Rectory of Correction (21 page)

‘Let's try that again, dear. Quickly now, or you will hold the others up.'

She could not wipe away the tears that trickled down her flaming cheeks, ordered as she was to keep her hands behind her neck. Amelia's legs were not trembling any less than they had been as she mounted the bench again. Nor was her dread of the pelota bat diminished. She simply did not see how she was going to get past him. Suppressing a despairing sob, Amelia set off down the bar again.

This time luck was with her. Her first few steps went well enough. Then, just as Amelia came within reach of the paddle, she saw Bella approaching the vaulting horse, which stood on the other side of the waiting man.

Bella set off at a run to vault the horse. Mr Ziri turned to watch her approach and Amelia took the chance to teeter quickly along the bar.

He had got her on the first circuit. Indeed, as far as she could tell, his speed and skill with the bat had allowed him to help every vaulting girl to clear the horse with a well-aimed whack. Amelia gambled that he would not be able to resist the temptation offered by Bella's well-filled shorts as they went flying by.

It was a good gamble. Amelia heard the crack, Bella's gasp and Mr Ziri's laugh as she tottered safely past the distracted man. With a fleeting feeling of relief, she leaped off the end of the bar and ran like a hunted rabbit towards her next ordeal.

Equidistant now from Mr Ziri's station between the horse and bar and the Reverend's favoured haunt patrolling the ropes and mats, Amelia allowed herself to relax a little as she began her set of squat thrusts in the middle of the gymnasium, hands still held behind her head.

‘One, two, three, four, five, six, seven...' She shouted out the number of each thrust as she jumped from the squatting position, not daring to complete her sets with less than complete enthusiasm, despite the pain that was stabbing through her thighs. In front of her she could see the Reverend Dawes still vainly attempting to encourage Gretchen up the rope. It was not a sight designed to encourage slacking.

‘All right, girl,' the Reverend said, shaking his head, ‘get those shorts off. Maybe my motivator will have more effect on the bare, and you never know, it might help to lighten the load.'

Gretchen's cheeks were streaked with tears and perspiration. With a despairing wail she quickly unbuttoned her shorts and pulled them off.

‘Right, let us try again!'

‘But s-sir, I c-can't,' she gasped even as she grasped the thick rope descending from a great beam beneath the ceiling. Amelia found her eyes fixed on Gretchen's bum cheeks. Lurid oval shapes the colour of ripe plum tomatoes testified to the persuasiveness of the pelota bats.

Crack
! The bat caught Gretchen's bottom with an echoing smack so emphatic that Amelia winced at the mere sound, setting the generous flesh vibrating from the impact. Gretchen tried desperately to haul herself up the rope, but it was hopeless. Her flesh was too sumptuous, her arms too long unexercised for them to be able to haul her skywards. Furthermore, her technique was hopeless. Amelia could see she had no idea how to use her feet and legs.

Gretchen no longer wore her shorts. Her blonde plaits, pinned around her crown, and white singlet emphasised how red her puffing cheeks were. The same singlet, and the creamy paleness of her legs and white of her knee socks, contrasted with the even more lurid scarlet of her bottom and upper thighs. She hopped hopelessly around in circles, trying to simultaneously haul herself upwards and avoid the punitive paddle.

The bat came down again. Another heart-stopping crack echoed around the gym. Amelia watched as the woman's cheeks bounced under the impact once again. Gretchen emitted a high-pitched squeal and jumped a foot into the air, holding herself by the rope for several seconds, before sliding back with a despairing wail, only to receive another wicked smack.

‘Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty!' Amelia's thighs were in agony now and her breath was gone. She tried to run over to the mats but it was more of a limping scuttle. Kirsty was getting up as she arrived, allowing her to pick a place on the mats as far as possible from the Reverend. As Kirsty climbed the rope, Amelia hoped he would continue to concentrate on Gretchen.

She began the set of abdominal curls, shouting out each number as before, which was not easy as she was so out of breath.

