The Spanking Vicar 10. The Cricketer

cricket

The Spanking Vicar, episode 1 is here

Episode 9, The Scout Leader is here

 

Thwack!! “Ooooow!”

Thwack!! “Aaarghh!”

Craig padded down the stairs at the vicarage.

Thwack!! Thwack!!

Muffled yells came from behind the stout study door. Someone was getting it and Craig was pleased that for once it wasn’t he.

The nineteen-year-old secretly marvelled at Rev Crick. How did he get people to submit to his will; and to his cane? The young man had himself felt a variety of Crick’s instruments of punishment across his own backside in the few months he had been one of the vicar’s “paying guests”.

Who was it this time? He unlatched the front door and exited into the warm summer evening. He had a date, but that could wait a few more minutes. Stealthily, he crept around the side of the house and from a safe distance he peered through the study window.

As Craig expected, the victim was bent across the back of the large Chesterfield couch while Rev Crick enthusiastically thwipped one of his swishy school-type rattan canes into the miscreant’s backside. It looked a particularly meaty bum from where Craig was standing. Two eminently beatable buttocks encased in bright yellow boxer shorts were bouncing over the crest of the large leather couch.

The owner of the buttocks stamped his feet up and down as each fresh lash connected across the centre of the cotton underwear. What looked to Craig like designer jeans were bunched at his feet.

A series of yelps, each louder than the previous one, hissed from the victim’s tight lips.

From his vantage point almost directly behind the vicar’s right arm, Craig had a perfect view of bouncing buttocks, but he had no sight of a face. He might not be surprised that the vicar was lashing his cane into the bottom of a parishioner; but was startled when after Crick landed a particularly vicious swipe low into the thighs, the man’s torso rose from the couch as he let out a screech so loud, birds in a nearby tree flew away in terror.

That was when Craig saw the face. Terry Miller. Terry Miller, it couldn’t possibly be Terry Miller? Rev Crick shoved Miller’s shoulders and he slid back down over the back of the Chesterfield; face down in position to receive more cuts of the swishy rattan cane.

Terry Miller was the local milkman and star of the village cricket team; known to everyone. He was the nearest thing Aston Budleigh had to a celebrity. And here was Terry Miller bent across the vicar’s couch getting one heck of a thrashing. If it went on like this he would have to deliver his milk by hand in the morning; no way would he be able to drive his milk float.

Crick took a long drag at a cigarette, replaced it in an ashtray and with his cane laid a further dozen swipes right across the entre of Miller’s meaty bum. Craig had the perfect view; begrudgingly he had to hand it to the vicar – he was an expert caner. Miller howled and he howled. Then it was over. His eyes shone with tears and he hopped from one foot to the next while simultaneously rubbing away at his raw backside.

Craig smiled to himself as he witnessed Miller’s spanking dance. He knew from bitter recent experience that none of that palaver worked. Miller would just have to let nature take its course. By now the intense agony would already have turned to a throbbing pain and that in turn would become a warm glow very soon.

Terry Miller. Craig shook his head in wonder as he set off for the gate and his rendezvous. Terry Miller; what had he done to deserve such a caning?

The previous Saturday

Where was that boy? The cricket match was due to start in ten minutes and Terry Miller was nowhere to be found.

“He should have been here an hour ago,” club captain, Alan O’Dowd, hissed, barely able to contain his anger. This was a vital knock-out match against Aston Budleigh’s bitterest rival and nearest neighbour, Yewtree. Miller was the team’s star player. A great slogger of a cricket ball and a demon spin bowler. He was the man who would win his team the match.

But not that day.

Twenty-five miles away Terry Miller was tucked up in a strange bed, snoring gently, his right arm wrapped around the waist of a young woman whose name he could not remember.

The team were despondent: knocked out of the cup by Yewtree. They would never hear the end of it. Just wait until they saw Terry Miller, they all said. They’d give him what-for.

The chance came the following Tuesday at match practice. Rev Crick led the verbal attack. “Irresponsible.”

“Selfish.”

“Untrustworthy.”

