Hall of Infamy (25 page)

‘I – I love you.' Clara blushed and buried her face in his chest. Jamie squeezed her again, reassuringly. The girl looked up at him again, even more irresistible than before. ‘I just wanted to tell you,' she said seriously, ‘I just wanted to make sure you knew that I… that I belong to you.'

Betsy winced, letting out an audible cry as Lord Alex took a firm grip of her nipples between his thumbs and forefinger.

‘Still a little tender, are they, my dear?'

‘Ooh… yes, sir,' she managed.

The nursery-maid was kneeling on the carpet of Lord Alex's private study. Apart from her stockings, she was entirely naked. Lord Alex, in stark contrast, was in full dinner-dress. He might have seemed the picture of refined respectability, had he not just unbuttoned his fly and taken out a stiff and very eager-looking cock.

Betsy licked her lips, as if mesmerised by it. Lord Alex had gruffly ordered her to shuffle closer. It had seemed to Betsy that Lord Alex must intend her to fellate him, and she had leant forward, lips opening, until she was disabused of that idea.

When the Marquis grabbed her nipples, she knew differently. The knowledge of what he planned sent a quiver through her loins. Though the first stinging of the nettles had subsided, the skin of her breasts still throbbed. It most certainly was not the night she would have chosen for this particular little game. With a resigned sigh she realised that, no doubt, that was exactly why Lord Alex
had
picked it.

Not that she had much to say about the matter. Her master opened his legs and tugged at her tender nipples, forcing her to squeeze even closer, wincing as he brusquely pulled the tender nubs of flesh. He eased her in close to his belly, and his rearing cock. Then, when she could move no nearer, he pulled the nipples back in, catching his manhood tight within the sumptuous embrace of her cleavage.

Betsy gasped as the nettle-flayed flesh of her inner breasts was pressed against an erection hard as a hornbeam.

‘Be quiet, you silly girl. Now then, I want you to raise your hands and press in on the sides of your titties. That's it. Now, now, no need to make such a face or start blubbing again.'

It was diabolically clever and, because her breasts were still throbbing from the nettles, distinctly uncomfortable. Lord Alex pulled her nipples upward and inward, tugging the swollen buds hard in his strong fingers, tweaking them for his amusement. Betsy pushed her own breasts in together, trapping his cock in a tight envelope of warm flesh. Lord Alex grinned down at her from above, cigar clamped between his teeth, and began to pump enthusiastically.

He thrust up and down, frigging himself furiously against her soft flesh, as Betsy gave a series of increasingly startled cries. Her breasts were so big, and Lord Alex had hoisted them up so high, that she saw little of his cleavage-engulfed erection, even when she looked down in alarm. However, as his pumping became ever more frantic, at the apex of each thrust, the ruby cock-head started to emerge, surging out of her cleavage, perilously close to her quivering chin.

The pain in her nipples was excruciating now. His lordship seemed to be twisting as well as hauling in his excitement. Betsy, who had been gritting her teeth desperately, found herself compelled to open her mouth and give a cry of pain.

She had not realised that his climax was so close. The hot stream of silky fluid spurted at exactly that moment into Betsy's mouth. She choked and spluttered in alarm before she recovered enough composure to swallow. As Lord Alex finished spending, she licked her lips furtively, like some great cat stealing a jug of cream, hoping against hope that he had been too distracted to notice.

The Marquis released her nipples and pain flooded into them as the blood returned.

‘All right,' Alex growled, ‘clean me up, now.'

Betsy leant forward and cautiously licked the dribbles of semen from his rapidly deflating cock-head, swallowing the slightly bitter emanations with a well-drilled show of dutiful enthusiasm. For a moment, she thought she had gotten away with it.

‘Stand up, now.'

Betsy did as she was bidden, quivering as he laid a hand upon her still-raw bottom. She was soon more aware of his right, however, which reached around, explored her folds, and slid two fingers deep inside her moist slit. The nursery-maid moaned as she was fingered. Fellating Lord Alex, and having her nipples kneaded so pitilessly, had all but brought her to the brink.

