Rectory of Correction (26 page)

‘
Mon dieu
, the child is hissing like a steam kettle! Stop jiggling your breasts about in that lascivious fashion, Amelia. Stay quite still. Silly girl, what is all this blubbering about? Weeping is not ladylike, Amelia. It leaves rivulets in one's face powder and makes mascara run. Now, put those nipples out and try to control your trembling. If you make me miss it will have to be a trip to the Reverend's study.'

The second time the knot struck her nipple had been utterly excruciating. The swollen little nub had still been smarting from the first kiss of the cord. This time she had not been able to suppress a squeal. If not for the backboard and corset, she would have doubled up with pain. As it was, her writhings produced a great deal of squeaking and creaking as her muscles vainly fought against unyielding whalebone and sturdy leather straps. It had been a good minute before she was able to get into the prescribed position again.

By then every nerve in her body had been stretched beyond breaking point. Still she might have managed had not mademoiselle paused, arm raised, for what seemed an age before delivering the strokes. Empires rose, lapsed into decadence and fell back into dust in the aeons that Amelia quailed beneath the upraised whip. In the end her courage failed her just as the woman finally slashed down.

The ensuing pain had not been significantly less than had she held her position. All she achieved was that she caught the slash of whipcord on the tender flesh to the left of her nipple. As she waited in the corridor she could see an inch or two of vertical scarlet welt still inscribed on the pale skin of her breast. Mademoiselle Isobel, however, had seen the movement as rankest rebellion, and despatched her to the Reverend's study with a note.

There was another sickening impact and another muffled yelp of pain from within the study. Amelia tried to swallow but her mouth was far too dry. Not so her palms, unfortunately. The note, sealed into a little envelope, was rapidly going soggy in her nervously moist hand. There was dampness in other places, too. Though Amelia did her best to ignore the tingling sensation, she blushed furiously as she wondered just how evident the growing damp patch in the gusset of her flogging drawers would be by the time she was finally called.

 

‘Very poor, Linnet!'

Charlotte's stomach contracted in sympathy as the dressage whip whistled through the air and bit into Linnet's firm little bottom with an emphatic crack. She had almost managed the complex course that Mademoiselle Isobel had set out, using chairs. Heavy textbook on her head, she had been obliged to weave between the obstacles and return without losing the volume perched precariously atop her skull.

To make things worse, Mademoiselle Isobel professed herself dissatisfied with fluttering fingers, and used wrist restraints to fix the remaining girls' arms behind their backboards. The anchor points were steel rings in the beastly boards, between the girls' shoulder blades, and thus Charlotte found herself in some discomfort as she waited her turn at the dismal game.

‘Lady Charlotte, I'm sure you can do better.'

Mademoiselle Isobel bent to retrieve the book, amidst much rustling. Straightening again, she beckoned Charlotte with a crimson talon; a summons the girl did not dare disobey. Though Charlotte was not the tallest of the class, the little woman had to raise her arms high to place the volume on her head.

‘Keep quite still,
ma petite
. Remain relaxed but steady, breathing shallow but even, that is the key.'

It was quite impossible. Charlotte felt the blood rise to her cheeks. She was naked but for the flogging drawers and a viciously tight corset cut so low that her bare breasts bobbed freely before her, unsupported. The wretched backboard kept her back quite rigid, and her arms were wrenched painfully behind her, making her utterly helpless and vulnerable to the smiling woman's whip.

Charlotte's nipples throbbed horridly from being lashed and her bottom was intolerably sore from being flogged. Now she had to teeter on absurdly high heels with this great encyclopaedia balanced on her head, with Mademoiselle Isobel poised, dressage whip at the ready, to inflict excruciating pain. How exactly was she supposed to relax in this situation? she wondered bitterly.

Still, there was nothing for it but to try. She swallowed hard and stepped forward to start the course, only to feel the book shift on her head. Her stomach turned a somersault in response but somehow she managed to steady it. A bead of perspiration broke out on her forehead as she began to walk again.

 

‘Come!'

For all the power of the Reverend's voice, Amelia did not hear him for a moment – or rather, she did not register his word. Instead she watched Bella hobble away down the corridor. The prefect was blubbering like a baby as she limped away, clutching her bottom. It was not this that held Amelia's appalled attention, however; it was the sight of Bella's receding hindquarters that held her in its thrall.

Bella's flogging drawers were not so much split this time, as shredded. Her mostly bare buttocks were welted with a set of crimson stripes. Amelia simply could not haul her gaze from the sight.

‘Amelia, I said “come”!'

Close to panicking, Amelia forced herself to step through into the room.

‘Close the door behind you, dear,' the Reverend Dawes said quietly.

Her heart hammering in her breast, Amelia did as she was told.

‘Note!'

Awfully aware of her semi-naked state, Amelia approached his desk with faltering steps, and proffered the envelope with a hand she could not prevent from trembling.

‘Good God, girl, this is damp!' the Reverend said in astonished tones as he opened the envelope. ‘What have you been doing with it?'

His cold grey eyes locked on to hers for a second and it felt as if an icy hand had enclosed her heart. Then he dropped his gaze to her crotch, and raised an eyebrow.

‘Heavens, Amelia,' he murmured as the blood rushed to her face, ‘what have you been up to? The gusset of your drawers would appear to be soaking. Makes the material almost transparent, don't you know.'

Amelia felt her knees buckle beneath her. She almost wished she would faint as there seemed no other escape from her plight, but somehow she kept her feet. The Reverend took his time to read the note, though it could not have been more than a line or two. Whatever Mademoiselle Isobel had written produced a good deal of tut-tutting and sad shaking of his head.

‘I'm disappointed, Amelia,' he said at last. ‘It seems that you have been a very bad girl indeed.'

