Appointments at the Vicarage

From Blushes 20

‘Clarissa!’

The Reverend Francis Towney intoned the word to himself as he cycled along the lane back to the vicarage. A lovely June afternoon made into something superlative by thoughts of that quite heavenly Clarissa. He tried little extra conceits of his own. Clarissima. Clarissabel. What a simply stunning girl. Attempting for the moment to picture the stunning Clarissa with her bottom bare the Reverend Towney almost failed to negotiate a bend in the lane and very nearly finished up in the hedge.

Clarissa Wrangham. Niece at the big house, Wrangham Grange. A tall, shapely, succulent 17 and there since yesterday, for the school summer holidays. A glorious 10 weeks. Glorious because he, Francis Towney, had been requested by Lady Celia Wrangham to do something about Clarissa’s history. Which apparently was not up to scratch.

‘According to her school report, Mr Towney, the gel is making very heavy weather of it.’

Francis Towney of course had read History at Oxford — before his priestly studies. How fantastically fortunate! ‘I’d be obliged if you keep her at it, Mr Towney. Keep the gel’s nose down.’

Francis Towney would keep her nose down all right if he got half a chance. Her nose down and her gorgeous bottom up. He pictured her in that position bent over the back of his chair. With his trembling hands up under her skirts, at whatever gorgeous underthings — lacy silk he imagined — were to be discovered there. Drawing the frothy items down and then… Smacking it? Or the cane…? Once again he veered perilously close to the luxuriant hedgerow.

But one couldn’t just do it. ‘Look here, Clarissa, I’m afraid this work is not up to scratch so I’m going to have to take your knickers down and spank your bottom.’ (or cane it.) No, that was not on. She would just fix him with those big blue eyes and cuttingly respond. ‘I’m afraid I shall have to report this quite improper suggestion to my aunt, Mr Towney. So boo sucks to you.’ (Or words to that effect.)

No, one would need some sort of hold over the divine creature before one could seriously contemplate putting those mind-boggling thoughts into action. And really he did need to put them into action. Because while imagining Clarissa’s bare bottom and picturing himself getting to work on it was indeed ravishing he would sooner or later need to have the reality or he would go mad with frustration. So yes, some hold, some guilty secret, would undoubtedly be needed.

On the face of it this posed a problem. Clarissa did not normally reside at the Grange of course, she was a stranger to these parts, so there would be no local liaisons — no horny village youths or an equally randy gardener, say, slyly prodding the heavenly girl on the quiet. But perhaps, thought Francis Towney dreamily pushing the pedals, he could introduce her to some such overheated local youth. And then keep a very close eye on them, following secretly until nature took its course.

Hmmm. Francis was not really keen on the central theme of this ploy, effective though it might be. One would very much need to step in before nature took its course and before the loutish youth (and Francis Towney could call to mind one or two very likely customers) achieved his satisfaction.

For the thought of such a person actually achieving intercourse with that divine Clarissa was too much. And of course 17-year-old girls could be quite as randy as their male counterparts and the divine girl in spite of those innocent blue eyes could conceivably be prepared to open wide her stunning (though so far only imagined by Francis Towney) thighs. Oh yes, that particular ploy would need very careful thought before being resorted to. But the trouble was the Reverend Towney could not think of a lot else that was feasible.

There were other means for getting control of a pretty young person. Shoplifting, for instance, but it was highly unlikely that Clarissa Wrangham was into that. Francis Towney pedalled abstractedly on. Shoplifting had done very satisfactorily with young Julie Parkins. And that young lady should be waiting for him at the vicarage when, shortly now, he returned. Yes, Julie Parkins. Not in the same league as Clarissa Wrangham but nonetheless very nice indeed to be going on with.

