Rev. Harris does his duty

z used touch toes white pants

The Reverend Harris puffed his cheeks and wheezed. His bulky frame wasn’t suited to riding a bike but his parish was too stingy to buy him a car so he had no choice. He was nearly there now. The streets were empty as he struggled along the cobblestones.

Andrew Buckley sat uneasily on the edge of his bed. Waiting. His mother was at bingo and his sister at the youth club. Usually when he had the house to himself he would sneak out his postcards hidden away in a box at the back of the wardrobe and pleasure himself. But not this evening. Not with his visitor arriving at any minute.

Rev. Harris turned his bicycle into a street of run-down terraced houses. Number seventeen, his destination, was at the far end. Sweat soaked his brow as his huffed his way closer. Two women gossiping on a doorstep watched intently as he dismounted his bike. He allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, before leaning down and untying a long thin rattan cane from the crossbar.

He smiled a greeting to the housewives and tucked the curve-handled cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major might with a swagger stick. It was one of the Reverend’s heavier canes, taken from a collection he kept at the church youth club. It was a little over three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. It felt as light as a feather as he carried it to the front door, but he knew from years of experience it could pack a punch. In the right hands – and Rev. Harris possessed such – it could leave a young man scarred.

Andrew paced his bedroom unaware of the Rev’s imminent appearance. The eighteen-year-old glanced at himself in the mirror. He looked devilishly anxious. His usually bright blue eyes were hooded. His open, cheerful face was glum.

He had thought about running away and hiding. If the vicar found he was not at home he would have to return to the youth club. But it would do no good, Andrew knew. Rev. Harris would only return later and he would probably get it twice as hard.

He moved to the window, attracted by a scuffling noise from the street. His heart faded. Rev. Harris stood on the doorstep, cane under his arm, ready to knock on the door. Damn. Andrew saw his two neighbours staring intently. Soon the whole street would know. He hated to think what his pals would say.

Rat-a-tat-tat. It was an insistent knock. Rev. Harris did not like to be kept waiting. Andrew ran his tongue across his dry lips and padded down the stairs.

Rev. Harris brushed past Andrew and made for the parlour. “Follow me,” he called over his shoulder when he realised Andrew was rooted to the doormat. “You know why I am here.”

Indeed he did. His mother had asked the vicar to “do something” about Andrew. He was surly, curt, churlish. He had long ago stopped obeying his mother’s instructions. The vicar heard her pleas, dismayed. Rev. Harris had heard it all before. The war had left many of his parishioners widows and the poor women were driven to distraction by their teenaged sons. Rev. Harris was at hand to do his duty.

Andrew followed the portly man as instructed. He stood uneasily watching as Rev. Harris dropped the curve-handled cane onto the settee and laboriously unbuttoned his jacket and tugged it off his back. Then he let that drop beside the cane.

How Andrew hated this place. Soon he would leave school. If he could pass his exams he would escape this hovel of a house and the dingy small town. He could go to university, or if not, he would get a clerking job somewhere. In Manchester perhaps. Whatever became of him, it would be miles away from here; he promised himself.

Rev. Harris waddled across the room and picked up a heavy wooden chair, which he plonked down so that it rested against a wall with its straight back facing him. Andrew’s eyes followed him as he returned to the settee and retrieved the cane. No words were spoken. There was no need for them. Both Rev. Harris and Andrew knew how this must play out.

Rev. Harris flexed the cane between his hands. He always did this. It was part of the ritual of punishment. As was swishing the rod through the air. Andrew blanched. He couldn’t help it. At any moment that wicked cane would be slicing his backside to pieces. He stared at the worn carpet beneath his feet shamefully.

The vicar pointed at the chair. “Take down your trousers,” he intoned. “This time I shall not cane you on your bare butt-tocks,” he let the word swirl around his mouth, “But if ever I have to repeat this punishment, be assured it will be across your bare flesh.” He let the word “flesh” hang in the air.

Andrew had expected this. From the moment his mother had told him the vicar would call, he knew his bum would be toasted. But he couldn’t quite get his hands to move.

“Hurry along boy,” the vicar feigned impatience. He knew young men did not relish being caned. They would do anything to delay just discipline. But there was no way out. The power of the Church was immense in this town. The vicar was truly God’s representative on Earth. If he said, “Take down your trousers and pants and bend over,” that’s what you did.

At last Andrew’s fingers fumbled with his belt buckle. The button fly of his grey school trousers were open and they slithered down his thighs to his knees.

“Bend over.” It was softly spoken; hardly a command. There was no need for histrionics. Andrew sucked his bottom lip and moved forward. Not daring to look at the vicar, he leaned forward and gripped the wooden seat of the chair. He parted his feet and stuck his bum out, ready to receive the kiss of the cane. He closed his eyes and shuddered.

Rev. Harris was in no hurry. He had his own little ritual when caning. First, gently he tucked Andrew’s white school shirt up the teenager’s back. It was now clear of his target. Next, he gripped the waistband of the white Y-fronts and pulled so that the cotton fitted the contours of Andrews cheeks snugly.

He was almost ready. Now, he stood a little to the teenager’s left and slowly tap-tap-tapped the cane across the fleshiest part of the buttocks. He was getting his aim. Satisfied, Rev. Harris pulled the whippy rod back and with all the force he could muster he brought it crashing down so that it sank into Andrew’s tight flesh. He was rewarded by a long, low hiss from his victim. Andrew’s bum wriggled from side to side and then up and down as the pain seared through his body. He gripped the wooden seat as if his life depended upon it.

Rev. Harris rewarded himself a smirk. Then, slowly he paced across the room. It wasn’t a large room. It took three paces to get from one side to the other. Then, he turned on his heels and retraced his steps. Then he made another circuit. He liked to allow time for the agony of a stroke to register before delivering the next swipe.

He took up position and took aim once more. This time a little lower than before. Swish! Crack! It landed, perhaps a quarter-inch lower than the first. It felt like a hot iron had been pressed into the flesh. Andrew now had a red-raw strip running across both buttocks. He did the wriggling again and this time added some foot stomping. Rev. Harris went on his tour of the room.

