Rectory of Correction (17 page)

Rose was freshly bathed and her pale skin shone from the application of fragrant oils. She had been waiting, completely naked except for black silk stockings, gartered just above her knees, and shoulder-length lace gloves. Her green eyes were wide and questioning.

‘I suppose it is a whipping?' she asked in a husky, anxious voice as she allowed Faith to buckle on a heavy leather collar and wrist restraints. Once Rose's wrists were cuffed behind her, Faith clipped a leash to the hefty steel D-ring at the front of the collar.

‘Something like that, I expect,' Faith lied.

She led Rose back into the lounge by the leash. The gentlemen were chuckling about something but, as the two maids entered, the laughter died away.

If Faith, still painfully aware of her exposed breasts and cunny, coloured as the two men stared, Rose blushed as red as her namesake. They halted in the centre of the room, between the armchairs of the reclining gentlemen, Faith a little unsure of what was required.

‘So this is the filly you ran in the cup. Yes, I can see some muscle in her thighs.'

Faith glanced down and sideways. It was indeed true that Rose had strong-looking thighs. Her sleek musculature was a legacy of being trained to pull the Reverend's cart, for he had driven the girl hard and not stinted the whip. That job was one privilege Faith had never begrudged Rose. It had not escaped her rather fretful notice that, should Rose truly be about to leave the Reverend's employ, there would arise a need to fill that arduous office.

‘Walk Rose up and down so Mr Campion can see her move,' the Reverend said, between puffs of his cigar. He swirled his brandy in its glass deliberately.

The air was acrid with cigar smoke and brandy fumes now, the scent so strong Faith almost felt dizzy. Tottering a little on her heels, she tugged the leash, leading Rose across the carpet to the far wall and then back, acutely conscious of the eyes following her and her naked charge.

‘Pity she's not a blonde.' Jack Campion's voice had taken on a weary, sceptical tone.

‘Don't try that, you damned robber,' the Reverend put in. ‘You have told me many times that red hair is almost as rare as fair in the markets of Fejr.'

‘As rare, but not as sought after. Also, she is not plump enough for that market. It would cost me to take time to feed her up.'

The Reverend Dawes gave a snort of derision. ‘For one thing, Campion, you rogue,' he said, ‘the chit has breasts like melons. You cannot tell me your sheikhs will not pay a premium for those.'

‘Yes, but—'

‘For another, the reason she is not plumper is that the girl is fit. She is fit because she has been broken to harness. She is a damned good runner between the shafts and you have told me yourself how those sheikhs of yours like to race pony-girls, and how much they would pay for a well-trained roan.'

As a rueful chuckle from Jack acknowledged some truth in these assertions, Faith glanced back at the girl she was trotting back and forth across the room. Rose was still blushing, but tears were trickling down her flaming cheeks and her eyes were wide with fear.

‘All right, I'll give you something for the training, and I will admit that pale skin is worth a shilling or two. She is pretty and her breasts are very fetching. Still, I could not go above two hundred guineas for a roan.'

This offer caused the Reverend to splutter in his brandy. Rose gave a little sob behind her, but Faith felt a guilty flush of pride. Certainly, it was humiliating to be talked about like livestock, but there was a strange satisfaction in hearing her valuation put at more than double that of Rose.

‘I value my girls equally,' the Reverend said, as if reading her mind. ‘I would need five hundred for the girl, at least.'

Jack just laughed at that, and there was a moment of quiet contemplation. As she had not been ordered to stop, Faith continued to lead the gently weeping Rose across the smoke-wreathed room.

‘You, girl, bring her here,' Jack said at last.

Faith did as she was bid. The tension in the leash increased as she did so. It seemed Rose was reluctant to approach the man.

‘Come closer, you, stand there.'

The man gestured to Faith and she had no option but to step right up to his side, tugging Rose so she was right in front of him, standing between his widespread knees. She watched with anxiety as he took a deep pull on his cigar, making the end glow red. As he moved it towards her thigh she flinched and gave a little gasp of fear.

