‘Good doggy,’ the policewoman said, pinching her cheek playfully and giving her a wink, ‘time for walkies.’
She would split. Surely she would split. There was a moaning sound in her ears, but Amelia did not know or care from whence it came. All she knew was the awful, relentless pressure between her legs. She tried to ease it by clenching her raw thighs against the bristle slopes and pushing herself up. It almost seemed to work for a few seconds, then she sobbed as she lost her fight against gravity.
‘This bit is just you and me, sweetie.’ Constable Prentice smiled at her prisoner and patted her fondly on the cheek. ‘We might let the boys in later. I know you objected to having a man see you naked, but I find girls often change their minds about these things. After the first dozen we can see what you say.’
The cellar room was large, gas-lit, and smelt slightly musty. The policewoman tugged Charlotte over to a heavy wooden trestle in the middle of the floor. Then she unclipped the wrist restraints from the belt.
‘Bend over and grip the side struts, legs apart. No, wider, that’s the way.’
With a crisp efficiency that spoke of copious practice, the constable fixed Charlotte’s wrists and ankles to the solid oak legs of the trestle. The waist belt was anchored firmly to the pommel, and thigh straps restricted movement even more. Charlotte was bent so far over that her bottom was the highest part of her anatomy and her head was at the level of her knees. She could move her neck and flex her fluttering fingers; otherwise, she could do little more than twitch in terror.
Once she was fastened, Prentice simply pulled up the flap of her shift, letting it drop down around her shoulders to leave Charlotte’s bottom quite exposed.
The only sound in the cellar, apart from the low hiss of the gaslight, was Charlotte’s heavy, slightly panicky breathing.
Then there were steps, the measured tread of police brogues on cold flagstones. Charlotte listened to the woman walk away. There was a series of rustling noises. She could not imagine what was happening. All she could see in front of her was a wall festooned with whips, straps and other implements of judicial correction.
After what seemed like an eternity, the footsteps came marching back. Charlotte’s bottom twitched in terrified anticipation as the sound got closer, but the steps did not stop behind her, nor the first stroke come quite yet.
‘I find the tunic can be a bit restrictive under the arm, when one wants to really swing,’ Prentice said conversationally.
Charlotte had been watching the brogues come into view, and the shapely, if solid, stockinged lower legs. Now she raised her head and gave a surprised gasp.
Constable Prentice looked magnificent. She had removed her police tunic and her skirt. Beneath she wore only the stockings, elbow-length black leather gloves, and a long black leather corset. From this gleaming, tight-laced sheath, a truly superb body seemed to be trying to escape. Full, firm breasts were pushed up by the half-cups. A thick waist was laced tight enough into its hide casing to emphasise curves that were nothing short of heroic. Powerful, well-muscled thighs were sheathed in black silk stockings, each anchored to the corset by half-a-dozen taut suspender drops.
She towered over Charlotte, who looked up in terror, then quickly lowered her gaze and found herself looking at a bushy triangle of dark brown fur.
Charlotte tried to swallow, but found her saliva had all but disappeared. There was moisture mere inches from her eyes, though; Constable Prentice stroked her cunny, bringing out a gloved forefinger that glistened as if oiled.
‘I prefer to whip drawerless, too,’ the woman said, hoarsely. ‘You know...’ Charlotte focused with a jolt of terror on the whipcord cat which dangled from her free hand, ‘you really are a luscious little sweetmeat. I shall enjoy thrashing you. It’s my luck that you are concerned to maintain the proprieties.’
She laughed, looking into Charlotte’s eyes and wiping the slick stuff from her finger on the girl’s crimson cheek.
The sight of Prentice’s body, so resplendently displayed in black leather and silk, and in particular Charlotte’s close-up view of her juicy cunt, had almost made her forget for a few seconds the purpose of her visit.
‘Ever had the cords, you haughty little bitch?’ Prentice demanded, bringing up her hand and swinging the implement so its tails swished close to Charlotte’s face.
