The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh series of stories starts here
Rev Crick stared ferociously at the Boy Scout standing before him. He had a great shock of fair wavy hair and the ruddiest cheeks he had seen on a young man in a long time. His buttocks would be just as red by the time I’ve finished with him, he thought. Those short trousers would have to come down too: the material’s far too thick.
Leon Hawkes was a scout leader, of sorts. At nineteen years old, almost twenty, he was supposed to be a responsible young man. He was expected to set an example; to give guidance to the younger boys.
He shuffled from one foot to the other; embarrassed, but not ashamed, as Rev Crick berated him. He had been “irresponsible”, “reckless”, “careless”, “unconcerned,” “negligent” and “inconsiderate”. The vicar was throwing the book at him.
Leon was an exceptionally good-looking lad. Beneath his fair hair and ruddy complexion was a perfectly proportioned body. He stood a little under 5ft 8ins and his Boy Scout uniform clung to his muscular body. The bottle green shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his biceps and adorned with countless merit badges, was open at the neck. A grey-and-maroon neckerchief was tucked neatly inside. His buckskin short trousers fell to two inches above the knee and were turned up at the hem. He had rolled his long socks down so that they rested on the tops of his desert boots.
It was summer and Leon had spent much of it out in the sunshine. His naturally fair skin was nut brown and a pair of “aviator” sunglasses hung from a pocket of his shirt.
Leon’s family were good, honest, God-fearing people. Rev Crick had known them for years. They would be mortified if they heard what their eldest son had been up to. Leon realised that too, which was why he would do anything to stop them finding out.
An hour earlier, Rev Crick had dealt with Brian Bell, one of Leon’s partners-in-crime. Brian was a fat toad of a boy and not a church-goer. He had not been brought up to defer to men of the cloth and could not see why he should offer up his bum to the vicar for physical chastisement. And, he had said so, stridently.
“Doh!” Crick strode from his study and into the adjourning lounge where he found Tommy and Craig, two of his paying guests at the vicarage.
“Come. Now!” he barked. Painful experience told the young men they must obey the vicar at all times and apprehensively they followed him back to the study. They found a red-faced and sweaty belligerent eighteen-year-old Boy Scout. The lad’s green shirt was stained with sweat and his black short trousers, bursting at his waist clung to his sagging buttocks.
Crick grabbed the boy’s left arm and hauled him a yard or two towards his desk. “You two; hold him down.” With that he shoved the boy face down so that he was spread-eagled across the desk.
Craig was rooted to the spot uncertain what to do, but Tommy had more gumption and he held on to Bell’s right arm
“Pin him down. Now!” The order was barked and so fierce that Craig quickly regained his senses. When he tried to recall it later, Craig’s memory was blurred about what exactly happened next. On some kind of auto-pilot he moved behind the desk and pressed his hands into the boy’s shoulders.
Together, Tommy and Craig were so strong the fat boy had no chance of escape. His blubber-filled body was pressed down into the wooden surface of the desk. Brian might be pinned down, but that did not stop him hollering blue murder.
In ordinary circumstances, Rev Crick would have spanked a young man red-raw simply for using such language, but to direct the vile swear words at him personally was too much. This brat would pay heavily for his behaviour.
Avoiding Brian’s kicking legs, the reverend lent forward and undid the button on the boy’s tight short trousers. He tugged them down over the extensive mounds that were Bell’s buttocks. This encouraged the Boy Scout to scream and yell once more.
Stoically, Reverend Crick took hold of the waistband of the boy’s expansive underwear and took them down so that they bunched up over his thighs. Bell’s entire body was quaking; his backside was wobbling like mounds of jelly and was damp with perspiration.
Craig felt rolls of flesh in the back of the boy beneath him. From his vantage point he had a perfect bird’s-eye view of the Boy Scouts gigantic sweaty buttocks.
Craig’s eyes swivelled from the vicar to howling boy; from the hand holding the thin leather riding crop to the pink fleshy backside that was about to receive one heck of a thrashing. Then, he looked from the cold, emotionless eyes of the man of cloth to the horrified stare of the howling Scout.
He saw Crick tap his crop into the boy’s buttocks to take his aim. The thin whip sank deep into the fleshy expanse of buttock. Then, he watched as Crick withdrew the crop, swerved it high into the air so that it rested behind his own right shoulder and then with the powerful force of a golf swing he flogged the leather into the quaking buttocks with maximum force.
Bell shrieked as the rod sank deep across both buttocks; a thick red line immediately formed and the whale of a boy shook his body in a desperate but failed attempt to break free of his captives.
Bell kicked his legs up and down to try to inhibit the vicar as he aimed and whipped number two deep into the flesh.
