Rectory of Correction

by Amanita Virosa

  Kirsty, by contrast, had stalked about the kitchen, her high heels clacking loud against the stone flags of the floor and echoing around the room. Occasionally, she passed a remark.

  ‘I quite like it here,’ she had said to Gretchen’s dumb distress. ‘You all moan but I think the Reverend is all right. I just wish I knew what was going on at home, now.’

  Every once in a while she would, with easy grace, deliver a stinging paddle stroke to Gretchen’s throbbing bottom.

  ‘Come on, buck up you fat slut,’ she had said merrily. ‘You know, you look awful funny like that, like a human scrubbing brush. Still, you probably always were a scrubber, aye?’

  There had been nothing Gretchen could do but endure the pain and the indignity, and there was nothing she could do now but work on and pray.

  Kirsty was hard to ignore, however. She stood a few inches in front of Gretchen’s face. The girl had very shapely ankles and small feet, and these, in their polished shoes, were in Gretchen’s way. She could not work further forward without splashing the prefect’s brilliant stilettos. Something told her this would not be a very good idea. Not knowing what else to do, she stopped.

  Very slowly, Gretchen raised her head. Kirsty’s ankles were sheathed in sheer black silk. She followed the legs upwards, up the shapely shins and dimpled knees. The prefect’s stockings were secured at mid-thigh with white and mauve lace and elastic garters. Above these was a pale expanse of smooth, flawless thigh.

  ‘Look at me.’ Kirsty’s voice was slightly husky.

  Gretchen continued to raise her blinking eyes.

  The little pleated skirt was cut to flounce out from the hips and, anyway, was far too short to reach the girl’s garters. Gretchen, looking up from almost below it, could see straight up to the furrow between her legs. Kirsty’s cunt was trim and lightly furred with red-gold curls. The bound woman could make out something glistening.

  ‘Would you like a rest, pet? Do something different for a wee while?’ Kirsty asked quietly.

  Gretchen, who found herself transfixed by the sight beneath her tormentor’s skirt, nodded quickly.

  There was no question about it. Amelia had to admit that Arabella Huntingdon-Wickham really did know how to spank.

  She held Linnet over her lap with what looked like contemptuous ease, though the girl squirmed and bucked in desperation. With her right hand Bella placed, rather than rained, the smacks down on the rapidly reddening little bottom.

  ‘Ooh! Ah! Oh! Ouch! Please stop, it hurts!’

  ‘It’s meant to hurt, you little bag of mischief!’ Bella laughed, delivering another stinging spank to the wriggling girl’s leg.

  They were shapely legs, if rather slender, Amelia thought, as she quietly slipped her fingers underneath her own skirt. Indeed, Linnet had a lovely figure altogether for all that she was slim. Her bottom might not have been very big, but it was very sweet. The girl’s flawless upper thighs above her stocking tops had turned from the palest peach to an angry red. Her bum cheeks were getting even redder as Amelia stood and watched.

  Bella, evidently, saw no need to rush her work. She had ordered a slightly sulky Charlotte to keep her eye glued to the keyhole when Linnet had started really shrieking.

  ‘Just gag the little slut,’ Charlotte had suggested.

  ‘No, I like to hear her squeal. You can, if you like, when it is your turn. Now watch the door, Charlotte, or I swear I shall put you over my knee instead.’

  Charlotte glared mutinously at her erstwhile friend, but Bella had been busy with her victim, and eventually, with ill grace, she took up her station.

  ‘You are really giving it to her,’ whispered Amelia, impressed despite herself, as another flurry of explosive smacks rained down upon the squirming bottom.

  ‘I like to use the hand on girls with tender bums.’ Bella looked up and grinned before delivering a terrific smack right on the sweet spot. ‘I like to feel them wriggle when I warm them.’

  ‘Ow! Ow! Mercy! Please! Ouch!

  ‘Well, she seems to be feeling it, Bella, that’s for sure,’ Amelia said. Linnet’s bottom looked as if it had been boiled, glowing a fiery scarlet from the white lace trim of her corset to the inky tops of her silk stockings. The squirming girl was sobbing bitterly between gasps of pain, as the punishing hand impacted on her rear, over and over.

