The Spanking Vicar 11. Tram lines

The Spanking Vicar, episode 1 is here

The Spanking Vicar, episode 10 is here

The tram pulled into the stop but Craig wasn’t paying attention. The sports pages of the newspaper held his attention. If he had been more alert, he might have gotten away.

The automatic doors opened and within seconds slid shut again. The electric motor engaged and they were on their way.

“Tickets and passes please. Please have your tickets and passes ready.”

That got the twenty-two-year-old’s attention. A ticket inspector. What the …? There had never been ticket inspectors before.

“Thank you ladies and gentlemen.” The uniformed officer made his way down the carriage. Within seconds he would be standing by Craig, arm outstretched, palm open waiting for the young man’s ticket.

A ticket he did not have.

If Craig ever bothered to read more than just the sports pages in the newspaper he would have known about the purge against fare dodgers. It was costing ordinary honest travellers hundreds of thousands a year. It had to be stopped. Everyone: politicians, the tram company and most of all ordinary punters agreed. A court fine. A criminal record. Your name in the paper for all the neighbours to see. A family disgraced. These were just some of the consequences for the fare dodger.

“Ticket please, sir.” Craig couldn’t recall the last time anyone had called him “sir.” They certainly did not at the office where he worked. His despised supervisor called him “Sonny”, and always with a sneer.

“Thank you, sir,” the ticket inspector was getting impatient. He had to go through two carriages before the tram reached its next stop. He didn’t have time to waste.

Craig said nothing. There was no need. His guilt was written all over his now very flushed face.

“Did you know?” the inspector started on a prepared speech. They had learned it at a training workshop. It was simple really. Ascertain if the passenger had a ticket. If not, don’t get into an argument; simply ask for their name and address (check some ID wherever possible). Write it down and inform said passenger they would be hearing from the courts in due course.

The inspector raised his pen and started on his spiel but stopped after a couple of sentences. “Don’t I know you?”

Craig’s already pink face turned a little claret.

“Yes, I do,” the inspector’s own face lit up. He thought so. Well, well, who would have thought it?

“You’re one of Reverend Crick’s boys.”

The stress he placed on the word “boys” sent a shudder through Craig. Who was this man? How did he know the Reverend? Did he know about Crick’s methods? Did everyone in the parish know?

The inspector tucked his pen in his notepad and chuckled to himself, “One of the Reverend’s boys.” Then without a further word, he passed on down the carriageway.


The telephone rang in the vicarage. Rev Crick cussed, but only gently. Why did the phone always ring when he was reaching a crucial stage in his baking?

Rubbing flour from his hands he strode into the hallway and picked up the phone. It was Joey Slaughter, the ticket inspector. Craig had been puzzled when the ticket collector had let him off fare dodging. What, no fine?  But he should have known better.

As soon as his shift was over, Joey called the vicar. He knew Craig was one of the Reverend’s “boys” and he was very aware of the Reverend’s view (and practice) on discipline. He knew when he told Crick about Craig’s criminal activity he would certainly beat the boy raw and that would be a greater deterrent to further fare dodging than a miserly fine.

Three hours later, Rev Crick burst unannounced into Craig’s bedroom. It was a close call; the boy had just finished buttoning up. That girl with the big knockers who worked at the café near his work. It did it for him every time.

Craig eyed the cane in the vicar’s hand with apprehension. He guessed at once. That ticket inspector.

Rev Crick loved to sermonise; he was a vicar after all. “Fare dodging! What were you thinking of? It’s theft, you know it is.”

“Oh, perleaze! The tram company is asking for it. They have no ticket offices. You get your ticket from an automatic machine. Then you get on the tram. It’s some kind of honesty policy, but who in their right mind paid for something when they didn’t have to? Only mugs, that’s who: I’ve never once paid my tram fare.” Craig thought all these things, but did not say one word out loud. He knew what the consequences would be. There was no need to antagonise the vicar further.

Rev Crick flexed the straight cane between his hands. It was a little longer and thicker than any in the vicar’s large collection of crook-handled school canes.

Craig had stopped listening to the sermon some time ago. So, it was to be a caning. Fair enough. It was probably worth it. He had saved a small fortune in the short time he had been in Tylesbury; six-of-the-best would be a small price to pay. What the heck, he could take it.

Swipe! The vicar swished the cane through empty air, then held the rod at each end and flexed it into an arc. Yes, he thought, this would leave the necessary impression on the thief.

Swipe! Rev Crick was almost ready to go. “I want you to take off your jeans. You can put them there on the chair.”

Craig nonchalance was evident as for the second time that afternoon he unbuttoned his jeans. Unlike the last time, his cock was soft. Casually, he let the jeans fall and rest in a puddle at his feet. He stood still awaiting further instruction.

“Right off. Step out of them. Put them over here,” the reverend pointed his cane towards a wooden straight-backed chair. Silently, the young man pulled first the right leg and then the left over his feet and while balancing precariously he took the jeans off and deposited them on the chair.

