The vicar delivers

Darren’s mouth gaped open when the vicar strode to a cupboard and took from it a whippy school cane which he swished through the air a couple of times before intoning, “Bend over that chair.”

“B.. b.. but,”  he stammered.

“Do it now, I don’t have all day,” the vicar swished the cane once more.

Darren stood his ground, unsure what he should do.

Swish! Swish! the cane flew through the air. The vicar was a powerful man, as befitted someone who once played prop forward at rugby. His steel grey searching eyes fixed on Darren, his jaw locked in a scowl. People said of the vicar that he had ‘presence,’ and when he fixed you with his glare, you were powerless to resist.

The vicar was not about to take any nonsense from Darren. The vicar had complete authority and he would use it. At the moment his rattan crook-handled cane was the symbol of that authority. Darren would submit to it and to the vicar before he was set free.

They were in the study at the vicar’s home. It was a large room in a huge house. The Church spared no expense on the comforts of its vicars. Book-laden shelves ran along three walls. There were hundreds, possibly thousands, of books, enough to stock a small-town library. The scholastic atmosphere they generated might impress visitors, but most had lain unread for many years. The only time they felt a human hand was when Mrs Grey the cleaning woman wiped the dust from them.

Cupboards and a large picture window took up the fourth wall. Darren looked beyond the vicar into the sumptuous garden as he ran over the vicar’s demand in his mind.

The chair the vicar wanted him to lower himself across was made of expensive soft leather. It would be very comfortable to bend over, but once Darren had done this he knew what followed would be far from comfortable.

Swish! Swish! the vicar was growing impatient.

The vicar was no stranger to corporal punishment. He was from God-fearing folk and genuinely believed in the Bible: all of it. He lived by the adage, “spare the rod and spoil the child” and he had not spared his own son Adam from the lash.

His preferred method with his nineteen-year-old son was a heavy thick leather strap, applied with great vigour to Adam’s quivering naked buttocks. The vicar had a ritual. First he would list in the minutest detail the boy’s faults followed by admonishments. Then, on bended knees they would pray together for forgiveness. The prayers were always answered, but atonement had to come before forgiveness.

The lashings were brutal. They always took place in the vicar’s bedroom. Without awaiting instruction, Adam would pile pillows four deep in the centre of the bed. Then he stripped completely naked. While he disrobed, his father took the razor strop from its moorings, a hook on the inside door of the wardrobe.

The boy climbed on the pillows, his face buried in the eiderdown, his buttocks pointing at the ceiling. There was always a pause; it felt like hours to Adam, but it was only a minute. His father was praying to God again, this time to give him the extra strength to whip the boy good and hard.

Adam clenched his teeth shut. No matter how hard his father flogged him, he never cried out. Over the years his ability to resist pain had reached truly remarkable levels.

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The strap rose and fell twenty-four times; his father swiped so ferociously he might have thought he was beating a carpet. No dust was raised on Adam’s buttocks, only ugly red wheals as over and over the leather thundered into his cheeks.

Then it was over. Adam’s eyes shone as he crawled off the bed and shakily stood beside his father, who was still holding the razor strop. His backside was blistered and the agony would be shooting through his body. Quite often by the end of these punishment sessions Adam was utterly disoriented, unsure of his whereabouts, and his father had to guide him back to his own bedroom.

But before he was allowed to leave, there was one more prayer to be said: to thank God for his mercy.

Swish! “You are wasting my time and your own!”

Darren shuddered in terror. The vicar’s stare held him transfixed.

“B.. b.. b.. but can’t we talk about this? Do we …” Darren trailed off. The position he found himself in was so utterly unexpected. How could he reason with the vicar?

“I … I…,” but words would not come for Darren. His senses had deserted him. He wanted to say he was sorry, but his ‘crime’ did not merit a thrashing with a whippy cane. That is what he wanted to say, but he could not find the words.

The vicar stalked him, cane in hand, his piercing grey eyes burning holes in Darren’s brain.

“Over the chair!” he barked. Blood seemed to drain from Darren’s body and his face was ghostly pale.

“NOW!”

That was when Darren lost his mind. Thinking about it later he realised he should have pushed his way past the vicar and fled from the house. Nobody would have blamed him. It would have been the sensible thing to do.

But, by now ‘sense’ had nothing to do with it.

Instead of running to freedom, Darren took a huge deep breath filling his lungs with air. Then, he stepped forward and like a swimmer diving into an icy pool, he hurled himself over the back of the chair.

The weight of his body sank into the plush padded chair. His face was so close to the seat cushion, the aroma of luxurious expensive leather made him gag.

Darren closed his eyes in anticipation of the whacking he was about to receive, so he did not see, but he could hear, the vicar in prayer. The huge man was muttering something about penitence and forgiveness.

Moments later he felt the vicar tug at the elasticated waist of his trousers, pulling them and his underpants to his knees in one complete movement. Darren’s naked buttocks made a perfect target for the vicar’s cane.