Andrew settled himself, shut his teeth firmly and increased his grip on the chair. The third stroke cut into the underpart of the cheeks, just where they meet the thigh. Part of the cane stuck bare flesh. The two women in the street outside must have heard his anguished howl. He leapt bolt upright, danced from one foot to the other and rubbed the palms of his hands furiously into the soft cotton underpants. It did nothing to dull the torture.

Rev. Harris growled. “Bend down. If you stand again I will start the punishment from the beginning. Do you understand?”

Sorrowfully, Andrew returned to the chair and with great fortitude resumed the punishment position. Slowly, methodically, three more swipes ripped Andrew’s bum to shreds. Thick dark welts rose across his once pale flesh. Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, he would see blood had seeped and coloured part of his underpants pink. His heart raced and he felt his eardrums bursting. His temples throbbed almost as much as his raw bottom. His eyes were awash and tears trickled down the side of his nose. Drips of snot congregated on his top lip.

“Get dressed.” Rev. Harris dropped the cane on the dining room table and struggled back into his jacket. The back of his shirt was soaked in sweat. His own breathing was laboured. He had put his full energy into the thrashing. He congratulated himself on a job well down.

“Go upstairs, I shall see myself out.”

Andrew did not need telling twice. He shot from the room and took the stairs two at a time in his eagerness to escape the vicar.

Rev. Harris ambled to the kitchen, found a tea cup and filled it from a tap. Soon he would be ready for the exertion of a cycle ride back to the vicarage. As he made his way to his bicycle he saw the two housewives in animated conversation. As he tied the cane to the bike frame, one approached him.

“Rev. Harris,” she whispered hoarsely. “I wonder if I might trouble you. It’s about my Robert.” Rev. Harris straightened and smiled. He knew Robert of old. His cane would be put to more use before he returned to the youth club.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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Hotel duty manager

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Remembering the spanking vicar

z used drawing hand otk vicar (7a)

It happened forty years ago. Forty years; I can scarcely believe it. Almost to the day too. It could never happen today. The world is an entirely different place. Even as I start to write this down I wonder if it really happened. Was it just a dream?

I wasn’t quite twenty-one years old and I was studying for a business degree. We had to spend an entire year working in industry and my college sent me to a small company in a town not far from London. I needed somewhere to live and digs were hard to come by, but a colleague called Simon said he knew of a place in a village nearby where they could give me a room.

Was there a glint of devilment in his eye when he told me this? I can’t be certain, but later I was damned sure he knew more than he was letting on.

We drove to a small village about four or five miles into the countryside. It was a typical English village of the time; a shop, two pubs and a church. The church came with a vicarage attached. It was a large rambling pile and far too big for the vicar to live there on his own. I’ll call him Rev. Jones, because, in fact, that was his name. He was well into his fifties at the time and I know he shuffled off to meet his maker some years ago (so I’m safe from the lawyers).

He was a large man, tall and despite advancing years he stood like a ram-rod. He had once captained his county at rugby union, apparently, and was still as strong as an ox. The afternoon Simon and I arrived, he was busy in the kitchen baking bread if the aroma that wafted throughout the house was any clue. He left us in a room he called his study while he went and turned the oven down or what not.

It was an imposing room; bookcases lined two walls and an open and unlit fire dominated another. The fourth wall was an impressive glass sliding door that opened out into a well-mown law and flower beds.

I perched on the edge of a large leather Chesterfield couch. I had never been in such a room. I had been brought up in a small council flat in London and had lived in a tiny room in the students’ halls of residence since going to the polytechnic. Simon, who I knew to be a former public school man, strode the room as if he owned it, peering at the books.

A broad smile split his face and he plucked a volume from a shelf. He was about to tell me about his find when the door flew open and Rev. Jones strode in. Sheepishly, like a small boy discovered with his fist in the cookie jar, Simon replaced the book.

“Well Richard,” Rev. Jones picked up his jacket from the back of a chair and struggled into it as he spoke, “You probably know that Andrew, another boy who worked at ______, lodged here,” I nodded agreement, although it was the first I had heard of this.

“Yes, a very good boy was Andrew,” Rev. Jones seemed wistful, “I rather miss him …” he trailed off.

He sat in a plush leather chair opposite me and stretched his legs wide. The armchair seemed dwarfed by his size. He told me about the house and the other two lads who were also his tenants. I hardly heard a word, I was mesmerised by the reverend’s deep blue eyes, peering at me over the top of his half-moon glasses. I could imagine him as a schoolmaster quelling twenty-five noisy boys with a single glare.

“Well, Richard,” he leaned forward and grasped my knee and held his hand there for what seemed an eternity. “Shall I give you the grand tour?” He climbed from the chair, flexed his shoulders and headed for the door, fully expecting me to trot along at his heels.

“Well, Richard, this is the kitchen …” He had the annoying habit of calling me by name at the start of nearly every sentence. “Richard this; Richard that.” I had told him when I telephoned for an appointment that my name was Ricky. I hated being called Richard. I thought Ricky made me sound more interesting. More American, perhaps.

We toured the house, the room that could be mine was huge. The rent was low. A match if I might venture to say so, made in Heaven. I agreed to move in the following day. Simon, I noticed, beamed brightly when I announced my decision.

My two housemates were at the door to greet me when I arrived. Ian was my own age and worked in a bank in town. Colm was a year or so younger and a labourer on a nearby farm.

“He’s alright when you get used to his ways,” Colm ventured an unsolicited opinion.

Ian blushed deeply.

“Just don’t break the rules, thas-sall,” Colm said as he disappeared up the stairs carrying one of my suitcases, leaving me standing in the hallway a little puzzled at his remark.

The very next day I got more than an inkling of what he meant.

We had breakfasted and I was heading back to my room when I heard a strange thud noise. I paused and sniffed the air. Thud. There is was again. It seemed to be coming from the study. Thud. This time followed by a slow hissing sound, rather like a snake.

Intrigued, I moved closer to the study. The door was slightly ajar. Thud. Thud. Thud. I could contain my curiosity no longer, so I inched it open. I can’t be sure if my mouth did literally gape wide open. If not literally, then at least figuratively. I had never seen anything remotely like it before in my life.

