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

The Spanking Vicar 12. Put back into short trousers

The Spanking Vicar, episode 1 is here

The Spanking Vicar, episode 11 is here

 

The church at Aston Budleigh was always packed on a Sunday. The villagers were God-fearing folk and it was usually standing room only when the Rev Crick was in the pulpit.

But, this Sunday despite the crowd one figure stood out among the congregation. Byron Jones sat with a stony face, his dark hooded eyes stared blankly ahead. He had neither looked to the left or the right since taking his place on the pew.

The vicar knew Byron well. He was from a family that had been established in the village for generations. He was eighteen years old and in his final year at the Church of England school. Like the rest of the congregation Byron was dressed in his “Sunday best”. It was hot in the church so he wore no jacket. His sparkling white shirt gleamed in the pale sunlight in the church. He wore a striped tie which made him look like the schoolboy he was. But this day he looked even more like a schoolboy. It was the neatly-pressed grey short trousers and long socks he wore that did it.

His pals in the congregation rocked in mirth. Eighteen years old and put back into short trousers. Only kids wore them; they had all left short trousers behind when they finished primary school aged eleven.

After the sermon Rev Crick sought out Byron’s father. Mr Jones was a timid man; he worked as a clerical officer at the local municipal council. He was the kind of person who would never say boo to a goose. Crick was a little surprised the man had taken such drastic action with his son.

“He needed to be reminded that he is not an adult, he is still a boy. We are his parents and he should do as we tell him,” Mr Jones was robust in his own defence. The vicar nodded sagely. He too believed children were allowed to grow up too quickly. If he had his way they would all wear short trousers until they left school, aged eighteen. But, he also believed, the rule would have to apply to everyone. They either all wore short trousers, or none of them did. To make one boy only wear short trousers would be too humiliating. Other, very suitable, punishments were available for disrespectful teenagers.

“So do you make him wear short trousers all the time?  Even to school?” the vicar asked.

He was rather taken aback by Mr Jones’ angry response. “We wanted to, but the headmaster would not allow it. He said the uniform stated boys must wear grey long trousers.”

The vicar grimaced. He despised the headmaster (he wouldn’t even let his name pass his lips). The man abolished corporal punishment and allowed the boys to run riot.  A Church of England school without the cane; it was unheard of.

Rev Crick remembered the pitiful sight of Byron, humiliated at the church, his dark, hooded eyes staring blankly ahead. Putting him in short trousers was not the best way to get the boy to behave. The vicar had the solution to the problem; the two whippy school canes that were hanging on hooks on his study wall.

“Mr Jones,” Rev Crick took the man by the elbow and gently took him further away from the crowd of people milling round the entrance to the church, “Might I make a suggestion?”

Mr Jones timidity was evident not only in public. At home he was the same. He never disciplined his children and they had been set no boundaries. Byron had been put back into short trousers at his mother’s insistence. She had got the idea from an article about disciplining teenagers in a women’s magazine.

“Mr Jones,” the vicar began. He knew he was admired by his congregation. They saw him as God’s representative on Earth. They would almost certainly do anything he told them to. “Permit me to deal with Byron. I have much experience in discipline. I think I can find a better solution than humiliating the boy.”

Mr Jones blushed deeply. He had a shrewd idea what the vicar meant by “discipline”, but he would rather not have it spelt out to him.

At four o’clock that afternoon, Byron stood on the worn rug in front of the vicar’s leather-topped desk in the study. He was probably tall for his age; standing at five-feet-ten-inches. His size only served to emphasise the ridiculous sight of a young adult wearing schoolboy’s short trousers. The vicar was no expert at such things, but surely shops did not sell short trousers to fit eighteen year olds. These were proper trousers that fell just above the knee. They were not leisure shorts, the kind you might wear in the summer on the beach.

Rev Crick looked the boy up and down. Apart from his mode of dress, he looked no different from the hundreds of teenagers that attended the schools in nearby Tylesbury. You wouldn’t give a second glance if you saw him in the High Street. Except for his one prominent feature: the eyes. The dark brown pupils stared out from beneath hooded eyes. They were ringed with black. It was as if he had applied eye shadow to further emphasise the darkness of his features.

The vicar had prepared a sermon. He jawed Byron for full on five minutes about his behaviour, his disrespectful attitude and his contempt for his parents. The teenager simply stared ahead blankly. Rev Crick was unnerved. Was the wretched creature even listening to him?

“So, I am going to cane your backside.”

Byron heard that all right. His stony face cracked. He had seen the two canes hanging by hooks on the wall, but had not connected them with his present visit to the vicarage.

Rev Crick rose from his desk and slowly walked to the canes. He turned his back to Byron but could feel the teenager’s eyes burning into the back of his neck. He picked up the thinner of the two canes and flexed it thoughtfully in his hands. It was as if he had never handled the whippy rod before and was trying to get its measure. He turned on his heels and wobbled the cane menacingly a few feet away from Byron’s face.

It had the desired effect. The boy was intimidated. His stony stare softened and his eyes moistened.

As if dissatisfied with his choice, the vicar replaced the cane and picked up its companion. This was a little thicker than the first, but it still flexed wonderfully when the vicar tested it between his hands. He swiped it through empty air, creating a tremendous whoosh! that echoed around the otherwise silent study.

“Yes, this will do the job well,” he swished it once more, enjoying the reaction it was having on Byron. The vicar had not yet ordered the boy to bend over and submit himself for caning, but already he was on the verge of tears.

“I have agreed with your father to take over the business of your discipline,” Rev Crick intoned in the pompous way he delivered many of his sermons. He swished the cane through empty air one more time to emphasise his point.

“I shall beat you with this cane and thereafter I shall beat you again every time you misbehave,” he scowled. “But, you will no longer be required to wear short trousers as a punishment.”

Byron stared ahead, impassively.

“I shall give you a choice: twelve strokes on the seat of your trousers or six strokes on your underpants. What’s it to be?”

Tears trickled down Byron’s face, but no words came from his lips.

Swish! Another resounding whoosh! bounced off the walls of the study. “Well boy, what’s it to be?” Rev Crick’s patience was sorely tested.

Bryon stayed silent, his breathing was shallow. The tears were now flowing uncontrollably.

“Pah!” Rev Crick exhaled. He put the cane on his desk and turned to the teenager. Taking the half-elasticated waist of the short trousers at each of the boy’s hips he tugged them down to the boy’s knees. The force of gravity took them further and they rested in a puddle at Byron’s feet.

Crick took the teenager by the arm and with Byron waddling like a penguin, he guided him over to an armchair. It took one shove of the boy’s shoulders to place him face down over the chair’s back. As if in a trance Byron stayed submissively; his mouth tasting the dust from a scatter cushion.

The reverend took up the cane once more. Six-of-the-very-best was the order of the day. This might be Byron’s first-ever caning, but he was a rebellious eighteen-year-old out of control. He had to be reined in. And the vicar intended to use the most traditional method known to God: the rod.

But before that, there was a little housekeeping to do. First he took hold of the boy’s crisp white shirt and pulled it away from the target area. Then, using the palm of his hand he smoothed the cotton white Y-front underpants over each of Byron’s buttocks. By the time he was finished, the cotton fitted like a second skin and the teenager’s crack was perfectly emphasised.

His target was now suitably prepared. As teenagers’ bottoms went, Byron’s was not exceptional in the vicar’s experience. Byron’s legs were hairy and it might be expected that the buttocks were too, but since this was not to be a bare-bottomed caning, that aesthetic was of little relevance. The backside itself was a little fleshy; the cane would sink into meat as it struck home to do its handiwork.

