Chastening Day

This story is a work of fiction. Do not copy anything in the story.

CHASTENING DAY    Act III:     RIVAL ELDERS, HALF A RESCUE

© smack magnet

Ch 12: Crookmount

It took at least two hours. The pair of them, Priest and Elder, went over Anja Salidef’s buttocks, groin and thighs with a fine tooth comb, pulling with tweezers, pinching with nails, dousing with lemon, poking with sewing needles to extract the thorn tips which had broken off inside her skin.

Part way through, the silent Runnel rose, went behind the girl and tended to her feet and her hands. He worked for half an hour, barely saying a word. Used a full half of lemon on each of her appendages. Then still without speaking, sat back by the fire.

Father Melchin ran his old callused fingers up and down Anja’s narrow patch of blonde pubic hair.

“Can’t tell if there’s any of the feckers even in there. Still, no doubt we’ll find out later.”

He found some more candles, lit one, dribbled a small pool of hot wax just to one side of her thatch. The girl screeched a brand new tone to that, her eyes blinking repidly. He pressed candle stub to flesh. It stuck for a moment, but a shiver in her stomach had it fall towards her belly. He picked it calmly up, considering his options. Picked the wax away. At its edge, it caught some hairs. There it pulled, but wouldn’t lift. He giggled to himself. Yanked up hard. The few hairs came away with the wax as the girl choked out a squeal. Melchin giggled, dripped a lot more wax directly on her central mound. He covered most all of her thin pubic hair. Then stuck in the candle, pushing down with its stub.

“There’s not enough light, not by half,” he observed.

This time, it held firm. He got another candle, dripped down more wax. Stuck the candle to her downy pubic mound. Got a third. Did the same.

“See? Light.”

Then its purpose was revealed.

“There’s some up her cunt, eh Faltren?”

“I… don’tt know. The boy seemed very rough, he wasn’t a nice sort of a boy at all, though Runnel and I never saw him… at his business with the girl. They… yes. It’s always possible, isn’t it Runnel?”

The man by the fire stared at flames and did not answer.

The priest sighed. “Ahhh…” he tutted. “Dear oh dear. It’s a tough old job, but someone’s got to do it. Eh? So, Faltren. Here’s the poser. Shall I poke on me own, or’ll you fancy pokin’ with me?”

“Poke?” Faltren asked.

“In her hole. I’d do it on me own. But she needs to be spread there.”

“It’s improper.”

“It’s got to be done, man.”

“Yes well. Well.” He sniffed. With a face as frozen as a china doll, Elder Faltren moved his fingers to the rim of Anja’s slit. There they hesitated, dithering.

“Well go on, man. Pull her open!”

“Ah…” He let his fingers touch, lifted them like it shocked him, dithered, touched back down.

“We don’t have all day, you squirmy lizard.” The priest pressed his own fingers over Faltren’s, pressed down, pulled them outwards.

“Really!” said Faltren.

“Ah go on. You’ll relax in a minute… A virgin she isn’t,” the old priest observed. “I know. I’ve seen. I wonder if her da knows. Could you pull a mite wider?”

Faltren glanced at the priest, hesitated, pulled a tiny bit outwards. Then the priest shifted Anja, sliding her forward. Wax spilled down to her mound. Looking uo at the ceiling, he started to poke with one finger in her hole.

“Eh… nails,” he said.

“What nails?” asked Faltren crossly.

“Your nails,” said the priest. “I can’t find the grip. There’s thorns, I can feel ’em. Move your fingers off her hole, man. I’ll pull, you can push.”

He batted Faltren’s hands out of the way. Pressed his own down. Shoved two of each hand in, one knuckle deep. Pulled outwards. With a moan and squeak of shame from the girl, her intimate opening showed its insides.

“So, there. In you go. For her own good this, remember, man.”

Faltren wrinkled his mouth and nose. Then he dipped an exploratory finger, barely touching the girl.

“Go on. Right inside.”

Faltren huffed out air. He said, “Really!”

“Get on with it, man.”

The elder pressed a finger to the girl’s insides. Moved it slightly to the side.

“Ah. Yes ah, yes, here one is.”