My new pal Ian was dressed in a white singlet and tight red football shorts. He was bent across the back of a straight-backed wooden chair. I had the perfect view of his muscular buttocks as Rev. Jones whacked what looked like a block of wood into them with some vigour. The teenager winced each time the punishment paddle connected with his bum. Air escaped his tightly closed mouth, but other than that he made no sound.

I counted a further three swipes before the vicar commanded, “You may stand,” and Ian shot to his feet. He turned and faced Rev. Jones. I saw his face was scarlet (I bet his bum was too) and his hair was wringing in sweat. I could tell he desperately wanted to rub away the sting from his buttocks but he was too proud to show he was hurt.

Suddenly, he looked over the vicar’s shoulder and saw me standing at the door. The vicar saw his look of humiliation and swivelled on his feet to see what had caused it.

“Richard!” he trilled. I didn’t wait to hear more. I turned on my heels and didn’t stop running until I was a hundred yards from the vicarage.

All day I couldn’t figure it out. What had I seen? Ian had allowed the vicar to spank his backside with a paddle – very hard indeed. Why? What had he done to deserve that? What right did the vicar have to whack him?

I couldn’t get the image of Ian submissively bent across the chair in very tight shorts and gleaming white singlet; his muscular buttocks absorbing the sting of the paddle.

Instinctively, I knew I had not heard the last of this. Rev. Jones was wild when he saw me snooping. I would have to answer to him when I returned to the vicarage that evening.

Simon came to my office, “How are you getting on with the vicar?” a Cheshire cat could not have grinned so widely. That was when I realised that he knew. Had he set me up? I never found out, since Simon left the company that week to return to his own studies and I never saw nor heard from him again.

Of course, Rev. Jones was ready to pounce the moment I walked through the door.

“My study. Now,” he snapped.

He made me stand on the carpet and he sat behind a rather grand desk. I felt every inch the naughty schoolboy up before the headmaster. His blue eyes stabbed me. All rational thought drained. I couldn’t hear the words he spoke, my heart thumped like it wanted to escape through my chest.

His voice wafted through the room as if they were part of a rather poor shortwave radio broadcast. I caught something about rules and there was a little about setting objectives. Rev. Jones stood and walked from behind his desk until he stood directly in front of me. I could smell stale tobacco on his breath.

Another voice spoke. I was astounded when I realised it was my own. “I was late back to work at lunchtime,” I was saying, “I stayed too long at the pub.” There was a hanging silence. I filled the void, “I do it quite often.”

His penetrating eyes narrowed perceptively. “I see Richard. This will not do at all.”

He moved across the room and picked up the chair I had seen Ian bent across that morning. While he did this, I tried to fathom why I had told him such a silly lie.

He put the chair down in the centre of the room. Then, without saying a word, he sat down and spread his legs wide. Instinctively, my eyes went to his crotch. I was no connoisseur of men’s cocks, but even hidden under a generous layer of cloth, his seemed larger than average.

He gestured that I should stand directly in front of him. I did.

“Richard, put your hands on your head.” I did that too.

He reached forward and expertly unbuckled the wide leather belt around my waist. We wore enormously-flared trousers with high waistbands in those days. He had to undo six buttons before the front of my trousers flapped open. This gave me more than enough time to punch him in the mouth and make my escape.

I did no such thing. I stared over his left shoulder at the bookcase behind him. I saw the book Simon had found the other day. My eyesight was good when I was twenty-one. I could read the title, “The history of corporal punishment.”

I felt a draught against my thighs when the vicar pulled my trousers to my knees. The weight of the belt and gravity took them to nestle in a puddle over my platform shoes. Still, I gazed at the bookcase. I had no courage to look my punisher in the face.

He spoke no words. What was there for him to say? I knew what he was intending to do. I knew also that I could prevent it at any moment. I was twenty-one and he was an old man. True, he was strong, but I needn’t look to beat him to a pulp. All I had to do was pull my trousers up and run from the house.

I gasped audibly when he took hold of my mustard-coloured briefs and gently pulled them down. My cock flipped over the elasticated waistband. I remember, even after forty years, that absurdly I wondered how much smaller my dick must be compared to Rev. Jones’.

“Richard,” the vicar spoke gently, “Bend over my knee.”

Of course, I hesitated.

“Richard, please do as you are told.” He spoke more sternly now. It was important to him that I show my subservience. I must in effect say, “Yes please Rev. Jones. Punish me. I have been a naughty boy. I deserve to be spanked by you.”

I said none of these things. Instead, I took up position a yard from the vicar’s right thigh and gently lowered myself across his lap. I had never been spanked before, nor had I seen it happen to anyone else, but I suppose some kind of instinct took over from me. Was it primeval? Do all young men by nature know how to be submissive to an older man?

I stretched my hands in front of me and placed my hands palms down into the thick pile carpet. My shoes had five-inch heels and a two-inch sole and felt remarkably heavy as my legs dangled in mid-air. My bare bottom was raised across Rev. Jones’ thigh. It was, I was soon to learn, in a perfect position to receive the punishment he intended to deliver.

He took the tail of my shirt and calmly folded it once, then twice, so that it was clear of his target area. I felt his palm caress my right cheek. My buttocks clenched. It was a reflex action. He smacked me gently.

“Richard, relax,” he purred.

I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was headed for unchartered territory. I had no notion what to expect. I was bent across an older man’s knee, bare-arsed. He could see right into my crack and up my hole, if the mood took him. Is it possible for a young man to be in a more humiliating position?

He cupped his palm and petted and patted both cheeks. When he was done doing that, he turned his attention to the backs of my bare thighs. It was surprisingly soothing.

What happened next was far from that. A searing storm of spanks thundered into my bum at great force and high speed. Within seconds not a square inch of flesh was left untenderized. He whizzed across the peaks of my mounds, into the most sensitive under-curves and across the top near the spine. Over and over and over again.

I twisted and turned this way and that. My legs kicked out behind me. It was like I was trying to swim away from his lap. He gripped my middle with his left arm and with his right hand he continued his assault.

At first my bum felt warm, rosy even. But, that glow quickly intensified into hot throbbing. I felt like I had sat in a bath of too-hot water. My flesh was scolding.

