Hall of Infamy

by Amanita Virosa

  Lord Alex made his way back to the lectern. ‘The Honourable Miss Amelia Colinbrooke,’ he said, his voice taking on a sterner, much more serious tone. Every one looked at her. She rose reluctantly and made her way to the little dock, where she stood. Amelia was frightened, it was true, yet a surge of anger coursed through her veins. The nursery was bad enough; the canings and the rubber pantaloons and sheets and all the rest. But this was intolerable. There were grooms here, grinning at her, and stable-boys. Amelia’s whole body thrummed with indignation. Somehow, however, gripping the rail of the dock determinedly, she managed to hold her peace.

  ‘Two marks,’ Lord Alex said in a voice dripping with mock sorrow. He looked up at Amelia and smiled. ‘Two dozen strokes, and to that count I shall add another six for general pertness. Stand out, Amelia. It is time to atone.’

  For a second or two Amelia very nearly balked. Two and one half dozen: how would she ever endure such a count? She looked around wildly, seeking an avenue of escape. Instead, she saw Mr Blackstock and the remaining stable-lad. They stood by the doors, clearly positioned there to forestall any such attempt. The expression in their faces, part eager, part amused, left Amelia in no doubt that they would relish a struggle with their semi-naked female better.

  Amelia took a deep breath, realising she was trapped. She silently swore bloody revenge.

  On trembling legs she walked to the stage and approached the awful block. So many birches had been broken that bits of twig were strewn all around, and these crunched sickeningly beneath her soles.

  ‘Take your boots off!’ instructed Mrs Pritchard, still stationed by the salt at the edge of the stage.

  ‘Do we have anyone prepared to administer correction to this girl?’ Lord Alex’s voice rang out. The pounding in Amelia’s ear increased. Jamie had flogged Kitty, Lady Alicia had taken the birch to Lucy’s lovely bottom. Who would step forward to administer her own thrashing? Desperately she prayed it would not be the powerfully armed Mr Blackstock again.

  There was a commotion at the door. Betsy came in, eyes streaming with tears, holding a bouquet of stinging nettles. The stable-boy who had accompanied her followed. Then a figure entered that made Amelia feel suddenly weak at the knees.

  ‘I would be glad to offer my services,’ the Reverend Dawes said dryly, giving Amelia a polite bow before turning to Lord Alex. ‘There is, I see, as I remarked earlier today, a rod in pickle for the wicked, and it would be a veritable pleasure to employ it on this impudent little chit!’

  ‘So glad you could make it, Reverend! You arrive in the very nick of time.’ Lord Alex exclaimed jovially.

  ‘I had some business with those maids of mine, after church was over. Then when I was walking through the park I met these young people engaged in their urticarious pursuits—’ the Reverend inclined his head towards the still-sniffling Betsy and her escort ‘—and thought I would accompany them back. It took a little longer than I anticipated, I am afraid.’ He looked disdainfully at Betsy, who cowered under his ferocious glare. ‘This young lady was reluctant to pick the nettles, for some

  reason, without gloves.’

  ‘So you delayed our guest, Betsy?’ Lady Alicia sighed. ‘I might have known. I swear, girl, I do not know what has got into you of late!’

  ‘Spare the rod and spoil the maid!’ the Reverend said, shaking his head regretfully. ‘That girl needs plenty of stick, and laid on with a will, if you will permit the observations of a visitor.’

  Amelia had been left with only one hope after the unexpected arrival of the Reverend Dawes: that she might at least get her ordeal over with just as soon as soon could be. Even that impoverished aspiration, however, was soon dashed.

  Having taken off her boots, she stood waiting by the block disconsolately. The Reverend Dawes vaulted, surprisingly athletically, onto the stage, and was at her side in an instant. Amelia tried not to quail as his hand reached for the hem of her smock, but could not prevent herself from flinching in fear.

  ‘Stand still, girl, and keep your legs apart!’ Mrs Pritchard snapped from her position at the stage side.

  Amelia felt her cheeks burn as the Reverend Dawes slowly pulled up the hem of her garment, until her rubber bloomers were fully revealed for all to see.

