Atonement Ch 12

I had an idea of what I needed to do. The first thing I did was to check in with Will at JLO. Elaine was back home and the family had hired a deprogrammer, but they also wanted the Church made accountable. He was happy to hear what we had recorded, especially my conversation with "Bob" which revealed that the whole setup was little more than high priced prostitution.

I told him I needed somebody to watch Henry's house, and what to look for. I then gave him the Great Falls address and suggested that he stake it out using high powered telephoto lenses. This done, it was time to call Henry.

Corpun had suggested that Henry and Jessica meet with them at The Greenbriar, a ritzy resort in West Virginia. They had promised to help find Libby and had intimated that they could reunite them there. The story was that they had suspected that Libby was in jail somewhere and that through their connections they could secure her release. In the meantime, they wanted to talk to Henry about sharing rights to his machine. Anyway, that was the story as Henry related it to me.

"Bullshit," I said when I got Henry on the line telling me this. "I know where Libby is, and so do they. She fell in with this Church of Atonement cult."

"Sonofabitch!" He said. "I'm calling the police right now."

I told Henry to calm down, that she was ok. "You'll get Libby back and screw both these Church bastards and Corpun, but we have to do it right. I'm going to give them some more rope and I think they'll hang themselves. Here is what I want you to do..."

Henry listened to my plan and reluctantly agreed. It was all he could do not to run off and charge in like the cavalry, but I convinced him that Libby was in no danger.

First I met with Will and outlined the plan. He agreed it should work, and set about to edit down several days worth of tape. Next, I called Jane.

"Have you got that stuff I told you to look for?"

"I sure did boss. And I found the names of the Board of Directors of the Church of Atonement/Revelation. See if any of these sound familiar: William St Cyr, Dr Gunter Klow, Jack Warren, A. de Granamour..."

"Wait a minute--what do you mean 'A'...what's his name?" I asked.

"That's all it says here, just 'A'."

That's odd, I thought. "Ok, go on."

"Uh, let's see...Kenneth Harding, Dr. Gerda Mundinger, Will Henry. That's it."

The names didn't mean anything to me, but I was sure they'd be useful. "How about Corpun?"

"They've registered with the SEC, you were right. They're going public and the Church is a big underwriter."

"Can you fax me everything you've got on their board and the IPO? I especially need pictures. Home addresses, too."

"Will do, boss. Uh, when are you coming back?"

"Soon, I hope. A few more days."

"'Cause, uh, I'm a little behind on that filing and..."

"Well, it better be done when I get back, or you and I will be having a little talk," I said sternly.

"Uh, yeah, ok boss. I'll get right on it." She sounded excited about it. I had to give the poor girl something to look forward to.

The faxes arrived a few minutes later. I scanned the documents, looking at the photos. There it was. Paydirt.
"Hello, Confessor Stephen," I said to myself, looking at one Oliver Brussard, VP Engineering of Corpun. And I'd have bet the ranch that the guy in the brief video shot with Libby, Noah Chrossman, and Anna Klochek was the president of the company, Al Laroche. Wearing a green robe as I recall.

The SEC documents were also illuminating. They said Corpun held key patents in new "correctional devices" that would revolutionize corrections for juvenile and non-violent offenders. Translation--they planned to sell Henry's spanking machines to every county, city, village and township in America. As a major equity holder the Church would get rich, and it would use the special modified version to "train" new Handmaidens. Sweet.

I made one last call and it was to Allison down in Charlottesville. I was sure she wanted to know that her sorority sisters were ok. She wasn't in, but I left the message that she could reach me at the Mayflower.


The house in Great Falls was like a mini estate, set back on a long driveway, surrounded by forest. For a man of the cloth, the home of the right Rev Noah Chrossman amounted to pretty fancy digs. It had been relatively easy to establish that the Great Falls house belonged to Chrossman. Now all we had to do was wait. I felt sure that Corpun would make it's move soon. That being done, I checked into The Mayflower and collapsed.

When I awoke my message light was blinking. Were things happening already? I went the voice mail delivery system. A woman had left a message.

"Mr Hand, this is Madeline Smythe, I'm Allison Carter's faculty advisor. I'd like to meet with you if I could. I'm in DC today with a conference. If you can, please meet me downstairs in the lobby at 11:30. I'll be wearing a beige suit. Thank you." That was it. Sort of an English accent, hard to tell how old she was. Very matter-of-fact.

