Cricket captain takes control

new 5

There were a group of about eight of us, stretching out and enjoying the sunshine. The cricket match we were watching had adjourned for the tea interval. The gap in play gave us the chance to discuss the latest scandal at the club. The exploits of Carstairs, one of the colts, a man barely turned eighteen but promoted to the full county side, was splashed all over the newspapers that day. The pup had been arrested for being drunk and disorderly a couple of nights earlier. He was awaiting a court case. There would inevitably be a fine and perhaps an additional sentence of community service.

But, we were discussing, should the club impose an additional sanction? A further fine, or a suspension perhaps, for there was no doubt in any of our minds that Carstairs had brought the club into disrepute. He had most certainly let the side down.

It was at this point that Old Harry told his story. I do not know Old Harry’s surname. I can’t be sure that any of us do. He has been a stalwart of the club for half a century or more. If asked, I would hazard a guess that he won’t see his eightieth birthday again. He settled back, took a large sip from his half-full plastic pint glass and launched into his tale. This is what he told us.

“It involved a young lad. About the same age as Carstairs. He wasn’t a drunk. Well not that we knew of, but he was a bumptious little oaf. He had been promoted to the full county side. He was a very useful number four batsman and a crafty spin bowler. We won many a game thanks to the little tyke.

“But oh, he was an arrogant sod. The cock of the walk. He knew he was good. What he forgot and needed to be told was that in cricket there are those that lead and those that are led. And, any eighteen-year-old, no matter how talented, was at the bottom of a very long ladder. He had a great habit of telling his elder and betters what they should do.

“Well to cut a long story short, the other players were right cheesed off. But what to do? How could they cut the lad down to size?

“‘Spanking,’ one fellow said.

“‘Come again?’ another queried.

“‘Spanking,’ the first fellow repeated.

“‘I’m not with you,’ another chimed in.

“The first fellow was becoming quite exasperated by now. ‘Spanking,’ he spoke clearly so even a dull foreigner could understand. ‘As in, “Take down your trousers. Underpants too maybe. Bend over my knee” A spanking!”

“Well, of course they got the drift. This was back in 1962 so it wasn’t that unusual. They still used the cane at school. You’d get the belt from your dad if you misbehaved at home. Our local vicar was known to take a choirboy or two across his knee when events warranted it.

“There were no murmurs of dissent. All were in agreement. That was exactly what was needed. A spanking. And, of course the club captain was the very man to deliver it. He was quite a young chap himself at the time. Had been school captain as well, so he was well versed in delivering corporal punishment to boys in his charge. I think they discussed the possibility of acquiring a whippy rattan cane, y’know the ones with the curved handle, to deliver an authentic six-of-the-best across his stretched backside. It wouldn’t have been too difficult to get one. You could buy them in sixpenny bazaars back then. Besides, there were at least two local headmasters on the committee, they could have supplied the wherewithal.

“The idea was quickly dismissed. The boy needed to be taken down a peg or two. Or three even, he was that arrogant! No, it had to be an over-the-knee-spanking. Just like a small child. That would properly teach him a lesson. Humiliate him a little.

“So after a spell practicing in the nets they all adjourned to the pavilion. In those days it was a rickety old building that doubled up as a storeroom for old furniture and whatnot. Not the magnificent beast it is today. They circled the brat and thereby had him trapped in the corner. The club captain was, of course, their spokesman, and verbally tore into the boy. He was dumbfounded at first, then he protested a little. Was he not the star of the team? Had not the local paper written extensively about him? This only served to deepen the club captain’s resolve. An entire litany of offences was read to the boy. Chief among these was his refusal to behave like a junior and to show his older and wiser colleagues the respect they deserved.

“‘So,’ the club captain said with all the authority that came with his position, ‘You are to take a spanking.’ I suppose you might have heard a pin drop at that moment, the silence was so intense. The boy’s face fell. His jaw dropped. His mouth opened and closed. He might have been expected to voice a protest. He could not make an escape for as I said he was surrounded by team mates. There were only two courses of action open to him. He could submit meekly to the demands of the club captain, or he could resist and be forced over the older man’s knee. They were certainly enough men present to overpower him.

