Damsels in Distress (11 page)

Farquar removed his hand from Penelope’s bottom and turned his attention to Virginia. ‘Horace, would you care to divest Miss Simpson from her drawers, please?’

‘Would I?’ Horace blabbered excitedly. ‘Crikey, Salisbury! Would I? Would I care to divest her of her…? I say, bloody hell!’

Marvelling at how tiny Virginia’s fearsomely corseted waist was, Farquar undid the drawer strings tied around it and eased the cotton garment down. Virginia was trembling and she whimpered as he did so, but otherwise the young widow did not protest.

Horace was so excited he had much more trouble undoing Penelope’s drawers. The lady in question was writhing quite a lot and gasping in outrage, although otherwise she was managing to hold her tongue. At last Horace got the strings unknotted and pulled the drawers down, revealing a flawless, pertly chubby bottom. The red-haired boy blinked at it as he let the pantaloons fall, muttering, ‘Bloody hell!’

However, the job of uncovering the two young ladies’ bottoms was accomplished at last, and Farquar took up the cane and stood back to admire the prospect before him. It was all he could do to prevent a ‘bloody hell!’ of his own escaping. Both ladies’ naked behinds were trembling invitingly. Penelope was a little shorter, her legs and buttocks just a little plumper. Her naked bum was as chubby and inviting as a pale split peach. Between her legs a pink-lipped quim peeked out invitingly. Farquar had to suppress a groan of lust.

Virginia was a little taller and more slender than her friend, though her bottom was almost as plump and certainly as rounded. The black silk of her tightly gartered stockings set off the pale cream of her thigh and bottom flesh. Her sex, a little darker than her fair companion’s, was as well displayed and neat a cunny as Penelope’s. Farquar licked his lips.

‘Wittingstall,’ he said, trying to sound calmer than he felt, ‘get the board.’

Horace bustled about for a minute or so, putting up a blackboard on an easel, to one side of but in front of the bent over women, so they could see it. He took a piece of chalk and drew a vertical line down the middle of the blackboard, then a horizontal line, bisecting the first at the top.

‘Um, what do I write, Salisbury,’ he asked. ‘Chisholm? Mrs Chisholm?’

‘No need to be too formal, I think,’ Farquar decided. ‘Ginny and Penny ought to do.’

Horace inscribed the names at the top of the two columns.

‘Now, ladies,’ Farquar said, taking up the cane again and flexing it thoughtfully, ‘this is the thing. I’m going to give you both a baker’s dozen, which is to say, thirteen.’ There was a sharp intake of breath from the half-naked young women stretched out over the table. ‘As I have already explained to Miss Simpson, any failure to behave respectfully, or to comply with my instructions, will result in additional strokes. Penelope has already earned three extras for cheek.’

While he was talking, Horace had proceeded to inscribe a number of short, vertical chalk lines on the blackboard under each name. He did this in threes so that under Virginia’s name there were four little lines of three and one extra at the bottom. Under Penny he drew five rows of three strokes.

‘I shall give each three at a time and then give three to the other,’ he said, taking position by the side of Virginia, whose bottom had begun to clench in anticipation.

Farquar’s mouth had gone quite dry. He had used the cane a thousand times before, but this was something different. Virginia’s bottom twitched like the flanks of a horse and yet was so soft, so plump, so pale and so inviting. Taking a deep breath he brought the cane back and then thumped it home.

It cracked hard across the middle of Virginia Chisholm’s flawless bottom, and Farquar felt it spring in his hand as it bit into and bounced back from the resilient flesh. The woman gave a yelp of pain, like a scolded puppy.

‘Be quiet,’ Farquar growled, and brought the cane down again.

This time he struck harder, about an inch above the first stroke but perfectly parallel to it. Virginia’s bottom might be softer and more yielding than those he was used to, but he realised there was some firm muscle beneath the plump softness of its surface, and he could afford to give her a real meaty crack!

‘Aaaooooogh…!’ she yelped in agony.

‘I say, I do believe the little filly felt that,’ guffawed Horace.

‘Have a heart, there is no need for such severity, sir!’ Penelope cried in outrage.