The vicar had many caning techniques. Sometimes he liked to strike home at thirty or forty second intervals and after each swipe he would saunter around the study observing the effect of the cut on the young man’s demeanour. Then he would slash down stroke number two and repeat the theatricals until the punishment was complete.

This time, the vicar would simply bounce six cuts off the teenager’s bum one after the other. Five second intervals would be enough. The intense pain would soar through the boy’s buttocks and travel his entire body. Just as the pain reached his head, the next slash would follow and the agony would start all over again.

Swish. The first stroke landed. The vicar put all his beef into it. It landed across the middle of Byron’s backside. Through the thin white stretched cotton underpants, Crick could see a stripe burning into the flesh. Byron continued his sobbing but there was no other reaction.

Crick lined up the second. It landed almost on top of the first. In the vicar’s experience most lads would yell out as the pain of such a swipe registered. Byron did not. He choked back the bile that had formed in his throat and bit deep into a dusty scatter cushion.

A few seconds later the third stroke landed. Byron’s bum must have been on fire.  Three welts now burned across his seat.

The fourth was by far the hardest so far. It bit deep into the meat of Byron’s fleshy bum. The teenager would carry the marks of this caning for more than a week. The sobbing continued, but so far the lad had not uttered a sound.

The fifth stripe was outlined initially in the white underpants and then it turned bright pink as blood rushed to fill the weal that crossed both cheeks. Then, after a couple of preparatory taps the vicar raised the cane, brought it back behind his shoulder and, without pausing, twisted slightly at the hips and drove the cane firmly into the backside.  Such a stroke would have any youngster howling, no matter how experienced they were in receiving the cane.

Byron seemed impassive. Only the uncontrolled sobbing gave an indication of the teenager’s suffering. Most of the seat of his underpants was pink. At least one deep cut had opened up and blood was flowing. The reverend shuddered. He hoped Mr Jones did not question his son too closely about his ordeal this afternoon.

On command, Byron rose from the back of the armchair. His blank stare had gone and his eyes now shone. Tears and snot covered much of his face. In seconds his short trousers were pulled up. He took a pristine handkerchief from his pocket and wiped himself clean.

Rev Crick could not resist a final sermon and Byron left the study in no doubt that he would be back over the vicar’s armchair if he did not mend his ways.

But, Byron did not care. All he wanted to do was go home, start a bonfire and burn those ruddy short trousers.

 

Other stories you might like

The Private Tutor, episode 1

A punch in the face

Warren’s awakening

 

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Spanking Vicar 11. Tram lines

The Spanking Vicar, episode 1 is here

The Spanking Vicar, episode 10 is here

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

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

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

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

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

A ticket he did not have.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Craig’s already pink face turned a little claret.

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

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

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

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

….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pants off too. Right off.”

Craig hesitated. A bare-arsed caning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

The Spanking Vicar, episode 12 is here

 

Other stories you might like

The cheating student

The pub manager

Home late

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Spanking Vicar 10. The Cricketer

cricket

The Spanking Vicar, episode 1 is here

Episode 9, The Scout Leader is here

 

Thwack!! “Ooooow!”

Thwack!! “Aaarghh!”

Craig padded down the stairs at the vicarage.

Thwack!! Thwack!!

Muffled yells came from behind the stout study door. Someone was getting it and Craig was pleased that for once it wasn’t he.

The nineteen-year-old secretly marvelled at Rev Crick. How did he get people to submit to his will; and to his cane? The young man had himself felt a variety of Crick’s instruments of punishment across his own backside in the few months he had been one of the vicar’s “paying guests”.

Who was it this time? He unlatched the front door and exited into the warm summer evening. He had a date, but that could wait a few more minutes. Stealthily, he crept around the side of the house and from a safe distance he peered through the study window.

As Craig expected, the victim was bent across the back of the large Chesterfield couch while Rev Crick enthusiastically thwipped one of his swishy school-type rattan canes into the miscreant’s backside. It looked a particularly meaty bum from where Craig was standing. Two eminently beatable buttocks encased in bright yellow boxer shorts were bouncing over the crest of the large leather couch.

The owner of the buttocks stamped his feet up and down as each fresh lash connected across the centre of the cotton underwear. What looked to Craig like designer jeans were bunched at his feet.

A series of yelps, each louder than the previous one, hissed from the victim’s tight lips.

From his vantage point almost directly behind the vicar’s right arm, Craig had a perfect view of bouncing buttocks, but he had no sight of a face. He might not be surprised that the vicar was lashing his cane into the bottom of a parishioner; but was startled when after Crick landed a particularly vicious swipe low into the thighs, the man’s torso rose from the couch as he let out a screech so loud, birds in a nearby tree flew away in terror.

That was when Craig saw the face. Terry Miller. Terry Miller, it couldn’t possibly be Terry Miller? Rev Crick shoved Miller’s shoulders and he slid back down over the back of the Chesterfield; face down in position to receive more cuts of the swishy rattan cane.

Terry Miller was the local milkman and star of the village cricket team; known to everyone. He was the nearest thing Aston Budleigh had to a celebrity. And here was Terry Miller bent across the vicar’s couch getting one heck of a thrashing. If it went on like this he would have to deliver his milk by hand in the morning; no way would he be able to drive his milk float.

Crick took a long drag at a cigarette, replaced it in an ashtray and with his cane laid a further dozen swipes right across the entre of Miller’s meaty bum. Craig had the perfect view; begrudgingly he had to hand it to the vicar – he was an expert caner. Miller howled and he howled. Then it was over. His eyes shone with tears and he hopped from one foot to the next while simultaneously rubbing away at his raw backside.

Craig smiled to himself as he witnessed Miller’s spanking dance. He knew from bitter recent experience that none of that palaver worked. Miller would just have to let nature take its course. By now the intense agony would already have turned to a throbbing pain and that in turn would become a warm glow very soon.

Terry Miller. Craig shook his head in wonder as he set off for the gate and his rendezvous. Terry Miller; what had he done to deserve such a caning?

The previous Saturday

Where was that boy? The cricket match was due to start in ten minutes and Terry Miller was nowhere to be found.

“He should have been here an hour ago,” club captain, Alan O’Dowd, hissed, barely able to contain his anger. This was a vital knock-out match against Aston Budleigh’s bitterest rival and nearest neighbour, Yewtree. Miller was the team’s star player. A great slogger of a cricket ball and a demon spin bowler. He was the man who would win his team the match.

But not that day.

Twenty-five miles away Terry Miller was tucked up in a strange bed, snoring gently, his right arm wrapped around the waist of a young woman whose name he could not remember.

The team were despondent: knocked out of the cup by Yewtree. They would never hear the end of it. Just wait until they saw Terry Miller, they all said. They’d give him what-for.

The chance came the following Tuesday at match practice. Rev Crick led the verbal attack. “Irresponsible.”

“Selfish.”

“Untrustworthy.”

He laid into the twenty-three-year old with gusto. The young man’s teammates urged the vicar on.

“You were with a woman again. It’s always a woman with you,” Rev Crick lambasted the wretched fellow.

Terry Miller flushed bright red. He would not, could not, confirm this was so. He had his wife and young son at home to consider.

“You need a darn good spanking. I’m going to put you across my knee and tan your hide with a cricket stump.”

The young cricketer stood dumbfounded. A spanking? Whoever had heard of something so ridiculous. But, he knew the vicar by reputation: he was deadly earnest.