Bell was no longer the brash loudmouthed defiant youth. He pleaded, no he begged, to be spared as he banged his head up and down against the desktop as a wave of agony shot from his flabby bum up and down his legs.
Tommy and Craig pressed down into the prone boy with all their strength. No matter how severely the vicar flogged the half-naked boy, they would not release him without permission. To do so would see them also across the desk, bottom bared for the vicar’s punishment. They knew you simply did not disobey Rev Crick.
Whoosh! Number three landed a little below the previous two. There was lots of acreage for the vicar to aim at. Never before had he been presented with such a sizeable target.
Rev Crick was impassive; his eyes cold and heartless as he assessed the impact of his handiwork so far. Bell’s legs were still stamping up and down on the spot. The vicar was irritated; the next stroke might be a little hard to deliver if the wretched boy did not keep still. He moved a step further to the vile youth’s left and found his spot. Whoosh! It landed right on target; across the back of the thighs, just below the crease at the base of the buttocks.
The youth’s yell resounded around the study and out into the grounds of the vicarage. Rev Crick didn’t mind who heard. This brat of a boy, this foul-mouthed terror, deserved all he was getting. How dare he talk to him, the vicar of this parish, using such profane words!
By the sixth stroke the vast backside was painted with rich and angry stripes across its centre area. The screaming, writhing and twisting continued with renewed vigour. Tommy leaned forward and laid his body across the boy’s head and shoulders to keep him pinned in place.
Slowly, coolly, methodically, and immune from the youth’s screaming, Rev Crick laid a further six lashes all around the circuit that was Bell’s enormous rear end.
The beating over, Brian Bell’s howls quickly turned to sobs and wails. Tears flowed from his eyes and vomit clogged up to his throat. Eventually his weeping quietened and an eerie stillness enveloped the room. Only the picture of a flogged youth, stretched across a study desk remained.
“Let him up,” Rev Crick’s own breathing was shallow. He looked at the riding crop in his hand, as if seeing it for the first time. A little unsure of what he should do next, he decided to walk to a wall cabinet, unlock a door, and deposit the crop alongside a number of school-type canes within.
Brian Bell, now released from the grip of the two young men, hobbled from the room, his short trousers and underpants still at his ankles.
The vicar reached for his cigarettes and smoked three Capstan Full Strength one after the other until he felt calm enough to leave in search of Leon Hawkes.
He found the so-called Scout leader at the scout hut. It was a multi-purpose hall with office attached. The boy was alone, minutes earlier he had seen off a group of younger boys who were being driven to a nearby road layby for charity car washing duties.
Leon was expecting this: it was only a matter of time before the reverend caught him. And when he did, Leon knew he would pay for the consequences of his actions with a very sore backside indeed.
Rev Crick loved his boys to be submissive. When given the order, they should unfasten their trousers and let them fall to their feet. Then, down would come the underwear and the young men would stand half-naked in front of him. The vicar would instruct them to bend over a chair, the desk, his knee, or whatnot. And they would do it; without question. They were saying to him: yes, I have done wrong, I deserve to be punished, and you should be my punisher. Please spank me now.
Leon Hawkes was such a young man. He had attended Rev Crick’s church all his life – indeed, he had been there longer than the reverend himself. He knew as an article of faith that it was his duty to obey the Church and its officers. Rev Crick was in charge. Leon knew that and he accepted it.
Rev Crick drank in the sight before him. Leon was of average height for his age and muscular; but it was his head and face that people noticed. His hair was thick and wavy, his complexion ruddy and his blue eyes shone as brightly as any cat’s.
It was a scorching summer’s day and the teenager’s green shirt was stuck to his torso by sweat, even with the sleeves rolled up and the neck unbuttoned. A maroon-and-grey neckerchief tucked inside his shirt drew attention to his firm chest.
But, it was the boy’s black buckskin short trousers that the vicar noticed now. They clung to his buttocks and thighs and fell to about two inches above his knees. The turn-ups at the hem directed the eye to his slim, muscular legs. And, hanging loosely around his middle, for it served no purpose in keeping his snug-fitting short trousers up, was a wide leather belt with the official Boy Scouts buckle.
Rev Crick involuntarily ran his tongue along his bottom lip. He had an idea. Yes, that would do very well indeed, he decided.
There was no more to say. It was time for action. The vicar pulled a favourite straight-backed chair into the centre of the room and sat down. Gesturing to the Boy Scout to come and stand in front of him, he said, “Leon, please take off that belt and hand it to me.”
Despite his already ruddy complexion, Leon coloured up at the order. He knew from the moment the vicar had started listing his many faults and misdemeanours that he would be in for a spanking. Yes, a spanking at nineteen years old and he a grown man and Scout leader. He knew that would happen and in his heart of hearts he accepted it. But, still the thought of bending himself across the vicar’s knee to allow the old man to spank his bottom with his own Scout belt embarrassed him deeply.