He blinked, frowned, blinked. “I don’t believe I can… maybe… no, ah…”

“Go on, stick your thumb in. Or you’ll not get a grip.”

Faltren tried to dip his thumb in as well, with a pouting mouth like the Runnel of old. “Goodness me. It’s not so easy.”

“Just get the fecker out, man.”

Faltren’s tentative fingers got more forceful as he dipped. He seemed to grip a thorn. Pressed in. Got it out at last, found another (he’d touched several).

“I’ll have to… out of the way man, out of the way!”

He pushed Melchin aside and got himself lined up. Pulled her open with one hand, dipped inside with the thumb and first finger of the other. Found a thorn. Gripped it. Worked it out.

“Some of these are… in quite deep. I’ll ah… nearly…”

As time went on, he abandoned the tentative nature of his actions. He started grunting as he delved inside Anja’s young pussy. He started pulling her about, stretching her wider, digging in deeper.

“There’s… another… goodness me!” He pulled out his fingers.

“What’s the matter now, man?”

“They’re… they’re wet!”

“Ah. Now then.” The priest smirked at the reddening face of the girl.

“But… why…”

“Are you married man, or what? Have you never seen a girl getting wet between her legs?”

“Is she injured?”

“Jaisus! Serious? Your wife… she’s never?…”

“Never what?”

“Feck man, surely? It’s just her! She’s a filly! After all them feckin arseholes did, she’s got wet for your fingers.”

“Wet for…?”

Melchin blinked, incredulous. “Well she’s not like to stop you doin’ what you’re doin’, man. Go on. Get on.”

Elder Faltren had turned red. His bald head showed the glow of it right to his scalp. He frowned, looking angry. Touched the edge of Anja’s pussy. Glanced up at her face. She met his eyes, looked away, flicked them back.

“Well,” he said. “Well. Yes, I haven’t got them all yet.”

He stared at his fingers. Huffed a sigh. Pushed back in.

Five minutes later, he had all fingers of his right hand buried. His face was still red, only this time it was from all the effort. How the last thorns had got this deep, he dared not imagine. Pavel was a beast who’d deserved a worse fate than what the girl had done there down in the hollow.

He grunted. Pushed. Still couldn’t reach. She wasn’t in an ideal position. Without thinking, he turned her with his deep-delving hand. It was after he’d moved her that it hit him what he’d done. Pulled the poor girl around by her… even in his head, he couldn’t say cunt. But his head exploded with the thought of what he’d done. His hand started trembling. All along, he’d been clear. Yes, the girl was fine to look at. He was… delving in her… yes, but for a purpose. For the good of the girl.

He’d pulled her by her… lady part. His heart was racing.

“I can… nearly get it, nearly, ah…”

He closed his eyes tight. Pushed in, pushed forwards. The girl slid away by a couple of inches. She was on a blanket, after all, and the surface of the table was really quite smooth.

The priest had sat off to one side. He stared avidly. A smile crept slowly around his mouth like a vine around a pole. There, he thought. There’s your man. Now I see him.

“I think I’ve nearly got it, ah…”

The girl was shifted forwards on the table. She squealed a small squeal that had not been entirely engendered by fear.

“Yes it’s… nearly… ah, ah…”

Anja shifted sideways.

“I can’t quite…”

She was shifted back the other way. Then forward, half off the near edge ofthe table.

“Yes ah, nearly there, nearly…”

Push her away, that was what was in his head. Push her back towards the other edge. But instead, he’d shifted close to a foot. She squealed.

Faltren froze. He stared in horror. His eyes had bugged as wide as they would go. And the girl, she’d started to pant, moan pant. She blinked at the elder through blurred, fazing eyes.

He stared at his hand. It was not a large hand. He had hardly done a day’s heavy work in his life. It was barely bigger than an average woman’s. But nevertheless, it was in her to his wrist.

“Have you found them last thorns, eh?”

“Ah… no, ah… I might have…”

“P’raps you’d better keep on poking her then? She’ll thank you if you find ’em, eh?”

“God. Oh, God,” said Faltren.

“Go on, man! Dig in deep!”