“It would never happen today of course. Can you imagine an eighteen-year-old, any eighteen-year-old, never mind a so-called ‘star player’ doing this. There was an eerie silence. The club captain broke it by taking up a wooden chair, unfolding it and plonking it down onto the wooden floor. He sat himself down on it and turning to the boy, he clicked his fingers, pointed at the boy’s midriff and said clearly, ‘Take down your trousers.’ There was a moment’s hesitation, so he spoke some more, ‘Right now. I haven’t got all day.’

“The club members moved away a little to give the boy space. He was, of course, entirely conscious that his team mates were present and intended to stay and witness his ordeal. That was to be an essential part of the punishment. The embarrassment, nay, the humiliation of being spanked by the club captain in public.

“Corporal punishment was common in those days as I said and the boy was no stranger to it. With steady hands he undid his trousers and guided them down his legs until they settled above his shoes. He was wearing white Y-front underpants as everyone did in those days. His white shirt covered most of his buttocks and private parts.

“‘Come here,’ the club captain reached out his hand and gripped the boy by his elbow and pulled him gently towards him. ‘Bend over my knee.’ When the boy showed a little too much hesitation the club captain sighed heavily and pushed the boy over. He gave no resistance and was soon settled face-down across the club captain’s lap. In comparison to his tormentor, the boy was small and he fitted comfortably into his submissive permission. He rested the palms of his hands into the dirty wooden floorboards. This way his head was low and his bottom pointed up towards the ceiling. He closed his eyes trying to block out the reality of his situation.

“The club captain took hold of the end of the boy’s shirt and tucked it up his back. Now he was staring at a firm, round bottom, encased in tight white underpants. He gripped the boy firmly around the waist with his left arm to make sure he wasn’t going anywhere. Then, with his right hand he gripped the waistband of the underpants. Every one of the onlookers must have seen the vision of horror that spread across the boy’s face. ‘These serve no useful purpose at a time such as this,’ the club captain intoned as with two or three tugs he had the underpants down at the boy’s feet with the trousers. ‘Ah,’ the club captain could hardly contain his delight, ‘A bare bottom. Well, my boy I hope you feel suitably ashamed.’

“It wasn’t a question and he didn’t expect an answer which was just as well because the boy simply gulped loudly and once more closed his eyes tight. His face and neck were scarlet and soon so too would be his bottom. The club captain was not yet ready. He cupped his right hand and gently used it to caress the boy’s shiny bottom. He pinched the peaks of the cheeks and stroked the undersides where they join with the backs of the thighs.

z used otk cricketer story

“He was ready now. He raised his hand high and let fly. The sound of the palm of his hard hand connecting with force with the fleshy bottom echoed around the small room. He spared no energy. The club captain was both a fine pace bowler and a slogger of the ball. He had a great deal of strength in his upper body which he demonstrated that afternoon. The spanks rained down like machinegun fire. Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat! In no time every square inch of the boy’s buttocks – both of them – and also the soft underside (the sit-spot) glowed bright pink.

“The boy tried to be stoical, to take his punishment without fuss, but soon his bottom was boiling. His gasps and not-quite-silent yaps rent the air. His hips twisted and turned. His head neighed from side to side like an excited horse. His legs flailed so that first his trousers and later his white Y-fronts were kicked across the floor.

“The club captain spanked on and on. Surely, the palm of his hand must have hurt just as much as the boy’s bum. If it did it did not deter the club captain. He was indeed a leader of men. I suppose that had he thought of it at the time, he might have let up the spanking to save his hand and then turned the boy over to the club’s vice-captain to continue the punishment. Heavens, every man in the team might have been given a go.

“But that wasn’t the intention and that did not happen. The club captain fair blistered that boy’s backside. He was suitably chastened. Humbled and humiliated. At last he was released and without a mere glance towards any of his clubmates he scooped up his clothes and ran from the room.”