It was over in seconds. Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! The vicar flogged the cane into Darren’s cheeks. Never before had the vicar whipped a boy so hard. His entire heart and his soul went into the effort.

Then a further three swipes followed one after another, rapidly like pistol shots.

Darren howled as the first cut took his arse off and he did not stop screaming until long after the sixth and final whop! lashed into him.

The yells echoed round the study and throughout the house. It was convenient that the study was at the back of the house, so Darren’s cries did not reach the ears of pedestrians in the street outside, for surely one of them would have phoned the police, believing a murder was taking place.

Darren clung on to the soft seat cushion for his dear life and stamped his feet up and down, like a soldier on sentry duty. The six-of-the-best was delivered without pause and it was over before he could even think of hauling himself from the chair to run screaming from the room.

His once pale face had turned a deadly puce colour. Tears and snot cascaded down his face and he gulped in air in an effort to fill his lungs and stop himself collapsing.

Without waiting for permission he pulled himself to his feet. The agony in his buttocks was terrific and he could hardly stay upright. Gingerly he touched his cheeks with the tips of his fingers, thinking it might relieve some of the pain, but just the slightest contact with his throbbing flesh sent new shockwaves of agony coursing through his body.

The vicar sank to his knees to once again converse with God. Darren saw his chance and still wracked with pain, he pulled his trousers and pants up and staggered from the room. Then, bouncing once or twice off the walls in the hallway, he opened the front door and escaped.

He breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with fresh air and this helped to calm him, but his escape was not yet complete. Standing where he had left it, only five minutes previously, was his motor scooter. Wincing with each step he walked to it and grabbed the handlebars.

This was useless, he realised. There was no way he could ride it away. The ache in his arse was as bad as ever. He would find it difficult to walk for some considerable time to come, never mind sit down.

He looked behind him, expecting at any moment to see the vicar dashing from the house to chase after him. He must act quickly. Having no choice, he released the foot stand and with some difficulty started to push the bike towards the road.

He paused, unsure where he should go. He looked to the left and to the right. He really wanted to turn right, to go home, so he could explore and then treat his wounds.

But he really needed to keep his job. So, instead of going home he tuned left and headed back to Stafford’s Pizza House. His buttocks blazed with every step he took: a reminder of what can happen if you deliver a customer’s order twenty minutes late.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Encounter with the vicar

z used otk chair head sting (1)

When the vicar spanked me on my bare bottom I don’t know who enjoyed it more, me or him.

My friend Lenny and I were in our early twenties and secretly used his churchyard for our couplings. I don’t know if we were in “love” or it was simply “lust”, but our relationship gave both of us great comfort in an otherwise unkind world.

The church was secluded behind locked gates at night and people from the town kept well away after dark. There was a well-believed story that the churchyard was haunted and that its statue of King some-one-or-other had been known to walk at night.

We thought we were safe, as we’d used the churchyard before without trouble. But, one day our luck ran out.

It was autumn and we climbed the fence at eight o’clock and ran through the shadows to a spot we by now considered our own. We didn’t waste time and were soon locked in each other’s arms and kissing passionately as a prelude to removing our clothes for love-making.

We had never been disturbed before and had become too complacent. That was our downfall. We never saw him until it was too late; he was upon us before we had a chance to run.

“What the …. Who are you? What are you doing?” It was a vicar scowling over us. He knew very well what we were doing, but, I suppose, he was genuinely at a loss for words.

I don’t have the words to describe the fear we felt. It happened such a long time ago. It was in the Dark Ages, when people like us were not called “homosexuals” or “gays”; we were “queers” and “perverts” and if our true nature was discovered we would lose our jobs, our families and our friends. We could even be sent to prison.

I suppose the vicar knew this and that’s why he took advantage.

He blocked our escape route, towering above the two of us standing at 6ft 2in and weighing nearly sixteen stone he was not someone to trifle with. He was big bear of a man, much older than us, with grey hair and a grey beard, but physically fit and imposing.

I had never seen the vicar in my life, but it was clear he knew Lenny. He called him words like “disgusting” “filthy”, “sordid”, “revolting” and “repulsive”, as if he had swallowed a thesaurus.

I knew that even if we did try to make a run for it there was no escape: the vicar would be able to track us down and bring the full force of the unjust law down on our trembling bodies.

He pulled both of us by our shirt collars and dragged us into his vicarage that was tucked away behind the church. I was startled; I had never realised he lived in the churchyard and could have discovered us on any one of the many times we had made love here.

His strength was so great I had no option but to submit to his will and scurry behind him.

He deposited us in a huge room that was a cross between a library, a study and a living room.  Menacingly, he turned the key in the door, removed it and theatrically put it in his trouser pocket. He was telling us we were his prisoners.

“Stand there, both of you.” He pointed to a patterned rug in front of a large desk. He sat down behind it and I swear addressed us like we were naughty children. I didn’t realise it immediately, but that was precisely what he thought we were and he was going to treat us accordingly.

