Rectory of Correction

 

RECTORY OF CORRECTION

 

 

by

 

Amanita Virosa

 

 

 

Rectory of Correction
published by

Chimera Books Ltd

www.chimerabooks.co.uk

 

Digital Edition converted and distributed by

Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

 

New Authors Welcome

 

This novel is fiction – in real life practice safe sex

 

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

 

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

 

Copyright © Amanita Virosa

 

The right of Amanita Virosa to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

 

 

 

Chimera:
A creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy

 

 

 

Linnet whimpered. ‘I plead guilty. I am sorry, though I really don't know what it is I have done.'

‘She does not know what she has done to deserve this,' Bella mocked, shaking her head in faux sorrow. ‘That is what they all say.'

She reached out the cane and used the tip to lift Linnet's chin until their gazes met. ‘I am going to spank you, little Linnet. I am going to spank you very hard, because – well, because I want to, and because I can. After that, these other two bitches will want to play some games with you, I expect, but they will have to wait their turns. Let her go, girls. Get up, Linnet, and take your blouse off. Then I would like you to come and put yourself over my knee.'

 

 

 

‘Without doubt the pre-eminence of our empire is built on the unparalleled character of its leaders. That this is due in no small measure to our great public school system can scarcely be in doubt. Few of our nation's statesmen, military or intellectual leaders, however great their power or lofty their station, have escaped the ignominy of a period as a fag, subject to regular humiliation and frequent salutary thrashings. Can it then be seriously questioned that the daughters of society's upper echelons would benefit from a period experiencing these rigours, no less than its sons?'

 

From the preface of Dawes' Domestic Discipline.

 

 

 

The carriage lurched, and bounced noisily upon its springs. The sound and sudden motion set a score of rooks wheeling and cawing furiously from the clump of tall elms. The birds' mournful croaking sounded harsh and ominous, providing a perfect complement to the Honourable Amelia Colinbroke's bleak mood.

She turned to watch the towers of Hope Hall slowly disappear from sight through the small back window of the Reverend Dawes' carriage. The irony of Amelia's situation did not escape her. Only a few hours previously she had been longing to escape from that infamous place, and now her wish had been granted.

The Gothic shape of the west tower was the last part of the Hall to disappear behind the rhododendron bushes that lined the drive. Amelia was not sorry she had never found out exactly what happened in that ancient keep. There were still some secrets that, as far as she was concerned, Hope Hall was quite welcome to guard from her forever.

Even passing through the iron gates in the great wall that encircled the park did nothing to lift Amelia's spirits. To be leaving behind the humiliations and vexations, the spankings and the whippings that had been her lot all the long summer was all very well. Unfortunately, there was the matter of her destination.

‘The Reverend Richard Dawes,' she muttered bitterly. Even the simple act of pronouncing that hateful name sent a shiver down her spine. Of course, there were few young ladies of quality who did not pale at the sound of those particular syllables. The small, leather-bound book which had first brought the Reverend to the world's attention loomed large in the upbringing of many a girl.

Dawes' Domestic Discipline
, more often referred to as ‘the bircher's bible,' was a grim little manual of correction and restraint, dealing exclusively with the chastisement of females and written with almost palpable relish.

Amelia's agitation as the carriage lumbered towards the town of Hatherby, however, was not due simply to the Reverend's fearsome literary reputation. Her dry mouth, moist palms and hammering heart bespoke an all-too-intimate acquaintance with the man himself.

 

The wind was picking up, driving horizontal rain straight into Kirsty's face till it was impossible to tell how much of the moisture on her cheeks was rain, and how much might be tears. Some of the water must have been salt, though, for her face was contorted with pain as she struggled to hold the rocks she gripped in outstretched hands. She had been standing here, stark naked on the hillside, for half an hour now, and the discomfort in her arms had slowly turned from discomfort to muscle-wrenching agony.

Kirsty gritted her teeth and stared straight ahead as some shepherd boys stopped to peruse her nude form. It was a comely shape, she knew, full fleshed and firm, and her cheeks flamed as if seeking to complement the red of her hair and rain-slicked pubic bush. She would not look down or away, however. Was she not Kirsty MacSlat of that ilk, rightful chieftainess of Clan Slat of Glen Sgiursar?

The boys knew it, too, and, lust emboldened though they must have been, they did not tarry once her cold gaze fell on them. She might now be a distressed girl, forced by her tormentors to stand naked in the rain, but she would be twenty-one soon enough, and things would be very different once she came into her inheritance.

