Bratfinder General

Author's Note:

My entry for Literotica's Halloween 2026 contest is something a bit different for me - a 17th century folk horror pastiche, set in rural England, inspired by The Crucible, Wicker Man and The Blood on Satan's Claw.

Think Witchfinder General, if the only heresy on trial was having a bratty attitude.

All characters are consenting adults.

If you enjoyed it, a competition vote would be greatly appreciated - thank you for reading.

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The girl squealed as the blow jarred her shoulders against the stocks that held her firmly. I paused to survey the scene. The entire population of Little Snareswick were gathered in the village square. The girl's shoulders heaved as she sobbed. Her brown hair hung over her pretty face. "Please..."

I smiled cruelly, looking down to observe the criss-cross of welts covering her rear. My smile widened, just slightly, as I lifted the rod to administer a further blow, noting that her privities were wet in spite of her tears. "Thou shalt confess. Now. To your kith and kin. And repent."

The girl lifted her face to the crowd. Tears of shame streaked her face. "I confess. I made a compact with darkness..."

I weighed the birch rod in my hand again. "And...?"

"It is true. I confess I engaged in brattish behavior. But... I wish to repent... to be saved... please mistress... save me..."

A rotten tomato smacked against the stocks directly beside her head. I stepped aside to avoid the fusillade of vegetables that followed. I conferred with the minister and the magistrate, then strode to the meeting house door where I affixed the written confession I had extracted from the girl that morning. "The true and complete confession of Abigail Morton, 19 years old." Below the litany of offences to which she had admitted was my counter-signature: "Mistress Beatrix Thorne, Bratfinder General to the Crown"

It is the Year of Our Lord 1646. England is at war with itself. Great plagues ravage the population. And across the hinterlands of the country young women give themselves over to the scourge of brattishness.

I didn't have time to remain in Little Snareswick. I had a further summons to answer. I ventured westward into the fenlands, an endless, near treeless landscape of marsh and broad, peopled by godless heathens who believed in bog spirits and devil dogs. A grotesquely carved turnip sat on a gate post as I approached my destination: Blackfen St. Osyth.

I swung my rod as I walked, and I pondered how I had arrived here, smirking to myself. My reputation preceded me. The first woman to practice law in East Anglia (untrue), holder of a doctorate in divinity (also untrue), working on behalf of the crown to root out brattiness (yet again, untrue). The fact is I was entirely self-appointed. But I was good at what I did. And I loved my work. I felt a pulse between my thighs as I remembered the girl in Little Snareswick and the marks I had left on her small pert posterior. Not to mention the techniques I had been required to employ in order to gain her confession. She was exactly the archetype I enjoyed. Skinny little scrubbers, eighteen to twenty years old. Saucy. Less clever and obdurate than they think they are. Which makes it even sweeter when they break for me.

Presently the squat spire of the village church emerged from the mist, a substantial flint building among the low thatched cottages. The heels of my boots sank into the ground as the path became muddier on the approach to the village. Water filled ditches lined each side of the path.

I had been summoned by the local minister, Reverend Crane. He had sent panicked word. The young women of the village were incorrigible. They required immediate correction.

I found him in the garden of his modest manse. The grass was flattened by the moisture and sodden dead leaves from the solitary ash tree growing in the garden, which was ringed by ugly white mushrooms.

The Reverend was a skinny furtive looking man, his greasy grey hair scraped over his balding pate. I watched as he ogled the cleavage visible at the top of my long black coat.

"Mistress. Praise the lord you are here. The village is in uproar. The young women... they are afflicted... gone wild... vulgarity, contumacy, wantonness... my flock are lost..."

He continued to babble, but I had ceased to listen. Instead I observed with curiosity a pale figure at the window of the manse. She stood stock still, observing me, her skin clear and unblemished, unlike the weathered hags I had witnessed as I had entered the village, her hair long and ash blonde. "Who is that?"

The Reverend glanced over his shoulder. "My daughter Verity. She is a good girl. Just turned eighteen the spring past. It is just the two of us. Her mother received God's Visitation when she was just a child. The pestilence." He sniffled self-pityingly. "I have confined her to the house and grounds until this lunacy abates."

I nodded to myself, before turning back to the Reverend. "You have quarters arranged for me?"

He nodded. "Yes in my own home."

"Very good. Who is the most gravely afflicted girl in the village?"

He pondered this for a moment. "It would be Mercy Hobbs. Or perhaps Grace Wicken."

"Which? Tell me about each of them..."

He flinched from the sharpness of my tone. "Mercy Hobbs was found unclothed in the broad yonder. Alone. At night. When challenged on this by her mother she let loose with a stream of invective that would have made satan himself blanche. Her mother is beside herself. She has caught Mercy climbing from her window in the night twice since then. Each time when reprimanded she lets loose with a string of profanity the likes of which I have seldom heard. The devil is truly in her at night..."

I considered this. "And the other girl?"

"Grace Wicken's mother found her attempting to lie down with her stepfather. She had been betrothed to be married. But she severed the arrangement with her intended in the cruellest, vilest manner imaginable."

I grinned inwardly. "You are to hold a sermon tomorrow morning. Spread word round the village. Ensure the Hobbs girl and any other of the afflicted are present."

He nodded.

"Now show me to my quarters. I have travelled far, and require my faculties to be fresh and fully functioning in the morn."

My room was spare. A bed, a simple nightstand, a dresser. A porcelain chamberpot below the bed, and a simple basin to wash in. I placed my bags beneath the bed, one filled with my personal effects, the other with the tools of my trade. On the wall a greasy cross shaped stain suggested a crucifix had once hung there. I looked out the small window into the autumnal gloom. The minister's daughter was in the garden, sweeping the church steps with a broom. Her simple white dress made her look like an apparition. The sound of her singing sweetly under her breath drifted up to my window. She was a truly beautiful creature.