He thundered at us some more calling us “repellent”, “sickening”, “nauseating”, “horrendous” and “awful” and other words that he had forgotten earlier. In my state of terror, I didn’t see that this rage was faked. He was “putting on the style”, the way vicars do when they’re giving the brimstone and hellfire stuff on a Sunday. He didn’t really believe in any of it.

Then out of nowhere he told us, “What you need is a nice warm whipping.” And, it was clear from the self-righteous look on his face that this time he did mean it.

“You need to have the evil thrashed out of you,” he continued. Then he fumed some more. He must have been quite a literary gent because in the next few sentences he managed to get in “spank”, “whack”, “tan” and “slap”. If I hadn’t been so petrified of him and the situation I was in, I would have seen him to be the sanctimonious pervert that he really was.

Eventually, he regained a semblance of composure and pronounced the predictable: he was going to spank us. There was no negotiation, but it was immediately clear that if we took our punishment that would be the end of the matter; no police, no prison, no hurtful revelations to our employers, family and friends. The vicar’s power over us was total.

After all his fulminations I expected at the very least he intended to flog us until the skin peeled off our backs and was genuinely astonished when he picked up a bedroom slipper from near the fireplace and announced he was going to spank us with that.

So, it was almost with a sense of relief and joy that we went through our preparations to satisfy our jailer.

The vicar turned a large armless chair away from a dining table so it faced inwards to the room. He sat down, took some time to make himself comfortable, spread his huge legs wide, and pronounced, “Larry, take down your trousers and underpants and bend over my knee.”

Larry and I exchanged glances. We knew we were cornered and had no choice but to submit to this pervert. If we were obedient and allowed him his pleasure, we would be free to leave. If we did not, our lives would be totally ruined.

Faking nonchalance, Larry took off his pullover to gain access to the braces that were holding up his trousers, then released them over his shoulders. They did not fit well at the waist and of their own accord his trousers slipped over his hips down his thighs towards his knees. I could see the look in his eyes was meant to convey to the vicar Larry’s utter contempt for him.

The vicar didn’t care. He was enjoying this too much. He screwed the bedroom slipper in his fist as he scrutinised my friend, “Underwear down. Now!”

With distain Larry undid his woollen drawers revealing his uncut penis to the vicar, who studied it closely. He couldn’t help himself; he had never seen anything like it before. He was sweating a little when he instructed Larry, “Come bend across my knee.” He patted his thigh to encourage my friend, whose contempt for the vicar couldn’t have been greater.

Larry moved forward, put his hands on the vicar’s knees and slowly lowered himself down. He was a small boy, we all were in those days; it was poor diet mostly. The tininess of Larry’s body contrasted with the ample frame of the vicar. Larry was so small neither his hands nor his feet reached the ground; his pert bottom rested over the thick knees of his punisher.

The vicar wrapped his arm around Larry’s middle and lifted him up, moving him further forward so that his bottom was positioned even higher to receive the attention of his slipper. He pinned Larry’s feet down with his own right leg and restrained his back with his left arm. The boy could not move and was entirely at the mercy of the vicar.

He might have been twenty-one or twenty-two at the time, I can’t remember exactly, but in this situation, Larry looked just like a small boy about to be punished by an adult. He could have been eight years old.

Content that his victim could not escape; the vicar lifted the slipper towards the ceiling and brought it crashing down across the centre of Larry’s buttocks with such force a bright red mark immediately appeared and the young man gasped in shock.

Several more blows rained down in rapid succession, echoing around the room like the rattle of machine gun fire. Larry tried to wriggle free, but the vicar seemed to be an expert spanker; he was in absolute control of the situation. He was going to spank Larry as hard and for as long as he wished and there was nothing the boy could do about it.

The slipper spanked into Larry’s buttocks, covering every part of his tight flesh, from the base of the spine through the fleshiest part of the globes to the sit-spot where the bum and the thighs meet. Sadistically, the vicar also smacked down his slipper onto the thighs themselves, causing, if Larry’s reaction was anything to go by, intense pain.

I watched from a distance unable to help my friend, conscious of the agony he was suffering, but also aware of the strange feelings in my loins. I was sure I wasn’t turned on by the pain he was suffering, but there was something about his submissiveness that made my pulse race.

I knew that Larry would not want to give his tormentor the satisfaction of knowing he was hurting him, but after what must have been one hundred or more spanks, his resolve was broken. His cries were hardly audible at first, but they became louder as the whacking intensified, until he was openly weeping as each successive slap of the slipper fell on his raw bottom, opening up new waves of pain.

Eventually, after who knows how much time, even this heartless vicar had satisfied himself. He stopped spanking, but held Larry trapped across his knees, while with the palm of his hand he gently patted the scorching buttocks.

“My, look how pink your bottom is,” and rubbing gently some more, “And how hot it is.”

