Story from Janus 37 by R.T. Mason
It was August. The sun burnt implacably down from a brassy sky, parching the Southern Italian landscape, sapping men’s efforts and energy. Outside the sun held sway but in the room in the ancient stone house, behind thick walls and closed shutters, it remained very cool. A cool retreat and also a very convenient one for the purposes of Don Stefano, the middle-aged country priest, who now in the early afternoon sat in this small room reading, and waiting for his first visitors.
For the house was joined to the back of the church — Santa Lucia — and could be discreetly entered by that route through a door otherwise kept locked. Discretion was something routinely sought by Don Stefano’s afternoon visitors — his female parishioners or their teenage daughters — as they came to do penance for sins they would not wish to be made public. Sins which typically involved some sexual transgression, for the local women were notably hot-blooded.
Perhaps, Don Stefano thought, it was different to more northerly cooler climes but here the women seemed to find it extraordinarily hard to resist the sins of the flesh. It had to be the sun. While it sapped men’s energies it seemed to produce an extra fire in the loins of the local women. It was always the same — I am sorry, Father, I could not help myself. The sun and the Devil. Fleshly sins could be properly dealt with only by chastising that same flesh, but, like the sin itself, this chastisement was not something the sinner ever wished to become public knowledge.
So discretion was doubly sought and Don Stefano did not deny it. What was important was that the sin was punished, that errant female flesh was properly chastised, female buttocks bared and offered up, for the sharply searing cut of the cane. And, as that most fleshly part of the sinner was vigorously scourged, so hopefully the Devil in the sinner’s flesh would therefore be subdued.
In Don Stefano’s eyes actual subjugation was a forlorn hope but at least the Devil could be kept in check. And for that purpose the priest came here in the afternoons to this quiet little room behind Santa Lucia in the little market town. Under the burning sun he rode the three miles from his village on his bicycle. The sun could never defeat Don Stefano.
There was soon a discreet knock at the door. The priest, who despite his grey hair, was still lean and athletic from those many miles on his bicycle, went to open it. Two women, or more correctly one and a girl, stood there. Elena Solari, bringing her fully-developed 17-year-old daughter Maria. Submissively they entered and he locked the door behind them.
It was not the first visit for the young but ripely fleshed Maria Solari. Her parents were keen to marry her off to a neighbour, a bachelor in his forties who enjoyed the relative affluence of owning his own smallholding. Though very interested in Maria he had as yet made no firm commitment and in the meantime the girl, who clearly had to remain a virgin, was showing every sign that her ripe body was ready and eager to be sampled. In particular, though strictly forbidden to, she had been out with a number of the local boys.
It was the latest of such escapades which had brought her to Don Stefano this afternoon. She was still virgo intacto — her mother had grimly determined that — but another salutary caning from the priest, and she’d had several already, was obviously called for.
The room was quite small and now seemed full with the arrival of the two newcomers, but there was space enough for what had to be done. Don Stefano told the mother to be seated in an upright leather chair to the side — then sat himself sideways on to the desk and told the girl to stand right in front of him. And then to bare herself.
Maria, as always in this situation, felt a tremor of excitement. Don Stefano might be a priest but he was also a man, a not unattractive one, and having to bare herself in front of him made her blood run just a little faster. There was also the thought of what was to come when she was bare. Don Stefano’s cane. That, undoubtedly, would make her blood run a little faster too.
It was Maria’s fourth such visit to the priest. Her father used his leather belt on her bottom but the priest was the only man to have caned her. The first time had been six months before, when her mother found out about that boy, Giorgio. That time she had been terrified, about to get the cane for the first time — but, in fact, because it was her first, Don Stefano hadn’t caned her all that hard. Not as hard as the subsequent two times. Not as hard as he would today. She shivered.
Maria’s hands were fumbling at the waist of her skirt, undoing the buttons, then the zip. She slipped down the full calf-length mauve skirt and stepped out of it. Underneath was a half-slip and she stepped out of that too. There was now only the pair of white knickers, tight-fitting over womanly hips and bottom. She glanced at Don Stefano, then her hands went to the waistband of her knickers.
The knickers came straight down and off. Maria stood still and straight with her hands at her sides. Her face was flushed and her heart was racing. She was now as he required her for the caning. She still wore her white blouse, her thigh-length self-supporting black stockings and her flat shoes but from waist to mid-thigh she was naked.
Her full ripe hips and her equally ripe bottom were bare. And squarely in front of Don Stefano’s unblinking eyes, at the centre of her intimate flesh, was the luxuriant black tuft which those boys would get so excited about if only she would let them see it. Maria wondered if Don Stefano got excited by it. He became very red in the face at times.
Standing still and straight Maria received her lecture from the priest — on the sins of the flesh and the Devil’s perpetual desire to seduce young girls into his lustful ways. Don Stefano had said it all before, to this girl and to many others. His eyes flickered from the sensuously pretty face to the ripe foliage around her loins. She was without doubt a prime target for the Devil’s desires, and he would have to ensure that the cane really bit in. Much harder than before.