I removed my hat, my cape and my long black coat. I unpinned my long sleek black hair, and let it fall loose round my shoulders. I caught my reflection in the small mirror above the dresser. A wide mouth with full lips that naturally lent themselves to a smirk rather than a smile. A sharp jawline and high cheekbones, and blue eyes best described as icy. Beneath the coat, all I wore was my bodice, straining against my pendulous breasts, and my high boots, now encrusted with mud and loam.

I loosened my bodice as I watched the girl. So pure and innocent looking. But I was sure beneath it all a brat, just like the rest of them. I imagined what was underneath the dress. My hand strayed to my nether regions, the heat and dampness there confirming the effect the girl was having on me.

I lay myself on the bed and ran my fingers through the dank, warm folds of my cunny, feeling the little nub there harden. I circled my fingers on it, using my other hand to delve into the wetness beneath, imagining the Crane girl, at my mercy, confessing all. I grabbed my birch rod from beside the bed and rubbed it against myself, imagining it coming down on the girl's behind, slapping against her thighs, trailing between her legs... I climaxed with a gasp, slumping back onto my bed.

The next morning I found myself seated beside Reverend Crane at the lectern. Beside me was an additional empty seat.

It was a very poor church. Pews of unfinished wood. A single small stained glass window showing the ascension of Christ and gaps in the flint wall so big that the mist outside seemed to seep in, adding to the murk and dimness, which seemed to leech the colour from the people themselves.

The Reverend gave an uninspired sermon, declaring that Satan walked among us now, but the grace of god had delivered me to them. I wasn't listening. My eyes were on the incongruous figure in the front row.

Verity Crane stood out amongst the other villagers. Today she wore a simple white and cornflower blue dress, which complimented her porcelain skin and wide blue eyes. She looked luminescent when contrasted with those around her. She sat perfectly still, unblinking, with her hands folded chastely on her lap as her father spoke. Her willowy figure glowed with an innocent beauty that caused something to curl in my stomach as I remembered ravishing myself the previous evening.

My reverie was broken as the Reverend stepped down from the lectern and gestured for me to replace him.

I nodded graciously and stepped up.

"Thank you Reverend. People of Blackfen St. Osyth, Minister Crane is correct. A pernicious force walks among you today." I paused to let them digest this. "Where is Mercy Hobbs?"

There was some murmuring from further back in the hall. I located the source of it, a pew near the back. A whispered conversation was taking place, then one of the parties involved suddenly hissed loudly "No mother, I shan't!"

I smiled wryly. "Mercy Hobbs I presume?"

The girl's face turned ashen.

"Stand!"

She did as commanded. She was a petite girl with a large bosom, threatening to brim over the top of her dress, wide hips and long curly light brown hair that fell loose round her shoulders. Her large light green eyes were filled with resentment. She was no Verity Crane, but I was sure I could have fun with her.

"Come here girl."

She awkwardly shuffled along the pew and towards the podium. As she approached I gestured to the empty chair next to the minister. She sat gracelessly.

I regarded her coolly and turned to the congregation. "Forgive this innocent. She has been tempted away from the light. But with my help we can divert her from the path of brattishness she has chosen to follow..."

Mercy seemed to have gotten over her initial panic and was now pouting sullenly at her audience.

"First she must realise the wrongs she has done." There were murmurs from the pews.

I widened my eyes. "Tell her!"

A general accusatory hubbub now arose. "... naked in the trees...", "... told me to bugger off...", "... swore and cursed at me...", "fluttering her lashes at my husband...", "... called me an old whore..." I watched as the vitriol from the mob settled on Mercy, her composure cracking again. Just as they reached fever pitch I rapped my rod on the lectern. The crowd fell quiet.

"The girl's tongue is clearly possessed by some malevolent, brattish spirit." I looked down at her benevolently. "Do not fear sweet Mercy, God sees your plight and has sent me to help you. Stand up please."

The girl scowled at me and made no move to stand. I shook my head sadly. I reached down to my bag, which I had set down behind the lectern and removed an object which I brandished to my audience.

A leather mask, almost a helmet, set on a metal frame. I tilted it so the audience could see the interior - a bridle bit, with a rough metal nub on the underside extended from the mouth into the mask.

I could tell from the puzzled expressions of the villagers that they had never seen a set of branks before.

I moved behind Mercy. "Do not move girl." I hissed in her ear, taking the opportunity to peer down her substantial cleavage.

I addressed the congregation. "This is a Scold's Bridle. This will stem the flow of effluence emitting from this wench while I decide how best to drive the brat from her."

Without further preamble I slid the device over her head, roughly forcing the bit into her mouth, pinning her tongue in place.

Mercy shrieked, but the bit muffled the sound. I quickly tightened the straps on the rear of the mask, securing it firmly in place, before fastening the metal lock.

I heard gasps from my shocked audience. The Reverend had turned even more pale than usual.

I stood behind her smiling with satisfaction as the crowd took in the grotesque muzzle. A trickle of drool oozed from her mouth.

"Now that we have silenced the brattish spirit, I can begin my tests. But first we must frustrate her brat tongue." I turned to the minister. "I will begin the tests this evening. Until then have her secured to the tree in the garden. This will chasten her somewhat and serve as a warning to the other bratty spirits roaming this village."

The minister gestured to two of the burlier members of the congregation. They each grabbed one of Mercy's arms and hauled her down the aisle and out the door of the church.

The congregation were now silent. They looked at me rapt. I decided to finish with a flourish. "Make no mistake. The village of Blackfen St. Osyth is besieged on all sides by forces of darkness at this present moment. But I come to you holding a torch to illuminate this darkness and root out the bratty creatures that lurk within it. Now you have a choice. You can bind yourself to God's holy light and join me in driving these brattish forces from this fen forever." I paused for dramatic effect. "Or languish in this darkness until it overwhelms your village. Do not protect these perpetrators of brattishness. Do not let them trick you with their wanton smiles and whispered promises. We must expose them and watch their brattishness wither under the fierce light of our Lord. Thank you."

