy (like Tin-Tin again) with flawless pale skin and red lips. I suppose he had already kissed a lot of girls, or maybe even boys: I did have my doubts about my son.

“I want a word with you!” I barked. He didn’t answer. The music he was listening to seemed to have transfixed him. He’d either not heard me or was pretending not to.

I gestured for him to take off his headphones. When he did so I could hear the music blaring from them.

I said it again. “I want to talk to you”

“What about?” he replied sulkily.

His attitude did nothing to calm my temper.

“This!” I yelled poking the newspaper in his chest.

That got his attention. His face turned a deathly white.

“Timothy, what the hell’s going on?”

I only called him “Timothy” when I was annoyed with him and my son knew that he was now in big trouble.

“Oh Dad!”

“Thieving from a shop.” It was a question as much as it was a statement.

He pouted, but didn’t answer. Timothy knew what was coming next.

I took a dining room chair from under the table and placed it in the middle of the room. Then, I reached out and took Timothy by the left arm and pulled him off the couch to his feet. I saw he had six or seven of those wrist bands that kids wear these days: what’s all that about?

“Over here.”

Very reluctantly, Timothy took a small step toward me getting just close enough so I could grab the waist of his trousers and pull him down and over my knees. Then I held his middle region and moved him about so that he was in a perfect position over my lap with his pelvis raised and his legs and crotch settled down right over my lap and spread out a bit. Timothy’s hands reached down to the floor, and I was ready to spank his pert little bottom.

“Dad, let me go, come on dad, I’m nineteen,” he protested as he struggled to break free from my hold, but the more he struggled the more embarrassing it must have been for him because he realised that I was in complete control.

“No, come on dad, this is humiliating, will you quit it dad.”

I slapped into his buttocks and immediately realised my mistake. His buttocks were as hard as steel and as I rained down hefty spanks into his backside I could tell he was not feeling a thing.

“This is useless,” I admitted my mistake, “get up,” and I helped him onto his feet. If Timothy thought his humiliation was over, he was wrong, it had only just begun.

Without a word, I reached for the waist of his trousers, popped the button and pulled down his zipper. In a second the trousers were at his feet and I hauled him back over my knees.

I had a lot more success this time as he only had thin cotton yellow-checked underpants for protection. Timothy bounced and shifted over my knees, as I rapidly spanked into the whole of his buttock area, from the tops near his spine across the fleshy globes into the under cheeks where the bum meets the thighs. His gasps and breathless aaaghhhs suggested that even if his bum were made of steel, my son was feeling this spanking.

I stopped whacking him and he gave out a deep sigh of relief. He must have thought his punishment was over but I still held him in position. This punishment needed to be severe. Timothy had turned into a thief and unless I sorted him out now he could ruin his whole life.

He struggled violently as he realised my hand was pulling at the top of his underpants, but I had him forcefully at my mercy and there was nothing he could do.

He pleaded with me, “No, dad, please dad, no!” Timothy sounded like he was scared to death.

Inch by inch, the underpants came down, exposing his bare buttocks. I felt a spasm move through Timothy’s body and he put his face even closer to the carpet.

What SLAP! the SLAP! hell SLAP! did SLAP! you SLAP! think SLAP! you SLAP! were SLAP! doing? SLAP!

I whacked into his bare buttocks to emphasis each word. The pain must have been intense as Timothy’s body writhed each time my hand hit his flesh.

Timothy mumbled something into the carpet.

Speak SLAP! up SLAP! Timothy SLAP! tell SLAP! me SLAP!

He turned his head slightly to try to look at me, but I still held him tightly across my lap, so he directed his explanation such as it was to the carpet. I could hear sobs in Timothy’s voice.

He cried out in real pain as my slaps pounded into his bare arse. The usually pale flesh on his buttocks was bright red and obviously raw. I felt his bum with my hand and it genuinely felt red hot.

“Not only are you a thief, you have disgraced your family. I’m going to whack you like you’ve never been spanked before. Get up.”

I let him up to his feet and looked him full in the face His eyes were watering, but tears were not yet flowing. He looked away so I couldn’t see.

I gestured with my hand to the other end of the room.

“Fetch me one of those slippers.” They were on a shelf under the television set.

Timothy still had his trousers around his feet and his pants at the knees, but he managed to waddle penguin-like across the room. When he bent down to pick up a slipper I had the perfect view of his bottom. It was bright red and the outline of the palm of my hand was clearly visible against his once snow-white skin.

Timothy winced as he stretched his body to pick up the slipper. In seconds he was back standing in front of me.

I spread my legs and ordered him to bend over my left knee and with my right leg I pinned both his legs so he couldn’t move. Then I took hold of his right arm and twisted it up to his shoulders. There was no way Timothy was going to escape the onslaught from my rubber-soled slipper.

I smacked his backside ferociously over and over with the heavy slipper – the cheeks, the thighs, inner, outer, and sit-spots. Timothy howled from the first loud swat on his bare flesh. He immediately broke down and the tears spilled down his cheeks. He tried to kick as hard as he could but I had him pinned into the position I wanted him: he was going nowhere until I said so.

I continued to spank his naked bottom, now much faster than before. Timothy’s buttocks bounced and quivered under the rain of blows and he gulped with each, successive, fiery slap. Each biting smack toasted another part of his upended, bare rump. He grunted and groaned, trying to move his bottom from the line of fire, but of course, could not.