Larry’s humiliation now total, the vicar released his grip and my friend jumped up, hopping from one foot to the other, rubbing at his scorched flesh while performing a kind of dance.

It was soon to be my turn to go over the vicar’s knees. My heart beat quickened with excitement and my mouth was drying up. I took deep breaths to calm my nerves. I knew this was going to be extremely painful and humiliating, but I wanted it to happen so much.

The vicar beckoned me across his knees and meekly I offered him my bared bottom. If I could have done so, I would have happily stripped myself totally naked: no better; I would have allowed the vicar to do it for me, before throwing myself across his legs in complete submission to his slipper.

The vicar pinned me down in exactly the same way he had Larry. Somehow, my realisation that this strong older man was mastering me made me feel secure. I can’t explain it. I knew by now that he was exploiting me to satisfy his own desires, but I didn’t care. I needed someone like the vicar to control me; to bring out that side of my nature that craved to be dominated.

He slippered me for as long and as hard as he had Larry, leaving my backside blistered. It would throb for hours after the spanking had finished. But, I still needed more.

I never met the vicar again. Larry and I steered clear of the churchyard and a few months later, he joined the army and I never saw him again. But, I still think about that night a lot. How it ignited appetites in me that I never knew existed. But, those passions could never be gratified; how could they, we lived our entire lives in the darkness.

Picture Credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Craig Misses Curfew

new story 2

Craig slowly opened the front door, trying desperately not to make a sound. He was in trouble; he knew that. Big trouble. Maybe he could delay the inevitable for a little while yet.

“Is that you Craig, come into my study, this instance!” It was Reverend Crick, his landlord, calling. “Drat!” Craig breathed silently. He closed the door, dropped his bag of books onto the ground and reluctantly shuffled through the passageway to a dark oak door. He paused and wondered for a second if he should knock. Why? The vicar had clearly summoned him. With a sweaty palm, he gripped the door handle and pushed.

His jaw actually dropped at the sight. Gary the barman from the village pub was tucking his shirt into his trousers before buckling his belt. Rev. Crick stood thoughtfully bending a whippy, crook-handled school punishment cane between his hands. Gary stared at Craig with astonishment, his wide open face now as red as his bottom at the arrival of the witness.

“What time did you get back last night?” the vicar growled. It wasn’t really a question Crick knew very well it was close on one a.m. “Well boy!” Crick flexed the cane some more. Gary made a hasty exit through the half-open door.

“Eh, well,” Craig blustered. He had no idea what time he arrived back at the vicarage, but it was way past his curfew, of that there was no doubt. He had met with friends from the university and missed the last bus from Brocklehurst to the little village of Aston Budleigh. He would have been later still if a car hadn’t stopped to give him a ride.

“Out drinking, no doubt.” The vicar’s eyes blazed. He had an angular face, with a jutting jaw line. What hair he still retained was thin and straw coloured. He had on the shabby sports jacket that he habitually wore and dark brown corduroy trousers that were a bit thin at the knees. His round glasses were perched on his nose in the centre of a florid face.

Craig stood transfixed. He had been in the vicar’s study many times since his mother had found him these lodgings, but still it took his breath away a little. His eyes could not leave the two canes hanging from hooks on the far wall. They were both something more than three feet in length; one was considerably thicker than the other and both were a little warped.

He knew the wall on the left side was lined with floor to ceiling with shelving. Some were stacked with books, but in the centre was a tall thin cupboard, with a smoked-glass front.

Also in the room were a huge Chesterfield couch and two armchairs to one side and the vicar’s desk. It was February but the sky was brilliant blue. It was cold in the room but Rev Crick had not set a fire in his study and the nineteen-year-old could not stop from shivering. He could not be sure if that was because of the cold or the fear he felt.

“It is not the first time, you have broken curfew,” Rev. Crick tucked the cane under his armpit and paced the room. He rather fancied he looked the part of a headmaster at an important public school. One day he promised himself he would treat himself and buy an academic gown and mortar-board cap.

Craig tore his attention away from the canes on the wall. In the few months he had been one of the vicar’s lodgers he had become very aware that Crick had a fine assortment of whippy rattan canes and many other punishment tools. The vicar stood, his feet apart and he slipped the cane into his hand. Craig had no doubt what his intentions were. His parents, his mother especially, were convinced Christians. They believed in the Bible, especially that bit about not sparing the rod. They had chosen Rev Crick to be their son’s landlord and mentor while he was at university for a purpose. They knew his reputation for dealing with young men.

Craig was no stranger to corporal punishment at home and school but he had hoped that now he was at university he had left behind that sort of thing.

Swish! The cane flew through open air. Rev. Crick was ready for action. “I think,” he said as if speaking as one reasonable man to another, “that you should remove your coat and set it down on my desk.” He watched, eyes darting and the tip of his tongue poking in and out of his mouth lizard-like as Craig slipped off his dark green parka coat.