  ‘Do you really think so?’ Bella graced Amelia with a beatific smile and fetched Linnet another tremendous smack across the thighs, chuckling at her victim’s agonised squeals. ‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘I suspect the little minx is starting to feel something.’

  ‘Aye, that’s it. Aye, that’s the spot...!’

  Gretchen made a muffled, grunting sound. This time, however, it was not a scrubbing brush filling her mouth, but something altogether softer.

  Kirsty had removed the gag but, to Gretchen’s chagrin had left her legs stretched by the spreader bar and kept her hands cuffed behind her back. She had braced her bottom against the kitchen table and instructed Gretchen to put her tongue to work. The woman had been glad enough of a chance of respite from her original task, having been taught the error of that misjudgement, but Kirsty turned out to be a most demanding taskmistress.

  ‘No, not yet you little slut. Lap between the lips, my clit will wait. I want you to taste me and learn who you are tonguing.’

  Gretchen learned all right, though her ability to taste Kirsty’s copious juices was marred by the fact that the prefect punctuated her instructions by leaning forward, bending over her attendant, and delivering a series of explosive cracks of the paddle on her already sore behind.

  ‘Don’t you pull away from me, miss!’

  With one hand Kirsty grabbed a hank of Gretchen’s hair and forced the woman’s face hard against her crotch. With the other she delivered another flurry of paddle smacks. Gretchen did not mean to pull away but the pain was so intense that her head kept jerking back in response. The paddle strokes provoked more jerks, which in turn earned her more strokes. She was caught in an agonisingly vicious circle.

  Somehow, at last, she managed to ignore the scalding pain sufficiently to keep her face pressed into Kirsty’s pubic bush. Her plump cheeks were soaked now, but how much was Kirsty’s slickness and how much her own tears would have been impossible to judge. Her bottom was so sore that the whole of it seemed to be throbbing, but she forced herself to ignore the pain and put her soul into tonguing her tormentor.

  As Kirsty’s climax started building, with a series of shudders from her pelvis, the girl discarded the paddle altogether and grabbed Gretchen by both ears. Then she fairly ground herself against the other’s face to an accompaniment of muffled squeals. The prefect lifted her legs and wrapped them around Gretchen’s neck. Strong young thighs squeezed her head in an anaconda grip that left her struggling to breathe.

  Fortunately for her, Kirsty’s crisis was not prolonged. The iron grip relaxed before she was entirely suffocated and at the same time she felt her ears released. Gretchen collapsed, gasping, into a kneeling posture, gulping lungfuls of sweet air.

  Whether it was some mysterious reaction to her situation, or a result of the chafing chain between her legs, Gretchen was left half-delirious with her own desire. Still, she had enough sense left not to beg Kirsty. Instead, she looked up with pleading eyes.

  ‘What do you want, eh?’ Kirsty pushed strands of hair away from her face and sneered down at her. ‘No, don’t tell me. I know what it is, you writhing slut. Come on, kneel up, like the begging bitch you are.’

  Anxiously, Gretchen did as she was told, wondering what Kirsty intended for her. She licked her lips anxiously, tasting Kirsty’s juices as she did so.

  ‘Is this what you want, slut?’ Kirsty asked with a mocking smile.

  Gretchen moaned helplessly as the girl hooked the toe of her shoe into the chain that ran between her widespread legs. Kirsty simply
used her foot to increase the pressure. A few contemptuous tugs were quite enough.

  Her orgasm was like nothing she had ever known before. A great incandescent flash of ecstasy engulfed her. Gretchen’s private hell turned into heaven for an instant. Waves of pleasure convulsed her abused body and she screamed, but this time not from pain.

  As sense seeped back into her mind, she became aware of the cold stone floor beneath her face. Then she saw the highly polished shoe tapping impatiently a few inches away. There was a wooden paddle, too, discarded on the floor nearby.

  ‘Well, Gruntie Gretchen, are you going to lie there gasping like a landed fish all evening?’ a lilting voice from above asked pleasantly.

  Gretchen watched with dawning understanding as a girl’s hand reached down for the paddle.