Old Harry finished his story there. He had also finished his pint and he waved the empty glass in the air and I took the less-than-subtle hint and took it to the bar. As I waited for a fresh beer to be pulled I looked across the pavilion at the story teller. His face was flushed and his eyes were rheumy and he wriggled his buttocks on the chair where he sat. He looked as if he were in some discomfort. I took the beer, along with another for myself, and gingerly, anxious not to spill a drop I made my way back to Old Harry. I resolved to discreetly learn his second name. It would then be no problem to check who starred in the team back in 1962.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

The cricketer

The Spanking Vicar 10. The Cricketer

Footballer’s judicial caning

 

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

The cricketer

z used drawing cricket BOP (2)

He was about twenty years old; I was old enough to be his father. I was the coach at the Brocklehurst Cricket Club Colts – a rather archaic name for the youth team. I was a big cheese at the club on account of my time playing for the county side. It made me a “gentleman”. And, in cricketing circles in those days that meant a lot.

Robbie Renaud was a dish (I know it sounds a bit girly to say that but even the boys could see that). He stood about five-feet-ten with broad shoulders and narrow waist. He played a lot of cricket (naturally) but was also something of a long-distance runner. All that fresh air and exercise gave him a delicious peaches and cream complexion, overlaid with a sun tan. He loved to smile, a cheeky impish grin. His brown eyes shone constantly and his chestnut hair flopped wildly around his forehead, but never encroached over his ears. He could have been the poster-boy for all those young cricketers schoolboys loved to read about in their storybooks.

It happened one day in late August. It had been an exceptionally hot summer and Robbie who was down from Cambridge for the long vacation spent much of his time at the club. The Colts had one of their most successful spells in their not-so long history. God was in his heaven and everything was as it should be. That’s when it happened.

Alderman, a rather useful spin bowler, had been the first to notice. Money had gone missing from his jacket pocket, which had been left hanging in the changing room. It was only coins and would probably not have been noticed, except that the few coppers represented Alderman’s bus fare home and it was all the cash he had brought with him. Of course, we said he must be mistaken, was he certain he hadn’t forgotten to put the money in his pocket when he left home? Nobody wanted to admit that there was a thief among us.

The following week more money went missing. It could not be ignored. Had a sneak thief managed to infiltrate the clubhouse while we were out in the nets? We would not countenance the possibility that one of our own was responsible. We were gentleman after all.

My cigarette lighter proved to be the final straw. It wasn’t an expensive piece, I often suspected it was made of old iron, it was so heavy and (frankly) ugly. But it was mine. It was also very conspicuous. Unlike the small amounts of cash that had been stolen this would not be so easy to dispose of.

I spoke with Porter, our head groundsman. Something had to be done. I suggested a search of the premises. Porter was a sergeant in the War and I a major. He knew his place and set about doing this without demurring.

We kept the boys out of the clubhouse and I let Porter get on with it. We sat in the late afternoon sun. Some of the boys were impatient. We had finished match practice and they wanted to be off. Many had mothers at home waiting to serve tea. One or two had dates with lady friends.

About ten minutes later Porter emerged ashen faced from the clubhouse. He took me to one side to be out of the hearing of the boys. He was as embarrassed as hell. “I don’t know what to say, Major,” he said. “Spit it out man, we haven’t got all day,” I responded.

His face sweated and his ears were pink with embarrassment. He put his hand in his trouser pocket and brought out a dark-grey object. “Is this your cigarette lighter, sir,” he asked demurely.  “Yes, by jove, it is,” I asserted, “Wherever did you find it?”

He blushed more deeply. “Well, sir,” I could see he could hardly bear to tell me, but he found fortitude and did so, “there’s the rub, it was in the jacket of Mr. Renaud.” His voice trailed off sorrowfully.

Aha! So our star player Robbie Renaud was a thief and caught red handed to boot.

“Whatever shall we do, sir?” Porter seemed genuinely concerned. There was, I told him only one thing for it, “We shall have to inform the police.”

“Oh, no sir, we couldn’t do that, think of the scandal.”

Maybe he had a point, but then again as scandals at youth sporting clubs went this was very small beer.

“I believe Master Renaud is doing well at the university,” Porter continued. I noticed but made no comment that our groundsman had demoted him from “mister” to “master” but I let the matter go. Porter continued, “He plans a career in the law, as a barrister.” I failed to see the point of all this and told Porter so.

“His career would be in ruins before it even started. He couldn’t have a criminal record,” the groundsman informed me. He had a point. So what did the fellow think we should do?

“Well in the Army days, as I’m sure you know Major,”  I noticed the emphasis he had placed on my military rank. “We had a way of dealing with matters in the barracks informally, if you know what I mean, sir.”

