Confessions of a Choir Girl
At the quaint parish of St. Agatha’s (Nether Wippley), decorum reigns — until Lettice Fallowfield’s sultry soprano and scandalous disregard for choir robes strike a chord that’s anything but sacred. With a flustered organist, an incriminating photograph, and the unyielding eye of Miss Thistlecroft upon her, Lettice soon learns that some consequences are felt below the waistline.
Act 1 – Treble Trouble
In the hushed sanctuary of St Agatha’s, Nether Wippley, the organ loft was bathed by a kaleidoscope of colours pouring through the stained glass windows. Douglas Cresswell, a keen amateur photographer when not occupied with organ duties, was in a flurry of artistic fervour and nervous energy. His eyes darted towards the vision that was Lettice – the most recent, and most delectable addition to St Agatha's choir.
The striking twenty year-old soprano was a veritable siren, whose voice was as sweet as her smile, and whose reputation was daringly unconventional.
The memory of a minor scandal last Autumn, when her sideline as a nude model for life-classes at the local college had been uncovered, still lingered. He experienced a mix of excitement and trepidation as he prepared to immortalise, on film, a subject far too divine for mere emulsion. With her dangerous curves and unbridled spirit, she embodied the very essence of a modern-day Venus — one who would have made even Botticelli blush at her unapologetic sensuality.
It was rumoured that one of her more sensational poses had once caused an unsuspecting college window cleaner to topple from his ladder.
“Just a moment, Lettice,” he called, his voice echoing through the loft.
Before he could finish mounting the camera, Lettice sauntered over, a sly smile spreading across her face as she dropped a heap of clothes beside him with theatrical nonchalance.
“I’ll just leave these here,” she purred, husky and assured, before turning toward the window.
Her bare legs moved effortlessly across the floor. His gaze rose, and so did his blood pressure, as he discovered the rest of her was no less bare. Beside the warm glow of the window, she struck a pose that was confident and mischievous, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she watched him squirm.
“Oh, Mr. Cresswell,” she teased, “I do hope you're ready to capture this moment. I'm feeling rather angelic beside this window.”
The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy with suggestion, as Douglas's cheeks flushed a deep shade of crimson, rivalling even the stained glass windows in their vibrancy. She found that being on display was rather thrilling, especially with a friendly lens and a fumbling admirer. She held still, relishing the sense of being both muse and mischief-maker.
Cresswell, flustered but determined to maintain his artistic composure, tried to adjust his camera, hands shaking.
“Yes... yes, of course,” he stammered. “Just... just give me a moment to adjust the focus.”
As the photoshoot progressed, Lettice posed with abandon, her confidence and playfulness inspiring a series of shots that were both artistic and alluring. With each click, a Polaroid slid out — a glossy secret to be shared only between the two of them.
She wasn’t nervous. Not even a bit. Why would she be? She looked fabulous. The light adored her. Mr. Cresswell could barely hold the camera straight.
“Don’t you love how coloured glass makes everything look heavenly?” Lettice mused, arching her back.
They began with demure shots, highlighting the gentle curves of her face and shoulders, before a shift in focus to the more daring, revealing divine secrets normally concealed beneath her flowing choir robes. But their creative fervour proved to be short-lived, as the creak of a door froze them in place.
“Oh no! Miss Thistlecroft is early,” Lettice whispered.
The choir-mistress's heels clacked against the flagstones below and, in his panic, the latest Polaroid slipped undetected from Cresswell's fingers. It slid through the balustrade and fluttered down, wafting, teasing, landing neatly among the choir stalls. Lettice scrambled behind a pew while the discreet photographer hastily draped sheet music over her discarded clothes.
“Up here, Miss Thistlecroft!” he called, adjusting his spectacles which seemed to have become lightly steamed. “Just reviewing the… music.”
As Miss Thistlecroft began to ascend the narrow stairs, Douglas gestured to Lettice to keep her head down, wondering how on earth they'd escape this predicament.
“What precisely is that camera doing in a place of worship, Mr. Cresswell?” Miss Thistlecroft demanded, her eyes narrowing.
Douglas thought quickly. He invited her to the edge of the balcony, courteously placing her music satchel beside the organ stool while she peered into the chapel.
“Just a few shots for the Parish Newsletter. Such a lovely view from the balcony, don't you agree?”
