I was at the vicarage late one afternoon, as I often am, when the vicar told me without emotion that he was expecting a visitor at any moment. I offered to leave but he said, “No, no. Stay. After we can play a game of chess and drink a little sherry.”
Having nothing much else to do until supper time I agreed. Little did I realise I was about to enter something akin to a parallel universe. There really is no other way I can describe what happened next.
The vicar bustled around his lounge rearranging the furniture. It was a modern building, full of light, pine-effect furniture that one can easily buy at Ikea. He busied himself a bit before he picked up a straight-backed chair that belonged with a set for the dining table. He put it down beside a window. “I intend to spank young Stephen Cross,” he told me. His back was turned so he would not have seen the startled look on my face. My jaw might even have dropped, certainly my mouth opened a little. Had I heard him correctly? “He really is quite a handful for his poor old mother,” the vicar said, before turning to face me. He looked over my right shoulder at a clock on the mantlepiece. “I do hope he’s not going to be late.”
I might have shrugged my shoulders at this point. I was certainly at a loss for words. I knew “young Stephen Cross” to be a lad in the village. He lived alone with his widowed mother in a house near to my own. He worked as a labourer at a local farm and I knew him to be aged nineteen or twenty, at the very least.
“He has no father, of course,” the vicar seemed anxious to fill me in on the details. “It can be very difficult for a woman to bring up a strapping boy on her own.” I swear his eyes twinkled when he said, “I like to help out where I can. My duty to the parish, as it were.”
I had first met the vicar when my wife and I first moved to the village three years ago. I had taken early retirement from an office of accountants and my wife runs her own consultancy business and we both wanted to move out of Brocklehurst and into the country. Soon after we arrived the vicar came round to visit us; he was trying to gather us into his flock, I suppose. Neither my wife nor I are religious. “Doesn’t matter,” the vicar had beamed, “We’re Church of England, religion doesn’t really come into it.”
I liked him immediately. He was a bit of an old codger and I assumed he got on well with everyone he met. He was in his fifties and I he reminded me of an archetypal ‘trendy vicar’. But now I would have to radically review that thought.
At last I found my voice, “Spank him?” I asked, trying to keep the incredulity out of my voice.
“Yes, of course,” he almost chortled. “He’s been a very disrespectful boy. It is my task to remind him of his manners.”
“And, he’ll let you?” I couldn’t imagine a nineteen-year-old lad – or anyone of any age – submitting themselves to a spanking. “Let me?” the vicar quizzed, “He will obey me.” He put great stress on the word “obey” that I immediately understood that this would not be the first time the vicar had dealt with young Stephen Cross.
I had no time to further question the vicar because at that moment the doorbell rang. “Ha, Mrs Golightly will answer that.” I heard his housekeeper open the front door and there was an exchange of voices. Moments later there was a timid knock on the door of the lounge. The vicar paused, I could see he was counting numbers in his head. He must have reached ten before he gave me an audacious wink and called in a strong, clear voice, “Come!” I was immediately put in mind of an old-fashioned headmaster.
Slowly, the door inched open to reveal a sturdily built teenager. He stood half a head taller than myself, his face was ruddy from the outdoor work he did. His face was clear and open, a shock of unkempt curly hair gave him quite a mischievous look.
“Come in young man, stand there,” the vicar pointed his own podgy finger to a place in the middle of the room. The boy hesitated, he had for the first time noticed my presence and it clearly disturbed him. His face coloured, but he quickly regained his composure and he stood where instructed.
The vicar, like so many others in his profession, was a ham actor. He put on the style while he berated Stephen for his misdeeds; and they were many. I suspect he was like many other teenagers, that is he believed the world revolved around him. He was self-centred, thoughtless, arrogant and disrespectful to his “elders and betters”, as the vicar put it. At that moment I felt very sorry for Stephen’s mother, she had to put up with a lot.
