Anonymous - The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 2

He did not at once begin the discipline. Instead, his thick, short hand lingeringly passed over the milky skin so liberally proffered to his licentious view and touch.

Poor Laurette fidgeted about uneasily on her chair of penance during this greatly prolonged interlude. Her little fingers convulsively twisted again the uptrusssed cloth of her gown and petticoat while the good father stood slightly to her left surveying the bewitching nakedness which his golden haired penitent so unwillingly revealed. Laurette's thighs were beautifully made, neither too plump nor too lean, swelling with gradual ripening above the knees till they merged with the plump roundness of her backside. Her lovely calves, too, were well worthy of admiration, as were the adorable, soft knee hollows. Pere Mourier frowned and approached the chair as if dissatisfied with the position of his victim.

“Bend your head and shoulders over the back of the chair, my daughter,” he instructed in a voice that thickened with lubricity. “Very good. Offer your sinful bottom to the corrective sting of the scourge, for this too is an act of humility which will not be forgotten. And now, move your knees a little more apart. Just so. I shall begin shortly, so steel yourself, my child.”

He bent now and tugged her drawers a little farther down, wishing to uncover as much of that milky flesh as possible, though he did not intend to scourge all of it. For his eyes feasted on the trembling cheeks of her backside, which had begun to quiver and restlessly contract as her suspense was agonizingly continued.

Finally, placing his left palm on the small of her back so that it might revel in its contact with her gleaming white skin, he raised the scourge and applied a rather gentle lash across the tops of her deliciously swelling hips. More startled by the unexpected contact and by fear than by pain, gentle Laurette uttered a little “Ohh!” And her naked hips squirmed from side to side. Hardly the faintest pink mark blemished the milky flesh where the split thong had kissed. But by now the obese father's sexual weapon was ferociously extended, forcing out the thin black stuff of the cassock as if savagely intending to pierce it in its quest for freedom.

A second lash now followed, slightly lower down, the two tips of the lash whisking around towards Laurette's tender groin. Another “Ohh!” escaped the lovely penitent, and she convulsively clenched her thighs and bottom cheeks. “No, no, my daughter,” he said hoarsely. “Do not resist the discipline. Submit yourself completely, for that is the only way to escape perdition. Once more, stick out your backside and move your knees well apart.”

“Oh, do please hurry and end it, mon pere,” Laurette whispered, her eyes tightly closed and her little fingers whitening as she clutched her up-trussed garments.

But this was a supplication which Pere Mourier had no intention of granting, for I comprehended that this worthy father delectated in this flagellatory penchant of his, which attained its greatest satisfaction when the ordeal was endlessly prolonged by all kinds of interruptions and nuances and sermonizings. There was, to be sure, practical wisdom in his method of application: the longer he kept poor Laurette kneeling on that straight-backed chair, the longer his glittering eyes could feast on the twisting, wriggling, flexing and contracting cheeks of her voluptuous and virginal behind, thus inflaming his carnal passions to superlative degree.

He took careful aim now, and adroitly whisked the leather thong across the very center of Laurette's rotundities, so that the tips of the split end flicked round towards her tender maiden crotch. The half-naked young virgin emitted a squeal of anguish, and her hips plunged this way and that, which made the cheeks of her delicious milky bottom jiggle in the most lascivious way. In turn, that sight caused Pere Mourier's sexual organ to attain its maximum rigidity and length, and it was indeed formidable as it prodded out the stuff of the black silk cassock. Another lash followed, no more severely administered than the others, this one wrapping around the voluptuously up-swelling base of her naked behind and drawing still another involuntary twist which brought into fine relief the magnificence of her bottom and thighs.

“Repent, my daughter,” he said in a hoarse, trembling voice, “for the heat of the scourge will cleanse your iniquities. Verily, it will act as a catharsis for those noxious tendencies to sinfulness which lurk within the very region I am castigating. Tell yourself, my poor child, that each stripe which the discipline imparts to your impudently jutting posterior is a forward step along the pathway to your eternal salvation.”

Having delivered himself of this oratory, the holy father dealt Laurette another stroke, this a bit more sharply so that the tips of the split leather thong flicked perniciously into her loins and very likely brushed the downy golden fleece of her virgin cunt. Her shrill “Ahhrr, oh I am suffering, mon pere!” said virtually as much as did the frantic and lascivious gyration of her naked hips. She turned back her tear-stained face appealingly to him, while her little hands feverishly twisted in the uptrussed stuff of her garments. Sternly he bade her not to let these fall on pain of incurring greater severity in the treatment he was meting out to her; and then, moving a little more to the left and farther away from her but yet retaining his left palm on her naked lower back, applied two or three quick strokes straight across the lower curves of her milky backside. These drew sobs and tears and new wriggling maneuvers which made his eyes blaze with sexual ferocity.

Yet actually the scourging was not overly severe. True, there were faint pink streaks fro the tops of her hips to her uppermost thighs imparted by the leather discipline, but there were no really cruel strokes to torture her. I thereupon concluded that this was a voluptuous flagellation, altogether ideal for bringing the blood to the surface of the pure soft skin as well as inflaming the penitent's subconscious ardors for what purpose my readers and I can well guess.

“Oh, I implore you, mon pere,” Laurette tearfully petitioned as she shifted her beautiful bare knees on the hard wooden seat of her punishment chair, “I am not very brave and I cannot endure this much longer. Please do finish it and pardon me, I beg of you!”

“Courage, my child, you have yet a good deal to suffer before your sins are purged,” he retorted: “Would you bargain with the devil, then, for a lesser chastisement simply because your mortal flesh is weak and thereby lose your hope for heaven? Steel yourself and grit your teeth, Laurette. I am going to whip you very smartly now, my girl.”

He was as good as his word, too. Now the leather scourge flew through the air with more authority, applying horizontal stripes all over Laurette's naked seat, while the unfortunate beauty sobbed and wailed and incessantly jerked her hips this way and that to evade the burning kisses of the lash. At one point, a particularly stinging cut across the base of her wriggling backside made her drop her clothes which promptly covered up the condemned area. But so enthusiastically engrossed was he in his good work of saving her soul that he did not chide her for this neglect, but instead with his own left hand hoisted up her garments once again. But, not satisfied, he then dropped the scourge to the floor and sternly told her that he meant to lift her clothing so that it would not fall back again to terminate her punishment before he meant it to end. Thereupon, coming very close to her, he put his hands caressingly about her thighs and hips, fondling them a good deal, till at last he raised skirt and petticoat and dragged them up over her head and shoulders, letting them fall over her face to blindfold her and thus exposing her naked save for her camisole, which was a kind of vest that descended only to about the middle of her milky back.