  ‘All right, you fat bitch,’ the voice said. ‘Recreation break is over. Someone has a lot of work to do.’

  ‘The master wants you,’ Faith said flatly, any sense of pity she might have felt completely vanquished by relief. ‘But first I have to put you in restraints.’

  Rose was freshly bathed and her pale skin shone from the application of fragrant oils. She had been waiting, completely naked except for black silk stockings, gartered just above her knees, and shoulder-length lace gloves. Her green eyes were wide and questioning.

  ‘I suppose it is a whipping?’ she asked in a husky, anxious voice as she allowed Faith to buckle on a heavy leather collar and wrist restraints. Once Rose’s wrists were cuffed behind her, Faith clipped a leash to the hefty steel D-ring at the front of the collar.

  ‘Something like that, I expect,’ Faith lied.

  She led Rose back into the lounge by the leash. The gentlemen were chuckling about something but, as the two maids entered, the laughter died away.

  If Faith, still painfully aware of her exposed breasts and cunny, coloured as the two men stared, Rose blushed as red as her namesake. They halted in the centre of the room, between the armchairs of the reclining gentlemen, Faith a little unsure of what was required.

  ‘So this is the filly you ran in the cup. Yes, I can see some muscle in her thighs.’

  Faith glanced down and sideways. It was indeed true that Rose had strong-looking thighs. Her sleek musculature was a legacy of being trained to pull the Reverend’s cart, for he had driven the girl hard and not stinted the whip. That job was one privilege Faith had never begrudged Rose. It had not escaped her rather fretful notice that, should Rose truly be about to leave the Reverend’s employ, there would arise a need to fill that arduous office.

  ‘Walk Rose up and down so Mr Campion can see her move,’ the Reverend said, between puffs of his cigar. He swirled his brandy in its glass deliberately.

  The air was acrid with cigar smoke and brandy fumes now, the scent so strong Faith almost felt dizzy. Tottering a little on her heels, she tugged the leash, leading Rose across the carpet to the far wall and then back, acutely conscious of the eyes following her and her naked charge.

  ‘Pity she’s not a blonde.’ Jack Campion’s voice had taken on a weary, sceptical tone.

  ‘Don’t try that, you damned robber,’ the Reverend put in. ‘You have told me many times that red hair is almost as rare as fair in the markets of Fejr.’

  ‘As rare, but not as sought after. Also, she is not plump enough for that market. It would cost me to take time to feed her up.’

  The Reverend Dawes gave a snort of derision. ‘For one thing, Campion, you rogue,’ he said, ‘the chit has breasts like melons. You cannot tell me your sheikhs will not pay a premium for those.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘For another, the reason she is not plumper is that the girl is fit. She is fit because she has been broken to harness. She is a damned good runner between the shafts and you have told me yourself how those sheikhs of yours like to race pony-girls, and how much they would pay for a well-trained roan.’

  As a rueful chuckle from Jack acknowledged some truth in these assertions, Faith glanced back at the girl she was trotting back and forth across the room. Rose was still blushing, but tears were trickling down her flaming cheeks and her eyes were wide with fear.

  ‘All right, I’ll give you something for the training, and I will admit that pale skin is worth a shilling or two. She is pretty and her breasts are very fetching. Still, I could not go above two hundred guineas for a roan.’

  This offer caused the Reverend to splutter in his brandy. Rose gave a little sob behind her, but Faith felt a guilty flush of pride. Certainly, it was humiliating to be talked about like livestock, but there was a strange satisfaction in hearing her valuation put at more than double that of Rose.

  ‘I value my girls equally,’ the Reverend said, as if reading her mind. ‘I would need five hundred for the girl, at least.’

  Jack just laughed at that, and there was a moment of quiet contemplation. As she had not been ordered to stop, Faith continued to lead the gently weeping Rose across the smoke-wreathed room.

  ‘You, girl, bring her here,’ Jack said at last.

  Faith did as she was bid. The tension in the leash increased as she did so. It seemed Rose was reluctant to approach the man.

  ‘Come closer, you, stand there.’

