LESSONS AT THE VICARAGE, PART 3

I wasn't the only boy who had lessons from Rev Truscott, of course. My school friend Oliver, aged thirteen like me, was another - and one day I came into the Vicarage to return a book - and halted at the sound of a familiar sound coming from the study - that is, the resounding SMACK-SMACK-SMACK-SMACK! of a hard palm on a bare bottom and the usual ear-splitting sounds coming from the other end. The door was half-open - I put my head gingerly around the door, and there was Oliver over Sir's knee, completely nude-bare, while Sir's large palm cracked hard and repeatedly down on his poor bot, gradually turning it scarlet all over.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Oliver must really have been pretty naughty, because for each smack Sir was lifting his hand up as hard as he could, and bringing it down with the maximum force of his arm - and FAST!

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

I couldn't take my eyes away, and was particularly fascinated by the way that Oliver's bum-cheeks quivered madly at each smack, and by the furious kicking of his long legs. In fact, he was extremely athletic over Sir's lap, bouncing, twisting, throwing himself from side to side - all in vain , though. And he was screaming as loudly as I did when I got it - louder, even, because it was so hard. Oliver was a good swimmer, I knew, and as his bottom was reddened his legs were thrashing up and down like he was doing the Australian crawl. Good practice for the next school gala, perhaps!

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Finally it was over, then Oliver, still bawling at the top of his voice, had to 'perform' just I always did, with Sir ordering, 'Wriggle, writhe! Harder, HARDER!' I must say that - when it was someone else - it looked really funny, and I tried hard not to giggle out loud as I watched Oliver's scarlet bot-cheeks jumping, bouncing, and quivering on Sir's lap.

When Oliver had finally been allowed to stand up, red-eyed and blubbering loudly, he looked mortified to see that I had been watching - also that he had bawled like that in front of both of us. Sir didn't give him his clothes back but, as with me, gave him a cushion, then made him sit crying at his work while he got me the book I wanted.

Of course I told Oliver afterwards about my own spankings from Sir. Later we had lessons together sometimes, and we got quite used to seeing each other getting smacked bottoms. Though, of course we never got to like it!

It wasn't long after we started getting lessons together that, inevitably, we got into trouble together - though the results were not quite as we might have been expected. It was on a Saturday morning, we were playing football in the field next the vicarage, and were due to go in for our class at twelve. To our horror, we heard the church clock strike. Oh, gosh, GOLLY! It would have been funny to see the way that Oliver clapped his hands to the rear of his shorts - if I hadn't felt my own bot-cheeks clenching at the thought of what was surely to come. We scampered madly over to the vicarage, still in our football kit and rather muddy; when we were shown into the study by a disapproving housemaid, we started stammering our apologies.

He held up his hand to silence us. 'You're not late, fortunately for you.'

'Oh, good!' Wow -weren't we both relieved!

He held up his hand again. 'I hadn't finished. No, you are not late - or not seriously late - but you ARE in a filthy mess, both of you - and I can't teach you like that. I'm not going to spank you, but I AM going to bath you. Get ready, while I run the water.'

'Oh, SIR!'

He went across to the door, then said, 'And when I say get ready, I mean that I want to find both of you BARE when I come down again - or else!'

Then he paused in the doorway and asked, 'Who baths you at home?'

We both said our Mums did.

'So you've never had a man bath you?'

I said, 'Well, my dad does sometimes - if he feels like it.'

'Mm,' said Sir doubtfully. 'Well, at your age you don't just need a man's hand on your bottoms -which you've had, of course - but all over you as well! Now - GET BARE!'

When he had gone Oliver stared at me and asked, 'He's going to smack us all over?'

I said, 'Don't be daft, just bath us. Though, if we don't get bare quickly, he might!'

'Wow-EE!' And were both out of our clothes in an instant. While we waited for Sir to come down, we caught sight of ourselves in the hall mirror, and couldn't help giggling. We looked rather funny, standing there in the hallway completely nude-bare.

When Sir came down he pointed angrily at our football kits tumbled on the floor, and waited till we folded them neatly on a hall chair. Then we had to run upstairs to the bathroom while he came behind with towels.

In another moment we were in the bath together, where he stood us up in turn and gosh, he did give us a thorough one. He didn't use a sponge, just his large palms, which he soaped repeatedly, turning each of us this way and that, rubbing us hard ALL over, ignoring our wriggles and squeals as he attended to our most ticklish places - and when he washed our bottoms we both had to bend right forward with our hands on the opposite side of the bath, while he rubbed right in between our bot-cheeks, as hard as he could. Didn't THAT make us both squall! Finally he made us splash each other down - then, at last, we were standing out on the mat waiting to be dried. Apparently in a good humour, he asked, 'Well, do you get bathed like THAT at home?

We grinned and shook our heads. 'No, sir.' Then, feeling something more was required, I said, 'Thank you, sir!' and Oliver said the same.

After we had been thoroughly rubbed dry, I looked down and saw that I was sticking up as hard as anything - not surprisingly - and so was Oliver.

Sir saw it too of course, stopped us leaving the bathroom, and said shortly, 'Attend to yourselves now, please. You can't go downstairs like that.' He got a bundle of tissues then sat on a stool watching us, like it was a TVshow!