‘No, no – ma’am,’ she managed in a whisper, almost as mesmerised by the swinging whipcord tails as she had been, a moment earlier, by the sight of Prentice’s semi-naked body.
The cords consisted of a wooden doweling handle, about sixteen inches long, attached to which were at least a dozen tails. These were each two feet in length, of slender and formidable-looking whipcord, each equipped with several knots in its business end. The policewoman held the whip up so these slapped gently against Charlotte’s trembling cheek.
‘Oh...’
‘Shut up, I have not hurt you yet, slut! Feel those little knots – hard little devils, aren’t they? Make their acquaintance, for those are the chaps that are going to do you the most good!’
Charlotte tried to stop herself from whimpering audibly, with but limited success. The little knots did indeed feel hideously hard against the soft flesh of her cheek, but the stroking of the cords against her face told her the whip was also wet.
‘It’s nice and moist for you. It hurts more wet, so we like to make sure it is not too dry when we use it.’
Charlotte struggled for a moment against creaking leather straps, anger mingling with her rising sense of fear.
‘You beast...!’ she managed as the policewoman calmly walked out of her sight. Charlotte was still trying to think of some expression to match her fury when she heard the hissing sound behind her.
‘Oh, help, no!’ Amelia babbled helplessly as the pitiless bristles worked themselves into her throbbing labia. She was bathed in perspiration now, writhing uncontrollably on her unbearably prickly seat. ‘Oh, let me off! Have mercy, please...’
‘Be quiet, Amelia.’ The Reverend Dawes’ voice cut into her fevered consciousness. However, the discomfort was all-consuming and she was quite unable to obey.
‘Oh, please, sir, let me off,’ she sobbed.
Strong hands grabbed her hair and hauled her head back. Something hard and rubber was forced between her moaning lips. A strap was buckled to the gag and her hands wrenched even higher as she felt her head pulled back. She could no longer see Gretchen writhe in agony before her, or look down to reassure herself that it was but bristles she was riding, and not the hide of a porcupine, which was what it felt like. She stared at the flaking, magnolia-painted ceiling as acute discomfort gradually melted into agony, and moaned helplessly behind her gag.
‘Haaooow...!’ Charlotte’s cry was a mixture of surprise and pain. With so little experience of corporal correction to her credit, she had not imagined anything could hurt quite so much. Had she not felt the cold wet cords a moment earlier, she would have sworn the lashes were white hot.
They burned a dozen searing lines across her bottom. Charlotte struggled furiously against her bonds, without the least effect other than producing some rather pitiful creaking.
It was a while before the scalding heat subsided, and a full minute before she recovered enough from the pain to be afraid. Now she was aware that another stroke was coming. The woman standing silently behind her must surely be taking aim. The stroke did not fall. What was she waiting for? Fear leapfrogged pain to take control of Charlotte’s mind and goad her feverish imagination.
She heard herself whimper with anxiety. It was coming, Charlotte knew; she just did not know when, and this lack of knowledge was driving her demented. The burning in her bottom was almost endurable now, but the anticipation was sending her out of her mind. The gaslights glowed warm in the otherwise cold cellar. It must have been a dungeon in the old days, Charlotte realised suddenly. Used for inflicting pa
in. The horrid place had no other purpose.
The cords hissed through the air and instantly her bottom was ablaze with pain.
‘Hoooo... Oooo...!’ she howled in agonised response.
‘Feel that one, did you, missy?’ The policewoman’s voice was thick with amusement.
‘Y-yes, ma’am,’ Charlotte sobbed eventually. She tried to listen, to hear a movement that might warn her the next stroke was coming, but there was only the steady hiss of the gaslights. Then her stomach lurched as she heard another, closer hiss, and agony engulfed her.
‘Haaooow...! Aaooow...!’ she yelped, oblivious to the policewoman’s chuckles. The fire in her behind was not so much unbearable as unbelievable. A girl was shrieking like a banshee, her cries echoing around the dungeon horribly. It took Charlotte some time before she realised the screams were her own.
