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Authors: Amanita Virosa

Tags: #chimera, #erotic, #ebook, #historical, #fantasy, #fiction, #domination, #submission, #damsel in distress, #corporal punishment, #spanking, #BDSM, #S&M, #bondage

Rectory of Correction (27 page)

BOOK: Rectory of Correction
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‘Attention, girls!' Mademoiselle Isobel cried gaily as she pulled on a rubber glove. She picked up a tube and squeezed something that glistened over her fingers. ‘Never forget to lubricate properly,' she instructed.

Linnet gave a startled gasp as the lubricant was carefully applied. Then Mademoiselle Isobel beckoned Kirsty and smeared the stuff around the tip and shaft of her rubber member. The classroom seemed to have gone very quiet indeed.

‘Now,' Mademoiselle Isobel said, ‘let us see if Kirsty and Linnet can demonstrate how to bugger and be buggered, in a properly ladylike fashion. That is to say,
elegantly
!'

 

Amelia was utterly delirious now. All she knew for sure was that she would die if he took his hand away. Her pelvis rocked quite of its own volition, needing the pressure against her clitoris. The Reverend's contemptuous chucking as she pressed herself, squirming helplessly against the heel of his hand, only served to fuel her lust. It had been so long now – so very long – since she had been permitted relief. Amelia had moaned away, unable to assuage her building need, for one too many nights, and now her self-control seemed to have vanished like smoke in a breeze.

The Reverend kept withdrawing his hand a little, causing her to moan and push forward in pursuit of the pressure. Now he took it away completely. Amelia was so distracted that it took her a moment to realise what was happening, and she stood blinking and groaning helplessly.

‘I don't know if you remember, Amelia...'

‘Oh, please...'

‘No, not against the table. You are not a bitch in heat, Amelia. As I was saying, I don't know if you remember, but I told you once that you would have to beg...'

Some dim memory of the occasion, long ago, stirred in her befuddled brain. There was a proud young woman, once, telling the brute of a lowborn prelate that it would never happen. The memory sent a flush of humiliation coursing through her, but that only seemed to increase her overwhelming need.

‘Are you ready to beg, Amelia?'

He had his hands on her shoulders now, holding her off as she writhed in the grip of her desire, trying to press her lower person against his body. It was not fear that held her back, nor even pride. The truth was that her lust was now so all-consuming she could not think straight enough to know what she had to do. It was as if she had regressed to a state of sheer animal desire, quite beyond and below that required for verbal communication.

‘Do you want me to fuck you, Amelia?' the Reverend asked quietly, perhaps sensing that the squirming creature in his arms needed some prompting.

Amelia moaned her assent, wrestling frantically but fruitlessly in his grip.

‘You see, that was not so hard. But a please would be nice.'

‘Please...' she squealed, shaking her head violently.

‘Politeness is so becoming in a young lady, I always feel,' the Reverend said with a chuckle.

To Amelia's relief his hand went to her crotch again, though he did not let her get the needed pressure. Instead, he felt the soaking cotton covering her cunny, then the laces that hauled the flogging drawers up to her corset.

‘Bloody things,' Amelia heard him mutter. ‘Whose stupid idea were they anyway?'

The thought of how long it would take to unlace the drawers entered what was left of her mind and desperation overwhelmed her. Amelia, or rather the moaning, rutting creature she had become, was well beyond the task. Fortunately the Reverend's self-control seemed to be dissolving, too. She felt strong fingers scrabble at her crotch, then there was the sound of wet fabric ripping.

 

‘Ooh, please, Kirsty, not so hard. I—'

‘Shut up and stop squirming so much, Linnet, you little minx. If you throw me out I'll box your bloody ears!'

The crop blurred through the air and cracked across Kirsty's pale bottom. She gave a hiss of pain and wriggled her behind. Linnet, who she was skewering with her strap-on dildo, responded with a strangulated gurgle.

‘Please, Kirsty, let us have more poise and less unladylike language!' Mademoiselle Isobel said earnestly.