“Stand there!” he pointed the cane at middle of the room. Craig shuffled into position and stood, arms behind back, head slightly bowed. Rev. Crick frowned, stared intently at the cane in his hand as if seeing it for the first time, and hacked out a cough. Slowly, he moved across the study towards the tall thin cupboard. Deftly he opened its door and slipped the cane inside. Craig watched him move towards his desk and lean down to a drawer. Crick cleared his throat and reached inside. Seconds later he removed a heavy wooden American-style paddle. He tested its weight in his hand and seemingly satisfied it was up to the job he turned to face the teenager.

“Assume the position,” Rev. Crick let a smile crack his face, pleased with his phoney American accent. That’s what they said on the other side of the pond, “Assume the position.” The kids seemed to know what they had to do then. Craig’s puzzled look spoke volumes. What did the reverend want him to do? Bend over the Chesterfield? One of the armchairs? It couldn’t be the desk his coat was there.

“Bend over and grab your ankles,” Crick said exasperatedly in his own English accent. Craig sucked in breath. “Here we go again,” he thought. It was at times like this he began to hate his mother. Fancy sending him to live with this oddball. He was nineteen years old and about to offer up his backside for this vicar to whack it with a heavy plank of wood. He could refuse, Crick couldn’t make him do it. He was a weedy runt of a man really who smoked and drank too much. Craig knew he could take him in a fight.

He also knew he was going to do exactly what the vicar told him to. His mother had all the power. She held the purse strings. If he didn’t do as he was told she wouldn’t hesitate to stop paying his university fees. Then what? He would have to leave and get a job. A job! Not if he could help it, he wanted a degree and a life in a top profession,not a job serving in a shop all his life.

“What are you waiting for?” Crick smacked the paddle into his left palm.  It was about five inches wide by a foot long. It was nearly an inch thick. It was a mightily impressive punishment tool. Craig frowned, took a deep breath and reached down to his ankles. He took the vicar at his word, ordinarily, if he was in the housemaster’s study back at school say, the command would be, “Touch your toes,” and toes meant toes, not shins or knees. Keeping in the touch-toes position was more difficult than it sounded, it put a terrible strain on the calves. Grabbing ankles was an altogether more comfortable position, although Craig was perfectly aware that what was about to happen next would be far from comfortable.

He looked down at the threadbare carpet and felt a movement to his left as the vicar approached. He could smell the man’s sour sweat and old tobacco smoke. The vicar pressed his left hand into the small of Craig’s back, keeping him steady. The paddle was small enough that Crick could stand right by the boys proffered bottom and whack the wood home from a short distance. It would be a very painful jab.

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Craig felt the paddle tap against his stretched jeans. They were a little tight and hugged his cheeks. He knew the vicar would have a delightful target. The wood moved away and a second later returned crashing into his meaty, hard bottom. He bit down on his bottom lip. That hurt. A burning sensation radiated from the point of impact and warmed his whole backside. Slam! The wood returned with great force, landing a little higher. Now his entire bum was alight. He gripped his ankles and shut his eyes tightly.

Paddle pain is quite different from the cane. The whippy rod strikes a line of fire across the cheeks and very quickly a welt forms. It throbs like mad for ages. The paddle delivers something more like a slap than a cut, the pain spreads over a wider area and leaves a pain like sitting in a too-hot bath.

Wallop! Smack! Crash! The sound of the paddle echoed around the cold study. The vicar hacked another long cough. “Stand up, drop those jeans,” he spluttered. Craig rose slowly, his bottom was toasted. His heavy denim jeans had been no protection.

“Quickly,” Crick gasped, “I haven’t got all day.”

Craig’s jeans fit snugly, he didn’t need a belt. He popped the button at the top of his Wranglers and pulled the zipper. The jeans were so snug they wouldn’t fall to the floor of their own accord so he pushed them down, first to the knees and then to the ankles. “Over!” the reverend barked. Craig morosely resumed the position.

Rev. Crick had a little ritual when he spanked on the underwear. He liked to make sure there were no creases in the cotton and that the pants fitted like a second skin. He gripped the waistband of Craig’s briefs and tugged hard. The cotton rode up into Craig’s crack and lifted and separated each cheek perfectly. Crick had no willpower and didn’t try not to rub the palm of his right hand across Craig’s rock hard buttocks. They quivered as his rubbed.

Ready once more he lifted the heavy paddle and whacked it down five more times without pause. Rat-a-tat-tat, it sounded like machinegun fire. Craig screwed up his face, the pain was immense, his heart raced, blood pounded his ears, his arse was on fire. Pain travelled up and down his legs and then to all parts of his body.

Rev. Crick waddled to his desk and slipped the paddle back into the still-open drawer. He turned and admired the sight of the teenager who was still holding his ankles. He was a very fit lad, he thought. Very fit indeed. Oh how he would enjoy working with the boy over the next three years.

