She was at least well armed. The socks that went with her Brown Shorts uniform had proved ideal for the task, and as her own were still wet she had selected one of Hermione’s. No suitable pieces of granite had been available, and walking up to the high moor had seemed an unnecessary detour, so she had chosen a half brick instead, which, while less aesthetically pleasing, would no doubt do the job.
Her position had been chosen carefully, concealed in a thick beech hedge on top of a high bank, from where she had a commanding view of the junction between the lane and the main road, some two hundred yards away. She could see who was coming and would know if anybody else was following close behind, so that unless someone approached from the Bridestowe direction she could at least be sure of not being caught red-handed. Nevertheless, the lane was busy with people returning from the Okehampton show, and she knew she would have to be both lucky and fast if she was to secure her prize.
A figure had appeared at the junction, causing her heart to give a little jump, but it was one of the local farmers, his suit brown rather than black, and his collar the right way around. She settled back on the conveniently horizontal branch she was using as a seat, only to rise again as another figure appeared, this time in a black suit and with his collar back to front, His bulk removed any possibility of mistaken identity. It was the Reverend Benjamin Porthwell.
The farmer was some twenty yards in the lead, and Stephanie reasoned that a man who spent his days doing active things with cows and sheep would probably move considerably faster than one who not only divided his time between the cure of his flock and seducing young girls but was markedly obese. Sure enough, by the time the farmer disappeared from view the gap had lengthened to a good twenty-five yards, and Stephanie braced herself for the attack.
It seemed to take an inordinate length of time for the farmer to reach her hiding place, and when she heard his voice, remarking on the availability of daffodils with which to decorate the church for Easter Sunday, she realised why. Rather than getting on with whatever important work awaited him back at his farm, he had chosen to pass the time in idle conversation with the curate, thwarting Stephanie’s plan. Nor did he seem likely to hurry on his way, changing the topic of conversation from daffodils to the advanced state of the primroses in the hedge as the man strolled past her hiding place.
Despite a secret sense of relief, Stephanie said the rudest word she could think of under her breath. She knew she would have to follow, and, reasoning that it was hard to look nonchalant while holding a long khaki sock with a half brick in the toe, she reluctantly abandoned her weapon. As soon as the farmer’s voice had faded she slipped down from the hedge, paused to brush leaves and a stray caterpillar from her dress and set off behind them, intent on catching up and including herself in the conversation.
As her last contact with the Reverend Benjamin Porthwell had been to kick him on the shin, a conversational opening seemed a little difficult, unless it was an apology. That could hardly be made in front of the farmer, but before she caught up with them he had turned down a smaller lane, presumably to his home. For one moment the curate had his back turned to Stephanie, with nobody in sight either way along the lane: the perfect moment to biff him, except that she no longer had her sock. Deprived of choice, she spoke to him.
‘Good afternoon, Reverend. May I walk with you?’
He turned, looking somewhat wary as he recognised her.
‘Good afternoon, Stephanie,’ he said, ‘if it’s about your money …’
‘No,’ she said sadly, ‘a bet’s a bet, and I lost. I, um, I want to apologise for my behaviour the other day. It was very rude of me.’
‘Yes, it was,’ he answered, his tone changing instantly from worry to sanctimonious disapproval. ‘Especially as I was right.’
‘I know,’ Stephanie admitted, deciding that it was no time to argue about the details of her sister’s seduction. ‘I spoke to Hermione.’
He didn’t reply, and they walked on in silence for a little way. There was a conspicuous bulge in the left-hand side of his jacket, which suggested an inner pocket filled with a very substantial quantity of money. The opportunity to biff him was gone, and it was highly unlikely that there would be another, even if she dared take it, when he was sure to guess who the culprit was. Yet there was every chance of putting their second plan into operation, if only she could steel herself to the task. All she had to do was get his jacket off, and once they had been rude together he would be in no position to complain. It was nasty work, but it had to be done, and once more she thought of her ancestors in order to strengthen her resolve, although she was fairly sure that none of them had ever sucked a curate’s penis in order to rob him.