I stepped off the podium. As the Reverend dismissed the townsfolk I stole another glimpse at Verity as she stood to leave.

At dinnertime I led the Reverend into the garden.

Verity was sitting crocheting in front of the fireplace. I had watched her for several hours under the pretence of reading my bible. She worked diligently, singing gently as she did, some old folk song:

"She leant herself against a thorn,

Alone, alone and aye alone,

And there her babes were cruelly born,

Down by the greenwood, all alone"

My plan was two fold. I intended to get to the bottom of Mercy Hobbs' behaviour. A swift correction would establish my effectiveness amongst the villagers and strike fear into any who dared question my methods.

Then the Wicken girl. I would make an example of her. By the time I was done the village would quake in my presence. That was when I would extract my fee and move on to my next calling.

Mercy Hobbs was shivering when we reached her. The congregants had chained her to the tree with her hands behind her back. A thin rain had fallen throughout the afternoon. I could make out the full curves of her breasts through her thin dress and the smock beneath. Someone had written "bratt" on her chest in charcoal. Her eyes remained defiant though.

"Bring her inside. Clean her up and bring her to my room." The Reverend undid the chain. Mercy groaned from within the bridle. I turned and walked inside, not looking back.

Fifteen minutes later there was a gentle knock at the door of my room. I opened it. Verity stood there looking up shyly. She had tied her hair into a simple plait at some point since I last saw her. Mercy stood behind her, now wearing what was presumably one of Verity's dresses. It was far too tight for her.

Verity bowed her head as she spoke to me. "My father asked me to remind you that dinner will be served at six o'clock." It was the first time she had spoken to me.

I shook my head. "I cannot promise that I will join you. My work will likely take me deep into the night... and due to its nature it may be noisy." I glanced at Mercy and leered.

Verity pretended not to see this and nodded obediently. "Very good. I shall tell my father." She turned to leave. As she did she glanced at Mercy. Just for a second their eyes met, then Verity looked down again and proceeded down the stairs.

I had earlier brought a hard wooden chair from the hallway into the room and beckoned Mercy to sit. I sat on the edge of the bed and faced her.

"Oh dear girl. What a dreadful predicament to find thineself in." I shook my head at her disappointedly. She tried to say something through the bridle. Spit trickled from her mouth.

"I expect you want that off?" I asked rhetorically. She nodded frantically.

"First, you must understand. You will not be leaving this room until I have a full confession from you. Attesting to the brattish devils that have possessed you, detailing your vile and wanton behaviour, implicating any who have conspired with you. I will drive the brattishness from you this night. You will obey me. And tomorrow morning you will stand on the altar of the church - renewed."

She nodded desperately.

"Very well. Bow your head." She did as she was told. I undid the lock and the buckles, loosening the bridle before lifting it off her head.

She was breathing hard as the bit left her mouth. "My tongue...!" she lisped. A pitiful trickle of blood merged with the saliva bubbling at the corner of her mouth.

I shook my head. "A scratch. It will soon heal." I stood in front of her and removed my coat, dropping it on the floor. She took in the nakedness of my cunny, which I shaved as a man would his moustache, and my full breasts spilling from my bodice.

"Now Mercy. I am going to tell you a story. Not one from the bible." I circled her, tangling my hand in her curly hair as I passed behind her. She looked disoriented. This was too easy. "Once there was a small girl. In a village not far from here, just like this one. She was a brat." I crouched behind her and spat the last word into her ear. "But she was a clever brat. She knew her scripture. And she knew how to make people believe whatever she said. So she never got in any trouble..." I moved in front of her and stood looking down at her. "Unlike you... She grew older and smarter yet. She left her village and travelled, never changing her bratty ways. But she realised... she understood little bratty sluts..." I was behind her again. "Just like you..."I reached down and squeezed her breasts, which the undersized dress barely contained. She let out a long breath. "And she enjoyed them..." I massaged her big paps, squeezing her nipples hard through the thin fabric. She squeaked. "So she thought hard about it, and she found a job where she could have access to little brats like you all the time. And where she could do whatever she wanted with them..." I released my grip on her breasts and stood beside her chair, facing the bed.

Mercy had a look of disbelief on her face. "But you work for the king..."

I shrugged. "How is your tongue?"

She seemed confused by this. "Sore?"

"I have just the cure. Lie on the bed." She looked at me with a mixture of bewilderment and defiance. I knitted my hand in her hair suddenly and wrenched her forwards. "Now!"

She stumbled forward and sprawled onto the bed. Before she could move I was upon her. I straddled her chest, pinning her to the bed then lifted one leg, so I crouched above her, my cunny inches above her pretty, hateful face. "Stick out your tongue brat!"

She shook her head. I reached down and squeezed her cheeks hard. My blue eyes fixed her with a granite stare. "I won't ask again. Stick out your tongue."

This time she complied. She gave a muffled whine as I lowered myself onto her and ground my hips, savouring the friction. I pinned her head to the mattress by her hair and ground again and again, feeling my arousal grow steadily. I could have brought myself to climax easily, but I halted before the precipice. I clambered off her.

"If you are a good girl I can make this very easy for you..." I smiled wickedly.

"Fuck you, you... you... witch!" she wailed as she sat up.

My smile never left my face. "Take your dress off..."

She shook her head.

"Very well. I will go downstairs and tell the minister that you refused to be examined for the mark of the brat. Which can only mean you are hiding something..." I sighed. "At best they will cast you out. At worst..." I left this to her imagination.

She said nothing, but lifted the ill-fitting dress over her head.

She had a marvellous set of breasts, almost the equal of my own, and wide womanly hips.

I was going to enjoy this. "Get on all fours. I must examine you."