“You may stand.” Gingerly, Craig stood and then bent again so he could pull his jeans up tot their rightful place. His face burned but nowhere near as much as his bum. He desperately wanted to give himself a good rub, but that would have to wait. He wouldn’t give the vicar the satisfaction knowing he had hurt him.

“You may go now,” the vicar almost whispered. Craig did not need telling twice, he sped from the study leaving his coat on the vicar’s desk. Crick tutted to himself, reached into his jacket pocket and found cigarettes and matches. Within seconds he took a deep drag of tobacco. He waddled over to an armchair and fell into it. Puffing heavily on the cigarette he recalled in his mind the past few minutes. A caning and a paddling, what a perfect afternoon, he thought as he blew smoke at the ceiling.

Picture credit: Unknown

Mores stories featuring the spanking vicar of Aston Budleigh are here

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Toby’s Father Visits

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Toby got out of bed early; there was no need to as his father wasn’t due for another two hours, but he had found it impossible to sleep.

He hadn’t seen father since he arrived back at university more than two months ago, but now he was making a special trip to visit his son to “talk about” the mid-term results.

Toby was in the second semester of his first year and things were not going well. He had scraped through the exams last semester and was heading for failure in this.

Toby knew he had screwed up at uni. He had been distracted by his new life of independence and had spent too much time in clubs and bars, making new friends. He had completely neglected his studies and even stopped going to church. Of all the sins he had committed since coming to the university, this was the one he most definitely didn’t want his father to discover.

Independence was something so alien to Toby that he had embraced it like a caged bird set free. He had even moved out of the safety and security of the university halls of residence to share a house in a dilapidated part of town with three guys on his course. His father had not approved and had forbidden Toby to move, but the teenager defied him.

Toby set about making breakfast, but once he had poured the milk on his cornflakes, he realised he had no appetite. He looked at the clock, one-and-a-half hours to go. The house was quiet, his housemates were, he assumed, fast asleep; that is if they were in their beds at all. Yesterday was Friday and the boys had gone clubbing. Usually, Toby would have been with them, but the gloom he felt over his father’s impending visit was inescapable so he gave it a miss.

Perhaps the guys had gotten “lucky” and stayed the night with a girl. He hoped so; he didn’t want them around when father visited. It would be humiliating enough without having them as witnesses.

Toby looked around at the mess in the kitchen. The sink was piled high with unwashed pots and crockery. Father had told him he would end up living in squalor if he moved into the house. Like, in most things, Toby conceded to himself, his father was right. It had been a struggle since moving in: none of the boys were interested in keeping the house tidy.

Toby set about cleaning the kitchen and the front room. He even made a valiant attempt to scrape the grime off the hand basin and shower. He didn’t want to give his father the satisfaction of saying, “I told you so.” It also helped to kill the time before father arrived.

With fifteen minutes to go before the dreaded time, Toby heard a key in the lock of the front door and Josh entered. He was unshaven and looked like he might have slept in a hedge last night.

“Yo! Toby!” The greeting was so effusive Toby knew immediately that Josh had “scored” last night.

“Hi! Man!” Toby tried to sound delighted to see his friend, but inside he was deflated: he had hoped he would have the house to himself.

“I’m going for a shower, then I’m having a kip.” Good, thought Toby, at least he’ll be out of the way.

Minutes later his other two housemates arrived home. Oh Christ! It’s a full house. Ravenous, they set about making breakfast, undoing all Toby’s efforts at tidiness.

Then there was a knock at the door. It has his father.

Toby had been too embarrassed about the visit to tell his housemates that his father was coming. Only now he realised that if he had confided in them they would have made themselves scarce for the duration. He wouldn’t have told them everything, of course. That would be too humiliating; he would just say that “dad” was coming and they would get the point. He never called his father “dad” but it would sound better with the guys. They didn’t talk much about their parents, but Toby supposed none of the other guys had one quite like his own.

To say his father maintained standards would be to under-state the situation. There were rules for everything; when you got up in the morning, when you went to bed at night, when you did your homework, no watching of television (not even at friends’ houses), no “pop” music. His father lived by the Bible and made sure his entire family did as well.

Toby was very well acquainted that bit about “spare the rod.” His father believed in complete obedience and the penalty for straying was always a beating. When he was very young he would find himself across his father’s knee, shorts and pants down, getting his bare bottom soundly spanked. Father soon graduated from hand spanks to the bedroom slipper. Toby learned quickly to obey father at all times.

But, as he got older, Toby found it more difficult to stick to his father’s harsh regime. Secretly, he developed a love of modern music, but he dared not bring it into his father’s house. He would sneak to friends’ houses to listen to it at full volume. He was in ecstasy. He was amazed at his friends’ parents for allowing this to happen, although sometimes they would roll their eyes and laugh, “Call this music. It doesn’t even have a tune.”

If his father had discovered Toby’s illicit pleasure, he would have thrashed the living daylights out of him.