‘Quite a noise you are making, Lady Letherbridge-Lacey, and I thought you hoity-toity tarts were supposed to be so stoical!’ Prentice remarked.
As some sense of self and situation came back to her, Charlotte found the policewoman was standing in front of her once more.
‘Would you like to take a little pause?’
‘Oh, ah, p-please...’ she sobbed.
‘Well, that was the first six strokes. It will get worse, of course, as your poor bottom becomes a little sore. Still,’ the woman laughed, ‘only another eighteen lashes to go now...’
‘Ooh... please...’ Charlotte’s scalded bottom felt as if it were ablaze.
‘Girls often prefer to take their strokes in sixes, I have noticed. They do say that a few minutes to recover really helps them to endure it.’
At that particular moment Charlotte would have done anything, said anything, just to put off the awful moment when the whip was raised again. Any respite at all from the merciless cords seemed worth her very soul.
The end of the whip handle was placed beneath her chin and this was raised until she looked into the policewoman’s laughing eyes.
‘There is a price, of course,’ Prentice said softly.
A gloved hand grasped Charlotte’s hair as her tormentor stepped forward. She found her nose no more than an inch from Prentice’s dark pussy fur, and she could smell the pungent, exciting scent of female arousal in her nostrils.
‘Tell me, your ladyship,’ the policewoman asked softly, ‘did they teach you to give tongue at your mansion?’
‘No, not you.’ The Reverend Dawes raised his cane to block Gretchen’s escape. Amelia and Bella limped bandy-legged out of the classroom after the maids, though Amelia turned at the door and shot Gretchen a resentful stare.
‘I have not quite finished with you yet, madam.’
Gretchen was still gagged, her hands still secured high behind her back. Quite helpless, she awaited her fate and tried to stop her abraded thighs from quivering.
‘Do you always stand with your legs akimbo, you shameless hussy?’ His voice was amused.
Gretchen did not have a lot of choice in the matter. The bristle pig’s legacy was that the insides of her thighs felt as if they had been scoured. Few novice riders could have been so saddle sore, she thought, glumly.
The Reverend looked thoughtfully at her stance and took a few steps around her as if considering something. As he moved around her left flank she caught a sudden blur of movement. There was a meaty thwack! and she doubled up in pain.
‘I believe I asked you a question, my dear. It is generally considered polite to reply to your tutor’s enquiries.’
Polite or not, Gretchen could only give a muffled moan for a few seconds. Even when the pain subsided enough to let her speak there was not much she could say, given the gag.
‘Oh dear, this could be a long night,’ the Reverend said with a sigh. ‘It might be better if you nod or shake your head.’
He had walked around to face her again. Gretchen hung her head, but her chin was lifted by the tip of his cane until their eyes met.
‘Well, are you a slut, Gretchen?’
Almost mesmerised by his cold grey eyes, Gretchen nodded her head. The cane went down, the tip tracing a path between her breasts, running over the white coutil of her little corset, and then stroking her gently rounded belly beneath the garment’s busk. Gretchen watched the progress of the stick, scarcely breathing as it stroked its way down her body. Only when it reached the nest of golden pubic curls did it come to rest.
A muffled moan escaped her gagged mouth. Gretchen felt her knees begin to buckle and she swayed, but somehow kept her feet. She could not stop her pelvis from pressing forward, though, trying to retain the contact from the stick.
The Reverend’s laughter was the last straw. Gretchen felt the tears well as she stood naked, writhing before him, unable even to beg him to relieve her. Her tormentor used his left hand to unbutton his fly. She watched, wide-eyed, as he took out a formidable erection.
‘Well woman, do you want it?’ the Reverend Dawes said simply.
Gretchen blinked her tears of shame and fear away, and nodded slowly.
‘That’s it, yes! You’re not bad at this, you stuck-up little baggage.’
