Previously on Max of the ‘Champion’
Max, the nineteen-year-old junior newspaper reporter, stood and stared. His heart raced and he felt sweat dripping down his back. His breath came in short bursts. He stared at his boss, the deputy editor, who sat in a straight-backed, armless chair with his feet plonked a yard apart firmly on the ground. In his hands he twisted an old worn bedroom slipper.
Max couldn’t keep his eyes off the slipper. It looked very old. Probably as old as his boss. He was old enough to be Max’s grandfather. The slipper had probably seen a lot of action; had spanked quite a few backsides in its time.
“Take down your trousers. Underpants too. Bend over my knee.” It was a curt command and an order Mr Arkwright expected to be obeyed.
Saliva drained from Max’s mouth. He held his hands behind his back to stop them shaking. Mr Arkwright tapped the slipper against his right thigh, trying to encourage the frowning teenager to take his medicine.
“You need to be taught a lesson, young man. A lesson that all young reporters must learn.” He gripped the slipper tightly.
Max gulped. Mr Arkwright was right, he knew that. Max had screwed up a story for the newspaper. He had spelt the name of Mrs Flora Chombleigh-Heckerston, the chairman of Little Todgeworth Village Flower Show Committee, incorrectly. He had failed to check it. The first rule of newspaper reporting: check everything. He might have got away with it but the self-important biddy complained to the editor. He complained to his deputy and now Max was to be taught a lesson.
“Well if you won’t,” the deputy editor frowned, “I shall.” He leaned across and caught hold of the waistband of Max’s trousers. The boy did not resist as Mr Arkwright pulled him forward. He let the slipper rest on his ample thighs while he swiftly unbuckled Max’s belt. It took but a moment to unfasten the trousers and tug them to the boy’s feet. He admired the teenager’s package, encased tightly behind snug-fitting cotton underpants. He freed Max’s cock and balls by gripping the underpants tightly before sending them south to join the junior reporter’s trousers at his feet.
Max let the old man take his right wrist and gently guide him across his lap. He put his hands ahead of him to break his fall. Then submissively he wriggled his body a little so that his head stared down a couple of inches from the beige-coloured carpet. Behind him, he bent his knees slightly and raised his bottom so that it rested at an angle against his boss’s right leg. In this position his toes just about brushed the floor.
Mr Arkwright gently caressed Max’s buttocks with the palm of his right hand. He let his finger slip into the boy’s crack. Max had a terrific arse. He was a fit youngster; he cycled and ran and did press-up and sit-up exercises each morning, which toned his body to perfection. Mr Arkwright already knew Max had buns of steel.
The deputy editor took hold of the tail of Max’s gleaming white shirt and carefully moved it up his back, away from the buttocks. He could feel Max’s body pressing against his lap. The boy’s breathing was even, but shallow. He appeared to be waiting submissively for the spanking he knew he deserved.
Mr Arkwright tightened his fist around the slipper, he didn’t want it to fly out of his hand after he swiped it into Max’s bare flesh. He tapped it lightly against the very centre of Max’s left cheek, raised it high, and then brought it crashing down with a resounding smack! He was delighted to see a dark pink imprint immediately form. Max’s bottom quivered; it was the only movement he made to show the old man that he had felt the sting of the slipper.
Slowly, for he was in no hurry, he raised the slipper once more. Arkwright knew he and Max would be the only people in the newspaper office. It was past six in the evening; everybody would have gone home an hour since. He had all the time in the world.
He grasped the slipper more firmly than before, and raised it high. He slammed the slipper into Max’s right cheek. The boy’s legs trembled; he had certainly felt that one. He opened and closed his mouth, pursing his lips.
Mr Arkwright picked up the pace, spanking his old worn slipper up and down, up and down, into Max’s rock-hard buttocks. Soon every square inch of his flesh was dark pink. The imprint of the slipper’s sole was reproduced dozens of times across the teenager’s once creamy-white bottom.
His gasps became groans as Mr Arkwright polished up his backside. He kicked his legs wildly and tried to reach back with his hand to intercept the old man’s blows. But, his boss was wise to that little trick. He grabbed Max’s wrist and held it firmly in the small of the boy’s back. He would not be going anywhere until Mr Arkwright had decided his backside had been sufficiently toasted.
