The Spanking Vicar 8. The sixth-former

The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh series starts here.

Episode 7, One off the wrist is here

Rev Crick sucked a final drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out in an ashtray alongside seven or eight other butts. Then, he tipped the whole lot into the swing bin before leaving his bread to bake in the kitchen to go to his study where he had left the schoolboy he was going to thrash.

Sam Ramsden stood facing the bookcase, hands on his head, where he had been for the past fifteen minutes.

Sam Ramsden: sixth-former, prefect and incorrigible nuisance at the church youth club. He couldn’t get his flickering eyes to keep still. Blink, blink, blink. His hands were quivering too and he was pleased the vicar couldn’t see that.

Behind him, he heard Rev Crick open a cupboard door and rummaged around inside.

“Ahh, here we are,” Rev Crick sighed. “Turn round boy.”

Sam’s flickering eyes widened when he saw what the vicar had in his hand. It was a dark yellow crook-handled rattan cane. It was much bigger and denser than the one headmasters tended to use.

“Good,” Rev Crick seemed to be talking to himself. Then, as if he had never seen the wicked rod before, he flexed it between his hands to examine it closely. Then he ran his fingers along its length from the curved handle across the ridges that disrupted its smoothness every three or four inches to the rather worn tip at the end.

Yes, he thought, a magnificent specimen. And, after inspecting the fraying end, he concluded, this little beauty had seen a lot of action.

Sam Ramsden’s hands were shaking more violently. He had heard strange stories about this vicar; now it seemed they were true.

Crick swished the cane through empty air, testing its whippiness – and, he hoped, intimidating the youth standing before him. It seemed to have worked. A clear line of perspiration formed on the teenager’s top lip, rather like a damp moustache and his already rather pale face blanched.

Crick continued his little play. From the corner of his eye he studied the boy. This was not the first time he had met the eighteen-year-old, but it was the first time he had summoned him into the vicarage.

School had just finished for the day and the wretched boy was still in his uniform. He had made an effort at least, the vicar supposed. His blue-and-green-striped tie was tied tightly at his neck; the white shirt was tucked neatly into his mid-grey trousers. Even his shoes looked like they had been rinsed over to remove dust. He was growing out of his black blazer, but the vicar forgave him this. The mothers of sixth-formers were reluctant to buy new uniforms when they knew their sons would leave school in a few months. Sam was dressed like any one of tens (possibly hundreds) of thousands of schoolboys up and down the country.

Also, like schoolboys nationwide who faced similar circumstances as he, Sam stared down at the carpet and listened inattentively as his litany of crimes was related to him.

Distributing cigarettes at the youth club had been the final straw. Sam had a nice little earner. He would confiscate cigarettes from the younger boys at school during the day and sell them on in the evening. He wasn’t a smoker himself; he was a fine middle-distance runner and his coach had warned that any boy caught smoking would be out of the athletics team. He meant it too.

Rev Crick was enjoying himself. He wobbled the tip of the cane only inches from the boy’s face.

“Look at me boy!” Rev Crick was somewhere in his middle age with an angular face and jutting jaw line. What hair he still retained was thin and straw coloured. He had on a shabby polo-necked pullover and dark brown corduroy trousers that were a bit thin at the knees. Round rimless spectacles that perched high up on his nose made him look a little like an owl.

“What do you have to say for yourself, lad?” Crick flexed the cane into an arc to demonstrate his intent.

Ramsden’s mouth had dried completely, “Sorry,” he croaked.

Crick’s glare sliced him in two. “Sorry, what!”

Ramsden returned the glare with a puzzled look.

Swish! the cane flew through empty air. “Sorry, what!”

Oh, now he got it. “Sorry. Sorry, Sir.”

“That’s better.”

He swished the cane once more.

“I know the headmaster at that school of yours,” (Rev Crick could not bring himself to utter the man’s name or that of the local Church of England grammar school) “does not believe in corporal punishment, but I do. If you bring cigarettes into my youth club to sell to the younger boys, you will feel the full force of this,” he wriggled the cane some more, “across your backside.”

And, to emphasise the point, he added, “Very. Hard. Indeed.”