He laid into the twenty-three-year old with gusto. The young man’s teammates urged the vicar on.

“You were with a woman again. It’s always a woman with you,” Rev Crick lambasted the wretched fellow.

Terry Miller flushed bright red. He would not, could not, confirm this was so. He had his wife and young son at home to consider.

“You need a darn good spanking. I’m going to put you across my knee and tan your hide with a cricket stump.”

The young cricketer stood dumbfounded. A spanking? Whoever had heard of something so ridiculous. But, he knew the vicar by reputation: he was deadly earnest.

And so were his club mates.

“Spank him! Spank him!!” The chant started with one or two of the younger players and spread through the whole team.

Terry Miller stared wild-eyed. His friends were quickly turning into a mob. If he didn’t turn on his heels and run for it, they would do him serious damage.

Rev Crick paced the club house and delved into a large canvas bag. Seconds later he had a cricket stump in his hand. A cricket stump wasn’t the best weapon to use to inflict corporal punishment. It was a rod of solid wood, about two-feet long and an inch in diameter. The vicar would have much preferred to return to the vicarage to collect his lovely shiny two-tailed leather taws, or one of his smaller wooden spanking paddles. He would be able to inflict a much more severe spanking on the young man with either of those than any cricket stump.

But, needs must, as they say. The cricket stump was at hand, so a cricket stump it would be.

Rev Crick stood and faced Terry Miller. “Come on. Let’s get on with this.” He reached forward and grabbed a wooden chair and manhandled it into the centre of the club house.

“Wait a minute, vicar,” Alan O’Dowd interjected. “I’m the club captain, I should be the one to do this.”

Rev Crick glared at him, barely able to contain his fury. How dare he deprive him of the chance to put this delightful young man across his knee and spank his meaty buttocks until they were black and blue.

O’Dowd held out his hand. It was a silent instruction to the vicar. Reluctantly, the clergyman passed over the stump. It was beneath his dignity to argue with the club captain about who should spank the young cricketer.

Terry Miller watched with increasing nervousness as O’Dowd settled himself down in the chair and spread his legs wide to form a platform which in a moment he would be forced to bend over. He glanced at the club house entrance; any escape route was blocked by three or four of his colleagues.

O’Dowd clicked his fingers and Miller returned his attention to his club captain. He was beefy with well-developed muscles, as befitted a man who had spent most of his adult life in farm work. His ruddy complexion made him look much older than his thirty-five years. He gripped the cricket stump in his fist and pointed it at Miller’s midriff.

“Bend over my knee Terry.”

His heavily sun-tanned face could not hide the deep blushes that scorched Miller’s face. Bend over. For a spanking. In front of all his mates. No, it was just too humiliating.

O’Dowd smirked. He felt his colleague’s embarrassment, but he also thought the handsome young man was a cocky sod. He had let his team mates down by missing the most important match of the season. Jeez, he had let his wife and child down by sleeping with another woman. He deserved all he was going to get.

Miller stood, rooted to the spot. No way was he going over that bastard’s knee.

O’Dowd sighed heavily. “Okay, if that’s how you want it.” He turned slightly in his chair and called. “Lads bend him over the bench. Hold him down.”

“All right. All right. I’ll do it.” Terry Miller took a small step forward and resting his hands on O’Dowd’s right thigh, he gently lowered himself so that he rested in the classic over-the-knee spanking position. His face hovered an inch or so from the wooden floor, the palms of his hands lay flat ahead of him. On the other side his knees bent slightly and the toes of his cricket boots rested gently on the ground.

Rev Crick manoeuvred himself within the small crowd of onlookers until he had a perfect view of the young man’s bottom held high over O’Dowd’s thigh. The white cricketing trousers fitted tightly across his buttocks.

The club captain rubbed the cricket stump gently across the centre of both buttocks, finding his aim. The hush in the club house was deathly. The sound of a pin, had one been dropped, would have shattered the atmosphere.

There was no pin, but there was Rev Crick. “Wait!” His voice boomed around the room. “This is not how it should be done.”