She complied. I ran my hands over her, starting at the nape of her neck and down the arch of her back. Up her soft flanks, which brought a moan from her, and over her rounded shoulders. Down her breasts, kneading them lightly, pinching at her nipples, then in circular movements over her abdomen. I felt her softening as I ghosted my hands over her buttocks and down her calves, before moving them whisper-soft up her inner thighs. I paused a fraction short of the heat I could feel radiating from her cunny.

"Now Mercy. You are going to tell me everything..." the girl had gone like jelly under my touch. She nodded. I rested my hand on her cunny possessively. Not massaging, not stimulating, just a reminder to her.

"What were you doing in the broad last week."

"Swimming" she whispered softly.

"Were you unclothed?"

She nodded and bit her lip. I moved my hand a tiny fraction.

"Why?"

She responded breathily. "The water on my skin... it feels so nice..."

"But you know it is wrong and unnatural? To bathe naked?"

She nodded. "Yes. But I didn't care. I needed to feel it."

I gave her cunny a deliberate rub. She shivered and sighed.

"You performed unnatural acts because you 'needed to feel it'?" I rubbed again. "Have you no control of yourself girl?"

She twitched and moaned. "I don't know what comes over me..."

I rubbed now more firmly, with a more rhythmic circular movement. She groaned. "Oh lord..."

"The lord isn't with you just now Mercy. Only me. And I am going to take your confession..."

I was rubbing her hard now. I could feel the wetness between her legs growing. I grabbed her hanging nipple and squeezed it hard. She cried out. "You have the brat in you Mercy. And only I know how to extract it..." I shifted behind her and smacked her rump hard, while still working my other hand against her. "Confess..."

Her voice strained. "I swam naked in the broad. When I thought no one was around I touched myself. But old Mr. Osgood saw me... I called him a lecherous pervert and told him to go to hell... owwww."

I slapped her ass hard. "More..."

"I saw Mr. Holt, the farmer, ogling me after sermon last week. I smiled and winked..." she groaned as I pushed two of my fingers inside her.

"Keep talking..."

"His wife saw. She came up to me... out in the fen... said they would find me floating in the broad..." she inhaled sharply as I hit a sweet spot she liked inside her "if she ever saw me looking at her man again..."

"And what did you do?"

She was panting hard now "I told her the reason he was looking was... oh lord... was because... was because..." she was close to the edge I could see "she was a dried up old hag... ooooooohhh." She collapsed forward as I brought her to climax, her face buried in the thin straw mattress.

As she lay panting on the bed I produced a ledger from my bag, along with a quill and a pot of ink.

The page was already filled in:

"The true and complete confession of Mercy Hobbs, aged 21, of the parish of Blackfen St. Osyth, on this 29th day of October in the year of Our Lord 1646, taken before Mistress Beatrix Thorne, Bratfinder General to the Crown:

I confess myself guilty of the following acts of brattishness, committed against God, my kin, and the good order of this parish:

That I have given myself to wantonness and vulgarity of tongue, cursing my elders and betters when corrected.

That I have gone about by night, unchaperoned and unclothed, in wanton disregard of modesty.

That I have refused lawful correction, answering with insolence and defiance.

That I have consorted with spirits of discord, inviting them where once there was obedience.

That I have taken unseemly delight in my own chastisement, and been slow to repent of it.

I confess this freely, and beg the correction of Mistress Thorne, that the brattish spirit within me be driven out.

Signed this day, in my own hand, or by my mark if I cannot write --"

I tossed the sheet at her and held out the quill. "Sign it..."

She took the quill, a look of confusion on her face.

I tapped the spot. "Put your mark there."

She traced a sloppy X in place of her signature. I snatched the quill away and signed it also, placing the paper on my nightstand.

I stood over her. She rolled onto her back on the bed.

"Thank you mistress..."

I looked down at her. "We're not done yet. For the bratty spirits to be truly banished, you must confess all."

She looked at me, her eyes wide. "But mistress, I have..."

I stared at her contemptuously. "Where were you going when your mother discovered you climbing out the window at night?"

She swallowed.

I picked my birch rod from the floor. "Who were you consorting with?"

She looked panicked, but said nothing. I grabbed her ankles roughly, pinned them together in my left hand and wrenched them upwards before she could react, exposing her posterior and the back of her thighs to me.

"Perhaps my little persuader will help loosen your tongue?"

I brought the rod down against the curve of her buttocks. She screamed.

"Who was it?"

She said nothing. I slapped the rod against her rear again, even harder this time. She cried out once more.

"I want names!"

Still no answer, still another stroke of the rod.

This time she screamed "Grace Wicken..."

I smacked her rump again for no good reason other than I was enjoying myself. "Grace Wicken?"

She nodded. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes streaming.

"Good girl..." I gently caressed the back of her thigh then brought the rod down on it without warning. She howled. "Who else?"

She clamped her lips shut. I spanked her with the rod again.

She was crying now. I could see her lips moving. "It was... it was..." I was so focussed on her I was only vaguely aware of the commotion outside.

Suddenly there was a frantic knock on the door. Then Verity Crane's voice, urgent. "Mistress Thorne... Mistress Thorne..."

I hauled my coat on and opened the door just wide enough to see her, deliberately blocking her view of the naked, sobbing girl on my bed.

"Please... come quick... the garden..."

I followed her downstairs, aware of the glow emanating from the garden. When she opened the door I saw it. The solitary ash tree was aflame. Men threw water. The Reverend stood before it. "My wife planted that tree" he mumbled. Verity went to his side.

I shook my head. "It is brattery. Nothing more, nothing less. Of that I am certain."

Once we had the Reverend back inside and becalmed in front of the fire I explained that Mercy Hobbs had confessed to being a brat.

I moved from the window where I had been watching as the smouldering remains of the tree slowly collapsed, and stood directly in front of him. "Reverend Crane. I know this has been a terrible shock. But it shows we are close to the source of this outbreak of brattishness. So you must stand in front of your parishioners tomorrow morning and you must warn them. For now is the time of greatest peril. The bratty devils know we are close. Mercy Hobbs will stand before your flock. She will confess and declare herself remedied. And she shall name others. Including whoever is behind this outrage." I gestured towards the window.