Christ! There really was a Madeline Smythe. And she wanted to see me. Had Allison told her what had happened? That I had bared her behind and given her an over-the-knee spanking like she was twelve? This was not good. She could be mid 30-ish, maybe 40--probably a battle ax spinster ready to go on a tear about my brutalizing sweet little Allison. I decided I'd better meet her in the lobby. Get this over with.

When I got off the elevator, the only person I saw standing around looking for someone was a very attractive brunette in a smartly tailored business suit that came up several inches above her knees. The tight skirt was showing off her shapely ass and gorgeous legs in killer high heels. She was carrying a briefcase and a long tube like the kind that hold engineering blueprints. She looked at me quizically.

"Mr Hand?" she asked. I nodded. "I'm Madeline Smythe." There was that faint English accent. She was young for a college professor. She couldn't have been much older than 28--30 max. And she was beautiful.

"I'm Rollin Hand," I said flashing my most charming--I hoped--smile. "How do you do?"
"Fine," she said, smiling back. "Allison told me a lot about you."
Uh-oh, I thought. She's going to be loaded for bear.
"All no good, I'm sure," I said, attempting a nonchalant chuckle. "So how can I help you Ms Smythe?"
"Well," she began, "I'm here today for a conference--lectures on medieval history at the Smithsonian and I thought we could have a little chat about Allison."
Here it comes. "Sure, how can help?" We took two chairs and a table next to a window.

"For awhile this semester Allison's grades were dropping quite steadily. I noticed a distinct drop in the quality of her work. It was sloppy, poorly thought out, late when she handed things in at all. Then last week she had a paper due. When she handed it in I read it as one of the first I wanted to review. I was astonished. It was absolutely brilliant. First rate. It didn't seem like the work of the same girl. So I asked her about it and she said she'd been to see her friend's uncle. She told me that this 'Uncle Rollin' had sort of straightened her out and put her back on the right path." Madeline Smythe leaned forward and lowered her voice, looking me straight in the eye. "She told me what you did. So I thought I had to meet this 'Uncle Rollin' and find out more...about your, uh, methods. She did also say you were firm but very understanding and gracious." Yeah, but that wasn't the half of it. I hoped Allison had left a few things out.

Hmmm...she was now blushing as she said this. But she was also smiling and seemed sincere. I was charmed. Was she flirting? So as we sat in the lobby, I told her about Allison's visit. Her eyes grew wider and wider as I described our "meeting".
"I must say, Mr Hand, you certainly made an impression on her," she said. I noticed a shiver.
Then I asked her about the note.

"Yes, I did write such a note," she admitted. "I thought she needed a stern talking to from her parents or guardian. A jolly good lecture," she added for emphasis.
"Well, she got more than that," I said dryly. Madeline Smythe nodded with a rueful grin.
"I guess she did at that. I almost didn't believe it when she told me. A spanking--for a girl her age." Then she gathered herself. "Certainly such treatment was not uncommon in ages past. My own doctoral dissertation is in fact on the use of corporal punishment in the late middle ages and its acceptance in society both in the home and as an instrument of justice."
Now it was my turn to be surprised. "What a topic. You are not a full professor?"
"No," she said, "I have my masters but I'm in this country on an exchange. I'm from England. At the university I'm a grad student advisor and a teaching assistant. My dissertation will be due this Spring. This is part of what I wanted to talk to you about." She paused, then, "Allison told me about St John's."

That was interesting, but where was this going? "Ah, yes--a very traumatic experience."

"Yes, and I understand that another girl was birched by the authorities." All very true, I said. I gave her my account, and added the part about the quaint custom we had witnessed--the condemned being made to cut her own birch switches the night before. She gulped.

"Do you mind, Mr Hand, if we continue this discussion in a more private place?" I told her we could go to my room if that was all right. She said that was fine and we got up and headed for the elevator. I was really puzzled now, but Ms Smythe seemed to have made up her mind about something. When we got to the room she placed her things on the table and turned to me.

"Mr Hand," she began. She was tense, formal now.
"Please, it's Rollin. My father was Mr Hand." I smiled. She relaxed a bit. Brushed her hand through her long hair moving it to the side.

"Ok, Rollin. As I said, my dissertation is on corporal punishment in the middle ages, all the way to the 17th century actually, and my research is not complete. I'm trying to convey what it must have been like for women in those times to be punished in ways that may seem to us as shameful as well as very painful. My research has revealed that villages and towns commonly prescribed the birch for young women for a variety of offenses, and that the punishment was administered to their, er, naked posteriors. It was called the 'lower discipline. 'Men got the so-called 'upper discipline', a flogging across the back. Most villages had a town square and a birching block. The miscreant would have to kneel over the block, have her drawers lowered or her skirts removed, and she would be given the presribed number of strokes by some village official or constable, usually two or three dozen. Then she would be released."