My hair was drenched with sweat, blood rushed through my body; my ears hurt so badly I was sure the drums would burst.

I have no idea how long the spanking continued. Looking back, I don’t suppose it was more than a minute or two: his hand must surely have been hurting as much as my bum. To me it felt like hours. At last he stopped. He released his grip on my body and I slithered from his knees onto the floor. I was winded, but in seconds I had scrambled to my feet and tugged my pants and trousers up. I daren’t look at the vicar and concentrated on getting all the buttons in place.

It took an age. While I did this, Rev. Jones lectured me.

“Richard, I hope you understand why I felt the need to punish you.”

I truly did not, but felt it wise not to argue the point.

“Richard,” he continued as I stared intently at my feet, “I am sure that I can help you to become a fine young man. But, you need to learn to obey the rules. If you are unable to do so. You must be punished.”

The pain in my bum had almost completely vanished by now. My head was clearing. I just wanted to get out of that study.

“Richard,” the vicar was about to finish. “I hope you feel able to accept my rules and I would very much like you to stay. But, if you cannot, then I’m afraid you must leave the vicarage.”

I nodded sagely and without a word, I returned to my room.

I sent much of the next year admiring at close quarters the carpet in the vicar’s study and sniffing the leather of his Chesterfield couch; I suppose you would have to conclude that I wasn’t very good at obeying the rules.

 

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The Spanking Vicar Part 1

The room at the top

One hot summer afternoon

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Saving souls

z used pants on bed couple (1)

Ken and John are always docile when the time comes for me to punish them. That’s just as well really because there are after all two of them. If they wanted to make things difficult they undoubtedly could. Actually, let’s face it, if there were only one of them and it came to a fight either of them could probably knock me flat with a single punch.

They would never do that, they have been brought up too well. They have been members of my church all their lives, I think. I am the pastor and they know that I am doing God’s will. So, when they are lying face down and I am flogging the skin off their backsides they know it is not really me it is God wielding the cane.

I have to punish them often and there is a certain ritual about it. I always use a moderately thick whippy rattan cane. Spare the rod and all that. They are easy to come by on e-Bay and I have quite the collection. After years of experience I should say that the best way to deliver an exemplary thrashing is with the miscreant face down and flat on his stomach. That might surprise you because when we think of a caning we probably recall the headmaster of old, who might require a boy to touch his toes or bend over a piece of furniture; a desk or a chair perhaps.

What I find is that if a young man presents himself in that fashion, you have to aim the cane at an angle in order to connect with the stretched posterior and you don’t get such a harsh stroke. A terrific way to ensure maximum efficiency is to get the young man face down over a desk or table top, with their torso, arms and legs stretched out.

If the punishment is to take place at the home the best thing is to have him lay face down on his bed. Some of my fellow pastors place a pillow under his belly to raise the bottom a little, but I am against this practice as in my view it is just as inefficient as bending over the back of a sofa. If the young man is as flat as he can be you are able to stand over him and raise the cane high above your head and flog it down into his backside with as much vim as you require.

Sometimes, but not in every case since it depends on the nature of the offence committed, I whip the swishy rattan cane down with such energy that I sink the rod deep into the meat of the buttocks. It is as if I am trying to get the cane to enter the young man’s body at the crown of his buttock and exit through the front of his body. Believe me the cane cuts deep into his flesh leaving a painful welt that will throb for days to come and be visible as a mark for two to three weeks. I fervently believe if a job is worth doing it is worth doing well.

In my own case I require the young men I am to beat to strip off all of their clothes down to the underwear. I understand the view that making him strip entirely naked adds to the humiliation required of such punishment, but I must confess I am extremely uncomfortable around naked men. The thought, never mind the sight, of what a man has between his buttocks makes my whole being shiver.

So, underpants remain on. I cannot believe, although I have no evidence to support this, that a thrashing on the completely bared buttocks is more painful than one across thin cotton briefs. That is my view anyway and since I am in control of these situations, my view prevails.

I have been required to cane Ken and John collectively on a number of occasions of late. I am happy to report that each time I order them to present themselves for another lashing they do so without fuss or rancour. They clearly understand it is God’s will that they be punished, for God, through the good providence of my church, is trying to save their souls.

Ken and John are homosexuals. My church believes that homosexuality is a deviant disorder and those that practice it are sinners of the highest order. It is not always clear to us why a person becomes tainted in this way, after all there are many other sins besides homosexuality. My church has a course of action whereby homosexuals may be cured of their sin. It involves much prayer and self-control on the part of the unfortunate victims.

Ken and John have been undertaking this cure for some months. Alas, I have to report that the two young men at present lack the self-control needed to successfully return to a straight and narrow lifestyle. That is why once again I had to flog their backsides until they resembled raw hamburger meat. In this way, they will be encouraged back onto the path of righteousness. Ken and John live together – that is to say they share the same apartment – they do not live as man and wife. At least they are not supposed to. Because of this close proximity of living conditions, it was possible for me to punish the two twenty-three-year-olds together at the same time.

They were stoical when I informed them of my intentions. They were both wearing almost identical outfits of ripped jeans and sparkling white tee-shirts. They quickly divested themselves of these as I unwrapped two crook-handled rattan canes from a large Marks & Spencer plastic carrier bag that I use to transport my discipline implements. They had seen – and indeed felt – these canes before but I noticed that Ken’s eyes widened like saucers at their sight. John was more reserved, but I saw his large Adam’s apple throb at his throat.

I lay the canes on a small armchair in the corner of the room and slipped my jacket from my back. Ken and John watched intently as then very slowly I unbuttoned the right sleeve of my grey shirt and turned it up one, two and three times until my arm was bare from above my elbow to the tips of my fingers.

“I believe you know what is required of you,” I said softly and nodded at the bed. Indeed, they knew. It had been nearly three weeks since they were in a similar position. I did not feel it my place to ask, but I assumed that the marks from that session had now cleared. Their bottoms would be unmarked. For now, at least.