The Reverend nodded weakly. Verity hovered in the background. I couldn't help steal a glance at her.

When I returned to my room Mercy was still on the bed. She sat up when I entered and went to rise.

I stood directly in front of her, dropping my coat as I did. "Where do you think you are going?"

She sat mute.

"It is imperative that you remain here tonight, lest the bratty spirits redouble their efforts to possess you." I pushed her back onto the bed and crawled atop her. "It is the only place you are truly safe..." I bent and kissed her left breast.

The next morning I awoke early. Mercy was curled into my side, her head resting on my chest.

I rose from the bed and began my ablutions. Mercy sat up and watched.

I spoke to her as I cleaned myself, using the basin of water that had been left outside the door.

"This morning you will attend church with me girl."

She nodded solemnly.

"We will display your confession. And you will implicate this other girl. Then your penance for your sins will be complete and we can declare you remedied of your bratty ways in the eyes of God."

She smiled at this.

Presently a gentle knock came at the door. I opened it to see Verity on the threshold. She looked radiant in a white dress and an oat coloured shawl over her shoulders. "Breakfast will be served shortly, Mistress."

I frowned at her. "Very good. Could you proceed to Miss Hobbs' home and bring her Sunday Best here. She has an important role in today's sermon."

She nodded and walked off. I watched her pert buttocks wiggle as she walked away. At the top of the stairs she paused, looked back and gave a little smile.

On the dais, the minister looked like a shell of a man. He had barely slept, he had told me earlier. He mumbled and stuttered through a pedestrian sermon about false idols and popery, before turning his attention to the previous night's events. He railed against the heathens who had committed a crime against nature. He sounded hysterical. When he beckoned me forward I was relieved.

I stood quietly at the lectern saying nothing, gazing over the congregation, waiting for the chatter in the pews to die down. It was an effective trick; soon complete silence fell, and all attention was on me.

"Thank you ladies and gentlemen of the parish. Our campaign to rid this fair parish of the bratty spirits that afflict it reached a notable milestone last night. I come before you this morning with the signed confession of Mercy Hobbs." I brandished the paper overhead. "After an almighty battle, practically till dawn" I smirked internally at the image of Mercy lying beneath me, moaning incoherently in the early morning light as I feasted hungrily on her hot, damp womanhood. "I have tamed the bratty spirits that possessed this fine young lady and exorcised them!"

There was a murmur of excited approval from the floor. I gestured for Mercy to join me at the lectern, and beckoned her to speak.

"I was lost. A victim of the bratty spirits that possessed me. But Mistress Thorne has restored me. And she has persuaded me that I must turn towards the light and help others who have been afflicted." She started down the aisle between the pews still talking. "Like Grace Wicken."

She stopped beside a skinny, pretty girl with freckles and dark blonde hair.

Grace Wicken's mouth had contorted into a perfect O of pure outrage.

I nodded to the burly parishioners who seemed to be the enforcers. "Bring her to me." As they advanced on the furious looking girl I continued talking. "The rest of you, except the church elders may leave. Mercy Hobbs, you may rejoin your family."

I watched as the congregants filed out, Mercy Hobbs' mother embracing her as they left. Verity Crane hesitated in the front row; her father waved for her to go. Grace Wicken was deposited in front of me, her face still contorted with incandescent disgust.

I was going to enjoy this. I looked forward to breaking through her furious brattishness. "Miss Wicken... the allegations that have been made against you constitute some of the most egregious brattishness I have ever been privy to... attempting to lie with your own stepfather... disrespecting your own betrothed... and now poor Miss Hobbs tells me you were the driving force behind her own bratty behaviour... what do you have to say for yourself?" The church elders had winced at every beat of the tale.

She glared at me. "I have nothing to say to you."

I smiled coldly. "That attitude will do you no favours." I was sizing her up. She was a skinny slip of a thing. No match for me. I grabbed her by her throat and drove her back against the wall beside the stained glass window. I held her pinned there. A couple of the elders had risen to their feet in concern. "I intend to make an example of you Grace Wicken, so that others can see the wages of brattishness." I released my grip on her and took a step back. "Undress!"

She looked at me in utter disbelief. Reverend Crane spoke up, "I'm not sure if that is appropriate... this is consecrated ground."

I wheeled and glared at him, my eyes burning. "Consecrated ground upon which a coven of brats operates with enough impunity to burn a tree in the minister's own garden..." He looked like he was about to cry. I recalibrated my tone. "I must search her. For the brat mark..."

The Reverend went quiet. There were some murmurs among the elders.

I turned back to Grace. "Undress." She pouted sullenly, but lifted her dress over her head. Several of the older elders looked at their feet as she stood there at the pulpit in her petticoats and bodice. She made no move to remove the rest. Her gaze on me was burning. It made a little heat flare in my loins. This proud arrogant girl would be on her knees for me in no time. I moved behind her and yanked her petticoats down, before immediately starting to unlace the spiral of ribbon at the back of her bodice.

At length it fell on the floor too. She stood there just in her smock.

I took a step back. She looked tiny when stripped down, swallowed by the billowing garment. I roughly turned her to face the wall, then hauled the smock upwards. Her rear was firm and pert. I was delighted by it. I traced my fingernails up it as I lifted the garment higher, until I had pulled it fully over her head.

She stood facing away from the room, completely naked. I took her in. She was marvellous. Skinny and coltish, slim legs, a flat tummy, tiny paps capped with long pointed nipples, hardening in the cold. Her face was a picture; shame, disgust and pure hatred all melded together. I turned her again to face the room. She instinctively covered her breasts and her womanhood.

