Damsels in Distress by Amanita Virosa Page A

roast skittish boys at school we sometimes bind them. It helps them stay in position and cuts down on the “extras” we are obliged to give. Of course,’ he winked at Virginia, ‘if you are quite sure that you can keep still under correction, well then you would not have to fear getting your count doubled for some silly flinch or wince.’
    Virginia took as deep a breath as her tight-laced corset would let her, and held out her hands to be tied. ‘It’s all right, Penny. I would rather… I would not want to risk it.’
    ‘Very wise, Mrs Chisholm,’ Farquar said, binding her wrists firmly with obvious expertise.
    ‘Miss Penelope?’ he asked with a smile, taking up a second piece of bell rope.
    There was a slight pause. Penny seemed to be struggling with herself, but in the end she muttered, ‘Very well, you nasty little beast,’ and held out her hands.
    ‘I think we need to speak about that, actually,’ Farquar drawled, as he bound the fair young woman’s wrists tight. ‘Calling me a little beast is not terribly polite. I think you had better address me as Master Farquar, sir, in future. Oh, and you may address Wittingstall here as Master Horace, sir. Do I make myself clear?’
    ‘Yes, Master Farquar, sir,’ Virginia said, with only a hint of reluctance. She seemed, he thought, to have resolved to get the ordeal over with as quickly as possible by acceding to his demands.
    Penelope was different, however. The little blonde piece was obviously chewing worms as she weighed up her situation – bound in her drawers and corset – with the outrage to her pride of giving in to him. He decided to help, so picking up a thin dark cane from the table he put the tip under Penelope’s chin, lifting it so that her blue eyes looked at him. ‘Do I make myself clear, Miss Simpson?’
    They stared at each other for a few tense seconds, Penelope’s bottom lip quivering with outrage and shame. ‘Yes,’ she said at last with bad grace, ‘Master Farquar, sir.’ She dropped her eyes and a tear began to trickle down her furiously blushing cheek.
    Farquar walked around to the other side of the table and took the end of the rope binding Victoria’s hands. He tugged it so that she was forced to move forward until her thighs met the edge and then lean forward. Only when her upper body was stretched out over the tabletop did he desist.
    ‘Horace,’ he said simply, ‘get the books.’
    There was no need to explain further. As prefects, Farquar Salisbury and Horace Wittingstall were well practiced in the school house’s many methods of preparing boys for beating. Horace took five leather-bound volumes of a distinguished work of natural history and placed them on the table next to Virginia. With a dirty sounding snicker he placed three of them, one after the other, under her belly, until no space was left.
    ‘Is she tippy-toed?’ asked Farquar.
    Horace looked down at the woman’s feet and frowned. ‘Don’t know, Salisbury,’ he said in a puzzled voice. ‘She’s got those heels on. Damned if I can tell.’
    High heels were a phenomenon that neither boy had previously met with, but Farquar resolved the problem by telling Horace to add one extra volume and then see if Virginia could touch the floor with her toes.
    ‘Just about,’ Horace reported.
    ‘Just about will do,’ Farquar concluded.
    He tugged the rope taut and secured the end to a crosspiece of timber underneath the table. Then he repeated the process with Penelope, and smiled as he noticed Horace brushing his hand over the blonde girl’s bottom as he raised her tummy with more large books. Miss Simpson bit her bottom lip and frowned furiously, but somehow kept her peace.
    With both women secured, bent over the table, Farquar walked back round and perused his handiwork. His cock had been quite stiff since the ladies had returned in their corsets, but as he perused their waiting bottoms he felt it throb and twitch.
    The truth was that he was furiously excited