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A chapel dedicated to spanking
by Robyn Jones
Asa’s new studio put me in mind of a two part story I came across in Janus Magazine (Volume 55) entitled ‘The Perfectionists’ by Steven Simms. The story concerns a sisterhood, a sorority for young ladies who seek perfection in their lives. To achieve perfection they must undergo ritual chastisements to cleanse their souls and learn self-discipline at the hands of a male officiant, called ‘The Magister’. Chastisements are delivered in front of the assembled members in an old chapel set on a high hill.
‘THE CHAPEL looked gaunt and grey against the pale-blue evening sky. Erected during sterner Victorian days, it had for many years served as a religious centre; and if its function then had been a meeting-house for those seeking spiritual elevation, it was certainly no less so now. The great difference was in the methods practised therein to uplift and purify the adherents of the moral ethical group known as the Perfectionists, to whom it now belonged.
The chapel stood about a mile outside town, perched high on a rocky spur overlooking vistas of lovely English countryside, flanked by fields and woodland, so that its interior was perennially washed through with the pure scents of nature.’
The description of the chapel reminds me very much of a lovely little church (St Michael de Rupe) on the top of Brent Tor on the western flanks of Dartmoor in Devon:
The story goes on to describe the composition of the sisterhood:
‘The Perfectionist sisterhood fluctuated between thirty and forty devotees, though there were signs that these numbers were beginning to increase. Each adherent was unwed, led a normal everyday life as regards work, home and social relations – and none was more than 25 years old.
On the weekly communal evening when they all gathered hip-to-hip on the pews in the tiny hall, the light striking through the colour-stained panes fell on faces fresh and devout – some pretty, some plain, and several of startling beauty. And every girl was comely and healthy, attractive to the male and eminently marriageable.
Over this purity-aspiring sorority one man ministered: an exceptional man known solely by the devotional appellation of Magister.’
Members receiving chastisement are required to strip naked and lie across a stone altar in front of a large stained-glass window, witnessed by the other ‘sisters’. This is beautifully illustrated by the Janus artist called ‘Hardcastle’:
Here is a brief extract from the story describing how a young lady, called Anita, is initiated into the sisterhood:
‘Then the Magister raised the birch-rod into sun-hazed silhouette, paused a further moment in stern contemplation of the recipient spreadeagled naked across the altar-stone before him, then brought it swishing down to collide with a profound Thrashhh! against the marble-white cheeks of that glorious upraised bottom.
Pain roared through Anita’s senses and found expression in a harsh yowl which echoed round the wails of the tiny chapel. While the shock of the blow, full-blooded on the petal-soft mounds of that exquisite womanly arse, infused them with furnace-heat, the birch climbed above his shoulder and swept down again to jar splatteringly against her buttocks with the sizzling impact of a lightning-flash. The watching sisterhood strained forward with mouths agape and hearts drumming, imagining with stabs of bewitching dread how that fearsome rod would feel battering against their own bared bottoms.’
It will be interesting to see how Asa’s new upcoming Photostory called ‘Lady Charlotte’s Punishment Room’ matches up to this story. How many delectable female bottoms will be presented and sacrificed across the spanking stool ‘altar’ in front of his glorious stained glass window for a sound thrashing at the hands of Lady Charlotte? We’ll have to be patient and see!
As a final parting shot, here is another extract from the story, which describes how a novice Perfectionist, called Melissande (a rather shy young classical dancer), receives her first ‘atonement’ from the Magister after she confesses her failings to him. She is dressed in a pair of skin-tight Victorian punishment drawers, a little bit like those in the photo below. The Magister deliberately wettens them, presumably to accentuate their transparency and to accentuate the sting of the paddle he uses on her bottom. The author certainly knows how to keep the spanko-obsessed reader riveted!
‘She heard him leave his side of the Contrition Box. ‘Come out here, please,’ he said. Melissande did so, and watched the Magister cross the room and select what looked like a scrap of cloth from a cupboard. ‘Do you wish to receive atonement?’ he now asked gravely, returning to her.
The girl gulped. Atonement? She supposed it would be a mild telling-off. All right, best to get the charade over with. She gave a weak smile, and nodded.
‘Very well. Put these on, please.’ The girl took the piece of lightweight fabric he handed her, and not till she had returned to the sanctuary of the alcove did she discover it to be a tissue-thin pair of thigh-length Victorian drawers, flimsily silken and virtually transparent with age and wear. She lifted the gown and pulled the drawers up her legs with some difficulty, for they were extremely tight. She was mystified as to their purpose, for it wasn’t cold in there. Once she had smoothed them into place the old-fashioned garment felt slinkily cool against her intimate zones, and from the manner in which it sleekly hugged her hips and thighs and clung with embarrassingly thrilling snugness to the inward curves of her buttocks, she imagined that these drawers had been especially tailored to fit her bottom like a second skin.
Rather flushed now, and slightly alarmed, Melissande hastily pulled the gown back in place and represented herself. The Magister at once took her hand and led her to the corner where the hurdle contraption stood. The young dancer stared in puzzlement at it. She could feel the power and heat of his hand spreading tingles through her. Then he released her. ‘As this is your first atonement,’ he explained, ‘I will allow you to wear the drawers. Having identified a few of your more negative traits and destructive behaviour patterns, I have decided that six strokes will serve on this occasion.’
‘I b-beg your pardon?’ stammered the girl. ‘S-strokes?’
