The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh – the compilation

z used drawing hand otk vicar (7)

When I was a young man I got a new job and needed somewhere to live. Simon, a co-worker of about my age, told me about a clergyman in a nearby village who let out rooms. Ian, the guy who I replaced at the office, had lived there.

Simon drove me out into the countryside. The vicarage was old and a bit dilapidated. I’ll call the vicar Rev Jones (it’s not his real name) although I don’t think we need to be too careful. He was ancient even then. Or at least he seemed so to my twenty-year-old self. He must have shuffled off to meet his maker many years ago.

Rev Jones showed us into his study and then left to busy himself with who-knows-what? I’ve always been a bit nosey, so I took a look at his bookshelves. My eyes immediately fell on a book called something like The History of Corporal Punishment. I had already developed an interest in spanking, but I was young and naïve and had never had the chance to do anything about it.

I showed Simon the book. “Oh,” Simon said too glibly, “He must be interested in history.” I’m sure Simon knew more than he was letting on.

I didn’t take the room, I found somewhere closer and more convenient to where I worked. I never saw or heard about Rev Jones again. But, the memory of that August afternoon never quite left me. Even after many years I wondered if I had missed an opportunity. Simon left the company shortly after and I was never able to find out what he really knew.

I have invented many fantasies about what might have happened to me had I taken lodgings at the vicarage.  The stories of the Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh are inspired by them. I have no way of knowing if Rev Jones was a spanko. The stories are from my imagination. Rev Crick is not Rev Jones. Like everything I write they are entirely fictional.

Much later – after I thought I had done with writing about the Spanking Vicar – I returned and wrote a story called “Remembering the Spanking Vicar” in which I imagine what might have happened if I had taken that room …

I have put all the stories together here. Click on the title.

I hope you enjoy reading them.

Charles

 

1: The new tenant

Craig’s mother who is a convinced Christian has arranged for the nineteen-year-old to stay with Rev Crick while he studies at university. “He has no self-discipline,” Craig’s mother tells the vicar. Not to worry! The vicar has two canes hanging from hooks in his study.

“Rev Crick was nearly finished. Only two more strokes to go; then it would be over: a traditional six-of-the-best. He rested the cane across the by-now raw cheeks from the top left corner to the bottom right. Craig’s whole body tensed as he recognised what the vicar was up to. Crick raised the cane high and lashed it down so that the stoke cut across the previous four, slicing across them and reigniting their agony.”

2: The Reckoning

It is Sunday and Craig and the two other young men who lodge with Rev Crick must face the weekly reckoning. It’s time for him to go through their week. Have they done all our chores? How are their grades at the university?

“It was eight o’clock precisely and the three young men stood in the study shuffling their feet in front of Rev Crick’s magnificent leather-topped desk. It reminded Craig of his visits to the housemaster at school. They were always extremely painful. Would this be the same? Was he in for a spanking?”

  1. House call

Rev Crick takes his pastoral duties very seriously and often makes house calls. Donald Blewitt has been giving his widowed mother a hard time. Send for The Spanking Vicar!

“The boy watched impassively as Rev Crick pulled a chair away from the dining table and placed in the centre of the room. Then he sat down, straightened his back and spread his legs.

‘“I want you to take down your jeans and your underpants, Donald.”

  1. Missed curfew

Bob has missed his curfew and Rev Crick paces his study in silence. He genuinely fears the boy has come to harm. But no. It was a woman of course who made him late. Rev Crick shows his relief in the only way he knows.

“Bob stretched over the arm of the couch, secretly relieved that he hadn’t been ordered to drop his trousers: or worse yet, his trousers and his pants.

‘“Keep very still, boy and push your head right down into the cushion.” Bob pushed himself further down into the couch, raising his bottom well up for the cane. His firm bottom stretched his now very tight trousers.”

  1. Reefer madness

While the cat’s away the mice do play. Rev Crick goes off to a conference and leaves the boys at the vicarage unsupervised. But, he returns unexpectedly early.

“Crick had both presence and a reputation. He had hardly stepped through his front door before the party-goers headed for the hills, leaving Craig and Tommy alone in the kitchen. Bob had long-since disappeared with Sally Hargreaves; a young lady with a reputation of her own.