They lay side by side, their bottoms perfectly placed to receive a lashing. Sometimes I make them approach the bed from opposite sides, in that way they are face to face and can, if they so wish, see the desperate pitiful gleam in the eyes of their partner in crime at the moment the rattan bites deeply into the flesh. From my position behind, or to the side of the young men, this is a pleasure I am not afforded.

Beating them side by side works equally well. There is enough room for me to swish my cane to my heart’s content before I lash it down. Both Ken and John have terrifically meaty backsides. They seem to prefer to wear pants that show this to the fullest effect. When they lay waiting for me to do my worse the smooth cotton invariably clings tightly to their round cheeks. If it doesn’t I tug at the waistband until the pants fit like a second skin and their buttocks are separated. Once they are in position I make my final arrangements.

These are few. I first select which of the two canes I brought to use. They are both a little over three feet in length, not counting the crook handle. One is a little thicker and denser than the other, but each is supple and can bend between my hands should I decide to indulge in some amateur dramatics. Both are yellowy-brown in colour and have had the notches that appear every three or four inches along its length sanded down.

Once I have my cane I pretty much get on with it. I stand by Ken who is the nearest of the two to me; I take my aim, I raise the cane towards the ceiling and bring it straight down with tremendous force into the centre of the young man’s bottom.  It is rather like beating a carpet. I have noticed that Ken and John react rather differently to a thrashing. Ken, who is wearing the dark blue underpants in the photograph, shuts his teeth and balls his hands into fists. This seems to help him to absorb the pain, although sometimes he will emit almost silent groans.

John on the other hand is far more energetic. As soon as the rattan bursts his flesh he will throw his head back and yelp like a little whipped puppy before pummelling his fists into the mattress around him. By the second or at least the third cut he is openly weeping. Ken, however, remains dry throughout. I don’t recall ever seeing a tear on his cheek during such punishment sessions.

I deliver ten lashes and then I stop. By this time, John will be wriggling and writhing while sobbing uncontrollably. Ken will be taking deep breaths, gulping in draughts of air, rather like he was a beached whale. From my position above the two young men I can see through their skin-tight pants that thick welts have formed across their buttocks. When they peel down their pants they will be greeted by the sight of dark red lines that criss-cross like a railway junction.

I take my leave quickly. My jacket is on and my canes are back in the plastic bag but Ken and John remain face down in shared agony. I see myself out of the apartment and make my way home. I don’t know what Ken and John do once I have left. I expect that they pray together and praise the Lord for His mercy. What else could they do at such a time?

 

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Footballer’s ‘hairbrush treatment’

My first spanking — aged 18!

My belligerent nephew

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The glorious summer

z-used-twosome-punting-9

It was the most beautiful summer Crispin and Alfie had ever experienced. Eighteen years old with their whole lives ahead. School was over; soon they would go up to the varsity together. Life was bliss.

Crispin usually took the lead; in life as well as in the punt. Alfie was very content to follow in his chum’s wake. This day was to be no exception. Slowly, lugubriously, for they had all the time in the world, they floated away from the river bank. It would take maybe half an hour to reach the island. They would be safe there. Not alone, but with people like themselves. Nobody would bother them there.

Parson Scorn paced his sitting room. It was too hot to be inside, but he wasn’t yet ready to venture out. He would wait for the noon day sun. He could be sure of success at that hour. His quarry were not notorious early risers.

Crispin manoeuvred through the weeds. He was becoming expert at this. His lithe arm muscles flexed as he strained on the punt pole. Alfie lay back admiring Crispin’s taut buttocks encased in white linen trousers. The exertions made his pal perspire. Soaking his unruly fair hair. The sun appeared from behind a white cloud; temperatures were rising all round.

“We should be safe here,” Crispin gasped, jumping from the punt onto solid ground. The little boat rocked leaving Alfie clinging it its side.

“Careful, you’ll have me in the water,” he snapped.

“Then, we’d have to take off all your wet clothes,” Crispin grinned. Alfie scowled, but he didn’t really mean it.

Crispin reached out his hand and helped his chum from the punt. Then, still fingers entwined, they walked away from the water’s edge. They knew a spot. They had used it often enough. They wouldn’t be seen from there.

Parson Scorn checked his watch. Now would be a good time to leave. He climbed into his black coat and reached for his hat. At the umbrella stand, he collected a canvas bag, testing its weight. It was never very heavy. It didn’t need to be.

Parson Scorn was a large man; people said he ate well. They meant he ate plenty, not healthily. Folds of fat flopped over his belt; a third chin dragged down his jowls so his facial features were as indistinct as a bowl of blancmange. Sweat soaked his back. The sun was hot and his coat heavy. He walked slowly, pacing himself. He needed his strength. There would be many exertions before the afternoon was over.

Crispin tested the grass. It was dry, it hadn’t rained for days. His brilliant white trousers would remain unstained. He pulled Alfie to his side.

“Why do you still wear the old school cap? I should have thought we were both glad to be away from St. Tom’s.” He pulled at the cap and threw it to the ground, releasing Alfie’s shiny black wavy hair. Crispin ran his fingers through it. It was strong hair and a little greasy. The two teenagers’ eyes met. No words were spoken. There was no need. Their lips met. Tongues entwined.

Parson Scorn kept a small rowing boat. It was meant for one person. He scrambled in, his fat buttocks overhanging the wooden slat that passed for a seat. Carefully, he rested his canvas bag between his knees; it wouldn’t do for that to fall in the river. He clutched the oars and slowly inched his way towards the island.

Crispin and Alfie lay naked. Alfie was on his back, Crispin straddled him, working his lips down his pal’s strong chest. Alfie gasped with pleasure. Crispin was doing that thing with his tongue. It made his manhood throb like crazy. He closed his eyes and tried to think of dull things. It would stop him exploding too early.

“No, not yet,” Crispin climbed off his chum and lay by his side. “You mustn’t come too soon.” He stretched his arm around Alfie’s shoulders and pulled him close for an intimate, loving embrace. The sun beat own fiercely. Both boys had nut-brown skin; all over. There was a stretch of the river where men sunbathed naked. Wags called the place ‘Parsons’ Pleasure.’ Crispin and Alfie loved to show their bodies. Their devotees could not hide their admiration. Ah, the beauty of youth, they all agreed.