Sixteen-year-old Julie had been apprehended sliding a few knick-knacks into her bag in a newsagents-cum-stationers in the nearby town. The proprietor had got on to her parents and they, most distraught, had consulted the vicar. An excellent and very wise decision. Of course the Reverend Towney could help and would be only too pleased. Julie was a most attractive girl: not in the class of something like Miss Wrangham but one did not spend one’s life merely dreaming about girls like that when you could get your hands on some very acceptable real live flesh.

Francis Towney in the privacy of his study had applied some not very subtle pressure — one could even uncharitably call it blackmail. Stressing the enormity of Julie’s crime and pointing out the dreadful prospects if it were made public. But if it was not to be made public he, the Reverend Towney, would have to deal with Julie quite severely. Did she accept this?

Julie in a real state — she had not really meant to lift those items etc. etc. — was only too pleased to agree. It would also have to be just the two of them, went on Francis Towney. If she breathed a word to anyone then he would spill the whole beans.

Yes, unhappy Julie was agreeable to this as well.

‘Very sensible,’ the vicar pronounced. And so would she kindly slip her knickers down and then step forward and place herself over the Reverend Towney’s lap.

Well it was better than having your shaming act made public, wasn’t it? Over Mr Towney’s lap with your skirt up round your waist and your knickers down round your knees and Mr Towney first of all having a good grope at that splendid bare bum and them commencing to really crack his hand down on it. It was not nice, not nice at all, it hurt and it was also just plain nasty and horrid but it was better than the other.

Julie might have had some vague thoughts that that was it; that one breath-taking spanking in Mr Towney’s study. Unfortunately this was not so. She had to come back again two evenings later. This time Mr Towney had equipped himself with a cane. A fearful, long, thin, whippy cane that made you feel quite sick to look at and made you want to turn tail and run. But you couldn’t do that. You had to stay and take it. On your bare and tender bottom.

Bending over the back of his chair with your skirt up and your knickers down as before only this time… Oh Jesus Christ! The stinging splatt of that cane was quite out of this world.

That was some weeks ago but it hadn’t stopped. Francis Towney was still doing it. Once a week, on Saturday afternoons, when unhappy Julie was required to come to the vicarage for a session of Bible study. As she had shown that unfortunate weakness in the face of temptation, Francis Towney told Julie’s mother, a regular and uplifting session of study was highly desirable. The good lady wholeheartedly agreed.

And so this was where the unfortunate Julie now had to go on her Saturday afternoons. To the vicarage. To sit on Mr Towney’s lap and have him rub and squeeze her quite big tits through her T-shirt or blouse (no bra on Mr Towney’s instruction). And when Mr Towney’s busy hand wasn’t doing that it was up under her skirt doing something else. But all of this was merely a prelude, the preliminaries, for the main course — or main courses. Spanking Julie’s bottom, and then caning it.

This was what Julie was going to get now, shortly, when Francis Towney arrived back at the vicarage again, it being Saturday today. So there was something for the moment to take the mind off the divine Clarissa. Francis Towney indeed as he got nearer to his residence and with the scent of the prey, so to speak, in his nostrils, quite abandoned those heady but disturbing thoughts of Miss Wrangham and began pedalling with a new purpose. No more meanderings from one side of the lane to the other but propelling himself along a firm, straight course with energetic thrustings.

And once home he was equally energetic and thrusting, refusing even a cup of tea from Mrs Hallom his housekeeper as he went straight into the study to the waiting Julie, closing the door firmly behind him. Ah yes! Young Julie and the various rotundities of her ripening form were like water in the desert. The Reverend Francis Towney drank eagerly.

But Clarissa. Comely Clarissa, that blushing blue-eyed flower of the upper classes. As soon as Julie was gone on her sore-bottomed way, Clarissa’s vision loomed achingly again in Francis Towney’s susceptible mind. How was he, in the course of these history sessions with her, to achieve that heart’s desire and gain acquaintance with those stunning rear quarters? Which in Lady Celia’s drawing room, after the dream of a girl had been introduced (a frank look of the deep blue eyes which were then demurely lowered), had held him transfixed as she turned and walked out. Clarissa had been wearing shorts, quite tight ones, and poor impressionable Francis Towney had almost come on the spot.