It was for her own good — but equally Don Stefano knew he would get pleasure from the act. But that was merely the pleasure of doing his priestly duty. He finished his monologue and then stood up. Maria was told to get down over the seat he had vacated.
She felt the dryness in her mouth and her body trembling as she did as she was told. Head down near the floor and plump, ripe young buttocks thrust up high. The priest’s cane tap-tapped at her legs and she obediently parted them as wide as she could, her knees straight. Maria waited, conscious of her mother looking on. Don Stefano positioned himself and then raised the cane.... CRACK!..
Square across the ripest part of the buttocks, a flesh-juddering cut that was distinctly worse than anything Maria had received before. It brought an involuntary gasping grunt, a desperate clenching of the buttocks, as she fought to come to terms with the knifing pain.
The priest waited, until the now red striped bottom was almost still. Then he raised the cane again.
Equally as hard, it splatted the resilient flesh close below that first red stripe. The gasp this time was half a shriek. It was murder! She couldn’t take many like this!
CRACK!.. The third stroke struck lower, just above the tops of Maria’s thighs, an excruciatingly sensitive region and she almost toppled off the chair in her reaction. Don Stefano ran his hand lightly over his brow. Despite the cool room it was hot work for he was using all the strength in his arm. That, though, was not the only reason for his perspiration; there was also that nerve-tingling excitement when caning the ripe bottom of a young girl. Not a sinful excitement of course, the priest quickly reminded himself, but the excitement of dealing with the Devil.
CRACK!.. Once more the thick rattan bit into the quivering youthful flesh.
He gave her ten strokes in all on that luscious round rump and, at the end of it, the pretty girl, tears coursing down her hot flushed face, did not know which end was up. She got up off the chair and hopped from foot to foot rubbing her tortured rear. Watched by her mother and the priest she fumblingly replaced slip and skirt and then, very gingerly, her white cotton knickers. One could almost see the heat radiating out of them.
‘I hope I shall not need to see you here again!’ the priest told her sternly. Still crying, the girl vigorously shook her head. But the experience of Don Stefano was that she would be back. The pain in her bottom would die away and be forgotten, at least temporarily, in the face of ardent male blandishments.
Wiping her eyes, Maria had a muttered word with her mother and then went outside to catch the bus home on her own, for her mother had further business with Don Stefano which she would not discuss. Her day’s tribulations were not over, for there was still her father. Maria knew that, this evening, he would want to reinforce the lesson administered by the priest.
Maria’s exit left Elena Solari alone with Don Stefano. They exchanged a brief word about the girl and the desirability of getting her marriage arranged as soon as possible, but that was not the reason Signora Solari had stayed behind. She would not wish to disclose the fact to her daughter, but Elena had a penance of her own to do. The priest’s cane had not yet finished its work.
Don Stefano gave a muttered instruction and Elena went to re-lock the door. At 35 she remained a very attractive woman, a somewhat more mature version of her daughter, but with face still handsome, shoulder-length hair still glossily chestnut, and ripe breasts and buttocks still taut and firm. A ripe and responsive body which, it seemed, could not always be controlled and kept strictly for the sanctity of the marriage bed. It was that implacably burning sun, Don Stefano told himself, forever heating up a woman’s loins. That pagan sun and the Devil.
In Elena Solari’s case — her most recent case — it was a tourist she had chanced to meet on a country road. An American who, without any great difficulty it seemed, had been able to persuade the 35-year-old matron to walk with him to some nearby woods and there engage in the act of sexual intercourse.
As she now stood in front of him in the little room Don Stefano made Elena repeat all the details — what the man had done, what she had done, the precise position they had adopted for their illicit coupling. Unblinking eyes on the scarlet-faced woman, the priest felt his blood stirring. The Devil never slept. When he had got the last detail out of her he told Elena to take all her clothes off.
Hands at the bodice of her knee-length blue dress, unbuttoning, the dress then lifted up over her head and off. The white petticoat, worn in spite of the heat on Sundays and for visits such as this, was removed in similar manner. There remained only tight white cotton knickers and black, self-supporting stockings, like her daughter’s, plus a white nylon bra enclosing her full creamy breasts. Elena hesitated, glancing at the priest, then slid down her knickers before unclipping and removing her bra. She now stood naked apart from stockings and shoes, full, firm rosy-nippled breasts pointing at the priest.
Eyes firmly fixed on the nude body, on the jutting breasts and the thickly tufted mons veneris, Don Stefano delivered his homily — on the sin of adultery and fornication. Elena heard it as she had heard it before, standing straight and still, hands at her sides. She tried to concentrate but she was thinking now of the American greedily thrusting hard into her — and then of Don Stefano’s cane which would shortly be searing her bottom, as it had Maria’s. The priest’s voice droned on.