He hesitated momentarily; but he considered himself to be an honourable young man and despite his mature age and the humiliation, he knew the vicar was in charge.
He breathed in heavily and with fumbling hands he undid the belt and slid it through the loops of his shorts. It was a heavy belt; the buckle made certain of that, but also did the metal ring that at one point along its length connected two halves of the leather belt. It was ideal for the Scout to hang his essential Swiss Army Knife.
Rev Crick silently held out his hand and Leon sorrowfully handed the belt over.
Rev Crick’s tongue, lizard-like, poked in and out between his pursed lips. He needed a drink, and not just a cup of tea.
He hacked a dry cough and continued. “Lower your shorts please Leon.”
“B.. b… but …” the nineteen-year-old Boy Scout stammered, but an icy glare from Rev Crick shut him up quickly.
Leon closed his eyes tight. It would be all right if he could imagine that he was somewhere else. This really wasn’t happening to him. He must think of something pleasant.
The fly buttons undone, the weight of the buckskin sent the short trousers crashing down to join his rolled-up long socks resting on the tops of his desert boots. Leon stared down at the puddle of clothing at his feet. It seemed to be a very long way away. These were not his feet, they belonged to someone else. Some other Boy Scout was about to get his backside tanned, not he.
The vicar moved, making himself more comfortable on his hard chair. Leon blinked at him; it was as if he had never seen the man before. He really was a queer cove, his round rimless spectacles made him look like an owl. Once he had had a fine head of sandy hair, but now in middle-age it was wispy and his dome was mostly bald. His tongue was still darting in and out of his mouth.
His shirt was stained under the armpits and open at the neck; he had discarded his ‘dog collar’ in deference to the heat. Despite this he still wore his trade-mark brown thick corduroy trousers that had almost worn smooth at the knees.
For a second the two stared at each other; the hugely embarrassed but submissive youth and the much older man. Crick’s lips did another circuit of his top and bottom lip as he watched Leon prepare himself for his spanking.
The boy’s glistening white Y-front underpants clung to his flat stomach; there was not a spare ounce of fat anywhere on Leon’s body. Too late to be undetected, Crick averted his eyes from the Y-fly and the package it covered.
He cleared his throat once more. “Come Leon”, he croaked, “Put yourself across my lap.” Then for good measure he added, “You know this must be done.”
Leon’s heartbeat quickened and perspiration began to soak through the youth’s shirt. His short trousers at his ankles inhibited his movement and he had to wobble three or four yards to take up position.
“Leon Hawkes is at the crease,” he played an imaginary radio commentary in his head. “And England want fifteen more runs for victory in the Ashes series over Australia.”
He stood for a second to the vicar’s right side. The old man’s legs were parted by about three feet to provide a platform for the boy to lay himself across. Leon gulped, drawing in air and the stink of sour tobacco assaulted his nostrils, along with a fainter aroma of stale urine.
With his hand Rev Crick patted his left knee as an encouragement to Leon to present himself in a submissive manner.
“And Leon Hawkes sends that one crashing to the boundary. It’s four runs!”
Rev Crick steadied himself a little as Leon stretched himself across his legs. The young man was unexpectedly heavier than he looked.
Leon had never been spanked before, nor had he ever seen a boy go over the knee for punishment, but instinctively he knew what was expected of him. He spread his arms ahead of him and placed the palm of each hand four feet apart and firmly into the wooden floorboards. Behind him his buckskin trousers at his feet inhibited movement so his legs were hardly more than six or seven inches apart. Leon kept his knees straight so that his bottom, clad in smooth cotton, rested at an angle against the reverend’s right knee. He was perfectly positioned for punishment. He stared down at the floor and returned in his mind to the final Ashes Test at Lord’s.
He was quite comfortable considering what was soon to happen would be far from that, but he wriggled a little because the cigarettes and matches the vicar had in his trouser pocket dug into the boy’s side.
Rev Crick held the leather Scout belt loosely. He had belted many backsides in his time, but he had never seen a weapon quite like this. He had many belts at the vicarage; his favourite was wide and thick and at least four-feet-six-inches long. But the Scout belt was tiny by comparison. It was designed to fit around a Scout’s waist and clamp shut at the front. Leon’s belt was the same size as his waist; no more than twenty-eight inches, the vicar calculated. The thick brown leather belt had an adjuster so that in places the leather was doubled up. So, the vicar held in his hand a doubly-thick belt that was only twenty-eight inches long, with a metal ring that increased its weight.
