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This story is a work of fiction. Do not copy anything in the story.
CHASTENING DAY Act II: A POOR GIRL, A RICH BOY
© smack magnet
Ch 9: In the glade
Georgi Brozemann did not, unlike his son, hail from Crothin-under-Heath. The merchant did in fact hail from the distant diocesan city in which Dominic once worked as Bishop’s Secretary.
They had moved to the heath when Georgi’s own father, himself born a humble man, found a business opportunity beckoning. Hemp was needed for shipping, and shipping was an expanding field. The fast clippers of the merchant fleets of empire needed rope and sails not by the yard, but by the mile. By chance, the region surrounding the heath, poor in so many other resources, was perfect for hemp, which grew tall and fast in its impoverished soils.
So a group of investors from the city founded a factory there, which fast became two. And Georgi’s father won a contract not to manage production, but to facilitate the supply of their products to the ship-makers.
Georgi, Joseph Brozemann’s father, became a man in this trade. And when Georgi’s own father at last grew too frail to make arduous journeys, then swiftly too decrepit to do more than sit in a bath chair remarking on the inclement weather, Georgi was ready to take up the slack. His firm, by now, traded in significantly more than just rope. He brought back cotton from the clippers on what would otherwise be empty in-bound wagons and barges, plus tea and spices, and anything else that he could conjure up a market for. And thus, a man born into a poor part of a distant city became a man of import, in both senses of the word, in Crothin Heath.
But it is oftentimes the new rich who make the worst snobs. The Brozemanns were not, as Joseph grew, quite the richest family about the heath, but they made sure to rub shoulders with those who were.
To bolster this family puffing-up, young Joseph was subjected to more than huffed-out orders from his father to hold his head up straight. He was enrolled, protesting, to the private Ballards School, which failed, through misplaced obsession, to hit its stated aim of preparing boys for the military, while in parallel teaching them little else, barring numeracy and letters, of much use at all. Yet Ballards was the right place, where those with pretensions must be seen to send their sons.
At least Joseph managed, through chance of living proximately, to escape the poisoned chalice of attending as a border. But for penance, he was dragged by his parents to the formal dinners and florid parties of what passed for heath society. For these he was dressed in neck-tight suits and paraded, penguin-stiff, for ruddy-featured lovers of port and odd-smelling dowagers. He was required to spend tedious hours with insipid girls wearing too many bows, who prattled incessantly about pointless stuffed toys and pretty ponies.
And throughout all, with regularity, he was frowned upon by his father, chided by his mother, and patronised by their acquaintances.
Marjorie Brozemann: “Do try to make your smile look genuine, Joseph, the lady on the steps is an important connection!”
Georgi Brozemann: “At the very least, try to act like a man, even if you may secretly aspire never to become one.”
A crinoline-hooped widow smelling of mothballs: “And how do you find my grand-niece, young Joseph? Is she not the most pretty and bright thing here tonight?”
Formal, stiff, tedious and false. Joseph must daily play this sad game of class, and collude with every other snob that the company present were superior to all, and their opposites unconscionable. Reminders of the failings of all those beneath them dropped from his parents’ lips like regular drips from an ill-plumbed tap.
Marjorie: “Joseph dear, come away from that urchin, he may have lice.”
Georgi: “Did you hear how that dreadful oik spoke, boy? What an ill-taught mangling of the language, eh?”
Marjorie again, high-pitched, face-reddeningly audible: “Do not stare at that chit, young man. The girl’s mother is likely a slut, and so shall she be!”
His mother with her cohorts, with Joseph required to sit head-drooped and bored, in a stuffy parlour taking sips from bone-china: “And the Spinnet woman, deserted by that… pimp of a husband!”
“Oh yes indeed Marjorie, and her slattern daughter! Ladies, we should not wish to taste the cheese that that girl churns! Who knows what it might have been touched by? And more times than once, we can all be sure!”
Joseph stared at Misha’s blonde pudenda, at eye height before him, just inches from his face. “You're a… you’re a slut!” he said, blushing quickly at even having uttered the word.
“Am I? Truly?” Misha asked this sadly.
“Yes. You were wet! Between your legs!”
“Oh dear.” She looked down to the offending spot. “Most likely still am, then.” She caught his eyes. She smiled, or tried to. Her heart was in her mouth. Why had she done such an idiot thing? To trap herself here as this virgin boy’s toy?
Joseph was busy pulling on the gardening gloves that Jaxo had given him. The proud oak's little clearing flashed yellow with stands of juvenile gorse. He quickly stepped away, approached a bush, and snapped a long, stringy branch off from close to its base. He cleared away needles to give himself a hand-hold. He held it like a bouquet, his breathing ragged.
