They walked the short distance to the police station, and no two companions ever seemed so mismatched, partaking of an evening stroll. The Reverend Dawes strode along confidently, cheerfully pointing out places of interest to his charge and exchanging cheery greetings with neighbours met along the way.
Charlotte, in stark contrast, hung back with palpable reluctance, her feet fairly dragging. The truth was that she was already regretting refusing to disrobe. She did not know, exactly, what awaited her at the police station, but she did know she had no desire at all to find out. Indeed, it was all she could do not to recant, to beg the Reverend to forgive her recalcitrance and take her back to the rectory to rejoin her fellow sufferers in detention.
‘Good evening, Reverend, I trust I find you well?’ The speaker was a weaselly man of modest height, whose gold tooth glinted in the gaslight as he grinned at Charlotte with all too evident interest.
‘Indeed, Jack. Lady Charlotte, say hello to Mr Campion, worthy winner of this year’s Silver Cup. Curtsy, girl, curtsy!’
Charlotte bobbed, blushing at being made to do so for such an ungentlemanly type, but not daring to defy the Reverend Dawes. To her chagrin the man grinned and winked, then dropped his eyes to her breasts, staring at them openly.
‘One of your trainees, eh, Richard? Very nice – very sweet. I could get a good price for her in the flesh markets of Fejr.’
The Reverend Dawes chuckled. ‘I’m sure you could, Jack, but I am afraid the young lady is being trained for her place in society, not for the harem of some heathen potentate.’
‘Pity.’ A hand went out and raised Charlotte’s chin, fingers rough on the tender flesh beneath her jaw. ‘A pity, indeed. I am thinking of making another trip in a couple of months, actually.’
‘Oh, really?’ The Reverend said urbanely. ‘And what of the cup winner, will you...?’
He was cut short by Jack’s throaty chuckle. ‘Sorry, Richard, I have already sold Princess to Lord Alex. I thought it only fair after winning his precious Blossom. The sheikhs of Fejr will pay good money for a filly as pretty and as fast as that young baggage.’
‘Damn! So Alex has her?’ The Reverend shook his head ruefully. ‘I shall have my work cut out next year if I am to win back the cup.’
‘You will need a new mount for sure,’ Jack said with a mischievous grin. ‘Your Rose is game enough, but she does not have the legs to match Princess. Mind you,’ he shot the Reverend Dawes a sly, sideways look, ‘roans are rare enough where I am going to fetch a premium, and you have already broken her to harness...’
The Reverend Dawes furrowed his brow thoughtfully. ‘Well, she is very useful to me, but I might be persuaded to let her go, if the price were right. I tell you what, I meant to ask you to give my girls a lecture on the whips of the Western Hemisphere; I know you have a fine selection of quirts. Why not come up and have dinner before you leave?’
The matter was apparently resolved and Charlotte and her guardian resumed their stroll. The young woman was puzzled by the conversation she had just heard, but she had little time to consider the matter. They had met Jack Campion outside Kimblewick’s, the saddlers’, which was in the row of shops that made up Hatherby’s main street. The blue lamp of the police station had been visible at the end of the thoroughfare, even as Charlotte waited for the men to conclude their peculiar conversation. In fact, she had found it hard to look away from the ominous beacon, and now it was but a few short strides away.
‘Reverend Dawes, very nice to see you, sir.’ A rather portly sergeant beamed at the Reverend as he entered the police station, then he looked at Charlotte and licked his lips in a way which made her distinctly nervous.
‘What have we here then?’ he asked. ‘Been a naughty girl, have we?’
The Reverend Dawes chuckled. ‘She has indeed, Sergeant Billings. A very naughty girl indeed. This is Lady Charlotte. She is a modest, delicately brought up young lady, who did not wish to uncover for correction in front of me. As my position and cloth can permit of no breath of scandal, her grandmother and I thought we would ask if your female constable would mind standing in. Then there could, of course, be no question of impropriety.’
‘I should think not.’ The sergeant stared so coldly at Charlotte that goosepimples came up on her arms. ‘Though such a question ought never to have been put. All the world knows the Reverend Dawes to be the most upright of men!’
