‘Oh, come on,’ I protested, but when a man of six foot two and powerful build comes towards you with a willow switch, resistance tends to be futile. I bent back over, wincing as abrasive cloth made close contact with punished flesh once more. ‘You aren’t going to use that on me again, are you?’ I muffled from my inglorious position.
‘No, no. Plenty of that to come later.’ His hand landed on one stretched globe. I hissed a little and wondered if he could feel the heat through the heavy-duty fabric. ‘Nice and warm,’ he remarked. ‘What about further down?’ The hand flipped sideways and slipped between my thighs, forcing me to spread them a little. His fingers probed at the seam, finding it damp and hot.
‘Oooh.’ The friction of it against my swollen clitoris was wonderful, cancelling out the burning soreness above. All it would take was a cursory rub and I would ...
‘It’s a shame about that clause they introduced after the execution of Charles I,’ he said sympathetically, moving his fingers away and pressing his erection into my bumcrack.
‘What ... clause?’ I whimpered, longing for him to hoist down my jeans and ram that thick length into me.
‘No relief until the ritual is complete,’ he murmured into my ear. ‘You are going to have to wait ’til after midnight before you get that itch scratched, love. Shame, because I’m as hard as a rock. Still there’s nothing to stop you sorting me out in the rules ... as far as I remember ...’
I was grateful for something to take my mind off my own need, so I dropped to my knees, unzipped him and sucked him dry in the dappled shade of the willows, his moans of ecstasy covered by birdsong and the gentle rustle of the leaves.
It was hard to concentrate on the festivities after we returned to the fête. Every step I took caused my jeans to chafe against the switch marks, which were now only mildly sore, but they served to inflame much more than the area they decorated, so that I spent the afternoon in a torment of frustrated lust. So intense was the longing awakened by the earlier experimenting that I began to look forward to my midnight humiliation. Every adult who crossed my path would later be examining my backside, watching me whipped. Several came over to our table in the beer garden and commented on the chosen willow wand, which lay blatantly across the wooden surface, surrounded by pints of cider and half-empty crisp packets.
I longed for a soothing glass of the fermented apple beverage, but Evan told me that the consumption of alcohol was forbidden, in case I should numb any of the sensation that was coming to me. I put a hand on his well-muscled thigh and began to stroke it suggestively beneath the table, moving upwards, hoping he would forget the stupid damn rule and take me behind the church hall for a knee-trembler anyway. But he closed one hand over mine and said, ‘Somebody really does need that spanking if she’s thinking of breaking the rules.’
I had to clench my teeth and my pussy both in order to get through the mask judging and brass band recital. I sat squishing in my own juices on the hard wood bench while my nipples dimpled my T-shirt, watching the sun drop, agonisingly slowly, towards the crest of the horizon.
At dusk the children began disappearing, one by one, to their beds. Wooden stakes, to act as torches, were driven into the village green, surrounding it with flaring firelight, and I watched as the area was prepared, not sure whether to be aghast or excited.
‘We’d better get you prepared,’ said Evan, once the church clock struck ten and the last few juveniles were packed off home.
‘Prepared?’
‘It’s all part of the fun,’ he said with a smile that had an edge of nervousness about it. He was worried I might back out, I realised. ‘Nothing to worry about. Come on.’
As soon as we stood, heads began turning, nudges were exchanged. Evan walked me up to a pleasant cottage on the fringe of the village, a place I had passed before without knowing who lived there, though I had admired the honeysuckle that curled around the door and windows.
It was opened by the same elderly lady who had given me advice in my tea shop – Evan’s great aunt.
‘Oh,’ I said, in mild surprise.
‘Ah, Faith,’ she said with a benign smile. ‘We are all ready for you. Please come in.’
In the low-ceilinged living room, a group of village elders had convened. They stood drinking sherry amongst the horse brasses and overstuffed cushions, looking for the most part vaguely embarrassed to be there.
‘Faith, I just want to say on behalf of the village that we very much appreciate what you are doing tonight,’ opened the ringleader, a tweedy ex-colonel type with a beetroot complexion. ‘Jolly good of you. I can assure you, you will be well thought of for this.’
‘Thanks ... no problem,’ I said awkwardly, feeling like a museum exhibit, which, in a way, I was. A living bloody folk legend.
‘Well, then,’ said Great Aunt breezily. ‘Shall we get on? Faith, dear, we shall need you to undress, if you don’t mind.’
If I don’t mind?
‘I have to do this naked?’
‘No, no. You just need to be washed with the waters of the river, and then robed. It’ll take two ticks, dear, that’s all.’
Her reassuring tone hypnotised me, and before I had time to think, I was pulling off my T-shirt, then lowering the jeans I had been wanting to lose all afternoon.
‘Can’t I keep my underwear on?’ I asked, standing on the hearthrug in knickers and bra.
‘I’m afraid not. Don’t worry. These people aren’t going to hurt you. They are all good people.’
I deliberately shunned the faces of the half-dozen village dignitaries, reaching around to unhook my bra.
‘Now your knickers, dear,’ prompted Great Aunt gently. I pulled down the thong and stood, bare and vulnerable, on display in the tiny room.