Having decided to do it, the technique was simple.
‘I was very naughty,’ she said.
‘Very naughty indeed,’ he agreed.
‘Perhaps I should be punished?’ she suggested. ‘I know you punish Hermione.’
‘I do,’ he admitted. ‘Yes, perhaps a punishment would be in order, if you assure me that you think it appropriate.’
‘I suppose so,’ she said, and forced herself to add, ‘but you will do it the way you do it to Hermione, won’t you?’
‘I knew it,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘You’re just like your sister, you delicious little trollop!’
He reached out as he spoke, to squeeze Stephanie’s bottom through her dress. She felt her tummy jump and her quim tighten at his touch. His hand was so large that it cupped one whole buttock, but pudgy and soft.
‘What are you going to do with me?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ he replied, still kneading her bottom. ‘Perhaps a little spanking first? I understand your aunts frequently spank you?’
‘Yes, three times just today, and the last one in front of your vicar.’
‘Lucky man,’ the curate answered, ‘not that he’d appreciate it, dry old stick that he is, but I would have done. I’ve seen Hermione get it, several times, usually from your great-aunt Victoria, who seems to be a confirmed disciplinarian, and always on the bare bottom. I take it you get it on the bare bottom as well?’
‘Yes,’ Stephanie admitted, disgusted by the relish he put into the words ‘bare’ and ‘bottom’ but with a little shiver at each.
‘Then I suppose I must do the same?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You really are very like your sister,’ he mused. ‘Yes, I shall spank your bare bottom, across my knee I think, like the naughty little girl you are.’
Stephanie made a face, already imagining herself upended and squalling as she was turned red behind, and that only as a preliminary to having to attend to his grotesque penis.
They had reached the first houses of Bridestowe and there were several people about, so he went quiet, to Stephanie’s relief, but offered his arm, which she felt obliged to take. She was steered down the street to a square red-brick house rather larger than its neighbours, which she recognised as belonging to a widow, Mrs Burridge.
‘My rooms are on the top floor,’ he explained. ‘Quite private.’
She returned a nervous nod and allowed herself to be led through the gate and round the side of the house, where they entered by the scullery door and ascended what had once been a servants’ staircase. His rooms were comfortable and masculine, a suite of bedroom and sitting room that might once have belonged to a butler. They smelt of dust, old leather and the curate himself, making Stephanie wrinkle her nose as she looked round.
The curate wasted no time with preliminaries but locked the door behind them and sat down in an over-stuffed leather armchair by the window, extending his knees to make a lap. Stephanie swallowed and glanced out of the window to the familiar skyline of Dartmoor, which now suggested an urgently needed freedom, but she found herself stepping forward. The chair and his abundant gut made getting over his lap difficult, forcing her to splay her legs and steady herself on the floor with one hand in order to keep herself in place.
; ‘Could you move out a little more?’ she asked. ‘Otherwise I might fall off, and I feel pretty silly like this.’
‘A girl about to be spanked ought to feel silly,’ he told her. ‘After all, it’s a pretty silly position to be in, isn’t it, over a man’s knee with your bottom in the air? And don’t worry, I’ll hold you.’
His arm went round her waist as he spoke, while one large, podgy hand found the seat of her dress and kneaded her bottom through the thin material.
‘You’re not as plump behind as your sister, are you?’ he remarked. ‘But nicely rounded all the same. I shall enjoy spanking you, Stephanie. Now, let’s have that pretty dress up, shall we? We’ll see what you’ve got. Hmm, what pretty stockings, and such smooth thighs, nicely rounded too, but not as round as your bottom! What an adorable little peach you have, Stephanie. Oh, yes, I am going to enjoy spanking you.’
As he spoke he’d lifted her dress, exposing her stocking-tops, thighs and drawers in turn and remarking on each as they came bare. Now he began to fondle her bottom, stroking the seat of her drawers where the silk was pulled taut over her cheeks and tickling the two chubby crescents of flesh that stuck out below the leg holes. Stephanie bit her lip in rising consternation as she was molested and began to shake, already feeling the tears well up in her eyes.