And so were his club mates.

“Spank him! Spank him!!” The chant started with one or two of the younger players and spread through the whole team.

Terry Miller stared wild-eyed. His friends were quickly turning into a mob. If he didn’t turn on his heels and run for it, they would do him serious damage.

Rev Crick paced the club house and delved into a large canvas bag. Seconds later he had a cricket stump in his hand. A cricket stump wasn’t the best weapon to use to inflict corporal punishment. It was a rod of solid wood, about two-feet long and an inch in diameter. The vicar would have much preferred to return to the vicarage to collect his lovely shiny two-tailed leather taws, or one of his smaller wooden spanking paddles. He would be able to inflict a much more severe spanking on the young man with either of those than any cricket stump.

But, needs must, as they say. The cricket stump was at hand, so a cricket stump it would be.

Rev Crick stood and faced Terry Miller. “Come on. Let’s get on with this.” He reached forward and grabbed a wooden chair and manhandled it into the centre of the club house.

“Wait a minute, vicar,” Alan O’Dowd interjected. “I’m the club captain, I should be the one to do this.”

Rev Crick glared at him, barely able to contain his fury. How dare he deprive him of the chance to put this delightful young man across his knee and spank his meaty buttocks until they were black and blue.

O’Dowd held out his hand. It was a silent instruction to the vicar. Reluctantly, the clergyman passed over the stump. It was beneath his dignity to argue with the club captain about who should spank the young cricketer.

Terry Miller watched with increasing nervousness as O’Dowd settled himself down in the chair and spread his legs wide to form a platform which in a moment he would be forced to bend over. He glanced at the club house entrance; any escape route was blocked by three or four of his colleagues.

O’Dowd clicked his fingers and Miller returned his attention to his club captain. He was beefy with well-developed muscles, as befitted a man who had spent most of his adult life in farm work. His ruddy complexion made him look much older than his thirty-five years. He gripped the cricket stump in his fist and pointed it at Miller’s midriff.

“Bend over my knee Terry.”

His heavily sun-tanned face could not hide the deep blushes that scorched Miller’s face. Bend over. For a spanking. In front of all his mates. No, it was just too humiliating.

O’Dowd smirked. He felt his colleague’s embarrassment, but he also thought the handsome young man was a cocky sod. He had let his team mates down by missing the most important match of the season. Jeez, he had let his wife and child down by sleeping with another woman. He deserved all he was going to get.

Miller stood, rooted to the spot. No way was he going over that bastard’s knee.

O’Dowd sighed heavily. “Okay, if that’s how you want it.” He turned slightly in his chair and called. “Lads bend him over the bench. Hold him down.”

“All right. All right. I’ll do it.” Terry Miller took a small step forward and resting his hands on O’Dowd’s right thigh, he gently lowered himself so that he rested in the classic over-the-knee spanking position. His face hovered an inch or so from the wooden floor, the palms of his hands lay flat ahead of him. On the other side his knees bent slightly and the toes of his cricket boots rested gently on the ground.

Rev Crick manoeuvred himself within the small crowd of onlookers until he had a perfect view of the young man’s bottom held high over O’Dowd’s thigh. The white cricketing trousers fitted tightly across his buttocks.

The club captain rubbed the cricket stump gently across the centre of both buttocks, finding his aim. The hush in the club house was deathly. The sound of a pin, had one been dropped, would have shattered the atmosphere.

There was no pin, but there was Rev Crick. “Wait!” His voice boomed around the room. “This is not how it should be done.”

Rev Crick was a commanding figure. He had the attention of every man in the room.

“A spanking is not a proper spanking unless it is given on the bare. He should take his trousers and underpants down.”

The pronouncement was met with a resounding cheer from the cricketers.

“Trousers down! Trousers down!” they chanted. What a great idea, they thought. You could always rely on the vicar to know the right thing to do.

A huge rictus grin split O’Dowd’s ruddy face and he chuckled. “Too right vicar.” Then he slapped the palm of his shovel-sized hand into the seat of Miller’s trousers. “C’mon lad. Get them down.”

“Come on son. Show us your arse,” Barry Dwight, one of the more uncouth of the team mates called out.

“Yeah, bare all Terry,” came a voice from the back.

“Trousers down!” the chant resumed.

Terry Miller was a defeated man: the victim of mob rule. If any man present thought it was wrong to spank a twenty-three-year-old man on his bare bottom because he had missed a cricket match, he did not speak up.

The cheer that greeted the lowering of the underpants travelled across the village green and in the Hare pub Joseph the barman stopped momentarily pulling a pint and exchanged a quizzical glance with his customer.

Terry Miller resumed his position, face down, bottom high. Alan O’Dowd had never seen a man’s bare bottom at such close range before. Of course, they were all naked in the showers after a match, but, and he wouldn’t want to say this out loud, he was more interested in comparing the size of his own manhood with the others than looking at bums.

The buttocks were creamy white, in stark contrast with the young man’s sun-tanned body. They were also surprisingly devoid of hair. O’Dowd gripped the cricket stump and took his aim. Miller was not especially tall but he was still a little large to fit comfortably across the older man’s lap. O’Dowd could not easily get the stump to cover both cheeks simultaneously without himself leaning so far back in his chair that the body across his lap might slip to the floor.

Rev Crick read the club captain’s mind. “Spank one cheek at a time. Try a diagonal stroke.” It was good advice borne from many years of practice.

Whack! The stump landed with great force across Terry’s left buttock. Immediately, a thick dark red line appeared. O’Dowd heard someone in the crowd whistle: wow, he’s not blowing smoke here.

A second stroke discoloured the right cheek. This time the whistle came from Terry’s lips. The pain was building. Whack, whack, whack. O’Dowd had never spanked anybody before in his life – not even his wife in fun – but instinctively he knew the whole point of the exercise was to make the spanked person very sore indeed.

Terry kicked his legs high as each stroke bit deep into his bum. It was a reflex action; he had lost control. He had never experienced such pain before. It started in his buttocks and shot through his entire body. His heartrate was off the scale, blood rushed to his head. Any moment, he feared his ears would pop.

“Six more …” Rev Crick couldn’t help but conduct the affair.

“Right-ho Vicar.”

Six swipes cut deep into Terry’s bottom. His once creamy-white bum was criss-crossed with thick red lines. Welts were beginning to form. The places where the cuts had overlapped were so red-raw they resembled hamburger meat.

Then it was over.

“Up pup.” O’Dowd released his grip. Terry shot to his feet. His backside felt like someone had rubbed it with sandpaper. He grabbed his trousers and pants and dragged them to his waist. Without waiting to do up the buttons, he fled from the room.

An uneasy silence followed. What was to be said?

O’Dowd looked down at the cricket stump in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. Had he really used it to spank Terry Miller’s bare backside? He could scarcely believe it.

He felt the tension in the club house. “C’mon lads, let’s get out to the nets,” he whispered.

Fifteen cricketers shuffled out the club house.

“Good job.”

“He deserved it.”

“He’ll think twice about missing another match.”

Rev Crick watched them go. Minutes later alone he trudged back to the vicarage, resentful of the club captain who had denied him the opportunity to spank Terry Miller, but also of the girl who had slept with him.

He had cheered a little by the time he reached home. He had a plan. Young Miller had paid for his absence from the cricket match; soon he would be made to atone for his adultery.

 The Spanking Vicar 11. Tram lines will be published on Monday 23 May 2016

Other stories you might like.

