Original Story — The Belles of St Mark’s 2

The second part of this original story by Culver. Last week we read of Alice Redway’s suffering at the hands of Reverend Crowley and Mr Sedgewick. Now her friend Pippa East is in the firing line…

During his telling of the torrid tale of the tutoring of Alice, Sedgewick grew as animated as it’s possible for a chap to get over a quiet drink in the village pub. His fellow chorister and drinking partner, Thorndyke, listened intently to every detail, imagining events vividly. Yes, he reflected, it was good to know that Alice Redway, that sullen little vixen, had at last been getting what had been coming to her. Much as he was enthralled by Sedgewick’s narrative, Thorndyke was bursting with impatience to recount a recent experience of his own, the story of how he’d got his hands on ‘Miss Goody Two Shoes’ Pippa East. He gestured towards Sedgewick’s nearly empty glass. ‘It’s my round,’ he said, and headed to the bar.

The choirmaster at St Mark’s, Edwin Phipps, likes to treat himself to numerous little vacations. And fair enough. He owns a holiday cottage in Dorset, by the coast, and often stays there for long weekends, usually in the company of a young lady from the neighbouring town to whom he refers vaguely as his niece. Whenever Phipps is planning a weekend away, he asks Thorndyke to deputise for him as choirmaster. Thorndyke is the next longest serving member of the choir and can be trusted to keep things ticking over nicely. For his part, Thorndyke’s always happy to step up. Exercising a bit of extra clout on the occasional Sunday can lead to golden opportunities. Or a redheaded opportunity, on the last such occasion…

As the church bell rang for evensong, Colonel East knocked at the door of the choir vestry with his stepdaughter in tow, the eighteen-year-old Pippa. This in itself was unusual. Pippa normally turned up under her own steam. The Colonel himself wasn’t in the choir. And while the Colonel seemed full of breezy bluster, Pippa was conspicuously upset. Her pretty freckled face was blushing and tear-stained. Her hair was tangled and dishevelled. She avoided eye contact and continually snivelled into her handkerchief. Rather than wearing one of her best Sunday dresses, she was attired in a casual grey onesie and pumps. Not like her at all. Alice Redway asked Pippa what was up and took her to a corner of the vestry, whispering questions and making girlish expressions of concern and support. Meanwhile, the Colonel winked at Thorndyke and said he needed a private word outside the vestry.

In the clear evening air, the Colonel lit up his pipe and took Thorndyke into his confidence.

‘I heard you’re overseeing the choir this week, old chap! Good show, good show! That crafty old Phipps, what? Off to his Dorset cottage again, with that corker of a niece of his? Well, I hope he’s remembered to pack a tawse this time! Anyway, old boy, I wanted to tip you off about something. The thing is, young Pippa might not be on top form for this evening’s service. You’ve seen for yourself that she’s out of sorts. Fact is, I’ve had her over my lap for the best part of two hours, smacking her bare bottom. Give or take the odd comfort break and a spot of corner time. That’s the truth of it. What for? No particular reason. You know how it is. I suppose she might have dropped a fork or something when clearing up after lunch. Handspanking to start with. Followed by the slipper. A damn good walloping, even if I do say so myself. Oh, she didn’t like the slipper! Didn’t like it at all! That’s why she’s in a bit of a state.’

The Colonel eyed Thorndyke conspiratorially and puffed on his pipe.

‘Her mother’s away, you see. Visiting her sister in the Cotswolds for the weekend. Left me in charge. Normally, I only get to spank the girl for ten minutes a week. Of a Friday evening. Before her bedtime. Over her pyjama bottoms. An agreed routine. So-called maintenance spanking. Would you credit it? Rather namby-pamby, if you ask me. Patty-cake stuff. But when her mummy’s away, I have a sterling chance to raise the stakes a little. Like this afternoon. Bare bum. Bare everything. Taking my time. Does the girl a power of good. A proper dose of discipline in the noddy! And it damn well does me a power of good to let her have it!’

Thorndyke was both excited and fascinated. There was much to think about here. The Colonel had married a considerably younger woman, Pippa’s mother, and the rumour was that she’d taken to “visiting her sister in the Cotswolds” on an increasingly regular basis. One wondered whether there was more to it than met the eye. Perhaps the Colonel was unhappy about his marital situation and was taking out his frustrations on the girl. And from what Thorndyke could gather, Mrs East wasn’t the type of woman who’d be overly concerned if the Colonel sometimes went beyond agreed routines for disciplining her daughter, provided her own personal plans were unaffected.