‘Just spank me, if you have to!’ she sobbed.
He merely chuckled and continued with his exploration of her bottom, pulling the material of her drawers up between her cheeks so that the silk was tight against her quim and she was forced to lift her hips. A little shock of pleasure ran through her at the sensation, and she hung her head in shame. Most of her bottom was now sticking out of the leg holes of her drawers, making her wish she’d worn splitters or a union suit so that her exposure would have been less humiliating. The new style of drawers just seemed to encourage men to play with them.
‘Shall I have you bare?’ he remarked to himself. ‘Or shall we begin with your drawers up? Yes, with your drawers up. They decorate your bottom rather nicely.’
As he spoke he began to spank her, but not the heavy, painful swats Stephanie was used to when she was punished. Instead he was doing little more than patting her bottom, using only the tips of his fingers, to create a mild stinging sensation more pleasant than otherwise. Evidently, to him, spanking had less to do with punishment than with the enjoyment of a girl’s bottom.
‘Pattacake, pattacake, baker’s man,’ he began to sing, ‘smack me a bottom as quick as you can … Were you ever spanked to that rhyme, Stephanie?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted, and the tears began to roll from her eyes at the memory of being held across Lucy Catchpole’s knee and spanked while her husband looked on indulgently.
‘Pattacake, pattacake, baker’s man,’ he repeated, spanking rather harder, and now across both cheeks, only to stop and tug her drawers tighter still into her slit.
The full expanse of her bottom was now bare, and her drawers pulled tight against her quim. He set to work on her bottom again, repeating the humiliating little ditty over and over as he spanked her, never hard enough to hurt, but just enough to bring a growing warmth to her cheeks, which she knew would have an inevitable result. Already her quim felt urgent and her nipples had begun to poke out. She wept bitterly as she realised that she would almost certainly end up surrendering to him, probably even masturbating in front of him.
‘Getting warm, are we?’ he said with a chuckle, and gave her bottom a wobble before starting again. ‘Oh yes, Stephanie, I know what this does to you. I have plenty of practice with little tarts like you.’
‘I suppose you do this to Hermione?’
‘Several times. She gets ever so eager once her bottom’s warm and rosy. And others – your friend Myrtle for instance.’
‘Myrtle?’ Stephanie exclaimed, twisting her head round. ‘Myrtle Finch-Farmiloe? She doesn’t get spanked. She’s never been spanked!’
‘Oh, but she has,’ he answered, ‘many a time, and a fine little trollop she is about it too.’
‘You’re lying!’
‘Not at all,’ he assured her, and planted another smack on her bottom, this time hard.
‘Ouch!’ Stephanie squeaked. ‘You have to be lying. Myrtle never – ouch! Porker, that hurts!’
‘What did you call me?’
‘Um … sorry, I mean Rever – Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!’
He had laid into her bottom, his huge hand cupping both cheeks at once and slamming into the softness of her meat, hard enough to squash it flat with every smack. It was not only horribly painful but drove the breath from her body until she was squalling and gasping across his knee with her legs and arms all over the place. Even when one of her shoes flew off and caught him on the side of his head he continued, spanking her with furious energy until she had been reduced to a snivelling, tear-stained wreck, her limbs jerking at every slap, her head dizzy with pain. Finally it stopped and she was left panting and dishevelled, her body limp, her hair a mess, spittle hanging from her mouth and snot from her nose, her bottom a burning, agonised ball.
‘Maybe that will teach you a little respect,’ he remarked, and began to fondle her buttocks again as he continued. ‘Do not call me that again. I am a man of the cloth, Stephanie, and lying is abhorrent to my nature. When I say I used to spank Myrtle Finch-Farmiloe I am telling the truth, no matter how fervently she denies it, as I know she does. Before I came here I was at St Mary Pimlico, where I used to make a little extra by tutoring pupils in the classics. Myrtle used to come to me, and a very poor student she was. It wasn’t long before I had the little trollop across my knee with her bottom bare, and a delightful bottom she has too. How she used to squeal! Like a stuck pig, terribly undignified, but then you girls do tend to make a fuss over a little spanking.’
