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Authors: Amanita Virosa

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Rectory of Correction (24 page)

BOOK: Rectory of Correction
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It was essential that he make the MacSlats and their associates fear him, he reflected. Kirsty would be twenty-one in days. Sending her south had been a mistake, he realised that now. Still, if the Reverend Dawes agreed to his proposal, all would yet be well. The letter should reach Hatherby within days.

Necessary as it was to beat respect into these hussies and harlots, the righteous work seemed to have had an unfortunate effect on his privy person. Indeed, he could no longer walk without a certain discomfort. It was time to go and find Marie Nip.

His housekeeper had been working higher in the birch woods, and he had to climb a good way up the little path. The birches grew thickly here and he heard them long before he saw them. His stiff cock twitched as if in answer to the sound of birch on skin and the shrieks of girls being whipped.

The winding path topped a rise and then dropped into a hollow. The trees were fewer here and he paused to look down at a quite delightful sylvan sight.

Two girls, naked except for their woollen stockings, had their hands hauled high above them, tied with a length of rope. This was looped over the bough of a solitary pine tree, the end tied to a birch shrub some yards away.

The naked girls, one with long brown hair, the other a leggy creature with a mane of reddish-gold, faced each other. They would have been breast to breast had not the fair girl been much taller. So much so, in fact, that her full breasts were buffeting her companion's face as they pranced.

Had it not been for the rope and the woman who was lashing first one bottom and then the other with a bundle of long birch limbs, it might have seemed that they were performing some lascivious pagan dance. The shrieks of the gyrating maidens were not, however, joyous. Their plump bottoms and fleshy thighs had been whipped to an angry shade of red. As he grew closer he could see the area around was strewn with broken birch twigs. This was a thorough birching, he noted with approval.

‘I'm glad to see you are no' stinting in your work, Marie,' he said as he worked his way down the path to the hollow.

Marie Nip looked up at him and smiled, then gave both girls' bottoms an especially vicious lash. ‘Aye, minister, what is it the scriptures say? Spare the rod and spoil the slut?'

‘Not quite, Marie, but close enough. What have these two myrmidons of Satan been up to, might I ask?'

‘Aye, minister, ye might well. I heard them saying that the trollop Kirsty MacSlat was the true laird of these glens. Aye, Fiona?' She gave the fair-haired maiden another lash.

Peebles watched the girl leap and shriek with strangely conflicting emotions. The mention of Kirsty filled his heart with fury and the desire to see her supporters flogged unmercifully was strong. On the other hand, Fiona was a magnificent creature, with long legs and a magnificent physique, and her companion in distress was lovely, too. The sight of the naked beauties being flogged had done nothing to reduce the urgency of his mission. It was a pity, but there was no help for it if he was not to soil his cassock. The traitorous slatterns would simply have to wait for their desserts.

‘Never mind that now,' he said, aware that his voice sounded hoarse as he seized Marie by the arm.

‘But, Dr Peebles,' she began to remonstrate, ‘what about...?'

He saw her look down at the bulge in his cassock, and smile as understanding dawned.

‘They will wait,' he growled, hauling Marie off into a thicket of last year's bracken. ‘Don't forget that the old dungeon had been restored and refurbished.' He sniggered. ‘We can deal with those, and any other traitors, at our leisure.'

‘Aye, so long as we do deal with them.'

He felt Marie shiver under his grip.

‘I'm no' so popular round here, you know. If Kirsty does come back...'

‘I have written to the Reverend Dawes offering him one thousand guineas to keep the MacSlat slut indefinitely.'

Marie gave a delighted shriek as he pushed her over into the bracken. She pulled up her skirts, ready, as he unbuttoned his cassock. He gave a sigh of relief as his erection was released at last from the prison of his drawers.

‘I dinnae think we will be troubled by that bitch again,' he said with a triumphant grin.

 

It was impossible to concentrate with so many distractions. Behind the Reverend, directly in Amelia's line of sight, Charlotte was grimacing as she tried not to fidget on her holly seat. The sound of birch twigs punishing Gretchen's thighs continued, her bitted squeals growing ever more intense, for her skin was now whipped sore. Worst of all was the incessant tingling, the need to press the flesh between her legs. If Amelia did not get some relief soon, she really thought she might go insane.

‘I'm waiting, Amelia.' The Reverend waved the bunch of dark green leaves so they rustled once again. They were familiar; each leaf was small and glossy, terminating in an unpleasant spine. She knew what it was. If only she could manage to concentrate.

‘Butcher's broom.' The name came to her and she knew it was right.

‘Very good. Now, Latin name?'

The sense of relief she had experienced evaporated. Bella had said it just this morning, if only she could concentrate.

‘Oooh...!' Charlotte gave a gasp and a little wriggle.

Gretchen gave a muffled sob of pain as the birch landed again.

‘Come along, Amelia, I'm waiting.' The Reverend Dawes shook the bunch of leaves in his hand impatiently.

‘
Ruscus acetocella
?'

As soon as she saw him sigh she knew the answer was incorrect.

‘
Aculeatus
, you ignorant girl! Over here!' He gestured to the bed of the cart with his bunch of spiny leaved twigs, which suddenly looked even more unpleasant.

Reluctantly, Amelia stepped over. Bending at the Reverend's direction she lay belly down on the bed of the cart and spread her legs wide. It was impossible to keep her thighs from trembling. She was not sure when she had felt quite so appallingly exposed.

The Reverend pushed her skirt up and out of the way and kicked her feet even further apart with brusque efficiency. For a moment Amelia lay there, frozen with fear, barely hearing even Charlotte's pained whimpering, though she was but feet away. Then the Reverend struck her right inner thigh, above the stocking top, with his bundle of butcher's broom. Amelia opened her lungs and shrieked with pain.