Charlotte felt herself begin to blush under this rebuke. She stared at the floor and swallowed hard.
‘Cane, cords, birch or spanking strap?’ the sergeant asked, opening a large book with the easy air of one performing a familiar task.
‘Oh, I think it is time the young lady experienced the cords.’
The sergeant picked up his pen, then looked up at Charlotte and winked. ‘Aye, that old cat will make this kitten mewl, I’ll warrant. On the bare?’
‘Most certainly on the bare. As she has elected flagellation by a feminine hand, there can be no issues of propriety that might necessitate protection for her person.’
‘Quite, quite.’ The sergeant nodded in agreement as he inscribed the decision in his book. ‘Number of strokes?’
‘Well, as it is a first offence...’ the Reverend Dawes fingered his chin thoughtfully.
A fist seemed to churn in Charlotte’s vitals as she waited to hear her fate.
‘Two dozen should suffice,’ he said at last, catching Charlotte’s elbow as she swayed. ‘Lift your skirt, girl.’
‘Lift my...’ Charlotte mumbled. After all the talk of propriety she was stunned by this order. There seemed to be no help for it, however, so she gripped the hem of her uniform skirt and obeyed.
‘I say, that is quite a grip. I’d heard, of course, but...’ Sergeant Billings chortled as, blushing furiously, Charlotte exposed her whipping drawers to his gaze.
‘It will take a little while for her to take them off. I wonder if you have a private place?’
‘Of course, she can disrobe in one of the cells. Constable Prentice will be half an hour or so, in any case.’
It was warm in the classroom, with several gurgling, slate-topped radiators fashioned of intricate cast iron pumping out a steady heat. Warm enough to ensure that Amelia perspired freely as she shifted on her stool.
She almost wished she was back kneeling on the dried peas. That torment had rapidly become unendurable. Her current tribulations provided an altogether more leisurely descent to hell.
When the girls undergoing detention had been told to take off their drawers, Amelia – she almost laughed bitterly to think of it now – had been mightily relieved. She should have known better, of course. As soon as she had struggled out of the hateful drawers her wrists had been secured once more, high behind her back.
Faith and Rose had brought the devices the Reverend called ‘bristle pigs’ out of the anteroom, one by one. Amelia had just stood and stared at the first one, whilst they busily fetched the remaining two. It was a most peculiar device, a sort of tall, iron-legged stool. Two flat planes sloped together at about forty-five degrees, like the ridge of a miniature roof, to form the seat of the stool. It was a roof topped with the strangest of thatch though, for this odd seat was covered in the sort of bristles one might expect to find on a stiff scrubbing brush. Amelia blinked at the thing, as if she might somehow make it disappear.
Nor was she mistaken in her misgivings. Gretchen was first on her stool, allowing Faith to guide her feet on to two flat metal flanges protruding out by some mechanism at either side of the pig’s stout iron legs, about a foot above the floor. Gretchen stood on these with legs splayed wide, the bristling rides but inches from her naked cunny.
Faith had then turned to Amelia, guiding her on to the metal steps of the next stool. As before, the devices were arranged in a little row, so once again Amelia found herself looking at Gretchen’s naked back. The sight made her stomach tig
hten with apprehension. The welts on Gretchen’s bum had faded almost to invisibility now, but her cheeks were quivering uncontrollably and Amelia felt her own legs tremble, as if Gretchen’s obvious fear was contagious.
Rose stood beside her as she heard Faith position Arabella behind her. The maid put a hand on Amelia’s bottom and began to stroke.
‘Half an hour; that’s quite a long time on these sweet little seats,’ she said in mock commiseration. ‘You’ll be going quite out of your mind after ten minutes.’
Amelia took a deep breath and counted backwards, trying to control the anger surging through her heart. Much as she would have liked to tell the common little trollop to go hang, she was horribly aware that her arms were bound, and the maid’s were not. Indeed, she winced as the girl gave her bum a vicious pinch.
‘You think you are so high and mighty,’ Rose murmured. ‘Your kind love to see girls like me being whipped. Well, we’ll see who’s for it now, eh, you stuck-up little slut!’
