Rectory of Correction

by Amanita Virosa

  ‘Lady Charlotte has a most aristocratic seat.’

  Amelia could hear the Reverend’s hand patting the bottom in question and could imagine the proud girl’s humiliation all too well.

  ‘Yet she does not always set the example one might expect.’

  The expected crack came, followed by a startled shriek.

  ‘See what I mean?’ There was displeasure in Dawes’ voice. ‘Get back into position this instant, miss! I mean to smack that impertinent rump again.’

  Amelia’s stomach was knotting itself into tangles now. It was not that she felt particularly sympathetic, more that the panicked sounds she was hearing seemed to bode ill for her own impending appointment with pain.

  There was a series of gentler slaps and a few male oaths and threats. Finally the paddle struck again. This time Charlotte fairly shrieked. The strain of listening to the approaching punishment was lessening Amelia’s resolve to take her own turn well. Slowly but surely, the sounds that echoed around the gym were corroding her courage away.

  ‘Your poor deportment will be dealt with later, Charlotte. Be in no doubt about it. I am only passing on because otherwise we shall all be here all day.’

  ‘Ha!’ Mr Ziri said. ‘That is a big one! She looks about to burst out of her shorts!’

  There was a crack that sounded like hand on bottom, rather than paddle. Gretchen gave a fearful gasp.

  ‘Gretchen is a very hard case. It is as well that there is plenty of flesh to punish here.’ Another slap rang out and Gretchen yelped again. ‘For she requires a great deal of correction. Do you not, my girl?’

  ‘Y-yes, sir,’ Gretchen replied in a hoarse whisper.

  ‘Indeed,’ the Reverend said solemnly. ‘Fortunately I have both the will,’ there was another explosive crack, the loudest yet, ‘and the means!’

  Gretchen made a strange strangulated sound, not unlike the creaking of a rusty gate.

  ‘Back into position, you fat trollop!’

  There was another loud retort, followed by another howl of pain.

  ‘A disgusting exhibition, Gretchen. You will be dealt with shortly. And I do mean dealt with. I would not anticipate a particularly pleasant experience, were I you.’

  Amelia was glad that she had the wall bar to grab, otherwise her trembling would have been quite uncontrollable.

  ‘Now that is a beautiful bottom, Reverend.’

  Amelia found she was too frightened by the paddle for their words to matter quite as much as they should have done. The humiliation of having her bottom discussed by these lowborn men was intense, yet still her fear was greater.

  ‘Indeed, Mr Ziri, Amelia has a lovely figure altogether and her bottom is frankly hard to beat...’ The men laughed at the unintentional pun. ‘No, I mean hard to match, of course.’

  Amelia felt his hand on her bottom cheeks, patting the cotton-clad flesh gently.

  ‘It is no hardship to beat such plump, resilient perfection. The girl juts out heroically, in fact, both at the front and at the back.’

  Something told Amelia that the pleasantries were over. The hand had left her bottom and there was a pause in the men’s chat. Her whole body had tensed, unbidden. An automatic flinching of her flanks was the only movement she made as she waited in tense silence for long seconds.

  Crack!

  Amelia’s world was pain. It was worse, far worse, than she had anticipated, like white fire spreading across her cheeks.

  ‘Keep that bottom up, Amelia.’ There was warning in his voice rather than anger.

  Amelia shook her head and tried to think through the waves of pain. She pressed her bottom up and out, though that was the last thing she wanted to do. Just one more and it will be over, she told herself. Somehow she managed to hold her position until the second scalding smack came cracking down.

  She heard a girl howling somewhere, the voice sounding nothing like her own. She gasped, shaking vigorously, until the high tide of agony began to ebb away.

  She had done it! Still wincing, she felt relief flood through her. She had taken her two cracks and had not got into trouble like Charlotte and Linnet. That had to improve her chances of avoiding the slipper. Almost exulting, despite the fact her bottom still burned, Amelia awaited the order to straighten up.

  ‘Now, girls, you know what to avoid during the exercise,’ the Reverend said. ‘No, Gretchen, Amelia, do not straighten up just yet.’ There was a pause. ‘Mr Ziri, perhaps you would like to give each of those cheeky bottoms a couple of pats, too. Just so they know exactly what they should expect.’