Sweat ran down the boy’s face; his hair felt as if he had just stepped out of a shower.
He clenched and unclenched his cheeks with each scorching embrace of the slipper. To his annoyance hot tears scalded his eyes. He fought to hold them back. Two bare legs, their ankles and feet trapped in the tangle of trousers and underpants, jerked and bent and tried to cross over each other. The noise of Mr Arkwright’s slippering echoed around the room and out into the corridor.
Then, he paused and rested the slipper on Max’s back. He gently rubbed his palm against the boy’s raw flesh, delighted at the heat rising from the boy’s bum. He bent his fingers slightly to form the makings of a claw and rapidly spanked his hand across Max’s buttocks. He followed the entire circuit; from the top of the globes near his spine, across the fleshiest part of the mounds and into the under-curves where the buttocks meet the thighs. Then, for good measure he smacked the back of the teenager’s thighs. Very hard indeed. Max wriggled and writhed, he gasped and he groaned. The boy had much more strength than the old man. Soon, he would break free.
Now, Mr Arkwright concluded it was the time to stop. He had been spanked enough. For now. He released his grip on the teenager who immediately jumped to his feet. Mr Arkwright gaped in awe. Max’s cock was pointing to the ceiling; throbbing. Two deep purple veins looked like beams holding his member erect. Oh, to be nineteen years old again!
Mr Arkwright reached forward, put both of his hands behind Max’s buttocks and roughly pulled the teenager forward. Then the old man took the teenager’s throbbing member in his mouth and washed it with his tongue up and down the shaft and over the glistening tip. Almost immediately, Max shot a load of hot steaming cum. The old man coughed and spluttered and frantically reached into his trouser pocket for a handkerchief.
Max lay on the floor panting. He had only recently discovered he loved to be spanked; especially by older men. And, what joy it was to find out that his boss was an enthusiastic spanker. Only last week the deputy editor had spanked him with a heavy wooden clothes brush; in this very office. They had very nearly been discovered by some journalists returning unexpectedly from their lunch break.
“I need to get some water,” Arkwright spluttered and rushed from the room. Max wiped himself down and adjusted his clothes. He knew Arkwright would be in the lavatory for some considerable time, pleasuring himself.
He picked up his jacket and left the building to walk the short distance to The Goat where he hoped to meet his old school friend, Alan.
“Hi Max!” Alan called across the almost deserted bar. When Max joined him at his table, Alan beamed, “Wow, you’re glowing. You look like the cat who got the cream!”
How could Max tell his friend he had just been given a blowjob by a man old enough to be his grandfather? And that his boss had given him one heck of a spanking and Max enjoyed ever slap of it? How could he explain that to Alan? He couldn’t even explain it to himself.
When Max had bought a round of drinks, Alan said, “Did you get anywhere with the pervy headmaster?” He meant Mr Draper the headmaster of their old school, Alderman James Grammar. The story was he had spanked two sixth-form boys on their bare arses. He made the eighteen-year-old boys visit his study separately and bend over his knee.
Alan had tipped Max off with the story. The junior reporter couldn’t tell his great pal that he had visited the headmaster at the school and had himself been made to lower his trousers and bend over and take six-of-the-best from a whippy school cane. It was unfinished business from when Max was a pupil at the school and wrote an article in an underground school magazine.
Max had loved it so much he creamed his underpants.
The two teenagers sipped their beers in companionable silence. Then Max piped up. “I wonder if Tony will be in tonight?” Tony was a new trainee solicitor in town. Max had met the young lawyer at the magistrates’ court when Tony was defending a pensioner accused of riding his bike without lights.
“Tony is having an awkward interview with Sir Royston Calderdale,” Alan beamed. He would enjoy telling Max his story. “It’s his performance review.”
Sir Royston was the head of a group of solicitors’ offices across the region. They had been in his family for generations. Tony was the latest in a long line of “pupils” to undertake their initial training with Sir Royston.
Many considered Sir Royston to be an eccentric. He was stuck in aspic, about thirty years in the past. He was the sort of lawyer who might ask a defendant, “Who are The Beatles?”