The TV repairman

The cheating student

The pub manager

 

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Spanking Vicar 9. The Scout leader

boy scout belt (2)

The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh series of stories starts here

Rev Crick stared ferociously at the Boy Scout standing before him. He had a great shock of fair wavy hair and the ruddiest cheeks he had seen on a young man in a long time. His buttocks would be just as red by the time I’ve finished with him, he thought. Those short trousers would have to come down too: the material’s far too thick.

Leon Hawkes was a scout leader, of sorts. At nineteen years old, almost twenty, he was supposed to be a responsible young man. He was expected to set an example; to give guidance to the younger boys.

He shuffled from one foot to the other; embarrassed, but not ashamed, as Rev Crick berated him. He had been “irresponsible”, “reckless”, “careless”, “unconcerned,” “negligent” and “inconsiderate”. The vicar was throwing the book at him.

Leon was an exceptionally good-looking lad. Beneath his fair hair and ruddy complexion was a perfectly proportioned body. He stood a little under 5ft 8ins and his Boy Scout uniform clung to his muscular body. The bottle green shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his biceps and adorned with countless merit badges, was open at the neck. A grey-and-maroon neckerchief was tucked neatly inside. His buckskin short trousers fell to two inches above the knee and were turned up at the hem. He had rolled his long socks down so that they rested on the tops of his desert boots.

It was summer and Leon had spent much of it out in the sunshine. His naturally fair skin was nut brown and a pair of “aviator” sunglasses hung from a pocket of his shirt.

Leon’s family were good, honest, God-fearing people. Rev Crick had known them for years. They would be mortified if they heard what their eldest son had been up to. Leon realised that too, which was why he would do anything to stop them finding out.

An hour earlier, Rev Crick had dealt with Brian Bell, one of Leon’s partners-in-crime. Brian was a fat toad of a boy and not a church-goer. He had not been brought up to defer to men of the cloth and could not see why he should offer up his bum to the vicar for physical chastisement. And, he had said so, stridently.

“Doh!” Crick strode from his study and into the adjourning lounge where he found Tommy and Craig, two of his paying guests at the vicarage.

“Come. Now!” he barked. Painful experience told the young men they must obey the vicar at all times and apprehensively they followed him back to the study. They found a red-faced and sweaty belligerent eighteen-year-old Boy Scout. The lad’s green shirt was stained with sweat and his black short trousers, bursting at his waist clung to his sagging buttocks.

Crick grabbed the boy’s left arm and hauled him a yard or two towards his desk. “You two; hold him down.” With that he shoved the boy face down so that he was spread-eagled across the desk.

Craig was rooted to the spot uncertain what to do, but Tommy had more gumption and he held on to Bell’s right arm

“Pin him down. Now!” The order was barked and so fierce that Craig quickly regained his senses. When he tried to recall it later, Craig’s memory was blurred about what exactly happened next. On some kind of auto-pilot he moved behind the desk and pressed his hands into the boy’s shoulders.

Together, Tommy and Craig were so strong the fat boy had no chance of escape. His blubber-filled body was pressed down into the wooden surface of the desk. Brian might be pinned down, but that did not stop him hollering blue murder.

In ordinary circumstances, Rev Crick would have spanked a young man red-raw simply for using such language, but to direct the vile swear words at him personally was too much. This brat would pay heavily for his behaviour.

Avoiding Brian’s kicking legs, the reverend lent forward and undid the button on the boy’s tight short trousers. He tugged them down over the extensive mounds that were Bell’s buttocks. This encouraged the Boy Scout to scream and yell once more.

Stoically, Reverend Crick took hold of the waistband of the boy’s expansive underwear and took them down so that they bunched up over his thighs. Bell’s entire body was quaking; his backside was wobbling like mounds of jelly and was damp with perspiration.

Craig felt rolls of flesh in the back of the boy beneath him. From his vantage point he had a perfect bird’s-eye view of the Boy Scouts gigantic sweaty buttocks.

Craig’s eyes swivelled from the vicar to howling boy; from the hand holding the thin leather riding crop to the pink fleshy backside that was about to receive one heck of a thrashing. Then, he looked from the cold, emotionless eyes of the man of cloth to the horrified stare of the howling Scout.

He saw Crick tap his crop into the boy’s buttocks to take his aim. The thin whip sank deep into the fleshy expanse of buttock. Then, he watched as Crick withdrew the crop, swerved it high into the air so that it rested behind his own right shoulder and then with the powerful force of a golf swing he flogged the leather into the quaking buttocks with maximum force.

Bell shrieked as the rod sank deep across both buttocks; a thick red line immediately formed and the whale of a boy shook his body in a desperate but failed attempt to break free of his captives.

Bell kicked his legs up and down to try to inhibit the vicar as he aimed and whipped number two deep into the flesh.

Bell was no longer the brash loudmouthed defiant youth. He pleaded, no he begged, to be spared as he banged his head up and down against the desktop as a wave of agony shot from his flabby bum up and down his legs.

Tommy and Craig pressed down into the prone boy with all their strength. No matter how severely the vicar flogged the half-naked boy, they would not release him without permission. To do so would see them also across the desk, bottom bared for the vicar’s punishment. They knew you simply did not disobey Rev Crick.

Whoosh! Number three landed a little below the previous two. There was lots of acreage for the vicar to aim at. Never before had he been presented with such a sizeable target.

Rev Crick was impassive; his eyes cold and heartless as he assessed the impact of his handiwork so far. Bell’s legs were still stamping up and down on the spot. The vicar was irritated; the next stroke might be a little hard to deliver if the wretched boy did not keep still. He moved a step further to the vile youth’s left and found his spot. Whoosh! It landed right on target; across the back of the thighs, just below the crease at the base of the buttocks.

The youth’s yell resounded around the study and out into the grounds of the vicarage. Rev Crick didn’t mind who heard. This brat of a boy, this foul-mouthed terror, deserved all he was getting. How dare he talk to him, the vicar of this parish, using such profane words!

By the sixth stroke the vast backside was painted with rich and angry stripes across its centre area. The screaming, writhing and twisting continued with renewed vigour. Tommy leaned forward and laid his body across the boy’s head and shoulders to keep him pinned in place.

Slowly, coolly, methodically, and immune from the youth’s screaming, Rev Crick laid a further six lashes all around the circuit that was Bell’s enormous rear end.

The beating over, Brian Bell’s howls quickly turned to sobs and wails. Tears flowed from his eyes and vomit clogged up to his throat. Eventually his weeping quietened and an eerie stillness enveloped the room. Only the picture of a flogged youth, stretched across a study desk remained.

“Let him up,” Rev Crick’s own breathing was shallow. He looked at the riding crop in his hand, as if seeing it for the first time. A little unsure of what he should do next, he decided to walk to a wall cabinet, unlock a door, and deposit the crop alongside a number of school-type canes within.

Brian Bell, now released from the grip of the two young men, hobbled from the room, his short trousers and underpants still at his ankles.

The vicar reached for his cigarettes and smoked three Capstan Full Strength one after the other until he felt calm enough to leave in search of Leon Hawkes.

He found the so-called Scout leader at the scout hut. It was a multi-purpose hall with office attached. The boy was alone, minutes earlier he had seen off a group of younger boys who were being driven to a nearby road layby for charity car washing duties.

Leon was expecting this: it was only a matter of time before the reverend caught him. And when he did, Leon knew he would pay for the consequences of his actions with a very sore backside indeed.

