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Authors: Amanita Virosa

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Rectory of Correction (12 page)

BOOK: Rectory of Correction
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Charlotte felt herself begin to blush under this rebuke. She stared at the floor and swallowed hard.

‘Cane, cords, birch or spanking strap?' the sergeant asked, opening a large book with the easy air of one performing a familiar task.

‘Oh, I think it is time the young lady experienced the cords.'

The sergeant picked up his pen, then looked up at Charlotte and winked. ‘Aye, that old cat will make this kitten mewl, I'll warrant. On the bare?'

‘Most certainly on the bare. As she has elected flagellation by a feminine hand, there can be no issues of propriety that might necessitate protection for her person.'

‘Quite, quite.' The sergeant nodded in agreement as he inscribed the decision in his book. ‘Number of strokes?'

‘Well, as it is a first offence...' the Reverend Dawes fingered his chin thoughtfully.

A fist seemed to churn in Charlotte's vitals as she waited to hear her fate.

‘Two dozen should suffice,' he said at last, catching Charlotte's elbow as she swayed. ‘Lift your skirt, girl.'

‘Lift my...' Charlotte mumbled. After all the talk of propriety she was stunned by this order. There seemed to be no help for it, however, so she gripped the hem of her uniform skirt and obeyed.

‘I say, that
is
quite a grip. I'd heard, of course, but...' Sergeant Billings chortled as, blushing furiously, Charlotte exposed her whipping drawers to his gaze.

‘It will take a little while for her to take them off. I wonder if you have a private place?'

‘Of course, she can disrobe in one of the cells. Constable Prentice will be half an hour or so, in any case.'

 

It was warm in the classroom, with several gurgling, slate-topped radiators fashioned of intricate cast iron pumping out a steady heat. Warm enough to ensure that Amelia perspired freely as she shifted on her stool.

She almost wished she was back kneeling on the dried peas. That torment had rapidly become unendurable. Her current tribulations provided an altogether more leisurely descent to hell.

When the girls undergoing detention had been told to take off their drawers, Amelia – she almost laughed bitterly to think of it now – had been mightily relieved. She should have known better, of course. As soon as she had struggled out of the hateful drawers her wrists had been secured once more, high behind her back.

Faith and Rose had brought the devices the Reverend called ‘bristle pigs' out of the anteroom, one by one. Amelia had just stood and stared at the first one, whilst they busily fetched the remaining two. It was a most peculiar device, a sort of tall, iron-legged stool. Two flat planes sloped together at about forty-five degrees, like the ridge of a miniature roof, to form the seat of the stool. It was a roof topped with the strangest of thatch though, for this odd seat was covered in the sort of bristles one might expect to find on a stiff scrubbing brush. Amelia blinked at the thing, as if she might somehow make it disappear.

Nor was she mistaken in her misgivings. Gretchen was first on her stool, allowing Faith to guide her feet on to two flat metal flanges protruding out by some mechanism at either side of the pig's stout iron legs, about a foot above the floor. Gretchen stood on these with legs splayed wide, the bristling rides but inches from her naked cunny.

Faith had then turned to Amelia, guiding her on to the metal steps of the next stool. As before, the devices were arranged in a little row, so once again Amelia found herself looking at Gretchen's naked back. The sight made her stomach tighten with apprehension. The welts on Gretchen's bum had faded almost to invisibility now, but her cheeks were quivering uncontrollably and Amelia felt her own legs tremble, as if Gretchen's obvious fear was contagious.

Rose stood beside her as she heard Faith position Arabella behind her. The maid put a hand on Amelia's bottom and began to stroke.

‘Half an hour; that's quite a long time on these sweet little seats,' she said in mock commiseration. ‘You'll be going quite out of your mind after ten minutes.'

Amelia took a deep breath and counted backwards, trying to control the anger surging through her heart. Much as she would have liked to tell the common little trollop to go hang, she was horribly aware that her arms were bound, and the maid's were not. Indeed, she winced as the girl gave her bum a vicious pinch.

‘You think you are so high and mighty,' Rose murmured. ‘Your kind love to see girls like me being whipped. Well, we'll see who's for it now, eh, you stuck-up little slut!'

Faith had clearly finished with Bella, because she now trotted over to stand by Gretchen. She looked up and regarded all three girls standing on the stools.