‘Stand still!' he ordered brusquely.

‘Stop fidgeting, Faith, or I shall have to put you into severe restraints,' the Reverend warned her.

Faith watched in abject terror as the glowing cigar came nearer. Only her fear of the Reverend's displeasure kept her standing there. Hardly daring to breathe, she watched as Jack pushed the unlit end of the cigar behind one of the front suspender drops of the corset, the elastic holding it firm against her naked thigh. She gave a whimper of relief as she realised his purpose. She was simply being used as a handy cigar holder, with nothing more to worry about than how long he meant to leave the fat corona smouldering there.

Next he handed her his brandy glass, and took the leash from her hands. Faith held his glass with hands that were still trembling. Though she kept her eyes respectfully downcast, she could not stop herself from furtively looking to the side.

The hand that had felt her own leg so professionally was now appraising the flesh of Rose's thigh. If Faith's hands still trembled a little, Rose's legs were quivering and Faith could hear the girl's rhythmic sobbing as she stood in front of the trader and cried.

‘Legs further apart.'

He slapped her thighs to enforce this instruction. Rose gave a gasp of pain and obeyed with evident reluctance.

‘For all that blubbing the little slut is dripping like a tap,' Jack Campion commented dryly.

‘Oh, those are crocodile tears. Take no notice of the silly chit,' the Reverend said complacently as Jack continued to explore.

‘I'll own that these titties are firm fruit for the size. Two-fifty.'

‘Four-fifty is as low as I could go.'

Jack had Rose's nipples between his fingers, twisting them until the girl gave a squeal of pain.

‘She is not very stoical, is she?' Jack said in tones of regret. ‘Three hundred is my final offer.'

‘That is a fault? You will be telling me next your buyers do not like to hear their mounts squealing!'

The Reverend laughed loud at this absurdity and Jack conceded the point with a rueful chuckle.

‘I cannot go your price and make a profit, Richard. Three-fifty really is as high as I can go.'

‘I will have to find, and break in, another maid. It is such a business...'

This time it was Jack's turn to laugh. ‘You poor man. It is not as if you have to find another pony-girl and train her up to run in next year's cup!'

‘Three hundred and eighty guineas and you have a deal,' the Reverend said. ‘Not a farthing less.'

‘You drive a hard bargain, Richard. Three-eighty it is.'

‘You can take her with you, if you wish. I know your word is good. But I would like an hour or so to make my farewells. I shall miss the way she moans and squirms when she is buggered, and I always think it is only proper to cane a girl goodbye...'

‘Of course,' Jack said. ‘There is no hurry at all. Please do take your time.'

His hand moved towards her thigh and Faith thought he was going to retrieve his still smouldering cigar. Instead, he reached between her legs and took a firm grip of her cunny lips. She let out a startled cry.

‘You might care to make use of the facilities whilst I do so,' the Reverend offered.

Faith found herself looking into Jack Campion's wolfish eyes. ‘Yes,' he said quietly, smiling at the maid as he pushed his fingers deeper. ‘Thank you, Richard.'

 

‘I'm sorry, Linnet, it won't do.' Amelia frowned at the girl on the bed. ‘You really must stop squealing or I shall have to gag you.'

Linnet kept her eyes fixed on the burning candle in Amelia's hand. ‘Oh please, Amelia, have mercy,' she babbled. ‘Whatever it is I have done, I'm really sorry.'

‘Not as sorry as you are going to be, you little slut.' Charlotte leaned over and pinched the girl's nipples again until she cried out piteously. Amelia sighed and put down the candle. She looked around the room. It was ironic, she thought; the rectory was as well equipped with the tools of bondage as almost any house in the three counties, yet the girls were locked into a dormitory that was sadly lacking in the equipment they needed. Necessity being the wicked stepmother of invention, Amelia and Charlotte already had lit upon the one available source of binding cords available, and pressed the laces of their drawers and corsets into service.