Rev Crick loved his boys to be submissive. When given the order, they should unfasten their trousers and let them fall to their feet. Then, down would come the underwear and the young men would stand half-naked in front of him. The vicar would instruct them to bend over a chair, the desk, his knee, or whatnot. And they would do it; without question. They were saying to him: yes, I have done wrong, I deserve to be punished, and you should be my punisher. Please spank me now.

Leon Hawkes was such a young man. He had attended Rev Crick’s church all his life – indeed, he had been there longer than the reverend himself. He knew as an article of faith that it was his duty to obey the Church and its officers. Rev Crick was in charge. Leon knew that and he accepted it.

Rev Crick drank in the sight before him. Leon was of average height for his age and muscular; but it was his head and face that people noticed. His hair was thick and wavy, his complexion ruddy and his blue eyes shone as brightly as any cat’s.

It was a scorching summer’s day and the teenager’s green shirt was stuck to his torso by sweat, even with the sleeves rolled up and the neck unbuttoned. A maroon-and-grey neckerchief tucked inside his shirt drew attention to his firm chest.

But, it was the boy’s black buckskin short trousers that the vicar noticed now. They clung to his buttocks and thighs and fell to about two inches above his knees. The turn-ups at the hem directed the eye to his slim, muscular legs. And, hanging loosely around his middle, for it served no purpose in keeping his snug-fitting short trousers up, was a wide leather belt with the official Boy Scouts buckle.

Rev Crick involuntarily ran his tongue along his bottom lip. He had an idea. Yes, that would do very well indeed, he decided.

There was no more to say. It was time for action. The vicar pulled a favourite straight-backed chair into the centre of the room and sat down. Gesturing to the Boy Scout to come and stand in front of him, he said, “Leon, please take off that belt and hand it to me.”

Despite his already ruddy complexion, Leon coloured up at the order. He knew from the moment the vicar had started listing his many faults and misdemeanours that he would be in for a spanking. Yes, a spanking at nineteen years old and he a grown man and Scout leader. He knew that would happen and in his heart of hearts he accepted it. But, still the thought of bending himself across the vicar’s knee to allow the old man to spank his bottom with his own Scout belt embarrassed him deeply.

He hesitated momentarily; but he considered himself to be an honourable young man and despite his mature age and the humiliation, he knew the vicar was in charge.

He breathed in heavily and with fumbling hands he undid the belt and slid it through the loops of his shorts. It was a heavy belt; the buckle made certain of that, but also did the metal ring that at one point along its length connected two halves of the leather belt. It was ideal for the Scout to hang his essential Swiss Army Knife.

Rev Crick silently held out his hand and Leon sorrowfully handed the belt over.

Rev Crick’s tongue, lizard-like, poked in and out between his pursed lips. He needed a drink, and not just a cup of tea.

He hacked a dry cough and continued. “Lower your shorts please Leon.”

“B.. b… but …” the nineteen-year-old Boy Scout stammered, but an icy glare from Rev Crick shut him up quickly.

Leon closed his eyes tight. It would be all right if he could imagine that he was somewhere else. This really wasn’t happening to him. He must think of something pleasant.

The fly buttons undone, the weight of the buckskin sent the short trousers crashing down to join his rolled-up long socks resting on the tops of his desert boots. Leon stared down at the puddle of clothing at his feet. It seemed to be a very long way away. These were not his feet, they belonged to someone else. Some other Boy Scout was about to get his backside tanned, not he.

The vicar moved, making himself more comfortable on his hard chair. Leon blinked at him; it was as if he had never seen the man before. He really was a queer cove, his round rimless spectacles made him look like an owl. Once he had had a fine head of sandy hair, but now in middle-age it was wispy and his dome was mostly bald. His tongue was still darting in and out of his mouth.

His shirt was stained under the armpits and open at the neck; he had discarded his ‘dog collar’ in deference to the heat. Despite this he still wore his trade-mark brown thick corduroy trousers that had almost worn smooth at the knees.

For a second the two stared at each other; the hugely embarrassed but submissive youth and the much older man. Crick’s lips did another circuit of his top and bottom lip as he watched Leon prepare himself for his spanking.

The boy’s glistening white Y-front underpants clung to his flat stomach; there was not a spare ounce of fat anywhere on Leon’s body. Too late to be undetected, Crick averted his eyes from the Y-fly and the package it covered.

He cleared his throat once more. “Come Leon”, he croaked, “Put yourself across my lap.” Then for good measure he added, “You know this must be done.”

Leon’s heartbeat quickened and perspiration began to soak through the youth’s shirt. His short trousers at his ankles inhibited his movement and he had to wobble three or four yards to take up position.

“Leon Hawkes is at the crease,” he played an imaginary radio commentary in his head. “And England want fifteen more runs for victory in the Ashes series over Australia.”

He stood for a second to the vicar’s right side. The old man’s legs were parted by about three feet to provide a platform for the boy to lay himself across. Leon gulped, drawing in air and the stink of sour tobacco assaulted his nostrils, along with a fainter aroma of stale urine.

With his hand Rev Crick patted his left knee as an encouragement to Leon to present himself in a submissive manner.

“And Leon Hawkes sends that one crashing to the boundary. It’s four runs!”

Rev Crick steadied himself a little as Leon stretched himself across his legs. The young man was unexpectedly heavier than he looked.

Leon had never been spanked before, nor had he ever seen a boy go over the knee for punishment, but instinctively he knew what was expected of him. He spread his arms ahead of him and placed the palm of each hand four feet apart and firmly into the wooden floorboards. Behind him his buckskin trousers at his feet inhibited movement so his legs were hardly more than six or seven inches apart. Leon kept his knees straight so that his bottom, clad in smooth cotton, rested at an angle against the reverend’s right knee. He was perfectly positioned for punishment. He stared down at the floor and returned in his mind to the final Ashes Test at Lord’s.

He was quite comfortable considering what was soon to happen would be far from that, but he wriggled a little because the cigarettes and matches the vicar had in his trouser pocket dug into the boy’s side.

Rev Crick held the leather Scout belt loosely. He had belted many backsides in his time, but he had never seen a weapon quite like this. He had many belts at the vicarage; his favourite was wide and thick and at least four-feet-six-inches long. But the Scout belt was tiny by comparison. It was designed to fit around a Scout’s waist and clamp shut at the front. Leon’s belt was the same size as his waist; no more than twenty-eight inches, the vicar calculated. The thick brown leather belt had an adjuster so that in places the leather was doubled up. So, the vicar held in his hand a doubly-thick belt that was only twenty-eight inches long, with a metal ring that increased its weight.

It was an awesome spanking tool. Rev Crick felt the weight of the belt in his hand as he tap, tap, tapped it against Leon’s left cheek. But, he wasn’t quite ready. Gently, he took hold of the waistband of the underpants and pulled so that the smooth white cotton kissed the buttocks. Then, he moved the increasingly damp shirt a few inches up the boy’s back, exposing his hairless and suntanned flesh.

Now, he was ready. Without further warning, he raised the weighted strap to the fullest extent of his arm and brought it down with a resounding crack into Leon’s right cheek. A startled gasp escaped Leon’s mouth. That hurt. He screwed up his eyes as a second and third thwap!!! landed. The echo of leather on tight cotton bounced around the room.

Leon was a spanking virgin and had no idea what a spanking was supposed to feel like. It should hurt for sure, he supposed: otherwise what was the point? But how much? The belt rose and fell as the vicar found his rhythm. A dull pain spread across both buttocks and Leon stared down at the backs of his hands.