Amelia stared at his desk, and tasted wormwood. Her hands clenched tight at her sides, but she was determined not to let the lump in her throat turn into humiliated tears.

The Reverend Dawes stood and strolled over to his wall of whips and canes, perusing the dangling implements intently with a thoughtful expression. Eventually he selected a tawse of particularly thick leather. He strolled back to the watching girl, unleashing a stroke that cracked explosively against the top of the desk. Amelia jumped a good inch and emitted an alarmed squeal.

‘The old XH,' the Reverend said ruminatively. ‘Don't use that often. It's a bit of a beast, in truth.'

Instead of returning to his seat he sat on the edge of the desk, facing the quivering Amelia again but now no more than three feet from her.

‘You have been a very bad little girl, haven't you, Amelia?'

As he spoke he reached out, letting the two tails of the tawse fall between her legs. These proved to be very stiff as well as thick and most distracting as he used them to stroke the taut cloth shielding her clitoris.

It was not fair. All she was guilty of was failing to endure Mademoiselle Isobel's breast torture, and of being constantly tormented and abused by these beastly swine. Now she was expected to meekly confess to being to blame for their depredations.

‘Yes, sir,' she managed somehow as the tails continued to tickle.

‘Say it then.'

‘P-pardon, sir?' The tails were maddening. It was all she could do not to move her pelvis in response to their insistent strokes. She had to bite her lip to keep from moaning aloud.

‘Say, “I have been a very, very bad little girl, sir.”‘

Amelia was blushing from her throat to the roots of her auburn hair. It simply was not fair; it was not even true. If she said it she would be in thrall to this terrible man forever. Or so it seemed to her.

‘Amelia.' There was a sharper note in his voice now.

The stroking stopped. He picked up the tails of the tawse in his left hand and fingered them thoughtfully. She looked up at the sound of her name and found herself impaled by his piercing gaze.

‘I... I have b-been a very b-bad little girl,' she sobbed, unable to hold back the tears now.

‘And what do bad girls need, Amelia, my dear?'

Amelia hung her head and squeezed her fists even more tightly. ‘They n-need to be p-punished.'

The Reverend Dawes chuckled and reached out. This time it was his hand, rather than the tawse, that cupped her mons and caressed her until she could not suppress a moan.

‘Well, sweetheart,' he said in a soft voice as Amelia pressed herself against the firm warmth of his hand. ‘We had better punish you, then.'

 

‘Bella, Charlotte,' Mademoiselle Isobel turned to them with a bright smile, ‘your turn now!'

Charlotte tottered towards the table, hardly able to credit what was happening. After the appalling book balancing business, the girls had been allowed to remove their drawers and had been granted a delicious moment to apply cold cream to the welts that all the girls' hindquarters now displayed. Bella's bottom also sported cane weals that stood up like scarlet whipcords, and she moaned in anguish as Charlotte applied the soothing unguent. In all the months she had been there, Charlotte had never seen such a caning. She wondered what was happening to Amelia.

The respite was short-lived, proving to be just an opportunity for Mademoiselle Isobel to send Faith for more equipment.

Charlotte had licked her lips anxiously as the maid hurried back with two odd harnesses, each equipped with a thick rubber dildo.

‘Kirsty and Bella, as you are prefects,' Mademoiselle Isobel had said, ‘you may be the gentlemen this time.'

‘What exactly,' Charlotte heard herself ask, emboldened by her sheer astonishment, ‘has this to do with deportment?'

Mademoiselle Isobel laughed. ‘A lady is not simply a lady when walking or talking, or taking her cup of tea.' She shook her head emphatically. ‘
Mais non
! Deportment is important in other places, too. A true lady must know how to use her tongue most delicately, and how to look poised and elegant when on her shapely knees.'

She handed one of the harnesses to Kirsty and picked up the other, stroking the big black rubber member thoughtfully. ‘Most important of all, you must learn to comport yourselves fittingly whilst being how do you say? “ringed”.'

If the expression was a new one to Charlotte, it did not remain a mystery for long. The corsetière helped Kirsty to adjust her harness around her loins until the dildo protruded from her pelvis in a reasonable facsimile of the way such an organ might have done on a particularly well-endowed and excited male.

Not that there was very much, otherwise, that was male about Kirsty. Naked except for her corset and stockings, her full breasts and tight-laced waist left no room for doubt about her true gender. She had stood looking down and fingering her false member with interest and, from her expression, not a little delight.

Linnet's expression, as she looked at the thing with wide eyes, had been rather less ecstatic. Indeed, a distinct hint of apprehension clouded her lovely brow.

‘Come here,
ma petite
.' Mademoiselle Isobel had positioned herself by the big table, whip once again ready in her hand. She patted the table with her free hand, and Linnet tottered to her on high heels.

‘Now, place your forearms along the edge, so. This way you may make a pillow with your hands for your face.'

Linnet had done as bid, bending to support herself on her forearms on the very edge of the table, leaving her breasts hanging free. Next the teacher applied herself to positioning the girl's feet.

‘Watch carefully, girls. The instinct is to place the feet out
here
,' she tapped Linnet's stockinged ankle with the tip of the whip. Linnet had placed her feet far from the table so her bottom was nearer than her heels, and her legs sloped back towards the tabletop. The tapping whipcord chivvied her feet nearer to the table until the girl's bottom was quite the furthest part away.

‘Now,
ma chérie
, you must dip your back. No, keep your legs quite straight. Your pretty bottom is a target in more senses than one. It must invite attention.'

Charlotte had to admit the position made Linnet's bottom look extremely alluring. The dip in her back and position of her legs made her buttocks stick out most provocatively. Whether ‘elegant' was the right word for the pose, however, was rather more questionable. In truth, it seemed to her lascivious in the extreme, if not actually obscene.