Amelia heard the Reverend ordering Gretchen to run ten times from end to end of the gym, his bat landing with a crack on the woman's backside as she struggled to obey. Her heart sank. As she curled upwards she saw Kirsty's bottom coming closer as she descended her rope. The Reverend stood beneath, paddle at the ready. Amelia could guess what he was watching. It seemed that Kirsty could guess too, because her descent slowed.

‘Come on, Kirsty,' the Reverend called out. ‘No slacking, girl!'

As soon as Kirsty's hindquarters were in range he unleashed a beauty. Amelia watched the arc of his arm and the long paddle as it cut through the air. Her belly contracted in sympathy at the sound of wood on thin cotton and the tender skin beneath it. Even the indomitable Kirsty could not prevent a pained grunt from escaping. She let go of the rope and dropped to the floor, running off to do her gym lengths before the Reverend could decide to bestow another stroke.

Amelia called out her fifteenth and final curl, suddenly aware she was alone in that part of the gym with him. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. The Reverend was towering above her, bat in hand, smiling broadly.

‘Buck up, Amelia,' he said. ‘I won't have slacking, girl.' He slapped the bat against his meaty thigh for emphasis. Amelia scrambled to her feet despairingly, gasping for breath. What on earth could he mean by ‘slacking'? How could she, or any of the girls for that matter, possibly put more effort in?

The next exercise was one she particularly hated. First she had to pick up the medicine ball. Amelia's instincts were screaming for her to get her bottom away from the Reverend's bat before bending to pick up the heavy ball, but she knew any attempt to get out of range would merely make the very thing she sought to avoid inevitable. Somehow she made herself bend, thigh muscles still protesting from the squat thrusts, and lift the heavy ball.

Upright, she held it out with arms outstretched in front of her.

‘One, two, three, four, five,' she counted aloud, ready to raise it to another count of five. As she did the Reverend stopped her by placing his bat on top of it and pressing down.

‘A little too fast, Amelia,' he said pleasantly. ‘I think you should start again and be less hurried.'

Amelia lowered the ball, suppressing a sob. The weight of it was starting to hurt already, and she had to repeat the action ten times over. The first time around she had barely managed it. This time her muscles were fatigued. She did not know if she could complete her sets if she repeated the first count.

‘One... Two... Three...' She forced herself to enunciate slowly, pausing between each number. The Reverend's eyes were fixed on hers. Amelia was transfixed by his predatory gaze. ‘Four... Five,' she finished. Only then did she dare to raise the ball. ‘One, two, three, four, five,' she counted as she raised it high above her head, shoulder muscles aching, the Reverend's eyes still boring into hers.

She held the ball above her head for another count of five, then lowered it slowly again. Forcing herself not to rush, she counted out the next set.

By the fifth set Amelia was in real difficulty. The sounds of exercise and punishment still echoed around the bleak gymnasium but they were distant, as if heard in a dream. All she could focus on was the excruciating pain in her shoulders and upper arms. That and the eyes of the man who stood, staring into hers.

She fought gravity and the heavy medicine ball. It seemed determined to fall floorwards, her overtaxed muscles barely able to hold it up. Somehow she counted to five and began to lift it. Tears welled and began to trickle down her cheeks. She could barely count aloud for gasping with the pain. It was impossible. Too heavy. Her arms hurt too much. Somehow she got the thing above her head. This taxed different muscles and there was an instant of relief before these began shrieking their protest in turn. Amelia gasped out her count of five and began lowering the ball again.

‘Hold it up, girl. I want those arms absolutely straight.' A furrow of displeasure creased the Reverend's brow.

The medicine ball was quivering as exhausted muscles transferred their shaking to the thing. Far worse, it was dipping, the weight too much for her arms and shoulders to support. Helplessly, Amelia watched it sink in front of her, vaguely aware that the Reverend had stopped staring into her eyes and stepped to the side.