  The man gestured to Faith and she had no option but to step right up to his side, tugging Rose so she was right in front of him, standing between his widespread knees. She watched with anxiety as he took a deep pull on his cigar, making the end glow red. As he moved it towards her thigh she flinched and gave a little gasp of fear.

  ‘Stand still!’ he ordered brusquely.

  ‘Stop fidgeting, Faith, or I shall have to put you into severe restraints,’ the Reverend warned her.

  Faith watched in abject terror as the glowing cigar came nearer. Only her fear of the Reverend’s displeasure kept her standing there. Hardly daring to breathe, she watched as Jack pushed the unlit end of the cigar behind one of the front suspender drops of the corset, the elastic holding it firm against her naked thigh. She gave a whimper of relief as she realised his purpose. She was simply being used as a handy cigar holder, with nothing more to worry about than how long he meant to leave the fat corona smouldering there.

  Next he handed her his brandy glass, and took the leash from her hands. Faith held his glass with hands that were still trembling. Though she kept her eyes respectfully downcast, she could not stop herself from furtively looking to the side.

  The hand that had felt her own leg so professionally was now appraising the flesh of Rose’s thigh. If Faith’s hands still trembled a little, Rose’s legs were quivering and Faith could hear the girl’s rhythmic sobbing as she stood in front of the trader and cried.

  ‘Legs further apart.’

  He slapped her thighs to enforce this instruction. Rose gave a gasp of pain and obeyed with evident reluctance.

  ‘For all that blubbing the little slut is dripping like a tap,’ Jack Campion commented dryly.

  ‘Oh, those are crocodile tears. Take no notice of the silly chit,’ the Reverend said complacently as Jack continued to explore.

  ‘I’ll own that these titties are firm fruit for the size. Two-fifty.’

  ‘Four-fifty is as low as I could go.’

  Jack had Rose’s nipples between his fingers, twisting them until the girl gave a squeal of pain.

  ‘She is not very stoical, is she?’ Jack said in tones of regret. ‘Three hundred is my final offer.’

  ‘That is a fault? You will be telling me next your buyers do not like to hear their mounts squealing!’

  The Reverend laughed loud at this absurdity and Jack conceded the point with a rueful chuckle.

  ‘I cannot go your price and make a profit, Richard. Three-fifty really is as high as I can go.’

  ‘I will have to find, and break in, another maid. It is such a business...’

  This time it was Jack’
s turn to laugh. ‘You poor man. It is not as if you have to find another pony-girl and train her up to run in next year’s cup!’

  ‘Three hundred and eighty guineas and you have a deal,’ the Reverend said. ‘Not a farthing less.’

  ‘You drive a hard bargain, Richard. Three-eighty it is.’

  ‘You can take her with you, if you wish. I know your word is good. But I would like an hour or so to make my farewells. I shall miss the way she moans and squirms when she is buggered, and I always think it is only proper to cane a girl goodbye...’

  ‘Of course,’ Jack said. ‘There is no hurry at all. Please do take your time.’

  His hand moved towards her thigh and Faith thought he was going to retrieve his still smouldering cigar. Instead, he reached between her legs and took a firm grip of her cunny lips. She let out a startled cry.

  ‘You might care to make use of the facilities whilst I do so,’ the Reverend offered.

  Faith found herself looking into Jack Campion’s wolfish eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly, smiling at the maid as he pushed his fingers deeper. ‘Thank you, Richard.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Linnet, it won’t do.’ Amelia frowned at the girl on the bed. ‘You really must stop squealing or I shall have to gag you.’

  Linnet kept her eyes fixed on the burning candle in Amelia’s hand. ‘Oh please, Amelia, have mercy,’ she babbled. ‘Whatever it is I have done, I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Not as sorry as you are going to be, you little slut.’ Charlotte leaned over and pinched the girl’s nipples again until she cried out piteously. Amelia sighed and put down the candle. She looked around the room. It was ironic, she thought; the rectory was as well equipped with the tools of bondage as almost any house in the three counties, yet the girls were locked into a dormitory that was sadly lacking in the equipment they needed. Necessity being the wicked stepmother of invention, Amelia and Charlotte already had lit upon the one available source of binding cords available, and pressed the laces of their drawers and corsets into service.