Rev Crick was impressed at the youth’s fortitude. He lashed the leather belt again and again into Leon’s muscular bottom. The boy’s cheeks were so tight there was no “give” in the flesh; was he even feeling this spanking?

There was only one thing to do. Without warning, he ceased the wallops and unceremoniously pulled once more at the waistband of the pants. This time, instead of making them tighter he dragged them down, across the boy’s hips and over his round bum.

“Keep still,” the vicar wheezed. Leon had wriggled his body in response to this unexpected development.

“What the Dickens,” the vicar did not say it aloud, but he was astonished at what he saw. The entire area of Leon’s buttocks was chestnut brown, the same colour as the rest of his body. The boy must have been running around naked – or at least sunbathing nude.

The vicar’s breathing increased at the thought of it. “Well,” again he thought but did not say, “Had I caught him at that little game I should have given his backside a tanning of an entirely different sort.

He wrapped his arm around Leon’s midriff to hold him firmly in place, raised the leather strap to maximum height and brought it down over and over again into the firm flesh. Leon felt that all right. His gasps quickly turned to little yelps and then to larger cries. He wriggled his body across the vicar’s lap to the left and to the right. He was a strong boy and in a fair fight he could have knocked Crick for six; but this was no fair fight. Leon was a naughty young man, held firmly across the knees of his punisher, bare bum held high to receive lash after lash from the leather belt. It was, he knew for certain, a fair punishment, one that he deserved. He must hang on for dear life and take what was coming to him.

Leon’s bottom was covered in a rash of raw marks where the short heavy belt had scorched into him. By now hardly any of the buttocks and the tops of his thighs was untouched by the strap. Tiny graze marks made by the metal ring of the belt widened into deeper scratches.

Whop! whop! whop! The vicar was going around the circuit one more time; from the top of the cheeks just below the spine, across the mounds and into and beyond the crease where the bum meets the thighs.

The dull pain had long since transformed into an almighty throb only to become an agonisingly searing pain across the whole of his bottom area. Pain travelled up and down his legs and then to the north, south, east and west of his entire body.

The whacking had knocked the breath out of the boy and he lost strength. He had no power left to resist and had no option but to lay face down staring at the floorboards while the reverend punished his naughty little bottom.

Involuntary tears washed the backs of his eyes and soon they trickled down his cheeks. The final Test Match had long ago been abandoned.

The reverend was not a cruel man; he believed in just punishment. Every square inch of Leon’s bottom had been toasted. Dozens of imprints of the Scout belt emblazoned the buttocks and the tops of his thighs. Scratches made by the metal ring gave the boy’s flesh the appearance of raw hamburger meat in places.

It was a job well done. Leon Hawkes had been well and truly spanked. He would not disgrace himself or the good name of the Boy Scout movement again, the vicar reckoned. And, if he did there was an assortment of springy rattan school-type canes waiting in the study at the vicarage for him.

Rev Crick spread his feet out in front of him so that the boy could lift himself clumsily off his lap. Slowly, he knelt and then stood up. His hands disappeared behind him as he rubbed away gingerly. In this position his cock flopped up and down. The vicar turned his back slightly, pretending not to look.

In silence, Leon tugged up the underwear and short trousers from the top of his boots. He tucked in his shirt and adjusted his neckerchief. He was once again a smartly-dressed Boy Scout and no one who saw him leave the room need ever guess what ordeal he had just been put through.

Rev Crick rushed from the office, pulling his cigarette and matches from his pocket as he went. Leon was recovering well. Already most of the pain had gone. His bottom was still warm and in places it was tender to touch, but soon even that would disappear. The red marks would turn to bruises and he would wear them for some days to come. They would be a reminder to him of the punishment.

Leon prepared to leave the office. Already he had resolved to be a better person: never again would he allow Boy Scouts under his command to sneak off to smoke cigarettes.

 

 

The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh series of stories starts here

Episode 10, The Cricketer, is here

Other stories you might like

The vicar and the gay boys

The rooming house

The drunken neighbour

 

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Spanking Vicar 8. The sixth-former

The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh series starts here.

Episode 7, One off the wrist is here

Rev Crick sucked a final drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out in an ashtray alongside seven or eight other butts. Then, he tipped the whole lot into the swing bin before leaving his bread to bake in the kitchen to go to his study where he had left the schoolboy he was going to thrash.

Sam Ramsden stood facing the bookcase, hands on his head, where he had been for the past fifteen minutes.

Sam Ramsden: sixth-former, prefect and incorrigible nuisance at the church youth club. He couldn’t get his flickering eyes to keep still. Blink, blink, blink. His hands were quivering too and he was pleased the vicar couldn’t see that.

Behind him, he heard Rev Crick open a cupboard door and rummaged around inside.

“Ahh, here we are,” Rev Crick sighed. “Turn round boy.”

Sam’s flickering eyes widened when he saw what the vicar had in his hand. It was a dark yellow crook-handled rattan cane. It was much bigger and denser than the one headmasters tended to use.

“Good,” Rev Crick seemed to be talking to himself. Then, as if he had never seen the wicked rod before, he flexed it between his hands to examine it closely. Then he ran his fingers along its length from the curved handle across the ridges that disrupted its smoothness every three or four inches to the rather worn tip at the end.

Yes, he thought, a magnificent specimen. And, after inspecting the fraying end, he concluded, this little beauty had seen a lot of action.

Sam Ramsden’s hands were shaking more violently. He had heard strange stories about this vicar; now it seemed they were true.

Crick swished the cane through empty air, testing its whippiness – and, he hoped, intimidating the youth standing before him. It seemed to have worked. A clear line of perspiration formed on the teenager’s top lip, rather like a damp moustache and his already rather pale face blanched.

Crick continued his little play. From the corner of his eye he studied the boy. This was not the first time he had met the eighteen-year-old, but it was the first time he had summoned him into the vicarage.

School had just finished for the day and the wretched boy was still in his uniform. He had made an effort at least, the vicar supposed. His blue-and-green-striped tie was tied tightly at his neck; the white shirt was tucked neatly into his mid-grey trousers. Even his shoes looked like they had been rinsed over to remove dust. He was growing out of his black blazer, but the vicar forgave him this. The mothers of sixth-formers were reluctant to buy new uniforms when they knew their sons would leave school in a few months. Sam was dressed like any one of tens (possibly hundreds) of thousands of schoolboys up and down the country.

Also, like schoolboys nationwide who faced similar circumstances as he, Sam stared down at the carpet and listened inattentively as his litany of crimes was related to him.

Distributing cigarettes at the youth club had been the final straw. Sam had a nice little earner. He would confiscate cigarettes from the younger boys at school during the day and sell them on in the evening. He wasn’t a smoker himself; he was a fine middle-distance runner and his coach had warned that any boy caught smoking would be out of the athletics team. He meant it too.

Rev Crick was enjoying himself. He wobbled the tip of the cane only inches from the boy’s face.

“Look at me boy!” Rev Crick was somewhere in his middle age with an angular face and jutting jaw line. What hair he still retained was thin and straw coloured. He had on a shabby polo-necked pullover and dark brown corduroy trousers that were a bit thin at the knees. Round rimless spectacles that perched high up on his nose made him look a little like an owl.

“What do you have to say for yourself, lad?” Crick flexed the cane into an arc to demonstrate his intent.

Ramsden’s mouth had dried completely, “Sorry,” he croaked.

Crick’s glare sliced him in two. “Sorry, what!”

