Hall of Infamy by Amanita Virosa Page A

given permission to cry out, Kitty was determined not to give her tormentors that satisfaction, and she clenched her teeth together to prevent an agonised yelp escaping.
    â€˜Good shot, Mr Blackstock!’ Dick’s coarse voice called out excitedly.
    Leather strapping creaked in protest as Kitty writhed and wriggled. The fire across her bottom-cheeks subsided slowly, but Mr Blackstock seemed quite content to wait.
    â€˜Oh no, that was just to get my length, lad. Nothing but a practice stroke, that. Still, I reckon she might feel this.’
    At last there came another low whistle, and another pistol-shot retort, followed instantaneously by a scalding eruption of pain. This stroke seared the tops of Kitty’s thighs, and it was agonising. Kitty grimaced and shook her blonde locks violently. She almost ground her teeth together, but a hiss escaped her lips all the same.
    â€˜You see, Davy, some like to work the same area, but I like to spread them. Unless the count is low, and then I do my best to deliver them where they’ll do the most good.’
    â€˜What is the count, Mr Blackstock?’
    Despite the distraction of her throbbing backside, Kitty perceived that the stable-boy’s voice sounded strained. So she tried to stop writhing and listen for the answer. Unfortunately, before replying, Mr Blackstock unleashed a third blistering stroke.
    â€˜Aaaooooohh…!’ This time she could not stop the cry of pain escaping. If she had not been secured to the saddle, she surely would have jumped up like a jack-in-the-box. As it was, all she could do was writhe helplessly in her bonds. Kitty shook her head and kicked her legs back and forth, to the creaking sound of protesting leather, as if by doing so she could somehow disperse the pain.
    â€˜No count,’ Mr Blackstock replied at last, to her horror. ‘I shall give the wicked little chit just as many as I feel like. A dozen, maybe two – or even more. After all, there is no hurry. We’ll give her a stiff dozen or so to start, and then see if she would prefer to play a different game.’
    The thrashing continued quite relentlessly. The strap cracked across her bottom and thighs, time and time again. Kitty shrieked at the top of her lungs, quite helpless to prevent herself now, all resolve forgotten. She squirmed and wriggled, and fought the straps that held her so invitingly in position for the lash, all to no avail. The heavy stirrup-leather whistled through the still air of the stable-block, impacting mercilessly on Kitty’s tender bottom, and she howled in pain.
    Mr Blackstock was methodical and thorough, belting Kitty’s hindquarters from the top of her bottom, right down to her stocking-tops. As he had promised, he was content to let her shriek her distress, and did not seem to mind how much she wriggled and writhed. Only when she got her heels up hard against her bottom, and kept them there, as if by doing so she could ward off blows on her thighs, did he intervene.
    â€˜All right, Dick, haul down on that ankle strap. Davy, your eyes look like they’ll pop out of your head. It is a pretty arse, there is no denying. Go on, lad – if you like, step up and have a feel.’
    Kitty whimpered as she felt the stable-boy’s hand stroke her bottom.
    â€˜Nice, eh? I don’t know how that arse stays so soft, considering how often the wicked chit needs whipping!’ Mr Blackstock barked with laughter. Tears ran down Kitty’s cheeks and she watched forlornly as they splashed on the flagstone below. She tried to ignore the pain that the boy’s hand provoked as he pinched and probed.
    â€˜Bloody hell, Mr Blackstock. You could fry eggs on this bum; it’s positively scorching!’ There was a tone of wonder in Davy’s voice. Kitty winced as his hands passed over the welts on her thighs. He stroked and patted her, before fingering the sheer material of her hose. ‘I never seen stockings like