Alan grinned, “Sir Royston is said to have an unorthodox approach to the master-pupil relationship. Even as we speak Tony will be admiring the pattern in the carpet in Sir Royston’s office at very close quarters.”
Max laughed. “You’re wicked.” But his cock stiffened as the image of Tony and Sir Royston came into his head. Tony is stretched face-down across the back of Sir Royston’s luxurious leather chair. The young man’s trousers are at his feet, his underpants at his knees. Sir Royston flexes, then swishes and then whips a school cane at great force into Tony’s upturned flabby buttocks.
Max took a great gulp of beer. In his imagination Sir Royston tapped the cane against Tony’s bum and let fly with another fierce cut.
Just as Max pictured stroke number three being lined up, the saloon door opened and Tony entered.
“Let’s see if he winces when he sits down,” Alan grinned and winked.
The young lawyer showed no discomfort when he joined the pair with his beer. He could not understand the amused glances being shared between his two friends. He ignored them, he loved to gossip and this evening he had a juicy tale he was eager to share.
“Did you hear about the curate in Wrigglesbury?”
“Curate?” Max was puzzled.
“Y’now, like a trainee vicar.”
Max knew very little about organised religion. He never went to church, not even as a child. His father was a lecturer in sociology at the local university. He said religion was the opiate of the masses.
“What about this curate?”
“He’s only been spanking his parishioners.”
“Give over,” Max roared with laughter, thinking, “How many illicit spankers are there in this neighbourhood.”
“It’s true,” Tony giggled, “Cross my heart and all that.”
“What’s he doing, spanking the kids at Sunday School?”
“No, adults. Naughty grown-ups,” Tony laughed some more. “I think he’s in the same club as that policeman you wrote about.” He meant a rural policeman called Snodgrass who unlawfully spanked young men. Max exposed him by tricking the constable into spanking him on the bare bottom with a hairbrush. He had kept that bit out of the news report he wrote for The Champion.
“You should go check him out. He’s name’s Crick. He’s at the parish church in Wrigglesbury.”
A week later, Max had it all planned. He put on a shirt and jeans and ran two miles during the hottest part of the day. Once the sweat dried his clothes would smell to high heaven. For good measure, he stole some whisky from his father. Later, he would rinse his mouth with it and sprinkle some on his clothes. His disguise as a vagrant would be complete.
Wrigglesbury was a small village. The north of England was full of them. It was the sort of place where everyone knew each other. The folk were brought up to respect their betters: policemen, doctors, schoolmasters and above all else, clergymen.
It was easy to get into the church. It was not locked. Why would it be? Max scoured the cold, empty, echoing building. There was one more part of the plan to put in place. He discovered a vase of half-dead flowers and threw them over the ground. Then, he took hymn books and scattered them far and wide.
Then, he sat and waited. Waited to be discovered.
Henry Crick, the curate, was restless. He need to smoke a cigarette, but his boss the Rev Timkins hated the stink of tobacco. Crick was banished from the vicarage. Rain fell. He had two choices, stand in the cemetery and get soaked or seek the sanctuary of the church. He eased open the huge creaking oak door and stepped inside. He had never found that church inviting; it was too damp and gloomy. He pulled out a pack of Players Weights from his trouser pocket and rested on a pew. He sucked in the smoke, drawing it deep into his lungs. He was only truly relaxed when he had nicotine in his system.
He swirled the smoke around inside his mouth, filling his cheeks before blowing a perfect ring. He was greatly self-satisfied. He closed his eyes, picturing Timothy the nineteen-year-old farm hand who lodged as a paying guest at the vicarage. The boy stood six-feet-two in his stockinged feet. His broad shoulders and tight waist were testimony to the physical benefits of hard labour. His thighs were huge and his buttocks beefy and firm.
He opened his eyes to delve into his pocket for a second cigarette. Then, he noticed the two hymn books on the ground, close to his feet. He peered into the gloom and in the interior of the church he saw another. Then another. A few feet ahead of him was the overturned flower vase.
He peered through his round “National Health” spectacles. He heard a rustle of movement. Somebody else was in the church. He rose from his seated positon, leaning forward, scrutinizing. Then he saw the vision.