Faltren’s jaw clamped. His eyes squeezed tight shut. And he jerked the blurry-eyed Anja towards him. She clung to her ankles, knees pressed to the blanket, legs as wide apart as they could possibly go. The tallow spilled from the candles as she slid back and forth, splashing down onto her belly. As Faltren pulled towards him, his fist half popped out. As he pushed away again, it went deeper, cloaked and heated by her liquid flesh. She was jerked and jiggled from the fulcrum of her snatch, and she pushed back with her hips, squeezed his wrist tight with her muscles.

“Is that not a bunch of nasties in her tits I can see?”

Faltren grabbed a breast. He kneaded, stroked, manhanded. Pumped the girl’s flesh with his other hand. Pushed, pulled, pushed and pulled. The movements got shorter, the girl moved ever shorter distances. Her spare breast jiggled as the frequency got faster.

“Nearly got it… nearly got it…”

With a spasm, he jerked the girl right to the front. At the same time, he jammed his trousered crotch to her buttocks face colouring purple. The girl let out a scream and started shuddering from her hips to her head.

“God. Oh, God.” The waves were lessening, storm nearly over.

“Have you got ’em all out, man?”

Faltren opened rolled-back eyes. Tried to focus on the priest. Blinked oddly. Stretched his face. Looked down to his embedded hand. Pulled another face. Worked the muscles round his jaw.

And pulled out his hand with a suck and a plop. Between finger and thumb was a tiny tip of gorse thorn.

Faltren was yawning, overwhelmed by a sudden need to sleep. Father Melchin pointed the way to his bedroom, and Faltren, stiff-legged, stumbled out, with a lazy dab of a hand at some stickiness in his trouser region.

Runnel still brooded in his comfy chair. He’d kept the fire alight by adding more logs. More than when Melchin had sat there alone. Enough to keep a naked girl warm.

The priest turned to the girl. “Well I’m glad you’ve had a little fun. Been a horrible day. Just a little reward. And a lesson for a man who surely needed a lesson.”

He turned his head to the kitchen door through which Faltren had bumbled.

“You’ve got to be tired. You must be exhausted. But, ah… Well. There’s still a little work to be done, eh? We’re closer, that’s true. But, ah… my kind of fun…” He winked his face. “Might not quite be the same as that last feller’s was.”

“I’m going for a walk.”

These words came from Runnel.

“Are ya? Sure now?”

“There’s a moon.”

“Well, it’s easter, roight?”

Runnel stood. He cleared his throat.

“Would you maybe like a coat? It’s night.”

Runnel took one off a stand in a corner. Slid it on. Half looked back.

The priest said, “I’ll just be finishing her up. There’s still a few thorns to go yet, but.”

“Yes,” said Runnel. “Yes, I’m aware.”

“Make sure no part of her gets infected.”

“Very good,” said the elder. “Just don’t… let things get out of hand, please. Not too loud.”

“Ah,” said the priest, “we’re a ways away from the nearest houses. Plus, it’s only the night after chastening day. There’s a few screams might float about down in the village. From scornful wives of the odd hard-nagged husband who’s been counting infringements for nigh on twelve months.”

“Yes,” said Runnel. “Yes, I may keep an ear out. If that’s the way I go.”

“Night then,” said the priest.

“Yes, good night.” Runnel sipped into the hall. The door to the outside opened, creaked, shut.

Father Melchin stood up. He went into the kitchen. His footsteps disappeared. A door creaked faintly. Another creaked, closer. Then the door to the kitchen and hallway was closed. The priest winked at the girl still lying on her back. She’d relaxed her position, taking hands off ankles and lowering her feet.

“Ah now,” said the priest. “Are you thinking we’re finished?”

She looked. Shook her head.

“Shuffle over,” said the priest, ”while I fix them blankets under your back.”

She shuffled. He picked the blankets up. Straightened them and doubled them. Laid them back on the table. Said, “Back on ’em now, alright? Good girl.”

She moved herself back so the blankets were directly beneath her.

“Now eh… Might be we could do this with you on your knees. But them candles on your mound, I wouldn’t want them to burn the wrong way. So eh… ankles up in your hands again, girlie.”

