Vicar helps out where there is no father

The vicar parked his Renault and taking the small wooden spanking paddle from the passenger seat he made his way to the vicarage. The door was unlocked and as soon as he opened it he was greeted by an over-eager housekeeper.

“Have you done the deed, vicar? Have you dealt with the miscreant?” her lips twisted into a sneer. “I’ve made some tea.”

The vicar hung the paddle on its hook in the passageway and followed her into the kitchen.

“Well,” the vicar began, “It all went according to plan. Mrs Robertson had left for the bingo and Richard was expecting me as arranged. You know the poor woman’s on her own. I help out my parishioners wherever possible. It is my duty after all, Mrs. B,” he accepted a cup from her and continued, “There’s no man in the house, no father figure. Is it any wonder the boys get out of hand?”

“Terrible. Ruffians,” Mrs B. barked.

“Oh, no not all of them,” the vicar blew across the tea to cool it, “One shouldn’t be too hard on the younger ones, the mischievous scallywags with too much energy. It’s the older ones who need my attention. They disrespect their mothers and run wild., they need to be brought down a peg or two.”

“Quite right vicar, quite right,” Mrs B. tried to settle her huge behind on a kitchen chair and she leaned forward agape at the reverend’s every word.

“Then there’s the outright disobedience,” the vicar continued, “Mrs Robertson told Richard he must not get a tattoo, but he went ahead anyway.”

“No!” Mrs B. gasped.

“Yes, indeed. It was complete defiance of her wishes. Well, Mrs B. we couldn’t ignore that now, could we?” He sipped the teas cautiously. “Something had to be done. A task a father would have performed, had he had one,” he frowned in awe of the sorrow of the world. “She asked me to visit. I had, of course, offered my services many times previously (as I do with all the widows in the parish) but she had always declined. Poor, soft-hearted woman. Is there any cake, Mrs B.?”

The housekeeper scuttled to the cupboard and fetched a tin. “Oh, fruit cake, my favourite,” the vicar exclaimed as Mrs B. took a knife from a drawer. “Carry on vicar, don’t mind me,” she urged him on with his story as she sliced into the cake.

“I know he’s an older boy. He turned eighteen last month,” the vicar broke a piece of cake in his fingers, “He’s not a bad lad, not really. He’s doing well at school; he should make it to the university. But he has lost his way. He needs to be steered back onto the straight and narrow.”

“Ain’t that so vicar,” Mrs B. bubbled, “And you’re just the right man to see that he’s saved!”

“Well thank you for saying so, Mrs B.,” the vicar flushed, “I try my best.”

“So, what exactly did you do vicar?” Mrs B. was perched once more on her chair.

“Well, as I say, Richard was expecting me. I don’t know if his mother spelled it out but I suspect he had a jolly good idea what was going to happen. I do rather have a reputation among the parishioners.”

“That you do vicar; that you do.”

“Richard is God-fearing, Mrs B. and that makes it so much easier. He might back-chat and argue with his mother but he was not about to abuse a man of the cloth. I told him straight; he had sinned and to sin against one’s mother made Jesus very unhappy.”

“What did he say to that … what did he say to that?”

“There’s nothing he could say to that, Mrs B. If Jesus says Richard must be spanked, who are any of us to say otherwise. He burbled a bit, naturally,” he imitated a childish voice, “‘I’m sowry, vicar, I won’t do it again.’ Ha! Mrs B. how many times do we hear that from some naughty boy or other?”

“Sorry, indeed,” Mrs B. scoffed, “They’re only sorry when they know they’ve been found out and are about to be beaten,” she bit deeply into her fruit cake.

“Indeed, so, Mrs B. I reminded him of his rank disobedience over the tattoo and can you guess what he said?”

“No, no, go on,” the housekeeper was breathless.

“He said, it was only a small one and nobody could see it. ‘That’s hardly the point,’ I retorted, ‘You deliberately disobeyed an explicit instruction from your mother. You are wicked!’.  Well, I had him there Mrs B. He was mine from there on in.”

The vicar took a couple of sips from his cup, watching Mrs B. through narrow eyes; he knew he had her too. “I showed him my paddle. His eyes widened. I honestly don’t believe he’d seen such a thing before. Certainly, there was nothing in the home to punish him with, unless, perhaps, his mother had a suitable hairbrush in her boudoir. ‘Well, m’lad,’ I intoned, ‘I think we should get on with this.”

“I bet he was scared. Did he beg and plead, vicar?”

“No, on the contrary, as I say he is God-fearing. Once he accepted this was God’s will, he was contrite. I took him into the sitting room, found a dining room chair, placed it in the middle of the floor and sat myself down. I must say he looked bemused. Of course, he’d never been spanked before …”

“And now, not before time. It should have been done a long time ago. He’s like all the rest. Ruffians,” Mrs B. said excitedly.

“Indeed, it should have been done a long time ago. Eighteen is a little old to receive your first spanking, but needs must, Mrs B. it’s never too late and you are never too old.”

“So, what did you do? How did you do it?” Mrs B. brushed the back of her hand across her mouth wiping both cake crumbs and spittle.

“Well Mrs B. as I have said I believe I play the role of the father on these occasions. I think the punishment should be just and severe, but also loving. I don’t require a lad to bend over a table or a chair or what-not; that is far too impersonal. A loving spanking should be intimate. The boy and I should connect and what better way to do this than to take him across my knee.”