Rev Crick was a commanding figure. He had the attention of every man in the room.

“A spanking is not a proper spanking unless it is given on the bare. He should take his trousers and underpants down.”

The pronouncement was met with a resounding cheer from the cricketers.

“Trousers down! Trousers down!” they chanted. What a great idea, they thought. You could always rely on the vicar to know the right thing to do.

A huge rictus grin split O’Dowd’s ruddy face and he chuckled. “Too right vicar.” Then he slapped the palm of his shovel-sized hand into the seat of Miller’s trousers. “C’mon lad. Get them down.”

“Come on son. Show us your arse,” Barry Dwight, one of the more uncouth of the team mates called out.

“Yeah, bare all Terry,” came a voice from the back.

“Trousers down!” the chant resumed.

Terry Miller was a defeated man: the victim of mob rule. If any man present thought it was wrong to spank a twenty-three-year-old man on his bare bottom because he had missed a cricket match, he did not speak up.

The cheer that greeted the lowering of the underpants travelled across the village green and in the Hare pub Joseph the barman stopped momentarily pulling a pint and exchanged a quizzical glance with his customer.

Terry Miller resumed his position, face down, bottom high. Alan O’Dowd had never seen a man’s bare bottom at such close range before. Of course, they were all naked in the showers after a match, but, and he wouldn’t want to say this out loud, he was more interested in comparing the size of his own manhood with the others than looking at bums.

The buttocks were creamy white, in stark contrast with the young man’s sun-tanned body. They were also surprisingly devoid of hair. O’Dowd gripped the cricket stump and took his aim. Miller was not especially tall but he was still a little large to fit comfortably across the older man’s lap. O’Dowd could not easily get the stump to cover both cheeks simultaneously without himself leaning so far back in his chair that the body across his lap might slip to the floor.

Rev Crick read the club captain’s mind. “Spank one cheek at a time. Try a diagonal stroke.” It was good advice borne from many years of practice.

Whack! The stump landed with great force across Terry’s left buttock. Immediately, a thick dark red line appeared. O’Dowd heard someone in the crowd whistle: wow, he’s not blowing smoke here.

A second stroke discoloured the right cheek. This time the whistle came from Terry’s lips. The pain was building. Whack, whack, whack. O’Dowd had never spanked anybody before in his life – not even his wife in fun – but instinctively he knew the whole point of the exercise was to make the spanked person very sore indeed.

Terry kicked his legs high as each stroke bit deep into his bum. It was a reflex action; he had lost control. He had never experienced such pain before. It started in his buttocks and shot through his entire body. His heartrate was off the scale, blood rushed to his head. Any moment, he feared his ears would pop.

“Six more …” Rev Crick couldn’t help but conduct the affair.

“Right-ho Vicar.”

Six swipes cut deep into Terry’s bottom. His once creamy-white bum was criss-crossed with thick red lines. Welts were beginning to form. The places where the cuts had overlapped were so red-raw they resembled hamburger meat.

Then it was over.

“Up pup.” O’Dowd released his grip. Terry shot to his feet. His backside felt like someone had rubbed it with sandpaper. He grabbed his trousers and pants and dragged them to his waist. Without waiting to do up the buttons, he fled from the room.

An uneasy silence followed. What was to be said?

O’Dowd looked down at the cricket stump in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. Had he really used it to spank Terry Miller’s bare backside? He could scarcely believe it.

He felt the tension in the club house. “C’mon lads, let’s get out to the nets,” he whispered.

Fifteen cricketers shuffled out the club house.

“Good job.”

“He deserved it.”

“He’ll think twice about missing another match.”

Rev Crick watched them go. Minutes later alone he trudged back to the vicarage, resentful of the club captain who had denied him the opportunity to spank Terry Miller, but also of the girl who had slept with him.

He had cheered a little by the time he reached home. He had a plan. Young Miller had paid for his absence from the cricket match; soon he would be made to atone for his adultery.

 The Spanking Vicar 11. Tram lines will be published on Monday 23 May 2016

Other stories you might like.

The TV repairman

The cheating student

The pub manager

 

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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