Faith had clearly finished with Bella, because she now trotted over to stand by Gretchen. She looked up and regarded all three girls standing on the stools.
‘It is best to grip the sides with your thighs, for as long as you can. I know it is hard, but believe me, it is a lot worse when you slip down to the ridge. Once down...’ she shivered, as if remembering a particularly grisly nightmare, ‘...there is no getting up again, believe me.’
With that she depressed a lever by the leg of Gretchen’s stool. Without warning the little steps collapsed inwards and Gretchen clamped her legs together on the bristly slopes of the seat. She howled, but Amelia was scarcely aware of it, for Rose had done the same to her a split second later. She might have had no warning, but she had been all too aware of the ridge waiting below her most intimate parts, and her thighs clutched at the stool in an automatic reaction.
It felt as if she had tried to ride a giant hedgehog. Hundreds of spiny bristles galled the tender flesh of her inner thighs. Only the terror of the ridge beneath her labia kept her legs clamped on the viciously abrasive surface. She gritted her teeth against the acute discomfort, trying not to groan.
Rose reached up and stroked her breast, gently at first, then tweaking her nipple nastily.
The maid laughed. ‘That’s it, Amelia, ride the nice horsy. It’s only half an hour you have to sit up there!’
Charlotte sat on the bench that was the only furniture in the little cell, and tried her very hardest not to weep. She could not stop herself from chewing her knuckle, though, as she waited for her nemesis to come for her.
The horrid whipping drawers were on the bench beside her, neatly folded with her skirt, boater and blouse. All she wore was her punishment corset and her silken stockings, below a simple, short grey shift of the coarsest fabric. This grim garment was adorned with the arrows that marked its wearer for a felon.
‘Put this on girl,’ the sergeant had said, thrusting the thing at her before he locked her into the cell. ‘It is a flogging shift, the traditional wear for purposes like these.’
As soon as Charlotte had pulled the thing on, she knew why. The hem only reached halfway down her thighs, and it was split at the sides, with slits that ran higher than her waist. There were buttons sewn on to the shoulders, and a moment of appalled investigation had revealed buttonholes, sewn into the corners of the back part of the hem. The very wearing of the thing made her feel guilty and condemned in some overwhelming way. Furthermore, the material was rough against the tender flesh of her naked breasts, and it rubbed her nipples most infuriatingly as she fidgeted.
She stood up and paced the length of the little cell again. If only it were over, she thought, clenching her fists with agitation. But for it to be over, the whipping would have to happen first. If only it would never be time. If only the time would pass and it be done. If only she had not refused to uncover. If only she had not dared to disobey!
Without a single stroke caressing her back, Charlotte found she had already learned a hard lesson. The Reverend Dawes always seemed to be ahead of her. If one objected to his treatment, he smilingly concurred, but then one simply seemed to find oneself facing something worse. As she paced the cell she felt the resistance slowly leach out of her soul. She knew, with cold certainty, that after this night she would never dare defy the man again.
Oh, come on, she thought desperately. Just get it over with. Then she heard the rattle of the key in the lock and a voice in her head shrieked, ‘No! I did not mean it. I take it back. It’s too soon. I’m not ready!’
‘Haa...!’ Amelia could not stop the gasp escaping as her thigh muscles twitched involuntarily and she slipped down another half an inch.
She was in absolute agony now. The scratching of the bristles on her inner thighs vied with the cramping muscle pain caused by clenching the steep slopes between her legs for far too long. The only thing keeping her straining away was the sight of Gretchen in front of her, pitifully writhing and groaning.
Gretchen’s thighs had given out five minutes earlier, and she had slipped the last few fractions of an inch with an agonised sob. Somewhat to Amelia’s surprise, she had given a relieved gasp as she settled on the wicked-looking ridge between the bristle slopes. For a few moments, it seemed, having the weight off her thighs gave some ease. All too soon, however, an urgent pleading came from her lips. ‘Ach, no, this is not possible...’ she had grunted in a disbelieving tone, before starting to gasp in pain and beg for mercy.
‘Be silent, woman,’ Rose had said smugly, ‘you have a good fifteen minutes to ride the ridge. Hold your tongue or we shall have to bit you. Believe me...’ she reached out and began stroking Gretchen’s ample breast, ‘...things can get a lot worse than this.’