“Crick’s anger was real, but it was outmatched by his astonishment. For Craig and Tommy were dressed only in their underpants. Tommy’s were traditional white Y-fronts, but his nineteen-year-old partner-in-crime sported rather fashionable sky blue briefs. The two lodgers stared sheepishly at one another, as if realising only for the first time that they were in their underwear.”

  1. Village fete

A case of ginger beer goes missing at the village fete.

“Will and Olly might be sixth-form pupils, but they were not the brightest stars in the firmament. They had been caught in possession of their stolen goods. They were, as hardened criminals say in B-pictures, “Bang to rights.”

‘“You will both go to the vicarage and wait outside until I return. I am going to give each of you a thoroughly-deserved thrashing,’ he growled.”

z used drawing taws hold (8)

  1. One off the wrist

Tommy is addicted to self-abuse.

‘“What did I tell you would happen if I caught you playing with yourself again?” the Reverend demanded.

‘“Mmmm”

‘“Answer me boy, what did I say?”

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

  1. The sixth-former

Sam Ramsden is a sixth-former, prefect and incorrigible nuisance at the church youth club.

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

“School had just finished for the day and the wretched boy was still in his uniform. He had made an effort at least, the vicar supposed. His blue-and-green-striped tie was tied tightly at his neck; the white shirt was tucked neatly into his mid-grey trousers.”

  1. The Scout leader

“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.”

  1. The cricketer

Terry Miller, a milkman and the star player in the village cricket team, goes missing before a vital match.

“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.”

  1. Tram lines

Craig is caught travelling on the tram without a ticket. Bad luck for him the ticket inspector recognises him as one of Rev Crick’s boys.

“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 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.”

  1. Put back into short trousers

Byron Jones, aged 18, always attends church service in his “Sunday Best”, but this time he is wearing smart, tailored short trousers, just like a small boy.

“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.

“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.”

  1. Craig misses curfew

Craig missed curfew last night. Now, he must face the consequences.

“Craig watched Rev Crick 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.”

 

Bonus story: Remembering the Spanking Vicar

Where I imagine what might have happened if I had lodged with Rev Jones.

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

“I did no such thing. I stared over his left shoulder at the bookcase behind him. I felt a draught against my thighs when the vicar pulled my trousers to my knees. The weight of the belt and gravity took them to nestle in a puddle over my platform shoes. Still, I gazed at the bookcase. I had no courage to look my punisher in the face.”

 

Picture credits: Unknown

There is also a prequel of The Spanking Vicar here

Max of the ‘Champion’ 4. The Clergyman

Other stories you might like

The vicar delivers

Encounter with the vicar

The expenses fiddle

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A summer to remember

new 5

z used twosome mountain BOP 583681

I first developed my taste for spanking when I was eighteen and very keen on hill climbing. During the summer holiday between school and university I would go out every day on the Downs just outside Brocklehurst where I lived. As luck would have it is was on one of these outings that I met Wilberforce Crick, another fresh air enthusiast. I soon learned that he was lodging with his uncle, a vicar in the nearby village of Aston Budleigh.

Wilberforce was a year older than me and was strikingly handsome. His high cheekbones, and wavy fair hair gave him a dreamlike quality. His racy smile and quick wit captivated me. But what occupied my thoughts most was Wilberforce’s round, firm bottom. I already knew of my tendency in this direction as I had developed a passion for a boy while a schoolboy at St. Tom’s. We would sneak away to the cricket pavilion during summer nights and explore each other.

As we rambled through the hills and over the nearby cliffs I would encourage Wilberforce to walk ahead of me, thus allowing me to admire his two cheeks, like two firm peaches inside his loose baggy shorts.

 

After that initial meeting we would walk out together every day. We were lucky with the weather and I don’t remember a single occasion when rain stopped our play. We would halt in a little woodland glen to eat our picnic. One day I noticed as we walked together that Wilberforce seemed uncomfortable and was not his usual joyful self. When we stopped to eat to my utter astonishment he began to cry bitterly. Tentatively, I put my hand around his shoulder to comfort him. I feared he might push me away, calling me all the nasty names under the sun: fruit, pansy and so on. To my delight he put his arm around my shoulder and we embraced. Then he told me his problem.

“Uncle whipped me yesterday,” he croaked between tears. I was stunned. Had I heard correctly? The vicar had whipped him. Whipped? What did that mean? Literally, a whip. Like you might take to a horse?

I could feel my cock tighten inside my underpants. “What did he whip you with?” I asked, hoping he wouldn’t sense the excitement that was rising in my body.

