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

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