Hall of Infamy (17 page)

The chairs were arranged around a little wooden platform, and behind the seats were several full-length mirrors. Amelia caught sight of herself, a pretty, auburn-haired young lady in an absurd and indecently abbreviated dress, and saw her own cheeks start to redden. Quickly she looked away.

‘Now, take off your little smockies,
mes
petites
choux
.'

Amelia looked at Clara. The blonde girl blinked helplessly at her, eyes wide with panic, a blush suffusing her cheeks. Both cousins looked around. Mademoiselle Isobel's emporium was large, and they had the corsetry section to themselves. However, there were half a dozen other customers, both gentlemen and ladies, in the other sections of the store. It was evident that these gentlefolk had only to look over in their direction and…

‘Ah, the pretty little things are shy, I see.' Isobel clapped her hands in what looked to Amelia ominously like delight. ‘Charming, and quite natural, of course. But such foolishness cannot be countenanced here, my dears. Come, quickly now, or shall I have to call my staff to disrobe you. The fuss will no doubt attract the attention of everyone but… Ah, good. Good girls, that is more sensible.'

Amelia pulled the smock over her head reluctantly. Not for a minute did she doubt the little woman's word, nor the sick certainty that any struggle would ensure the undivided attention of all the customers and staff at present in the shop. Clara had already taken her smock off and was handing it to an elegantly dressed shop-girl. This young lady folded the slip of silk and waited for Amelia to hand over her own garment with, it seemed to the semi-naked girl, the suggestion of an insolent smile.

The worst thing about her situation was that Amelia was aware of exactly what sort of spectacle she presented. Clara, admittedly more slender than her, and with golden rather than auburn ringlets and curls, stood trembling, covering her bare breasts with not a thing to hide her shame but a pair of frilly white knickers and similarly hued silk stockings, gartered just above the knee. Turning away in distress, Amelia saw her own more bounteous naked figure reflected in the mirror.

If her own blush seemed less pronounced than her cousin's, this could only have been because the contrast between her flaming cheeks and her auburn locks was less marked than that of her cousin's. Clara's pale coloration and golden curls made her blush stand out like a beacon. All the same, Amelia truly believed, Clara could not have felt any more mortified than she.

Still, as she was about to discover, there was worse to come.

‘Now, Clara, stand upon this for me.' The corsetier indicated the little platform. It was no more than two steps high, just enough to put Clara's waist just below the level of Mademoiselle Isobel's head. Yet, it was enough, Amelia realised glumly, to draw the attention of other shoppers.

‘Place your hands behind your head,
ma
cherie
.'

Clara had always shown herself to be far more submissive than her cousin, and her pride was certainly less pronounced. Yet, Amelia knew, her nursery companion suffered dreadfully from shyness. She supposed that that was why, for once, it was the usually timid and biddable Clara who balked.

‘Please, must I? I – oh, Jamie. I mean, sir… Ow!'

Jamie stepped forward and delivered a hard slap to the bare flesh of her upper thigh. ‘Do as you are told, you wicked girl,' he hissed furiously. ‘Don't you dare to show me up in public! Now, obey

Mademoiselle or I promise to make you a very, very sorry little miss indeed.'

Hesitantly, Clara exposed her lovely apple-sized breasts. Amelia could see the girl's bottom lip trembling, and was not surprised when tears began to course down her cousin's flaming cheeks. For all that, Clara's flesh was pale; the pure white of the luxuriantly frilled knickers and her stockings revealed the pale peach tones of her flawless flesh beautifully. The sight was so poignant, Clara's sweet, vulnerable beauty so heartbreakingly delicious, that, just for a second, Amelia forgot her own travails.

Oh, cousin, she thought to herself, dry-mouthed. My sweet, trembling little dove. What I would not give to be in Jamie's place and have you on my leash. How I would make you cry if you were mine! How I should whip that pretty little bottom! How frequently and pitilessly I would flog you, until you wept for mercy!