Lettice seized the opportunity to make a rapid, albeit indecent, dash for the staircase. Her bare feet made no sound on the stone steps, but she feared her heartbeat might be heard in the belfry. She fervently prayed the rest of the chapel would be deserted.
As Miss Thistlecroft looked out over the balcony, Douglas caught a glimpse of circumspect skin-toned motion from the corner of his eye and hastily launched into a distracting segue about music selection, his voice wobbling like a bad vibrato.
“We simply must finalise the hymns — it’s terribly urgent,” he babbled.
“Later, Mr. Cresswell. I need to prepare for tonight's rehearsal,” Miss Thistlecroft insisted,
As Douglas cringed, his taller vantage point over her shoulder allowed him to see Lettice stealthily creeping along the aisle, still yards from the vestry door. With a cheeky glance over her shoulder she gave him a flirtatious wave — and blew a kiss, just to test his composure.
His face coloured, though he disguised his discomfiture with a noise somewhere between a cough and a small collapse.
“Sorry, frog in the throat,” he spluttered, feeling ridiculous. But, with a sigh of relief, he saw Lettice slip through the vestry door, safe — at least, for the moment.
Act 2 – Conduct Unbecoming
Lettice's heart was racing. She knew there could only be seconds to go before Miss Thistlecroft burst in. She frantically snatched her robes from the hanger and flung them over her shoulders, the heavy cotton stiff and unfamiliar against her bare skin. With a desperate attempt to appear natural, she grabbed a hairbrush from the tall mahogany dresser and began to fuss with her hair, absorbed in her grooming as the choir mistress arrived.
“Oh, Miss Thistlecroft. I didn't hear you arrive,” Lettice fibbed fluently.
Miss Thistlecroft stood in the doorway, her gaze sweeping the room in a slow, withering arc, as if daring anything to be out of place.
Lettice, normally a late arrival, was the last person she would have expected to find already present for choir practice. A glimmer of surprise flickered across her face, followed by a hint of scepticism. Perhaps the young lady was finally turning over a new leaf, but Miss Thistlecroft's expression suggested she wouldn't count on it.
“I've just been having a word with Mr. Cresswell,” she said, her voice as cool as a winter breeze, as she closed the vestry door behind her. “He seemed... distracted. Rather evasive, in fact. And—” She paused, her eyes narrowing as she searched for the right words.
A faint crease appeared between her brows, and she blinked once, as if clearing a mental hurdle. “Oh, bother,” she muttered, her irritation momentarily getting the better of her. “My satchel is up by the organ bench.”
Without another word, she turned on her heel and swept out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her.
The moment the door closed, Lettice sagged against the dresser.
“Oh marvellous,” she muttered, pacing. “Where would he have put my clothes? Out of sight, I hope — but please not under the hymnals… unless he took them with him?”
She stopped, eyes widening. Surely he wouldn't have taken them out of the organ loft. Was she expected to walk home barefoot in her choir robes? Why hadn’t she just stayed hidden in the loft?
She glanced at the vestry door, hoping Cresswell would return and save her from her own ill-planned escape. But only the distant creak of the loft stairs and subsequent silence greeted her. This was bad, she already knew. Everything hinged on what Miss Thistlecroft might find in the loft.
She wasn’t ready to be thrown out of the choir. Not with their Paris trip on the horizon. The thought of missing out on strolling along the Seine in a new skirt and perhaps making a French waiter blush was unbearable.
Why hadn't she suggested a different location to Cresswell? What had seemed daring, now felt reckless.
Upstairs, Miss Thistlecroft retrieved her satchel with her usual efficiency. But, as she turned to leave, her gaze landed on a neatly folded pile tucked away beneath the bench.
Her eyes narrowed as she lifted the upper garments between two fingers – a delicate, blush-pink lace bra, and a pair of panties of such gossamer triviality that one might suspect they were designed purely to scandalise the laundry maid.
Miss Thistlecroft’s eyebrows arched. She paused at the top of the spiral stair, her eyes scanning the chapel below. And then, she spotted it. A glint, white and glossy, laying on one of the choir stalls. Her gaze locked onto the object, her expression growing increasingly stern.
As she descended the stairs, she kept her eyes upon the offending item. Even from this distance, it was unmistakeably a Polaroid photograph, its surface glinting in the late afternoon sun.