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The Reverend Francis Towney was still pondering his problem 24 hours later. Not calmly or dispassionately however for now he was actually in the divine presence. In his study again but with now Clarissa where yesterday Julie had been. Clarissa’s first tutorial — the French Revolution — on this Sunday afternoon. Clarissa’s divine bottom seated in an easy chair with Francis Towney likewise seated at her side and able to breathe in the delicate, bewitching scent of those blonde locks, that heavenly body lightly clothed in a pretty summer dress.

He was supposed of course to be thinking of the French Revolution, holding forth in a learned manner on its various aspects and intricacies. So far, though, after half an hour, Francis Towney had barely mentioned the subject, content to engage in idle banter which put no pressure on his mental processes and enabled his mind to wander freely over matters of considerably greater interest to him.

It was his first real meeting with Clarissa and she seemed a bright and friendly girl, chatting happily on, mostly about school. She did really have the deepest, most heavenly, blue eyes. And at the front of the pink-flowered dress a pair of impressive bulges seemingly almost as big as Julie who was very well developed in that department. Before, yesterday, Francis Towney had not really noticed this, his mind so bewitched by Clarissa’s shorts and in particular the seat of the shorts.

It was this same region, what she was now seated on, that still held sway in the Reverend Towney’s heated mind and which had been primarily responsible for the almost continuous erection he had had since Clarissa’s arrival. To think of it, as Julie’s had been yesterday… over the back of that chair…

‘Uh… excuse me, Mr Towney.’

Clarissa, her cheerful chat for the moment stemmed, had a somewhat embarrassed look on her face. She had also it seemed over the previous few minutes been squirming somewhat on her chair. Some more ‘Er’s and ‘Uh’s and then the heavenly girl reluctantly spelled it out. Could she please pay a visit to the loo. A flushing, embarrassed grin. ‘I don’t think I should have had that wine at lunch.’

Francis Towney grinned himself. ‘Of course.’ His erection had become even more rampant. He gave her directions and watched as she hurried out, full skirt swaying seductively. The Reverend Towney gave himself up to heady thoughts of Clarissa that short distance away, lifting the dress and lowering her knickers and then…

But then his eyes happened to alight on Clarissa’s handbag. Innocent and unprotected on his desk. There was always the possibility… that a girl’s handbag might contain something incriminating, some diary or whatever. Francis Towney leapt to his feet and quite regardless of the fact that it was Sunday and that in any case his action was hardly in the best traditions of Christian honesty and decency he opened it. There was a diary. He fished it out, feverishly opening its pages. But then something else, down there in the depths of the blue leather bag. Shining somewhat. He reached in again…

A little foil packet. The Reverend Towney’s heart, already thudding, redoubled its tempo. He was a man of the cloth but not a complete innocent in worldly matter. By no means. And Francis Towney knew what he held in his fingers: what indeed was inside this little foil packet. With trembling hand he put it back, and also the diary. Clipped the bag shut. Resumed his seat.

Shortly a flush-faced Clarissa returned. She made a face. ‘That feels a lot better.’

‘Ah yes,’ observed her equally flush-faced host, his brain now gone into overdrive. Gone entirely now, of course, were any lingering thoughts of the French Revolution.

He shortly gave a little grin. ‘Before we start why don’t we have a quick test of your mental alertness. I remember a game we used to play in the Scouts. Kim’s Game I think it was called. You look at a number of objects for a minute and then try to remember each one.’

The divine Clarissa with now no pressing bladder problems seemed willing enough to take part in this. ‘And what shall we use?’ pondered the vicar. But not for long as with ‘I know!’ he simply grabbed Clarissa’s handbag, opened it and shook its contents onto the desk. There was an anguished screech from the bewitching blonde. She made a lunge for the desk — for a certain object. Objects in fact for there were two of the little packets. But Francis Towney grabbed Clarissa (thrilling contact!) and held her away.