The Colonel was getting to the crux of what he wanted to say to Thorndyke. He waved his pipe around to add emphasis to his words.

‘The long and the short of it is, old boy, that I’d like you to watch Pippa carefully during evensong. In your deputised capacity as choirmaster. Monitor her, so to speak. I’ve been very clear with her. I expect her to meet her usual exemplary standards this evening, sore bottom or no sore bottom! Yes, I’ve told her. She’d better compose herself. Better stop that silly snivelling. We need perfect deportment here. Perfect singing. Perfect reading. So if you don’t mind, old chap, I’d appreciate it very much if you’d report to me after the service on how well she’s fared. Because if I find out that she’s let the side down in any way, she’ll be getting spanked again tonight. And this time it’ll be the hairbrush!’

Thorndyke couldn’t resist a grin. Of course, he’d be happy to play ball. 

The Colonel continued his monologue.

‘You know me. I’d stay for the service myself if I could. But I’ve got a fair bit of tidying up to do. Pippa’s Sunday best is strewn all over the lounge, you see. Willy nilly. Gingham house dress, silk bow, cotton pants and socks. Bra, sandals and what not. Exactly where we left them when I stripped her naked for her spanking. Place looks like a bomb’s hit it! That’s why she’s only in her onesie and pumps. Anyway, old boy, that’s about the size of it. I’ll be back to pick her up in an hour or so. We’ll talk again then. I suppose you’ll want to return to the vestry now. Check she’s put her robes on smartly. Her and the other girls. All lined up, ship-shape for the procession, eh? Well, I’ll leave you to it, old man! Thanks again! Toodle pip!’

The Colonel patted Thorndyke on the shoulder and went on his way, leaving wispy curls of tobacco smoke in his wake.

----//----

Two hours later, Thorndyke was sitting in the middle of a five-seater sofa in the lounge of the East family home, where he was the Colonel’s guest. Pippa lay face down on the sofa at full stretch, naked, the pleasant weight of her tummy resting gamely on the hard lump in Thorndyke’s lap (which, of course, was trousered — but lacking the additional layer of underpants). The wooden back of the hairbrush which Thorndyke held in his hand hovered inches above the girl’s fulsome buttocks. Thorndyke contemplated those impressive twin globes and thanked his good fortune for the opportunity that had come his way that evening.

For Pippa’s evensong hadn’t gone well. To start with, there’d been an issue with her deportment when leading the choir’s procession from the vestry to the stalls. As crucifer, she’d been trained to keep both her hands on the staff of the processional cross at all times, holding it perfectly straight before her. But having been slippered by her stepfather not thirty minutes beforehand, Pippa hadn’t been able to resist taking her right hand from the staff for a few seconds to give her tender bottom a much-needed rub through her cassock (and the onesie beneath it). She’d kept her left hand in place but the heavy cross had swayed precariously during her rubbing spree, causing the choristers immediately behind her to flinch.

There had also been the matter of Pippa’s fidgeting during the Reverend Crowley’s sermon. Sitting in the choir stalls isn’t ideal when a girl has sore, smarting buttocks to contend with. But how can her elders and betters be expected to concentrate on the sage words of a sermon if she’s fidgeting incessantly and shifting her bum cheeks around on the creaking wood, drawing attention to herself? 

Pippa’s singing had gone noticeably awry. There’d been a distinct wobble in her voice during The Lord’s My Shepherd, specifically on the line about the rod and the staff. Not much ‘comfort’ there. Worse still, she’d sobbed during her reading of the lesson, embarrassing herself and the entire congregation. The Reverend Crowley has a special liking of Proverbs 13, a text he includes in the order of service on a regular basis, especially when choirgirls are on rota to read the lesson. When Pippa reached the celebrated verse 24, she’d suddenly lost control of her voice, squeaking in a pathetic sob. Her shoulders had heaved and her tears had welled up anew.

Thorndyke had given an unvarnished report to the Colonel after the service, listing Pippa’s shortcomings. The Colonel’s ruddy face had turned to thunder. Before marching Pippa home in disgrace, he had turned to Thorndyke to ask one last favour. He’d said his arm was aching from all that spanking and slippering earlier on. Would Thorndyke mind joining them for the rest of the evening? To punish the girl himself? To do the honours with the hairbrush?