"I see. That's all very interesting but what does it have to do with me?"

"As I said, I've researched this quite a bit, but I need to be able to write with authenticity. To tell the story of these women. You see, the UK is not like America. Your states have reinstituted corporal punishment for many offenses. We have not, but Parliament is considering it. My dissertation will bring home the shame and the pain, the terror these poor women felt when it was their turn over the block. To be led out in a thin muslin top and drawers to the jeers of the crowd, to be manhandled and tied face down, to have your drawers removed so that all could watch your bare bottom dance while it is whipped without mercy by a town constable..."

She was really getting worked up here. It was like she had the floor in the House of Commons.

" you see I want to describe this with accuracy. But, I feel that in order to properly describe what these women felt, I, well...I need to feel what it was like myself." There was an awkward silence. She smoothed her hands against her skirt waiting for my reaction.

"You mean," I said incredulously, "you want..."

"Allison said you could be trusted--that you were firm and kind and completely understanding about these things. There was no one I knew, no boyfriend. And even if I had one he might think me daft. Here," she said opening the tube, "this is a real birch. I made it myself." She drew out a sheaf of thin switches, about a dozen or so, tied with a ribbon. The switches were peeled of all leaves and buds and the whole rod was about two feet long. I gripped it by the handle. It was light and flexible. The tips of the switches fanned out at the end to a width of about 4".

"Madeline, do you know what you are asking? A whipping with a birch rod like this would sting like blazes. It might leave weals and stripes. You won't sit comfortably for a week."

Madeline attempted a nervous laugh. "That's what my father used to say before a good smackbottom." She rubbed her buns in mock distress for effect. A good smackbottom, huh? The thought of Madeline across a masculine knee enduring a good smackbottom was a juicy thought.

"If you are sure..." I was hesitant, but this bizarre request was throwing my arousal state into high gear.

"I am," she said, resolve in her voice.

"I'm floored. I don't know what to say. But I tell you what. I'll do it. You say this is an essential part of your research. I believe you...and because of Allison you trusted me. So, how shall we begin?"

"I-I wish to change first. May I use the loo?"

"Be my guest." She went into the bathroom. Good God, the lady wants a birching. I couldn't believe it. Was there something in the water in Charlottesville? I decided to get comfortable so I took off my shirt, leaving me barechested in dark woolen slacks. I didn't look like a middle-ages town beadle, but hopefully the effect was close enough.

Madeline emerged in a cotton top-- a vest or camisole I think they call it, and long white cotton drawers like pantalettes. "I wanted to look the part. What do you think?"

"You look beautiful," I said. And she did. Her breasts strained the thin top. Her nipples were hard. The drawers were snug and her luscious derriere was plainly visible through the thin cotton.

"I'm supposed to be a petty criminal, Rollin, so you must now take charge." She stood, hands at her side, awaiting my command.
I pulled the pillows off the bed and stacked two of them at the foot.

I held the rod across my body in both hands. Had to get into my role here. "Madeline Smythe, you have been covicted of petty theft and for this you will receive one doz--"
Madeline quietly interrupted. "Two Dozen"
"Two dozen strokes of the rod. To be delivered as lower discipline across your bared, er, bottom. Assume the position across the pillows."

Madeline laid face down over the pillows causing her lovely nates to jut up nicely. She turned her head to the side and gripped the bedspread with her hands. Her toes dug into the carpet. Her ass, round and vulnerable was presented for punishment. One more thing. I laid the rod down and slid my fingers into the waistband of the drawers. She lifted a little and I eased the flimsy garmet down baring her lovely moons. The pale globes were beautifully framed by the lowered pantalettes. I took a stance to her left and tapped her bottom with the switches. "This will hurt. Are you ready?"

