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

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By order of the court

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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.

 

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The man across the hall

The students next door

Their new house

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Going to the beach

Z USED beach surfers bare bum Joe Phillips

Picture credit: Joe Phillips

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

 Summer at Uncle’s

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

The Private Tutor

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

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

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

St Francis Independent Grammar School

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

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

Paul and his landlord

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

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

All in the Family

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

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

The Junior Salesman

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

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

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

  • Extract from The Junior Salesman

The boy in the scarlet blazer

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

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

 The Dean of Dorm Discipline

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

Now, Mitch must pay for his missed curfew …

Troublesome teens

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

The swish of the rattan

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

Remembering the spanking vicar

z used drawing hand otk vicar (7a)

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

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

 

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

 

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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

 

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com