‘It is best to grip the sides with your thighs, for as long as you can. I know it is hard, but believe me, it is a lot worse when you slip down to the ridge. Once down...' she shivered, as if remembering a particularly grisly nightmare, ‘...there is no getting up again, believe me.'

With that she depressed a lever by the leg of Gretchen's stool. Without warning the little steps collapsed inwards and Gretchen clamped her legs together on the bristly slopes of the seat. She howled, but Amelia was scarcely aware of it, for Rose had done the same to her a split second later. She might have had no warning, but she had been all too aware of the ridge waiting below her most intimate parts, and her thighs clutched at the stool in an automatic reaction.

It felt as if she had tried to ride a giant hedgehog. Hundreds of spiny bristles galled the tender flesh of her inner thighs. Only the terror of the ridge beneath her labia kept her legs clamped on the viciously abrasive surface. She gritted her teeth against the acute discomfort, trying not to groan.

Rose reached up and stroked her breast, gently at first, then tweaking her nipple nastily.

The maid laughed. ‘That's it, Amelia, ride the nice horsy. It's only half an hour you have to sit up there!'

 

Charlotte sat on the bench that was the only furniture in the little cell, and tried her very hardest not to weep. She could not stop herself from chewing her knuckle, though, as she waited for her nemesis to come for her.

The horrid whipping drawers were on the bench beside her, neatly folded with her skirt, boater and blouse. All she wore was her punishment corset and her silken stockings, below a simple, short grey shift of the coarsest fabric. This grim garment was adorned with the arrows that marked its wearer for a felon.

‘Put this on girl,' the sergeant had said, thrusting the thing at her before he locked her into the cell. ‘It is a flogging shift, the traditional wear for purposes like these.'

As soon as Charlotte had pulled the thing on, she knew why. The hem only reached halfway down her thighs, and it was split at the sides, with slits that ran higher than her waist. There were buttons sewn on to the shoulders, and a moment of appalled investigation had revealed buttonholes, sewn into the corners of the back part of the hem. The very wearing of the thing made her feel guilty and condemned in some overwhelming way. Furthermore, the material was rough against the tender flesh of her naked breasts, and it rubbed her nipples most infuriatingly as she fidgeted.

She stood up and paced the length of the little cell again. If only it were over, she thought, clenching her fists with agitation. But for it to be over, the whipping would have to happen first. If only it would never be time. If only the time would pass and it be done. If only she had not refused to uncover. If only she had not dared to disobey!

Without a single stroke caressing her back, Charlotte found she had already learned a hard lesson. The Reverend Dawes always seemed to be ahead of her. If one objected to his treatment, he smilingly concurred, but then one simply seemed to find oneself facing something worse. As she paced the cell she felt the resistance slowly leach out of her soul. She knew, with cold certainty, that after this night she would never dare defy the man again.

Oh, come on, she thought desperately. Just get it over with. Then she heard the rattle of the key in the lock and a voice in her head shrieked, ‘No! I did not mean it. I take it back. It's too soon. I'm not ready!'

 

‘Haa...!' Amelia could not stop the gasp escaping as her thigh muscles twitched involuntarily and she slipped down another half an inch.

She was in absolute agony now. The scratching of the bristles on her inner thighs vied with the cramping muscle pain caused by clenching the steep slopes between her legs for far too long. The only thing keeping her straining away was the sight of Gretchen in front of her, pitifully writhing and groaning.

Gretchen's thighs had given out five minutes earlier, and she had slipped the last few fractions of an inch with an agonised sob. Somewhat to Amelia's surprise, she had given a relieved gasp as she settled on the wicked-looking ridge between the bristle slopes. For a few moments, it seemed, having the weight off her thighs gave some ease. All too soon, however, an urgent pleading came from her lips. ‘Ach, no, this is not possible...' she had grunted in a disbelieving tone, before starting to gasp in pain and beg for mercy.

‘Be silent, woman,' Rose had said smugly, ‘you have a good fifteen minutes to ride the ridge. Hold your tongue or we shall have to bit you. Believe me...' she reached out and began stroking Gretchen's ample breast, ‘...things can get a lot worse than this.'