  ‘Still having problems, I see, Amelia,’ the Reverend said pleasantly. Amelia was too mortified to reply. She kept her eyes fixed on the twig-strewn floor and did her very best to fight back the tears that threatened to burst forth.

  ‘Best peel them off now.’

  To her horror, the Reverend gave her a friendly pat, just on her mons. It was an appalling liberty, but no one else seemed to be concerned. Biting her bottom lip hard to stop it quivering, Amelia put her hands in the waistband of the bloomers and began to pull the wretched things down. This was no easy task. The rubber knickers were so tight that, in places, her perspiration had acted as a seal. As well as the sheer grip of the latex itself, it was now like trying to pull off a suction cup. Worst of all, her struggles with the noisily squeaking rubber provoked a great deal of amusement among her audience.

  ‘Come along, Amelia. Get those knickers off!’ her aunt cat-called as she struggled with the rubber. Finally, with a last loud rubbery ‘plop’ the airtight seal was broken. Then it was just a matter of pulling the still-taut latex down her legs, trying to ignore the fact that she was exposing herself to stable-boys and grooms.

  She knew what she had to do, and put her knees on the ledge of the block, as the other girls had before her. Feeling the ridge of the block’s solid upturned wedge below her belly, she reached forward with a sigh and grasped the bar. She felt her smock pushed back until the soft silk fell about her shoulders. Now her hindquarters were completely bare. Amelia gave a grunt as the Reverend secured the belt, tight around her waist, affixing her firmly to the block. The little waspie was already very tight and her position made her all the more aware of it, yet he put so much pressure on the strap that she felt her belly constricted even further by its grip. Wrist and thigh straps followed, and soon she was helpless. It felt as if she were embracing the odious, heavy wooden block, almost as if she were melded to the thing.

  Her legs had been strapped some way apart and, she knew, her sex must be exposed between her legs to all the company. Amelia closed her eyes and, that it might soon be over, prayed that her ordeal would soon begin.

  ‘If you do not mind, I will deal with this one first, Reverend,’ the voice of Lord Alex cut in.

  ‘Of course. We are in no hurry, are we, Amelia?’

  Amelia’s blushing cheeks burned with a new intensity as she felt the Reverend Dawes pat her naked bottom, but there was nothing she could say.

  She was strapped down facing the side of the Whippery that housed the Penitents’ Bench; thus she faced the row of three previously birched bottoms as Lucy, Kitty and Clara knelt, sobbing quietly, on display. To see what was happening she had to turn her head, for Betsy was standing forlornly in the dock, still holding her irksome burden of stinging nettles.

  Lord Alex had withdrawn a pair of fine grey pigskin gloves from his jacket pocket and was pulling these on with a studious air. ‘I expect you would like to put those down, eh, Betsy?’ he said pleasantly.

  ‘Oh, yes sir. Oh, they really st-st-sting.’

  ‘Mm, yes, it is the time of year, of course,’ the marquis said sympathetically.

  ‘June,’ Lady Alicia said languidly. ‘I always think they sting the most in June.’

  ‘Fresh growth.’ The Reverend Dawes’s voice came from behind Amelia. ‘Plenty of urticarious irritant in the stings. No use whatsoever after October, as the fluid dries away.’

  Interesting as this conversation might have been to botanists, Betsy seemed not to be appreciating it greatly. Instead she hopped from foot to foot, tears streaming down her cheeks. The buxom maid held the nettles in both hands, which were outstretched, as if she wished to keep the
things as far from her vulnerable body as ever she could manage.

  ‘Very well, give them here.’ Lord Alex took the bunch of nettles from Betsy and placed them on the lectern, in the middle of the big book. Betsy did not seem to be in any less distress, continuing to hop from foot to foot; first she blew into her hands as if they were hot, then placed them under her armpits and jumped around some more.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, stop fidgeting, Betsy!’ Jamie called out.

  ‘Quite right,’ Lord Alex said, selecting a long and verdant nettle from the bunch. ‘Stand still, stop blubbing, and lift your frock.’