The Magister frowned, and surveyed the slight, trembling figure thoughtfully. Barefoot in the gown, the large soulful eyes a-glitter with flames, her deliciously pretty face a mask of girlish alarm, the new girl looked waif-like and vulnerable. ‘Have you ever been chastised before?’ he asked softly.
‘Chastised?’ she whispered in horror. ‘Surely you don’t mean…?’ Blood rushed to her cheeks, then drained to paleness. ‘Well no,’ she gasped. ‘No-one ever.’ Indignation flared, lifting her graceful head. ‘Certainly not!’
‘Do you wish in your heart to become a Perfectionist, Melissande?’ he asked, not unkindly.
‘Not if it means that,’ the girl declared firmly. ‘I had no idea…’
‘Then you may leave,’ he told her calmly. She knew she should run. Run now. Quickly. And yet she hesitated. The Magister’s eyes held hers, hypnotic as whirlpools in whose depths smiled incredibly beautiful things beyond immediate comprehension. Melissande was breathing hard as thought struggled with thought. No-one had ever laid a hands on her. It was inconceivable that a compleute stranger should do so now. And yet…
‘I don’t want to leave,’ she whispered.
‘Then raise your gown to the waist,’ came the instruction, gentle yet unopposable, ‘and bend forward across the beam with your head well down.’
Melissande could scarcely believe it was happening. Thrills squirmed in her bowels, it was like a dream. The decision had been hers entirely. This was unthinkable! Cheeks flaming she lifted the gown up her slender, exquisite legs, all the way up, disclosing more and more of the naked dancer’s limbs, up and up to where the agile thighs swelled to the girlish hips, the tightly-clenched posteriors in their flimsy dressing so exposed, so exposed! Delirious with embarrassment she stood up on the little step and stretched obediently forward across the padded beam with a weird sigh, gripping the lower struts on its further side. The position was insufferably humiliating – her face, close to the floor, staring briefly at her shins before the gown rustled down the steep slope of her back to blot them from sight, the tight-packed mounds of her pert young bottom forming the topmost apex. Never had she been more conscious of her arse, not even when catching boy dancers watching her sinuous body at the training bar.
‘Don’t hurt me,’ she pleaded in a tiny voice.
For a moment the Magister surveyed the ripe hillocks so snugly encased in the whipping drawers; then went to a marble-topped table on which lay a fine-bristled ceremonial brush known as an aspergillum. This he dipped into a silver chalice of purest spring water and returned to the girl, who was now making little entreating moans from her abjectly doubled-over position. ‘Before the atonement I will anoint you,’ he announced devoutly, spreading a hand on the tissue-thin silk and reverently cupping each buttock in turn.
‘This crude area of your body,’ he intoned, ‘through which purification’s flames will blaze, is the very obverse of higher thought and spiritual enhancement. It bears the brunt of the physical shocks necessar to attain Perfection – and as such, in the Perfectionist creed, represents the gates to the soul.’ So saying, the Magister flicked water with the aspergillum onto the flesh-hugging drawers, and Melissande shuddered wildly at the cool kissing licks of the bristles which dampened the cloth so that it sucked each individual bottom-cheek and showed clearly the pinkly pretty virgin buttocks through the wet silk.
Then, with an air of firm duty, the Magister picked up an oval-bladed paddle, clamped his other hand on the small of the girl’s back, and swung the wooden surface sharply against the straining target with a loud whap. The blow wasn’t hard, but Melissande screamed! Never could she have imagined such pain! It sprang into and possessed each tender nether-cheek like jets of flame. The paddle drew back and smacked in again, appearing to bounce off the springy cushions of caressable flesh. The girl called out hoarsely, inarticulately. Crack! The paddle impacted for a third time on the wet, drum-taut cloth which scarcely protected her bottom, and Melissande loosed a shriek. SMACK! The blade landed harder this time, firm and square across its daintily quivering target, and the dancer screeched through lips slack from shock, her pretty head jerking from side to side as she kicked her feet in spasmic convulsion.
But the remorseless paddle swung back yet again, hissed through the incense-scented air and splatted emphatically against the meatier zone at the girl’s thigh-tops with an almighty spank, igniting fresh fields of fiery sensation. Her anguished howl seemed to make the candle-flames shiver. ‘N-No more! No!’ she wailed. The Magister cocked his arm judiciously for the final stroke, a righteous zeal burnishing his eyes, for he sensed that this doe-like creature could be brought in time to the highest levels of enlightenment. She was pleading with shrill little bleats as the Magister ran a testing hand over the smarting target; then dampened the diaphanous membrane once more, almost lovingly, with the aspergillum, and swiped a final blast across the girlish bottom that had never in its life before been so used.
He had to help the young dancer from the whipping-beam and pull her gown back into place. She was shaking violently, her cheeks and eyes as soaked and heated as the flesh inside the drawers. He felt greatly encouraged by her utterly chastened expression.
‘Come with me.’ Melissande limped in the Magister’s wake, hanging her head. He led her out of the Contrition Room to a little side-chapel with velvet hangings, where he set her on her knees. ‘I want you to remain here and ponder on the reasons for your chastisement,’ he told her, ‘and on how your entire mode of thought and self-conduct can be radically altered to enhance your life and the lives of those around you. You are here to be transformed to purity, ecstasy and light. Believe me, Melissande, this goal is attainable.’
This collage is from another unrelated Janus Magazine photostory where two girls are caned bent over a wooden trestle. They are wearing tight, semi-transparent punishment shorts, which have been thoroughly wetted to enhance the stinging, burning sensations of the caning….OUCHEE!!
Robyn Jones