Pleasures of the Flesh
The parish church clock struck seven. It was already dark. Across the road, Mrs Smith at No. 9 thought young Charlotte was simply a little early for choir practice as the girl walked up the gravel path towards the church, carrying her small sheaf of music. Further along the road, in the lay-by just beyond the hill, a man was parking an articulated lorry. He checked the rear doors, ensuring they were securely locked and his load well-fastened, and then he too walked in the direction of the church.
Charlotte Edwards was a mature and pretty eighteen year old, with only one real passion in life. And under cover of darkness, in the loneliness and isolation of the village churchyard, she was about to indulge very willingly in her passion. She reached the South Porch, where she would normally enter the church. She knew old Mrs Smith couldn't see her now, however hard she peered out from behind her dingy net curtains. Quickly, she skipped on, beyond the porch and into the really dark recesses of the churchyard, where the only shadows were those cast by the ancient slate tombstones.
At the corner of the church she stopped and waited, hoping that he would soon come; so that she wouldn't have to stay on her own too long in this place of shadows; so that they could have as long as possible together before she would have to troop into the church with the other girls for choir practice at half past eight.
Tonight would be the last time for her and Alan. He lived up North, anyway, and after six weeks' contract work in the area, he was driving back that night, with a full load to make the journey pay for itself. Of course, Charlotte didn't regret his leaving. There would be others. It wasn't love. It had never been love. Just the thrill of the sex. A young girl really turning on an older man, leading him on, so carefully, with such subtle gentle suggestive moves. Until he really took her, well and truly. Just as she liked it. They were really experienced, these long-distance drivers. And she enjoyed it, Charlotte always played the innocent little girl. Most men liked it that way. Gave them that very special thrill. And she would play at being just that little bit reluctant to go 'all the way' or do 'something really special', looking at her man with such large and appealing eyes. Alan soon joined her. He surprised her a little as he crept quietly along the grass under cover of darkness. They kissed. 'How's my little lady, tonight?' His voice was naturally rough, but there was an edgy husky note to his words. 'Alright,' she said, quietly and sweetly. 'We haven't got long.' The clock in the bell tower struck the quarter. 'I mustn't be late. He'd get suspicious.' Alan nodded. 'Alright. But...'
He paused. Charlotte looked up at his face, smiling encouragingly. 'Yes?' He kissed her lips again and held her tightly to his body. 'I want you to do something very special for me tonight. Because it's our last time...' He unbuttoned her coat, and slipped it away from her shoulders. In the dim moonlight, she looked perfect. The soft illumination lit her young skin with a very special luminance. Her blouse was so crisp and clean, and her body so soft beneath its gentle folds. He took hold of her shoulders again, and turned her around, so that she was facing away from him. His large hands moved slowly from her shoulders to her breasts, and squeezed her. Charlotte raised her head, and rested her long curls against his neck. 'What do you want?' Her voice was quiet, her breathing uneven as she responded to his fingers, now searching beneath her blouse, slipping under the elastic of her pretty bra, feeling the soft resiliance of her breasts, searching for the firm protruding tips. 'Over here.' He guided her, still holding her, and they walked away from the shadow of the old building towards the kissing-gate which led into the old Glebe Meadow.
Away from the dark presence of the medieval church, it was not so dark in the meadow. Against the nearer corner of the field, large bales of hay were stacked, awaiting transport to the barn on the other side of Glebe Farm. He took Charlotte's hand and took her towards the stacked bales. She saw the thick rug and recognised it. 'You came here first?' He stood her by the side of the bale, across which the thick travelling rug had been draped. 'I could treat you like an innocent little girl, Charlotte.' He touched her lips with his. '...or I could treat you like a really grown-up young lady...' She felt her body becoming tense in his arms. She loved the rough husky words. She stood on tip-toe, and put her arms around his neck. 'Oh... Oh Alan... I'll do... anything... Alan. Just tonight... It doesn't matter how... naughty...' She hoped the innocence was still in her voice. She was just an innocent country girl, excited by the moment. Turned on and mis-led by this wordly truck-driver... At least, that was what she hoped Alan would think. It made men even sexier, when they thought they were giving the lead. Teaching an innocent young female about sex.
He kissed her once again and then placed a finger across her moist lips. 'It's your other lips I want. Now.' Once again, he turned her around, so that she was facing away from him, and looking towards the travelling rug, spread at hip height across the bale of hay. 'Lie on the rug.' She made to scramble up onto the bale. 'No. Not like that. Just lean forward...' Now she knew what he wanted. She stood as close to the square profile of the hay as she could, and bent forwards, draping her body over the rug, bending tightly at her waist. 'Right over, darling... as far as you can...' She wriggled a little, and stood on tip-toe, so that she was right across the hay, and her bottom was jutting right out, in his direction.
His hands moved to her skirt, lifting it, pushing it up above her waist, revealing her rounded bottom curves, tightly encased in thin brief knickers, the tautness of the fabric leaving soft expanses of her lower cheeks tantalizingly exposed. Charlotte wriggled very slightly, just enough to be provocative. But her man needed little encouragement. His fingers were at her knickers, pulling them right down. There was a pause, during which his hands left her body. Charlotte closed her eyes and waited, knowing he was undressing, stripping off his clothes in a sort of controlled frenzy, his eyes never moving from the vision of her upturned bare bottom, its curves and secret crevices all shadows in the soft moonlight. 'Open your legs,' he ordered her. She shuttled her feet apart, until the tangled restraints of her knickers stopped her. 'No. More. Get those off.' His orders were urgent now, his breathing lacking control. He stooped down, and pulled the flimsy fabric away from her ankles, tossing it carelessly away into the night. 'Now open your legs properly. Wide as you can. You know what I want to see...' And his fingers willing encouraged her, slipping in under the curves of her bottom, searching for the soft wet lips, exploring her feminity, discovering that she was more than ready for him. Her body was perfectly angled to receive him, her bottom and her swollen inner lips protruding at the exact level. He eased his hands beneath her, under her blouse, until his outstretched palms were supporting her breasts, pressing down, the nipples feeling so hard and so responsive to his manipulation. 'Something to remember me by, darling.' He whispered, as he entered her, the firmness and urgency of his thrusts pushing her even further over the bale until her feet were left dangling in mid-air as his body slapped against her bared bottom. 'God. You're beautiful.' Charlotte's words were merest whispers and the man didn't hear them. His senses were already blurred by the tight wet juicy sexy crevices of this dream-girl. Charlotte was gasping at each thrust. She needed this, probably more than he did. She had been waiting for this, for so long. It made it feel all the better, now that he was really screwing her so hard...
