The Vicar Was A Cunt (M/M) NEW!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Brand spanking new fiction by your host, Rod Cayenne. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly, strictly adults only!

The village had grown and grown, I guess you’d say. Some really old thatched cottages lined London Road, while a fair few council houses were added post-war, principally in an area know as The Paddocks. It was in one of those generously-sized new red brick homes that Mum and I lived. Father had run off with another woman soon after I was born, but fortunately our tenancy had already been secured.

Mother was quite religious and gradually fell under the spell of our shadowy vicar, Reverend Tony Swindenholme-Janes. The vicarage was adjacent to the imposing Gothic church of St. Bede. The vicar was a grey-haired, bespectacled old fellow. He’d started as a teacher, but the calling of the cloth caused a change in career later in life. Mother apparently let him know that I was aiming for a degree at the local Polytechnic, and such aspiration was quite a rarity among The Paddocks community.

The vicar and my mother had hatched a plan between them, or so I was led to believe. To get my A level grades, and to achieve my place on the degree course I would need some old-fashioned encouragement. I was to report to the vicar every month, on or about the first of the month. He would review my school-work and assess it. If he felt it wasn’t up to standard, then corporal punishment would be applied. I was appalled! They had the cane at school, but it was very rarely used and I had managed to escape it with ease.

The first time I went to see him was with my mum. He reviewed my school work, thumbing through my essays and noting my teachers’ comments. He then moved on to my most recent school report. He shook his head several times, tutting annoyingly and he whistled with disbelief at one point. It was a good act he put on, he really should have been on the stage! Of course the conclusion was inevitable. He and mum decided that more effort was needed, and that I was deliberately coasting. Punishment was inevitable. He pulled open a drawer and extracted a vicious-looking brown leather strap. He nodded to my mother who made herself scarce. In fact, she went home via the corner shop, gossiping to elderly proprietor Mr. Arnold about my failings and the solution she had found.

“Ten strokes of the strap, young Michael,” the vicar announced, “To help motivate you with your studies. This is a tariff I have agreed with your mother. You may keep your trousers on, but if we have to do this again, they will be coming down; right down. Is that clear?”

Shit, I didn’t fancy that at all. But I couldn’t argue. I was outvoted, and they were right, no doubt. I had been slacking, or coasting as he had called it. There was a real risk that I would not get the grades I needed.

The strap lashed down. I was bent over his desk in the study of the vicarage. The crack was phenomenal, and the pain on my left flank was a real shock. He whacked the next stroke down. It landed firmly on my right buttock, jolting me and making me gasp. Indeed, each and every one of those ten strokes caused me to gasp, yelp or cry out. It was such a humiliation. I was fighting back tears, with limited success, by the time the tenth and last whack crashed down. My arse was alight, I was beaten and in some kind of shock. How could a religious man be so cruel, I asked myself.

Later, back in my room at home, I nursed the tender teenage flesh of my bottom. I’d found some hand cream of mum’s and applied a generous layer all over the inflamed areas. It seemed to help that night, but I couldn’t repeat it as mother might not have approved of my nicking her cream to ameliorate the effects of the punishment she had initiated. I didn’t dare risk upsetting her or that damned vicar.

Later that same night, I had to masturbate myself off to sleep. It was the only way I could process the pain and the shame of the events of the day. I did manage to cum, and was duly relieved. I was careful not to spill my seed onto my striped pyjamas, as again I didn’t want to incur mum’s wrath, or that of the vicar, for masturbation was undoubtedly a sin back in those days. Fortunately, I had “borrowed” a few sheets of toilet roll to mop up my warm sperm. Come the morning I found I had to do it again. In fact, as it was a bank holiday weekend, there was an awful lot of wanking to be done!

I came to the conclusion that the vicar was a cunt. A total cunt, if you ask me. Which you probably weren’t going to do! I immediately hated his guts, but I wanted to keep Mum happy, and I did want to get to Polytechnic, so I suppose I couldn’t begrudge the extra motivation, however unpleasant it was. Unfortunately, the ante was soon upped. The proposal for monthly assessments was abandoned in favour of a fortnightly review. This was bad news as I always ended up being thrashed, meaning my bottom was sore, bruised and tender for most of the start of my eighteenth year. The trousers had started coming down, and then the underpants, and the strap was quickly replaced by the cane. He had learnt to cane hard and to cane well while he was a teacher, so he was a real expert. The cane on bare flesh was almost impossible to take. Somehow I managed it though. I wouldn’t say I built a tolerance for it, but I was reluctant to show him how much it hurt. I made a point of not telling mum about my thrashings, but I had a feeling the vicar did tell her about them, and in lurid detail. As far as I was concerned, I had to learn how to hide my feelings, and I had to learn how to study hard.

With time, I found a strange excitement in my canings. I still hated them, but made the best of a bad situation by mooning the vicar quite flagrantly as I prepared for a beating, and made a point of sticking my bottom out to meet the stick each time it prepared to lash me. After a caning I would rush home to masturbate, even if mum was around. It was a simple job to lock my bedroom door, drop my pants, feel the weals and pump my penis. Mum didn’t seem to notice the vast amounts of peach-coloured toilet tissue I was getting through!

It was the time he caned me in church, rather than in the vicarage, that upset me most. I’d failed to make the grades I needed! I would have to stay on at school until Christmas to do my re-sits! It didn’t seem right to bare my arse in the holy, sacred surroundings of St. Bede’s. Although in another way, it did. Perhaps it was like a holy penance? Anyway, that day I got a full twelve strokes on the bare, bent over a wooden pew. At first, I thought he’d lost count as six or eight was the usual tariff but then I realised the horrific truth as the rattan continued to bite and slice into my flesh. Perhaps doing it in the church brought out the worst of the sadist in him?

Anyway, it was my belief that the vicar got his rocks off beating me and a few other lads with misguided, over-trusting parents. Most paid him visits to atone for misbehaviour, but with me it was laziness and lack of motivation that resulted in literally dozens of canings, which continued even after I started my studies at Polytechnic. I couldn’t tell whether he had an erection hidden by his black robes and his paunch when he caned me, but I assume that he did. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? Yes, the vicar was a cunt, but I suppose in a funny way he did help me get where I wanted to be.

EPILOGUE

It was in 2002, some thirty years later, that I suddenly fancied going to see the “old cunt” again. I tracked him down to a bungalow in the village. At almost 80, he was delighted to hear from me, and as I skirted around the subject, he mentioned that he still had a couple of canes and his old leather motivator. I got to feel them used in anger again, on several occasions. OK, so he wasn’t as angry as when I was a teenager, or my bare arse was far more resilient than it used to be! Either way it hurt, but we were both bachelors and there was pleasure to be taken. My cock responded well every time I visited. I also used to suck the vicar’s penis for him. He seemed to like that. I even got to share his bed. Whatever would my dear old mum have made of all of that?

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are over 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Story © MMXVIII by Rod Cayenne.  All rights reserved.

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