“Really?” she asked. “Must we?”
“It's Pavel’s invention. I think I’m supposed to do it to you."
Her half-smile slipped. “Are you though? Really?”
“Yes. Because Pavel Panchun was First Chastener. Because the priest says you’re…”
“What?”
He whispered. “Um… dirty. Sorry.” His brief look of guilt flickered up to her eyes.
“Am I? Really?" She found tears forming.
"I think I've got to. I’m really sorry.” He thought. He looked down, then back up. "But I can pull the spines out after, if you want.”
She squeaked back, “Can you?"
"If you want me to. Do you want me to?"
She tried to smile again. "Yes. Please."
He held the gorse frond out like a whip.
His father had been, as always, scornful. When Priest and Elder had called with the news, the Priest had made sure to wave Joseph in close. This before his father proved Dominic wrong by banishing the boy from the reception room. He’d stayed close as he could though, to listen in, with the door to the study left barely ajar.
He could not focus on the early detail, but he clearly heard his father’s bitter laugh. “That boy? You’ll be lucky if he makes any mark at all!”
The priest’s reply was even. “Nevertheless, he is chosen, Mister Brozemann. If you will but consent.”
“What, chosen to whip at some cheap little slattern?”
Elder Quare was clearly offended. “There are two girls at least from good families, sir! ’Tis an honour to be chosen, for the boys at the least! A long and proud tradition of it!”
“Just peasant superstition.”
“It is true enough though,” said the priest, “that locally, past Chasteners are held in high regard. Many men of good counsel have charted their courses from early recognition. Selection as a Chastener marks each boy so chosen from the featureless crowd.”
There was a pause, until the Merchant uttered, in low tones, “He will shame me.”
Joseph’s hearing was by now well-attuned, and the sleight hit him hard.
The priest asked, “By participating?”
The merchant huffed. “By failing. By being too weak. He is soft as French cheese.”
Said Elder Quare, “He shall not be required to be overly hard.”
There was a second brief silence, till the priest tacked back. “It may make him, perhaps. Help set his path. To deny him opportunity guarantees failure. And you do not yet know that the boy must fail.”
A third painful silence, till Joseph, with surprise, heard his father give reluctant consent. “Very well. I suppose we shall all see. But don’t be surprised if he picks a pretty posy and sniffs its pretty petals in preference to whipping the little tart’s arse.”
The Elder said, “As the Chastener’s father, you may, of course, attend as witness.”
“I will not!” said the merchant.
The priest offered, “We must hope that the boy may surprise you still.”
“Not if there’s anyone looking he won’t. He’ll crawl into a hole first!”
Misha couldn’t crawl into a hole even if she wanted, not strung up like a game bird, trussed like a Christmas turkey. “Go on, do it then!” She clenched her teeth. “If you got to do it, do it quick!”
“Your bum.” He’d stepped behind her. “I really, really like your bum.”
That paused her. “Anja always tells me how it's so big it’s ugly.”
“Anja was looking pretty ugly herself. Got an arse full of these."
He flicked the gorse twig into Misha's right cheek. Yes! He’d done it! She screamed, short and high, gabbling, “Fuckin’ hell, oh fuckin’ hell!”
Joseph drew the switch away. It pulled briefly at its moorings. He flicked it at her other cheek. She was his! She was willing!
As he flicked and swatted, teased and hesitantly poked, Misha flinched and writhed above him. She danced a dance of tensing buttocks, of jerking thighs and of trembling, twitching toes. She squeaked and swore, she squealed and cursed.
“Oh fuck you little sod, ow! Joseph, Mister Joseph… naah!”
Her staggered breaths might run to brief, tense laughs or let out sudden squeals of anticipation.
“God, why’d I fuckin’ do it? Jesus!”
“You shouldn’t take such names in vain.” And he’d tease between her legs with needle-guarded flowers.
Such teasing was broadcast. Misha wouldn’t, or couldn’t, keep low her cries of anticipation, keep contained her gasping, nervous laughs or explosive curses. And Joseph, given license by her actions, cared nothing, as caught in the moment as his dancing partner.
But his glee was frozen by a rustling, then a crashing. Two gangling youths broke out into the clearing. Joseph jumped, turning.
“Fuck,” said the shorter one to the taller one.
“That’s that Joseph!” said the tall one. “Ain’t it, Skudes?”
“And Misha Spinnet, look!”
“Course it is. He won her, di’n’t he?”
“Fuck,” said the short one. “Fuck a bleeding duck, Vons!”