The Revd. John Attwood unlocked the South Door of the church and switched on the lights. The church felt cold and damp. Perhaps the old boiler had failed again. He left the building by way of the vestry door, and followed the perimeter path towards the rear of the church where the boiler was housed in a small brick out-building. In the silence of the evening, he heard a cry. He stopped in his tracks. Perhaps it had been his imagination. But no. This time the cry was quite clear, and not too far away. One breathy excited cry, and then another, and another. His heart was already beating faster. What did it sound like? Stumbling a little in the poor light, he tried to move towards the direction of the noise. He had very recent memories of a similar sort of noise. When he had witnessed that caning, last Sunday afternoon in the Archdeacon's house. It had been a girl from the next village. A right little troublemaker. The Archdeacon had taken the girl's pants right down, and then he had caned her, in front of the Vicar of Langley Hill, and his wife, and the other clerics gathered in the room. And every vicious crack of the thin cane across that young lady's bottom had forced an urgent shrill yell of pain from the miscreant's lips. The Vicar stopped and listened again, turning his head slowly in an attempt to divine the direction of the sound. The little girlish squeals were quite clear, now, and getting ever more urgent, almost frenetic. But somehow... Attwood crept down and across the churchyard towards the rusty Victorian railings which divided the church land from the Meadow.... Somehow, though these weren't cries of pain... Suddenly he saw them. The girl still stretched out, face down across the hay, the man pounding her with a frenzy which made the cleric feel weak. And with each thrust, the girl would utter her little gasp of ecstasy, her fingers digging deep into the soft hay, as her body rode backwards and forwards with his movements.
Attwood crept away. Now was not the time to intervene. That fellow looked rather large, anyway. Later, he would deal with her. He recognised her, even though her face was turned away from him. But he would have recognised the shape of Miss Charlotte Edwards anywhere. The contours of her body he had studied so very frequently at choir practice, and bible class. He returned to the vestry, closing the heavy door against the cries of the lovers as they moved hastily towards a loud, uncontrolled climax. On the shelf above the tall wardrobe where the clerical dress was kept, the man felt for his cane. It was dusty. He wiped it clean with his handkerchief, the cane leaving a dark ridge of grey against the white line. He hardly ever used it, these days. People were changing. Once upon a time, the Vicar had been a power in the village. A man of responsibility. Someone to whom others could turn in search of help and guidance. Many a young lady had been 'guided' by his cane in past years. But now, only the old families would come to him for his very special sort of pastoral care. The vision of the girl — his choirgirl — out there in the meadow, came to him again. Her body stretched across that hay. Her legs held so wide apart, so blatantly exposing her, tantalising, giving that man, whoever he was, just exactly what he wanted. And those cries. It was so very obvious that Miss Charlotte Edwards was enjoying every minute of her ordeal. He pictured her bared bottom-curves as he bent the cane in a tight arc between his hands. Later, he would have her bent over in a similar fashion, her bottom jutting out at the perfect angle. And he would make her gasp! Every single stroke of his cane across those ample feminine buttocks, and her firm thighs, would make her squeal very much louder and more urgently than that character in the meadow. And they wouldn't be cries of ecstasy.
They dressed quickly. 'Where the hell are my knickers?' She found them after a few seconds of panic, thrown onto the ground. She sat down on a smaller bale of hay as she reached down to slip her knickers back on, and jumped as the roughly-cut edges of the hay pinched her still bared bottom. 'Ouch.' She jumped up, and rubbed her bottom. 'That hurt.' The man laughed. 'Serve you right for letting me screw you like that...' She smiled at him, and put her arms around his neck, her knickers still at half-mast. 'Oh yes. You don't approve, then? So what would you do if your daughter ended up across a bale of straw at the end of a truck driver?' The man cupped his hands against the lower curves of her smooth bottom. 'I'd tan her bottom until she couldn't sit down. That's what I'd do...' He kissed her, and dug his fingers more firmly into her bottom flesh. 'And you've got the perfect bottom for tanning, darling...' She pushed him away, in a pretence of being insulted. 'Not bad for screwing, either, apparently.'
They said their farewells, neither of them too concerned about leaving. There were pretty young sirens in every town and village in the country, and most seemed fatally attracted to truckers. And as for Charlotte, she lived for kicks. So Alan was leaving. So what. Another male would take his place, very soon. Another idiot of a man who thought he was God's gift to women. Another oversexed male who believed he had patented kinky sex in the school bike-sheds, some years previously, and now had a duty to expound his philosophies on every apparently innocent young girl he could find. Charlotte would go on enticing them, letting them believe she was so innocent and so easily led. And she would let them give her her thrills. Behind the church, in the back of a lorry, over a bale of hay. Wherever and whenever their imagination dictated. Alan left first, and she saw a red glow as he lit up a cigarette. She checked her blouse buttons, slipped her coat over her shoulders and returned in the direction of the church.
Attwood cleared the simple Vestry desk of ornaments, and lifted an embroidered kneeler, placing it at one end of the desk. If he could have been sure of privacy, he would have used the bale of straw. The very same bale over which she had so willingly bent, awaiting that man's attentions. He would have draped her across it in just the same way, with or without a travelling rug for comfort. And when her bottom had been bared, and was pointing heaven wards at just the right angle, he would have caned her, reminding her of the rhythm of her earlier yells, he would soon encourage an even more urgent set of exclamations to pass her pretty lips!
But the table and kneeler would do. It had served well in the past. He had certainly tamed young Carol Perkins across it, not too many moons ago. That little minx had really been asking for it. And the Revd. John Attwood had obliged, to the firm satisfaction of almost everyone of his closely-knit flock who found out about it. Desecrating the churchyard. That was the usual crime. In Carol's case, the little blonde had been found, sunbathing on its grassy slopes! A pert little blonde in a jet black swimming costume. In the privacy of his vestry, with the main church doors locked, the vicar had dealt with the problem. Miss Perkins had had her swimming costume peeled away from her pretty person, and then, in her birthday suit, she had been up-ended over the desk, her triangle of little blonde curls pressed hard against the kneeler. And by the way his cane had made her wave her legs about, each stroke provoked young Carol lo exhibit parts of her anatomy which would normally be kept quite hidden. Each swipe of the cane parted her legs and her bottom cheeks, and reminded Attwood that he was indeed caning a real natural blonde.
It was the detail that John Attwood could remember. The six parallel sets of tramlines, thin pink across her pale cheeks, and the seventh stroke, a diagonal track of pain, crossing the other strokes. He had given her that final stroke for swearing at him, under her breath. He remembered the warmth of her body, which warmed also the kneeler as he lifted it back off the table after the punishment. And the light fragrance of the girl's perfume which seemed to linger in the air long after she had scampered back out of the vestry, her fingers trying to itch the pain away from her bottom as she ran.
