Hall of Infamy (3 page)

It was a long way to her dormitory, a journey involving many stairs, and the unlocking and locking of numerous iron gates and doors. Emma fairly itched to get going, but there was nothing she could do but stand and wait. Finally they were told to file back into the building. Emma hurried up the stairway after Polly and the others, hoping she would get back to the dormitory in time, anxious to find a place at one of the barred windows, so that she could see. She could not have explained it if asked. The prospect of a whipping always seemed to have this effect on her. Emma was both appalled and furiously excited. Most of all she was consumed by an almost compulsive sense of curiosity.

‘Do you know, I believe we shall get along very well here for the summer, Betsy.' Jamie leant back in his chair and put his hands behind his head with a satisfied smile.

Betsy knew better than to answer him and carried on with her work, tidying away the things that Master Jamie had taken out to use on the young ladies. She hoped his taste for flogging had been sated by the evening's activities. First he had caned Miss Amelia which, Betsy had to admit, she had much enjoyed watching. Then he had spanked Miss Clara, afterward giving her a mere four light strokes with the cane, a count which seemed scarcely adequate to the nursery-maid. He had stayed a long time in Clara's little room, though, and Betsy had heard girlish moans through the door. Surely he must be satisfied for the night?

She picked up the cane and took it to the cupboard.

‘No – leave that! We shall want it in a minute. Run down to the drawing room and fetch me a brandy. I shall see to you when you get back.'

Oh, Lord, Betsy thought, her heart pounding as she hurried down the stairs and along the corridor. She was plainly going to be served a portion of rod soup tonight, after all. There was no denying that Jamie was a demon for dishing out the cane, and he seemed to like Betsy's big and all-too-tender bottom particularly as a target. She just hoped she could get the brandy without incident. Swallowing anxiously, she knocked on the drawing room door.

‘Enter.' The languid tones of Lord Alexander summonsed her into the room.

Betsy sighed. She had hoped that the Marquis and Marchioness would not yet be back from their visit to the reformatory. She took a deep breath and stepped inside.

‘Well, girl, what is it?' Lord Alex was sprawled in a leather-upholstered chesterfield, a balloon of brandy in one hand and a fat cigar in the other. Kneeling before him, and difficult to ignore, was a girl. It was not hard to recognise Lucy, his chambermaid. The girl's brown ringlets and plump bottom were distinctive even from the rear. The latter was quite bare, Lucy having stripped to her white corset and black silk stockings, and her head was bobbing busily about his crotch.

Lady Alicia, resplendent in a gown of crimson silk, was lounging on a couch, a little to one side, idly fingering a long and very slender dressage whip. Several welts, narrow but deep red, already graced the creamy flesh of Lucy's bottom. Betsy knew quite well whence the livid stripes had originated. She studiously avoided Lady Alicia's eyes. Something like this was what she had been afraid of.

‘Master Jamie, sir, asked me to fetch him a brandy.'

Lord Alex gave a distracted grunt before waving his cigar towards the decanters. ‘Well, get on with it, girl, and be sure to pour the lad a decent measure.'

Betsy hurried over to the cabinet that held the glasses and took a balloon over to the side table that supported the flasks of drink.

‘By God, that's it. Good! Yes! Oh, yes!' Lord Alex groaned again.

Betsy tried to ignore the slurping noises.

Pffft
!

Her hand trembled at the sound of the whip cutting through the air and into Lucy's bottom but she managed not to spill any brandy.

‘Damn! The little bitch nearly nipped me,' Lord Alex barked.

‘Tsk, tsk, she must be flogged.'

‘Yes, dear, of course – but let's just allow the baggage to finish… Yes, that's it!'

Betsy escaped while their attention was still on Lucy. Once out of the drawing room, she leant back against the wall and gave a big sigh of relief. The nursery-maid knew, from bitter experience, that had Lord Alex and Lady Alicia delayed her, then Master Jamie would have blamed her rather than the culprits, and would have punished her accordingly. Fairness never seemed to interfere with flogging matters at Hope Hall.

‘What are you doing, girl, lounging around chewing cud like a heifer?'

Betsy could not quite prevent a startled squeak escaping. Mrs Pritchard had emerged, quite silently, from a doorway opposite.

‘Oh, sorry, Mrs Pritchard, I was sent, I was just—'

‘Just idling is what you were doing, girl! You are a lazy good-for-nothing. Get on with your duties instantly.'

Betsy turned and trotted down the corridor as quickly as she could, but it was not fast enough. Mrs Pritchard's harsh voice called after her. ‘Oh, and put two black marks against your name in the big book. You should know by now what happens to idle trollops at Hope Hall.'

Betsy climbed the east wing stairway disconsolately. Twenty minutes earlier she had been hoping that she might get to bed unscathed. Now she had Master Jamie's cane to look forward to, and the black marks would mean at least two dozen with the birch, come Sunday. She had not liked the way Lady Alicia had looked at her, either. Like most maids at the hall, Betsy felt the best way to be looked at by the imperious Lady Alicia was, generally, not at all.

‘You took your time!'

Betsy knew better than to protest. ‘Sorry, sir,' she said anxiously, but he smiled indulgently as she handed him the glass.