Linnet, still tearful from her spanking, had been made to strip completely naked and lie back on her bed, after they had pulled off the mattress. The girl made some fuss when her sore bottom met the steel springs of the bared bedstead, but she had soon been pinched and slapped into lying almost still. Amelia bound her thumbs together with a lace, and by this means secured her hands to the iron head of the bed. Charlotte, meanwhile, secured the whimpering girl's big toes and stretched her legs out and wide apart, securing the taut laces to the bedstead. Linnet was then truly helpless. The laces, though thin, were strong, and the bondage, though undoubtedly less than comfortable, was perfectly secure.

Bella had discharged her prefectorial duties by examining the knots carefully. ‘All right,' she said. ‘Just don't keep her like that too long; I don't want those laces to cut off her circulation.'

Bella had then volunteered to keep watch at the keyhole. At first this generosity surprised Amelia, until moaning from that direction and the sight of a quickly pumping hand had shed light on her benevolence.

The laces provided serviceable restraints, but Amelia could not see how to use them as a gag. The problem was that the Reverend had allowed the girls no personal belongings whatsoever. She looked down at Linnet again and saw the answer. Quickly she slipped the garter off her left thigh and retrieved one of the trembling girl's stockings.

‘This will make a gag, but it is rather dry,' she said, smiling at Charlotte. ‘It would be better if we could make it a little bit more moist. After all, we don't want the little slut to choke.' She wiped herself carefully with the folded stocking, pushing it into her lubricious slit before handing it to Charlotte.

‘This is going to make a mess of her stocking,' Charlotte said with a grin as she put the makeshift gag under her skirt. She closed her eyes and her pink tongue licked her lips as she manipulated the folds of gossamer silk.

‘Yes, I know,' Amelia said, with a look of cod concern. She shrugged. ‘Let's just hope she does not get discovered.'

‘Oh please,' Linnet looked appalled as understanding dawned, ‘I'll get into trouble.'

There was laughter as Charlotte walked across to Bella, who took the distinctly sticky stocking with a slightly distracted smile, and added her own copious contribution to its moisture content.

Charlotte brought it back and waved it in front of Linnet's delicate nose.

‘Have a sniff, you little slut. That scent will tell you how much you are being honoured. Now, open wide!'

Linnet kept her mouth firmly closed and shook her head. This time it was Amelia's turn to reach out with her sharp nails, pinching the girl's rigid nipples and then twisting till she yelled.

The sticky stocking was pushed into Linnet's mouth and secured by means of the garter. Charlotte turned to Amelia as she fondly patted Linnet's wet cheek.

‘Right,' she said, ‘now we can get back to work without all that silly squawking.'

Amelia said nothing. She merely picked up the candle again. Linnet seemed mesmerised. Gagged as well was bound, she could do nothing except flinch and quiver in her bondage. First Amelia stroked the girl's bare upper thigh, the pale skin smooth and warm beneath her fingers.

‘So soft,' she said huskily, ‘one might think she had never been whipped here. It must be very tender.'

Linnet struggled so much that the bedsprings began to creak in protest. When Amelia let the hot wax fall on Linnet's bare thigh it sounded as if she had taken up the trampoline. She squirmed violently in her bonds, making muffled noises behind her gag.

‘What do you suppose she is trying to say?' Charlotte asked louchely, raising an exquisite eyebrow in disdainful curiosity.

Amelia let wax drip from the candle to splatter on Linnet's belly where it was exposed beneath her corset busk.

‘Do you know,' she said slowly, ‘I really have not got the least idea.'

A search of the dormitory had revealed at least one other item the girls could press into service for their boisterous little game, namely Gretchen's hair grips. Gretchen kept her blonde tresses in plaits, which were usually kept neatly coiled around her crown. She used metal grips to secure them and, as this was approved by the Reverend, there was a bag of spare ones by her former bedstead.