What a jolly jape

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“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

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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

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com