Toby had only managed to pass his school exams and make it to university because father ordered him to do his homework each night. It had to be completed by 9pm and father would inspect to see that it was. He would also check Toby’s grades and there were beatings when they fell.

He opened the door and let his father into the house. Even before Toby could say “Hello” his father rebuked him about the house. “I told you not to move here. This place is a dump, the district is full of drug addicts and prostitutes. It is Sodom and Gomorrah!”

He made no attempt to be conciliatory with his, now adult, son. All he cared was that his own flesh and blood had disobeyed him and he wanted vengeance.

Quaking, Toby led his father into the front room. It was next to the kitchen and he knew his two friends would hear them.

For five minutes his father harangued him for his failings; the poor grades; the lifestyle; for letting his family and God down.

In truth, Toby knew this already. He was ashamed that he had let himself down since arriving at university. He knew that he had been weak-willed and spent too much time in self-indulgent pleasure-seeking when he should have been studying hard. Yes, he had disappointed his mother and father.

But, at the same time, he was also discovering himself, trying to work out who he was and what sort of person he could become. It was called growing up and he could not become an adult without making mistakes.

He knew also that father believed it was his duty to God to correct him.

His father had finished haranguing him and there was silence. Toby had hardly said a word: he knew his father did not want him to defend his actions; his part in this little drama was to accept unconditionally the word of his father.

Toby could hear the excited voices of his housemates in the kitchen; they seemed to be in exceptionally jolly moods.

“Can we please do this upstairs, father?” there was pleading in Toby’s voice. His father had also heard the voices and immediately understood his son’s predicament. He ignored the plea, said nothing, and slowly unbuckled his belt.

He looked around the small room, searching for a suitable spot. “Stand by that table.” By now he had withdrawn his thick, wide, leather belt and doubled it over.

“Take down your jeans and underwear and bend over the table.”

His father said a silent prayer as he watched the teenager disrobe and bend forward placing his elbows on the Formica-topped table.

“Right over! Flat on your stomach.” Toby shifted his position. “Now, take hold of the table legs.”

Toby obeyed.

His father took two previously prepared pieces of twine from his pocket and tied the boy’s hands to the table. Now, Toby was at his father’s mercy, but no clemency would be shown today.

“Legs further apart!” Toby wriggled a little until his father was satisfied.

Toby lay still, unable to prevent his father’s preparations. The man adjusted the boy’s shirt and pullover, rolling them up until he was naked from the shoulder blades to his ankles.

Satisfied, he raised the belt high and lashed it down with considerable force into Toby’s backside, immediately creating a sunset stripe across both cheeks.

Toby had a high tolerance of pain and remained motionless.

SNAP! Another lash fell, echoing around the small room. In the kitchen the two boys stopped laughing and stared at each other in puzzlement.

WHACK! Toby willed himself not to kick out. He stayed bent over, holding his bottom in place so that his father could lash his buttocks over and over.

WHOOSH! And his father did so, swinging the belt down hard across the top of the boy’s thighs. Involuntarily, Toby’s legs stomped the ground as the agony shot down his legs, but it didn’t relieve the pain and belt didn’t stop; it continued to strike his teenage bottom.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! His father was thrashing his son like never before.

Toby felt the force of the blows sending waves of pain flowing through his bottom, both cheeks shaking with the impact. His resolve to take the belt whipping stoically failed and he yelled.

Next door, Tom and Matt, startled, looked at each other. Without speaking they agreed they should not intervene.

In the front room his father was frenzied as the belt rose and fell, rose and fell and rose again. Toby was in pure agony as lash after lash bit deep into his fleshy globes. His knuckles had long ago turned white as he gripped the table legs for dear life.

Toby’s pain was more than anything he’d ever felt before: none of the past whippings compared. He wanted to push himself away from the table, turn around and grab his father’s arm and stop the pain, but the ties on his hands prevented this. Despite the intense agony that was pulsating through his body, he knew he had no option but to take whatever his father dished out.

Toby’s buttocks and thighs were a mass of welts, the belt had whipped into him so many times it was impossible to tell where one lash started and another finished. The boy was howling with the agony, but his father did not care, he whipped on and on: he was doing God’s work.

Toby was scarcely conscious; the throbbing in his buttocks had travelled down his legs, up his back and through his whole body. His sobbing choked him and he could hardly breathe; his heart was racing and any moment he feared it might give out.

His father raised and lowered the belt for a further onslaught on the boy’s buttocks when the door burst open and Tom and Matt rushed in. Tom made a grab for the belt and was rewarded with a slash across his face. He recoiled doubled over in pain. Toby’s father slashed the belt down across Tom’s back just as Matt, sizing up the situation, delivered a hard kick in between the man’s legs. Now, it was his turn to double up in agony.

At that moment Josh entered the room eager to see what all the commotion was. Horrified, he saw his dear friend Toby, tied across the table, half naked, with his flesh ripped to shreds.

Josh untied Toby and helped him rise from the table. Unable to stand, Toby fell into his arms.