I addressed the room. "Now gentlemen. It may be uncomfortable, but we must examine this girl for the mark of the brat." I bent to my bag and removed a small implement. "This is my pricking needle, blessed by the bishop of Ely, prior to his unfortunate demise. I will use it to test the girl. The mark of the brat is impervious to the needle. It feels no pain and yields no crimson."

Grace looked at me incredulously. "You are not poking me with that..." she nodded at the long thin needle.

I pushed her towards the front of the podium. "Why would you say that... unless you have something to hide?" There was a murmur of agreement from the audience. "Surely a minor discomfort is nothing compared with the comfort of knowing we have driven out whatever spirit has made you the devil's brat?"

She went quiet. She knew my logic was unimpeachable.

"We shall begin." I stood behind her and pressed the needle into the skin of her upper right arm. She squealed with discomfort. Some of my audience flinched. I repeated this with her right forearm. Then the same on her left arm.

I moved to the back of her neck next. She screamed at this one. A little trickle of blood appeared. I licked my finger and dabbed it.

Next I pressed the needle against the side of her right breast. She screeched then cursed under her breath to the horror of her audience. This couldn't have been going better. "We must cease the trial and address this blasphemy immediately. There is only one suitable punishment."

I grabbed Grace roughly by the hair at the back of her head and dragged her to the first pew. Without warning I pushed her down so she was draped over the lap of an older man, with a long white beard. Her perky posterior pointed upwards at him.

He stammered. "Wh... what am I to do?"

I tried not to giggle at his discomfort. "Trial by spanking."

There was a ripple of shock from the crowd. The old man was agog. "I'm not sure I can..."

I widened my eyes. "So you condone it? This brattish blasphemy within the very walls of the parish church?"

He went to speak. I cut him off.

"It is a small wonder that brattery now runs wild in this district, if the very elders of the church let such extreme examples go unchecked..."

The man was going red in the face. Now I was purposely goading him. I stood with my hands on my hips and spoke in a sing-song voice.

"I wonder what goes on under your own roof if this conduct is deemed acceptable..."

He drew back and slapped Grace thunderously across her firm arse. She hollered.

My eyes twinkled. "Again. Don't stop!"

He smacked her again and again. Five hard rapid strikes. Her rear was reddening already.

"Enough." I crossed to him and grabbed Grace by the hair, dragging her upwards. I positioned her facing the front again. I took the needle and poked the side of her left breast. She grimaced but said nothing. I poked the sharp end against the hardened peak of her left nipple. She wailed. "You fucking bitch!"

I shoved her down onto the lap of the next man in the front row, a burly farmhand looking fellow. He required no instructions, as he commenced to smacking her venomously across her rear.

After a few strokes I pulled her up and resumed my testing. She held on longer, but twice more erupted in fury at me and twice more was spanked by an elder. By now I had reached the lower portion of her body. I knelt before her and parted her legs slightly, then started up her ankles and calves. None of the men were looking away now, although I noticed several sitting with their legs crossed. They were all complicit now. Grace to her credit had not wept a single tear. She was more durable than I perhaps gave her credit for.

As I reached her inner thighs I pressed the needle against her, but at the same time pressed a hidden button on the handle. As I pressed against her thigh the needle retracted inside the handle. It was pure sleight of hand. Grace did not flinch as she had with every previous poke. I pulled a face of wonderment, theatrically withdrew the needle and repeated the trick. My audience gawped, like the marks they were. "Gentlemen. The mark of the brat."

Grace looked disbelieving "What?!"

"You have the mark of the brat my dear." I frowned gravely. "It can be redeemed. But you must submit fully to my ministrations."

The girl swallowed. She looked unsure.

The Reverend spoke. "Grace, dear girl, the mistress' methods are tried and tested. Give her your confession, and then she can help you..."

Grace glared pointedly at the Reverend. "You might not want me to do that..."

The Reverend looked bewildered, but I noted this.

"Gentlemen. You should leave us. I will take the girl's confession. By morning she will be remedied of this brattishness. With the Lord as my witness I assure you." As the minister rose I handed him Mercy's confession. "Affix this to the door of the church. By morning it will have a pair."

There was a ripple of assent. The men filed towards the exit, leaving me standing on the podium, with the nude girl and her bruised arse before me.

I waited until the door closed and then turned to her. "You will confess?"

She fell to her knees before the altar and started to weep. "I was so lonely. I only did those things so someone would want me... I didn't realise I was marked... she told me the things I did were just natural..."

"Who did Grace?"

She didn't answer, just wept quietly. I didn't ask again. I already knew.

I knelt in front of her and tilted her pretty face upwards with my hand under her chin. Her brown eyes met mine. I leant in and kissed the tears from her freckled cheeks. She gave a weak giggling sob.

"You will feel better once you have confessed. Trust me."

I lay her down on the dais, and parted her legs. I knelt between them and kissed her. On her mouth, her throat, her breasts, her stomach. I pulled up her left leg and kissed her on the inner thigh, at the precise location where I had claimed she was marked. She groaned. I gently ran my tongue over the spot. At the same time my hand slid to her cunny, which was tight and wet to the touch. She writhed contentedly.

I straightened briefly and shrugged my coat off before resuming. I looked down at her as I held her leg up in the air and massaged my fingers into her. "Confess to me. Why did you lay with your stepfather..."

She gave a small moan "He looked at me with such hunger. All the time. And my betrothed was a weak man with little spirit... I have needs. I lay awake every night, burning for someone to take me. To love me. To show me I wasn't alone..."

I had shifted and was straddling her right thigh as I fingered her, her left leg still lifted high. I ground my own wetness down her thigh.

"She told me to do it... that it would be alright..." she gave a high pitched moan as I probed my fingers behind her pubic bone.

"Who told you?"

Again she didn't answer, but her head lolled to the side. Towards the west wall of the chapel. Towards the manse.

I finished her off with my fingers. She lay gasping on the platform, completely spent. "No one has ever made me feel like that before."