“Oh, a rotten old cane he has.”

“On your hand?” I croaked, hardly daring to breathe.

“Oh no. On my…” he hesitated, drawing on his innermost thoughts. “On my bottom; it’s always on my bottom.”

All the saliva drained from my mouth. I coughed gently, I could feel my face flushing “Tell me about it.” I pulled Wilberforce closer to me. I could smell his hair oil. His bright blue eyes shone as he told me what happened.

“He got terribly cross when I told him a lie. Of course, I denied it and that made it worse. He’s very strict. Everyone in the village knows that. He sent me into the room that he calls his study. He keeps a couple of canes in there, hanging from hooks on the wall. They’re just like the ones from school, with the curved handles.”

I nodded thinking he might need encouragement to continue with the story, but Wilberforce seemed only too willing to tell me everything.  “I said I was too old to caned. He just snorted and told me to get a move on. I had no choice. I know if I complained to my father, he would only say Uncle is a man of the cloth and should be obeyed at all times.”

Wilberforce was leaning against my body and I moved slightly so he wouldn’t rub against my stiff cock. He continued, “So I went into the study. Not many people are allowed in there. It’s where he works, and where …” his voice broke a little, but he composed himself, “where he punishes you,” he completed the sentence haltingly.

“He has his rituals. I have to go and stand in the corner and think about how naughty I am. He left me like that for about ten minutes. Just waiting, wondering how much it would hurt this time. Thinking; would it be trousers up or trousers down. Or even,” he whispered the next bit as if in that wilderness there was anyone there but me to hear him, “on the bared bottom.”

He was silent for a moment. My heart was pounding. I had dreamt about Wilberforce and his wonderful buttocks. He had a bottom crying out to be spanked.

Wilberforce continued his story, “At last I heard the door to the study open and he came into the room. He didn’t say a word. I was still facing the wall, but I could hear floorboards creak as he crossed over to where the canes hung on the wall. The rattan cane rattled when he took it down. My blood ran cold when he swished it through the air. It made a terrific whoosh! as it flew.

‘“Well, my boy,’ uncle said, ‘perhaps this will teach you to tell the truth’, he swiped the cane again and then said, ‘Stand by the chair.’ I knew he meant the large armchair that’s in the middle of the room, so I turned from the wall and faced him. I tell you the look on his face frightened the life out of me. I could tell this would be no ordinary caning. He was possessed by the wrath of God.”

I licked my lips, I couldn’t help myself. The tension was rising in me. Wilberforce continued, “Uncle said, ‘Take down your trousers. Pants too. Bend over that chair.  Try to take your whipping as befits a great big boy like you.’ I begged and pleaded with him to let me off, but that only made him more angry.

“So, there I was with my trousers at my ankles, and pants at the knees. I lay across the back of the armchair and gripped the soft cushion for all I was worth. Uncle took hold of the end of my shirt and pulled it right up over my back. I was naked from my shoulders to the knees. Then, I could feel him tap the cane right across the centre of my bottom. ‘Are you not ashamed of yourself, a great big boy like you, with your backside bare, just like a naughty little child? We shall see what a good dose of the cane can do to teach you that liars of any age deserve to be punished.’”

Wilberforce was speaking in a rush, Was he as excited as me? “All the time,” Wilberforce went on, “uncle was tapping the cane against my bottom. Suddenly, I felt the cane lift, there was a hiss, and I felt this incredible pain across my bottom. I shrieked and tried to kick, but he pressed his hand into my back to hold me down. Before I knew it, the cane swept down again and again. I can’t describe the feeling. He gave me eighteen strokes and I had to stay there and submit to it with my bared bottom raised high. There was nothing else I could do.”

I listened in astonishment to his story. I still had my arm about him and tried to comfort him, but in truth I was excited at the thought of this beautiful boy having to take down his trousers and pants to have his scrumptious bare bottom properly caned.

“My poor Wilberforce,” I said, “How could your uncle be so cruel?” Then, the most extraordinary thing happened. It was almost like one of my dreams. Gently, Wilberforce broke away from me. I sat open mouthed as he stood up and loosened the belt on his cotton shorts. Soon the front gaped open and they sailed to his feet. I gaped at his tight white Y-front underpants and the obvious bulge that they concealed. He turned his back to me, dug his thumbs into the waistband of the pants and wriggled his bottom, while at the same time pushing them down until they were resting on top of his shorts.

