Read Rectory of Correction Online

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 (3 page)

With palpable reluctance, Gretchen bent over the back of the chair, corsets creaking in protest as she did so.

‘Amelia, would you be so good as to raise the miscreant's skirts?'

Amelia obeyed with alacrity, pulling up the woman's navy blue skirtlet. Gretchen gave a frightened moan, but held her position uneasily. Amelia's action revealed the biggest, fattest bottom she had ever seen. Gretchen's drawers were cream cotton, and very voluminous, but even so the big buttocks filled them and, as Gretchen had bent, she had pulled the material quite taut.

‘Drop her drawers, girl, she will not be needing them for a while.'

Not daring to protest, Amelia reached under Gretchen's belly. Ignoring the outraged gasp that came from Gretchen's lips, she found the knot securing the drawstrings and undid it. The garment would not fall unaided, and Amelia had to tug the cotton down, past the massive upper thighs, and past the tops of the woman's silken stockings. Then she stepped aside.

‘Thank you, Faith.'

Dawes took the proffered cane from his maid. It was a long one, thin and of a dark brown colour unfamiliar to Amelia, though the sight of it gave her a prickling feeling of panic down her spine. Something told her it was going to be an utter beast.

The Reverend Dawes lined the cane up, touching Gretchen's bottom, which was already trembling in anticipation, and provoking a startled little gasp.

‘You must learn, Gretchen, that my orders are not matters for discussion. I will ordain, and you girls will obey.'

Amelia watched the cane go back and pause, ready to do its work.

‘Or else,' Dawes continued in a conversational tone, ‘I do assure you there will be hell to pay!'

He unleashed the stroke. The cane moved too fast for Amelia to follow it. There was a barely visible blur, like a brief shimmering in the air, a whooshing sound, as cold to her soul as the whistling of an arctic wind, and a muted ‘
thwuck
'. Amelia watched Gretchen's cheeks wobble after the impact. For all its size that bottom must be remarkably firm, she thought. Gretchen must be a stoical creature, though, for she hardly gave an indication that she might be in agony.

‘Oooh...!' The belated cry was let out at last.

Not so stoical after all, Amelia thought. The woman had just been too stunned by the pain to speak for a few moments.

‘Oh, mercy, please, sir. I'm sorry, sir, no more, it's too...'

‘Be silent,' the Reverend said quietly but firmly. Then he struck again.

Amelia watched Gretchen's bottom wobble after the impact. The woman seemed to be jiggling it in a vain attempt to disperse the pain. Two livid tramlines marred the pale perfection of her smooth rounds. Amelia licked her lips and tried not to think about what that cane would feel like on her own tender behind.

The thrashing continued at a deliberate, even leisurely pace. The Reverend Dawes was evidently in no hurry for his supper and he took his time. He would unleash a stroke, then wait, allowing Gretchen ample time to feel the full pitch of the resultant pain. Perfectly at his ease, the clergyman stood flexing his rod thoughtfully as a fresh welt bloomed on her bottom. He allowed the woman to gasp and jiggle and even writhe around. Only when she stood up, yelping, after the fifth stroke, a blistering crack across her upper thighs, did he intervene.

‘You will bend over, girl!' he fairly roared. ‘You will get into position
now
and hold it, or by God I will make you sorry. I shall double your tariff if you do not assume the position right
this instant
!'

All too obviously reluctantly, Gretchen forced herself back over the chair. She was sobbing now, looking round with a red face that displayed all the signs of panic and was splashed with tears. Her buttocks trembled violently as she awaited the next stroke.

Watching in thunderstruck horror, Amelia found her mouth had gone quite dry. She could not take her eyes off the thin brown cane as he flexed it, then raised it. How long could it be before she felt the beastly thing on her own bottom? Her stomach turned a somersault as she watched the cane whistle though the air and hiss into Gretchen's bottom.