That had been a classic punishment session. Tonight, Attwood promised himself, would be another. He would take choir practice as usual, in his cheerful encouraging manner. Perhaps he would conclude the session a few minutes earlier than usual, so that the girls could get home before the frost came down. And then he would call Charlotte into his room. He would make her stand there, while he waved the cane in front of her, and he would challenge her about the disgusting scene in the meadow. And then, after her confessions, he would cane her. Like it or not, the girl would opt for his punishment. The Vicar could always promise the matter would go no further. In a small village, it was a girl's only option. If the village knew all about the clandestine meetings which John Attwood somehow always stumbled upon, there would be hell to pay. From family and friends, and others, too.
Charlotte would agree to be punished, and he would tell her to undress. Embarrassed and flustered, she would unhook her skirt and step out of it, folding it and placing it over the chair against the wall. And then he would wait as she took her knickers down. He would be patient. There would be no need for haste. A more delightful scene he could hardly imagine. A naughty young lady, slowly and reluctantly lowering her silly little knickers, bending down to unhitch them from her ankles, getting all flustered, trying to hide her private parts from the man's gaze. Looking at him, blushing crimson, as he lectured her. He would make her put her hands on her head and stand in front of him, so he could really see her. And she would blush even more profusely. Finally, he would bend her tautly across the desk and the kneeler, and cane her. He would make her spread her legs, so that he could be party to the intimate views that she had so willingly offered that man. There was nothing on earth quite like a mischevious young minx like Charlotte Smith, her bottom bared, squealing so appealingly as he applied the cane to her lovely firm rump. The hiss of the cane as it whistled down through the cold air. The crack as it moulded itself on impact, right around the girl's firm bare bottom. And the response, just a split-second later, as the squeals came, and the long bare legs waved around in mid-air in such an unladylike fashion. Yes. After choir practice, he would get to the bottom of Miss Charlotte Smith and neither he nor her ever forget it.
'I gave her twelve strokes. Real stingers. The way she squealed I thought she'd raise the dead...' Archdeacon Brent had been listening intently, and nodded in agreement. 'I'm relieved to hear you're keeping a firm hand on things over at Towley, John. You know me. I can't stand this new namby-pamby thinking.' He offered Attwood a further glass of sherry. 'The point being, John, no-one knows of a finer, and more effective method of training these youngsters.' The Archdeacon frequently gave thanks for the thoughtful way in which the feminine human body had been formed. A seemingly never-ending succession of bottoms wobbled and bounced through his hands. Bottoms small and large, as tight as an apple, or as voluptuous as a ripe pear. Flabby bottoms which wobbled as the cane bit into the puppy fat. Thin firm bottoms for which the back of a large ivory-backed hairbrush was the ideal prescription. Bottoms which revealed the ghost of the outline of thin little bikini pants in a triangle of paler flesh set against sun-tanned thighs. And just occasionally, these days, bottoms sun-tanned all over. The Archdeacon paid particular attention to the latter variety. The brazen wenches of this modern day! So they thought nothing of taking their knickers down for a sun-tanning? He would give them a tanning to remember!
He allowed Attwood to continue. 'Yes. Twelve strokes. And with the same... er... rhythm as the young minx had experienced over the hay.' He drew his chair closer to the Archdeacon. 'She was still... er.... very... affected by the man... when I caned her...' His eager observant eyes had noticed, as she had bent across the desk, the kneeler raising her hips and her bottom. Each time she opened her legs to absorb the biting sting of another cane stroke. She had looked remarkably well-formed for a girl of her age. Her sex so firm, almost swollen? Attwood, experienced in the caning of female bottoms, was not so experienced in his knowledge of sexual arousal. The Archdeacon understood, though. He was nodding again. 'Yes. It affects them for hours afterwards, sometimes. It's the very best time to cane them. So they can associate the punishment with their misdeeds. Cane them soon afterwards. And cane them hard.' The glasses of sherry were topped up yet again. Archdeacon returned the sherry decanter to the sideboard. 'In fact, John, knowing you were coming over, I delayed one of my most important duties of the day. Her name is Rosalind. Pastor Martin sent her over to me from Langley Hill.' He opened the study door with his free hand, his other hand still occupied with the sherry glass. A few seconds later, the latest miscreant to grace the Archdeacon's house, entered the room. Attwood placed his glass on the occasional table. So he was to be an observer, at the Archdeacon's instigation. 'Rosalind, here, has not yet been punished, though she knows that her punishment will be taking place this afternoon. I am sure a witness to her punishment will serve to bring this young miscreant down a peg or two.'
John Attwood sat back. He enjoyed the occasional afternoon visit to the Archdeacon's residence. And to be invited to witness the chastisement of this young lady by such an experienced man as the Archdeacon, just a few days after the caning of Charlotte. It would be a very pleasurable duty to perform.
He guessed that Rosalind was about nineteen years of age. It wasn't always very easy to tell these days. She was quite tall, and fairly slim, her figure obscured by a baggy and ill-fitting tracksuit. Her hair was dark. Her face was white, as she stood in silence, staring at the two men. 'You know you must be punished, don't you?' The girl whispered her response. 'Yes. Sir.' The Archdeacon returned to his chair. 'Then I think the time has come.' Both men noticed the way the girl had clasped her hands together tightly in front of herself. 'You will go upstairs to the room you have been given, and you will get changed. You will put on only the clothes which have been placed across your bedspread. Nothing else.' The girl hesitated for a second, wondering whether she was tree to go. 'Go on. Be off with you. And hurry!' She scampered to the door, closed it rather loudly behind her, and ran away along the corridor.
The Archdeacon winced at the noise but then disregarded it, knowing that the girl was nervous, and appreciating that young Rosalind had no idea of what her punishment might entail. In fact, Rosalind had some vague idea, gleaned from the man's words and insinuations, and by one or two awful rumours which were circulating in her village. But the result of not knowing for certain, had made her very scared indeed. There was just one aim in her mind: to do exactly as this frightening man ordered of her, no matter what it was. Then he wouldn't get any more annoyed with her. He might even let her off with a good talking to or something if she smiled really nicely at him and behaved herself.
'You still have some lessons to learn, John.' Attwood was a little surprised by the Archdeacon's sudden statement. 'I beg your pardon? About what? About... caning? Surely not?' Attwood secretly prided himself on the way he applied his thin whippy cane and on how the girls squirmed and squealed as it bit into their bare bottoms. He was almost an expert, so he thought. But then, he would never dare to contradict the Archdeacon. 'This... this Charlotte, who you caned last week... was this her first experience of chastisement?' Attwood thought for a moment. 'I believe so, Archdeacon. I believe so...' The older man was smiling a smile of experience. 'So why begin her education with a caning? Why not start with some milder form of retribution? There's many a lesson which can be taught with the aid of the palm of the hand, or a good-sized hairbrush... or a leather strap... or a wide flat slipper...' He took a breath as mentally he began to list the contents of his punishment cupboard. 'And you can always end such a chastisement with a good sound caning, can't you?' Attwood tried to agree, realising that his approach was perhaps too single minded and narrow. 'So please sit back, John, and allow me to show you a few variations on a theme...'