It had been a beautiful sunset, the cloudless indigo sky tinged with orange. The last of the congregation had filed out of the church, some remarking openly on the uncharacteristically poor performance of the East girl that evening. Alice Redway had watched at the church gate as the Colonel, Pippa and Thorndyke had taken the short walk from St Mark’s to the Easts’ house on the other side of the village green. The Colonel had been tugging his stepdaughter along by the ear (using his good arm) and castigating her all the while.  ‘I warned you, young lady! Being spanked before a service is no excuse for dropping the ball during that service! Not at your age! You’re a big girl now! Senior choirgirl and all that! Role model to the others! Or so you’re supposed to be! As I said, it’s the hairbrush for you, missy! That wooden hairbrush your mother keeps on her dresser! How dare you spoil evensong for everyone?! And what about my poor arm?! No consideration!! I tell you what… you’d better show some gratitude to Mr Thorndyke, here, for agreeing to take the time and trouble to deal with you tonight in my stead!!’

Alice had felt sorry for Pippa but there hadn’t been anything she could do. Besides, she’d got stuff of her own to process. The Reverend Crowley had just invited her to the vicarage for a cup of tea and a post-Confirmation catch-up. Like, there and then! Alice had sighed and shrugged her shoulders. She’d sauntered towards the open door of the vicarage, reaching into her shoulder bag for her compact mirror and thick black lipstick.

On the Colonel’s sofa, Thorndyke examined further the plump teenage bottom to which he was about to apply the wooden hairbrush. Pippa had a pale, freckle-peppered complexion but the buttocks confronting him over his lap were still scarlet with the far-from-faded aftermath of her afternoon spanking, a mass of overlapping handprints mottled by slipper marks of a deeper hue. No wonder she’d struggled through evensong. Her stepfather had done an excellent job. As for the Colonel himself, his eyes were also trained on his handiwork. He peered forward from his seat in the armchair opposite, his view somewhat impeded by the cloud of smoke billowing from his pipe.

Thorndyke was fascinated by Pippa’s reaction to her current predicament. She seemed to have internalised her stepfather’s narrative, believing that her failings in church were indeed all her own fault. She kept mewing plaintively, ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’ Not because she was trying to get out of her punishment, but because she felt genuinely ashamed. How sweet! Thorndyke would never say so but he knew, as the Colonel did, that she didn’t deserve any of this at all. Not really. Not Pippa. And that, of course, was what made it all so gratifying. Her bottom gave a sudden, inviting little wriggle. On purpose? Thorndyke raised his arm and slammed down the hairbrush against the underside of Pippa’s buttocks with considerable force.

----//----

Just before the Colonel hauled the weeping Pippa upstairs for bathtime, talc and bed — a private matter — he asked Thorndyke whether he’d like to while away half an hour or so watching Songs of Praise on DVR. Thorndyke thanked the Colonel but said he wouldn’t. He didn’t admit this to his host, but he was rather hoping that, with the TV off, he’d be able to overhear at least some of what was about to happen upstairs. And so it proved. The drawing of the bath. The Colonel’s mumblings. Splashing water. The odd slap. Pippa’s muffled squeals. Footsteps on the landing. A protracted, meaningful silence. The creaking of bed springs.

Thorndyke stared pensively at Mrs East’s hairbrush, now resting on the coffee table. How he’d exalted when using that implement, whacking Pippa’s buttocks vigorously and making her writhe over his lap like a demented eel! Bedsprings continued to creak upstairs. Thorndyke smiled wryly to himself. Mindful that the girl’s bottom was now blotched purple, he hoped that, for her sake, that tender part of her anatomy wasn’t being subjected to excessive friction at the moment.

Aglow and breathless, the Colonel finally descended the stairs and rejoined Thorndyke in the lounge. At first avoiding Thorndyke’s eye, he lit his pipe and said, in a croaking voice, ‘Would you believe it? It seems that young Pippa wants to thank you properly for that blistering hairbrush spanking you’ve given her. That’s something, I suppose. Why not go up and say goodnight to her? Her bedroom is the second on the left. You’ll find her waiting face down on the duvet, pillows tucked under her bottom. All the facilities you might need are up there, old boy! Take your time, eh?’ Thorndyke glanced back at the hairbrush once more. Then he climbed the stairs, crossed the landing and quietly clicked shut the bedroom door behind him.

On a side note, after reading Part 1, the character of Alice Redway reminded Darcy of a young Liz Hurley in her punk days and looking very much in need of some strict guidance.