Yes indeed. In amongst all the rest — diary, lipstick, powder compact, pen, pencils, sticking plaster, other bits and pieces — two foil-covered packets. Clarissa said ‘Oh Christ.’ The Reverend Towney asked, ‘What have we here?’

His hand spread the little pile out and then picked up the two items. ‘Jesus Christ!’ gasped Clarissa. Which was perhaps going a little too far in a vicar’s study on a Sunday afternoon but one could understand her feelings. Mr Towney said sharply, ‘Please watch that language, Miss. And pray tell me what we have here.’

A rhetorical question naturally. What they had there without doubt was what are known in the common vernacular as ‘rubbers’. Items designed to enable a girl to enjoy the pleasures of sexual intercourse free from fear of unfortunate after-effects. Clarissa, bright red with embarrassment, had great difficulty finding words after her desperate call to the Almighty. Francis Towney, looking thoughtful, pocketed the items in question.

‘I feel sure your dear aunt would be most interested to know you are in possession of these things.’

‘I haven’t used them!’ blurted Clarissa, finding her tongue now. ‘I mean I’ve never, uh, done it.’

She went on to claim that a girl at school had a supply and she had given them out to favoured acquaintances just in case. Francis Towney, face stern, repeated what he had said about Aunt Celia.

‘No! You can’t! I mean, well, she wouldn’t understand.’

Reverend Towney said he was quite sure Aunt Celia would not understand. He was feeling quite light-headed. It was difficult to believe that suddenly, from nowhere, the problem he had been battling with was solved. He had the gorgeous girl in his power now. He could do it. He could do it now, this very afternoon.

He began a pompous spiel about standards and modern youth and suchlike. Aunt Celia should be told and if she was to be then it was his duty to deal out a little reminder so that Clarissa would realise the very serious error of her ways. It was all very reminiscent of that interview with Julie Parkins. And naturally the little reminder would be the same too.

‘Not the cane!’ Clarissa breathed.

Yes indeed. ‘Oh no! Please!’ she wailed. But naturally with what Francis Towney now had in his pocket pleadings would get her precisely nowhere.

‘Go in that little room next door. Take your dress off plus any slip or whatever that you may be wearing, and then when I ring my bell come back in immediately.’ Reverend Towney gave a little demonstrative tinkle with the hand-bell sitting on his desk. He rather felt like adding a little ceremony to events. And also, well, he needed a break.

After some more quite ineffectual pleadings, Clarissa went out and Francis Towney closed his door. It really was almost too much. His excitement was at fever pitch. So much so that — well, he simply couldn’t contain himself. He had to release the tension, the heady excitement, now. And then… ahh… afterwards… ooohhh… he would be able… mmmm… fully to enjoy his prize.

Yes. Five minutes later the Reverend Towney’s bell gave its peremptory tinkle. Francis Towney himself now more relaxed, though at the same time most eager. Just right in fact. Clarissa entered. A vision. Stripped off and flushing shyly. Truly magnificent. A white basque and white stockings. Candy-striped silk panties. Francis Towney’s excitement immediately took off again in spite of that very recent relief.

Controlling his emotions as best he could, he told her to go and fetch his cane, from the cupboard. And then to please lower those knickers. Oh Dear Lord! And after that to bend herself over the back of the chair. Oh my! Oh my! Francis Towney’s cane twitching in his hand, almost with a life of its own. Clarissa’s full bottom now trembling over the chair back… It was quite beyond words.

He got into position and got to work. His thoughts, though, were not completely concentrated. Those items in his pocket; weighing heavily it seemed, drawing attention to themselves. As if eager to be put to use. And it did seem to Francis Towney that the divine Clarissa would have no real option but to agree…