* * *
Young Rosalind reached the room which had become her temporary bedroom. Tonight would be her first night at the Archdeacon's home, and she feared the hours of darkness, wondering what the man would want her to do. Neatly folded in the centre of the small bed was a pretty pink nightie. She picked it up, holding it against her body. It was very very short, she thought to herself. Far shorter than anything she had at home. And very thin. Just a little pink nightie with matching pink knickers which looked just as short, just as thin. She began to blush. Surely he didn't intend her to walk about, dressed like that? And in front of that other Vicar as well? It just wasn't decent. She dropped it back onto the bed and glanced around the small room, wondering whether she had made a mistake. Hoping that her eyes would alight on some more suitable attire. She shivered as she realised the truth. All her own clothes had disappeared. The wardrobe was empty. All she had, were the clothes she was standing up in, and that little pink nightie.
Hastily, she undressed, unzipping her jeans, sitting on the edge of her bed as she slipped off her sandals and tugged the tight denim off over her ankles. Off came her teeshirt, over her head, and then her fingers slipped behind her shoulders to unclip her bra. Finally, her knickers fluttered down, and she was standing in her little room, naked. She shivered, not so much from the chill of the air, as from the nervous anticipation of what the Archdeacon was going to do with her. In front of the Vicar from the other village. Hurriedly, she slipped the flimsy nightie over her head, tugging it down as far as it would go, and then pulled on the matching knickers. As she left the room she glanced at the long mirror. The nightie hardly reached to her hips. Even standing still, the knickers were clearly visible. In a fluster of embarrassment and nerves, she ran back down the stairs, and knocked on the door. A few nerve-racking seconds later, the Archdeacon told her to enter.
Attwood's fingers tightened around his sherry glass as Rosalind crept reluctantly into the room. The floral pink delicacy of the nightie matched her complexion beautifully, and contrasted well with the girl's dark hair. Her legs were long and slim, and tapered so neatly. And those knickers were so tight and so thin. Even on the other side of the room he could see more than a hint of her pubic hair, moulded underneath the 'v' of her pants. She glanced nervously at the Archdeacon and then in Attwood's direction, and blushed even more profusely as she realised they were both looking at her, their eyes roving all over her body. Quickly, she gripped the hem of the flimsy nightie and tugged it down in front of her, trying to protect a little more of her modesty, with little success. The Archdeacon told her to put her hands on her head. Now her tight pink knickers were fully visible as well as an inch or so of bare tummy, peeping out below the low-cut waist of the pants and below the lacy fringe of the nightie.
'I have been very concerned to hear of your appalling behaviour, Rosalind. And that is why I suggested to your minister that you stay a while, here at the Lodge. I'm afraid such behaviour as yours, cannot be allowed to go unpunished.' Both men noticed the shiver in the girl's bare limbs as the Archdeacon emphasised his words. 'My colleague here, the Revd. Attwood shares my concern at the appalling behaviour of the young people of these parishes, and he will remain in here, as my guest, whilst you are punished.'
Attwood placed his glass on the sidetable, and sat back in the comfortable armchair. He wondered about the girl's misbehaviour, and could only surmise the reasons why the Archdeacon had personally intervened in the girl's disciplining. And he felt a little sorry for his companion in the neighbouring parish who had apparently been denied the opportunity to deal with this naughty young lady. 'Have you any idea... how you will be punished?' Rosalind shrugged her pretty shoulders, and then bit her lip, realising that the gesture could be taken as rude. 'No... No Sir...' The older man walked towards her, twirling one extended finger in mid-air. 'Turn round, please, Rosalind. Right round.' She obeyed, and both the Archdeacon and Attwood were treated to the sight of Rosalind's curvaceous bottom, encased in the pretty pink knickers, her fleshy lower cheeks spilling out beyond the restraints of the material. 'Words are not adequate to discipline a girl as disobedient as you.' Attwood wondered what expression was now written across Rosalind's face, as she stood there, her bottom on display, her nightie half way up her back, listening to the droning phrases of the Archdeacon's lecture. 'There is only one certain method of ensuring that your behaviour improves, Rosalind... I can guarantee that in less than five minutes time, your attitude to life will have begun to change.' He moved across to the side of the room and lifted the piano stool into the centre of the carpet. Sitting down, he patted his lap. 'Come here, young lady. Put yourself across my knee... Now!' She scampered towards him, her hands still clasped above her head, her face a deep red. Awkwardly, she draped herself across the man's lap, his hands assisting her, moving her, pressing down upon her shoulder blades until her legs were dangling in mid-air and her bottom was elevated high above his knee.
With quiet confidence, he used both hands to told back the nightie, pushing it neatly up to expose her smooth back. Then, without further words or warning, he smacked Rosalind's bottom. Loud resounding smacks across the thin fabric, and on the bare lower curves. Firm smacks which forced the girl to gasp with the surprise of the sting in her tail. A dozen sound slaps, and then she was put back on her feet, an embarrassed and flustered nineteen year old. 'Touch your toes.' Rosalind had no time to catch her breath or to utter a word of protest. She bent forward, her long finders reaching out to meet with her bare toes, her hair dropping down to hide her burning face.
The Archdeacon had crossed to his desk, returning with a wide flat ruler in his hand. He applied it, crisply, to the girl's upturned bottom cheeks. Six loud cracks, paying particular attention to the bright pink curves which bulged out beneath the taut knickers. She squealed as each stroke landed, and jumped up, hands clutching at her stinging cheeks. 'Did I tell you to stand?' She tried to say no, or to shake her head, but there was no time. He was leading her across to the piano stool and telling her to kneel up, with her hands back on her head. And then an experienced male linger slipped under the knicker elastic and tugged the pink pants right down, exposing Rosalind's soft punished bottom curves. Six more smacks with the wide flat ruler, and the girl was really gasping, and trying to find some words of protest to say. The final slap made her lose her balance, and she fell forward, her arms reaching out to support her. 'Excellent!' murmured the Archdeacon. 'A perfect position for punishment.' And she was made to stay exactly as she was while six more slaps of the ruler landed across the bright pink bottom cheeks.
After the punishment, Rosalind was made to stand facing the wall, her knickers still lying around her bare feet, and her hands back upon her head. Attwood and the Archdeacon admired the girl's well-tanned bottom as they listed to her quiet sobs. 'Now, my girl. That is a taste of things to come. And the only way in which you can reduce the severity of your future punishments is by your exemplary behaviour from now on.' The Archdeacon returned the piano stool to its usual position. 'And that means absolute and immediate obedience at all times. Do you understand?' Rosalind sniffed, and nodded her head. 'Absolute obedience. Then we shall be pleased with you, and you will be able to leave.'