Gretchen had not been able to stay silent, however, and Rose made good her threat, inserting a rubber gag between the woman's lips. This was affixed, by means of rings on either side of her mouth, to a short strap attached to Gretchen's wrists. Now her head was wrenched back as much as her arms were hauled up behind. Perched on the ridge, she pressed her quivering thighs against the bristle slopes in a desperate attempt to fight the force of gravity. Her almost naked body perspired freely as she writhed, utterly helpless, in her excruciating bondage.

Amelia guessed the muffled noises Gretchen was making through her gag were some sort of plea for mercy. If so, they were not having much effect. Rose stayed by Gretchen's side, caressing her breasts and cooing at the writhing woman, occasionally leaning forward to give the perspiring globes a bite.

Increasingly panicked noises from behind her told Amelia that even Bella's powerful thighs were proving unequal to the task and that she must be slipping down her slopes.

Amelia's own thigh muscles were twitching now, the strain becoming too much to sustain. Desperately, she fought against the waves of pain, battling to maintain the pressure of her thighs against the bristles, brutal though these were. To no avail. With a defeated sob she felt her muscles give. Inexorably she slipped the last few inches down the slope, the tender tissues of her crotch settling on the narrow, stiff bristle ridge.

 

 

Chapter Five

 

The policewoman was sturdily built, even stocky, but she was an undeniably handsome woman. Charlotte might have called her beefy and made a joke about her powerful arms, at another time or place. Instead, she just bit her bottom lip nervously.

Constable Prentice stared at the prisoner, with laughing hazel eyes, for a long moment. ‘Well, well, well,' she said at last with a slow smile, ‘how do you do, your ladyship. Ready for a treat?'

She stepped into the cell and lifted up a heavy leather belt with much chinking of associated chains.

‘Hands above your head, dear, while I fix up your restraints.'

‘Please,' Charlotte said, looking at the gleaming leather and dangling chains with horror, ‘that will not be necessary.'

‘Hoo, won't it then, your ladyship? I am afraid it is routine procedure. Felons can be dangerous.' Constable Prentice winked. ‘Especially when they know they are going to be whipped.'

This was too much. Charlotte pulled herself up to her full height and spoke with renewed certitude derived from wounded pride.

‘My good woman,' she said with hauteur, ‘I am not a felon, and—'

But she got no further. The policewoman fetched her a slap across the face so hard, and so unexpected, that Charlotte was knocked to the stone cell floor. She gasped in pain and clutched her hot cheek as she pulled herself up on to her hands and knees. A pair of polished police brogues came into view as she blinked away the tears.

‘Enough of your nonsense, girl. You are in my hands now. My name is Constable Prentice, but you will call me ma'am. You will also do exactly what I say. No, don't get up. Do you understand, you little drop of dribble?'

‘Y-yes,' Charlotte managed.

A shoe stepped heavily on her left hand, pinning it to the floor and making her cry out with pain. ‘Yes, ma'am!'

‘Ah, aaoow, yes, ma'am.'

‘Now, you little piece of filth, you may lick my shoe to show me some respect.'

A sudden upsurge of outraged pride almost made Charlotte refuse, but the woman put more weight on her trapped hand and a wave of pain chased any ideas of resistance right away. Gasping, Charlotte lowered her head and put her mouth to the shiny shoe. Bitter tears, as much from humiliation as from the pain, slowly trickled down her cheeks as she stuck her tongue out and began to lick. It was almost too much to bear; down on her hands and knees in a police station, licking a common policewoman's shoes so abjectly.

After that she made no objection to the belt which was fastened tight over the shift and locked in place. Wrist restraints were attached to the sides by short chains and she was made to cross her arms in front, as if clasping her belly, while these were fastened, each wrist to the opposite side of the belt, into place. She was helpless and she knew it. Beneath the coarse shift she could feel her vulnerable bottom clench in anticipation of the ordeal ahead. Docilely, she stood while Prentice buckled on a wide collar of stiff leather, then clipped this to a leash.

‘Good doggy,' the policewoman said, pinching her cheek playfully and giving her a wink, ‘time for walkies.'

 

She would split. Surely she would split. There was a moaning sound in her ears, but Amelia did not know or care from whence it came. All she knew was the awful, relentless pressure between her legs. She tried to ease it by clenching her raw thighs against the bristle slopes and pushing herself up. It almost seemed to work for a few seconds, then she sobbed as she lost her fight against gravity.