She rolled them back, without protest this time. Knees wide, touching the table. With the blankets doubled, they went lower by three inches or more.

“That’s the ticket,” said the priest. He pinned them down under her shoulders again. She took hold of her ankles. But the priest went to a drawer. “I know you’ll keep still,” he said. “But I’ve rather a penchant for making sure.”

He had a strap in each hand. The girl blinked at them, moaned. He strapped one wrist where it pressed against an ankle. Tied it tight enough so her hand was trapped tight. The girl let a little whimper escape. He did the same with her other.

“Ah,” he said. “Now, that’s what I call a lovely sight for Chastening Day.”

He put an extra pillow under her head, explaining how he liked to see a girl’s eyes. He stuffed two more in under her hips. Grinned a grin to himself. Grinned a grin to the girl.

“A proper shrew. We’ve heard of you here. There’s fellers in Crookmount have had first-hand pleasure of your choice use of words. Now, eh… here, I’m on a hill. There’s a hilly curve below, then another curve. All the houses are pretty much well out of earshot, I’m the highest place around here. Your man Runnel has gone. Your man Faltren’s had his oats, so. He’s way down the end of the cottage now. Through four wooden doors and walls as broad as the width of a pig. So ah… feel free to scream now, if that takes your fancy.”

“Clean?” asked the girl.

“Oh my lord, does she speak? For sure, oh I will. Every fuckin’ last prick of bastard gorse is comin’ out. And you’re going to be ever so clean by the end. Clean as new, bight and sparkly. First though, eh? Them nasty little evil thorns.”

There were tools that Faltren just hadn’t thought to use. With the turn of events (Faltren’s hand caught in the cookie jar) Melchin hadn’t had the chance. But now, he did, and no-one would stop him. He took up some tongs. They had a finger hold and thumb hold one side of a fulcrum, then went down at an angle till both sides curved flat. You could have stood them on those flat ends like a pair of scissors with feet and no blades. He’d made sure they were clean. He’d boiled the rust-free metal by the fire.

“Now then,” he said. “Are you ready for them thorns to get pinched out, girl?”

She let a little whine of fear out. She licked her lips wet. And the priest set to his work. There were thorn stubs left around and about. He did his job. He’d find one and make sure he got it, proper. But wherever he found them, her flesh got squeezed by those devilish tongs. He’d grab her by a chunk of skin, the thorn stub in the middle. He’d see if he could squeeze it out. Sometimes they came. Sometimes they didn’t. When they didn’t, he’d set to with the tweezers, pinching closer. But still pinching with the tongs, out wide. He’d use his teeth. Use a needle if that didn’t work, making her flinch again and squeal again. And always after, he’d rub her with a lemon. The agony made her throat grate raw. There were plenty of thorns and more after them, since Pavel and Gunter had not known restraint.

If she squealed too loud, he’d tell her off and pinch somewhere else. Her pert breasts ended with quite a few pinch marks, though mostly on these he used fingers and thumbs. Occasionally twisting.

It took him a while, but he got every thorn on her thighs, bum and belly. Apart from the ones in the middle of her thatch. Faltren had extracted quite a few. The man was systematic. But he’d also kept to his side, apart from the session when he’d grubbed inside her pussy. That left plenty for Melchin.

He set to work on her pussy lips. These were delicate, thin. He wouldn’t use the tongs on these. You didn’t want to damage your prize exhibit, eh?

“Let’s have a good root around these things then, shall we?”

He started to pull them about with his fingers. Poke them rough with his other hand’s finger and thumb.

“Feck! I found one! Right deep inside, eh?”

He picked up a needle. Squeezed the thorn. Started poking. Her squealing came out rhythmically.

“Well now, wonderful! We’ve got it!”

He readied the lemon half. Squeezed out some drops. Pressed it into her labia. The girl screamed a shriek out, then quickly started panting.

“Haha! Does that smart now?” He pressed down with the lemon on the other side of her pussy hole. She screeched again.

Melchin found plenty of thorns and more around the poor girl’s bottom. Ah my lord, he thought. What had those lads been doing to her? Her arsehole must have got some particular attention. He’d seen it all along. Watched Faltren from the corner of his eye. The man must be queasy about bottoms, Melchin realised. Her bumhole was the one part Faltren had avoided. Both sides. All around.