‘Actually,’ Farquar said languidly, ‘what there is no need for, Miss Simpson, is your impertinent contributions. Wittingstall, be so kind as to chalk our pretty Penny up another three.’

Penelope made a noise that might have been a curse, or perhaps a sob. He ignored it, and made ready give Virginia her third. Mrs Chisholm’s naked bottom sported two livid tramline wheals now, or rather four, as each parallel stripe was divided into two by the deep cleft of her quivering behind. There was no more than an inch between the welts, but Farquar placed the third cleanly between the first pair. Nor was it any less severe than the one before. Poor Virginia opened up her lungs and fairly howled. Her legs kicked back as if she was in convulsions, and her body twisted furiously about.

‘Ah no, no, I cannot, it is too much, I can’t bear it,’ she babbled, when her shrieks subsided.

‘I’m rather afraid that you will have to bear it, my dear,’ Farquar murmured. ‘All right, Wittingstall, strike three.’

Horace drew a chalk line through the first three strokes on the blackboard, as Farquar admired his handiwork.

‘Marvellous how these girlish bottoms tremble,’ he said, watching the third tramline bloom between the other two angry looking stripes. He put his hand on them, drawing a hiss of pain from Virginia, but he ignored it, luxuriating in the heat of the cane marks and the way they stood proud and rather harder than the surrounding flesh.

Giving the beautiful buttocks an affectionate pat, and ignoring the gasp of pain this produced, Farquar took his stance ready to cane the other waiting rear.

First he touched Penelope’s bare behind gently with the rod end. She gave a little wail and her buttocks twitched violently, which made his cock feel fit to burst. Farquar brought the cane back, paused, and swept it down with almost all his strength. A pistol shot like crack of cane on flesh echoed around the room and Penelope gave an agonised yelp, and began jiggling her bottom furiously.

‘Keep it still please, Miss Simpson,’ Farquar said dryly.

‘Oh! Ah! Oh sir, it stings! It… oooh… it is too much.’

‘Keep it still, and pray, be quiet. If I were you I would be loath to earn another three.’

‘Another three? Oh…’ Penelope’s cries and protests subsided, though little gasps and hisses of pain continued to escape her lips.

Farquar placed the next stroke lower, lashing the cane with vicious precision into the under-slopes of her bum, drawing forth a high-pitched squeal of anguish and another bout of jiggling. His threat clearly had some effect, however, for Penelope somehow managed to stem the flow of cries and protests. But she gave a little shriek when he placed the tip of the cane against her again, and her bottom clenched and quivered like something possessed.

‘No clenching now, it’s poor form,’ he admonished. ‘Relax it. I said relax it.’

‘Shall I chalk her up another three, Salisbury?’

‘It is normal for clenching, but then they are but women.’

‘Oh please,’ Penelope sobbed.

‘Oh please, what?’ Farquar asked.

‘Oh please, Master Farquar, sir. Please no more, I cannot bear?’

‘Actually, Miss Simpson, and this goes for you, Mrs Chisholm, I shall decide what you can or cannot bear. Now, relax your buttocks, madame.’

Farquar was perfectly aware that by now the flinching of her buttocks was quite involuntary, so he did not insist on complete relaxation. Instead he pulled his arm back and delivered a perfect sizzler of a stroke. The cane bit into that fine crease where bottom meets upper thigh with venomous accuracy. For once Penelope did not shriek in response, instead she made a strange, strangulated gasping sound as if the pain had quite deprived her lungs of air.

‘Do you think she felt that at all, Wittingstall?’

‘Hard to tell, Salisbury; she is wheezing and shivering in a most peculiar manner. I thought perhaps she was having some sort of fit.’

‘It was a decent stroke, but these women are so well padded on their fat fundaments that one really wonders if they can feel a deuced thing.’

‘Oh please…’ Penelope gasped and gurgled.

‘Mind you,’ Farquar said conversationally, ‘the way she’s jiggling that fat bum suggests she might be feeling something. She’s shaking it like a terrier with a rat!’

Ignoring Penelope’s cries of distress, Farquar returned to the position for caning Virginia.

‘Well now, Mrs Chisholm,’ he said, gently touching her bottom with the cane tip and being rewarded with a frightened whimper, ‘are you ready to be magisterially thrashed?’