  His Lordship’s sharp tone immediately did the trick. Betsy stopped hopping and grasped the hem of her flogging frock. There was a murmur of appreciation from the audience as she pulled the garment up, until the material was bunched below her chin. The maid stood, relatively still, blinking apprehensively at her master and at the green spray of leaves he waved in his hand.

  It was not hard to understand the appreciative comments and low whistles. Amelia had seen Betsy’s astonishing figure before, yet even she stared in wonderment. The whipping-corset had cinched Betsy’s waist to something approaching narrowness, and this emphasised her magnificent bosom all the more. Betsy held her frock above her breasts. Her eyes were wide and her bottom lip was quivering uncontrollably. The sight was so compelling that Amelia almost forgot about her own peril for a moment.

  ‘Come here, girl.’ Lord Alex spoke quietly, his voice almost gentle, but there was no mistaking it as an order.

  Betsy’s eyes seemed to get even wider, but she took a hesitant step forward. Then another. Amelia saw the girl swallow hard. Then she took another unwilling step. Lord Alex reached out with his free left hand and grasped her right breast, squeezing gently.

  ‘Your titties are magnificent, Betsy.’

  There was a pause. He cocked an enquiring eye.

  ‘Th-thank you, sir.’ Betsy said at last. The leather-clad hand continued to fondle and squeeze with brusque professionalism, as if Lord Alex were appraising a piece of horseflesh.

  ‘The question is,’ Lord Alex continued languidly, ‘are they also sensitive?’

  Again he seemed to await a reply.

  ‘Y-yes, sir.’ Betsy swallowed again, staring at the nettle as if hypnotised by its sway. ‘They are v-v-very s-sensitive.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ Lord Alex murmured. Without releasing his grip on her right breast, he brought up his other hand and brushed the breast gently with the nettle. Betsy’s face contorted with pain. Amelia watched her hands clench and unclench as the girl turned and grimaced. Somehow the maid managed to stand there as Lord Alex stroked the soft globe studiously. He ran the nettle over the top part, circled the nipple languidly and then gently dusted the tender underside.

  Betsy shook her head from side to side. Grunts and groans of pain escaped from between her tightly clenched teeth. Once Lord Alex had thoroughly dealt with the right breast, he turned his attention to the left.

  ‘Ooh… argh… ooh!’ Betsy was quivering violently as the nettle did its work around her left nipple. Both the girl’s nipples were standing out like wine corks now. Amelia looked lower. Betsy’s shaven mons was clearly swollen, and the glistening moisture running down her inner thighs was almost as copious as the hot tears on her cheek. The sight reminded Amelia of the urgent, awful need growing in her own loins. There was nothing she could do about the feeling, so she tried her best to push the thought away.

  Betsy’s breasts were stippled with hundreds of tiny little white spots. Amelia’s own breasts hurt just from looking at them. She could not imagine how on earth the maid managed to hold her place. But she did so, somehow. Lord Alex cast the used nettle aside and walked back to the lectern. Betsy kept her eyes screwed tight shut and her fists clenched as she held up the frock. She blew and hissed and slowly bent double in pain, before straightening and then bending again.

  ‘All right, you wicked girl, go and take your place on the bench,’ Lord Alex ordered.

  Still hissing, Betsy managed to prise open her eyes. She hobbled, still holding up the garment, to the Penitents’ Bench. Amelia supposed her breasts were now so tender that even the weight of cotton might seem unbearable on them.

  ‘Poor girl,’ Lady Alicia said slyly. ‘After that stinging nettle, I do not think she wishes to leave the dock!’

  This witticism provoked much chuckling from the audience. Betsy knelt beside Lucy on the bench and quivered there. The marks of her birching were still lurid on her great behind. Her ordeal was not over, however. Lord Alex took the nettle bunch from the lectern and strode over to the bench.

  Betsy must have heard his tread because she gave a little whimper and her trembling became even more pronounced. Lord Alex thoughtfully plucked a leaf from one of the nettles.

  ‘Something to keep your mind on your manners, minx!’ he said cheerfully, and pushed the nettle leaf into the top of her stocking, against the inside of her thigh.

  ‘Ooh!’ Betsy gave a pained groan. Lord Alex’s gloved finger probed higher, between her legs, and she gave a subtly different moan. Then he placed a second leaf in her other stocking.