To his credit, Stephen did not argue. He was clearly guilty as charged. He knew what would happen next. He did not say so in as many words but his overall manner suggested to me that he thought he deserved what was coming to him. That pulled me up sharply. As I said Stephen was really no different from any other lad his age. If he deserved to have his bottom spanked, then so too did all the rest of them. Could you even start to imagine that happening? Fathers across the land asserting themselves. Slippers, belts, hairbrushes – and yes even whippy rattan canes – flying. No, don’t hold your breath, that’s never going to happen.
That’s what I meant by slipping into a parallel universe. What happened in the vicarage that afternoon was unreal. It would never in a month of Sundays happen, not in this day and age. But happen it did. The vicar had said his piece. The charges were laid. Like a good liberal, he allowed the accused to speak. Stephen bit down on his bottom lip and through his untidy hair he eyed me sideways. I suppose he wanted to know who I was and why I was there. It must have been embarrassing enough to have his bottom spanked by an older man, but to have a witness present drove it towards humiliation. In fact, he said nothing and only mumbled some words that were spoken so softly I couldn’t catch them. I imagine it was his version of an apology.
The vicar had been standing throughout all this. Now, he sat himself on the chair. He wriggled his bottom as if trying to achieve comfort and he parted his legs slightly. “Now, Stephen,” he said firmly, “Stand there.” He pointed to a spot close to his right thigh. The teenager was dressed in black jeans and a white shirt. “Take down your jeans,” the vicar gave an imperious command. Stephen did not seem phased by this, confirming my suspicion that this was not his first trip across the vicar’s knee. The jeans fitted Stephen’s muscular body well and needed no belt. He had the front open and the zip pulled inside seconds. He slipped them down towards his feet and only then did I notice he wore no shoes. Mrs Golightly must have relieved him off them at the front door.
I watched all of this awkwardly and since the vicar had not asked me to leave the room while he dealt with the naughty teenager, I settled down on the sofa to watch the show. The vicar was brisk and efficient. He knew what he wanted to achieve and how to go about it. “Bend over my knee,” he tapped his leg in case there was any doubt about what he meant. I couldn’t see Stephen’s face from my position so I could not gauge his reaction to this, except to say that he took a short breath and resolved himself to what was about to happen. He leaned forward, bent down and rested his hands on the vicar’s left thigh. Then he slowly lowered himself into position, stretched his long legs out behind him and placed his hands flat on the floor. He was draped completely over the powerful man’s lap, in a place of complete submission.
I gaped as he meekly rested the palms of his hands on the lurid rug. His feet touched the ground behind him and his bottom was presented to the vicar at a forty-five-degree angle. I am no expert in any of this but it looked to me that he was perfectly positioned for the spanking that both the vicar and Stephen thought he richly deserved.
The muscles in the teenager’s arms rippled and not for the first time I noted the strangeness of the situation. Here was a nineteen-year-old lad meekly offering up his bottom to be spanked by an older authority figure. He was clearly submissive. The muscles in his arms told me that there was no way the vicar could have manhandled him and forced him across his knee for a spanking. Stephen could punch the vicar’s light out if he so wished. But no, he was prepared to take his punishment, if not “like a man”, then at least like a naughty little boy of days gone by. Frankly, you couldn’t make it up.
Stephen seemed calm, serene almost. He lay motionless across the vicar’s knees, staring at the grotesque pattern in the rug; it was one of those awful cheap ones you see in shops like Aldi. Stephen had resigned himself to his fate. The vicar wasn’t quite ready to start. Stephen’s shirt was short but even so the vicar took hold of the end and pushed it up the lad’s back revealing a strip of bare hairless skin. Stephen’s underpants, like his jeans, fitted him snugly but even so the vicar pulled at their elasticated waistband and stretched the pants until to use the well-worn cliché, they fitted like a second skin. For good measure the vicar then cupped the palm of his right hand and gently caressed the left and then the right cheek to smooth out any wrinkles that might still be in the cloth. I think Stephen tensed at that moment.
Then, with no warning the vicar gripped the lad’s waist with his left hand almost simultaneously raised his right hand high and brought it crashing down across the centre of Stephen’s left buttock. Without pausing he then did the same to the right. The noise of the two cracks reverberated around the small room. Stephen showed no reaction and the vicar continued his assault on Stephen’s bottom. I have no expertise on such matters but I supposed Stephen’s bottom was hard and firm. Certainly from where I sat I couldn’t see that he had single gram of spare fat anywhere on his body. His bottom appeared as hard as a rubber ball.