"Yes. I am. Go ahead, birch me like I was a village slut," she growled huskily. I swooshed the rod down and it whined through the air, striking with a dry hwickkk! sound. Her bottom globes flattened then sprang back with a wobble. She hissed, a sharp intake of breath through her teeth. Swissshhh...hwick! Her bottom danced again, another brief wobble. This time she emitted a little grunt like "hunnhh." Faint red lines appeared.
Swish...thwick! "Oooohhh!"
Swish...hwick! "Nhhh...ahhh!"
I developed a cadence, the strokes coming about ten seconds apart. She mewled in pain. She bucked. She scissored her legs. More thin red lines appeared across her fanny. All the while I whipped the wobbling rounded globes with firm deliberate strokes.
Swish...thwick! "Ow---hoooo."
Swick! "Ow! Nunnnhhh." Right across the crowns of her lush sit spot.
The birch whined again...and struck. "Oh! God that hurts. Whew!"
She tensed and pressed her body into the pillows as each lash fell. I finished one dozen. Hwisshh...thwick! Number thirteen.
"Owww! Ooh, ooh." She writhed, humping her hips up and down as if that could relieve her agony. It just made her buttocks jiggle lasciviously. More vocal now. Good thing I had the TV on. She was writhing now. I guess she did look like a 16th century peasant girl, bent over the block, buttocks bare and writhing from the judicious application of the birch on the lovely cheeks. The red lines had now diffused, making her ass a hot pink color. It would get hotter.

I wondered if she could stay down and take it. I wanted to go easy on her, but I knew she did not want that. She wanted a real birching, so I laid the strokes on with deliberate firmness. The dry thwick! sound of the switches impacting jiggling female fanny was not especially loud, but it was sharp and distinct.

By nineteen her behind was flaming red and she was gasping and clenching the bedclothes tight with every lick. It must be taking all her willpower, I thought, to keep from bolting upright and massaging her tortured bottom. I gave her the last five quickly, increasing the force of my stroke with each one. She practically came up off the bed.
Thwick! Huick! Swish...whick! Whuck! Swick!
"Oh...ow!...ah!...yeowwww!...yowwwww!" She screeched, lifting her upper body on her hands, throwing her head back, and pressing her pelvis down into the pillows..

"It's over. That's twenty-four, Madeline."

"Oh, thank God," she moaned. She lay still for a moment then pushed herself up. She stood, eyes closed, gritting her teeth and rubbing her tender buttocks.
"My God, that really stung! Oh!"
"Do you have any cold cream? Perhaps that would help," I said anxiously. I detected some tears.
"In my handbag," she said with a sniffle.

I grabbed the jar in her bag and sat on the bed. "Here, lie over my knee."
She nodded and prostrated herself over my left knee, her upper body on the bed. Her buttocks were hot to the touch and striated with thin lines, weals left by the switches. I put a generous dollop of cold cream on each cheek and gently rubbed it in.
"Oh, oh, yes, that's better," she breathed.
As I continued she relaxed and it began to look as though the pain were subsiding.
"You know, that showed a great deal of fortitude to take that."

"Thank you," she said, "and thank you for not backing off. I needed to really know, you know? Even though it hurt like Hades."

"Whippings hurt," I said, the voice of experience. I continued to rub the cream in, kneading her buttocks in slow lazy circles. She made little noises, almost like purring. It wasn't deliberate but as my fingers spread the cream into the delicate fold between buttock and thigh, I felt something wet and slippery. Her sex wet and glistening with fluid. She gently humped her mound against my thigh as I rubbed. Then she parted her legs slightly. I let my fingers fall on the lips of her slick pussy. "Yes, please," she said in a small voice. I needed no further invitation. I slid my index finger into her hot canal and began to frig her gently.

"Oh...oh...oh, yes," she panted as I touched the bud of her clitoris and gently massaged it. I kept this up, fingering her slit and rubbing her clitoris until her up and down motion signalled that she was approaching climax. She sensed it too and abruptly raised herself off my lap and slid to her knees in front of me. She quickly unzipped my fly and reached in, feeling for my cock. She deftly pulled it out and slid her lips around the head. She was an accomplished fellatrix. She sucked slurped and swirled her tongue around the glans causing jolts of pleasure to shoot up my spine. I allowed her to do this for a few minutes then pulled her head back. I lifted her to her feet and pulled off my trousers completely. When I sat back down on the bed I pulled her to me. She opened her legs and straddled me, my hard penis sliding into her hot sheath like a greased pole. When she had settled her weight into my lap we began to move together, rocking gently at first, then faster. In a short time we were bucking furiously. I held onto her hips she hugged me, mashing her breasts into my chest until after a few minutes we came in a blinding mutual orgasm that left us both limp and breathless.

Afterward she said, "You must think me awful, but after that whipping I-I just..."

I held up my hand. "No need to explain. It's a normal reaction. I don't know if you should include that in your dissertation, though."

She smiled and nodded. Then she looked at the clock. "Oh my God, the lecture! Rollin, I have to go."

I said it was ok, I'd see her later, that is, if she wanted to...

She said yes, she'd like that very much, but that she had to go or she'd never get a seat. I advised her that she'd probably want to stand in the back anyway.

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