It was dark and Tommy was awake listening to Craig’s rhythmic breathing.
Cautiously, he slipped from beneath the bedclothes, scooped up his pyjamas and tip-toed to the door. Outside, he stepped into his pyjama bottoms. His backside was no longer sore, but it was tender to the touch.
Gingerly, he walked down the hallway to his bedroom.
In his own room, Rev Crick’s ears pricked up at the sound of creaking floorboards.
Craig slept on. When he woke he would be relieved Tommy had left.
Tommy, now under his own bedclothes shivered. His fingers gently caressed the twelve hard ridges where the cane had thrashed the twenty-year-old’s backside.
Where, Tommy wondered, had it all begun? The critical moment had been when he and Craig were over the back of the Chesterfield, together, and Rev Crick whipped his Malacca cane into their backsides.
But, it had really started earlier in the day. Rev Crick was away from home. He was at some church gathering, apparently. The vicar’s three paying guests Craig, Tommy and Bob didn’t really care where he was. The fact that he was not with them and they had the vicarage to themselves was what mattered.
It hadn’t been planned. It wasn’t really a party. It was more like a gathering of friends. Everything was going well. The three lodgers were university students so there was no shortage of beer. And there were cigarettes the like that Rev Crick, the habitual smoker, had never encountered.
Rev Crick was in a bad mood. He had argued with the Bishop, which is never a wise thing for a lowly vicar to do. It was about Rev Crick’s “pastoral care” in his parish. The Bishop was concerned about the cleric’s “methods”.
That was it. In a foul temper, Crick called for a taxi. He would be back at the vicarage before bedtime.
Crick had both presence and a reputation. He had hardly stepped through his front door before the party-goers headed for the hills, leaving Craig and Tommy alone in the kitchen. Bob had long-since disappeared with Sally Hargreaves; a young lady with a reputation of her own.
Crick’s anger was real, but it was outmatched by his astonishment. For Craig and Tommy were dressed only in their underpants. Tommy’s were traditional white Y-fronts, but his nineteen-year-old partner-in-crime sported rather fashionable sky blue briefs. The two lodgers stared sheepishly at one another, as if realising only for the first time that they were in their underwear.
They were drunk, the vicar supposed. It was easy to come to that conclusion. Empty cans of Watney’s Party-7 and Double Diamond bottles were strewn over the room. Rev Crick wasn’t really a man of the world. The boys’ suppressed giggling should have been a clue. They weren’t drunk, they were high. A film regularly shown at the vicar’s youth club called it “Reefer Madness”. Marijuana would make you behave strangely. You lose all control when you take the drug.
Crick was a consistent man. Some might even say he was singular. The lecture was short. His lodgers had abused his trust. They had to be punished. And, severely so.
So, it was that Craig and Tommy found themselves side-by-side face down across the back of the couch, their underpants at their feet.
Crick swished the most awesome cane he possessed through the air. It was a Malacca; a little more than three feet long and as thick as a pencil. It was a whippy rod, but dense. Along its length there were ridges every three or four inches. It was a powerful cane and in the right hands it could do a backside considerable damage.
They might have been a bit high but the two youngsters were far from stoned. They knew exactly what was happening to them. They were about to get the thrashing of a lifetime. And, who is to say that they didn’t deserve each and every stroke?
Crick had caned many young men in his lifetime, but this was to be the first where the victim was presented before him totally naked. The first time he had caned Craig, on the first day the nineteen-year-old had joined him as a paying guest, Crick had admired the cut of the boy’s buttocks, wonderfully presented in tailor-made trousers. Soon the vicar realised Craig looked good whatever he wore. Now, he learned he was pretty astonishing without clothes.
Tommy was a little stockier than his companion. His backside was more prominent than most; but it always presented a wonderful target and this evening was to be no exception.
With his Bishop’s rebuke still ringing in his ears Rev Crick prepared to do his duty. Who cared if his boss didn’t like his “methods”, Crick was answerable to a higher authority and the vicar knew beyond doubt that God was on his side.
Swipe. The cane fell with such force it was as if the vicar was beating a carpet. First Craig’s left cheek, then his right: then Tommy’s left cheek, then his right. Then the vicar went round the circuit again. And, again. And, again.
The first cuts slashed deeply into naked haunches. Craig and Tommy, their heads inches apart stared intently ahead, not prepared to acknowledge one another. But, Craig could hear Tommy wheeze as each stroke whipped into his stretched bum. Tommy listened as Craig gasped and coughed gently as his bottom was pounded.
Tommy was first to stir: Craig’s head was so close he could smell the teenager’s sweet breath. Traces of the fragrance of Tommy’s shampoo wafted over to Craig. Unintentionally, their heads turned, eyes acknowledging a bond was growing between them.
Crick piled on the pressure. He was an expert. Each cut fell just a quarter of an inch below the previous one. A ridge formed immediately the fierce Malacca hit its target. By the end of the thrashing each boy’s bottom would be corrugated from the top of the buttocks right across the curves and into the crease where the bum cheeks meet the thighs.
Stoically, Crick tore into each set of buttocks. Left, right. Left right. And, then back again, as he worked his way across the back of the Chesterfield. To the front, unseen by Crick, Tommy’s left hand groped for Craig’s right hand and the boy eagerly took it. They gripped each other as the pain intensified.
Both lads manfully held back the tears. They wanted to sob, but they would not give Crick the satisfaction. If they were alone they would gladly have fallen on one another’s necks and wept copiously.
Satisfied, at last, Crick put down the cane; the boys stood, returned their underpants to their rightful place, and were dismissed.
Slowly, agonisingly, they made their way through the study door. There between them and the stairs leading to the sanctuary of their rooms was Mr Hilton, a parishioner who had just “popped in” to see the vicar.
The boys despised Hilton, but revenge on him would have to wait. They had needs that had to be dealt with urgently. No word was spoken between Tommy and Craig, as they entered the same bedroom.
Craig fished a tube of antiseptic cream from a drawer and with no inhibition lowered his pants, squeezed a blob of ointment onto his fingers and kneaded it into his throbbing bum.
“Let me,” quietly and sincerely spoken. Tommy took the tube, squeezed hard and worked the cream into Craig’s soft cheeks. Neither would remember how it happened, but soon both boys were naked rubbing balm into his friend’s buttocks.
The ointment had no effect on the agony, but friendly fingers provoked a different kind of relief. Un-self-consciously naked, faces burrowed into chests, arms entwined. Tommy tilted his head toward Craig, mouth open and the boy gratefully received his tongue. The boys tumbled naked onto the bed.
Previous episodes of The Spanking Vicar
Episode 1: the new tenant
Episode 2: the reckoning
Episode 3: the house call
Episode 4: the missed curfew
Charles Hamilton the Second