 

‘This bit is just you and me, sweetie.' Constable Prentice smiled at her prisoner and patted her fondly on the cheek. ‘We might let the boys in later. I know you objected to having a man see you naked, but I find girls often change their minds about these things. After the first dozen we can see what you say.'

The cellar room was large, gas-lit, and smelt slightly musty. The policewoman tugged Charlotte over to a heavy wooden trestle in the middle of the floor. Then she unclipped the wrist restraints from the belt.

‘Bend over and grip the side struts, legs apart. No, wider, that's the way.'

With a crisp efficiency that spoke of copious practice, the constable fixed Charlotte's wrists and ankles to the solid oak legs of the trestle. The waist belt was anchored firmly to the pommel, and thigh straps restricted movement even more. Charlotte was bent so far over that her bottom was the highest part of her anatomy and her head was at the level of her knees. She could move her neck and flex her fluttering fingers; otherwise, she could do little more than twitch in terror.

Once she was fastened, Prentice simply pulled up the flap of her shift, letting it drop down around her shoulders to leave Charlotte's bottom quite exposed.

The only sound in the cellar, apart from the low hiss of the gaslight, was Charlotte's heavy, slightly panicky breathing.

Then there were steps, the measured tread of police brogues on cold flagstones. Charlotte listened to the woman walk away. There was a series of rustling noises. She could not imagine what was happening. All she could see in front of her was a wall festooned with whips, straps and other implements of judicial correction.

After what seemed like an eternity, the footsteps came marching back. Charlotte's bottom twitched in terrified anticipation as the sound got closer, but the steps did not stop behind her, nor the first stroke come quite yet.

‘I find the tunic can be a bit restrictive under the arm, when one wants to really swing,' Prentice said conversationally.

Charlotte had been watching the brogues come into view, and the shapely, if solid, stockinged lower legs. Now she raised her head and gave a surprised gasp.

Constable Prentice looked magnificent. She had removed her police tunic and her skirt. Beneath she wore only the stockings, elbow-length black leather gloves, and a long black leather corset. From this gleaming, tight-laced sheath, a truly superb body seemed to be trying to escape. Full, firm breasts were pushed up by the half-cups. A thick waist was laced tight enough into its hide casing to emphasise curves that were nothing short of heroic. Powerful, well-muscled thighs were sheathed in black silk stockings, each anchored to the corset by half-a-dozen taut suspender drops.

She towered over Charlotte, who looked up in terror, then quickly lowered her gaze and found herself looking at a bushy triangle of dark brown fur.

Charlotte tried to swallow, but found her saliva had all but disappeared. There was moisture mere inches from her eyes, though; Constable Prentice stroked her cunny, bringing out a gloved forefinger that glistened as if oiled.

‘I prefer to whip drawerless, too,' the woman said, hoarsely. ‘You know...' Charlotte focused with a jolt of terror on the whipcord cat which dangled from her free hand, ‘you really are a luscious little sweetmeat. I shall enjoy thrashing you. It's my luck that you are concerned to maintain the proprieties.'

She laughed, looking into Charlotte's eyes and wiping the slick stuff from her finger on the girl's crimson cheek.

The sight of Prentice's body, so resplendently displayed in black leather and silk, and in particular Charlotte's close-up view of her juicy cunt, had almost made her forget for a few seconds the purpose of her visit.

‘Ever had the cords, you haughty little bitch?' Prentice demanded, bringing up her hand and swinging the implement so its tails swished close to Charlotte's face.

‘No, no – ma'am,' she managed in a whisper, almost as mesmerised by the swinging whipcord tails as she had been, a moment earlier, by the sight of Prentice's semi-naked body.

The cords consisted of a wooden doweling handle, about sixteen inches long, attached to which were at least a dozen tails. These were each two feet in length, of slender and formidable-looking whipcord, each equipped with several knots in its business end. The policewoman held the whip up so these slapped gently against Charlotte's trembling cheek.

‘Oh...'

‘Shut up, I have not hurt you yet, slut! Feel those little knots – hard little devils, aren't they? Make their acquaintance, for those are the chaps that are going to do you the most good!'