There was nothing else for it. Red-faced, I took a firm grip and started work as hard and as fast as possible, to get it over quickly, and so did Oliver. It was even more embarrassing than last time, with both of them there, and I tried not to make any noise, but soon I heard myself going 'oh-oh-oh', and couldn't keep still either. I started to twist, and my feet started to hammer up and down on the bathroom tiles, almost like when I'm running on the spot in gym-class. And Oliver did too - and when at last, in spite of myself, I yelled out, 'Waaaaaaaah!' I heard Oliver joining in that as well!

Then we wiped ourselves, and - as I'd guessed we would, we had to stay naked-bare for our class, as he said we couldn't put on these 'filthy' clothes again. He had a blackboard, and would make each of us get up to write on it in turn; like with my lesson before, I think he liked watching us walk around like that. He even made a joke - if a joke it was - about how he preferred our 'new school uniforms' to the others, and that perhaps that would become our 'regular' uniform. I just hoped it WAS a joke! I also was aware of the maid moving around the house, and hoped she wouldn't come in; I was sure I would absolutely die of shame if she did!

Worse than that was to come, though. When the lesson came we scampered gratefully into the hallway to get our clothes, but Sir stopped us. 'Leave them where they are and wait' he said shortly.

He came back in a moment with two small carrier bags. 'Take one each and put your kits in them.'

We stared at him. 'But - but what will we go home in?' Oliver asked.

Sir said, 'You surely don't think I'm going to let you put these dirty kits on after all the trouble I've had in bathing you. I'll take you home in my car.'

'But - the car's down by your gate,' I faltered. 'Everyone will see us.'

Sir said angrily, 'When you have a bath you're bare, and you've both had a bath; don't be stupid. And there's no-one to see you. Now, hurry.'

We tried to argue, the Sir said, 'Very well, if you would rather have 'everyone' see you with red bottoms, just say so. VERY red bottoms.'

That settled it. Reluctantly we packed our kits into the bag and ran after him him barefoot (and bare everything else) down to the car, feeling horribly chilly and exposed, and waited in a fever of impatience while he fumbled for his keys. No-one was around outside, but I saw a curtain in the vicarage flicker, and was sure the maid was at the window.

The car trip wasn't so bad, though my bare bum felt funny on the cold leather of the seats, but at least the old-fashioned car, a large Austin, was high-sided, and no-one could see in. Sir wouldn't even, though, let us hold our bags on our laps, but took charge of them both.

Soon - too soon - we were at Oliver's house. Ignoring his protests, Sir took him by the arm and marched him up the garden path, the bag with his clothes in the other hand. I would have giggled at how funny he looked, his bot-cheeks quivering as he went, if I hadn't known that I would be next.

I saw Oliver's mum open the door - oddly, she didn't seem at all surprised, or even to notice he was bare; she just greeted them both, heard Sir's brief explanation, then smiled and thanked him - then the door had closed and Sir returned.

I took a deep breath as we neared my own house. This would be hard for me, I knew, especially as I had three sisters! And I was right to worry. Mum, like Oliver's mum, didn't say much, just thanked Sir and said how nice it was to see me so clean all over - though that was embarrassing enough. But my giggling younger sister, who had appeared when the door opened, quickly fetched the other two and they all had a really good look at me before I was finally able to run gratefully up to my room, pursued by another gale of giggles.

And they teased me unmercifully for the next few days - usually rather subtly, in the way girls do. One would say, 'I'm just taking the BARE essentials today,' or another would say, 'I'll tell you the NAKED truth.' At which more giggles. My elder sister even offered to bath me instead of mum. 'I've seen everything now, so you won't be shy,' she said. I refused!

The warm summer went on. Sometimes we had our lessons in the garden, though it felt funny getting a bare-bottom spanking out there, as we both did sometimes. And the neighbours, I'm afraid, must have thought we were very bad boys indeed, needing to get that!

The worst punishment we got, though, was when we both went out on our bikes, forgot the time, and arrived for our lessons nearly an hour late, and with absolutely none of our homework done. Sir was furious, and punished us both together in the big bedroom upstairs, where - for the first and only time - he produced the C-A-N-E! We were turned over the side of the bed completely bare, then he caned our bottoms HARD - going on and on till we were both screaming louder than we ever had in our lives. After that he supervised us in a very, very long wriggle, then we were taken through and thoroughly bathed, red-bottomed and still bawling, while Sir lectured us on our misbehaviour. I should say, too, that he washed our unfortunate bottoms just as diligently as he usually did - even more, in fact - ignoring our fresh howls.

To my additional shame, he phoned my parents to tell them what he'd done and, when I got home I had the disgrace of having to take my pants down for them to look, and then hearing them ring to congratulate Sir on his 'good work' and telling him to keep it up. I learned later that it had been the same for Oliver - in fact worse, because after looking at his scarlet bottom, his mother had turned him across her knee and made it even more scarlet; she said it was for bringing shame on them. In school next day, he found sitting down even more difficult than I did!

Well, these days will never come back. And, of course, I passed my Common Entrance easily. But, I must say, when from time to time, at Public School, I felt the bite of the cane on my bare bot following some misdeed or other, I felt almost nostalgic for the firm but fair smack of Mr Truscott's large palm in that old-fashioned country vicarage.

So that's my story. If you have any comments, I'd love you to write to me at: guignol@aol. com