Ramsden returned the glare with a puzzled look.

Swish! the cane flew through empty air. “Sorry, what!”

Oh, now he got it. “Sorry. Sorry, Sir.”

“That’s better.”

He swished the cane once more.

“I know the headmaster at that school of yours,” (Rev Crick could not bring himself to utter the man’s name or that of the local Church of England grammar school) “does not believe in corporal punishment, but I do. If you bring cigarettes into my youth club to sell to the younger boys, you will feel the full force of this,” he wriggled the cane some more, “across your backside.”

And, to emphasise the point, he added, “Very. Hard. Indeed.”

“Yes, I am going to cane you, Ramsden,” Cricked barked, as if the shameful youth ever doubted the fact.

Ramsden’s eyes would not stop blinking, or his hands shaking. They were standing in an unheated room in the middle of November, but the boy’s shirt was soaking in perspiration. If he possessed the courage to look at his tormentor, he would have seen the middle-aged vicar also had sweat seeping through his pullover.

Ramsden had only been in the village for five months, but he soon heard tales about the Reverend Crick and his unusual methods. Sam couldn’t say he hadn’t been warned. He had been caught fairly and squarely, what had he expected the consequences to be?

“Take off your blazer and put it on the desk over there.” Unnecessarily since there was only one desk in the room, the vicar pointed at it with his cane.

He unclasped his hands and with quivering fingers unfastened the three buttons of his blazer. Then, in one continuous movement he had it off his back and deposited it on the desktop. Please God, Ramsden thought, please don’t make me take down my trousers.

“Stand there,” another swish of the cane indicated a spot in the centre of the room. Ramsden took the three paces needed and stood, head bowed with his hands, fingers interlocked, in front of his crotch.

As if seeing the boy for the first time, Crick slowly eyed him. He saw the boy’s hair was dark brown and untidy; it was the type that a comb could never tame. His face was pale with no traces of a beard: a late developer, the vicar liked them that way. Long curled lashes drew attention to the boy’s hazel-green eyes, which just now betrayed Sam’s anxiety.

Sam was an athlete and he had the body to match. He was about 5ft 8ins tall with a firm torso and strong legs. His now very damp shirt clung to his body and the mid-grey trousers fitted so snugly that he didn’t need a belt.

Swish! The cane flew through empty air with a devastating hiss. “Bring that chair and put it there.”

Ramsden almost audibly gulped. He was for it now. This was for real. He was going to get that fearful cane across his bending backside.

The chair was an old wooden number with a straight back and surprisingly heavy. Ramsden manhandled it to the required spot and awaited further instructions.

Swish! “Stand behind the chair,” the reverend barked.

“Pah! Closer boy. Closer.” Ramsden had positioned himself a yard or so away from the chair.

He shuffled forward. His face was drenched with sweat and his heart racing. He couldn’t be sure he could go through with this. He might faint at any moment.

Swish! “All right Ramsden, Bend over the chair.”

The teenager closed his eyes tight as if hoping that when he reopened them, this would have been a dream. He wasn’t standing in the vicar’s study about to bend over a heavy wooden chair to receive his first-ever dose of corporal punishment.

Swish! “Quickly boy, we haven’t got all night.”

Ramsden took a deep breath and like he was diving into a pool of iced water he threw himself over the back of the chair and gripped the hard wooden seat as if for dear life.

Swish! The vicar was in no hurry. Let the boy sweat some more. Nonchalantly, the vicar put his hand in his pocket and slowly paced the room so that he could get a better look at the boy submissively waiting the first stroke of his vicious cane.

It was literally a breath-taking sight. Rev Crick gasped at Ramsden’s beautifully rounded bottom, perched on top of two magnificent strong legs. It was one of the most delightful sights the vicar had ever seen. The mid-grey trouser material clung to the curves of the boy’s buttocks. This boy would look great in anything, the vicar, who had extensive experience of such things, reckoned. Even the cheapest Tesco Bomber jeans would still bring out the magnificence of the cheeks.

And, naturally, Ramsden’s backside would look fantastic with no covering at all, which is how he will be if he takes cigarettes to the youth club again.

Sam Ramsden stared down at the scuffed wooden seat of the chair. It was old and worn and in dire need of varnishing. His face was red and sweaty and his fingers clung tightly to the chair. He just wished the reverend would get on with it.

The vicar retraced his steps and stood to the left of the boy. He didn’t believe in doing things in half measures, so it would be a dozen good swipes. Ramsden was a thoroughly naughty boy and he would be punished accordingly. Twelve stingers across the seat of the trousers would do the trick. It would hurt the lad like buggery and that was only right and proper. But, it was to be a punishment, not a torture.

It was not strictly necessary, but the vicar could not resist it. So he leaned over the boy and taking hold of his waistband he tugged the trousers so they were even tighter across the firm buttocks. Now, he could see the outline of the boy’s briefs. Then he took hold of the shirt to pull the tail clear of the trousers, exposing an inch of bare flesh above the boy’s bottom.

Still with his left hand planted firmly in his trouser pocket, fingers curled around his cigarette pack, Rev Crick raised his right arm and with an almighty whoosh! he brought the cane bouncing down across the very centre of Sam’s bottom.

“Ouch!” the boy breathed the word. The cut hurt like crazy, but he was in control of his faculties. He screwed his eyes tight and breathed out.

Rev Crick paced the room once more. He wanted to string this punishment out. It would hurt the boy more if he left a decent interval between strokes.

Number two came crashing down, just a fraction of an inch below the first. That one hurt Sam more. His eyes shone and his breathing came in gasps as the pain shot from his bottom and up and down his legs. His knees buckled a little, but otherwise he remained still; offering up his backside for more punishment.

Again, the vicar paced the study, composed himself and brought another almighty swipe down across the boy’s perfectly rounded bum. “Wow, wow, wow.” There were three loud intakes of breath. Sweat poured down his back and his hair and neck were drenched.

The vicar paced once more, observing closely Ramsden’s face. Rev Crick was experienced enough to know his cane strokes were sending waves of agony coursing through the teenager’s body. The boy was hurting badly, but he did not want his punisher to now this. The reverend rather admired the boy for his stoicism.

Each of the next three stokes landed a little harder than the previous, breaking Sam Ramsden’s will. He yelped as stroke four connected, yelled at number five and the sixth cut had him wailing. Tears flowed freely and his legs stamped up and down in a vain effort to make the pain go away as his whole body trembled and shivered in shock.

“Stay in position, Ramsden,” the boy had made a move to rise from the chair in the mistaken belief that this was to be, six-of-the-best.

No such luck. Swipe number seven – the fiercest so far – sank deep into Sam’s bottom. By now, he could feel many distinct welts throbbing beneath his tight trousers and underpants.

Number eight was savage. It curled under the boy’s buttocks and struck with force the top of his thighs. The pain raged through his legs. He longed to leap up, clasp his backside, and flee the room. But he didn’t. He was yelling; frantically writhing and twisting, but he stayed there, holding on to the hard wooden chair until the final swipe of Rev Crick’s cane had left its scorching incision on his body.

Stroke by stroke, slice by slice, the vicar made his mark on Sam Ramsden, beating into him the message that Rev Crick was in charge, and that he was going to make sure any youth club member who stepped out of line, or even contemplated doing so, would suffer as the teenager himself had.

His long lashes were soaked and his usually-beautiful hazel green eyes were those of a terrified young man. He stood, shoulders heaving, as tears and snot smeared his face. His face and upper body was drenched in perspiration and blood was rushing at break-neck speed through his entire body.