Charlotte watched the scene in front of her, chewing her knuckle. Kirsty was buggering Linnet with obvious enthusiasm but less elegance, it seemed, than was expected by their deportment teacher. The dressage whip had hissed through the air on several occasions, and Kirsty's bottom now sported six narrow pairs of scarlet tramlines.

The squeals Linnet emitted as the rubber cock reamed her produced a churning in Charlotte's belly. At least it was Kirsty who was getting the cuts of the crop, she told herself, and when her turn came the bottom exposed to that particular peril would belong to Arabella.

‘Now Kirsty, you must feel around your captive. That is it, keep thrusting. Feel around the girl to her special place.'

A new tone in Linnet's squealing suggested that Kirsty's hand had found something special.

‘Is it moist?'

‘She's like a wee waterfall, only a fair bit warmer!'

There was another hiss, another crack of leather whip against tender bottom. Charlotte winced in sympathy as she watched Kirsty's cheeks clench in response. The girl's bucking and Linnet's helpless writhing seemed about to dislodge the dildo for a moment. Kirsty used both hands to grip Linnet's corseted hips and hold the bucking girl down until she had driven the rubber member deep inside once more. Secure again, she returned her right hand to its interrupted manipulations.

Almost as soon as she did so, Linnet began to cry out in response, the full-throated yells and convulsive jerking of the girl's behind leaving the audience in no doubt as to what might be occurring. Linnet's climax seemed to have triggered Kirsty's, for the prefect began pumping frantically and shouting in a language that Charlotte did not recognise, but which sounded frankly barbaric. Then the two were screaming and bucking together as if one. Charlotte was barely able to believe what she was seeing. Mademoiselle Isobel tapped her whip in her hand critically.

‘Not very elegant at all,' she said mournfully as Kirsty, gasping and dotted with beads of perspiration, slumped over a heavily panting Linnet.

A couple of sharp taps of the whip stirred Kirsty into life. There was an audible plop as the dildo left Linnet's anus.

‘Charlotte, Bella...' Charlotte turned to find that Mademoiselle Isobel had put another rubber glove on and was once again anointing her fingers with something that glistened.

‘Come along,
ma petite
,' she said. ‘Come over here and see if you cannot mount a more ladylike display.'

 

‘Yes! Yes! Yes!' Amelia yelled as the Reverend pumped his hardness into her relentlessly.

He fucked like he punished, with a ferocious but focused energy. Amelia had come for the first time almost as soon as he slid inside her, but had been given no chance to catch her breath as he continued to fuck her. Within seconds she knew the next would not be long. Muscular arms encircled her, crushing her into his body as he hammered into her, his clothes rough against her naked breasts and thighs. Sometimes they stood, he holding her up, hands beneath her legs. Sometimes he lifted her on to the desk and fucked her over that.

After the second orgasm Amelia expected him to stop, but he did nothing of the kind. His thrusts were smaller, gentler almost, for a while as she took the chance to suck in great gulps of air. Soon he was hammering away again, however, and Amelia felt herself lifted and carried, his cock still deep inside her, to the bookcase.

The Reverend Dawes slipped his hands beneath her bottom cheeks, and Amelia put her legs around his waist. Their mouths met and his tongue explored her. With every thrust she felt the books against her back. All those volumes on flagellation and the punishment of females rasping this particular female's skin as she was fucked.

She wanted it to go on forever. His hardness inside her, his body crushing her against the leather-bound books, had become her universe. All trace of shame and fear and pain had fled her mind, and all that was left was lust.

This time, as she approached her crisis, she felt his coming, too. His rutting became even more ferocious, if a little less controlled. His mouth left hers and he let out some oaths before burying his teeth in her naked shoulder. Incredibly, his cock seemed to be expanding insider her.

Amelia screamed as her orgasm engulfed her for the third time, sweeping her away on a rip tide of white-hot ecstasy.

 

Amelia lay in the Reverend's bed, and in his arms, in a strange, delicious daze.