  Chapter Nine

  Amelia’s breath was getting ragged and she was starting to perspire freely. With a grunt of relief she grabbed the rope that rang the bell to mark her first completed circuit. As usual, the athletic Bella, closely followed by Kirsty, had beaten her to it. At least, she thought as she set off around the gymnasium again, the others were behind her. The sound of pelota paddle impacting on shorts seat echoed around the hall. Amelia did not dare to pause and look around to see who had caught it. Instead, she took a deep breath and began her second circuit with the bar.

  This should have been easy. It was easy, really. All one had to do was to walk ten feet along the narrow bar that linked the feet of an upturned mahogany bench, two feet above the gymnasium floor.

  ‘A simple balance test to begin gently,’ the Reverend had told his wide-eyed charges before they set off.

  The only problem was the presence of Mr Ziri. He stood, paddle in hand, between the bar and the vaulting horse. Amelia had to put her hands on her head, trying to ignore the way this made her breasts press out even more embarrassingly against her singlet, and the way Mr Ziri’s eyes lingered on her prominent nipples. Then she had to stop her legs from trembling as she walked along the narrow wooden bar.

  It had been hard the first time around. It seemed as if the paddle was itching in Mr Ziri’s hand, and her buttocks were still smarting from the whacks he had given her a few moments earlier. Somehow she managed not to do as Gretchen had, which was to flinch away as she passed him and lose her balance. Gretchen had been made to bend and grasp the bar whilst two more whistling smacks had been administered with the pitiless wooden paddle. Without being given time to wipe the tears of pain from her cheeks, she had been made to start from the beginning again.

  Amelia had been luckier the first time, but now the strain of the circuit was telling on her legs. Her thigh muscles were trembling as she mounted the bar for the second time. She made the mistake of looking at the waiting instructor. To her horror Mr Ziri smiled back and winked.

  Somehow Amelia forced herself to concentrate. She locked her fingers behind her neck in the prescribed manner, and started to walk down the wooden edge. The first few feet went well enough, then an explosive cracking sound and a squeal of pain, off to her left, made her flinch and she swayed precariously. Her stomach turned a somersault in response to her teetering, but somehow she managed to steady herself. Amelia swallowed hard. She was almost in range of Mr Ziri’s paddle now, even if he did not move a step.

  ‘Come on, girl, get a move on.’ He slapped the bat against his hand menacingly. There was nothing for it. She took a faltering step.

  She found it almost impossible not to cringe from his malevolent presence. Her whole body seemed to want to lean out away from the bat in his hand. This made it very hard to balance, and as she passed him she felt her foot miss its step.

  The tears were in her eyes even before his gruff order to bend over. Amelia grasped the bar, forcing her legs straight, and waited. At least this time she did not have to suffer the eternal anticipation she had at the wall bars.

  There was an explosive crack and pain ripped through her. The beast had got the same spot he had before. Only her grip on the bar prevented her from straightening and grabbing desperately at her abused flesh. It felt as though she was wrestling the th
ing in her struggle to stay obediently bent. The second stroke seared her other buttock. Amelia closed her eyes and hissed like a steam whistle. It felt as if her bottom had been skinned.

  ‘Let’s try that again, dear. Quickly now, or you will hold the others up.’

  She could not wipe away the tears that trickled down her flaming cheeks, ordered as she was to keep her hands behind her neck. Amelia’s legs were not trembling any less than they had been as she mounted the bench again. Nor was her dread of the pelota bat diminished. She simply did not see how she was going to get past him. Suppressing a despairing sob, Amelia set off down the bar again.

  This time luck was with her. Her first few steps went well enough. Then, just as Amelia came within reach of the paddle, she saw Bella approaching the vaulting horse, which stood on the other side of the waiting man.

  Bella set off at a run to vault the horse. Mr Ziri turned to watch her approach and Amelia took the chance to teeter quickly along the bar.