‘I told you to keep those stones held high.' Minister Peebles' reedy hiss was the first Kirsty knew of his presence behind her. She hardly heard his tawse whistle through the air against the moaning wind, but she felt it all right, as the tines of fire lapped around the backs of her thighs. Pain engulfed her for a moment.

‘Keep them up, you wicked, disobedient girl!' her tutor shouted. A second and then a third stroke cracked across her cheeks. Kirsty had to grind her teeth to avoid crying out with pain. For such a spindly little man, Minister Peebles swung a remarkably mean belt: a fact she'd had only too many opportunities to discover.

‘She is a hardened, insolent wee chit, Minister. Give her a few more or she will no' feel the benefit.'

Kirsty bit her lip to prevent crying out in fury. The owner of the voice stepped into view. Marie, known in the glen as ‘Marie Nip', glared at her, the young woman's pretty features marred by an expression of malice.

‘You should show your benefactor more respect, Kirsty,' Marie said, reaching forward with the long fingernails that inspired her nickname. ‘Try to be more like young Malcolm.'

The talons closed on Kirsty's nipple and pinched. Simultaneously the tawse bit into her flesh again. Kirsty groaned. The stroke produced a convulsive jerk, meaning her nipple was tugged in Marie's grip, producing another flowering of agony.

‘I'd stand still if I was you, girl,' Marie said quietly, with a sly smile.

The tawse cracked across Kirsty's bottom once more, but no amount of good advice could stop her from jerking. As she tried to still her quivering body, she gripped the rocks so hard she felt she must crush them.

‘All right, missy,' Minister Peebles spat once he had given her time to appreciate his leather work, ‘put those stones down and go cover your nakedness. You must be at Kinloch Sgiursair to meet the train at three.'

Marie Nip released her grip, leaving Kirsty's nipple throbbing like fury.

It was also agonising to put down the rocks and swing her arms in search of relief, but Kirsty was well used to pain and the fiery jolts in her shoulders could not quite kill her curiosity.

‘Doctor Peebles, sir,' she gasped as she followed his black-clad back through the heather towards the ruinous keep of Eilan Ban-traill Castle, ‘where is it that I am going?'

 

‘Charlotte... really, do you think we should?' Arabella Huntingdon-Wickham stared, wide-eyed, at her friend. Lady Charlotte Letherbridge-Lacey furrowed her much-admired brow in concentration and ignored her.

‘Don't be such a wet blanket, Bella,' Charlotte chortled as she took the chamber pot and poured the golden liquid, via the funnel, into the decanter. ‘I can't wait to see old Anthony's face when he sips his favourite malt!'

Lady Charlotte disguised the scent of her own urine by topping up the decanter with the fine malt whisky she had poured off into a jug. She smiled to herself at the thought of Anthony sipping the liquid.

Charlotte's golden-haired beauty and fine figure had provoked much interest from eligible young men at her coming-out. Indeed, she still had half-a-dozen moonstruck admirers amongst society's higher echelons, despite – or perhaps even because of – her deserved reputation for capriciousness. Some men, Charlotte had noticed, seemed to lap up her slights, and come back panting like whipped curs for more abuse. Spotty, chinless young Anthony Persimmon was one of the most persistent, and most detested.

Even so, Charlotte thought, as she followed Bella to the attic that had been the chums' hiding place since girlhood, this last prank was a bit stiff, even by her own outrageous standards. Though she would not have admitted it for anything, part of her could understand Bella's obvious unease. This summer she had seemed driven to ever more outrageous escapades, as if terrified boredom might engulf her if she paused for thought.

Charlotte poured the purloined whisky into borrowed beakers and handed one to Bella.

‘Don't look so glum, Porky, it will be a lark!' Charlotte laughed and swigged her own malt down with a grimace.

‘Don't call me that, Charlotte,' Bella said, taking a sip of her own drink. The nickname was an old one but, seemingly, it still had the power to annoy her friend. Chestnut-haired Arabella had always been bigger and more buxom than blonde Charlotte. Indeed, she had been rather a plump little girl. Womanhood, however, had seen her body blossom into voluptuous curves, much appreciated by the young men of the district, and her legs had grown long and shapely enough to put Charlotte in mind of one of Bella's beloved thoroughbreds. Bella's propensity for riding and other boisterous sports had also made her enviably fit and given her firm, well-muscled thighs.

Charlotte had found herself thinking about her friend's thighs more frequently of late than she would have cared to explain, even to herself. As if to drive away such troubling images, she went on the attack.