The girl was ordered to the kitchens to prepare tea. After she had left the room, Attwood quickly congratulated the Archdeacon for the way he had dealt with her. 'Well. It's the only way, as I know you will agree. The only way. Kind words have no effect. Restrictions and the withdrawal of priviledges have little effect. The only effective means of punishing these recalcitrant young females is by the use of corporal punishment... in all its many and varied guises...'
Later that evening, after Attwood had left, Rosalind was directed to another bedroom on the first floor of the Archdeacon's Lodge, and was ordered to return with the large plastic-backed hairbrush which she would find on the dressing-table. Rosalind knew by now why the Archdeacon should request such an article. With very great reluctance, she returned with the weights hairbrush clutched in her hand. And then, just before her bedtime, she was put across his knee again, without the protection her knickers, with her nightie rucked around her shoulders and her bare breasts dangling in mid-air. And that hairbrush smacked against her pinkening bottom with considerable force, one dozen times. She knew it had been one dozen slaps, because he had made her count them, aloud. She ran all the way upstairs to her room, her outstretched hands clutched to her bottom. There would be more tomorrow, the Archdeacon had promised her. 'I shall be out for most of the day, visiting the parishes. While I am away, you will tidy and clean the house. I will return for tea at four. And we shall have guests, young lady.'
* * *
Charlotte Edwards was feeling very unsure of herself as she raised the brass door-knocker on the Vicarage front door. The Revd. Attwood told her to wait while he fetched the car from the rear garage. But he took time to check the girl's attire. 'Yes. Well done, Charlotte. Virgin white is hardly appropriate, in the circumstances. But tonight, I am sure the Archdeacon will be encouraging you to consider your future moral behaviour. She sat in silence as they drove out of the village towards the Lodge, as the vicar played a cassette of hymn tunes on his in-car stereo.
Surely that caning he had given her last week had been punishment enough. The marks had only just faded. Her bottom had stung for hours. She just hoped her friends and workmates hadn't seen her wince whenever she sat down, or whenever someone brushed past her. What on earth did the Archdeacon want of her? She had only seen him once before, at a special service, for which the choir presented some new music. He had shook her hand, and she had remembered his cold firm grip. Those long fingers. That tall domineering stature. A man to respect. A man to fear, perhaps.
The Lodge was only a few miles out of the village in the no-man's land between the three parishes which were the Archdeacon's responsibility. She seemed a long way from home. And the dress which her vicar had told her to wear. It was years since she'd last worn it, at a Christmas Parish party. She was surprised he had remembered such a detail. And she was also quite surprised and rather concerned to find how much she'd grown since those days. Not the little schoolgirl now. A well-developed young woman, in a pretty party frock. Rather too tight for comfort. And short.
The Lodge was an awesome place. She shivered as Attwood ushered her up the steps to the front door. The Archdeacon was just as she had remembered him. Just as awesome. Not a very nice man, somehow. She was shown a sort of waiting area at the end of the hallway, while the vicar and the Archdeacon disappeared into one of the big rooms.
They shook hands. 'Pleased to see you again, John. Glad you could come. And the girl, as well.' He looked at his watch. 'You're just a few minutes early. And I have one small matter to attend to before we deal with your young lady. Would you please excuse me?' With a smile, Attwood was ushered back into the hall where he took his seat, next to the quaking Charlotte. The latest reason for her nervousness was the vision which had just passed her, walking in the direction of the front room. A girl of about her own age. Dressed in some sort of sports top, and rather tight shorts. And she was crying. 'Her name is Rosalind,' Attwood informed her. 'And she is also here because of her misbehaviour.' A moment later, Charlotte thought she heard a kind of squeal echoing along the hallway. She looked at the vicar, and he was smiling.
'Why is the tea not ready?' There was thinly-veiled anger in the Archdeacon's question. Rosalind stared down at the carpet, avoiding the man's gaze, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. 'Um. I'm sorry. I forgot the time...' The man started to repeat her words. 'Forgot the time? Forgot the time!?' He clapped his hands, making her jump, her head snapping upwards, her eyes staring at his. 'How dare you disobey me, young lady! How dare you ignore my orders!' He leaned forwards in his armchair, extended his arm, and caught hold of one of the belt-loops on the girl's shorts. He pulled her towards his chair. 'You're going to be punished, young lady. Very severely. And in front of my guests, I assure you!' He pushed her away again, and she stumbled slightly, almost tripping over the edge of the carpet. 'Get out of here. Go to the kitchen. Make the tea, and return with it... now!'
She walked slowly out of the room. The Archdeacon watched as she opened the door. There seemed to be a new arrogance in her movements. Yesterday, she jumped immediately, whenever he had given her an order. But now, she was openly defying him. She was almost refusing to hurry. Almost cheeking him with her nonchalent manner. 'Stop.' She turned round. 'Come back here.' She shrugged her shoulders, and walked towards him. 'Did you not hear me, Rosalind? You will be very severely punished. I would have thought you would not have wished to antagonise me any further.' She shrugged her shoulders again, and their was just a hint of challenge and deception in her eyes. 'Take your shorts down.' She put her thumbs under the tight waistband, but refused to pull the shorts downwards, shaking her head whilst still staring at him. The Archdeacon reached to the side of his armchair, feeling for his cane. He lifted it onto his knee. 'Then you will be caned right now. A double-caning.'
He took hold of her arm and pulled her over to the occasional table, pushing her face-down across it. 'Stand astride the table. Bend forward. Put your hands on the two corners.' She obeyed, without a murmur. The Archdeacon was puzzled. Yesterday, the girl had been quite different in her behaviour. Quite willing to behave well, to follow his orders. She had been soundly punished, but her bottom had taken it well. Why the sudden defiance? What had happened while he had been away from the Lodge? It was almost as if... The cane was raised and was quivering slightly in the air above Rosalind's bottom. But instead of whipping it down across the seat of the girl's shorts, the Archdeacon dropped it quietly onto the carpet. He leaned towards the upturned bottom. A faint smell. Something antiseptic. Something vaguely familiar.
He told her to stand up. This time, Rosalind looked a trifle uneasy. 'Take your shorts down.' The girl shook her head. He repeated the order, his voice louder and more demanding. 'Don't you dare disobey me!' He pushed her hands away from her waist, and unhooked the fastening of the shorts, tugging the garment down in one quick flick of his wrists... She was wearing white knickers beneath, but they looked damp, almost wet. He pulled her across to the window, and turned her so that the sunlight lit the contours of her bottom. The knickers were quickly pulled down to her knees. Rosalind's bottom was thickly coated in a sort of transparent jelly, a substance with a strong antiseptic smell. He touched her buttock with his fingertips and felt the smooth substance for himself. It was cold against his skin. He held his hand up to his face, looking at the fingertips. And suddenly, a numbness in his fingers gave him the answer to his puzzle. 'What have you put on your bottom?' Rosalind sulked into the carpet once again, and remained silent. 'If you do not tell me, you will be caned tonight, tomorrow, and every day for a fortnight!' Finally, her courage failed her. 'My... my boyfriend called... while you were out...' The Archdeacon sat down and listened to the girl's story.