  Amelia watched, appalled, as he walked down the little line, plucking leaves and placing them in the stocking-tops of all the kneeling girls. Lucy whimpered. Kitty gave a breathless little gasp. Clara gave a series of pained sobs. Lord Alex placed the rest of the nettles on the bench beside the blonde girl. Then he turned around, caught Amelia in his gaze, and winked. ‘Do carry on, Reverend,’ he said with a smile.

  Something cold and slithery entered Amelia’s soul. It was happening. From the corner of her eye she saw him take the birch rod from its place on the side of the block. In front of her were the four well-birched bottoms, each one quivering as the nettles did their work. They might as well have not existed. All Amelia cared about was the dreadful presence behind. She tried to swallow, but had run out of spittle. Amelia set her teeth and closed her eyes.

  The sound of it, the whispering hiss as the birch cut through the air, reached her ears just before the rod arrived at her bottom. Her stomach had just started its involuntary lurch when the pain cut in. Amelia imagined fireworks. A hundred pinpricks of scalding white light. She had sworn to herself that she would not cry out, and she kept her teeth clenched tight and somehow managed it. It was hard, though. So very hard. It was like no pain she had ever felt before.

  The blaze in her bottom reached a peak, levelled into something like a plateau, then started to recede. The whispering hiss froze her soul again.

  She would not cry out! She would not scream! She would not give him that satisfaction! Amelia clenched her fists harder, digging her nails deep into her palms. She shook her head until her auburn curls danced about her ears. It was so hard not to scream. The birch just hurt so much. It was true that the impact was much lighter than the tawse or cane, but it stung so terribly.

  As Lucy had warned her, the pain grew worse and worse with every passing stroke. No numbing of the nerves compensated for ever more sore and welted bottom-flesh. She felt as if she had been scalded, as if the punishing birch was a torch of scourging fire.

  At five a hiss escaped her gritted teeth. At six, a wicked cut across her tender thighs, she yelped.

  When the seventh searing stroke seemed to skin her underbum, Amelia shrieked.

  From then on she was lost in a red mist of agony. The strokes were hardly distinguishable as discrete lashes any more. They were the crests of waves in a scalding sea of pain. Someone was screaming, a girl, perhaps, somewhere. Someone was fighting, uselessly, against tough leather restraints. All Amelia knew was that she was lost, engulfed completely by insanely, impossibly intense pain.

  She was aware, in a way, of the first rod being cast aside. Some vestigial fragment of functioning intelligence noted that the Reverend had taken up the second birch, and told her that this was something t
o be feared. Most of her mind was too overloaded by the stinging of her bottom and thighs, to even know what fear was any more.

  The second dozen was administered pitilessly. Amelia was hoarse but she still shrieked as the strokes came down and down again. Her wrists were rubbed raw as she fought the bonds, but this was a discomfort too small to register in a mind completely overloaded and overwhelmed with pain. Slowly, the agony began to ebb. Little by little she became aware of who and where she was. Her bottom still throbbed atrociously, but at least the pain had subsided to the point where she could register other things. It must have stopped. The red waves had stopped crashing on the shore. There was just a long, slow, searing blaze of heat.

  Amelia stopped screaming. She was gasping now, desperate for air. Her disoriented mind tried to make sense of it. The Reverend Dawes tossed the second shattered birch rod on the floor.

  ‘Two dozen,’ the man behind her called.

  Sense was returning to her mind in fragments. It must be over; she had survived somehow. Oh, thank God for that, Amelia thought. The blaze in her behind continued to subside. The decrease in intensity had slowed, though, and she still could not seem to catch her breath. Amelia let her head drop with exhaustion. The Revered Dawes was beside her now; she sensed his presence and it made her tense. He must be coming to undo her wrist-straps, she hoped desperately. No, he seemed to be picking something up.

  What? Amelia thought wildly. Surely not another rod? She had had two dozen strokes, had she not? Somehow she had survived them. But now her bottom was as tender as a—

  ‘Ow!’

  Something told her it was just his hand, and that it was no more than a gentle pat. Her bottom-cheeks were so sore it felt more like a blow-torch had been passed across it.