I truly did not and I was getting impatient, as I’m sure so were the boys in the cricket team.

“Oh spit it out man, what are you trying to say?” I let my exasperation show. Porter was miffed. He sniffed, “Well, Major if we had any trouble in the barracks; and we had one or two tea-leafs I have to admit, we would give them a damn good hiding.”

I supposed the puzzlement showed on my face because he immediately clarified. “A beating, Major. Generally we used a heavy leather belt. There in the barracks.” He could see I was intrigued by now. “Bare arsed, as it were,” he coughed politely perhaps realising it was not the “done thing” to swear in front of an officer.

“Do I understand Porter you are suggesting that we punish Renaud in such a way?” I asked although I knew damn well that’s what he was saying. He nodded gruffly.

“You had better ask Renaud to see me privately, I’ll be in the club secretary’s office. Porter scuttled off.

Moments later I luxuriated in a large soft leather chair and examined the young man standing awkwardly before me. I had said previously he had the body of a schoolboy sporting hero. That remained the case, but now also he had the demeanour of the schoolboy himself. Maybe sixteen years old, standing in the housemaster’s study for a wigging – and maybe much more beside. I told him the facts of the case. My missing  cigarette lighter had been found in his jacket pocket. He denied it. I was a little disappointed. He was an ex-St. Tom’s man, which was my old school too. If there was one thing we learned at St. Tom’s it was honour. We took our punishment, which at that very traditional English publish school meant a thrashing with a whippy ashplant cane.  I was ashamed of the young man in front of me.

“Well, you leave me no alternative,” I sneered at him, “I must inform the police.”

“Oh no sir, please, no.” I had elicited a reaction. “Not the police, sir.” I did not have to prompt him, but he gave the same explanation that Porter had. Any whiff of legal scandal would put paid to his dream of the Bar. His father, a distinguished “silk” himself would be devastated. He would discontinue paying his university fees and the boy would have to get a job. And, for someone of his class that could only mean exile to a colony. “Yes,” he conceded, he would take a beating.

Now, I don’t want to say too much about this, but it so happened that the club had a number of school canes tucked away in a cupboard in the club secretary’s office. As I had intimated many of us were ex-public school men.

“An exemplary lesson must be made,” the tone of my voice mimicked that of H. R. C. Masterton, my housemaster at St. Tom’s. I say so myself, but when I choose to show it I have a very impressive presence. Renaud blanched, genuinely fearful of my next sentence. “You will be caned in front of the entire team.”

I let that sink in. Renaud’s ears turned a cherry red and his eyes welled. I hauled myself from the huge leather chair and headed for a cupboard at the far end of the room, where as expected I found three school canes. Unlike those we suffered at St. Tom’s these were not made of local ashplant, but were of sturdy, but whippy rattan, imported from one of our colonies somewhere out East. I took hold of the thickest of the three and held it between my two hands and flexed it. It had the effect on Renaud I desired. He blanched a little and looked down at the floorboards beneath his feet. I am sure he was no stranger to the sting of the cane. What boy at St. Tom’s had not felt the rod applied with some force against his stretched buttocks? It was that kind of school. It built men.

I was anxious to get on with this and instructed Renaud to follow me across to the clubhouse. This he did following at my heels like an obedient dog. Porter, anticipating my decision had kept the cricket colts behind. I swiftly informed them of the happenings of the previous few minutes and informed them of my decision. A dozen or so faces around me brightened. An Englishman likes nothing more but to witness the discomfort of another. And, let me share with you, how much more enjoyable it is when one as distinguished as the best cricketer in the team is on the receiving end.

There was a long wooden table along the centre of the room, it would prove prefect for my needs. “I want you to climb onto the table,” I intoned, “and lay flat across it.” I had no intention of instructing him to “bend over” in the more traditional style. The room had a tall roof and I knew I should be able to swing the cane high and flog it down with maximum force into Renaud’s meaty buttocks without touching the ceiling.

What colour he still had drained from his face, but I had not yet finished. “But before you do that, I want you to lower your trousers. Right down to your shoes.” There was a gasp from some boys and I looked up to see Alderman beaming with delight. Oh, I wondered, what rivalry was it that existed between the two boys? It probably transcended cricket.