Unfortunately, Amelia's reverie was short-lived. Jamie remained in striking distance of Clara's thighs just long enough to ensure that Mademoiselle's instructions were obeyed. Then he strode over to Amelia and stood behind her, so close that she could feel the heat of his breath on the back of her neck.

Amelia found it hard to concentrate on the tableau before her, however entrancing she found the sight of Clara standing sobbing on the box. A hand stole around her waist and pulled her back a half step. Another hand gripped her frill-wrapped bottom firmly, and the first one moved up until it clasped her left breast. Only by a real effort of will did Amelia suppress the urge to push his impertinent fingers away.

‘I do hope you will be better behaved than your cousin when your turn comes for fitting, Amelia,' Jamie murmured in her ear. ‘Because, of course, I shan't be so lenient with you as I was with her.'

Amelia tried hard to ignore his fondling as she watched the corsetier use her tape measure on Clara. The semi-naked girl stood, hands behind her head, trembling visibly as the little woman deftly measured waist, bust and hips, Calling out figures to her elegant assistant.

‘Twenty-two, Monique. Lovely slender waist. Should lace down to sixteen, in time, Jamie. Eighteen inches would be more than generous.'

Amelia knew something of tight lacing. The cousins' finishing school could not have been accused of being lax in that regard. On hearing this, she suppressed a sigh. It was not difficult to guess that hard trials lay ahead.

‘Bust thirty-three, Monique. B cup.'

‘Not like these ripe handfuls, eh, Amelia?' Jamie had brought his other hand up and around to take her right breast, and he squeezed hard then lifted the naked globes in his palms, as if weighing them. ‘Must be at least a D!' he chuckled in her ear.

Then Amelia, who thought she had seen the worst that lay before her that day, was disabused. Mademoiselle Isobel placed her tape measure around her neck and put her hands on Clara's hips. The girl gave a shocked little squeak as she realised what was happening, then the woman pulled her frilly knickers right down to her knees.

‘I say, good show!' a male voice called out, and there was an outbreak of sporadic clapping. Aghast, Amelia realised that most of the other customers had drifted across the shop to the lingerie area, no doubt to enjoy the display. Clara, seemingly not daring to defy Jamie and Mademoiselle by covering her nakedness, yet too mortified to hold her position, had buried her face in her hands and was sobbing quietly. Something told Amelia that, when her own turn came, Jamie would be unlikely to allow her even that escape.

Mademoiselle Isobel had already demonstrated how deftly and efficiently she could work. Yet it seemed to Amelia that she dawdled deliberately, prolonging Clara's agony unnecessarily, and making sure that her customers had a treat. Amelia could not deny that as a display it was delightful, but the stomach-churning knowledge that she was bound to be the next performer turned the sight from a pleasurable vista to one that struck fear into her heart.

Both cousins had been shaven that very morning, and Clara's neat pussy-lips looked mouthwatering under the shop's electric lights. Her slender thighs trembled violently now, pressed firmly together. Mademoiselle had to do something which Amelia did not follow, but which made Clara start and give a little cry of pain, before the blonde girl could be persuaded to stand with her feet apart.

‘By God, what a delightful little quim. Jamie, does that belong to you?' an amused lady's voice put in, to general murmurs of agreement.

‘Not exactly, Mrs Treadwell, but I am charged with looking after it at present. This one, too.' Jamie dropped his left hand to pat the front of Amelia's frilly knickers, to general laughter.

Amelia did not want to watch, knowing that her fate was sure to follow Clara's, yet she could not stop herself. Monique handed Mademoiselle Isobel a thin leather belt, which she proceeded to tighten around Clara's waist until the girl grunted with discomfort. What was she doing? Amelia wondered. What had this to do with corset fitting? Unfortunately for her peace of mind, the answer came all too soon.

‘Stop blubbering and hold this, Clara,' the elegant woman said sharply, and reluctantly Clara lowered her hands and did as she was told. She held the end of the tape against the buckle of the belt, which Mademoiselle had ensured was at the centre of her belly. The woman took the tape between the whimpering girl's legs and up again to place it at the back of the belt.