As the spanking continued, Timothy realized with shock that his bottom was on fire. It burned with a pain that bewildered him. Every fresh smack of the slipper tore a gasp from him, and he realized with surprise that he was weeping; in fact, he’d been crying for some time.

I could see Timothy was spent; he was quite literally a beaten boy. When I heard him gasping for air, seriously unable to breathe, I decided he had had enough.

I released his body and still gasping for air he rolled off my knees onto the floor where he lay sobbing into the carpet. In time he got up, shaking like a leaf and in agony pulled up his underpants and then his trousers. Then fully dressed he stood dazed and disorientated, not daring to look at me.

At that moment I had no compassion for him. He deserved everything he got.

Not one inch of his backside was untouched from the crown to the top of the thighs. His bum was scalded and throbbed like it was three times its normal size. Slipper marks were clearly visible right across both buttocks.

“Now, go to your room and stay there.”

I watched as Timothy slowly and in agony made his way from the room. Not only would he have trouble sitting down for a very long time, standing was going to be a problem for him as well.

Timothy dived face down on to his bed and rubbed at his throbbing buttocks through the cotton cloth of his beige trousers. Tears continued to trickle down his cheeks and he brushed them away with the back of his hand. Gradually he regained some composure.

Bloody hell. His dad had given him one hell of a whacking.

He reached out into his bedside cabinet and withdrew the brand new Tablet from within. Thank God, they didn’t catch me stealing this, he thought, as he powered it up.

 

Other father and son spanking stories you might like. Click on the title

Illicit drinking

Two brothers

When Dad got home

 

 

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

COMING SOON: Rory and Alistair of Willadong Academy

Meet Rory and Alistair. They could never conform to boarding school life with its countless rules and regulations. Get up at seven, bed at nine-thirty. Don’t do that; don’t go there. The two eighteen-year-olds were more suited to the life of the boys in town.

They were oddities at the school. They were both in their final year at the school, but had never received any privileges. Although they were old enough to be in the sixth-form, they were treated by everyone, masters and fellow pupils alike, as juniors.

They were even required to dress like juniors. Only boys in the sixth-form were permitted to wear long trousers: it was seen as a badge of privilege. The two boys remained in short trousers and would do so until the day they left school.

They had one other characteristic that distinguished them: they were madly in lust with one another.

Starting Monday 15 February 2016 and continuing on Wednesday 17 and Friday 19 February; three episodes from the life of Rory and Alistair of Willadong Academy.

 

Episode 1. Alistair goes over the knee of House Captain Pendleton for a severe dose of the hairbrush. Will the punishment stop the eighteen-year-old from climbing out of the window at night?

Episode 2. A frustrated junior schoolmaster needs to cane some arse. He prowls the school but all the boys are out at cricket. Except Rory and Alistair. They are in their room in each other’s’ arms and the schoolmaster is getting ever closer.

Episode 3. The headmaster has his own cure for Rory and Alistair’s ‘affliction.’ There’s nothing that a sound thrashing can’t cure. Or can it?

 

Seemingly impassive, but with his innards churning, Rory MacDonald breathed in a gulp of air. This would be the severest thrashing of his life. The first ever administered to him by the headmaster. At all costs he must act unperturbed.

Rory could hear the deep breathing of his pal behind him as calmly he unbuttoned his grey short trousers and let them slip down his legs. Then, making certain not to catch the headmaster’s eye as he did so, he put his thumbs in the waistband of his underpants.

With his short trousers and underpants safely at his feet, Rory lifted the tail of his sweat-soaked white shirt clear of the target area and lent forward over the desk, jutting his backside out as if to welcome the cane.

  • Extract from episode 3

A pair of shorts

Two very short stories that leave everything to the reader’s imagination.

 

  1. Office caning

The office manager swished the cane through the air and then tapped it against the back of a low leather chair.

The forlorn figure before him fumbled at the buckle of his belt. Soon the diligently-pressed trousers were at his feet.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and sent his crisp white underpants in the same direction.

He took a deep breath and fell forward across the chair – it was like diving into a freezing pool.

It was surprisingly comfortable, but that was to happen next would be far from that.

He sucked in his breath and waited for matters to take their course.

 

2 Do your worst

He went in, defiantly disdainful and disrespectful. He strolled almost casually in the direction of the pin-striped suit trousers which outlined the muscular firmness of the two thighs over which he knew he would soon be lying.

He stood expressionless as the details of his latest misdemeanor were drearily intoned. He was impassive and insolent as the zipper of his trousers was lowered.

The thin cotton caressed his naked thighs and calves on their journey to his ankles. Then he felt the loose floppy material of his underpants follow south.

A hand reached forward, gripped his arm and guided him gently. He fell face-first and rested. Any moment now the pain would begin.

 

Other stories you might like.

Theft of petty cash

The boys in the mailroom

The rooming house

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Spanking Vicar 3. House call

The Spanking Vicar episode one here; episode two here.

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.

 

Episode 4 is here

 

Other over-the-knee spanking stories you might like

The fire-raiser

University student late for class

Over the boss’s knee

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Spanking Vicar 2: The Reckoning

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.

“Who’s Ryan?”

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.

A preacher teaches humility

The vicar delivers

The vicar and the gay boys

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com