It wasn’t a religious experience. It was earthly. It stirred the curate. A young man, trim, fit, healthy, sat on the cold stone floor of the church staring back at him. His smooth open face smiling. It was warm and inviting.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” Crick spoke in a hoarse whisper. The boy had taken his breath away.
Max pushed his hands against the cold stone and rose. As he did so he offered Crick the perfect view of his pert tight buttocks, swathed in light blue denim. The curate pulled on his cigarette. The boy’s shirt had ridden away from his waist and he lifted it slightly revealing a firm flat stomach. Then, he pulled at his shirt so that it fell over the top of his jeans. The top two shirt buttons were unfastened. His chest was as firm and as hairless as his belly.
Crick gasped and then coughed. He blamed the cheap cigarette in his mouth.
All thoughts of Timothy and the buttocks Crick desperately wanted to spank were deleted from his mind. He had new urgent business to attend to.
There was not much of a conversation. Crick could smell the sweat and the whisky from a distance. The young Adonis was a drunk. Crick knew everyone in the village; he didn’t know Max. He must also be a vagrant.
“I should call the police,” Crick stood erect, trying to intimidate. He had a jutting jaw line, but his angular bone structure was sheaved in fat. Perspiration soaked from beneath his receding hairline. By appearance he could have been in his twenties; possibly in his thirties.
Max grinned. The police, he thought. Perhaps the local constable and the curate were in it together; the spanking duo.
Crick misread the grin that split Max’s face. The curate’s heart fluttered when he caught sight of white, even teeth.
“No, please, Sir, not the police,” Max had rehearsed his lines. “I’ll do anything. Please Sir, don’t tell the police.” Max had learned his acting style from the Little Mulsbury Amateur Dramatic Society.
If Crick had thought with his brain and not his cock, he might have sensed this was all too easy. Within moments, the teenager was leading the way to the vicarage. Crick held back a pace or two behind, transfixed by Max’s buttocks gently moving up and down. The boy wore his jeans well, Crick concluded. He would look delightful wearing anything. He would look ravishing wearing nothing at all.
Timothy saw the pair enter the vicarage. He did not need a second guess to assess the situation. How did Crick get away with it? Timothy paused on his way up the stairs to his room. That boy? Where had he seen him before? He pulled a picture from under his mattress. It was of a Manchester United footballer player with his shirt off, torn from the pages of Football Monthly. Timothy unfastened his trousers and lay back on the bed.
Downstairs, Crick was in a fix. He wanted to get on with it, but the smell drifting of the luscious boy’s body was overwhelming him. If he stank like this with his clothes on, what would be like naked?
“Come!” he led the way from the room and holding Max firmly by the arm, he took him to the bathroom.
“Strip off, have a bath. Be quick about it.” His jaw dropped when Max darted into the room and locked the door.
Ten minutes later, Crick paced the landing, a woollen dressing gown under his arm. How much longer would the boy be? At last the door opened and Max reappeared fully dressed in his stinky shirt and jeans.
“No, no, you disgusting boy,” Crick berated him. He desperately needed a cigarette to calm his nerves. “Strip off and put this on.” He hoped he had not over-emphasised the words “Strip off.” In his world young men did not “strip off,” they took down their trousers and underpants.
Max took the gown and returned to the bathroom.
Moments later they were in the vicar’s study. At last, Crick mused, he could deal with the young man. It was an old fashioned room, unchanged since the nineteen-thirties. A battered old desk stood in front of large ‘French’ windows, overlooking a neat garden. Bookshelves and cupboards filled two walls, an open, unlit fire, the third.
A long padded leather couch dominated the centre of the room. Four people could sit on it at once in comfort. Max surveyed the room. It reminded him of something out of an Agatha Christie film. Where Miss Marple gathered all the household staff before revealing that the butler had done the crime.
Perspiration soaked Crick’s back and underarms, even though the room was quite cool. The fit young man in the dressing gown stood before him impassively. Submissively. Max hoped the curate would get on with it. If Max was going to get a scoop for his newspaper, the clergyman would have to make the running. If Max asked to be spanked it would be entrapment.
At last Crick made a move. He gathered together two cushions and placed them in the very centre of the couch. Then, he walked slowly to the desk, bent down and with some difficulty because it was old, he opened a drawer. He did not need to look inside. He knew perfectly well what was contained within. His hand emerged holding a worn leather taws.