It was Penelope who cracked, which was no surprise to Farquar. Miss Simpson was the prouder and may well have been the stronger of the two young ladies, but Farquar was not the chap to put up with being called a little beast.

He caned Virginia hard, but he spaced the strokes out kindly. After her third turn nine lines striped her bottom and thighs, perfectly parallel.

But Penelope was not afforded any such consideration. Farquar’s accuracy with a cane was legendary in school house and throughout the whole school, and he used it now to merciless effect. The second set of three consisted of a couple of testing strokes over the middle of Miss Simpson’s succulent bottom. The third sliced wickedly into her sulcal groove for a second time.

This fatty crease, where bottom meets thigh, is in any event notoriously tender. Penelope’s sulcus had, however, already been seared by one wicked stroke, and Farquar thumped the cane into the already reddened groove with diabolical skill. Miss Simpson, he thought as he watched with satisfaction, reacted as if he had plunged a red-hot poker up her bottom hole.

She let out a long and high-pitched shriek, fingers scrabbling desperately on the tabletop as her feet kicked up and back. Farquar was glad the rope holding her wrists was strong, for the way she pulled and tugged and twisted a weaker cord would surely have snapped. He waited for the squealing and kicking to subside, but Penelope did not recover her composure quickly, writhing on the little platform of books that supported her belly, so violently he could here the whalebone of her corset creak in protest. Her legs kicked, sometimes one at a time, sometimes together, as her screams subsided to a pained keening wail.

‘Poor comportment under correction, I’m afraid, Miss Simpson. Horace, chalk her up another three.’

Ignoring Penelope’s sobs of anguish, Farquar returned to Virginia and gave her third trio. Again he spaced the strokes, striking unmarked flesh. Mrs Chisholm hardly seemed to appreciate his kindness, shrieking, writhing, sobbing piteously and wriggling her delicious bottom at him. Farquar was so hard now it hurt, and moving a little awkwardly he turned his attention to Penelope once again.

This time he took his time. Again he cracked the cane across the middle of her bottom, delighting in every gasp and every flinch. Again he followed up with a wicked cut across her tender under-bum. He stood back and enjoyed the jiggling of her rod-roasted bottom, in no hurry at all. This time Farquar wanted her to understand what was going to come.

Eventually Penelope stopped gasping and kicking, and only the two women’s heavy breathing and an occasional sob broke the silence in the room. The bottom presented perfectly before Farquar was trembling and flinching, but the woman kept her legs straight as she awaited the stroke.

Twice now he had used the last of the three strokes to welt her sulcus. The skin was scarlet in that tender fissure and looked very sore. Farquar smiled and raised the cane. Using every ounce of strength he brought it down. With almost preternatural precision it whistled through the air and lashed into the sulcus. Penelope was silent for a moment, as if the breath had been expelled from her body, and then she opened up her lungs and howled.

‘Oooh… Master F-Farquar…
sir
…’ she sobbed, when the power of speech returned a minute or so later.

‘Yes, my dear, what is it?’ he enquired benignly.

‘I… oh, ah, I don’t think I can stand it…’

‘Well that is certainly unfortunate, as you have nine strokes still to go.’

‘N-nine… but… oh…’

‘Another three for that last exhibition,’ he clarified. ‘Comportment is important, that’s our motto.’

‘Please, let me off, sir. Have mercy on our delicate skin.’

‘I’m very much afraid that there is no mercy to be had here, ladies,’ Farquar said mildly.

‘That’s the ticket, Salisbury; don’t let the minxes off a single stroke,’ Horace encouraged excitedly from his station by the blackboard. ‘A good thrashing is what they need. Does ’em a power of good!’

‘Please, Master Farquar, sir,’ Penelope whispered between gasps, ignoring the interruption. ‘Please let me, let us, off. Remit. I will, I mean,
we
will… do anything!’

‘Don’t listen to the trollop, Salisbury, skin the little baggage! It’s all they understand.’

‘Shut up, Wittingstall,’ Farquar ordered sharply. ‘Well now, Miss Simpson,’ he said in a more kindly tone. ‘What exactly might
anything
consist of?’