Parson Scorn disembarked and tugged the tiny boat out of the river. He was sweating profusely, but he would not remove his hat and coat. They were his credential. They indicated he was a parson. They were his symbols of power. He sat and caught his breath. He was unsure what to do next. Last time he patrolled the island he had turned to the left; perhaps this time he would go to the right.

He picked up his canvas bag, and headed inland. He had trod this path before. There was a small clearing maybe fifty yards ahead.

Alfie nibbled Crispin’s ear. It was a simple gesture, but it always made his chum’s heart race and his penis stiffen.

“We shall have so much fun at Oxford,” Crispin beamed. “Together. Always. We shall take rooms together. Undisturbed. Forever,” he babbled.

Alfie kissed Crispin deeply. His tongue washing around the teenager’s mouth, right inside, reaching the throat.

“Warr…?” Crispin broke free, gasping for air. “What’s that noise?” He hauled himself to a sitting position. “There’s somebody there.”

“Just another couple courting, I suppose.” Alfie peered into the undergrowth. “We wouldn’t be alone on this island.”

“No…” Crispin started, but further words were impossible. Alfie’s tongue was back inside his mouth. They stretched out and Alfie straddled his body.

“Monstrous! Ungodly! Disgraceful!” Parson Scorn had a lexicon of words for such occasions. He pushed through the undergrowth and stood towering over the boys, his shadow blocking out the sun. He stared intently at Alfie’s naked buttocks.

“Shameful! Shocking! Outrageous!” Parson Scorn was not yet ready to speak in full sentences.

Alfie climbed off his chum. Crispin lay on his back, his penis pointing to the sky.

Parson Scorn stood, scowling, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. He had perfected this stance. It put terror into the hearts of his victims. Sometimes, even before he revealed his plan, young men would be in floods of tears. Once, some darn fool had begged on his knees for mercy. Mercy, indeed, Parson Scorn had thought. Retribution was the order of the day.

He had a speech prepared. He rarely had to deviate from the script. It started with a tirade from the Bible. Then there was a passage about Hell. That always made an impact. Most of the young men he pursued had been brought up as strict Christians of one sort of another.

But, the words that really struck terror into their hearts were about the law. This perversion was a crime, punishable by imprisonment. With hard labour. Prison would destroy them. Just think about that fellow Oscar Wilde. They would live their lives in disgrace. Living and dying penniless.

But, kindly person that Parson Scorn was, he had an alternative.

Crispin and Alfie listened with mounting dread. The dreadful parson was right. The law could destroy them, but only if the law was invoked. There were many men like themselves leading quiet lives, not harming anyone. Many of them, especially from Crispin and Alfie’s social class, were ignored by the police.

“I am prepared, in the name of God, to give you a second chance,” Parson Scorn’s beady eyes burned into Crispin. He really was the most delightfully looking fellow. The sun highlighted the colour of his yellow hair which contrasted with his deep suntan.

“It will not be pleasant,” Parson Scorn’s voice broke. He coughed nervously. “But, I am prepared to do my duty.”

Crispin stared at the Parson. He had seen the way the old men looked at him at Parson’s Pleasure. Suddenly, he realised the significance of it name.

Parson Scorn reached for the canvas bag at his feet. Inside seconds, it was open. Crispin’s eyes widened. It had been years since he had seen such a thing. Furtively, he exchanged glances with Alfie. Now, they understood the vile clergyman’s game.

Parson Scorn picked up the birch rods in his hands and held them up to the eighteen year olds, as if making a religious offering. As birch rods went, this was on the smaller side. From where Crispin stood it looked like there were about a dozen branches, tied together at one end by string.

The headmaster at St. Tom’s had preferred a much heavier birch rod. Crispin had seen the damage that could inflict on naked buttocks. But, the birch was rarely used at his old school, the whippy ashplant was the preferred instrument of punishment among the schoolmasters.

“I shall flog you,” Parson Scorn rolled the word “flog” around his tongue, relishing the sound it made and the reaction it caused in the two teenagers sprawled before him. He swished the birch rod through the air for emphasis, delighting in the way their eyes followed it on its travels.

Parson Scorn knew his place in the world. He was a man of God; an authority figure. The boys he was about to beat were products of an English public school. They had been raised to know their place, also. They would obey his every word; however unusual and indeed perverse it might be. They always did. Not once had Parson Scorn’s victim refused to comply with his instruction. Nor, he was certain, would these two boys.

“You should stand up,” he spoke quietly. Without hesitation Crispin and Alfie rose to their feet. Parson Scorn flushed. For the first time, he had seen Alfie’s long, thick penis. Even flaccid, it was a terrific sight. Parson Scorn’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

“Stand together,” Parson Scorn swished his birch rod, “About two or three feet apart,” he directed. Satisfied with their distance, he continued. “You should bend over and grip your shins.” Meekly, the two teenagers bent forward. Alfie shut his eyes tight. Crispin looked down at the mud and mould beneath his feet.

Parson Scorn stepped back to assess his targets. Crispin was smooth skinned, but Alfie’s buttocks and legs were covered with thick, black hair. The Parson tried not to look into their cracks, but there was no way he could avoid the sight of penises and ball sacks dangling between their legs.

Parson Scorn sucked in air. He lay the birch rod against Crispin’s naked left buttock. Once the rod swung it would contact across the centre of both cheeks. He raised his arm a yard or so away from the naked flesh and brought it down. He was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath from the eighteen-year-old and an array of small welts across the backside.

The Parson turned his attention to Alfie. The hair on the boy’s backside hid the marks of the birch, but the Parson knew well enough that both teenagers would have throbbing rear ends.

Parson Scorn had no wish to cut the boys backsides to ribbons. A heavier birch rod, applied with maximum force would do that. Instead, the clergyman whipped his rod across the naked haunches with just enough power to scar the flesh. The boys would be raw. They would feel intense agony as the dozen birch twigs connected. But, soon that agony would give way to a deep throb, which in turn would become a warm glow. After an hour or so the pain would have gone, except for when they sat on a hard surface. Then, one or two of the welts would reignite. It would be a week or so before the scars cleared fully.