‘You are becoming a regular old misery, Bella.' Charlotte took another hearty swig of whisky. ‘Stop frowning and take your medicine. After all, a girl has to have some fun!'

 

‘This is the final straw, Charlotte, and you can stop smirking this instant.' The dowager Lady Peaslake glared at her granddaughter through an old-fashioned lorgnette. ‘You can wipe that stupid smile off your face as well, Arabella!'

Lady Charlotte swayed, trying to focus on the black-clad old lady, but the malt whisky she had imbibed was making this feat remarkably difficult. The Honourable Anthony Persimmon stood next to the dowager, his pasty face even paler than usual. In fact, Charlotte thought, he did not look altogether well. A glance at the doctored whisky decanter and the cut glass tumbler told the story. Her little trick had worked, it seemed. For all Lady Peaslake's palpable displeasure, she could not quite suppress a giggle. Beside her, she heard Bella let out a tipsy snigger.

‘Look at them. Quite incorrigible. I am deeply sorry about this, Anthony.'

‘It really is all right, Lady Peaslake, I'm sure that Charlotte did not mean...'

So even peeing in Anthony's whisky was not enough to put him off. Charlotte fought another wave of giggles.

‘Not to worry,' Lady Peaslake said. ‘I am afraid this behaviour has been going on for quite some time. What they do not know is that, as a result, their names are down on a very special list. Stern measures are called for and stern measures have been put into effect. If I cannot curb your wickedness, girls, you must be sent to someone who can. You will leave on the early train for Hatherby. You can chortle all you like, Charlotte. I suspect that, where you are going, you will soon be giggling rather less.'

 

‘Well, woman, are you ready?'

Gretchen's nerves were so taut that her husband's voice provoked a little squeak of fear. She snapped the well-thumbed copy of
Dawes' Domestic Discipline
shut and stuffed it into her carpet bag. Since she had heard she was to go to Hatherby, to experience the famous chastising chaplain's discipline at first hand, she had hardly been able to stop reading the man's most famous book. It seemed to exert a horrible, almost hypnotic fascination. As the dreaded day had grown nearer Gretchen slipped into a trance-like state, as if mesmerised by the appalling prospect. Every time she was alone she felt compelled to open and read a passage from that little brown tome.

If Gretchen had hoped for reassurance, she had not found it in those pages. Instead, the programme Dawes recommended filled her heart with terror. Still, she could not stop leafing frantically through the damned book at every opportunity. It was as if she was some sinner who, having sold her soul to the devil, was searching for an escape clause in the fine print of the contract. There were no loopholes to be found, however, in the Reverend's cheerless manifesto.

Mr Mortimer stepped into the parlour, looking grave. He was a small man, much smaller than Gretchen herself, for she was a buxom woman. He looked at his fob watch with an irritated expression.

‘Well, you had better get down to the station, madam,' he said sternly.

‘Albert, I really am not sure this is such a good idea...'

He looked up at her, his eyes cold. There was no pity in them, no sympathy at all.

‘Well, Gretchen, you might have thought about that before. You have made your bed, I believe the expression is, and now you must lie in it. You would not listen to me, and you must suffer the consequences of your wilfulness. There is nothing more to say.'

He closed his watch with a decisive snap that sounded to Gretchen like the click of manacles closing around her wrists. There really was to be no escape from this fate, she realised, perhaps for the first time. For six months she would be under the rule of the terrifying Reverend Dawes. She bent down to pick up the carpet bag, and could not help but notice that her plump hand was trembling as it reached out.

 

‘Linnet! Where are you, you wicked child?'

Linnet had been swinging, lost in her thoughts, when Nelson's voice disturbed her reverie. She looked around to see the plump servant waddling across the lawns towards her, red-faced as usual.

‘Your aunt wants you this instant, you disobedient little girl,' Nelson said nastily. She grasped Linnet by the ear and hauled her back towards the house.

It was useless to protest that she had merely been sitting thinking. Useless to protest that she was not a child but a young woman of eighteen. Linnet had learned these lessons at her great aunt's house, and confined herself to a gasp when Nelson tugged at her ear.

Aunt Hermoine was discussing something with Mr Simpson the lawyer in the drawing room. Linnet guessed the discussion had been heated, for she heard raised voices as Nelson hauled her by her ear along the hall. They fell silent when she entered the room, however. Linnet stood anxiously, her ear throbbing, as Mr Simpson peered at her and Aunt Hermoine glared.