Charlotte licked with a fervour born of desperation. While her tongue was working, her poor blistered bottom was being spared. She gave a muffled squawk of pain. Constable Prentice was getting more and more excited, and she was holding Charlotte with a firm grasp on the ears. The woman was grinding herself into the girl’s face, and Charlotte was having to breathe in hurried gulps when Prentice’s violent thrusts gave her occasion. Luxuriant pubic curls, wet from saliva and cunt juice, were pressed hard onto her nose and mouth. Swollen sex flesh blotted out awareness of all else. Charlotte was lost, as if sucked into a universe of hot wet cunny.
‘Higher, higher! You know where, you little whore!’
Charlotte tried to obey the gasped instructions, searching for the groaning woman’s clitoris. This was easier said than done, however, for Constable Prentice was squirming like fury. Every time Charlotte’s tongue made contact with her swollen clit, the woman’s pelvis would buck convulsively in response, pounding into the girl’s face and rasping her lips and nose with wiry pubic hair.
‘Oh! Yes! God!’ the woman shouted.
Charlotte winced as the grip on her ears became even tighter. The cunt that had become her world ground even harder on her mouth and nose. In a panic she realised she could no longer breathe at all.
‘Oooh... you bitch...’
Constable Prentice let out a shriek that echoed around the dungeon. Charlotte really thought her ears might be pulled off as the woman’s climax made her grind her pelvis with complete abandon into her face. All she could do was pray the juddering crisis would not be too extended, for her nose was being squashed against a bucking pelvic bone and her mouth all but engulfed by the woman’s dripping nether lips. She should never have defied the Reverend Dawes, Charlotte thought wildly, wondering if she would suffocate before the policewoman finished.
‘Mmmmpppfff...!’ Gretchen tried to protest. This had not been what she had meant when she nodded.
It was true that she had wanted – or rather, needed – that cylinder of engorged flesh inside her. It was need, rather than fear of refusal, that had prompted her, blushing furiously, to assent to his enquiry.
She had not bargained for this, however, and now it was too late to rethink her decision. Dawes had grabbed her by the ear and pulled her round. Then, to her utter horror, the Reverend had begun to steer her towards a bristling stool.
‘Now, don’t whinny, girl. I need to brace you against something, after all.’ He chuckled jovially, releasing her ear only to push her forward by the taut laces joining her stays together.
The bristle pig was too high for her belly, so any protection the little waist-cincher might have offered was quite wasted. Gretchen flinched as the Reverend reached around her and took each of her nippl
es in a wicked grip, causing another muffled squeal as he used the tender nubs of flesh to hoist her breasts high while pushing her towards the thing with his belly. Gretchen felt herself fall forward and the bristles rasped her ribcage above the low-cut corset. It was when he released her breasts, however, that the gagged squeals really started.
It was excruciating. The flesh on the undercurves of her breasts was exquisitely sensitive at the best of times. The slightest movement against the bristle ridge rasped the skin unbearably. All she could do was to try to keep her upper body still and screw her eyes tight shut against the pain.
‘Heavens, what a noise. You sound like a parboiled piglet,’ the Reverend said with evident amusement. ‘All I can say,’ he gave her flank a friendly pat, ‘is thank goodness for that gag!’
Rough hands grasped the raw insides of her thighs, forcing her legs even further apart and pulling her breasts down even harder on to the pitiless bristles. Gretchen moaned again. Then she felt his cockhead slide inside her, and her muffled moans took on a different note altogether.
‘Well, now.’ There was a bloom of perspiration on the policewoman’s flawless skin. She wiped her brow with a small towel she seemed to have put by ready for the purpose. ‘Pleasant as that was, my girl, I suppose we should get on with our work.’
Charlotte was still gasping and gulping. She was not so distracted that she did not realise what the woman meant by her remark. Icy terror took hold of her vitals.
‘Please...’ she sobbed, imploring the vision in black leather before her with anguished eyes.
‘Good Lord, girl.’ Prentice cut her short with a laugh. ‘Look at your face! What have you been up to, sweetheart? You are as sticky as a well-chewed toffee. Slippy stuff, from your forehead to your chin.’
Rectory of Correction Page 10