Lord Alex moved his left hand from her bottom to her waist and used it to steer her onto his lap. Betsy tried to sit still but the fingers were driving her to and beyond distraction.

‘Turn a little towards me. I want to bite your breasts.'

The order was straightforward if somewhat brutal. Betsy did as she had been told, half turning and leaning towards him until he caught one of her nipples between his teeth. He teased the swollen strawberry of flesh, nipping and sucking it in turn while his fingers continued with their work. Betsy could not stop herself from squirming in response. She could not stop herself from closing her eyes in ecstasy. Her body responded to his brusque toying, even as she winced at the pain.

‘Not a good start to the week,' Lord Alex said during a break from her nipple. ‘You are wriggling like an eel. Worse, you lost some of my spending, Betsy: the evidence is all over your chin. When we are finished here, you had better go and put yourself a black mark in the big book. It will be the birch for you again next week, I am afraid.'

As he spoke, he worked his fingers even deeper, letting her grind her clitoris against the firm heel of his hand. The mention of the birch brought back all the seething agony of the afternoon's three dozen strokes, in a blinding flash of overwhelming memory. Betsy gave a high, abandoned scream, and came.

‘Well, girl, do you want it or don't you?' The Reverend Dawes sat at his ease in the smoking room. He smiled in amusement at Amelia as she struggled with herself.

Really, she ought to tell him to go hang, Amelia thought, but she knew that would be unwise. Even so, he was giving her a choice, and her pride told her to disdain his office. Her bottom, on the other hand, still felt incredibly hot, and the ointment in his hand looked so very cooling.

‘No, thank you… sir,' she forced herself to say at last. Amelia had no intention of putting herself willingly over that man's knee. Once his fingers started smoothing soothing ointment… No, best not to think about what might happen after that. Amelia stood, awaiting the Reverend's response. Her chin, though held up proudly, was trembling traitorously. Amelia clenched her fists in frustration as she tried to keep it still.

‘As you wish, girl.' There was amusement in his manner but not the least hint of disappointment. Did she wish him to be disappointed? Of course not – what could she be thinking? No, it was just surprise, for she was sure that the Reverend Dawes was just itching to paw her body. The memory of him looking at her, that first day, came back to her. Given half a chance, he would take monstrous liberties: abuse her, ravish her, do whatever awful things men like him liked to do to pure and innocent girls like her. Those things she could not seem to stop imagining in bed…

‘Well, then.' He put the tin of ointment back into his pocket in a way that seemed worryingly final. His index finger beckoned. ‘Come here, my dear.'

If only she had been permitted some more clothes, she thought. It was hateful to have to be alone with the man, dressed so inadequately once again. The corset, stockings and smock did nothing to hide her form from his steady and amused gaze. Unable to stop the blush spreading, not daring to defy him, Amelia stepped closer. Her palms were perspiring at her sides now. Funny, how one's hands and… other bits became so moist, whilst one's mouth went dry.

‘Now, now, be quiet.' The hand on her sore bottom evoked a moan which she seemed powerless to prevent, though whether it was a cry of fear of pain, or a release of unbearable tension, Amelia could not have said. The patting hand sent sharp shards of pain coursing through her as he stimulated the still-abraded skin, but then Amelia was also extremely frightened of the man.

‘Actually Amelia, I admire your fortitude.'

The hand smacked again and Amelia bit her bottom lip as pain jolted through her in response. It was not hard, no more than a little pat, but on her poor birch-blistered bottom, it was sore enough.

‘Most girls take the ointment, when it is offered. I suppose you are confident you can escape further chastisement until the after-effects of the birching fades. Good, very good – for I take it that that means you have resolved to behave yourself.'