“See how he’s strung her up by her tits! And what's that in his hand?”
Joseph had half hid behind Misha’s legs, his heart running fast. His voice came too quiet. “It’s a Chastening game. The priest has allowed it.”
The shorter boy stared. “That's allowed, then, is it?”
“Yes,” said Joseph.
“Just bugger off!” said Misha.
“Let’s have a go, though.”
“No!” she said shrilly. “Mister Joseph won me!”
“Oh, Mister Joseph, did you won her then? We can still have a bit of a go though, eh?”
The tall one said, “Chasteners got rights, Skudie. Lest he fancies he might let us, uh?”
The youths were circling. Misha’s voice came high and quiet. “Joseph?” she quailed.
She was scared. So was he.
“Just a flick and a bit with your frond thing, eh?”
“It’s fucking gorse, look Skudie!”
The short one’s voice wheedled. "Maybe on her tits then, eh?”
“No,” said Joseph, half frozen, too quiet. He heard Misha breath in sharp as he stepped to the side. It looked, and felt, like a step away. “You should go off and find your own,” he said faintly.
“We should geauh auf end faind eur hown,” mimicked Skudie.
“Course we fuckin’ can’t,” the tall one said. “Besides, Mushy Mishy’s up there now.”
“Joseph?” Misha was running quick to panic.
The boys exchanged looks. They stepped in closer, one to either side.
He had to make himself. He knew these boys. They’d called him names, they’d threatened him with nettles once. He’d been smaller. He’d run. He remembered them laughing as they spat at his back.
His legs felt like lead.
“Please? Mister Joseph?”
He stepped forward, legs lumbering. He made himself stand between Misha and the boys.
“I’m so scared,” said the short one. “What do you care anyway? Mushy Mishy’s just some cheap slut.”
“There's a girl who anyone can punish,” said Joseph.
Misha squeaked behind him.
“A girl on the heath. She’s called Marta Smolt. Any man can punish her. Because Marco Vance wouldn’t, and then she ran.”
“Who said that?”
“The priest.”
“Bollocks. Load o’ bollocks,” said the tall one, spitting. “What do you care about that slag up there, anyroad?”
Joseph’s heart was in his mouth. He stared as the boys stepped closer still, both tensing up. He made himself say, face rigid, voice quiet, “You can both go and look for the girl on the heath. Or try and come through me. And I know there’s two of you. And I know I’m not a fighter. So you’ll probably win… But I swear. I’ll do my best to hurt you both. I won’t fight fair. I’ll gouge in your eyes and I’ll tear at your ears. And if I catch your balls, I’ll rip ’em straight off. Because Misha’s my girl and you come through me to get her. And you don’t ever call her a slut again.”
He held the gorse frond tight in his glove. His stomach was tense, his face was pulled tight. But the postures of the boys had loosened as he spoke.
“God… believe anything, you would!” Skudie said.
“Yeah, fucking serious him, ain’t he?” Vonnie said.
They were flapping their arms, tipping their heads back.
“So this girl, em,” said Skudie. “Is that for real or’s it all a stupid wind-up?”
“Like the wind-up what we was doing to him, Skudes?”
Joseph said quietly, “All I heard was what the priest said.”
“Don’t need to stand like that still,” said Skudie. “You know we was never like, meaning to wotsit.”
“So, like… is it like anyone can do it, eh? What you done to Mushy Mishy?”
“Misha,” said Joseph. “You call her Misha. Or Miss Spinnet. I just said so, didn't I?” Joseph heard her shift behind him. He was suddenly frightened that Misha might slip.
The short one tapped the tall one. “Zeldie Chype,” he said. “Zeldie Chype's of chastening age.”
He turned and asked Joseph, “Can we do Zeldie Chype, Joseph?”
“I don't know who she is,” he said.
“Yes,” Misha said, “just go away and do Zeldie Chype!”
Joseph was looking from one to the other. “All I said was, when a shrew girl runs, then the girl who ran off can be chastened by all.”
“Would Zeldie Chype run?” the short boy asked the taller one.
“Don’t know. She's a proper shrew though,” the tall one said. “She’s always been a shrew.”
“Well… yeah… yeah. Well we can go and do her then, can’t we? If anyone can do ’em. ’Cause we know where she lives! Don’t we, Vons?”
They nodded to each other. Then they turned and ran, without looking back.
Joseph’s hand was shaking. “Crap,” he said. “I thought they’d jump me.”
“I thought it myself. And I was terrified you’d run.”
He turned, looking up. “So was I.” He hugged her legs, pressed his cheek against her silky down.