‘You do realise,' the Reverend said sleepily, ‘that this means we will have to get married.'

‘What? Yes, of course,' Amelia replied. She smiled as she felt his cock swell in her hand again.

Amelia had never once imagined that she might become a vicar's wife, and the idea took some getting used to. She wondered what life would be like in a small town rectory.

‘Rev... I mean, Richard,' she said slowly, ‘will you continue with your disciplinary work?'

‘Of course!' he said, and turned to kiss her. ‘One cannot turn one's back on a vocation.'

‘And the courses?'

He patted her thigh reassuringly. ‘Your course is over, Amelia. It was almost finished anyway. The next half-dozen miscreants will start in September, so we have several months to enjoy our honeymoon. Then – well, I was rather hoping you would assist me with the next intake.'

‘Well, Richard,' Amelia said seriously, caressing his stiff cock gently as she spoke, ‘I must say I have always been of the firm opinion that it is a wife's first duty to do all she can to help her husband with his work.'

 

 

Chapter Twelve

 

The marriage took place immediately. The Reverend Dawes' position and calling, and the necessity of safeguarding Amelia's distinguished family name, demanded nothing less. Even so, it was little short of amazing to the bride that the ceremony was able to be conducted but two days later. The matter might have troubled her more had she not been in such a dazed mental state. Indeed, so bewildering and precipitous were the events of those few days that it was not unknown, in later years, for the Honourable Amelia Dawes to quite forget that her marriage had been so enthusiastically consummated before any vows were made.

Later, thinking about it, she realised the eventuality must have long been planned for. The wedding was by no means the sort of hole in the corner affair that one might have expected in such circumstances. In fact, if somewhat hurried, it was actually rather grand. Only her assent to the match had been needed, it would seem, to set wheels whirling into motion.

Mademoiselle Isobel had, it proved, a fine silk wedding gown, already made in Amelia's exact size; not to mention a white satin and lace corset and other essential items of wedding lingerie and hose.

The jovial Bishop Briggs of Silchester, all smiles and sly asides, popped up as if by magic to perform the ceremony. Amelia's aunt and uncle, Lord and Lady Hatherby, hosted the reception at Hope Hall, festooning the great west dining room with flowers that were, almost miraculously, already at hand. There were even, it turned out, pre-prepared bridesmaids' costumes for Amelia's companions on the course, excepting Kirsty, who had to leave at the shortest notice, and Gretchen, who instead was harnessed to the amusingly decorated phaeton that pulled the happy couple from the church up to the Hall.

Six months of the Reverend's unrelenting regime had wreaked an amazing transformation on the once fat woman, who had struggled so to trot up the hill, unburdened, on that first day. Gretchen was still extraordinarily buxom. Nature had never intended her to be svelte. But the merciless cross-country runs and purgatorial trips to the gymnasium had slowly turned flabby thighs into solid muscle, and made her massive buttocks strong and fabulously firm.

Amelia was impressed as the woman, naked but for her jingling leather and steel harness, bent between the shafts with shoulder muscles bunching and hauled her by no means inconsiderable load up that familiar drive. True, Gretchen's rump needed to be flicked, more than once, by the Reverend's whip before she pulled the little carriage into the courtyard of the hall, but the amazing thing was that she managed it at all.

‘My dear...' The Reverend held his arm out to help Amelia dismount from the cart. The wedding dress involved a great deal of white silk in the skirts and train, and the process involved some skill and not a little rustling.

Amelia stood in the courtyard for a moment, regarding the ancient walls of the Hall, this time not with dread but with swelling pride. It was almost a year since she had arrived in this very place with her cousin, Clara. A shiver passed through her as she remembered some of what she had endured in that extraordinary year. She watched as newly respectful stable boys unhitched Gretchen and led the perspiring pony-woman off to the stables to be rubbed down, and then she smiled.

 

‘A pretty thing, eh, girl?' a gruff male voice said in Faith's ear. ‘Jack Campion always did have a rare eye for a whip.'

BOOK: Rectory of Correction
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