Parson Scorn tapped the birch rod against Crispin’s bottom once more; a little lower than the previous cut. Swish! The birch rod made an eerie sound in the open air. Crispin hacked a dry cough. That one had hurt so much more than the first. Alfie, failed to suppress a yelp as his second stroke connected.

Ex-public schoolboys are stout fellows. It comes from spending many years holed up with manic masters who carried an ashplant under their arms to slip into their hands at a second’s notice before applying it with some vigour against the backside of an errant schoolboy. Crispin and Alfie took their whipping stoically.

Parson Scorn laid on six-of-the-best. That was sufficient. Not one square inch of the naked backsides pointing at him was left unblemished. Each cheek was a deep cherry red. Bruises were forming on the outer side of Crispin’s bum. The Parson assumed that under all that dark hair, similar bruises adorned Alfie’s buttocks.

“That will do,” Parson Scorn, replaced the birch rod in the canvas bag, alongside two more he had there. “I hope I never catch you behaving in such a monstrous manner again,” he said, untruthfully, before taking his leave. Crispin and Alfie rubbed their sore bums and watched him fight his way through the undergrowth toward the centre of the island.

“You know, he enjoyed doing that, don’t you?” Crispin kneaded his pert inflamed buttocks.

“Yes,” Alfie grinned. His penis was rock hard. “Come my chum, deal with this, there’s a fine fellow.” Crispin sank to his knees, formed a perfect “O” with his lips and prepared to take the member in his mouth.

Three hours later, they sat contented outside the Three Fishers Hotel. It had been a wonderful day in a glorious summer. Despite the Parson’s threat there had been no danger of involving the law. There would be no prison. A life of bliss lay ahead for Crispin and Alfie.

“Do you know what?” Alfie sipped on his warm beer, “I can see us as two old codgers, living in harmony. In our dotage.”

“Wouldn’t that be lovely. I look forward to it.”

Suddenly, a boy rushed through the gate. “Read all about it. Read all about it,” he yelled waving a newspaper.

“What is it,” Crispin sighed wearily.

“Germany invades Belgium! War to be declared!”

 

Other stories you might like

The missed curfew

Caught in their underpants

The shoplifter

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Running in their pants

z-used-white-pants-45

“Oh, the young scamps. They deserve to have their bottoms spanked.”

“Colonel, they are nineteen years old. They are too old to be considered ‘scamps.’”

“Oh, you take it too seriously vicar. It was just a bit of boyish fun. Take their trousers down, put them across your knee and redden their bums with your slipper.”

“Too seriously! They ran around the churchyard naked. In broad daylight!”

“Yes, as I say: boyish fun. Besides they were not naked. As I understand it they were wearing underpants.”

“Well, as good as naked.”

“Not really. Was it really very different than wearing swimming trunks?”

“Well it is public indecency.”

“Is it man? Is it really?”

“Pah! So you condone their behaviour?”

“No, I’ve already said they deserve to have their bottoms spanked. What would you have me do? Do you want the police informed?”

“Well, no perhaps not.”

“Your slipper vicar, your slipper.”

“But they’re your son and your nephew …”

“You have my permission vicar. Spank the blighters’ bottoms.”

In a room close by Sid and Colin were in conversation.

“What do you think they’re saying?”

“Well you know the guv’nor, he hates the Church.”

“So, he’s on our side?”

“Shouldn’t think so for a minute.”

The boys sat back in plush leather armchairs and lapsed into companionable silence.

It had been because of girls, of course. That and the weed they had all been smoking. There wasn’t much else for young people to do in the village, except to drink and take drugs. And, have sex. The boys had been desperate to get into the knickers of Alice and Mary. Either one would do. Sid could have Alice and Colin, Mary. Or the other way around, it really didn’t matter. A cop off was a cop off. Any girl would do. The boys were desperate to have sex; preferably, as Colin liked to joke, with another person present.

They reckoned the girls were up for it, especially once the cannabis had kicked in. Colin couldn’t remember the details, but he thought the girls had dared them. Run naked around the churchyard. Totally in the buff. The boys hadn’t been that high. They wimped out. They stripped to their briefs instead. Just their luck: the vicar emerged from the church in time to see two teenaged boys “streaking” down the drive.

The rest was history.

“D’you think he’ll beat us?”

“Certain to. The guv’nor still keeps that cane in the drawer in the library.”

“Esssshh … He’ll take our arses off with that thing. I couldn’t sit down properly for days last time.”

Rev Jones walked towards the front door of the manor. He hoped he hid his disappointment. The Colonel’s views on corporal punishment were well known in the county. If he had his way, the juvenile delinquents who regularly appeared before him at the magistrates’ court would be sentenced to a bare-arsed birching. He fervently believed in the liberal use of the whippy rattan cane in both the school and home. The vicar had expected the Colonel to thrash Sid and Colin. It was no more than they deserved. But no. The Colonel must be getting soft in his old age.

The vicar also liked the idea of corporal punishment. He would have gladly been a witness to the two nineteen year olds bent over a leather armchair, trousers and underpants at their feet, while the Colonel thrashed their naked buttocks with a stout, but whippy, cane. He was getting quite breathless at the thought of it.

He had never himself inflicted corporal punishment on a boy. He was unmarried and naturally childless. There were one or two of his choirboys who, he fervently believed, would benefit from a soundly spanked backside, but it would not be wise for him to make good on his belief. Now, he had a choice. He could allow the two sinners to escape punishment, or, as the Colonel instructed, he could spank their bottoms red. What should he do?

Houghton, the manservant held the door open. The vicar thanked him and started to descend the stone steps. He stopped. His mind was made up. “Houghton, please tell master Sid and master Colin that the colonel has instructed they visit me at the vicarage at one o’clock sharp.” With that, he skipped down the steps.

The vicarage was a large house, far too big for one person, so he rented out three bedrooms to students at the nearby agricultural college. His lodgers should be at classes, so he would not be disturbed. He went to his bedroom to collect his slippers and took them down to the kitchen where he made himself a pot of tea. He drank three cups to settle his nerves.