  He had got her on the first circuit. Indeed, as far as she could tell, his speed and skill with the bat had allowed him to help every vaulting girl to clear the horse with a well-aimed whack. Amelia gambled that he would not be able to resist the temptation offered by Bella’s well-filled shorts as they went flying by.

  It was a good gamble. Amelia heard the crack, Bella’s gasp and Mr Ziri’s laugh as she tottered safely past the distracted man. With a fleeting feeling of relief, she leaped off the end of the bar and ran like a hunted rabbit towards her next ordeal.

  Equidistant now from Mr Ziri’s station between the horse and bar and the Reverend’s favoured haunt patrolling the ropes and mats, Amelia allowed herself to relax a little as she began her set of squat thrusts in the middle of the gymnasium, hands still held behind her head.

  ‘One, two, three, four, five, six, seven...’ She shouted out the number of each thrust as she jumped from the squatting position, not daring to complete her sets with less than complete enthusiasm, despite the pain that was stabbing through her thighs. In front of her she could see the Reverend Dawes still vainly attempting to encourage Gretchen up the rope. It was not a sight designed to encourage slacking.

  ‘All right, girl,’ the Reverend said, shaking his head, ‘get those shorts off. Maybe my motivator will have more effect on the bare, and you never know, it might help to lighten the load.’

  Gretchen’s cheeks were streaked with tears and perspiration. With a despairing wail she quickly unbuttoned her shorts and pulled them off.

  ‘Right, let us try again!’

  ‘But s-sir, I c-can’t,’ she gasped even as she grasped the thick rope descending from a great beam beneath the ceiling. Amelia found her eyes fixed on Gretchen’s bum cheeks. Lurid oval shapes the colour of ripe plum tomatoes testified to the persuasiveness of the pelota bats.

  Crack! The bat caught Gretchen’s bottom with an echoing smack so emphatic that Amelia winced at the mere sound, setting the generous flesh vibrating from the impact. Gretchen tried desperately to haul herself up the rope, but it was hopeless. Her flesh was too sumptuous, her arms too long unexercised for them to be able to haul her skywards. Furthermore, her technique was hopeless. Amelia could see she had no idea how to use her feet and legs.

  Gretchen no longer wore her shorts. Her blonde plaits, pinned around her crown, and white singlet emphasised how red her puffing cheeks were. The same singlet, and the creamy paleness of her legs and white of her knee socks, contrasted with the even more lurid scarlet of her bottom and upper thighs. She hopped hopelessly around in circles, trying to simultaneously haul herself upwards and avoid the punitive paddle.

  The bat came down again. Another heart-stopping crack echoed around the gym. Amelia watched as the woman’s cheeks bounced under the impact once again. Gretchen emitted a high-pitched squeal and jumped a foot into the air, holding herself by the rope for several seconds, before sliding back with a despairing wail, only to receive another wicked smack.

  ‘Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty!’ Amelia’s thighs were in agony now and her breath was gone. She tried to run over to the mats but it was more of a limping scuttle. Kirsty was getting up as she arrived, allowing her to pick a place on the mats as far as possible from the Reverend. As Kirsty climbed the rope, Amelia hoped he would continue to concentrate on Gretchen.

  She began the set of abdominal curls, shouting out each number as before, which was not easy as she was so out of breath.

  Amelia heard the Reverend ordering Gretchen to run ten times from end to end of the gym, his bat landing with a crack on the woman’s backside as she struggled to obey. Her heart sank. As she curled upwards she saw Kirsty’s bottom coming closer as she descended her rope. The Reverend stood beneath, paddle at the ready. Amelia could guess what he was watching. It seemed that Kirsty could guess too, because her descent slowed.

  ‘Come on, Kirsty,’ the Reverend called out. ‘No slacking, girl!’

  As soon as Kirsty’s hindquarters were in range he unleashed a beauty. Amelia watched the arc of his arm and the long paddle as it cut through the air. Her belly contracted in sympathy at the sound of wood on thin cotton and the tender skin beneath it. Even the indomitable Kirsty could not prevent a pained grunt from escaping. She let go of the rope and dropped to the floor, running off to do her gym lengths before the Reverend could decide to bestow another stroke.