Amelia's stomach gave a sudden sickening lurch. She had not even considered this appalling prospect. What if the Reverend Dawes decided to cane her now, for some peccadillo? What if Jamie took the tawse to her on some outrageous trumped-up offence as soon as she returned to the nursery? Suddenly, her sore bottom felt even more horribly vulnerable. Amelia swayed as she felt her knees go weak.

‘Get on your knees, child.'

Wondering wildly what he had in mind, Amelia scrambled to obey. She was seriously frightened now, half-expecting her tormentor to find an excuse to thrash her throbbing bottom right away.

Amelia knelt on that hard wooden floor of bitter memory, facing the Reverend Dawes. He had picked up his brandy glass in his right hand, but fondled the bulge in his black serge trousers openly with his left. Amelia felt the blood rush even faster to her cheeks and hurriedly dropped her gaze.

The Reverend leant forward and reached over, using his fingers to tip up her chin until she had to look into his eyes.

‘You are a very pretty girl, Amelia,' he said at last.

Here it comes, she thought: he's going to make me suck his thing, or some other such appalling indecency.

‘I should like to have you. I bet you bugger like an angel,' he growled.

Amelia, caught between terror for her tender bottom, outraged indignation, and a strange excitement surging in her loins, said nothing. She blinked and tried unsuccessfully to stop her bottom lip from trembling.

‘But you don't want me to, do you, Amelia?'

There was an awful, portentous, pause. Amelia felt the blood pounding in her temples and for a moment found it difficult to breathe.

‘No. No, sir,' she said at last, somehow managing to blink defiantly back into his terrible gaze.

To her surprise and tremendous relief, the Reverend Dawes, smiled. ‘Very well. I never yet took a girl against her will. But I warn you, Amelia,' he winked at her, ‘if you change your mind, you are going to have to beg me for it!'

He stood, adjusting his trousers as if he were a little uncomfortable about the crotch.

‘Well, I must be off,' he said with a chuckle, ‘I do not want you to relieve me. I have maids at home who will literally leap at the opportunity. I will send someone to escort you up to the nursery, my girl.' He bent and patted Amelia's cheek fondly. ‘I shall see you in church next week, if not before, miss. I trust that until then you will be good.'

With that, he left. Amelia still knelt on the parquet floor, astonished and bewildered by this turn of events. She could hardly believe that she had escaped unscathed. Ruefully, she stroked her tender bottom and the backs of her thighs. The rubber sheets would be even more vexing tonight, she thought. She stood up, wincing, and wished that the Reverend had left his ointment tin. She wondered how long it would take for the effect of the birching to fade.

There was a rattle at the door and Amelia froze.

Mrs Pritchard entered, regarding the semi-naked girl with disdain. ‘Are you ready to go back up? Finished with you, has he?' the housekeeper smirked.

Amelia did not care. She had had the courage and moral fortitude to refuse him. Beg him to abuse her? Hell would freeze over and corporal correction cease in Hatherby before Amelia Colinbrooke would do any such thing. He had had a shock, Amelia assured herself, trying not to smile. She was ready for her ordeal with the sheets, and she would not think about the Reverend Dawes at all tonight. She was resolved upon the matter.

‘Yes, Mrs Pritchard,' Amelia said, head held high. ‘I am ready.'

Rather than lead the way, Mrs Pritchard came over to her with a smile that Amelia did not much like. The housekeeper pulled up the hem of Amelia's smock, though this was scarcely necessary.

‘Oh, no. Not quite, missy! The Reverend asked me most particularly to make sure—' she produced from behind her back a pair of the hateful rubber bloomers ‘—that you put a pair of your favourite pantaloons on.'

Amelia's heart almost stopped. Not only had her bottom been birched almost raw, she was sure that it was swollen. Terror seized her as she thought about the prospect.

Mrs Pritchard's eyes twinkled maliciously. ‘Come along now, madam, we had better get a move on. I have the feeling that this is going to take some time.'