The vicar went about his task with a will, quickly covering every square centimetre of the target area. Round and round the circuit he went at great speed. Stephen appeared stoical. He never moved a muscle, I couldn’t see his face clearly so I cannot say if he batted an eyelid. Pink patches just below the line of the underpants started to glow on the backs of Stephen’s thighs. They looked jolly painful to me, but the lad appeared untroubled. Looking back I suppose a nineteen-year-old isn’t going to be too bothered by a hand spanking, even one delivered by such a veteran as the vicar. I wondered if the vicar’s hand was hurting as much – or more – than Stephen’s bum. Why hadn’t he used some kind of implement, a belt, slipper or hairbrush? Surely any of those tools would have delivered a much more impactful punishment.
The vicar possessed prodigious energy. I certainly could not have kept up his pace. He slapped and he spanked his hard hand across the seat of Stephen’s underpants for upward of five minutes and I do not exaggerate on that. Suddenly, he stopped. I supposed the spanking was at an end and prepared myself to stand up. But no, I was genuinely astonished to see the vicar take hold once more of the waistband of Stephen’s underpants and this time with two gigantic tugs he hooked the underpants over the lad’s mounds and left them snagged around his knees.
I might have been astounded by this baring of the boy’s buttocks, but Stephen evidently was not. He made no movement of protest nor did he utter a word of complaint. The hard, rapid slaps descended once more, pounding into the boy’s naked bottom. Even from my distance I saw the once creamy white flesh turn a darker shade of pink which would quickly become a rosy red. I had a perfect view of his bum and this confirmed to me that they were indeed devoid of spare fat. Presented to me at an angle they looked almost perfectly round. I leave this sort of judgement to others but he did seem to me to have the most perfectly spankable little bottom.
The vicar must have thought so too because he let fly with renewed energy. Neither he nor Stephen had uttered a word since the lad presented himself obediently across his master’s lap. If the vicar hoped to extract some noise, some whimper or stronger moan of pain he was (if I might say so) sorely disappointed. Stephen endured his spanking with fortitude. By now his bum was radiating heat and I could see the imprint of the vicar’s spread fingers reproduced across Stephen’s thighs. I was witnessing an exemplary spanking.
I knew that there was a clock on the mantelpiece behind me and that it was in the vicar’s eyeline but I don’t think he was timing himself. I had the distinct feeling that time was moving fast. Stephen had been staring at that awful rug for something close to ten minutes. Slap-slap-slap, the vicar kept it up, pounding the lad’s bare buttocks. The noise sounded like machinegun fire bouncing around the room.
Then at long last the vicar stopped. Only then did I see the sweat glistening on his brow, his shirt was soaked at the armpits. He breathed heavily as he gently caressed Stephen’s battered bum. “Now boy, stand up,” he spoke gently. Stephen did not need telling twice. He leapt to his feet and without waiting for instructions he reached down and gathered his underpants. This afforded me a final glimpse of his by-now raw buttocks. I have to say it looked to me like a job well done. Stephen dressed himself and hopped shamefacedly from foot to foot, waiting for the vicar’s final scolding.
“I hope,” the vicar intoned, “You have learned your lesson. Shall I have to do this again?”
“Oh no, vicar,” Stephen gently rubbed his bottom through heavy denim jeans. I thought he might be doing this for form’s sake. If the spanking had really caused him pain, he had not shown it while bent half-naked across the vicar’s knees.
“Go home. Apologise to your mother. Don’t make me have to do this again,” the vicar chided. I watched as the nineteen-year-old hurried through the door.
“Sherry, I think,” the vicar approached a cupboard and soon we each held a glass. He looked over at the clock, “Time for a couple of games of chess, don’t you think. I have another appointment at half-seven. That incorrigible Peter, the barman at The Goose,” he chuckled and demurely sipped his sherry.
Picture credits: Both British Boys Fetish Club
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
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Charles Hamilton the Second