Portrait of a Disciplinarian
Page 24
‘I’m sorry too,’ she said, as Mrs Snell spoke again.
‘If one of you wouldn’t mind? I can’t hold this one properly and whip her at the same time.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Hermione offered, taking the remaining three switches from Claude Attwater. ‘Right, Myrtle, you’ve had this coming for years.’
‘She’s like that, I’m afraid,’ Stephanie said, with a wan smile, then bit her lip as her great-aunt’s switch was laid carefully across her bottom.
‘Are you ready, Hermione?’ Victoria Truscott enquired. ‘Then let us begin.’
Both sets of switches landed across the girls’ bottoms simultaneously, drawing twin screams from their lips, and the thrashing began. The pain was infinitely worse than being spanked, and Stephanie gave in at the very first stroke, squealing like a pig in distress and struggling in the curate’s powerful grip. Myrtle was no better, wriggling in desperation as her prim little buttocks were introduced to the effect of a bundle of switches applied with every ounce of Hermione’s strength. Her tits were bouncing and her legs wide, stretching her lowered drawers out between her thighs, until Hermione paused to pull them off and leave her target fully bare.
With the removal of her drawers Myrtle broke down completely, apologising over and over again for what she’d done and for anything else she could think of, including stealing the pig, and begging Hermione to stop. Stephanie had also given in, no longer even trying to escape. Her body jerked with the pain of the cuts, her head tossing at each impact and her kicking legs showing off her open, deflowered cunt to the moor and to those who had positioned themselves behind her in order to get the rudest possible view.
‘I say, hang on a minute,’ Claude Attwater said suddenly. ‘Goodness gracious!’
‘What is the matter, Mr Attwater?’ Victoria Truscott demanded testily as she paused in Stephanie’s thrashing.
Too far gone even to close her legs, Stephanie lay slumped across the curate’s knees, her open thighs providing a clear view of her blood-smeared quim. Too late, she realised what had happened, but still tried to close her thighs, only to have them hauled apart again by her great-aunt.
‘Stephanie?’ Victoria Truscott demanded.
The remaining aunts, the servants, her grandfather, Sir Murgatroyd Drake and even Freddie himself all clustered behind Stephanie, inspecting her newly deflowered cunt. This culmination of events of the previous hour immediately took the number-one position in her list of life’s embarrassing moments.
‘Will you stop that, Hermione?’ Victoria Truscott demanded. ‘I can’t hear myself think for Myrtle’s squeals.’
Hermione stopped and she too came to see what the fuss was about, gasping as she realised. Mrs Snell also got up, tumbling Myrtle from her lap. Claude Attwater finally found his voice.
‘Damn it, Stephanie, that’s not cricket! I can’t possibly marry you now.’
‘Good,’ Stephanie replied sullenly.
‘And who, pray, is responsible?’ Victoria demanded.
‘I um … er … I rather think it was me,’ Freddie admitted.
‘What?’ Sir Murgatroyd Drake roared, but his voice was lost beneath a babble of questions and accusations, everybody speaking simultaneously, until Sir Richard Truscott finally managed to make himself heard.
‘Be quiet, all of you, damn it! Never mind who did what or who’s got a thrashing coming to them, although, believe me, it will be anybody who tries to defy me, and that includes you, Vicky. It’s perfectly obvious that Stiffy and Freddie will have to get married, and that’s all there is to it.’
The curate had loosened his grip and Stephanie pulled herself up, to run straight into the arms of her beloved.
‘I say,’ he remarked, embracing the naked, hot-bottomed girl.
‘Oh, Freddie!’ she sighed. ‘Kiss me!’
Freddie did so, once, and fled, pulling Stephanie behind him by the hand as his father began to raise his blunderbuss.
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This book is a work of fiction. In real life, make sure you practise safe, sane and consensual sex.
First published in 2008 by
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Copyright © Aishling Morgan 2008
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