Charlotte tried to stop herself from whimpering audibly, with but limited success. The little knots did indeed feel hideously hard against the soft flesh of her cheek, but the stroking of the cords against her face told her the whip was also wet.

‘It's nice and moist for you. It hurts more wet, so we like to make sure it is not too dry when we use it.'

Charlotte struggled for a moment against creaking leather straps, anger mingling with her rising sense of fear.

‘You beast...!' she managed as the policewoman calmly walked out of her sight. Charlotte was still trying to think of some expression to match her fury when she heard the hissing sound behind her.

 

‘Oh, help, no!' Amelia babbled helplessly as the pitiless bristles worked themselves into her throbbing labia. She was bathed in perspiration now, writhing uncontrollably on her unbearably prickly seat. ‘Oh, let me off! Have mercy, please...'

‘Be quiet, Amelia.' The Reverend Dawes' voice cut into her fevered consciousness. However, the discomfort was all-consuming and she was quite unable to obey.

‘Oh, please, sir, let me off,' she sobbed.

Strong hands grabbed her hair and hauled her head back. Something hard and rubber was forced between her moaning lips. A strap was buckled to the gag and her hands wrenched even higher as she felt her head pulled back. She could no longer see Gretchen writhe in agony before her, or look down to reassure herself that it was but bristles she was riding, and not the hide of a porcupine, which was what it felt like. She stared at the flaking, magnolia-painted ceiling as acute discomfort gradually melted into agony, and moaned helplessly behind her gag.

 

‘Haaooow...!' Charlotte's cry was a mixture of surprise and pain. With so little experience of corporal correction to her credit, she had not imagined anything could hurt quite so much. Had she not felt the cold wet cords a moment earlier, she would have sworn the lashes were white hot.

They burned a dozen searing lines across her bottom. Charlotte struggled furiously against her bonds, without the least effect other than producing some rather pitiful creaking.

It was a while before the scalding heat subsided, and a full minute before she recovered enough from the pain to be afraid. Now she was aware that another stroke was coming. The woman standing silently behind her must surely be taking aim. The stroke did not fall. What was she waiting for? Fear leapfrogged pain to take control of Charlotte's mind and goad her feverish imagination.

She heard herself whimper with anxiety. It was coming, Charlotte knew; she just did not know when, and this lack of knowledge was driving her demented. The burning in her bottom was almost endurable now, but the anticipation was sending her out of her mind. The gaslights glowed warm in the otherwise cold cellar. It must have been a dungeon in the old days, Charlotte realised suddenly. Used for inflicting pain. The horrid place had no other purpose.

The cords hissed through the air and instantly her bottom was ablaze with pain.

‘Hoooo... Oooo...!' she howled in agonised response.

‘Feel that one, did you, missy?' The policewoman's voice was thick with amusement.

‘Y-yes, ma'am,' Charlotte sobbed eventually. She tried to listen, to hear a movement that might warn her the next stroke was coming, but there was only the steady hiss of the gaslights. Then her stomach lurched as she heard another, closer hiss, and agony engulfed her.

‘Haaooow...! Aaooow...!' she yelped, oblivious to the policewoman's chuckles. The fire in her behind was not so much unbearable as unbelievable. A girl was shrieking like a banshee, her cries echoing around the dungeon horribly. It took Charlotte some time before she realised the screams were her own.

‘Quite a noise you are making, Lady Letherbridge-Lacey, and I thought you hoity-toity tarts were supposed to be so stoical!' Prentice remarked.

As some sense of self and situation came back to her, Charlotte found the policewoman was standing in front of her once more.

‘Would you like to take a little pause?'

‘Oh, ah, p-please...' she sobbed.

‘Well, that was the first six strokes. It will get worse, of course, as your poor bottom becomes a little sore. Still,' the woman laughed, ‘only another eighteen lashes to go now...'

‘Ooh... please...' Charlotte's scalded bottom felt as if it were ablaze.

‘Girls often prefer to take their strokes in sixes, I have noticed. They do say that a few minutes to recover really helps them to endure it.'

At that particular moment Charlotte would have done anything, said anything, just to put off the awful moment when the whip was raised again. Any respite at all from the merciless cords seemed worth her very soul.

The end of the whip handle was placed beneath her chin and this was raised until she looked into the policewoman's laughing eyes.

‘There is a price, of course,' Prentice said softly.

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