Portrait of a Disciplinarian (30 page)

‘Bobbie?’ he demanded. ‘And who, pray, is Bobbie?’

‘Your daughter Roberta,’ Stephanie explained. ‘She was there last night and will confirm everything I say, while Mrs Snell here can fill in the details.’

‘That’s the way of it,’ Mrs Snell stated, never once breaking the rhythm of the smacks she was applying to
Myrtle’s
bottom. ‘Seduced my Lias, she did, the dirty little brat, so as he’d lend her the use of his dray to cart your pig about country, she did, Sir Murgatroyd. Didn’t you, you little hussy, you?’

Myrtle was far too busy squealing her lungs out to provide a coherent answer, but the question had plainly been rhetorical in any event, as Mrs Snell continued to spank just as hard as before. As Sir Murgatroyd began to question Mrs Snell, the Reverend Porthwell gave a polite cough, then spoke.

‘I believe it is my turn with Stephanie?’

‘Quite,’ Victoria Truscott agreed. ‘Stephanie.’

Stephanie made a face, but she knew better than to disobey. The curate sat down and patted his lap.

‘Over you go,’ he said jovially, ‘face to face with Myrtle, so you can watch each other’s spankings.’

Pouting furiously, but very glad to have escaped a session over Myrtle’s knee, Stephanie got down across the curate’s fat legs. He immediately applied his hand to her bottom with a loitering intimacy that stopped only at a meaningful cough from her great-aunt, at which he began to spank instead, aiming low under her cheeks to bring the heat straight back to her quim and more shame than ever to her head. His big hand was catching her thighs as well, which stung dreadfully and set her squealing, kicking and tossing her head, in exactly the same state as Myrtle opposite her.

Sir Murgatroyd Drake had accepted Mrs Snell’s statement and, after a grudging apology to Sir Richard, stood watching Myrtle punished with an expression of stern satisfaction on his bewhiskered face. For a while nobody else spoke either, and the only sounds were the rhythmic smack of hands on bottom flesh, the girls’ squeals and the snuffling of the pig. At length Victoria Truscott spoke up.

‘A switch, please, Mr Attwater, if you would be so kind.’

Stephanie twisted around in fear, to find Claude Attwater passing not one but three long, whippy twigs
to
her great-aunt. For a moment she thought of begging him to intervene, but the expression of pompous self-righteousness on his face told her it would be futile.

‘Hold her please, Reverend,’ Victoria Truscott commanded. ‘Firmly.’

The spanking stopped, and the curate’s huge, podgy arm tightened around Stephanie’s waist, trapping her. She began to wriggle with fear as her great-aunt swished the twigs through the air, but her anger showed in her voice as she spoke.

‘If you think I’m marrying you, Claude Attwater, you –’

Then a squeal of pain rent the air as the triple switch lashed down across her bottom.

‘We shall discuss the matter at a less emotional moment,’ Claude Attwater remarked, stepping back a little to obtain the rudest possible view of Stephanie’s rear.

‘If you’ve some more of those,’ Mrs Snell remarked, pausing in the application of her hand to Myrtle’s bottom, which was now the same rich red as Stephanie’s, ‘I’m thinking this brat could do with a dose of the same as the other.’

‘No!’ Myrtle squealed, and gave a frantic lurch, but Mrs Snell merely tightened her grip.

As Stephanie looked up she met Myrtle’s eyes, and to her astonishment found them full of sympathy.

‘Sorry, Stiffy,’ Myrtle said, her voice choked with tears.

Stephanie managed a weak smile. For all her pain and humiliation she felt a satisfaction beyond even that of revenge.

‘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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All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
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