 

‘Ooh...!' Linnet gasped.

‘Stay still, stupid,' Bella said, ‘if you want me to put this cream on your welts.'

Amelia winced as she smoothed salve on her inner thighs. The skin was horridly sore. Still, she was astonished the abrasions were so minor and superficial, considering what the butcher's broom had felt like.

In fact, when she did not have to rub her thighs together, the warm glow was not unpleasant at all. When she smoothed the ointment on, there was something quite delicious about the sensation of cold cream on the hot flesh.

‘Ow! Bella, Kirsty, can't I take them out for a bit?' Charlotte pleaded.

‘Of course not.' Kirsty took the cane down from behind her little bed and swished it meaningfully. ‘The Reverend said you must keep them in till bedtime. You should not have fidgeted so much.'

Amelia glanced over at Charlotte. Naked from the waist down, she was sewing cotton panels into a pair of flogging drawers that had been split. Holly leaves had been pushed into the tops of her stockings. More could be seen through the thin cotton of her blouse, pressed between the tight material and her pert breasts.

Amelia looked away quickly. Such sights did her overwhelming need no good at all. She smoothed the cold cream higher up her inner thighs. The Reverend had spared the tenderest of targets, but she let her fingers move higher, all the same.

‘Oh, but please... Kirsty, just for a minute,' Charlotte persisted.

‘All right, that's enough,' Kirsty said sharply. ‘Stand up, bend over, and touch your toes.'

It was her chance, and Amelia took it. Linnet was still across Bella's lap and Kirsty was now occupied as well. Amelia slipped two fingers into herself, bringing her other hand across, circling the flesh around her clitoris.

‘Please... Kirsty!'

‘Shut up and keep those legs straight, unless you want me to report you to the Reverend as well.'

‘Oooh...!'

‘Stop wriggling, Linnet, unless you want a couple of strokes yourself.'

‘Aaaaoooooo...!'

‘Get back into position, Charlotte.'

‘Ah...'

‘Amelia, what are you...? Kirsty, quick, stop her!'

Some part of her mind was aware she had been spotted, but Amelia was too carried away with desire to care. Her hand pumped furiously and she moaned with suppressed pleasure. It was coming. It was coming. She was very nearly there.

Delirious with lust, she did not realise what was happening at first as hands grabbed her ankles and her wrists. Amelia bucked and fought like a madwoman, but the two prefects were too strong for her.

They chained her into her bed and left her writhing. Amelia felt the point of no return slowly recede. Some minutes later she opened her eyes to see a row of four girls looking at her with wide eyes.

‘Did you ever see the like?' Bella asked, astonished.

‘I knew you were a slut, Amelia,' said Kirsty with a grin, ‘but really!'

Amelia felt her body buck involuntarily, rattling her chains. She looked from face to face with hopeless desperation.

‘Please,' she moaned, quite unable to stop writhing. ‘I need... I must... Oh, God, please...'

 

 

Chapter Eleven

 

‘Good grooming and proper deportment,' the Reverend Dawes said thoughtfully, ‘are essential characteristics of the well-disciplined individual. However, you are coming to the end of my course, and the time for elementary discipline has passed. When it comes to the arcane particulars of feminine deportment, I confess to finding myself rather out of my field. Fortunately, a veritable professor of the subject has kindly consented to share her matchless expertise.'

He inclined his head towards the elegant little woman who stood at his side, listening with a slightly inclined head and the subtlest suggestion of a smile playing on her immaculately rouged lips.

‘We are, therefore, most privileged today that Mademoiselle Isobel has kindly agreed to take the class.'

Amelia looked at her feet glumly. This news was far from being to her liking, for she had experience of the little corsetière's ways. Oh well, she told herself, the long threatened ‘deportment' class was destined to be a sore trial, whoever was in charge.

The desks had been pushed back against the walls to clear the floor and the five girls stood in a neat row. It was a warm spring day, and through the open window Amelia could hear birds cheerily singing. She did not know how she had survived almost six months of the course, but somehow she had. Now freedom beckoned, so close she could taste it. Still, she had to get through a few more days.

There was a marked change in the girls' demeanour since that first week. They stood, quite motionless except for their gentle breathing, far more still than they would have dreamed possible a few months earlier. Fidgeting seemed to have been most effectively discouraged by the Reverend Dawes' diabolical detentions and the frequent application of his rigorous cane.

Mademoiselle Isobel perused the line of trainees with an amused smile.

‘But Reverend,' she declared at length, ‘your girls are quite as delightful as their reputation. They will be the toast of the town, once we have taught the minxes not to slouch!'

Hatherby's famous corsetière was a chic, elegant little woman in her thirties. She walked down the line slowly; were it not for the fact that she had slipped her arm into the Reverend's, and the way her deep blue silk skirts rustled, she might have been an officer, inspecting raw recruits.

‘Now then,' she said, beaming at the girls in a way that reassured Amelia not at all. ‘A little instruction in how to move, to stand, to sit, etcetera. I am sure we will soon have some splendid results!'

‘Excellent,
mademoiselle
, I shall leave you to it. If any recalcitrance is exhibited, put them down for a detention, or send the culprit up to see me in my study. Unless of course,' he swept his hand out to indicate the rack with its comprehensive range of canes and straps, ‘you would rather deal with the matter yourself.'

The little woman picked up a very long and slender riding crop from the table. Amelia recognised the implement as a dressage whip. The thing was pencil thin and tapered, sheathed in polished black leather, and at least four feet in length, finished with four inches of cord trainer that, in turn, ended in a little knot.

Mademoiselle Isobel walked along the row of girls again, this time flexing the dressage whip elegantly in her hands and carefully perusing each one in turn.

BOOK: Rectory of Correction
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