I had said earlier that Renaud had not impressed me with his honour. I take back that criticism now. He undid his wide black belt. It must have taken tremendous fortitude to do so, knowing that all his teammates would witness his humiliation. I (seemingly) absent-mindedly swished the cane through empty air, waiting for the twenty-year-old to prepare himself. With surprisingly steady fingers (I thought) he unbuttoned his cricket whites and opened them up affording myself and his fellow teammates a fine view of his cock and balls encased in soft white cotton. Grim-faced he put his thumbs inside the trouser waistband and with a mere flick of the wrist sent his whites south where they formed a puddle on top of his shoes.

Neither looking to left or right and thereby ignoring his audience, Renaud climbed on the table. It was old and rickety and it swayed as he moved to settle himself into position that I wondered if it might collapse under his weight. Instinctively he stretched his arms in front of his head and gripped the far end of the table; the muscles in his back rippled underneath his white cotton shirt. I took a moment to drink in the sight. This was some athlete prostrated before me. His muscular body was exposed to my gaze. I leaned forward and gently took hold of the tail of his shirt and folded it up his back away from the target area. I took a deep breath and reached for the waist of his underwear. He wore modern elasticated Y-fronts. I pulled the waist a little and the cotton clung more to the contours of his bottom, creating a kind of ravine at his crack.

I moved back away from the table and picked up the cane once more. Renaud’s bottom stiffened, it was preparing to receive the first tremendous swipe. “Relax,” I told him. He didn’t seem to hear. In any case his bum stayed tight as I tapped the cane gently across the very centre of both cheeks. The flesh was solid, it felt like I was rapping my rod against a solid rubber ball. I raised the cane to ceiling height and with a slight twist of my body I brought it crashing down. A perfect hit. We all saw a welt rise beneath the tight white cotton. Renaud’s body shuddered, his head shook and his fingertips gripped the table edge more tightly.

I counted to fifteen in my head and went again. The second stripe hit an inch or so below the first. The cricketer wriggled his hips and his legs flailed behind him, but I thought he kept remarkably quiet considering the searing pain he must be enduring. I counted again in my head, while also looking at my audience. A boy called Robinson had his hands folded in front of his crotch; his eyes were damper than Renaud’s.

The third hit a little above the first. He now had three deep cuts running parallel across his backside. A spot of blood was turning his crisp white underpants pink. His face was as scarlet as I presumed his bottom to be. He bit deeply into his lower lip, stifling the howls that surely his body demanded he make in response to the agony it endured.

I slashed number four low, into the crease where the bottom meets the back of the thighs. His body shuddered and his legs flew again. His head hammered up and down as it butted the top of the table. Still, almost total silence, save for the gulps he made as he desperately drew air into his lungs.

I am not a cruel man: ask the men under my command in the war if you disbelieve me, but I do believe in doing things thoroughly. That was why for my next stroke I repositioned my own body slightly and placed the cane in such a way that it lay along a diagonal from the bottom left cheek up to the top right. The crack of the cane elicited a satisfying yowl from Renaud. I had broken him at last. He emptied his lungs, as well he might since that swipe had landed across the previous four cuts reigniting the pain in all of them. A pink stain spread over the snugly-fitting underpants.

You have probably already guessed what I did next. You would have done the same in my place. I moved myself again and this time placed the whippy rattan along the opposite diagonal. By the time the lash struck the meaty backside Renaud had a perfect “X” emblazoned across his bottom.

There was, naturally, a repeat of the howling. Tears and snot flowed down his beautiful face. His hair was soaked with sweat and his shirt stuck to his muscular back. From my close vantage point I saw welts had risen under his Y-fronts. They would be with him for many days and serve as a continuing reminder of this severe thrashing.

Six-of-the-best is the standard tariff for such a beating and I was content at that. I handed the cane to Porter who unsure what he was expected to do with it simply tucked it under his arm.

“That is it. It is over,” I said quietly. The boys from the cricket club took this as their cue to leave and the room emptied.