That summer was a hot one in Hatherby. Slowly it unfurled, drifting by in a seemingly endless succession of dreamy days and languid nights, punctuated by the sound of rod on resilient flesh, the clink of chains, of girlish shrieks of pain and cries of pleasure.

Amelia never ceased to chafe under the relentless nursery discipline but, as time and the distressingly frequent floggings went by, she did grow more and more adept at disguising her displeasure. Clara continued far more content, and no one who encountered her failed to remark upon her sweet air of exquisite submission.

And the maids? The maids did what maids had always done within those ancient walls. They were worked and they were whipped and sometimes they were pleasured. Little Emma Swift was trained in the immemorial iron regimen of Hope Hall, taught to dance to the tune of birch and cane and leather.

The greatest change as the weeks rolled on was to be found in the stables. Blossom bloomed with the summer flowers. Not that she found her training easy, for it was nothing of the kind. Many nights she whimpered in her stall, back and bottom welted from her master's whip. Many days her legs shrieked with pain as she was forced to canter up Holly Hill, hauling Lord Alex in his sulky to the top for the sixth successive time.

But weals faded and her thighs waxed ever stronger. Blossom's big body slowly became sleek and powerful on her diet of raw fodder, and regime of relentless exercise. Her times around the course grew faster, and Lord Alex petted her more and flogged her less diligently as time went on.

At night, before stalling her, Dick would scrub her down at the pump as she stood placidly. With time, Blossom even learnt to stand still while he used the curry-comb. Her skin turned golden as she ran under the sun and, with Dick's attentions and her diet, soon it shone with health.

She found that she was, if not exactly happy, strangely content. She wept when she was whipped or when Dick held her steady for Mr Blackstock's punishing strap. Blossom felt desolate when her master scolded her or when the grooms were cross. But then, when they stroked and praised her, she was suffused by a warm glow. Life was simple. Safe. All she had to do was run and pull. Run and pull, eat and sleep, be silent and obey.

Nor did she mind the hands of the groom and stable-boys when they came to her stall at night. They stroked her body, fondling her thighs and breasts fervently as she became sleek and beautiful with the passing weeks. She sucked them willingly when they wanted, and let them mount her bottom-hole or sex without demur, for they touched her with increasing reverence and affection. Blossom felt herself more adored than abused and anyway, the long days in harness under the whip stirred up urgent needs that were all her own. When, for some reason, no one came to take her, she would lie in the straw of her stall and press her hands between her legs until her cries disturbed the swallows nesting beneath the stable eaves.

Best of all, on a warm evening, Dick would often take her to the meadow behind the ornamental lake at the front of the great house. Here he would set her free to run naked through the long soft meadow grass. After a hard day in bit and bridle, hauling a well-built man in a heavy cart, she would feel so free that it almost seemed like she was flying, as her long legs galloped through the grass.

Occasionally, the stable-lad would saddle one of the ponies and chase her, whip in hand, through the field. But this was play rather than work; the stinging strokes he aimed at her bottom were not hard ones, and she would laugh and dart away as his mount struggled to keep pace.

July came and went and August wore on. Then, as the end of August approached, so a hum of anticipation began to grow around Hope Hall. The maids were worked harder but vexed less for, as

every year, there was much to do in preparation for the day of the Silver Cup and the Hatherby fete.

September came at last, and with it the first crisp scent of frost in the air of the darkening nights. For a few days the weather clouded, and chill rain provoked much muttering and many furrowed brows.

‘There will not be much of a picnic for this year's Silver Cup if this keeps up.' Jamie stared gloomily out of the nursery window at the driving rain. ‘Lord Alex says he cannot even exercise Blossom, it is so cold and wet.' He turned to Clara and Amelia. The cousins were bent over, knickers about their knees, trembling as they struggled to keep their legs straight and their fingertips on the floor.

‘Oh well,' the young man said languidly as Betsy handed him a stiff-tailed leather tawse, ‘I expect we shall find a way of keeping you girls warm.'