“None better vicar; none better!”

“Of course, there are certain rituals that have to be observed. Richard wore those baggy ‘leisure’ trousers that they all wear these days. Most unsuitable for a spanking. They had to come down. They have an elasticated waist and I was in two minds about gripping hold of it and tugging the trousers down to the floor. But I believe it is better for the boy to prepare himself for punishment. That way he shows contrition, he shows that he accepts he has erred and deserves to be punished. He is submitting himself to me. You should have seen the look on his face when I said, “take down your trousers’.”

“Ha! That’ll teach him.”

“I thought for a moment he would not obey. I even said, ‘Please don’t make me have to take them down myself.’ I thought he would burst into tears; his bottom lip went completely. ‘C’mon,’ I told him, ‘You deserve to be spanked, you know you do. Let’s keep some dignity.’ Not, of course, that there’s any dignity being eighteen years old and made to take down your trousers in front of an older man before submissively bending across his knee for a hard spanking.”

“He can only blame himself vicar.”

“As you say, Mrs B. I have to report that although his hands trembled, he did manage to get the trousers down. I spread my legs and patted my left knee, ‘Bend over,’ I urged. Well, I could see he was completely bemused, he really couldn’t believe this was happening to him. He hesitated, I could feel he was debating with himself, should he do this. Should he let me spank him.”

“And did he vicar, did he?”

“Of course, Mrs B., of course he did. The Church always wins in the end. I hadn’t entirely realised just how heavy he would be. He’s a tall lad and in all honesty, he would benefit from a few sessions in the gymnasium. He balanced precariously over my knee and only by pressing the palms of his hands into the carpet did he stop from toppling to the floor.”

The vicar took a sip of tea; it was cold. “There was still one part of the ritual to perform, Mrs B.” The housekeeper licked her lips; she couldn’t help herself. “He was wearing white cotton underpants. They were quite thin really. Not much protection. But as you know, Mrs B. they had to go. You should have heard him wail, ‘No vicar, No!’ as I began to tug the pants over his ample buttocks. ‘Be quiet,’ I scolded, ‘It’s not a proper spanking if it’s not on the bare.’ He wriggled in protest and I had to hold onto his back to keep him steady. ‘I’m sorry vicar, I sorry,’ he begged, ‘I won’t do it again. I promise.’ I told him, ‘I hope you won’t Richard. I’m sure neither of us wants to be back here for a repeat performance’.”

“You tell him vicar, you tell him.”

“And then I whacked him with the paddle. As you know Mrs B. it’s quite small but perfectly made for over-the-knee spankings, it’s not much bigger than a larger hairbrush. It’s heavier though. I slapped him across the right cheek. It sank into the flesh a bit; Richard is rather well-padded back there. Oh my, the sound he made, you would have thought I’d laid a red-hot poker across his backside.”

Mrs B. giggled, delighted at the thought.

“Then I whacked his other cheek and quickly got my rhythm going. He was hollering and howling fit to bust. I thought we’d have the neighbours complaining about the noise. Frankly, he didn’t take it at all well. He’s eighteen years old after all; he ought to be able to take a spanking no matter how sound it is.”

“Wait until you use one of your whippy canes on him, vicar. Like you do with Craig and Anderson when they break curfew and come back to the vicarage full of ale.”

“Well, Mrs B, my lodgers are fully aware of my rules and the consequences of breaking them. I don’t think Richard has quite reached that stage … yet.”

Admonished, Mr B. peered into her empty cup.

“As I say,” the vicar continued, “the boy did not take his paddling at all well. He wriggled, he writhed, he kicked. His head bounced up and down and shook from side to side. And with all the racket he made, he was like a neighing horse.”

The vicar allowed himself a small chuckle. “But I hung on gamely. He wasn’t going anywhere, not until I was ready. I told him if he didn’t keep quiet I’d keep tanning his bottom until his mother returned from bingo – and he knew that would be a couple of hours.”

“And did you … did you?”

“Alas no, Mrs B. The effort I put into my spankings would task a younger man and having to fight Richard all the way did take it out of me.”

“Oh, don’t say he won. Vicar please don’t say he beat you.”

“Not at all Mrs B. By the time I finished his bottom glowed cherry-red. I hadn’t missed one part of his backside – ample though it is – and the back of his thighs were on fire. You could see the outline of the paddle tattooed (if I may make a little joke) across his bottom time and time again. No, Mrs B., Richard will remember my visit for some considerable time to come.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Of course, when I let him stand, he did that little ‘spanking dance’ they all do. Like a Red Indian hopping from foot to foot while also rubbing away at his scorching bottom. There wasn’t much more to do. The last part of the ritual, as you know Mrs B is the leaving. The poor boy didn’t have the sense to know he must thank me for spanking him. A few extra swats to his raw rear as he tried to dress soon put him straight.”

“He’ll know better next time,” the housekeeper grinned.

“And, then Mrs B.,” the vicar concluded, “I got in the car and came back here.”

“And a job well done. More tea vicar?” Mrs B. hauled herself to her feet, waddled across the kitchen and flicked the switch on the kettle.

Picture credit: Spanking Central

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