“Take the cane back to the secretary’s room,” I instructed Porter and he too left. I was alone with Renaud. I watched in silence as he climbed off the table and onto his feet. He was sobbing, but seemed to be regaining some control. Without looking at me he tugged up his trousers, wincing as the heavy material made contact with his scorched backside. He did up his wide leather belt and waited. The silence lasted for some seconds, before I realised he was waiting for me to speak.

“You are dismissed,” I intoned rather pompously and Renaud shuffled from the room in intense discomfort. I waited a full minute and when it was clear nobody was going to return to the clubhouse, I loosened the front of my trousers to deal with my own discomfort, not once reproaching myself for planting the cigarette lighter in Renaud’s jacket pocket.

Other stories you might like

Footballer’s judicial caning

Missed Opportunities

Lazy students home for the hols

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

 

What a jolly jape

z-used-cricketer-washes-in-horse-trough-champion-3

“He’s only gone and done it. I can’t believe it, Dougall’s only gone and done it.”

Geoff Arkwright’s face fell. Surely, not, he thought, he wouldn’t be so stupid.

“He said he would, and by jove he’s true to his word.” Terrence Aspel rushed through the cricket pavilion. His team mates stopped in their tracks.

“I never thought he would do it,” said one.

“I thought he was drunk when he said it,” offered another.

“He’s as daft as a brush,” chipped in a third.

Arkwright hunched his shoulders. He would get the blame, he just knew it. They would say it was his fault. He was captain of the Downshire County Cricket Club Colts, they would say he should maintain discipline.

Well, he thought, bitterly, it wasn’t like being House Captain at school. There wasn’t much he could do. He couldn’t very well order Dougall to touch his toes for six stingers from an ashplant.

“Come on lads, we’re missing all the fun,” Aspel called over his shoulder. He rushed from the pavilion, followed by seven of his team mates. Arkwright watched them go, before despondently following on. It would all end in tears he was certain of that.

Andy Dougall, the club’s opening batsman, had vowed he would strip off and wash himself in the horse trough if the county colts won the national championship. Well, the cup was safely in the trophy cabinet and now the twenty-year-old wunderkind was as good as his word. “Please God,” Arkwright prayed silently, “Don’t let him be totally naked.”

A small crowd had gathered, of course.  Children, businessmen, ladies with shopping. All had stopped to enjoy the fun. It wasn’t every day a fit naked man had a bath in a horse trough.

Arkwright watched glumly. Everyone seemed to take the jape in good spirits. Just wait until a maiden aunt sauntered by, he thought. She’d have the rozzers on Dougall, that was for certain.

It didn’t need a sweet, sheltered old lady. The police found Dougall for themselves. “What the blinking blimey?” Police Constable Percy Perkings exclaimed to his Sergeant. “What’s ’appening at the ’orse trough?” He peered through the summer’s haze. A crowd of people were staring into the trough. Sgt Truscott saw Dougall first. His jaw dropped. A naked man. In broad daylight. It was a scandal.

“Hey you!” he cried as he broke into a run. What d’you think yer doing?” PC Perkins puffed behind him, a startled look on his face.

“Break this up. Move along please,” Sgt Truscott gasped. “There’s nothing to see here,” he added, quite erroneously. The people of Downshire, were by and large a law-abiding lot. The small crowd dispersed giggling and muttering. They wouldn’t have minded if the show had continued a little longer.

“You,” Sgt Truscott’s face was puce, in part from the run he had made on a hot afternoon, and also by his genuine disgust. “Nudity. In public,” he thundered. “It’s disgusting,” Truscott gulped. “It’s against the law.”

Dougall smiled ingratiatingly. He had attended an English public school with delusions of grandeur, he knew how to deal with the servant class. “I am not in the nude,” he sneered, He was about to add, “my man,” when the sergeant took the wind from his sails.

“You look pretty nude to me,” he roared. “It’s disgusting,” he repeated.

“I am wearing a swimming costume.” Dougall flapped his hands around his midriff to draw attention to his trunks. “Not nude at all.”

PC Perkins watched from a distance. The sergeant had a wicked temper. The young boy would do well not to rile him; the constable knew that from bitter personal experience.

“You,” the Sergeant barked at Aspel, “Fetch a raincoat; he can’t stay like this.”

Meekly, Aspel trudged into the pavilion.