It was an awesome spanking tool. Rev Crick felt the weight of the belt in his hand as he tap, tap, tapped it against Leon’s left cheek. But, he wasn’t quite ready. Gently, he took hold of the waistband of the underpants and pulled so that the smooth white cotton kissed the buttocks. Then, he moved the increasingly damp shirt a few inches up the boy’s back, exposing his hairless and suntanned flesh.
Now, he was ready. Without further warning, he raised the weighted strap to the fullest extent of his arm and brought it down with a resounding crack into Leon’s right cheek. A startled gasp escaped Leon’s mouth. That hurt. He screwed up his eyes as a second and third thwap!!! landed. The echo of leather on tight cotton bounced around the room.
Leon was a spanking virgin and had no idea what a spanking was supposed to feel like. It should hurt for sure, he supposed: otherwise what was the point? But how much? The belt rose and fell as the vicar found his rhythm. A dull pain spread across both buttocks and Leon stared down at the backs of his hands.
Rev Crick was impressed at the youth’s fortitude. He lashed the leather belt again and again into Leon’s muscular bottom. The boy’s cheeks were so tight there was no “give” in the flesh; was he even feeling this spanking?
There was only one thing to do. Without warning, he ceased the wallops and unceremoniously pulled once more at the waistband of the pants. This time, instead of making them tighter he dragged them down, across the boy’s hips and over his round bum.
“Keep still,” the vicar wheezed. Leon had wriggled his body in response to this unexpected development.
“What the Dickens,” the vicar did not say it aloud, but he was astonished at what he saw. The entire area of Leon’s buttocks was chestnut brown, the same colour as the rest of his body. The boy must have been running around naked – or at least sunbathing nude.
The vicar’s breathing increased at the thought of it. “Well,” again he thought but did not say, “Had I caught him at that little game I should have given his backside a tanning of an entirely different sort.
He wrapped his arm around Leon’s midriff to hold him firmly in place, raised the leather strap to maximum height and brought it down over and over again into the firm flesh. Leon felt that all right. His gasps quickly turned to little yelps and then to larger cries. He wriggled his body across the vicar’s lap to the left and to the right. He was a strong boy and in a fair fight he could have knocked Crick for six; but this was no fair fight. Leon was a naughty young man, held firmly across the knees of his punisher, bare bum held high to receive lash after lash from the leather belt. It was, he knew for certain, a fair punishment, one that he deserved. He must hang on for dear life and take what was coming to him.
Leon’s bottom was covered in a rash of raw marks where the short heavy belt had scorched into him. By now hardly any of the buttocks and the tops of his thighs was untouched by the strap. Tiny graze marks made by the metal ring of the belt widened into deeper scratches.
Whop! whop! whop! The vicar was going around the circuit one more time; from the top of the cheeks just below the spine, across the mounds and into and beyond the crease where the bum meets the thighs.
The dull pain had long since transformed into an almighty throb only to become an agonisingly searing pain across the whole of his bottom area. Pain travelled up and down his legs and then to the north, south, east and west of his entire body.
The whacking had knocked the breath out of the boy and he lost strength. He had no power left to resist and had no option but to lay face down staring at the floorboards while the reverend punished his naughty little bottom.
Involuntary tears washed the backs of his eyes and soon they trickled down his cheeks. The final Test Match had long ago been abandoned.
The reverend was not a cruel man; he believed in just punishment. Every square inch of Leon’s bottom had been toasted. Dozens of imprints of the Scout belt emblazoned the buttocks and the tops of his thighs. Scratches made by the metal ring gave the boy’s flesh the appearance of raw hamburger meat in places.
It was a job well done. Leon Hawkes had been well and truly spanked. He would not disgrace himself or the good name of the Boy Scout movement again, the vicar reckoned. And, if he did there was an assortment of springy rattan school-type canes waiting in the study at the vicarage for him.
Rev Crick spread his feet out in front of him so that the boy could lift himself clumsily off his lap. Slowly, he knelt and then stood up. His hands disappeared behind him as he rubbed away gingerly. In this position his cock flopped up and down. The vicar turned his back slightly, pretending not to look.
In silence, Leon tugged up the underwear and short trousers from the top of his boots. He tucked in his shirt and adjusted his neckerchief. He was once again a smartly-dressed Boy Scout and no one who saw him leave the room need ever guess what ordeal he had just been put through.
Rev Crick rushed from the office, pulling his cigarette and matches from his pocket as he went. Leon was recovering well. Already most of the pain had gone. His bottom was still warm and in places it was tender to touch, but soon even that would disappear. The red marks would turn to bruises and he would wear them for some days to come. They would be a reminder to him of the punishment.
Leon prepared to leave the office. Already he had resolved to be a better person: never again would he allow Boy Scouts under his command to sneak off to smoke cigarettes.
The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh series of stories starts here
Episode 10, The Cricketer, is here
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