She lifted it with the cautious precision one might use to handle a potentially explosive device. Her lips pressed together, and she took a long, deep breath. Then, with a quiet, controlled fury, she turned and made her way back to the vestry, the damning piece of evidence clutched in her hand.
The vestry door opened with a slow, menacing creak. Lettice's eyes snapped up, assessing the bundle of clothes in Miss Thistlecroft's arms, and then her gaze dropped to the other item. The photograph, pinched between two fingers, seemed to gleam with a malevolent sparkle, like a tiny banner of disgrace, gleaming under holy light.
Oh no. Oh no. The thought tumbled through her mind like a frantic prayer, but she couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't escape the weighty stare.
Miss Thistlecroft crossed the room with a deliberate, glacial slowness, her eyes never leaving Lettice's face. She set the clothes down with precision, as if she was deliberately prolonging the moment, savouring Lettice's discomfort.
Then, with a movement that was both elegant and menacing, she flipped the photograph around. Lettice saw the glossy print, and for a moment, the image seemed to come to life as she recalled the precise moment. Half turned to the stained glass, her arms lifted so that her fingers played through her hair. Dappled light accented the proud curve of her breasts before, thankfully, dipping into at least partial shadow.
As she looked up, Lettice felt a pang of regret, her eyes locking onto a face that was now a mask of disapproval. The photograph, once a celebration of art and sensual curiosity, now seemed a reckless indulgence, its beauty waning under the harsh, unforgiving glare of the vestry lights.
The kaleidoscope of colours that had danced across the scene, courtesy of the stained glass windows, was washed away, leaving only a stark, unflattering reality. And Miss Thistlecroft, her expression a perfect blend of outrage and censure, was clearly unimpressed by this evidence of Lettice's impulsive nature.
“Would you care,” Miss Thistlecroft said, her voice disconcertingly calm, “to explain this?”
The words hung in the air like a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down, and Lettice felt herself trembling, felt the weight of her own guilt bearing down on her, lost for any explanation. She stared at the photograph, then at Miss Thistlecroft, her mouth an anxious grimace and her cheeks burning with embarrassment.
“Well?” Miss Thistlecroft's voice was unhurried.
“It wasn’t meant to be shared,” Lettice stammered.
“And yet, here it is,” Miss Thistlecroft observed. “A photograph taken in a sacred place, by the church organist, and during choir hours.”
She placed it face down on the vestry table, as though it's mere visibility might taint the atmosphere.
“I agreed — against my better judgement — to admit you to the choir,” she continued, each word placed like a pin in a specimen. “The vicar, in his infinite charity, persuaded me to give you a chance. After your art-class shenanigans, I warned him that we were taking a risk.”
“Please, Miss Thistlecroft,” Lettice burst out. “Don’t throw me out. I know I was foolish. But, I really do want to sing. I’ll do anything to make it up to you. Honestly, I can behave.”
Miss Thistlecroft regarded her, lips pressed into a pale, unreadable line.
“You're a gifted young woman,” she said at last. “But entirely undisciplined. The choir does not exist to amuse you, Miss Fallowfield. Nor to flatter your whims, nor to provide a backdrop for your exhibitionism.”
Lettice had no clear answer, or perhaps she had too many. Her mind raced with explanations, but none seemed sufficient to explain the photograph or to convince Miss Thistlecroft of her good intentions.
“If you are sincere, if you truly wish to remain with the choir, then you must redeem yourself first. Thoroughly, and without complaint. If you lack self-discipline, Miss Fallowfield, then I shall provide it for you.”
Lettice blinked, her stomach dropping. “You can't seriously mean—”
“My terms are not negotiable,” Miss Thistlecroft interrupted. “Take off that robe. Whether you earn it back is yet to be decided.”
Lettice stood frozen. “But… now? Here? In front of you?”
Miss Thistlecroft’s eyes narrowed. “Judging by that disgraceful photograph, I'd say it's a little late for modesty. But, if you disagree, I'm certain the vicar will be very interested to hear about your activities this afternoon.”
She did not need to continue. Lettice’s fingers moved to the fastening of her robe with quiet reluctance. She turned slightly toward the mirror — and caught sight of herself.
Gone was the stained-glass halo, the soft glow of artistry. In the vestry’s gloom, she looked less like an angelic muse, more like a naughty sixth-former, flustered, half-wrapped in cotton, and very much out of her depth.