Dougall had dried off by the time he had been frogmarched the mile or so to the police station. The duty officer at the front desk didn’t try to conceal his merriment. A half-naked man: they would have a lot of fun with that.

“The charge is lewd behaviour,” Sgt Truscott boomed. “Put him in a cell, we’ll take him before the magistrate in the morning.” He paused, waiting for Dougall’s predictable reaction.

“Magistrate?” his face flushed. In a whirl his future flashed before him. He was one of the top up-and-coming opening batsmen in the country. There was every possibility he’d get his first England cap soon. But, not with a criminal record. Lewd behaviour in a horse trough. The story would probably get in the Sunday papers. He would be a laughing-stock. Downshire would probably sack him.

“But,” Dougall’s voice quivered in protest. “It was only a bit of fun,” he implored. “A jape. A boyish prank.”

Sgt Truscott sneered, “You’re a bit too old for boyish pranks, aren’t you?”

It was a straw and Dougall was so desperate he would clutch at anything. “I’m twenty; I’m not legally an adult,” he pleaded.

“Pah! Do you want me to telephone your father? Tell him you’re at the police station and ask him to come down?” he glared at Dougall. “Shall I ask him to fetch his slipper?”

God no! His father must never know. Dougall would never hear the end of it.

“No, I didn’t think so,” Sgt Truscott turned to the duty officer. “What do you think Fred? What shall we do with the toe rag?”

The duty officer smiled. He had heard his sergeant talk like this before. He had a shrewd idea what was on his guv’nor’s mind. “Is he too old for a good hiding, do you think Sarge?” he stared intently at Dougall, delighted to see the menace blush to his roots.

“Maybe not,” Sgt Truscott turned his back on Dougall ensuring the twenty-year-old would not see the twinkle in his eye. “Shall we call his father then?”

“No, please,” even as the words escaped his lips, Dougall knew he had given the game away. He would do anything to leave his father out.

“What about the cricket club?” Truscott winked at the duty officer, “Is there someone we could call there? A coach perhaps? Maybe six-of-the-best across the backside with a cricket stump would do the trick?”

Dougall’s temples throbbed. He was wretched. His silly prank had backfired terrifically. He needed to keep out of the magistrates’ court at all costs. But, a beating from the cricket coach was out of the question.

“Or,” Sgt Truscott turned on his heels to face Dougall, “What about the club captain. He’s ex-public school isn’t he? I bet he knows how to swing a cane. Eh, what d’you think?” The sergeant could barely suppress his delight as blood drained from Dougall’s face.

“No, please,” Dougall mumbled.

“We’ll who else can there be?” Sgt Truscott stretched his arms and waited. The boy was about to break.

Corporal punishment was the solution, Dougall knew that. He was ex-public school. St. Tom’s was a traditional school: traditional lessons, traditional games and traditional discipline. A stiff caning solved most problems. It hurt like billy-o. But it was soon over and everybody moved on with their lives. He would accept a beating for his foolishness, but not from his father. And, it would be too humiliating to have Arkwright or the club coach administer his caning.

“Well …?” Sgt Truscott asked the duty officer. “What are we to do?”

“Dunno Sarge, what does the young lad have to say?”

The stares from the police officers burned into Dougall. The young man’s heart raced. He felt so foolish. But, he had to speak up. He had to say what was on his mind. He might regret it for the rest of his life if he remained silent.

He gulped air into his lungs. “Could you do it?”

“Do what sonny?” Sgt Truscott’s face was immobile. The duty officer licked his lips.

Dougall stared intently at the worn lino beneath his feet. “You know, could you …?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The silence was intense. It was now or never.

“Would you beat me,” he whispered.

“Speak up sonny.”

Dougall had never before thought much about the police. He had no opinion about them one way or the other. Until now. Now, he hated them with a passion. He gulped in more air and curled his fingers into fists. “Would you beat me,” he enunciated clearly.

“Say, please.”

Dougall’s fingernails bit deeply into the palms of his hands. “Per-lease.”

“I think that could be arranged, don’t you officer?” Sgt Truscott strode towards the back of the police station. “Follow me, lad. Come this way.” Sorrowfully, Dougall skipped down the corridor after the quickly disappearing policeman.