She was clean. She was sterile. He’d cleared every thorn he could find, all over. Just this pucker hole left. Her last crown of thorns, he thought. Feck, what had them bastards been doing to this chit?

They’d bounced her. Straight after they’d felled her that first time, they’d bounced her. Found a fresh bush, with the men gathered round.

“Give her the bounces, Pavel!”

“Yes, give her the bounces!”

They’d had her off the ground by her arms and legs. She was shocked, distraught, hysterical, screeching. She’d never dreamed there could be such pain, such complete degradation. The gorse pierced directly up between her legs. Some stuck, some just kissed. Some scraped, some left their tiny, painful needles behind. The bounced her up and down for a minute or more till the bush was half smashed, though they never quite dropped her to the floor like before. Then they carried her away. Dominic was left behind, with some others.

She was barely aware, all her consciousness was in her flushed face, in the crowd of jeering strangers, in the laughter of the men as she was ritually humiliated. Their vile suggestions, their sniggering comments.

They dropped her to the ground. Her dignity had been pierced and popped like a water balloon, blown out in all directions. Her arrogance and confidence had been shredded in a moment. She’d always been keen to try and look her best. She was queen of the village, she was queen over boys and queen over men. She was haughty and aloof. Full of sexual promise that those men would never taste.

Her dignity was shredded. When they dropped her to the ground, she’d clawed at her behind. She’d reached between her legs and she’d reached around her backside. All in front of a dozen guffawing, pointing men. She had to get the needles out!

“Fuckin’ god,” said one voice which penetrated her haze of terror. “That’s fuckin’ Anja Salidef! The bitch of the village! I used to be scared of that silly fuckin’ cow! Only every time I see her from now, I’ll picture her pulling fucking needles from her arse!”

They’d watched her debase and degrade herself. When the laughing died down, Pavel Panchun and Gunter Horst picked her back up. She tried squirming away, and even half escaped, but found herself pushed between a circle of men. As she staggered and fell into them, she’d get groped at her breasts or groped between her legs. But her breasts got more attention after more than one man found his fingers pricked by painful thorns.

The party still drifted. They got further from the fork in the paths where the mile stone stood between Crothin, Crook and Crookmount. They tried to make her perform for them. But by now, in her trauma, she could hardly understand their rough country words. She barely knew what they wanted at all. Except to terrorise. Humiliate. Laugh at someone helpless.

When the entertainment flagged, it was time for Pavel’s invention again. Four men took her up by her arms and legs, with Pavel directing. She was naked head to toe, not a stitch on her remained. They held her up between her. She was too weak from crying and screaming to resist. She was held with her legs spread as wide as they’d go. And the crowd of men were invited one by one. They’d all, or mostly all, felt the scorn of her tongue. Some remembered vaguely. Some remembered word for word.

“She called us all pricks! So who wants to prick her?”

Men pulled twigs off nearby bushes. Some dangled them close, repeated Anja’s stale insults, flicked or touched with their needles. Some were meaner, jabbing sharply. But none was as mean as Pavel Panchun. He was First Chastener, after all.

“Here Gunter, pull the slut’s dirty bits open for us!”

Gunter had her leg on one side, another man had the other. They grabbed a handful of arse cheek each.

“Don’t you prick my hand there, Pavel!”

He pretended he was fencing. Flourished twig, thorns and flowers like a rapier. Held his other hand out back like he’d seen some off-duty soldier do. Pratted backwards and forwards. Stabbed her arsehole with his weapon. Again and again, stabbed her arsehole and her fanny. Anja’s screeches and screams rang all over the heath, so that Misha Spinnet nearly wet herself in fear. So that Marta Smolt ran.

They drifted again, till they found themselves down in a hollow below the line of the heath, an old quarry working long since abandoned. They dumped Anja on the ground again. Pavel made to kick her in her arse, but the girl crawled up in a foetal ball. Then the chant started up.

“Prick her, Pavel, Prick her!” Till it somehow got distorted. “Prick her, Pavel, prick her with your prick!”