Max watched impassively, but he could feel his heartbeat increase. The taws looked magnificent. It was about two feet long, with the handle, and the ‘business end’ was split into three tails. Crick held it in his right hand and allowed it to dangle at his side. Without thinking, Crick tap, tap, tapped it gently against his knee. Max was spellbound.
Crick might be a relatively young man, but he was of the cloth. He expected his commands to be obeyed.
“Take off the dressing gown,” Crick hoped his tone of voice did not reveal the excitement he felt. “Then lie face down over those cushions.”
Max fumbled for the cord of his dressing gown, hoping that he could control his cock. If it crowed, he would not be able to pretend that he was a helpless victim of some kinky vicar.
He turned his back to Crick, let the dressing gown slip over his shoulders and fall to the floor. The curate could not see the teenager’s penis. But, he had a perfect view of the boys, muscular back and behind.
Silently, Max knelt on the couch before resting his stomach on the cushions and spreading his body the full length of the sofa. He folded his arms to take the weight of his body and held his head high.
Crick gasped. It was an audible exhalation of air. The boy’s beautiful hazel eyes transfixed him. He seemed to be saying, “Spank me. Please spank me. I deserve to be spanked.”
“Stretch your arms ahead of you; lie face down.” Crick’s command was quiet. Clear. He was in charge. He watched transfixed as the teenager’s muscles flexed as he manoeuvred his body into the position demanded.
Crick desperately needed a cigarette. Oh, how he needed a smoke. The boy stretched submissively before him was too much. Crick had never seen such a stunning naked youth before. Max had a deep suntan all over his body; well, nearly all over, his buttocks remained white. He was a fit youngster; he cycled and ran and did press-up and sit-up exercises each morning, which toned his body to perfection.
His back and bottom were hairless. His legs had the merest trace of down-like hair. His bum was pert and hard. That’s what so much cycling did for you.
Crick took up his position about two feet to Max’s side. The vicarage was Victorian and the study ceiling was high. The curate could lash his taws into the boy’s backside at full force and not have to worry about hitting a lampshade.
He gripped the handle of the taws, gently touched the leather across the very centre of Max’s bottom. Then, he raised it in an arc high so that the tails touched the small of his own back and then slashed it forward with such speed and energy that he jumped an inch or so off the floor at the moment the taws impacted across Max’s bum.
Max’s stomach rose off the cushion, his legs kicked out and his fists pounded into the seat of the couch. A shockwave of pain coursed through his body. He opened and closed his mouth silently, rather like a goldfish might, but he successfully suppressed the yelp his body wanted him to make.
Three very distinct dark pink lines ran left and right across the boy’s creamy-white buttocks.
The leather rose and fell. Another three stripes. Already Max’s bum was beginning to resemble a map of the Clapham Junction railway.
Upstairs in his bedroom, Timothy sent a stream of cum eight inches in the air. He laid back satisfied, catching his breath. He strained his ears, listening for Crick. Had he finished with that boy? Timothy conjured up the image of Max and his delightful jeans. Soon his cock would stir again. But, who was that boy and where had he seen him before?
“Oh Holy Jesus!” Timothy zipped himself up and rushed to the door. “Crick! Crick!” he yelled. He remembered who the boy was. He had seen him at a Young Farmers’ Club meeting. He was a reporter from The Champion. He was the one who wrote the story about the spanking policeman that Timothy had loved so much.
He took the stairs two at a time. “Crick! Crick!”
Too late. The distinctive sound of leather connecting at speed against bare flesh echoed around the passageway. Timothy could also hear muffled cries. Crick was giving the teenager a terrific tanning.
“Oh dear,” Timothy sat on the bottom step of the staircase. There was nothing he could do. What would happen now? It would all end in tears, that was for sure.
Two days later Henry Crick sat in a third class carriage as the steam train slowly chugged its was south. The Church looked after its own. It would ride out the newspaper scandal. Crick had been quietly moved on. He would soon be forgotten in Wrigglesbury. He would start a new life, a long way away. In his pocket he had the address of his new home. The Vicarage, Aston Budleigh.
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
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