He would do the deed in his private sitting room, he thought. There was a good solid wooden armless chair in there. He could instruct the miscreants to bend across its back. Or, should he put them across his knee, as the Colonel suggested? What if they refused to be punished? They were nineteen years old, after all. They were young men, not children. Oh, the vicar sighed, it would be too humiliating if they told him where to get off and then walked out of the vicarage.

Sid and Colin guessed their fate the moment Houghton delivered the vicar’s message. With heavy hearts they trudged through the village. They arrived early, so they sat on gravestones and smoked cigarettes.

“Shame we haven’t got any weed.”

“Yep, it would help dull the pain.”

“I wonder how hard the vicar canes?”

“Can’t be as bad as the guv’nor.”

“No, nothing’s as bad as that.”

At one o’clock sharp, Colin rang the ornate doorbell. He was surprised that the door opened immediately. Rev Jones had been waiting anxiously for their arrival. The vicar was a little over six feet tall and rectangular in build. He peered at Sid and Colin through half moon  glasses. His face was flabby and florid. His dome was nearly completely bald. He was perspiring freely, although it wasn’t a particularly warm afternoon.

“Come in boys,” the vicar croaked. He led the way to the sitting room. He had never punished a boy before, nor even reprimanded one for poor behaviour.  He supposed a lecture was in order. He was used to giving sermons, so launched into a homily about nakedness. Sid and Colin stood awkwardly as he prattled on. They didn’t mind the diversion. Neither was in much of a hurry to be thrashed with the vicar’s cane.

At last he got to the point. “So you must be punished.” Both boys held their breath. Just how much was this going to hurt? Rev Jones reached down and gripped a bedroom slipper in his hand. “I am going to spank you with this slipper.”

The boys exchanged glances, each trying not to break into a broad smile. A slippering. They had expected to have their arses ripped to shreds by the Colonel’s cane. Now, all they had to endure was a soft bedroom slipper. A spanking with that would hardly tingle their bums.

The vicar’s already florid complexion deepened. He sat on the large wooden chair and spread his legs. He was finding it hard to catch his breath. The room seemed oppressively hot. “You first Colin,” he waved his slipper at the nineteen-year-old, who obediently stepped forward and stood patiently a yard to the right of the vicar’s lap, staring down at his dowdy grey flannel trousers. But, the instruction he expected did not come.

“Should I take down my jeans, vicar?” he asked brightly. Rev Jones’ face burned scarlet. “Oh, well, yes, of course, indeed,” he babbled. With ease, Colin unbuckled his belt and released the catch at the top of his Levis. With the zipper down, they slipped to his knees. He parted his legs a little to help them complete their journey to his feet. He waited again for an instruction and when again it was not forthcoming, he nevertheless lowered himself across the vicar’s lap.

The vicar’s heart raced at the sight. A fit nineteen-year-old man was laid face down across his lap. He wasn’t as heavy as the vicar imagined he might be. Calmly, Colin stretched his arms ahead of him and placed the palms of his hands flat against the carpet. He wasn’t a tall boy and behind him the toes of his trainers barely touched the ground. His bottom, covered in navy blue trunks, rested on the vicar’s right leg; he could feel the boy’s cock pressing down into him. Colin’s pullover and shirt had risen up a little, exposing an area of bare back.

Colin’s bottom was a bit wobbly when he stood, but in this over-the-knee position it tightened. The vicar noticed the boy’s pants were a little tight. The cotton fitted like a second skin and sank into the crack between his two cheeks.

Colin waited patiently for the spanking to begin. What was keeping the vicar? At last he felt a movement in the Reverend’s body and the slipper hit him in the centre of his left cheek. He hardly felt a thing. Nor did he when the slipper connected with his right buttock. Then, there was a pause. He looked down at the grey carpet, puzzled. What was the vicar doing? Reverend Jones pushed the boy an inch or two further over his knee and closed his own legs. Then, he resumed the spanking.

Twelve times the slipper smacked into Colin’s bum. The vicar found a rhythm and smacked the slipper into his rear with some force. But, it was only a soft bedroom slipper and Colin was a nineteen-year-old boy with a considerably corporal punishment track record. The vicar’s slipper was no match for him.

Eventually, he climbed off Rev Jones’s lap. His bum hurt a little, but it wasn’t much more than a tingle. Even so, he clasped his buttocks with his two hands and rubbed. He thought he owed it to the vicar to at least pretend that he had been punished sufficiently. And, he certainly didn’t want word to get back to the guv’nor that the spanking had been inadequate.

Colin was doing up his belt when the vicar rose hurriedly from his chair and dashed from the room. The two boys watched in confusion as he took the stairs two at a time and rushed into the bathroom.

“That didn’t hurt did it?”

“No, but I bet my bottom’s red.”

Colin lowered his trousers and pants and together they inspected the damage. Both bum cheeks were a darker pink and the outline of the slipper was clearly visible in two places, but the tingling had already vanished and in a few minutes there would be no evidence that he had been spanked.

It was at least fifteen minutes before the vicar returned. He had changed his trousers and now wore chocolate brown corduroys. He seemed very ill at ease. He gave no explanation for his absence, sat down on the chair, and summoned Sid across his knee.

 

Other stories you might like

The Spanking Vicar Part 1  

A preacher teaches humility

The vicar delivers

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

New stories, three times a week

Hi Guys,

More new visitors than ever before are visiting this site – welcome to you all. If the newcomers haven’t noticed three new stories are uploaded every week – on Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

There are now about 160 stories here and it can be a bit tricky to find your way around at first to find a tale that is to your taste.

To help you, below are some story categories. Click on the link that interests you.

All stories involve people who are aged eighteen or over – that’s part of the deal with WordPress.

Enjoy!

Charles Hamilton II

 

Vicars, priests, the church

 College boys

 Fathers, sons, uncles, nephews

 Landlords and their tenants

 Adults and role-playing

 University students and their professors

 Spanking in the workplace

Max of the ‘Champion’ 4. The Clergyman

Previously on Max of the ‘Champion’

Max of the ‘Champion’ 1. The policeman

Max of the ‘Champion’ 2. The deputy editor

Max of the ‘Champion’ 3. The headmaster

 

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.

 

Other stories you might like

The Spanking Vicar Part 1

The vicar delivers

Theft of petty cash

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com