A few minutes earlier, she had flung the robe on in a panic. Now, she delayed its removal as long as she dared. Miss Thistlecroft's eyes were cool and uninterested, almost clinical. It was a stark contrast to Mr. Cresswell's infatuated gaze, and yet Lettice had never felt so exposed or self-conscious in her life.
The implacable choir mistress accepted the robe and took her time, folding it with meticulous precision.
“Please, may I get dressed now, Miss Thistlecroft?” Lettice asked, her voice trembling.
She instinctively clasped one arm across her chest, the other stretching down across her navel, fingers spread in an awkward pose to preserve what little remained of her modesty. With Cresswell, she had been art. With Miss Thistlecroft, she was evidence.
“All in good time,” Miss Thistlecroft replied. “First, we need to address a matter of discipline. Over my knee, right now.”
Lettice stared back in disbelief. “But I'm an adult. Surely this isn't appropriate.”
“Nothing about this afternoon has been appropriate,” Miss Thistlecroft said firmly. “If you comply, your correction will be brief. But I've already made it clear this is not negotiable.”
Lettice's mouth opened, then closed again — a mute protest, like a soprano who’d missed her cue. She had always imagined becoming embroiled in glamorous scandals involving pearls, gin, and a headline in the Wippley Gazette. Not being awkwardly disrobed by a stern choir mistress.
She was twenty years old. Surely this sort of thing didn’t happen. Not in real life, and certainly not in vestries. Miss Thistlecroft hadn't raised her voice, but her stillness was enough. There was just her simple, unassailable command, delivered with a magistrate’s finality.
Lettice's heart pounded knowing she had no choice but to comply. With a deep, shaky breath, she steeled herself for the humiliation to come and lowered herself across Miss Thistlcroft's lap, the pleated woollen skirt feeling scratchy against her soft thighs and tummy. The stone floor of the vestry was cold and rough as she placed her hands for balance, her toes hovering just above the floor, creating an absurd feeling of weightlessness.
True to her word, this was not destined to be a drawn out, ritualised spanking. Miss Thistlecroft's firm right palm sprang to life almost immediately. With undeniable prowess she delivered a relentless orchestration of swats that left every inch of Lettice's bottom energised with a throbbing, burning sting.
If Lettice had ever doubted the definition of a thorough spanking, five minutes over Miss Thistlecroft's lap, was sufficient to satisfy any questions. The rhythm was precise, like a metronome’s tempo with a disciplinarian’s exquisite flair.
She squirmed in protest as the symphony of discipline played out upon her pert, upturned behind. Miss Thistlecroft conducted herself Allegro, her resolute palm brisk and sharp, with occasional deft grace-notes and improvisations that rang out across the tops of Lettice's beautifully toned thighs. The unusual sounds from the vestry were a harsh counterpoint to the usual harmonies of the choir.
When she was eventually guided back to her feet, Lettice's earlier bashfulness was outweighed by the urge to massage her backside in a desperate bid to ease the prickling discomfort that was pulsing throughout her cheeks.
“And now, Miss Fallowfield, I believe you may be learning, and I am prepared to say that you will be welcome to remain in the choir. But our business here remains incomplete.”
Lettice looked uneasy. Miss Thistlecroft glanced at her own lightly reddened palm with professional detachment, and just a hint of satisfaction. It was faring somewhat better than Lettice's rear, which was practically aglow.
“If you also wish to be included in the Paris exchange visit, I'm afraid a little additional reinforcement is going to be necessary.”
“Reinforcement?” Lettice stammered, not yet grasping the full implication.
“Hand me that hairbrush, Miss Fallowfield, and then back across my knee.”
She had never suffered the ignominy of a hairbrush spanking, but she remembered stories from several of her friends over the years, and those recollections were less than reassuring.
Miss Thistlecroft waited, impassive, but how long would she wait? Lettice was grateful for this unorthodox second chance, yet it was with a faint wince that she grudgingly retrieved the brush. For the first time, she noticed its broad polished back, and weighty heft.
She held it out, a faint tremor in her fingers as Miss Thistlecroft took it, establishing a secure grip on its smooth handle.
Of all the objects in this vestry, Lettice thought to herself with a sulky pout, it has to be the one with the most surface area and the least mercy.