What I saw remains clear to me today and, if I did but know it at the time, determined the pattern of the rest of my life. The skin of his bottom was perfectly smooth, but crossing the pert, firm buttocks were red gashes, their edges sharply raised. It looked like a map of a railway junction. Offering false words of sympathy, I kissed each etched line gently. Wilberforce whimpered yelps, which at first I supposed to be cries of pain, but I soon realised

were groans of pleasure. Soon we were fondling forbidden parts. That was first time we made love. Each day after that we hurried to our secret hiding place, for me to caress and adore the scarred cheeks. But as the marks faded so did my passion for Wilberforce. I missed the rosy glow in his cheeks. I hatched a plan to bring it back.

So, I pretended to find fault with him. He turned up late one morning and I scolded him. Another time he forgot his sandwiches and I accused him of being lazy. He became surly and rude. “You know,” I told Wilberforce, “I think your uncle is right. Maybe you do need a spanking now and again to keep you in line.” I held my breath tightly. What would I do if he became angry and maybe stormed off, never to return?

His bright, open face beamed. “You can try,” he giggled. I jumped on his back and we tumbled to the ground. Soon, we were rolling around on the grass. I sat up and pulled him across my knees. He didn’t resist. I slapped my hand into the seat of his shorts. They were made of thick cotton and he didn’t feel a thing. He lay passively while I walloped away at his hard bum.

“Oh! This is useless,” I laughed waving my hand around to show that my palm hurt much more than his bottom. “Stand up.” I released my grip on his waist and pushed him off my knees. He stood and hopped up and down, while rubbing the seat of his shorts, pretending that my spanking had hurt.

“You can stop that, right now,” I smiled. “I know it didn’t hurt one little bit. Now take down those shorts and get back over my knee.” I had never seen Wilberforce move so quickly. A thick leather belt held the shorts up but he swiftly had it unbuckled and then his shorts were at his ankles. He almost dove across my knees in his eagerness.

My heartrate was off the scale. Had I been an older person, I might have suffered a stroke. His muscular body was stretched submissively and his gorgeous bottom rested at an angle against my knee. I pressed him against my raging cock. I took hold of the tail of his shirt and quickly pushed it up his back and away from his buttocks. Then, roughly I gripped the waistband of his underpants and ripped them over his bum. They snagged and Wilberforce raised his body so I could more easily take them down the back of his legs to his knees.

I was enthralled by the smooth but hard rounded cheeks. They were hairless except for a wisp in the deep cleft. I wrapped my left arm around his slim waist and started to smack his gorgeous posterior lightly with my hand. He sighed a little at each slap, but then began to move his bottom in a circular motion, as if to encourage me in my endeavour. I gaped open-mouthed as his creamy-white cheeks turned at first to a charming pink and then deeper red. I was astonished to see the outline of my fingers embossed on his firm bottom. Each time my hand landed, it sank into Wilberforce’s springy flesh.

Wilberforce circular movements progressed to a vigorous back and forwards motion in time with the slaps. He seemed to be humping my rigid, throbbing cock while at the same time uttering breathless groans. He clenched his bottom cheeks together tightly and this encouraged me to step up the pace and ferocity of my spanking. Now, it was clear to me that his cock was as stiff as mine. I took that as my cue to stop slapping his beautiful, upturned rear end. I released my grip on his waist. He rolled on his back and gaped at me, still breathless, “I’m glad I was a naughty little boy.” Then he pulled me forward so I fell on top of him. We made love.

Summer was drawing to a close, but each day we returned to the Downs and repeated the delightful spanking episode. Wilberforce would tell me of some (often imagined) fault he had committed the previous evening so I would have an excuse to take him across my knee and bare his lovely bottom.

At the end of the summer we went our separate ways. Wilberforce, back to his home somewhere in the North and me to university. I never saw him again.

 

Picture credit: Boys’ Own Paper

Other stories you might like

The Country Club

Taming Timothy

A Short, Sharp Lesson

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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.

z used drawing strap hold (8)

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.

Other stories you might like

A kiss too far

Late up in the morning

The Tyrant Headmaster 7: The field trip

 

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.

z used paddle jeans touch toes domestic (1)

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

Other stories you might like

By order of the court

New boy at Albion

My house. My rules

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Toby’s Father Visits

z used drawing belt hold (1)

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.