“Yes, I am going to cane you, Ramsden,” Cricked barked, as if the shameful youth ever doubted the fact.

Ramsden’s eyes would not stop blinking, or his hands shaking. They were standing in an unheated room in the middle of November, but the boy’s shirt was soaking in perspiration. If he possessed the courage to look at his tormentor, he would have seen the middle-aged vicar also had sweat seeping through his pullover.

Ramsden had only been in the village for five months, but he soon heard tales about the Reverend Crick and his unusual methods. Sam couldn’t say he hadn’t been warned. He had been caught fairly and squarely, what had he expected the consequences to be?

“Take off your blazer and put it on the desk over there.” Unnecessarily since there was only one desk in the room, the vicar pointed at it with his cane.

He unclasped his hands and with quivering fingers unfastened the three buttons of his blazer. Then, in one continuous movement he had it off his back and deposited it on the desktop. Please God, Ramsden thought, please don’t make me take down my trousers.

“Stand there,” another swish of the cane indicated a spot in the centre of the room. Ramsden took the three paces needed and stood, head bowed with his hands, fingers interlocked, in front of his crotch.

As if seeing the boy for the first time, Crick slowly eyed him. He saw the boy’s hair was dark brown and untidy; it was the type that a comb could never tame. His face was pale with no traces of a beard: a late developer, the vicar liked them that way. Long curled lashes drew attention to the boy’s hazel-green eyes, which just now betrayed Sam’s anxiety.

Sam was an athlete and he had the body to match. He was about 5ft 8ins tall with a firm torso and strong legs. His now very damp shirt clung to his body and the mid-grey trousers fitted so snugly that he didn’t need a belt.

Swish! The cane flew through empty air with a devastating hiss. “Bring that chair and put it there.”

Ramsden almost audibly gulped. He was for it now. This was for real. He was going to get that fearful cane across his bending backside.

The chair was an old wooden number with a straight back and surprisingly heavy. Ramsden manhandled it to the required spot and awaited further instructions.

Swish! “Stand behind the chair,” the reverend barked.

“Pah! Closer boy. Closer.” Ramsden had positioned himself a yard or so away from the chair.

He shuffled forward. His face was drenched with sweat and his heart racing. He couldn’t be sure he could go through with this. He might faint at any moment.

Swish! “All right Ramsden, Bend over the chair.”

The teenager closed his eyes tight as if hoping that when he reopened them, this would have been a dream. He wasn’t standing in the vicar’s study about to bend over a heavy wooden chair to receive his first-ever dose of corporal punishment.

Swish! “Quickly boy, we haven’t got all night.”

Ramsden took a deep breath and like he was diving into a pool of iced water he threw himself over the back of the chair and gripped the hard wooden seat as if for dear life.

Swish! The vicar was in no hurry. Let the boy sweat some more. Nonchalantly, the vicar put his hand in his pocket and slowly paced the room so that he could get a better look at the boy submissively waiting the first stroke of his vicious cane.

It was literally a breath-taking sight. Rev Crick gasped at Ramsden’s beautifully rounded bottom, perched on top of two magnificent strong legs. It was one of the most delightful sights the vicar had ever seen. The mid-grey trouser material clung to the curves of the boy’s buttocks. This boy would look great in anything, the vicar, who had extensive experience of such things, reckoned. Even the cheapest Tesco Bomber jeans would still bring out the magnificence of the cheeks.

And, naturally, Ramsden’s backside would look fantastic with no covering at all, which is how he will be if he takes cigarettes to the youth club again.

Sam Ramsden stared down at the scuffed wooden seat of the chair. It was old and worn and in dire need of varnishing. His face was red and sweaty and his fingers clung tightly to the chair. He just wished the reverend would get on with it.

The vicar retraced his steps and stood to the left of the boy. He didn’t believe in doing things in half measures, so it would be a dozen good swipes. Ramsden was a thoroughly naughty boy and he would be punished accordingly. Twelve stingers across the seat of the trousers would do the trick. It would hurt the lad like buggery and that was only right and proper. But, it was to be a punishment, not a torture.