Rev Crick admired the man standing before him. Craig’s hazel green eyes shone and despite the cold weather his pale skin glistened. But, it was the boy’s cutest button nose that always got the vicar’s heart skipping. That and the sweep of his buttocks that looked gorgeous no matter what he wore (or did not).

The underpants were the briefest briefs; they clung to the contours of Craig’s buttocks and held his cock and ball sack snugly at the front. In all his years spanking young men, the vicar had never seen such unsuitable underwear. The boy was a slave to fashion, the tightness of the fit meant the pants rode up his arse crack all the time and there was no escape for the penis when it was time to go to the toilet. The only way to pee was to unbutton your trousers, pull them down a little and then poke your cock over the top of the pants, taking great care not to urinate all over your trousers.

“Pants off too. Right off.”

Craig hesitated. A bare-arsed caning.

“Come on lad, I haven’t got all day,” the vicar’s impatience was showing. He had bread baking in the oven downstairs and he did not want it to spoil.

Craig tucked his thumbs into his pants at the hips and with the merest flick of the wrist he sent the amber-coloured briefs south.

“Now,” the vicar swished his rod menacingly, “Lay face down on the bed.”

The startled look on the boy’s face betrayed his thoughts. For the first time he visualised the awesome swing the vicar could make with his cane as it whipped down into his naked buttocks.

“Face down. Please stretch your arms ahead of you and grasp hold of the metal bedframe,” the vicar intoned. In his own mind he often saw himself as his tenants’ loving-father, compelled by duty to spank the bottoms of his errant sons. But, today he was a prison guard or a borstal warder preparing to deliver an exemplary judicial flogging to this odious thief.

Craig eased himself onto the narrow single bed, stretched his arms forward and buried his face in a pillow. To his astonishment, within seconds the vicar had grabbed his right wrist and tied it to the bedstead. Then he did the same with the left.

Crick studied the cane in his hand as if he had never seen it before. It was three-feet long and maybe three-eighths of an inch thick. This cane rarely saw action, it was reserved by the vicar for the most serious of offences, for the times an exemplary thrashing was required. He kept the Malacca rod secreted in the garden shed where it was pickled in a solution of salt water and vinegar. This made it very supple and ensured it stung like hell.

He had carefully rounded off the tips; experience had taught him that when he hit hard, as he always did, the tip would often whip round and bite into the side of the buttocks, and sharp edges cut the flesh badly.

The vicar stared impassively at the half naked body in front of him. He grabbed hold of Craig’s shirt and pulled it up his back, completely exposing two quivering buttocks.

Then, he aimed his cane at an imaginary spot about six inches below the surface of the cheeks, raised it high and brought it crashing down. The rod held contact at maximum pressure with the skin and immediately an ugly weal rose across the very centre of both globes.

Craig exhaled a gasp and bit deep into the pillow, stifling the yell he desperately wanted to make. His legs kicked out in agony as he fought in vain to free his wrists from the bedpost. There was no escape, he was at the complete mercy of Rev Crick; not that he intended to show any.

Methodically, Rev Crick set about tearing Craig’s arse apart. Once again he lifted the cane into the air over his right shoulder, paused for a moment, and then brought it swiftly and forcefully downwards towards the awaiting bottom in front of him.

As the vicar delivered the stroke across the same sensitive area Craig’s cries and squirms of anguish were only matched by the determination of Crick. His eyes never left the boy’s backside.

With intense concentration Rev Crick swung the Malacca and hit his target with increasing venom and accuracy. The pain of each lash seared through Craig’s body, like electric shocks. The worst were the low cuts, down at the bottom of his cheeks, where the tip of the cane whipped around and cut into the soft part in the crease.

By the fifth lash Craig was squealing to be let off. Screaming, and writhing and twisting as much as his restraints would allow.

Craig begged to be let off more cuts; he vowed to always pay his tram fare.

But it was not to be and the final lash cut deep into the pert buttocks. Then it was over. Rev Crick had whipped strokes all over his backside, from the top of the crack right down to the join with the legs. They were savage and seared a young behind that was unlikely to forget the experience.

“That is that,” the vicar had hardly broken sweat. Quickly, he untied the wailing boy and without a further word, he exited back to his kitchen and his baking bread.

Craig lay gasping, hardly able to catch his breath; the agony in his naked buttocks had quickly spread to nerve ends across his whole body. His head throbbed almost as intensely as his buttocks.

Soon the agony lessened a little and he eased himself off the bed, careful not to press his buttocks into the hard mattress. The pillow was soaked with his saliva.

He stumbled across to the mirror. He had five long open cuts across the centre of both buttocks. The weals stood out clearly and he could see each stripe easily. The vicar’s aim had been superb; each lash had landed precisely where intended. The boy should be grateful he had been restrained and unable to move.

The next day, both buttocks would be very swollen like purple footballs. The weals turned to pitch-black scabbing ‘tram-lines’, an ironic reminder to the thief to always pay his tram fare in future.

The following Saturday, with his arse now almost clear of bruising, Craig stood patiently at the tram stop, a pile of coins in his hand. As the tram approached silently, he looked to the left and to the right. Good, the coast was clear. He put the change back in his pocket and boarded.


The Spanking Vicar, episode 12 is here


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