Toby’s father was now cowering on the ground, trying to protect himself as Matt and Tom rained kicks all over his body. Distracted by Josh’s arrival, they stopped their assault allowing Toby’s father to run from the house.

The three friends helped Toby over to the couch and lay him face down. Matt winced at the sight before him. It looked like Toby had been assaulted all over his buttocks and thighs with a meat tenderiser.

Unbidden, Tom went to fetch a bowl of cold water and a flannel, then gently, affectionately, bathed the wounds.

Matt went to his room and found a tube of antiseptic cream, Un-self-consciously, he squeezed out a globule onto his fingers and massaged it gently into his friend’s throbbing arse.

Toby’s father sat in his car, his ribs ached terribly. He thought one might be broken. He realised he had left his belt at the house, but there was no way he was going to go back for it.

After a while, he felt well enough to drive away, not realising this would be the last time he would ever see Toby again.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

 

Other stories you might like

The man across the hall

The students next door

Their new house

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Going to the beach

Z USED beach surfers bare bum Joe Phillips

Picture credit: Joe Phillips

 I’m going on my hols, see you again sometime in August. While I’m away why not enjoy some of these free-to-download books containing collections of my stories. Click on the titles to find out more.

 Summer at Uncle’s

 Peter, an eighteen-year-old from a small town, stays with Uncle Barnabas in London for the summer. The country boy soon learns the wicked ways of the city as he is introduced into the world of corporal punishment by a cast of characters including his cousin Albert; “out-and-proud” Nickie; and an old-fashioned schoolmaster by the unlikely name of Dr Cains.

The Private Tutor

What can fathers do when their sons fail their school exams because they spend too much time out with girlfriends, clubbing and playing in a rock band?

Call for The Private Tutor. Using traditional educational approaches, he will soon lick them into shape.

The whippy rattan cane, the taws, the paddle and the gym slipper are some of methods he uses as he guides them towards their A-levels.

St Francis Independent Grammar School

St FIGS is a traditional school – traditional curriculum; traditional sports; traditional uniform and traditional discipline. Meet John Allison, eighteen years old and a new boy at school, as he discovers just what that means.

The thwack of the cane against stretched buttocks echoes through the passageways. No naughty sixth-former is spared a throbbing backside. As John himself will soon find out.

Paul and his landlord

Young men who are away from the parental home, often for the first time, are apt to stray from the straight and narrow. How lucky that responsible adults in the shape of landlords are on hand to show them the error of their ways, even if it means delivering sound spankings and other corporal punishment.

It might even be a life-changing experience for them – it certainly was for Paul.

All in the Family

“What that boy needs is a damn good spanking.” It was a policeman speaking about my drunken nephew. He was right, of course. But the police can’t use corporal punishment. So it is up to the family to instil discipline. These tales demonstrate that up and down the land fathers, uncles, granddad’s – and even older brothers – don’t shirk their duty.

The cane, the brush and the paddle are much in evidence as young men learn the painful way how to behave.

The Junior Salesman

The twenty-year-old junior salesman slowly unclasped his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. He pushed them over his hips and let go. From there they slithered slowly down his legs.

A breeze from the nearby open window brushed against his naked legs as he awaited the next command.

Tyler looked over at his boss; in his hands was a wicked-looking school cane, around three feet in length and with a curved handle.  Mr. Davenport’s huge grin exposed his decaying teeth as he tapped a point
on the floor in front of him with the cane, “Please bend over and touch your toes.”

  • Extract from The Junior Salesman

The boy in the scarlet blazer

 Timothy Hutchins is a young man with a wicked spanking fetish. There is little he can do about it until Billy, the boss of the burger bar where he works, takes him under his wing. Or more truthfully across his knee

Timothy enters the world of the boy for hire and soon becomes a spanking-movie star. Everybody wants a piece of his backside.

 The Dean of Dorm Discipline

The Dean of Dormitory Discipline regularly beat misbehaving students and there was never a weekend when his paddle did not fly through the air. This gave them ample opportunity to swap stories about their spankings and their bruises became badges of honour when displayed in the communal showers.

Now, Mitch must pay for his missed curfew …

Troublesome teens

They might think they are adults, but older teens are not. They are still children and they need to act like it. They should respect their parents and obey adults. Without question. And if they don’t? These stories will remind them of the consequences of bad behaviour. A very sore backside indeed.

The swish of the rattan

Fifteen of my favourite caning stories. Backsides are blistered in the home, the office and at university. Dads, uncles, professors, housemates, bosses all show their prowess with the cane; but please know there are no traditional school stories in this collection.

Remembering the spanking vicar

z used drawing hand otk vicar (7a)

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.

 

Extract from Remembering the spanking vicar, a new story from Charles Hamilton II uploaded exclusively on The Canery website. Click here to read it.

 

Other stories you might like

The vicar delivers

Late home from school

The thieving nephew

 

 

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