He finally stopped and rose from his chair... and half hypnotised by the droning voice in the still air, Elena nonetheless moved forward and bent her nude body over the seat of the chair... just as her daughter had done earlier. She lay waiting... one minute... two... and then the cane was slicing through the air.
Elena gave a gasping grunt as her daughter had done. The first stroke always came as a desperate shock. After the first you were, to a certain extent ready, on the right wavelength, but the first was always murder.
The strokes followed in a regular cadence. Elena was ready now but each one nonetheless knocked the breath from her lungs. Don Stefano was in fearsome form today. She remembered her daughter’s desperate tears. Elena, with more experience, had more control but the pain was indeed ferocious. He gave her ten, like Maria.
Elena stood, face scarlet, pulse pounding, the ten strokes on her ripe bottom and thighs now swollen purpling welts. She gave a sharp intake of breath as the priest ran his hand over them. He muttered something and Elena briskly assented. Yes Father, she would never sin again. In fact, she was at this moment wet between her legs, her body stimulated by the cane in spite of the pain, ready and eager for sex. The priest’s hand continued to stroke Elena’s inflamed flesh... and she was shocked to find herself wondering if he had an erection.
Outside the molten sun was high in the cloudless sky, its brightness washing out colour, reducing things to black and dazzling white. Elena was used to the heat but now in her aroused state it felt almost unbearable. While she waited for the bus, a man stood at the bus stop and seemed to sense the state she was in. He rubbed up against her, his hand rubbing and stroking her hot bottom. With difficulty she forced herself to move away.
Once at home she grabbed her husband, Franco, and pulled him into the bedroom. Without speaking she locked the door then pulled him down on the bed on top of her. They made love, Elena with that fierce desperation which the cane always induced in her, though she was careful to ensure that her husband did not get a look at the state of her backside.
Afterwards Franco asked about Maria. Fastening his trousers he said, grimly, ‘Well she’s in for a belting this evening!’
By 8 o’ clock Franco had finally finished his work in the fields. He washed his face and arms, put on a clean shirt, then went to look for his daughter. She was in the living room leafing through a magazine but with her mind only half on it, the rest centred on the matter of her father’s belt. She looked up with frightened eyes as Franco entered.
‘Upstairs!’ he ordered tersely.
Maria obediently got to her feet. Her mother watched impassively, remembering when she herself was 17. Maria was just like her. She had also received the belt from her father and a whipping from the priest and her schoolmaster, but none of it had ever stopped her going out with boys. Elena waited, listening for the inevitable sound of anguished cries.
Upstairs in her bedroom, Maria stripped nude in front of her father, her body hot with fearful anticipation. His belt on top of the cane weals would be unbearable. Meekly she turned to present her bottom. The ten stripes were now an almost puce colour.
‘If I find out you’ve been out with boys again I’ll beat you so hard you won’t sit down for a month! Is that clear?’ her father barked.
Maria whispered, ‘Yes, Papa.’
He put an arm around her bare waist, his voice now softer. ‘You know, you’ll want to marry Bruno — then you’ll be nicely set up for life. So be sensible; he won’t want you if you’ve been out with all the boys in the district.’
‘Yes Papa,’ she said quietly. Bruno was all right; he was a man and the thought of being married was exciting. But that didn’t stop her thinking about Giorgio — or indeed her embraces with lots of other boys.
Franco ran his hand down over the quivering cane-striped bottom. She was a lovely girl, and he loved her dearly, and what he had to do was undeniably for her own good. She knew he would always complete the punishment the priest had initiated. He told her to lie across the bed.
Her father had placed a pillow at the edge of the bed and Maria lay across it, the pillow under her hips so that her bottom was prominently raised. Franco unfastened his belt, wrapping the buckle end round his hand to leave a foot and a half of three inch wide leather dangling free. He slapped it against his palm, and told Maria to straighten her legs. She complied and lay submissively still, no movement except a trembling of her haunches.
The belt was raised and brought whistling down. A crack like a firework as it curled around Maria’s soft flesh. She let out a yelping cry; the pain was murderous, though her father, conscious of the state of her bottom, had not struck her with anything like full force. The beautiful young bottom wriggled and danced in a despairing effort to shake off the pain.
Down in the room below, Elena heard her daughter’s anguished cries — spaced at about 30 second intervals. Eight in all. She gave a shiver. If Franco found out about the state of her own bottom and then discovered the reason, it would be she who would be ordered upstairs — and getting something which would make what he was meting out to Maria seem like love taps. Elena’s safety lay only in her husband’s ultra-conventional approach to love making.
He was a good man but..... she sighed and then shivered again. She thought of the stranger at the bus stop who had fondled her bottom and wondered if he would be there tomorrow. Tomorrow when, as always, that infernal sun would be beating down producing the stirring in her loins she could not resist, just like her daughter and all the other women. But Don Stefano would be there, as ever, doing his best to stem the tide.