As he spoke he adjusted Stephanie’s drawers so that they once again covered her bottom properly, only to stick his hand in up one leg hole and continue to fondle, his fingers well down in her slit, so close to her anus that it began to tickle.
‘The trouble with young Myrtle,’ he went on, ‘is that if I spanked her at all hard she would lose control of her bladder and wet herself all over my leg. I used to have to do it in the bathroom across the landing from my old rooms, seated on the loo with my cassock pulled up. Still, it was always rather fun to make her mop her puddle up afterwards.’
He finished with a chuckle and the tip of his longest finger found Stephanie’s anus, teasing the little hole, which immediately began to twitch, opening and closing at his touch. A surge of embarrassment hit her, stronger by far than what had come from being spanked or having her bottom cheeks molested, and she immediately began wriggling in his grip and begging him to stop.
‘Very well,’ he assured her, ‘for the time being, at least. Now, it’s about time we had these pretty little drawers down, isn’t it?’
Stephanie shook her head but he took no notice, inserting two fat thumbs into the waistband of her drawers and sliding them gently down over her bottom. A sob broke from her lips as she came bare, for all that he had already made a thorough exploration of her bottom. Now it was showing, and not only her cheeks but her quim and the rude little hole he had just been investigating, all spread out on display, her precious drawers stretched taut between her open thighs. She tried to close her legs but received a slap on the back of each thigh for her pains, after which he hooked one foot around her ankle, trapping her in her rude position.
‘You are a little wriggler, aren’t you? Worse than Hermione, if perhaps not as bad as Myrtle. Now, do you think you’ve been spanked enough?’
‘Yes,’ Stephanie answered earnestly.
‘Your bottom is certainly very red,’ he admitted, laying one hand across her cheeks, ‘and hot too. But still …’
He trailed off, and once more began to spank her, not as hard as before but with enough force to make her wiggle and kick with her free foot.
‘Please, no,’ she begged. ‘I’m jolly hot, and I think that was a fa
ir punishment, don’t you?’
‘Not entirely,’ he answered, still spanking, ‘but perhaps it’s time for the second part. I’m going to make you take my penis in your mouth, Stephanie. I suspect that’s the sort of punishment you had in mind at first, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Stephanie admitted, and the spanking stopped.
It was a relief, her bottom now ablaze and feeling huge behind her, while for all her disgust at what she was going to be made to do there was no denying the wetness of her quim or how stiff her nipples had grown. Not that he seemed in any hurry, holding her firmly in place as he pulled her drawers a little further down, then abruptly spreading the tuck of her bottom. Stephanie gave a squeak of surprise and alarm as her quim was opened for inspection, and began to struggle as a finger probed her maidenhead.
‘No, not that!’ she squealed, now fighting in raw panic. ‘No, don’t you dare!’
‘Do control yourself,’ he chided, still probing at her virgin hole. ‘I’m only checking to make sure you haven’t been deflowered, which is surely part of my duty, as I am at least partly responsible for your moral well-being. Indeed, I make it a rule always to inspect my girls’ cunts.’
‘Beast! Pig!’ Stephanie squawked.
Another salvo of hard spanks landed on her bottom, taking her mind away from how rude he was being with her. Then he suddenly let go of her, and in surprise she tumbled to the floor, legs akimbo and her quim flaunted more blatantly than ever. She quickly closed her legs, scrambled up into a kneeling position and would have risen, had the curate not spoken.
‘There’s no need to get up, my dear,’ he assured her, ‘but take off your dress, and anything you have underneath, the top part that is. I rather like you with your drawers around your knees.’
Stephanie gave a sullen nod and peeled her dress up and off. She hadn’t bothered with a chemise or bra and was nude underneath, her breasts naked to his gaze. He gave a faint nod at the sight, clearly not particularly impressed, but his hand had gone to his fly in any case.
‘Shall I help you undress?’ she offered, as conscious of the bulge in his jacket as of the one in his trousers. ‘Would you like that?’
Portrait of a Disciplinarian Page 18