I listened distractedly to her. I was already leafing through the confession ledger for what I had written earlier. I handed it and the quill to her. "Sign this."

I handed her "The true and complete confession of Grace Wicken, aged 20..."

I returned Grace Wicken to her family home in the dead of the night. A damp wind swirled dead leaves and detritus around our feet. Her mother, tearful, embraced her on the doorstep. "Thank you Mistress, God bless you!"

I grimaced at the horseshoe above the door and the garland of rosemary nailed to the wood, sure signs of heathen practice. The smell of a distant bonfire drifted across the village. The screeching sound of two cats in coitus rang out. These were not godly people.

I could have demanded my fee and left. But I knew I must remain for one more night. These yokels had something else I wanted. And now I had reason and means to take it.

The next morning I sat for breakfast with the Reverend and Verity.

"I expect you will be leaving us today?" the Reverend asked, as I explained Grace's confession.

I smiled enigmatically. "I thought maybe I would stay for one more of your sermons this evening. I have so enjoyed them."

The Reverend grinned proudly. Verity, radiant in a white dress, looked down at her porridge and said nothing.

In church that night my skin tingled with excitement. The Reverend gave a smug sermon on redemption. When he was done he invited me to "say my farewells."

I mounted the podium. "Dear friends. If only it were to be true."

There was a murmur of confusion. "During my investigation into the outbreak of brattishness in this village, and the confessions I have taken from Mercy Hobbs and Grace Wicken, it is clear to me that these poor impressionable girls have been acting under the influence of a hidden hand. A force of brattishness so deeply powerful, that it would have avoided almost all normal detection. One so bratty that her powers are to a different magnitude of anything I have previously encountered..." The congregation looked horrified.

"I have delved deeply. And sadly, all evidence points, Reverend, to your household." I took a breath and turned to the beautiful figure seated in the front row. "To Verity Crane."

There were gasps and mutters of "no!" from the parishioners. The Reverend sat with his mouth hanging open a moment. "No... it can't be true."

I shook my head. "But it is true. Do I need to summon Miss Hobbs and Miss Wicken to the pulpit to testify? After all they have already endured?" I turned to the Reverend "After all your brat of a daughter has forced them to endure?"

The Reverend looked crestfallen. Verity was remarkably composed, I noted. "Bring her to my room" I called, as I stormed off the stage and the chapel descended into chaos.

I sat on the bed in my room. Storming out without the girl had been a gamble, but the performance of confidence was crucial. Twenty minutes later there was a rap on my door. Two parishioners bracketed Verity. Her father stood behind her.

"Leave her with me. I promise I will redeem her." Verity looked at me evenly.

As soon as the door shut I was upon her. I had hungered for this girl from the second I saw her. I could not believe my luck. She was beyond perfect. Beyond my wildest dreams.

"You are mine now you bratty little slut." I hissed as I kissed her on the neck and tore her dress off her. I heard a sigh escape her. I took a step back. "Undress."

She regarded me calmly and slowly started stripping her clothing off. I dropped my own coat on the floor and unlaced my bodice.

I marvelled at her body. She was slim and her skin so fair it was almost translucent. Her breasts were surprisingly full and looked firm and ripe, capped by tiny pink nipples. The hair between her thighs was pale blonde and looked soft. Her eyes were large and pale, framed by long lashes, and her face was slim and pretty, with a small straight nose and pale pink lips, imbued with a gentle beauty. Light seemed to emit from her in the dim room. I remembered the strange myth these simple folk retold of the Lantern Men, strange glowing figures that haunted the waterways and reed beds, beckoning travellers to their doom.

As soon as she was naked I moved to her again. I grabbed the chaste little plait in her blonde hair and yanked her head back. "You will confess to me brat." I snarled

She giggled in my face. "Confess what?"

"That you are behind the uproar in this parish!"

She smiled sweetly. "You have no proof of that."

It was my turn to smile. "You think I need proof? I am Bratfinder General. My word is sufficient! But I'm going to enjoy breaking you and taking your confession."

I threw her down roughly on the bed and lifted my rod. "I call this my little persuader."

She looked unworried. I drew back and slammed the rod against her firm behind. She jerked forward and yelped, but something different from what I expected passed over her face. Her eyes closed, and when she opened them there was something different behind them. I drew back and slammed the rod against her buttocks again. Again she yelled, but again this strange look, almost of satisfaction on her face. A third blow elicited the same response.

She looked back over her shoulder at me. "Are you finished?"

I smacked her again and again and again with the rod. Each time she squealed, however by the final strike her eyes were rolling with something that looked like pleasure. I looked down. Her beautiful cunny was wet and engorged.

"You like that brat? Don't you?" She gave a satisfied hum.

"Don't get too smug. I'm only just warming up..."

She grinned defiantly at me, as I rubbed my fingers in her gathering wetness, and then gave a little coo. I rubbed the rod between her legs then inserted the rounded end into her. She bucked and panted, but then pushed against it forcing more of it in before sliding forward again. I felt myself growing wet at this wanton display.

"Oh lord..." she murmured.

"The Lord won't help you now brat." I whispered as I started to move the rod in and out of her. The candle that illuminated the room in the murky half light flickered and guttered as a damp wind whipped against the window.

She began to pant and cry out. She was becoming increasingly aroused. I found my stray hand moving almost involuntarily to my own privities, rubbing and creasing myself as I watched her arousal peak.

She slumped forward with her climax, but soon turned to watch me pleasuring myself. I was still holding the rod. She fixed me with her pale blue eyes, leant forward and ran her tongue up it, savouring her own juices.

I refocused. I had allowed myself to become too easily distracted. I pushed her back down on the bed.

I leant down and nipped her right nipple with my teeth. She gave a little peep.

"You will confess?"

She smiled brattily and shook her head adamantly.