 

Kirsty pressed her snub nose to the carriage window and watched the passing countryside with fascination. The landscape was like nothing she had ever seen. The rugged mountains and tumbling waterfalls of her native glens had long since turned to moor and rounded grassy fells. Now the fells were turning to rolling wooded countryside as the train steamed on and on. She had to change trains in a grimy town full of sooty chimneys and peculiar smells. Kirsty, who had never so much as heard of industrial pollution, much less seen it, wrinkled her nose and hoped the south would not prove to be all so noxious.

She need not have worried. Industrial blight gave way to farmland; farmland to wooded hills. As the train progressed the countryside grew ever more beautiful. Not as wild and rugged as the glens, but with its own real charm.

Still she felt a deep sense of unease; not so much for what she was going toward but from what she was leaving. Kirsty knew this course must be another stage in Dr Peebles' plan. Her tutor had long wanted her to relinquish the lairdship in favour of her youthful cousin and his own ward, Malcolm. It was not hard to understand his aims. Clan Slat still scarcely bothered with the modern world, and the clan chiefs wielded enormous power in their remote glens. As Malcolm's guardian, Peebles would have years of wealth and power, ruling in the weak-minded youth's stead. Kirsty alone stood in his way. For two long years she had resisted his efforts to make her relinquish the lairdship. This ‘course' was his last throw of the dice.

‘Of course, Kirsty, my dear,' he had said at the little station at Kinloch Sgiursair, ‘should you become homesick and wish to leave the course early, all you need do is let me know that you are ready to sign a deed relinquishing the lairdship.'

As the train pulled into Hatherby station Kirsty could still see his pasty face, eaten up with greed and malice. Marie Nip, as ever, had waited behind him, smiling. However bad things were on the course, she swore to herself, she would endure it. Kirsty MacSlat would never sign her birthright away to Peebles and his slut. That much was certain!

 

‘You cannot be serious.' Charlotte stared at the Reverend Dawes disdainfully. ‘My dear vicar, or whatever it is you are, I am twenty-one years old!'

‘Too grown up for a uniform, then?' the Reverend asked mildly.

‘Quite. As is Arabella, too.'

Dawes looked at Charlotte's companion and smiled. ‘Ah yes, we must not forget Bella, must we. My dear, would you be so kind as to follow Faith up to your quarters? Just a moment, Lady Charlotte, there was one other thing.'

Bella went with the servant girl, leaving Charlotte on her own with Dawes for the first time. Not that this made her nervous, exactly. A little more circumspect, perhaps.

‘Now, my dear, I expect you feel too grown up for corporal correction, too?'

‘Corp... you mean flogging, vicar? Really, that would be quite absurd. Indeed...' she paused before continuing untruthfully, ‘I really never heard of such a thing.'

The Reverend Dawes had turned to the far wall as she spoke. For the first time she noticed the astonishing selection of canes, belts and riding crops that hung there, waiting. He picked a two-tailed tawse and turned to her with a confident smile. Charlotte stared at the thing in his hand as her voice trailed away.

Crack
! The Reverend Dawes suddenly struck the leather top of his desk, producing a retort like a pistol shot. Despite herself, Charlotte jumped, startled by the sound. Before she had time to recover he had rounded the desk and grabbed her by the hair.

‘Aaoow... let go! Ooh!'

The struggle was as brief as it was one-sided. The Reverend Dawes simply hauled her by the hair until she was bent over the desk. Then he put the handle of the belt between his teeth and used his free hand to haul up her skirts.

‘No, for shame, sir! Let me go!'

He did not let her go. Charlotte found it difficult to struggle; his grip on her hair was too strong. All she could do was reach back with her arms. The masses of silk skirt he had pushed up around her waist obstructed her hands; her sense of shame at her exposure sent her into panic.

‘Oh, please sir, unhand me. Please, let down my skirts.'

‘Not just yet, miss, there is a job still to be done.'

‘Oh, ah... what are you doing, sir, desist!'

To Charlotte's mortification the chaplain gave a throaty chuckle as his firm hand explored her bottom through her drawers.