Then, in the week before the great day, the weather began to change. Wednesday dawned, still cool, but bright with but a few fugitive clouds lingering in the sky.

‘Giddup there!'

Blossom no longer flinched as she heard the cracking of the whip perilously close to her bottom. Instead she put her head down, grasped the shafts of the sulky tightly, and ran. There was still water in pools on the driveway and she splashed through these as she gathered speed, her long legs almost effortlessly eating up the path.

Blossom knew the day was coming, for she had overheard enough to gather that she was going to be raced. The stable-boys talked of whippings for the losers. She would have smiled if the bit had allowed it. All summer she had been trained, and now she was as strong and sleek as any thoroughbred. The path turned and the big rise known as Holly Hill came into view. Blossom felt the extra weight as pressure in her legs as the slope grew steeper, then felt her thigh muscles deal with the extra load. Still breathing steadily, she powered up the hill that once had nearly killed her, even at a trot. Let them come, she thought exultantly. After the long days confined in the stables, she ran with extra energy and joy. Let them come, let them just try to race me. I will beat them all.

The weather continued to improve. Thursday was almost clear and warm until the evening. Friday was warmer still. By now, Hope Hall was gripped by a frenzy of preparatory activity.

‘Not there, on the table, you silly girl!' Kitty waited until the red-haired girl placed the baskets of nectarines on the table. As her short reformatory skirt rode up, Kitty gave the girl a sharp crack with the cane across the backs of her shapely legs.

‘Ooh!' The girl's manacles and leg-irons jingled as she leapt up in pain.

‘Now,' Kitty said with a grin on her full lips, ‘off you run back to the kitchen garden and fetch another load.'

She watched the reformatory girl hurry off as quickly as she might without tripping on her leg-irons. The house was full of manacled young women, hurrying hither and thither on all sorts of tasks. As usual, Hatherby Reformatory had lent two score of its most comely convicts to help with the preparations for the great event. Thus the maids found themselves temporarily promoted, issued canes and told to supervise the felons as they fetched and carried, scrubbed, polished, and peeled.

The house, in short, had entered its annual state of glorious uproar, and Kitty devoutly wished that it could be like this all year round.

Itching to lace another pert behind, she looked out of the back door. There were some fruit baskets abandoned in the courtyard and two of the girls in Kitty's team of helpers were being hauled off to the stables by Mr Blackstock, who had a fist around each one's upper arms. Kitty pouted crossly at the sight, but she knew that she dare not protest against this blatant filching of her workforce, even though she suspected that the girls would be good for little by the time she got them back.

The maid was still staring impotently at the stables when the jingling of reformatory manacles made her turn. A small, pretty brunette and a buxom blonde were trotting across the courtyard towards her with big baskets of blackberries in either hand.

Kitty looked into the anxious eyes of both of them in turn, and swished her cane meaningfully through the air. The stealing of Maude and Anne by the stable was forgotten.

‘Right, put those down and touch your toes!' the blonde maid ordered. ‘I'll teach you lazy reformatory sluts to take so long!'

‘Well, girls, all ready for the big day? Betsy, I want these minxes scrubbed and in their best smocks. Amelia, Clara, before your baths you can polish your leashes, cuffs and collars. Everyone from Hatherby, and miles around, will be here today.'

Amelia polished her brown leather collar in sullen silence. Next to her, Clara worked away with that air of serene acceptance that made Amelia want to box the blonde girl's silly ears. Almost everyone in Hatherby had already seen Amelia naked or half-naked, but the knowledge of what was coming still gave her a tight knot in her stomach, and a lump in her throat that felt just like a stuck plum-stone.

‘That's it, good girl. Just relax, my beauty,' Mr Blackstock spoke quietly as his strong hands worked. He had made a sort of couch out of hay bales and covered this with a horse blanket. Blossom had been made to lay on this, at first on her back, as she watched him warming the oil in his hands.