The room was usually used for interviews. There wasn’t much furniture. There didn’t need to be. There was a small wooden table in the centre surrounded by four chairs; and not much else. Sgt Truscott silently moved the chairs to the edge of the room; they would be of no use for what he had in mind.

Slowly, he unbuttoned his jacket and slid it off his shoulders. Seconds later it was in a heap on one of the chairs.

“Take off your raincoat and put it over there,” Sgt Truscott nodded to his own jacket. Dougall thought he was calm, but he couldn’t get his fingers to obey him. At last the buttons were undone and the coat removed. Sgt Truscott drew in breath. He couldn’t remember the last time he stood so close to a nearly naked man. The swimming trunks fitted Dougall snugly and the outline of his cock and balls was visible. It took an effort, but Sgt Truscott didn’t stare.

Instead, his own hands shook as he unbuckled the belt that held up his baggy serge trousers. Dougal stared intently. It was a long, thick, wide strip of leather. It looked terrifically heavy as the sergeant folded it once and then again until he had a punishment strap about a foot long.

Truscott ran the tip of his tongue across his top lip. “Shall we get this over with then?”

Dougall answered with an almost imperceptible nod.

“Climb up onto the table. Lay flat out.” The sergeant watched intently as Dougall stretched himself across the worn wooden table top.

“It helps if you fold your arms and rest your face in them,” the sergeant spoke kindly. He saw Dougall’s muscles in his back ripple as he manoeuvred to get into place. The twenty-year-old was some athlete. There wasn’t an ounce of spare fat on his body; his legs were like tree trunks and his bottom was firm and round. Almost absent-mindedly, Sgt Truscott reached to the waist of the swimming trunks and tugged slightly. Now, they fitted like a second skin. The crack between Dougall’s cheeks was clearly defined. The young man made a terrific target.

The crack of leather on stretched cotton bounced off the walls of the tiny room echoing two or three times before petering out. Dougall shut his teeth. It hurt. More than he might have imagined, but he was no stranger to corporal punishment. He screwed up his eyes to absorb the pain and settled himself for whack number two. It wasn’t long in coming. The sergeant twisted his own body and sent the leather scorching into the underside of Dougall’s buttocks. With his prey lying flat in front of him, the punisher was able to choose his target with great accuracy. Had the boy been bent across the table or over the back of a chair, a great deal of his flesh would have been hidden away from the direct line of the lashing leather.

Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! It was a long, thorough whipping, deep and cleansing. It was slow but steady with each stroke precisely placed. Dougall silently counted them all and when Truscott reached thirty the sergeant stopped.

The young man’s eyes shone. His rear end throbbed. His heart raced, blood flew through his arteries. His ears felt like they would burst. His lungs were raw. His body was thoroughly beaten; but he had lived.

“Stand up. Get back into your raincoat. Get out.” Sgt Truscott could not get rid of the boy too quickly. Dougall had no desire to stay. It was over. There would be no appearance before the magistrate. No scandal in the Sunday newspapers. His chances of an England cap remained strong. Gingerly, he hobbled from the room and limped down the passageway to the front door.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was still sunny. Summer was not yet quite over. His bum felt raw. It was a scorching sensation very unlike the pain from six with the cane. It would take some time for the burning to fade.

He must at all costs resist the temptation to sit in the cool water of the horse trough to relieve his suffering, he smiled to himself as he set off back to the cricket club to collect his clothes.

 

Picture credit: The Champion

Other stories you might like

The Crammer

Toby’s father visits

A preacher teaches humility

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Spanking Vicar 10. The Cricketer

cricket

The Spanking Vicar, episode 1 is here

Episode 9, The Scout Leader is here

 

Thwack!! “Ooooow!”

Thwack!! “Aaarghh!”

Craig padded down the stairs at the vicarage.

Thwack!! Thwack!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The previous Saturday

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

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

But not that day.

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

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

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

“Selfish.”

“Untrustworthy.”

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

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

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

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

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

And so were his club mates.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bend over my knee Terry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Trousers down!” the chant resumed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right-ho Vicar.”

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

Then it was over.

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

An uneasy silence followed. What was to be said?

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

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

Fifteen cricketers shuffled out the club house.

“Good job.”

“He deserved it.”

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

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

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

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

Other stories you might like.

The TV repairman

The cheating student

The pub manager

 

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com