‘I always equip my corsets with anchor points back and front, to which a saddle-strap may be attached, should one be required. I shall also furnish these with attachments for a back-board. Deportment sometimes needs to be enforced by physical means with young girls like these.' Mademoiselle Isobel spoke brightly to Jamie and winked.

As the young man was still close behind her, fondling her breasts, it almost seemed to Amelia as if the wink had been directed at her.

‘Now, hold it very firm,
ma
petite
!' the woman instructed and tugged the tape until it disappeared, to a ripple of merriment amongst the customers and a little squeak from Clara, between the shaven lips of the blonde girl's labia.

Eventually the measurement was taken, a process which to Amelia's reckoning took several minutes, involving a distressing and gratuitous amount of fiddling and tugging at the tape, as Clara gasped and moaned. When the tape measure was finally retrieved and carried off by the elegant Monique, the naked girl was finally allowed to step down from the box. As she stepped unsteadily down to a raucous cheer from the assembled customers, Amelia looked into Clara's eyes, but could not have said if Clara was aware of her. There was something strange in the naked girl's expression; distant, as if she had somehow gone past shame and entered into some strange dreamy state, which had caused her eyes to become glazed.

Amelia had no more leisure to think about her cousin for, at that moment, she was propelled towards the little stage herself. Reasoning that the only way to get through this ordeal was to get it over with, Amelia stepped up onto the box and put her hands behind her head. Yes, it was humiliating. Yes, it was shameful and indecent to be so exposed, breasts bobbing naked for the
hoi
polloi
to gawk at. Yet she was the Honourable Amelia Colinbrooke and, if she were to be forced into this dreadful display, she could at least exhibit dignity in her manner. Most of all, she was determined her tormentors should not see her cry.

‘Waist twenty-five inches. Not so svelte as Clara, eh,
ma
petite
choux
? I am sure she will go down to nineteen inches without undue difficulty, anyway, Monsieur Jamie. Your nursery-maid, she is a big strong girl, yes? She looks like she could lace, yes?
Pouf
, with such muscle to hand, this minx should lace down to eighteen.'

Twenty-one inches had been Amelia's record at school, and the prospect of being cinched down to eighteen was so awful that she swayed on the platform for a moment, her knees going weak. She

was given no time to dwell upon the dismal prospect, however.

‘Bust thirty-six inches, cup double-D.'

There was a chorus of ill-mannered whooping from the customers, and several coarse comments about grapefruit from both male and female voices. Amelia had been trying to ignore the audience, keeping her eyes firmly closed, as if by not seeing them she could make them disappear. The remarks about her breasts provoked a strange reaction. A sort of furious curiosity seized her. She knew that she should just try to ignore the brutes, but something compelled her to take a look at her tormentors.

Unfortunately, the moment she chose was not a good one. Amelia did not recognise the three men and two women, all elegantly dressed, who were watching her with expressions of mingled admiration and amusement. There were also three shop-girls in sight, one of whom was bashfully modelling a corset.

The scene filled Amelia with impotent fury. Those elegant ladies with their superior expressions, who did they think they were?

At that moment, two things happened simultaneously. Amelia felt Mademoiselle's hands on the waist band of her panties, and at the same time watched with horror as the Reverend Dawes entered the shop. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as she watched him turn towards the lingerie department, and his eyes locked on to hers.

‘No!'

Her resolution to endure the fitting fled, and she tried to bend to retrieve the frilly knickers as the corsetier pulled them swiftly down. To the amusement of the onlookers, Amelia bent, scrabbling for her panties, then suddenly straightened up again with a yelp. Mademoiselle Isobel must have had some sort of pin or needle secreted in her hand, because Amelia felt exactly as if she had been stung by a wasp. The sudden pain in her left buttock banished awareness of all else for a few seconds, even her sense of shame. A second sting, in her right buttock, caused another squeal, and Amelia found herself standing up, clutching her bare behind protectively, and blinking away the tears she had determined not to shed.