She had told her boyfriend that she was staying at the Lodge for some while. He was puzzled, and more than a little concerned. And when he passed the house, seeing the garage doors open, and no car in sight, he had gone round to the kitchen door. She had told him all about the punishments. The handsmackings, the hairbrush, and the threat of the cane. And she had turned the tears on, pleading with him to do something. Later, he had returned, a small unmarked tube in his hand. 'Smear it all over your backside,' he had told her. 'They use it in the forces. Has a numbing effect on the skin.' Before Rosalind was able to look further, her boyfriend had driven off. She finished her story, related in quiet faltering statements. She hung her head, and waited for the Archdeacon's inevitable pronouncements.
'Wait here. And don't you dare move.' Adjacent to the study was a small washroom. He ran the hot tap, and held a flannel under its flow. Picking up several hand towels, he returned to the room. The Archdeacon sat in his armchair, and placed the thickest towel, doubled, across his knees. He told her to put herself across his lap, her shorts and knickers still at half-mast. Slowly, forgetting about his guests, waiting in the hallway, he began to wipe the girl's bottom, using a tablet of soap and the hot damp flannel, to wipe away the jelly. Satisfied that the mounds of her buttocks were clear of the numbing cream, he began to attend to her lower crevices. 'Open your legs.' She refused. He slapped her wet bottom, and she jumped slightly. 'So it's wearing off, is it?' He slapped the wobbling pink cheeks again. 'You'll live to regret this deception, my girl!' His fingers clutching the soap explored between her buttocks, and she gasped as he reached her most intimate places. He soaped around the top of her thighs, making sure that every last intimate crease was clear of the jelly. He dabbed her bottom with the cornet of a fresh towel. 'I am going to cane you, young lady. But not yet.' He slapped her hard, right across the crown of both bottom cheeks. 'Not yet. We shall wait until this stuff has worn off completely. And your bottom is at its most sensitive, once again, I shall deal with you.' Angrily, the Archdeacon ordered her to remove the towels, flannel and soap. 'Now get the tea!'
The Archdeacon poured himself a large whiskey before attending to his guests. That girl's disobedience had angered him. And that jelly. He could control his anger, but not without a supreme effort. She would pay for the deception. She would pay dearly. As he raised the glass to his lips, he wondered about the boyfriend. It would have been so easy for her to have simply walked out. If they had driven off together, he might never have seen them again. Knowing the morals of today's kids, they would have gone back to his place, she would have left the church community, and young Rosalind's bottom would have gone unpunished.
Back in Langley Hill, Rosalind's boyfriend was sitting in a quiet corner of the village local, enjoying the warmth of the real log fire, hissing and crackling in the hearth. There was a suggestion of frustration in the way he was fingering his pint, rotating it upon its beermat, and staring into its head. He fancied young Rosalind like hell. She was a little cracker. He hadn't known her very long, but their relationship was progressing very nicely. Very nicely indeed. And he knew something about the Archdeacon, and the reputation of the vicars of Langley and the surrounding parishes. Some while back, he had read an editorial in the Parish Magazine. About 'sparing the rod and spoiling the child'. The vicar had spoken about the lax standards of discipline in the home, and in the community. And he had made a clarion call for the return of good 'old-fashioned methods of discipline.' The words had struck a chord with many of the parishioners, particularly those who bore witness to the flagrant ill-discipline of the young people of the area. But for Rosalind's boyfriend, there was an additional interest. Because not only had Rosalind's eyes, brown and beckoning, and her bouncy lively curly shoulder-length tresses, and her firm shapely breasts invited his attentions. More than anything else, her bottom had first attracted him. Her bouncy, cheeky, curvy, smackable bottom. One day, he had promised himself, he was going to smack that bottom. He was going to get the delectable Rosalind across his knee, probably stripped absolutely naked, and he was going to tan her bottom, savouring every loud stinging impact of his palm across her lovely round inviting curves.
He had driven past the Lodge three times, before he found the garage empty. He had a shrewd idea that the Archdeacon intended to tan his girlfriend. The thought really turned him on. She was a cheeky little madam. He loved her for it. And he'd love her even more, knowing that her rump had been soundly tanned. Then the dilemma came to him. Yes, he would love to tan her little bottom. He would love to slap it with his open hand until it bounced and wobbled across his knee, and she was telling him to stop. But the Archdeacon? He had a reputation. He might really hurt her. Really punish her. And the last thing he wanted was a 'born-again Rosalind'. Last evening, he had lain in bed, his eyes closed, imaging her at the tender mercy of the cleric. She deserved it. A mild punishment wouldn't hurt her. But it would make her sit up and take notice of men in the future. Including her boyfriend. Carefully, he constructed his plan. The jelly was well-known for its effect on flesh. Dentists used it to numb aching gums. In the forces it was respected as an agent for killing pain and inflammation brought on by exposure to the elements. He reckoned it would work on Rosalind's bottom. And perhaps if she used it once, and it worked, he might suggest she uses it again. He would just love to up-end her across his knee, in the secure intimacy of his bedroom, the jelly all over his fingers. He would love to smear it all over her bared bottom, slipping creamy fingers right into every secret little crease, watching her wriggle so sexily as he trespassed. And then, knowing her bottom was numb, he would smack her. He would tan that fantastic little arse right into the middle of next week.
Later, he would put her in the bath. Perhaps entice her to stand knee-deep in the bath-water, touching her toes, while he soaped away the jelly, and pampered the very same bottom with sweetly-scented talc, before they made love.
Now he was frustrated. He wished he was an invisible guest within the Archdeacon's Lodge. He would dearly love to watch her being punished, knowing how insulted and embarrassed she would be. Yet assured that her bottom would suffer no real pain and no lasting harm.
* * *
Rosalind tapped politely on the door to the study. 'The tea is ready. Shall I...?' The Archdeacon told her to invite his guests into the study and then to serve tea. She disappeared again, her arrogance and self-confidence vanishing with the realisation that her bottom-flesh was fast returning to its normal state of sensitivity. If anything, her bottom felt over-sensitive, as if the removal of the jelly took away also her bottom's usual resiliance to pain. More than ever, Rosalind was frightened, and very concerned about the Archdeacon, his cane, and her bottom.