Sam Ramsden looked so beautiful in his extreme distress. Rev Crick so needed to grasp the teenager to his chest and pet him. “There, there, my baby; it’s all over now,” he wanted to say. Instead, calmly, Rev Crick opened his desk drawer, reached in and retrieved a handful of tissues, which he handed to the boy.

The searing pain in Sam’s backside had already begun to ease into a constant throbbing. It would be tender for some considerable time to come and patches of pain would be reignited whenever he sat down over the coming hours. But by bedtime, the worst would be over. Bruises would stay for many days to come as a reminder to him that his behaviour must improve.

“You should go home Sam,” Rev Crick said in what he hoped was a concerned way.

Without a word, the teenager picked up his blazer and put it on while he made his way to the front door. In seconds, he was gone.

Rev Crick returned to his kitchen and the baking bread. He stared aimlessly out the window as he lit a cigarette. Approaching the vicarage was Mr Banks, the retired librarian. It must be the first Tuesday of the month already, the vicar reckoned. Mr Banks was visiting to confess his sins. The vicar opened the drawer in the kitchen table and extracted his three-tailed taws which he had left there after he had used it to take the skin off the backside of his paying guest Tommy earlier that day.

Episode 9, The Scout Leader is here

Other stories you might like.

The Tyrant Headmaster 3. The prefects’ reckoning

In the farmhouse

Father deals with idle student

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Spanking Vicar 7. One off the wrist

Rev Crick has three young university students staying with him as paying guests. In part one his latest lodger nineteen-year-old Craig was caned for his idleness during the past year. In part two, he learnt that the vicar does more on a Sunday than preach sermons.

Now, Tommy, another lodger, discovers Rev Crick keeps a firm hold on his tenants’ moral behaviour …

Tommy was late for breakfast and he knew that very soon if he wasn’t careful he was going to be in a heck of a lot of trouble.

But, he couldn’t help it. It wasn’t his fault. It was the girl in the sweetshop: he couldn’t get her out of his mind: that hair flowing over her shoulders; the smile; the neck.  Those breasts!

The twenty-year-old hawked a gob of saliva onto his palm and pushed his arm under the bedclothes.

Downstairs in the kitchen Reverend Crick was losing his patience. He had called Tommy five minutes ago and he still wasn’t at the breakfast table.

Tommy’s breathing was heavy, har, har, har as he worked away. Quickly, finish off before the reverend comes in. No, not quickly: slowly.

Ah, ah, ah. Tommy’s legs straightened as sensation pulsated through his body. Those breasts!

Rev Crick was angry now. He knew what that dirty little boy was up to.

Tommy was holding on, trying to make it last.

Crick turned the gas down low under the saucepan and left the kitchen.

Ah, ah, ah, the breathing quickened, any moment now.

Crick strode to the stairs and started to ascend.

Yes, yes, yes!! Tommy shot a load onto a strategically placed wad of toilet paper.

The bedroom door burst open to reveal Rev Crick’s face of thunder.

“What have you been doing?” It was an accusation, not a question.

Tommy peered from under the bedclothes, feigning sleep.

“Eh, what time is it?”

“Don’t give me that.  You were not asleep.”

Tommy made exaggerated yawning noises, sat up in bed and stretched.

“What have you been up to?”

“Nothing,” it was an unconvincing lie from Tommy who had guilt written all over his face.

Rev Crick sniffed a faintly sweet aroma in the air. His eyes searched the room. Then he saw it: a fistful of soiled toilet paper.

“You filthy, disgusting, dirty little boy, what are you?”

Tommy blushed scarlet, but remained silent. There wasn’t much he could say.

“What did I tell you would happen if I caught you playing with yourself again?”

“Mmmm”

“Answer me boy, what did I say?”

The reverend’s demand was met by another indistinct response. The last time Crick caught Tommy playing with himself he had delivered a summary spanking on his bare bottom: very hard indeed. Obviously, it did not have the effect the reverend desired.

“Talk to me boy! What did I say?”

Tommy mumbled an inaudible answer.

“Speak up,” the reverend’s anger was boiling over.

“The cane.”

“What about the cane?”

“You said I’d get the cane.”

“I said I’d cane your hands so hard you wouldn’t be able to touch anything for a week, let alone your pee-pee, you disgusting, dirty, boy.”

Crick’s anger was genuine. He was of the old church that had distinctly strong views about the body. He believed that masturbation was one of the worst sins a person could commit.

He leaned towards Tommy and ripped the clothes from the bed, throwing them on the floor.

Tommy, naked except for a pair of green briefs, cowered away in fear. He had seen Rev Crick in foul moods before, but he had never witnessed anything like this. His fear turned to terror when Crick grabbed him by the hair and hauled him out of bed.

Within seconds they were out the door and Crick was dragging Tommy to the stairs. They both almost tumbled down them as Crick in his rage pulled the boy by the hair along behind him. Alerted by the commotion, the other lads rushed from the dining room in time to see Rev Crick open his study door and push Tommy through.

Tommy stood shivering in his underpants: shaking mostly from terror, rather than the cold. He watched in dread as Crick fetched a thin whippy cane from his special cupboard.

“You disgusting, dirty little boy.” Crick could not stop himself calling Tommy all the filthy names under the sun.

He swished the cane through the air. “I am going to make sure you never touch yourself again.”

“Hold out your hand.”

Terrified, Tommy stood rooted to the spot.

“Hold out your hand!”

Still Tommy did not move.

“I will not tell you again. Hold out your hand or I’ll flog you to an inch of your life, dirty, disgusting boy.”

In sheer terror, Tommy lifted his left arm slightly.

“Up, more! Higher.”

Tommy was shaking so much with fear that he couldn’t make his arm move any further. The reverend grabbed his elbow and raised the hand himself. Then after taking a step back he brought the cane down with a vicious swipe.

Tommy moved his hand just in time and the cane whistled past and very nearly struck Crick a very painful blow, near his own private parts.

Crick was puce. As if possessed, he grabbed Tommy’s arm in a tight lock with his own left arm and held the boy’s hand out as straight as he could and then he swiped down six ferocious cuts into the boy’s right palm.

The howls of pain rang around the whole vicarage and could be heard as far away as the church itself.

Outside the study, Tommy and Craig wondered whether they should barge in and rescue Tommy. But, they were too late. Rev Crick released Tommy’s arm and grabbing the other, repeated the punishment on the boy’s left palm. Six stinging swipes!

Tommy sank to his knees, screaming with the pain, hugging himself with both hands under his armpits, tears pouring from his eyes.

The reverend stood over the boy menacingly brandishing the cane, ready to deliver more.

“Please God! No more, please God!” Tommy choked on his words. His throbbing hands had swollen to twice or three times their natural size. “No more, please!”

Suddenly, Rev Crick regained his composure. He looked at the boy on his knees before him and he observed that he was himself still holding the cane. For a few seconds he was unsure where he was. What had just happened? He couldn’t quite remember what he had done; it was as if he had been in a trance.

Tommy was still on his knees, hands under armpits, bent double, sobbing into the carpet.

Sheepishly, Crick replaced the cane in the cupboard and without a further word to Tommy, left the room, fumbling for his cigarette packet and brushing past an astonished Bob and Craig in the passageway on his way out.

From that day forward a dark mist engulfed the vicarage.

 

 

The next episode of The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh is here

 

Some other stories from The Spanking Vicar

 

House call

Missed curfew

Reefer madness

Village fete

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com