‘What are these, girl, silk? You won't be wearing such fine underthings here for a good while. Still, I'll warrant they will offer scant protection, so I'll not fight you for them, just this once.'

His hand stopped feeling her. There was a pause, then a sort of whuffling noise. Charlotte heard the crack of belt on bottom flesh an instant before she felt the scalding pain.

‘Aaooow...!'

It was simply indescribable. Her bottom seemed to be on fire.

‘Tsk, tsk, Charlotte, I had heard you were a terrible little tartar. I expected more fortitude, for I have barely kissed your pretty bottom yet with my strap!'

There was another horrid whuffling and another white-hot flash of pain. Charlotte got her right hand protectively over her seared bottom. There was another crack and then her fingers were ablaze. ‘Ah, oh, aaoow!'

‘Foolish child. Put your hands back and I will belt them for you. I should grip the front of the desk, if I were you.'

Charlotte was not quite beaten. She struggled violently, for all that this meant her hair felt as if it was being pulled out by the roots. She put her left hand back and got an agonising crack across the knuckles for her trouble. Another stroke impacted hard across her upper thighs. The pain was so intense she could not even gasp for a few seconds. After that, she could do nothing except follow his suggestion. She leaned forward and grabbed the edge of the desk, screwed her eyes shut, and gritted her teeth.

Crack
!

‘Aaooowww...!'

‘That is a little better, Lady Charlotte. Hold that position for me, there's a good girl.'

Crack
!

‘Oh, oh,
God
.'

Her bottom felt as if it had been boiled. Charlotte had never experienced such intense pain. She could think of nothing but how she might get him to desist. Pride, anger and determination seemed to have had been utterly annihilated by the strap's venomous tails.

‘Oh, please sir, please, oooh, I cannot...! Please stop, have mercy. I'll do as you say!'

A particularly wicked stroke of the tawse impacted on already welted flesh, and Charlotte lost the power of speech altogether for a moment. All she could do was clutch the desk edge until her knuckles were quite white, stamp her feet and emit a strangulated grunt of utter agony.

‘I am so glad that you have reconsidered your attitude, my dear.'

There was another heart-stopping whuffle, and Charlotte's thighs were ablaze with pain. She was powerless to stop the tears that coursed down her cheeks, and quite beyond feeling ashamed of so craven a display.

‘For obedience will, undoubtedly, make your stay here much more pleasant.'

Another sharp retort echoed around the study as the tawse tails bit her bottom. Charlotte felt the pain rip through her, so intense she was unable even to shriek.

‘Corporal correction will be your regular lot, even if you essay to obey.'

‘Ah, ah, oh, oh, p-please, sir...'

Crack
!

Charlotte hissed in agony as her scalded thighs were stung again. If she survived this ordeal, she realised in a panic, she would never dare to disobey this man again.

‘But,' the Reverend Dawes continued, in his casual, conversational way, ‘should you be disobedient it will be very much the worse for you. I shall have your obeisance and compliance, madam.'

The final stroke across the centre of her bottom was so vicious that Charlotte was engulfed by a red rip-tide of pain. She leaped up like a flushed pheasant, gripping her blistered buttocks in both hands and making a strange, deep-throated gurgling sound. She fell, or perhaps tripped on her voluminous skirts and collapsed on the study floor.

Charlotte could barely register anything except the incandescent agony of her welted flesh. She lay on the study carpet, clutching her rear and writhing like an eel as she gasped with shock. After a minute or so the pain began to subside, terribly slowly. An appalled awareness of her situation stole into her soul.

The Reverend Dawes was standing over her. She looked up in shamefaced fear, eyes blurred with tears. He towered over her, immovable as a tree. The strap swung easily in his right hand. Charlotte blinked and looked down at his brilliantly polished shoes.

‘Tsk, tsk, what a disgraceful exhibition, girl.' His deep voice sounded amused. ‘You will learn to take your punishment with much more decorum than that.'

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