‘Come!’
For all the power of the Reverend’s voice, Amelia did not hear him for a moment – or rather, she did not register his word. Instead she watched Bella hobble away down the corridor. The prefect was blubbering like a baby as she limped away, clutching her bottom. It was not this that held Amelia’s appalled attention, however; it was the sight of Bella’s receding hindquarters that held her in its thrall.
Bella’s flogging drawers were not so much split this time, as shredded. Her mostly bare buttocks were welted with a set of crimson stripes. Amelia simply could not haul her gaze from the sight.
‘Amelia, I said “come”!’
Close to panicking, Amelia forced herself to step through into the room.
‘Close the door behind you, dear,’ the Reverend Dawes said quietly.
Her heart hammering in her breast, Amelia did as she was told.
‘Note!’
Awfully aware of her semi-naked state, Amelia approached his desk with faltering steps, and proffered the envelope with a hand she could not prevent from trembling.
‘Good God, girl, this is damp!’ the Reverend said in astonished tones as he opened the envelope. ‘What have you been doing with it?’
His cold grey eyes locked on to hers for a second and it felt as if an icy hand had enclosed her heart. Then he dropped his gaze to her crotch, and raised an eyebrow.
‘Heavens, Amelia,’ he murmured as the blood rushed to her face, ‘what have you been up to? The gusset of your drawers would appear to be soaking. Makes the material almost transparent, don’t you know.’
Amelia felt her knees buckle beneath her. She almost wished she would faint as there seemed no other escape from her plight, but somehow she kept her feet. The Reverend took his time to read the note, though it could not have been more than a line or two. Whatever Mademoiselle Isobel had written produced a good deal of tut-tutting and sad shaking of his head.
‘I’m disappointed, Amelia,’ he said at last. ‘It seems that you have been a very bad girl indeed.’
Amelia stared at his desk, and tasted wormwood. Her hands clenched tight at her sides, but she was determined not to let the lump in her throat turn into humiliated tears.
The Reverend Dawes stood and strolled over to his wall of whips and canes, perusing the dangling implements intently with a thoughtful expression. Eventually he selected a tawse of particularly thick leather. He strolled back to the watching girl, unleashing a stroke that cracked explosively against the top of the desk. Amelia jumped a good inch and emitted an alarmed squeal.
‘The old XH,’ the Reverend said ruminatively. ‘Don’t use that often. It’s a bit of a beast, in truth.’
Instead of returning to his seat he sat on the edge of the desk, facing the quivering Amelia again but now no more than three feet from her.
‘You have been a very bad little girl, haven’t you, Amelia?’
As he spoke he reached out, letting the two tails of the tawse fall between her legs. These proved to be very stiff as well as thick and most distracting as he used them to stroke the taut cloth shielding her clitoris.
It was not fair. All she was guilty of was failing to endure Mademoiselle Isobel’s breast torture, and of being constantly tormented and abused by these beastly swine. Now she was expected to meekly confess to being to blame for their depredations.
‘Yes, sir,’ she managed somehow as the tails continued to tickle.
‘Say it then.’
‘P-pardon, sir?’ The tails were maddening. It was all she could do not to move her pelvis in response to their insistent strokes. She had to bite her lip to keep from moaning aloud.
‘Say, “I have been a very, very bad little girl, sir.”‘
Amelia was blushing from her throat to the roots of her auburn hair. It simply was not fair; it was not even true. If she said it she would be in thrall to this terrible man forever. Or so it seemed to her.
‘Amelia.’ There was a sharper note in his voice now.
The stroking stopped. He picked up the tails of the tawse in his left hand and fingered them thoughtfully. She looked up at the sound of her name and found herself impaled by his piercing gaze.
‘I... I have b-been a very b-bad little girl,’ she sobbed, unable to hold back the tears now.
‘And what do bad girls need, Amelia, my dear?’
Amelia hung her head and squeezed her fists even more tightly. ‘They n-need to be p-punished.’
The Reverend Dawes chuckled and reached out. This time it was his hand, rather than the tawse, that cupped her mons and caressed her until she could not suppress a moan.
‘Well, sweetheart,’ he said in a soft voice as Amelia pressed herself against the firm warmth of his hand. ‘We had better punish you, then.’
‘Bella, Charlotte,’ Mademoiselle Isobel turned to them with a bright smile, ‘your turn now!’
Charlotte tottered towards the table, hardly able to credit what was happening. After the appalling book balancing business, the girls had been allowed to remove their drawers and had been granted a delicious moment to apply cold cream to the welts that all the girls’ hindquarters now displayed. Bella’s bottom also sported cane weals that stood up like scarlet whipcords, and she moaned in anguish as Charlotte applied the soothing unguent. In all the months she had been there, Charlotte had never seen such a caning. She wondered what was happening to Amelia.
The respite was short-lived, proving to be just an opportunity for Mademoiselle Isobel to send Faith for more equipment.
Charlotte had licked her lips anxiously as the maid hurried back with two odd harnesses, each equipped with a thick rubber dildo.
‘Kirsty and Bella, as you are prefects,’ Mademoiselle Isobel had said, ‘you may be the gentlemen this time.’
‘What exactly,’ Charlotte heard herself ask, emboldened by her sheer astonishment, ‘has this to do with deportment?’
Mademoiselle Isobel laughed. ‘A lady is not simply a lady when walking or talking, or taking her cup of tea.’ She shook her head emphatically. ‘Mais non! Deportment is important in other places, too. A true lady must know how to use her tongue most delicately, and how to look poised and elegant when on her shapely knees.’
She handed one of the harnesses to Kirsty and picked up the other, stroking the big black rubber member thoughtfully. ‘Most important of all, you must learn to comport yourselves fittingly whilst being how do you say? “ringed”.’
If the expression was a new one to Charlotte, it did not remain a mystery for long. The corsetière helped Kirsty to adjust her harness around her loins until the dildo protruded from her pelvis in a reasonable facsimile of the way such an organ might have done on a particularly well-endowed and excited male.
Not that there was very much, otherwise, that was male about Kirsty. Naked except for her corset and stockings, her full breasts and tight-laced waist left no room for doubt about her true gender. She had stood looking down and fingering her false member with interest and, from her expression, not a little delight.
Linnet’s expression, as she looked at the thing with wide eyes, had been rather less ecstatic. Indeed, a distinct hint of apprehension clouded her lovely brow.
‘Come here, ma petite.’ Mademoiselle Isobel had positioned herself by the big table, whip once again ready in her hand. She patted the table with her free hand, and Linnet tottered to her on high heels.
‘Now, place your forearms along the edge, so. This way you may make a pillow with your hands for your face.’
Linnet had done as bid, bending to support herself on her forearms on the very edge of the table, leaving her breasts hanging free. Next the teacher applied herself to positioning the girl’s feet.
‘Watch carefully, girls. The instinct is to place the feet out here,’ she tapped Linnet’s stockinged ankle with the tip of the whip. Linnet had placed her feet
far from the table so her bottom was nearer than her heels, and her legs sloped back towards the tabletop. The tapping whipcord chivvied her feet nearer to the table until the girl’s bottom was quite the furthest part away.
‘Now, ma chérie, you must dip your back. No, keep your legs quite straight. Your pretty bottom is a target in more senses than one. It must invite attention.’
Charlotte had to admit the position made Linnet’s bottom look extremely alluring. The dip in her back and position of her legs made her buttocks stick out most provocatively. Whether ‘elegant’ was the right word for the pose, however, was rather more questionable. In truth, it seemed to her lascivious in the extreme, if not actually obscene.
‘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 th
e 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.’
Rectory of Correction Page 21