Lowering herself back into position, Miss Thistlecroft's calm demeanour seemed almost haunting. When the hairbrush met her bare bottom, the crack was louder, the impact far more intense.
The stone walls of the old vestry acted like an echo chamber, filling the room with a choral blend of percussion and protest. Involuntary soprano yelps were accompanied by occasional discordant cries. Lettice felt the smarting accumulate. Each staccato note of pain building, never allowing the swelling soreness to subside before yet more torment was layered on top.
As the sharp and piercing sensations rose in pitch and became almost unbearable, Lettice felt the first tears dribble onto her cheek. As awful as it was, there was also a sense of release as her resistance relaxed. A tension and a tightness that eased, as she began to accept the well-deserved spanking.
And then, as abruptly as it had begun, the painful melody was over. Lettice found herself resting motionless on the choir mistress's supportive lap, breathless, thoroughly and undeniably admonished. She no longer felt like a soprano with a solo, but a second violin waiting to be tuned.
“I trust I've made myself clear this afternoon, Miss Fallowfield. Today must be a turning point.”
As Miss Thistlecroft eased her back to her feet with a steady hand, Lettice felt a blend of having been punished, but also nurtured, albeit in a rather antiquated manner.
She sensed that the worst was over now. Her initial embarrassment at standing naked before this woman had softened into something else entirely. There was still the sense of corrective discipline, but she was steadier, like a musician finding their rhythm in a difficult passage.
“And now,” Miss Thistlecroft added, “you may get dressed and put on your robes. We have five minutes until practice begins and so, somehow, you remain on time.”
Alone in the vestry once more, Lettice gathered her clothes slowly, thoughtfully. The mirror reflected the flushed face and ruffled hair of a young woman who, for once, looked like she intended to behave.
She’d entered as an exotic muse, but was leaving as a finely tuned soprano.
As she tugged her robe into place, composing herself, a muffled murmur of voices filtered in from just outside the door.
“Ah! There you are, Miss Thistlecroft,” came the vicar’s genial tone. “I passed the vestry earlier and thought I heard some rather brisk tempo work?”
“Miss Fallowfield and I were working on a point of interpretation,” Miss Thistlecroft replied. “Quite emphatically.”
Lettice let out a breath that almost became a chuckle. She straightened her hair, still convinced no object in the vestry had more surface area or fewer scruples than that awful hairbrush. With a final check of her buttons, she turned toward the sound of the gathering choir.
She wasn’t late, nor was she expelled. And Paris, mercifully, was still in reach. She’d learned her lesson... at least until the next stained-glass temptation presented itself.
Act 3 – A Choir Girl in Paris
The concert had gone splendidly. The choir filled the high vaults of Saint-Sulpice with soaring harmonies and only two moments of minor chaos — one from a late page-turn, the other a rogue sneeze during the Magnificat. Neither, miraculously, came from Lettice.
Miss Thistlecroft had nodded once during the final hymn. It was not the warm sort of nod given to soloists or small children, but a precise, fractional inclination with the gravity of a standing ovation. For Lettice, it was practically a knighthood.
She had sung with focus and restraint. No giggling. No flashing so much as a stocking seam. Not even during the Sanctus.
Now, in the golden hush of evening, she walked beside Mr. Cresswell along the Seine.
He looked more polished than usual, his attire remarkably free of its customary quirks, except for a tie that was a fraction off-centre and a smile that appeared to be savouring the company more than the surroundings. His camera was nowhere in sight, though she suspected it wouldn't be too far away.
“You know,” Lettice said, watching the river lights ripple, “I never thought I’d be glad Miss Thistlecroft caught us.”
Cresswell blinked. “You’re glad?”
“Well,” she shrugged, “it got me to Paris. And taught me to stay in tune without compromising my composure — or my hemline.”
He stumbled over a cobblestone and she steadied him with a smirk.
“Besides,” she added, slipping her arm through his, “the light here might be even more flattering than the organ loft.”
He made a faint sound of concern.
“Don’t worry,” she said, her smile widening. “You can bring your camera on our next stroll. I’m sure we’ll find some very discreet locations.”
Cresswell blushed and Lettice grinned. The Eiffel Tower shimmered in the distance.
She was still a choir girl — not wholly reformed, but with a stricter appreciation that mischief must always wait until after rehearsal.