She said, “Mind them spines, eh?”
“I’m so sorry. I could have got you… fuck. Oh, Misha…”
She said, “Nice if I could hug you back. So, um… interesting, that. What you said to them boys. I’m your girl then, am I?”
He buried his nose in the cleft at her thigh tops. He nodded, silent. Then looked up past her breasts. “Do you think they’ll do her? That other girl?”
“Who, Zeldie Chype? I shouldn’t think so. That's just Skudie and Vonthurm, all mouth and no trousers.”
“Who's Zeldie, anyway?”
“She's their neighbour… They won't do her. They haven’t the balls.”
He touched the gorse frond lightly to her buttocks. She jumped, then laughed till he thought she might slip. He cradled her legs.
“So, how do you know? They’re all mouth and no trousers?”
Misha stayed silent till he flicked at her bum.
They were turning too dark. He'd got her so worked up, she’d lost her footing. He just had to touch her and she’d flinch and rock, putting strain on her breasts.
“Let me down! God, let me down now, please!”
The dusk was growing anyway. He picked a few stray needles from her bum. He’d teased between her legs as well, but stroking with his fingers revealed smooth skin.
He stood on the logs. They had to get the loop of rope loop back off the broken stump.
“Mish, I'm going to lift you up. Grab the rope with your teeth. Then lift it up and over. We’ve got to get you down!”
He began to hoist her up. With a croaking voice, she said, “Joseph, hold me like you done it before.”
He cupped her pubis with his fingers. Placed the palm of his left hand in the middle of her buttocks.
“I know you’ll think me a slut and all… but do it with your thumb in me…” She sighed as he pushed her upward with it.
She told him when she was high enough. It took her a while to snag the rope. He could tell when she had it, tell by her voice. He braced himself again for another snatch-and-jerk, to lift her all the way. He heard her straining, trying to get the rope pulled up.
She grunted when she was high enough. He slipped out his thumb in case it might break as he lowered her down.
“You got it?” he asked.
She grunted what he took for assent. He lowered his arms, but she came just so far. With a scream, she was left behind, legs kicking in the air, the rope snagged once more in the the cleft of the stub. He slipped off the log and fell on his back. She spun above him, turning so her breasts were revealed.
“Joseph, please Joseph!”
Then he was up, standing, trying to get his shoulder between her flailing legs, trying to take her weight off her purpling breasts. He snatched at the ropes that held her arms behind her back. He couldn't see them, couldn’t understand the knots in his panic.
“Please, get me down!” She was dangerously panicked now.
“Hold your arms still!”
“Please,” she said, “just… please get me down!”
Then he had it. A knot. He pushed, he was getting Jaxo’s rope to unthread. A coil flopped loose. He pushed again. She wobbled above him.
The rope at her elbows dropped free to the ground.
“Lift the loop with your arms, Mish!”
Her hands wouldn't work. They were numb, and the feeling took time to come back. Then her fingers squeezed in his hair.
“Please, get yourself free!”
She lifted stiff fingers. She scrabbled at the branch stub. With an effort, she jerked the rope from the cleft, then clung to the stub as he lowered her.
“I’ve got you. Let go now.”
She released. She slipped down, till he caught her over his shoulder.
He placed her slowly on the ground. Her breasts were so dark, he needed to know that they would be alright. He scrabbled to untie them as she let her head flop into the grass, staring up at the empty bough above. She groaned as each breast was released from its grips. He rubbed, kissed, tried to stroke each back to life. The rope marks were imprinted deep.
It wasn’t planned, it just seemed to have happened. Her arms around his neck. Her kissing him. Him kissing back. Her hands stroking down through his flowing hair. Then he was pulling down his trousers. He couldn't get them off. She tried to help him. She rolled, she groaned. He spooned her from behind.
He slipped inside her easily. His hands were cupping her warming breasts, were squeezing them and stroking them. His head pushed into her hair, he breathed hot in her ear.
“Are you good? You’re not injured?”
“I’m alright now.” She pushed her hips back.
They were on their sides. With his arm, he made a pillow for her. She rolled her hips against his thighs. He was buried deep. Moaning, breath catching, he started to climax. She shuddered and moaned when he shuddered and moaned.
When their shuddering stopped, he made to withdraw.
“Don’t. Leave it in! It’s right where I want it.”
They lay still, his chest to her back, with one hand snug between her warm breasts. She curled up tight. He curled in around her nakedness. He breathed through her hair. And there, he drifted on a wave of sleep, and she quickly followed. Their breathing grew deep and slow as they dreamed, spooning in the warm spring night, oblivious to distant screams.
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