For such a big, rough-seeming man, his hands were cunning. He massaged her with dedicated concentration, stroking and probing her entire body before making her turn. Blossom felt herself transported as he worked the kinks and tensions out of her now lean and muscular back.

There was a crack, the sound of leather on flesh and a pained female cry, from one of the stalls. Blossom knew that Dick was in there with the reformatory girl called Anne.

‘Stop that!' Mr Blackstock called out. ‘You're unsettling the filly. Wait until Blossom is prepared until you have yourself more fun with that chit.'

The grooms had kept the two girls that they had corralled the previous day and, from the way that Dick was proceeding, the reformatory would do well to get their charges back after the cup. Blossom felt a little jealous, for she had grown accustomed to Dick's solicitous attention, but she was too excited herself to dwell upon the matter. In any event, Mr Blackstock's clever hands soon stroked away any such concerns.

‘For heaven's sake, Emma,' Cook exclaimed, ‘not like that. You ought to know yourself, that such paltry little pats have no effect on reformatory girls.'

Emma blushed at the reference to her own origins. Timidly she turned back to the girl who was bending over the sink. The kitchen-maid had been put in temporary charge of the scullery, and given two of the conscripted felons to help with the mountains of washing up. It was not a responsibility she relished in the least.

Daisy was a laconic young woman whose work rate slowed almost to a stop if she were left unsupervised. Emma gripped the wooden spoon and looked at the girl's exposed bottom. The grey shirt hem had been tucked into her belt and below the waist she was naked, except for woollen stockings. It was a firm bottom, with pale skin only marred in a couple of spots by not quite faded welts. Emma's own last effort had scarcely raised a blush.

The kitchen-maid took a deep breath and brought the spoon down on the bottom with a sharp crack. Daisy gave a wriggle and a slightly sarcastic-sounding gasp.

Cook gave an exasperated sigh. ‘I would do it myself, but I have half a dozen of these slatterns to supervise. Now listen to me, Emma. You can put yourself a black mark in the big book for unwarranted leniency, when you get a moment. If you do not punish this girl properly, you will get two more. Do I make myself perfectly clear?'

She had. Emma wiped her perspiring palm on her apron before gripping the wooden spoon's handle again. Bitter memories of the birch and visions of herself strapped to the block, overwhelmed the little maid. There was nothing for it. She had to do it, hard.

This time she put her weight behind the stroke. The bottom-cheek flattened and then bounced. Emma did not give Cook time to criticise but struck again, letting her arm uncurl from the shoulder to the wrist. There was a retort like a pistol shot. Daisy gave a hiss of pure pain and dipped her knees convulsively.

‘Straighten up, girl!' Emma heard herself order.

‘Now, that's better, Emma,' Cook said, sounding a little surprised.

A strange joy coursed through the kitchen-maid as she tapped the wooden spoon thoughtfully in her palm. She watched the spoon-shaped patch bloom red on Daisy's bottom, which had begun to twitch.

‘Ah, ooh, please, miss—' there was new respect in Daisy's voice, maybe even fear ‘—can I go back to work? I will be quicker, honest…'

‘No, Daisy.' Emma sounded astonishingly firm in her own ears. ‘Not just yet!' She raised the wooden spoon for the next stroke. A strange excitement gripped her. She would teach the lazy trollop to take advantage of her gentle nature. A couple of dozen sharp ones ought to do the trick.

‘Oof, please Betsy, it's too tight.'

‘Nonsense, Miss Amelia. Today is a special day and you girls must look your best.'

Betsy had her knee in Amelia's back, and she hauled on the laces of the corset with tremendous strength and an almost indecent enthusiasm. Amelia gripped the rail that had been set up for this, and other purposes, and groaned again. She felt as if she were being constricted around the waist by a python. Clara, already corseted, stood nearby, blinking at her. The blonde girl had been laced so tightly that Amelia thought she must be able to encircle her cousin's waist between her hands. The thought made her feel dizzy. There was a last grunt of effort from behind her, and a final terrible tightening about her waist.