The paddle stroke was wicked. Her already tender bottom exploded with pain. Strangely, this was almost helpful as the intense agony temporarily eclipsed the aching in her arms. The lightning jolt of pain also seemed to give her a temporary strength, and she managed to finish the count and get the ball above her head once more.

Unfortunately, the effect was short-lived. By the time she lowered the medicine ball the pain was fading and her shoulder muscles were even more distressed than before.

‘One... ugh... two...'

‘Keep it up girl!'

‘I-I c-can't, sir...' Amelia howled helplessly as her arms drooped in front of her.

Crack
!

‘Aaaooooohhh...!'

‘I said hold it up, miss!'

‘Three...'

‘No, no, you silly girl, you cannot count that.'

Crack
! Once again the pelota gave her bottom a meaty thwack. Amelia opened up her lungs and shrieked.

‘Very well,' the Reverend said in disdainful tones, ‘since you persist in being feeble about this matter, I shall let you off the rest of the set.'

Relief flooded through Amelia, but it was tinged with dread.

‘However, there will naturally be a penalty. Please remove your shorts.'

The immediate relief in being allowed to drop the ball was so intense that it quite eclipsed Amelia's shame at having to uncover, and even for a moment, dread of the penalty. She unbuttoned her shorts, feeling the pain in her shoulders finally begin to ebb away. Struggling to tug them down, she winced as the cotton grazed those portions of her hindquarters that had been kissed so brusquely by the hardwood bat.

‘That must be tender.' The Reverend gave a sigh as he regarded her glowing bottom. ‘Unfortunately, I am afraid I shall have to make it really rather sore.'

A bit of the old Amelia, the proud Amelia, bridled at this mocking. Anger at her appalling usage and this beast's hypocrisy stole unbidden into her soul. She turned and glared. It was only for a moment, but he saw it and smiled.

‘Not licked yet, are we, madam?' There was almost admiration in his voice. ‘I like a bit of spirit in a girl.'

Amelia felt her heart hammer as conflicting emotions boiled within her breast.

‘Now, my dear, pick up the ball and clutch it to your belly.'

She picked up the heavy ball and did as she was bid, pressing her stomach and thighs against it, horribly aware of the way her bottom was pushed out by this posture. Now there was only one thing in her heart and mind. Something called terror.

She gasped as she felt the Reverend's hand on her sore behind. In front of her she could see Charlotte reluctantly pulling off her shorts for a smiling Mr Ziri, but this sight meant little to her. All her attention was fixed on the presence behind.

‘My, my, this bottom feels hot.' The Reverend's relaxed voice reminded her of a tiger's purr, seductive yet threatening. ‘The exercises must be warming you up, my dear.'

He took his hand away and Amelia closed her eyes, clutching the big medicine ball towards herself. The smack of the paddle was not long delayed. There was a sharp retort, sending fiery pain through her buttocks.

‘Keep still, and count them out.'

Was there a hoarse tone in the Reverend's voice? Could the sight of her bare bottom be affecting his usual self-control? Amelia had no leisure to contemplate the matter. A second crack doubled her agony.

‘One... thank you, sir,' she whimpered as soon as the power of speech returned.

Crack
!

‘Oooh... two, thank you, sir.'

The pain in her arms and shoulders belonged to another era, perhaps another person. This Amelia knew nothing but the scalding sensation in her bottom. The next pair of meaty cracks expanded her universe to include the tops of her thighs. She clutched the medicine ball convulsively and waited until the pitch of pain started to recede.

At last she managed to count the fourth stroke to the Reverend's satisfaction. The final crack took her four-square on the spot where the underhang of her cheeks met her bottom crack. The pain was no less intense here than it had been on her thighs, but it seemed to be more endurable, even more welcome, in some inexplicable way. Still, she had to clutch the ball and hiss like a boiling kettle for a moment before she could thank her tormentor for his pitiless handiwork.

‘Very well,' the Reverend said, sounding regretful. ‘You may go on to the rope.'