It was not strictly necessary, but the vicar could not resist it. So he leaned over the boy and taking hold of his waistband he tugged the trousers so they were even tighter across the firm buttocks. Now, he could see the outline of the boy’s briefs. Then he took hold of the shirt to pull the tail clear of the trousers, exposing an inch of bare flesh above the boy’s bottom.

Still with his left hand planted firmly in his trouser pocket, fingers curled around his cigarette pack, Rev Crick raised his right arm and with an almighty whoosh! he brought the cane bouncing down across the very centre of Sam’s bottom.

“Ouch!” the boy breathed the word. The cut hurt like crazy, but he was in control of his faculties. He screwed his eyes tight and breathed out.

Rev Crick paced the room once more. He wanted to string this punishment out. It would hurt the boy more if he left a decent interval between strokes.

Number two came crashing down, just a fraction of an inch below the first. That one hurt Sam more. His eyes shone and his breathing came in gasps as the pain shot from his bottom and up and down his legs. His knees buckled a little, but otherwise he remained still; offering up his backside for more punishment.

Again, the vicar paced the study, composed himself and brought another almighty swipe down across the boy’s perfectly rounded bum. “Wow, wow, wow.” There were three loud intakes of breath. Sweat poured down his back and his hair and neck were drenched.

The vicar paced once more, observing closely Ramsden’s face. Rev Crick was experienced enough to know his cane strokes were sending waves of agony coursing through the teenager’s body. The boy was hurting badly, but he did not want his punisher to now this. The reverend rather admired the boy for his stoicism.

Each of the next three stokes landed a little harder than the previous, breaking Sam Ramsden’s will. He yelped as stroke four connected, yelled at number five and the sixth cut had him wailing. Tears flowed freely and his legs stamped up and down in a vain effort to make the pain go away as his whole body trembled and shivered in shock.

“Stay in position, Ramsden,” the boy had made a move to rise from the chair in the mistaken belief that this was to be, six-of-the-best.

No such luck. Swipe number seven – the fiercest so far – sank deep into Sam’s bottom. By now, he could feel many distinct welts throbbing beneath his tight trousers and underpants.

Number eight was savage. It curled under the boy’s buttocks and struck with force the top of his thighs. The pain raged through his legs. He longed to leap up, clasp his backside, and flee the room. But he didn’t. He was yelling; frantically writhing and twisting, but he stayed there, holding on to the hard wooden chair until the final swipe of Rev Crick’s cane had left its scorching incision on his body.

Stroke by stroke, slice by slice, the vicar made his mark on Sam Ramsden, beating into him the message that Rev Crick was in charge, and that he was going to make sure any youth club member who stepped out of line, or even contemplated doing so, would suffer as the teenager himself had.

His long lashes were soaked and his usually-beautiful hazel green eyes were those of a terrified young man. He stood, shoulders heaving, as tears and snot smeared his face. His face and upper body was drenched in perspiration and blood was rushing at break-neck speed through his entire body.

Sam Ramsden looked so beautiful in his extreme distress. Rev Crick so needed to grasp the teenager to his chest and pet him. “There, there, my baby; it’s all over now,” he wanted to say. Instead, calmly, Rev Crick opened his desk drawer, reached in and retrieved a handful of tissues, which he handed to the boy.

The searing pain in Sam’s backside had already begun to ease into a constant throbbing. It would be tender for some considerable time to come and patches of pain would be reignited whenever he sat down over the coming hours. But by bedtime, the worst would be over. Bruises would stay for many days to come as a reminder to him that his behaviour must improve.

“You should go home Sam,” Rev Crick said in what he hoped was a concerned way.

Without a word, the teenager picked up his blazer and put it on while he made his way to the front door. In seconds, he was gone.

Rev Crick returned to his kitchen and the baking bread. He stared aimlessly out the window as he lit a cigarette. Approaching the vicarage was Mr Banks, the retired librarian. It must be the first Tuesday of the month already, the vicar reckoned. Mr Banks was visiting to confess his sins. The vicar opened the drawer in the kitchen table and extracted his three-tailed taws which he had left there after he had used it to take the skin off the backside of his paying guest Tommy earlier that day.

Episode 9, The Scout Leader is here

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