  Amelia called out her fifteenth and final curl, suddenly aware she was alone in that part of the gym with him. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. The Reverend was towering above her, bat in hand, smiling broadly.

  ‘Buck up, Amelia,’ he said. ‘I won’t have slacking, girl.’ He slapped the bat against his meaty thigh for emphasis. Amelia scrambled to her feet despairingly, gasping for breath. What on earth could he mean by ‘slacking’? How could she, or any of the girls for that matter, possibly put more effort in?

  The next exercise was one she particularly hated. First she had to pick up the medicine ball. Amelia’s instincts were screaming for her to get her bottom away from the Reverend’s bat before bending to pick up the heavy ball, but she knew any attempt to get out of range would merely make the very thing she sought to avoid inevitable. Somehow she made herself bend, thigh muscles still protesting from the squat thrusts, and lift the heavy ball.

  Upright, she held it out with arms outstretched in front of her.

  ‘One, two, three, four, five,’ she counted aloud, ready to raise it to another count of five. As she did the Reverend stopped her by placing his bat on top of it and pressing down.

  ‘A little too fast, Amelia,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I think you should start again and be less hurried.’

  Amelia lowered the ball, suppressing a sob. The weight of it was starting to hurt already, and she had to repeat the action ten times over. The first time around she had barely managed it. This time her muscles were fatigued. She did not know if she could complete her sets if she repeated the first count.

  ‘One... Two... Three...’ She forced herself to enunciate slowly, pausing between each number. The Reverend’s eyes were fixed on hers. Amelia was transfixed by his predatory gaze. ‘Four... Five,’ she finished. Only then did she dare to raise the ball. ‘One, two, three, four, five,’ she counted as she raised it high above her head, shoulder muscles aching, the Reverend’s eyes still boring into hers.

  She held the ball above her head for another count of five, then lowered it slowly again. Forcing herself not to rush, she counted out the next set.

  By the fifth set Amelia was in real difficulty. The sounds of exercise and punishment still echoed around the bleak gymnasium but they were distant, as if heard in a dream. All she could focus on was the excruciating pain in her shoulders and upper arms. That and the eyes of the man who stood, staring into hers.

  She fought gravity and the heavy medicine ball. It seemed determined to fall floorwards, her overtaxed muscles barely able
to hold it up. Somehow she counted to five and began to lift it. Tears welled and began to trickle down her cheeks. She could barely count aloud for gasping with the pain. It was impossible. Too heavy. Her arms hurt too much. Somehow she got the thing above her head. This taxed different muscles and there was an instant of relief before these began shrieking their protest in turn. Amelia gasped out her count of five and began lowering the ball again.

  ‘Hold it up, girl. I want those arms absolutely straight.’ A furrow of displeasure creased the Reverend’s brow.

  The medicine ball was quivering as exhausted muscles transferred their shaking to the thing. Far worse, it was dipping, the weight too much for her arms and shoulders to support. Helplessly, Amelia watched it sink in front of her, vaguely aware that the Reverend had stopped staring into her eyes and stepped to the side.

  The paddle stroke was wicked. Her already tender bottom exploded with pain. Strangely, this was almost helpful as the intense agony temporarily eclipsed the aching in her arms. The lightning jolt of pain also seemed to give her a temporary strength, and she managed to finish the count and get the ball above her head once more.

  Unfortunately, the effect was short-lived. By the time she lowered the medicine ball the pain was fading and her shoulder muscles were even more distressed than before.

  ‘One... ugh... two...’

  ‘Keep it up girl!’

  ‘I-I c-can’t, sir...’ Amelia howled helplessly as her arms drooped in front of her.

  Crack!

  ‘Aaaooooohhh...!’

  ‘I said hold it up, miss!’

  ‘Three...’

  ‘No, no, you silly girl, you cannot count that.’

  Crack! Once again the pelota gave her bottom a meaty thwack. Amelia opened up her lungs and shrieked.

  ‘Very well,’ the Reverend said in disdainful tones, ‘since you persist in being feeble about this matter, I shall let you off the rest of the set.’

  Relief flooded through Amelia, but it was tinged with dread.