Brief introductions were made. Young Charlotte was directed to the small stout table. 'Miscreants do NOT sit with their elders,' she was told. She sat quietly on the hard oak surface of the table, and listened as the Revd. Attwood outlined again, her sins by moonlight, in the corner of the meadow, under the very shadow of the church. She felt her cheeks burning as she heard her vicar recounting every detail. Every intimate detail.
Rosalind served tea. She moved awkwardly, her bottom feeling quite raw beneath her tight knickers and even tighter shorts. As she bent down to offer tea to the Archdeacon and his guests, she knew they were all watching her bottom. Judging its shape and size. 'You are both to be punished,' announced the Archdeacon. 'You have both behaved abominably. You are to be punished very severely.' There was a sudden chill in the air as the cleric talked to the two girls. They shivered together. 'Shorts and knickers down.' Once again, now knowing there was no hope of escape, Rosalind peeled down her clothing, revealing her bottom, her dark triangle, her slim tender upper thighs.
They were all watching her. Even the other girl, who looked just as frightened. They made her take the shorts and knickers right off. And then she was ordered to stand by the door. The jelly was really wearing off now. And as her full senses returned, her bottom felt even bigger, bouncier and rounder than ever. She shivered in the corner, her fingers trying to hide the profuse pubic curls from the view of the others. Even the pretty blonde girl.
Charlotte was ordered to stand between the two clerics. She had watched as the other girl had undressed. She had blushed, feeling for the other girl. And knowing that she was vulnerable too. Knowing that her knickers too, would soon be fluttering down, in front of the two men. 'Remove your skirt.' It was the Archdeacon's voice. She felt both hot and cold at once.
She stood up, wondering whether her legs would support her. Very slowly, she unbuttoned her wrap-around skirt, and took it away from her hips. Her pretty suspenders and panties set was revealed to the male audience. 'And your knickers. Right down. Right off, please, young lady.' It took a long time for her to ease the pretty briefs down her slim thighs. The blood rushed to her head as she stooped forward to unhitch her panties from her ankles. Now she too was bared, ready for punishment. Like the dark girl, who was still standing, shivering, in the corner of the room.
'Miss Edwards is in your parish, Attwood. Please deal with her.' The Archdeacon reminded him of the conversation they had shared the previous afternoon. Charlotte was placed firmly across Attwood's knee. He scanned her bottom curves, looking for the tell tale signs of last week's caning. Her light stockings and pretty suspender-belt framed her bottom admirably, leaving her most tender curvy bottom cheeks exposed, ready for punishment. He decided to impress the Archdeacon.
He smacked her until his hand was stinging, and Miss Edwards was yelling at the top of her young voice.
And then she was sent on the longest walk of her life. Just two steps across the carpet to the Archdeacon to be bent across his knee. And a fresh firm hand applied another set of stinging smacks across her reddened stinging bottom.
Charlotte stood up, her face damp with tears. 'You appalling girl!' The Archdeacon sounded so very angry. 'Using your body to tempt others!' He stared up at her, at the soft pink flesh, and dark pubic crevices framed by her stockings and her light-coloured top. 'So you believe you're GOD'S gift to men? Most probably the devil's!' They told her to take off her top. She obeyed.
True to form, the girl was not wearing a bra. Her bare breasts bobbed freely, nipples tilted slightly upwards, swollen, tingling in the chill air.
'So this is the body which is tempting the men of the parish!' They sat back, the vicar and the Archdeacon, and looked at her. And Charlotte tried to become invisible, her bottom stinging still from the double-dose of hand-spanking.
'Get across the table, you evil child!' Charlotte was placed across the width of the table, her legs outstretched to support her weight. 'And you!' The Archdeacon was addressing Rosalind, still standing in the corner, aghast as she witnessed the other girl's punishment. She had watched Charlotte waving her legs about, trying desperately to alleviate the pain in her backside. She had never realised before quite how revealing that sort of action was. She could see everything. All those feminine parts of a girl. She felt embarrassed, just being a witness to the other girl's chastisement. And she vowed she would never allow those dreadful men the same sort of intimate knowledge of her own anatomy.
But that was before they bent her across the same table, so that her perspiring skin was touching the other girl, and she could smell her scent. Two girls, bent over, awaiting punishment. Two pairs of long legs stretched out, toes digging into the old worn carpet. Two bottoms, bared, ready for chastisement. Two bottoms very similar in size. Each with ample areas of sensitive vulnerable wobbly flesh. Rosalind slightly fatter. She would be punished especially for that.
Attwood made them squeal. A stroke of the thin whippy bamboo across young Charlotte's bottom, and then the same for naughty Rosalind. And then a stroke for Rosalind, repeating the same, with equivalent velocity, for Charlotte.
'Nineteen year olds have very firm and well-developed bottoms.' The Archdeacon had told Attwood that previous afternoon. 'It needs a very sound punishment to keep such big girls in order.' The caning prompted a chorus of yells and squeals, and pleas, and promises. All were totally ignored.
The cane whipped down, hissing through the chill air of the old house, landing with a stinging biting kiss across each bared bottom. Attwood ensured that each girl felt the cane across her most sensitive area. Judging by Rosalind's reaction, the jelly had worn off completely. If anything, her bottom was rather raw and sensitive from the Archdeacon's rough washing-down. The cane really stung. Every painful stroke had her singing in pain. And the other girl offered the descant. Two nubile young women, disobedient, ill-disciplined, and badly-behaved, thoroughly caned. Wishing the strokes of the bamboo, biting into the fleshy rippling bottom cheeks would cease. Hearing themselves promise absolutely anything, just as long as they stopped caning.
Attwood tossed the cane towards the fireplace and sat down. The Archdeacon poured him a stiff drink. 'Well done, Attwood. Well done.' The two girls remained bent across the table. Long after the caning had finished, their bottom cheeks continued to twitch. Both girls were sobbing. Angry red tramlines of burning fire were criss-crossed over the extent of their bottom flesh. Charlotte's legs were wide apart, her secret inner lips exposed, moving gently as she breathed deeply. Rosalind's thighs remained together, tightly clamped, determined to maintain her feminine modesty at all cost. Together, their bottoms almost radiated heat into the cold room.
'Get up. And both of you undress entirely.' They were still sobbing as Charlotte and Rosalind said farewell to the remainder of their clothes. And then, two big girls stood before the clerical gentlemen, and were lectured intimately about their moral behaviour. Charlotte and Rosalind stood side by side, bottoms together, breasts in line, and listened, knowing that at any time the vicar, or the Archdeacon might decide to punish them again.
A few miles away, Rosalind's boyfriend was lying in bed, dreaming. He was picturing his girlfriend sprawled across some ecclesiastical knee, her knickers taken down, her delectable bottom being smacked really soundly. He turned over, burying his face in his pillow. He knew what he would like to give his girlfriend. Frequently, and firmly. When she came back from the Lodge, he would do it. After all, she would thank him for that jelly. Apart from the embarrassment, she wouldn't feel anything. And she quite deserved to be embarrassed, once in a while.