I slapped her hard across the face. She gasped, but her steady gaze returned as she stared at me unblinking. I slapped her breasts one after another. She cried out, but the smile never left her face. My hand strayed back to her soaked blonde curls, and I started to massage her again, gripping her throat in my other hand and squeezing. She wriggled and bucked as I pushed her closer to another climax, grinding herself against my hand. Just as she looked like she was about to come, I pulled my hand away and smeared her own arousal round her mouth.

"Confess!"

She was grinding her pelvis against thin air, but still she smiled and shook her head. I shifted until I was squatting over her face, almost suffocating her with my full buttocks. I reached down again and thrust my fingers into her, humping up and down on her face. She took my fingers enthusiastically. Soon I could hear her muffled cries against my thighs.

I clambered off her. Her face was damp with my juices and sweat. She was smiling broadly.

She was the toughest little brat I had ever come across.

"You must confess." I sounded desperate. I picked up my rod, more for something to do than anything else.

She pushed herself up on her elbows and regarded me with a naughty little smile. A barn owl screeched somewhere in the night. "You don't believe in any of this do you? The marks, the spirits, any of it?"

I was genuinely stricken. Lost for words. She continued.

"You like it don't you? The rod. The power. The manipulation. The endless supply of pliable maidens..." her smile had sharpened into something more wicked now. She sat up fully, unconcerned by her own nakedness, or the mess I had made of her. "Dont be upset." she whispered. "I imagine I should quite like it too."

"Confess" I murmured, more through force of habit than anything else.

She looked at me through her eyelashes and smiled again. "Make me." She spread her legs wide.

I leant in and pushed my fingers into her again. She was soaking wet. She grabbed the back of my head and kissed me hard on the mouth, her tongue swirling. At the same time I felt her press her own fingers into me. My breath hitched. She matched my rhythm, almost nose to nose with me, smiling and breathing hard as she drove me towards climax; her own overtaking her simultaneously.

We cried out as one and then fell back from one another panting.

What had I become? My desire for this girl knew no bounds. And her hunger seemed insatiable. She climbed atop me and squeezed my breasts. She lifted my rod and looked at me unflinchingly. "I want this again."She turned and exposed her fundament to me, parting her buttocks with both hands. "In my arsehole this time."

I pressed the birch against her unyielding opening. Slowly it crept in. Verity groaned then took her hand and played with her own cunny, frigging it with an animalistic desperation. The rod would hardly shift, such was her tightness, but my gentle movement of it elicited a dramatic reaction from her. She wriggled and squealed and at length collapsed in a heap on the bed. I withdrew the rod and contemplated the unprecedented levels of brattish depravity this girl seemed capable of.

She was soon upon me again, her hands roaming my body, her eyes steady and calm even as she debased herself. Her hand roamed to my cunny and then to my arsehole. She panted hungrily. "Let me taste them again."

I turned onto all fours, my back to her, a shockingly submissive position, and one I was unused to. I looked over my shoulder to see her beautiful face disappear below my buttocks. I realised somewhere in the back of my mind that the girl had still not given me her confession.

All thought of that evaporated seconds later as her wet tongue roamed through my cunny and then pierced my arsehole. I groaned and wailed. She ate me as if she had three tongues. Fingers ventured everywhere; over the sodden field of my womanhood, before probing deep into my arsehole, drawing a scream from my lips. I felt my composure breaking like never before. This girl's appetite for lust and depravity seemed unquenchable. It felt like I was losing control of my faculties completely as she gorged herself on me. The booming call of a bittern echoed from somewhere in the fens.

It was just then that the door of the room burst open.

A crowd of villagers were packed into the doorway, I turned to look at Verity. She had withdrawn and resumed her normal demure demeanour, sitting at the foot of the bed covering herself modestly. There was shouting. "She's a fraud...", "whoremonger...!", "satan's bitch..."

Before I had time to compose any sort of response. I was grabbed and physically dragged off the bed, naked and panting. They bumped me down the stairs and deposited me in the mud of the front garden beside the burnt stump of the ash tree. Someone had nailed a frog to the stump, some weird totemic ritual I didn't want to understand. My clothes were tossed after me. One of the elders was holding my bags. He pulled out my pricking needle and fiddled with it. He exhaled in shock as he pressed the button to retract the needle. "It is a sport. A mere sport."

The crowd roared in anger. I was worried they may tear me limb from limb. I looked up at the window of my room. Verity stood there, naked, smiling serenely. The Reverend stepped forward. "You come to this parish. You take advantage of our young women... " he was spluttering with a rage I hadn't imagined him capable of "my daughter. My dear, innocent, virginal daughter..." his words caught in his throat. Two of the female parishioners grabbed my arms and pulled them back. Mercy Hobbs' mother bent and scrawled "bratt" on my chest with my own quill. It scratched against my cold skin.

The two burly parishioners who had seized girls for me previously now pulled me up. They shoved me through the garden gate into the lane. I stumbled and fell into a puddle. The mob jeered. A foot kicked me over. It was the aged church elder who I had goaded into spanking Grace Wicken. My hat, coat and bodice were hurled at me. I struggled to gather them. The crowd pushed me in front of them. I did not know what fate awaited me. The villagers who were not part of the mob came to their doors and windows. Some pelted me with waste and vegetable trimmings. A greasy cooked chicken carcass hurled from one window slapped obscenely against my bare thigh.

At the edge of the village the mob halted. The Reverend stepped forward, flanked by two of the elders. "Begone. And do not return if you wish to leave again alive."

I gathered my things from the dirt. I wrapped my coat around myself and stumbled down the muddy track into the fenlands, which wound off towards a copse of sickly looking willow trees, before disappearing in the mist. I could smell bonfires again.

For the first miles I checked over my shoulder periodically, but no one was following. By mile five my composure was returning.

There were plenty more villages. And every village had its own little brats in need of correction. And the chaos of the Civil War meant many more opportunities. I smiled to myself and vowed that I would return to this particular village one day.

And then I would take my vengeance; Beatrix Thorne, Bratfinder General.