Gretchen had not been able to stay silent, however, and Rose made good her threat, inserting a rubber gag between the woman’s lips. This was affixed, by means of rings on either side of her mouth, to a short strap attached to Gretchen’s wrists. Now her head was wrenched back as much as her arms were hauled up behind. Perched on the ridge, she pressed her quivering thighs against the bristle slopes in a desperate attempt to fight the force of gravity. Her almost naked body perspired freely as she writhed, utterly helpless, in her excruciating bondage.
Amelia guessed the muffled noises Gretchen was making through her gag were some sort of plea for mercy. If so, they were not having much effect. Rose stayed by Gretchen’s side, caressing her breasts and cooing at the writhing woman, occasionally leaning forward to give the perspiring globes a bite.
Increasingly panicked noises from behind her told Amelia that even Bella’s powerful thighs were proving unequal to the task and that she must be slipping down her slopes.
Amelia’s own thigh muscles were twitching now, the strain becoming too much to sustain. Desperately, she fought against the waves of pain, battling to maintain the pressure of her thighs against the bristles, brutal though these were. To no avail. With a defeated sob she felt her muscles give. Inexorably she slipped the last few inches down the slope, the tender tissues of her crotch settling on the narrow, stiff bristle ridge.
Chapter Five
The policewoman was sturdily built, even stocky, but she was an undeniably handsome woman. Charlotte might have called her beefy and made a joke about her powerful arms, at another time or place. Instead, she just bit her bottom lip nervously.
Constable Prentice stared at the prisoner, with laughing hazel eyes, for a long moment. ‘Well, well, well,’ she said at last with a slow smile, ‘how do you do, your ladyship. Ready for a treat?’
She stepped into the cell and lifted up a heavy leather belt with much chinking of associated chains.
‘Hands above your head, dear, while I fix up your restraints.’
‘Please,’ Charlotte said, looking at the gleaming leather and dangling chains with horror, ‘that will not be necessary.’
‘Hoo, won’t it then, your ladys
hip? I am afraid it is routine procedure. Felons can be dangerous.’ Constable Prentice winked. ‘Especially when they know they are going to be whipped.’
This was too much. Charlotte pulled herself up to her full height and spoke with renewed certitude derived from wounded pride.
‘My good woman,’ she said with hauteur, ‘I am not a felon, and—’
But she got no further. The policewoman fetched her a slap across the face so hard, and so unexpected, that Charlotte was knocked to the stone cell floor. She gasped in pain and clutched her hot cheek as she pulled herself up on to her hands and knees. A pair of polished police brogues came into view as she blinked away the tears.
‘Enough of your nonsense, girl. You are in my hands now. My name is Constable Prentice, but you will call me ma’am. You will also do exactly what I say. No, don’t get up. Do you understand, you little drop of dribble?’
‘Y-yes,’ Charlotte managed.
A shoe stepped heavily on her left hand, pinning it to the floor and making her cry out with pain. ‘Yes, ma’am!’
‘Ah, aaoow, yes, ma’am.’
‘Now, you little piece of filth, you may lick my shoe to show me some respect.’
A sudden upsurge of outraged pride almost made Charlotte refuse, but the woman put more weight on her trapped hand and a wave of pain chased any ideas of resistance right away. Gasping, Charlotte lowered her head and put her mouth to the shiny shoe. Bitter tears, as much from humiliation as from the pain, slowly trickled down her cheeks as she stuck her tongue out and began to lick. It was almost too much to bear; down on her hands and knees in a police station, licking a common policewoman’s shoes so abjectly.
After that she made no objection to the belt which was fastened tight over the shift and locked in place. Wrist restraints were attached to the sides by short chains and she was made to cross her arms in front, as if clasping her belly, while these were fastened, each wrist to the opposite side of the belt, into place. She was helpless and she knew it. Beneath the coarse shift she could feel her vulnerable bottom clench in anticipation of the ordeal ahead. Docilely, she stood while Prentice buckled on a wide collar of stiff leather, then clipped this to a leash.
Rectory of Correction Page 9