Charlotte and Rosalind were finally sent to bed. They each clutched their own clothing as they hastened up the stairs. 'The room at the front of the house,' the Archdeacon had told them. They knew better than to disobey. Inside the room, in the semi-darkness, both girls collapsed onto adjacent beds, clutched their punished bottoms, and cried into the bedcovers. Naked, they lay together, sharing each other's pain. They traced the ridges across each other's bottoms with their fingers, carefully, soothingly. They searched for clothes, having been ordered to leave their 'day clothes' outside the bedroom door. Just one pair of pyjamas – a pretty jacket and shorts set – was the only fruits of their exhaustive search of wardrobes, lockers and cupboards. After the canings, both girls were virtually beyond caring about modesty. 'I couldn't bear anything next to my bottom' whispered Charlotte, pulling the pyjama top over her head. Reluctantly and painfully, Rosalind eased herself into the shorts. Exhausted, they crept beneath the bedclothes and eventually fell asleep.
* * *
The sunlight filtered through the gap between the curtains. Both girls were still asleep. The Archdeacon brewed himself a cup of tea, and then dressed. He quietly climbed the staircase towards the girl's room. Attwood had left the previous evening. One day, Attwood would be an excellent candidate for the post of Archdeacon. But not yet. He needed to learn subtlety. He knew how to cane, but that was all. There were many other ways of dealing with recalcitrant young girls.
He opened the door to the girls' room, crossed to the window and drew back the curtain. Rosalind was sleeping nearest the window. She had apparently opted to wear the shorts. In her sleep she was breathing slowly and deeply, her bare breasts rising and tailing. She looked very soft and smooth. He knew those breasts would react immediately to his touch. On the opposite bed, Charlotte was also asleep, her long hair flowing across the pillow. He carefully folded back the bedclothes, knowing she would be bare below her waist. The warm scent of her body touched his nostrils. The girl's exquisite limbs lay stretched across the bed. He watched her, and gazed at her pubic mound, knowing why the men were so attracted to her.
It was almost an hour later, when the girls showed signs of waking from their deep slumber. He told them both to get out of bed. Their eyes still blurred by sleep, Charlotte and Rosalind extended their legs from the warm bedclothes, feeling for the bedroom carpet, and slowly crawled out from under the bedclothes. The Archdeacon told them to kneel beside their beds. Together, they knelt, side by side, both girls still overwhelmed by their shyness, Rosalind trying to hide her pretty breasts, and Charlotte, the bareness beneath her tummy.
'Discipline.' It was the Archdeacon's first real word of the day. He told them the time, asked them why they were still asleep. Told them that their attitude to life left much to be desired.
Rosalind was first across his knee. In the gentle warming sunlight, she was told to remove her pyjama shorts. But the real intimacy between the man and the girl were her breasts. He had become well-acquainted with the contours of her bottom; but although Charlotte had been stripped, the previous evening, Rosalind had yet to expose her pretty breasts.
She stood before the Archdeacon, head bowed.
And then naked, apart from the pyjamas around her knees, she was stretched across the man's knees. He smacked her. She squealed and screamed as the stinging stripes of the past evening were revived. Just one true position for a naughty young female: face down, and bottom well raised, her legs waving in mid-air, revealing lots of delightfully feminine secrets, her bottom being thoroughly and comprehensively spanked.
Rosalind was put back to bed. 'And you'll stay there until I say otherwise.' Charlotte was dragged across the minister's knee. And she too was soundly tanned. She wriggled and bucked and kicked, and displayed the secret parts of her girlish anatomy which many males had prayed for access to. The Archdeacon hardly regarded a mere spanking as punishment. It was merely a 'warming-up' process in preparation for the real disciplining which was to follow. Both girls would he caned severely. He promised them. They quivered as the man produced a coin from his pocket. 'You are both to receive a caning you will NFVER forget' he promised them, as they watched the coin spinning in the air. 'I promise you both, you'll find it painful to sit down for a month after I've dealt with you.' His voice convinced them that the Archdeacon wasn't joking. He had the experience, and the ability, and the power. 'Twenty-four strokes of the cane each' he promised them. 'Now let's see who will be first.' The coin landed. The Archdeacon retrieved it. 'Charlotte? You will be first.'
Even the experienced Archdeacon learned a few facts about the female form as he caned the two girls. His stinging biting bamboo bit so hard, and so deep, penetrating the girls' meagre defences. They cried as he caned them, applying stroke after painful stroke. They twisted their bodies, trying to dissipate the pain, and the Archdeacon remained, standing above them, watching them, learning about the real intimacies of the female form. 'Bottoms were for punishing.' That was his life-long belief. But the elderly cleric was still learning. He enjoyed the opportunity to discover the true secrets of the girls' bodies. The secret crevices and shadows which Charlotte and Rosalind tried so desperately to hide away. As he caned them, so he exposed them, so accomplishing true punishment. Because, by the time the Archdeacon had concluded his punishment session, neither girl had any secret left to hide. He had watched their gyrating limbs, and their soft, damp, glistening inner lips. He had applied his cane quite close to those very feminine areas, provoking real cries of protest and anguish. He had stood there, above, watching their bottoms twitching, the criss-cross of red tramlines mapped all over their bottom cheeks. He knew all about these two young girls. He knew why men were so attracted to them. And he could imagine what their respective boyfriends did, when circumstances permitted.
Charlotte and Rosalind were sobbing. They had been punished. Soundly punished. That afternoon, the Archdeacon would permit them to return home. But they would be brought back to the Lodge if their vicars considered it necessary. Rosalind would be greeted by her boyfriend who would kiss her, intimately, his hands trespassing all over her rounded bottom curves. And Charlotte would return to her own lodgings, praying for a new truck driver. Someone who would really turn her on as she excited him. And again, eventually, both girls would have to pay dearly for the heights of passion they had experienced. They would be back in the Archdeacon's clutches, being smacked, and strapped and caned.
Archdeacon Jacobson sat back in his favourite armchair. He was in charge of four parishes. And in each parish he had placed his man. One day, he would be Bishop. And every vicar would bring to him their young female miscreants. Until that day, he would continue to encourage and teach. Every vicar a caning vicar. His aim was not too utopian.
That night, Charlotte crept into her home, climbed the stairs to her bedroom, and began massaging her punished bottom. A few miles away, young Rosalind was relaxing in the company of her boyfriend. Charlotte's vicar fully intended to keep an eye on her, and to discipline her fully if she ever slipped into sinful ways again. And Rosalind's boyfriend had already promised himself that he would get his hands on her bottom, come what may. And if there was no soothing cream about at the time, too bad.