He’d responded to that. He pulled the rolled-up girl by her hair till she had to uncurl, then he shoved her down on her hands and knees. He slowly started to unbuttoned his breeches. Did them half up as a joke, then undid them again, egged on by the men. Dropped them to his ankles. Got down on his knees like a pig behind a sow, all ready to mount. Lined up, Looked at the men who were egging him on. Failed to see some looking up to the rim. And tried to stick his prick in Anja.

Pavel was not the brightest of boys, and Pavel’s invention backfired on him, badly.

Screeching, he pulled back in agony, with half a dozen gorse thorns embedded in the tip of his prick. He staggered to his feet, tried to claw them away. Got them out. Saw the blood well.

Saw a flash of yellow gorse coming up from below. Then he screeched till their ears rang.

Pavel was pulled away by Gunter Horst. He could barely walk, he was in so much pain. His friend dragged him on.

“There was elders, Pavel! Fuckin’ elders, come back!”

“My prick,” said Pavel.

“Pull your pissing trousers up! You are a prick, you fucking prick.”

Disorientated, eyes squeezing tears, Pavel let him lead. Though Gunter surely didn’t know where he was going. They blundered till they bumped into some former companions.

“How’s you balls feelin’, Pavel?”

“How’s your prick, you silly fuckin’ prick?”

They were laughing at him, Pavel knew. But at least they pointed the way to the village.

Gunter wanted to speed them up. But Pavel couldn’t move without feeling the needles. They must still be stick in there. The thought passed that he might never get erect again.

It seemed to take forever. Gunter sniped with his words and called him foul names till Pavel felt lower than he had in his life. Till he found himself crying in chunky, lumpy sobs.

Gunter stopped. Turned back. Pulled a face. “You pissing child! You great wet! Just fuck off and suck your dummy, little girl. I’m embarrassed to be seen with you!”

Pavel found himself abandoned on his own. Still sobbing, he stumbled his way back to his home. His mother was insensible, as usual. Her blurry, drifting eyes barely focused on him once.

He went to his room. Took his breeches off. Inspected his prick. Pulled out all the biggest needles. Tried to get at some tips that had broken off.

The skin of his glans had been pierced in several places. The special, sensitive skin looked wrong, sort of blotchy around the prick points. He rubbed at them. Shuddered, cried his lumpy sobs. And rolled up on his bed, still in his top clothes.

In the morning, he was sorer than he’d been the night before, only this time it was throbbing. He wouldn’t come out of his room, though his mother knocked and knocked again and asked if he was feeling alright.

“I’m ill,” he groaned, and wouldn’t come down till nearly night.

Hunger drove him to the kitchen when he knew his mother was out. But when he’d scoffed down a small chunk of cheese, some stale bread and cloudy water, he hid back in his room. He lit up a candle. He inspected his balls, his wrinkled shaft, the tip of his prick. He didn’t like the way it looked. It was yellow where the needles had punctured. He shuddered. Tried not to think about it. Slept.

In the morning, he woke with a vicious hard-on. His prick felt twice the size it ought to be. He rolled out of bed and headed for the window to take a piss on the bushes outside. In the cold light of dawn, he looked down at the thing. He pulled at the foreskin. It hurt, it hurt like buggery. He didn’t want to pull it more, but he shut both his eyes, grit his teeth and just did it. The agony was awful.

He opened up his eyes. Pressed his hand to his mouth. Wrong, it looked all wrong. The skin around the pierce-points were showing red-raw. All the colours were ghastly. He felt suddenly sick. Pulled his prick back inside, leaned out and threw up what was left of his supper. Snorted vomit from his nostrils. Leaned back in, knew he had to look at his prick.

The head wasn’t all that was throbbing and swollen. He lifted his wilting shaft out of the way. Peered down at his balls. Saw the hardening lumps. Touched one, squealed. The agony was dreadful, it throbbed like a bastard. This lump was turning a funny colour, not pink, but yellow and sickly black.

Pavel started to scream. Then he started to screech. “Mum?” he gargled. “Mum? Come up here, come and help me! Come up here, come up and help me! Muuum!”