‘Oh, that's all right, Betsy,' he said, taking a sip, ‘I am in a good mood tonight. Take off your dress. I'm going to thrash you – but don't worry, I'm not cross with you.' He grinned and put the brandy glass down on the low table beside him, picking up and flexing the kooboo cane in its stead. ‘No, I'm going to flog you now strictly for my pleasure.'

Thank you, Master Jamie, that makes all the difference. Betsy could not quite suppress the flash of sarcasm as she pulled off her grey nursery uniform. She did not dare articulate the thought, but her cheeks went a little pink and she felt suddenly afraid that he might read her mind.

‘That's better. Now I can see you. Should we get you a “tutu” like the chambermaids, instead of that grey sack?'

Betsy said nothing. Lucy and Kitty spent a good deal of their lives in abbreviated mockeries of proper maids' uniforms. The very idea of spending her days dressed like that filled Betsy with horror. Her own outfit was perfectly respectable, if a little dull. Still, she knew her opinion was not really being sought.

‘Hm.' Jamie sipped his brandy thoughtfully, keeping the cane in his other hand. He used it to tap a suspender clip where it clasped the top of her black woollen stocking. ‘I think we will have the skirts taken up to here, anyway. It is just too much of a business getting them out of the way every time I want to give you a quick freshener.'

Betsy tried to stop her bottom lip from trembling.

‘Of course,' he sighed, using the cane to stroke the side of her leg, over the woollen stocking, ‘these will have to go. I'll order some silk hose for you. Won't that be fine?'

This was a direct question and so she had to answer. ‘Yes, sir,' she said, trying to sound appropriately grateful.

In truth, fine silk stockings were the last thing that she wanted. The things laddered if you looked at them too hard. Betsy had seen the chambermaids bent over far too often, as they were made to atone for sins that they had been adjudged to have committed against expensive silk.

‘Drawers now, Betsy.' Jamie's voice was low and even-toned, but there was no doubt that it was an order. Her fingers fumbled at the knot as she wondered if he would order these replaced as well. The old-fashioned drawers could be opened easily enough at the back for purposes of punishment, but they would look ridiculous with a shortened skirt.

Betsy's face was crimson as she resumed her position. It seemed she would never get used to this: standing in nothing but her long black corset and her stockings, breasts bulging out of the top and private parts entirely bare to the young man's scrutiny. Her fingers fluttered at her sides, desperate to cover her nakedness – but the cane, languidly waving in Jamie's hand, kept them trembling in their place.

‘By God, you really are a great piece, Betsy.' Jamie chuckled appreciatively and took a swig of brandy. ‘I don't know when I've seen bigger titties. Unhook your front and get them out for me.'

Betsy had always been big. Some might have called her fat, although she had a waist even without the benefits of corseting. The tight-laced beast she struggled with now could not quite force her plumpness into a fashionable hourglass, but it certainly emphasised her curves. It was back-laced and hooked at the front so, theoretically, it should have been simple to undo, but the pressure exerted by the merciless lacing meant she had a real struggle to unhook it at the top. Finally she got the first metal fastening open.

‘No, don't take it off. Just get those titties out!'

Betsy had hoped she would have escaped the thing, at least for the duration of her punishment. The long corset always made bending over such a trial. She did as she was bidden; having loosened the top she was able to pull her breasts out and over the top of the corset's front.

‘Hands on your head.'

Scarlet-faced and totally exposed, Betsy did as she was ordered. Her breasts were relatively firm and shapely, considering their size, and the action pulled them up so that they jutted out before her.

‘What's this?' There was a sharp and displeased note to his voice. She felt the tip of his cane poke at her pudenda.

Betsy had no idea. She looked down but all she could see was the white expanse of her breasts, blotting out anything below.

‘I – I don't know, sir,' she said hoarsely.

‘I do. It's stubble. This is poor grooming, Betsy, do you not agree?'

Betsy tried to blink back her tears. ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,' she managed.

‘Never mind. Put yourself a black mark in the big book, get yourself sheared first thing, and we'll say no more about it. Now, come here. No, closer.'

Hesitantly, she stepped closer, until she was right at his side. Jamie put the brandy balloon down, though he retained the cane. Betsy closed her eyes and tried to control her breathing as he ran his hand up her thigh and over the big mounds of her bottom. He rested it there for a moment, using his fingers to caress her left buttock gently.

‘Wonderfully firm. You really are quite magnificent, you know.'

Betsy bit her lip. If you like my arse so much, Master Jamie, she thought suddenly, what do you see in that skinny little bitch Clara? She was surprised at the vehemence of the emotion. Surely she was not feeling jealous? Cross with herself for being foolish, she pushed the thought away.

‘I've changed my mind. I'm not going to cane you. You can put this away.'

Betsy took the cane and scurried over to the big cupboard, trying not to let hope into her heart. It stole in all the same.

‘Oh,' Jamie said as she put the cane in its place, ‘and bring me a two-tailed tawse.'

‘Lower, come on, touch your toes!

The corset creaked in protest as Betsy tried to comply. If she had been allowed to unhook it altogether, she might have had a chance, but with the stiff whalebone resisting every inch it was quite hopeless. She was red-faced from exertion as much as humiliation now, and the effort was making her pant and her breasts heave. All the time, as she struggled, Master Jamie stood at perfect ease beside her, sipping his brandy, and letting the thick tawse swing languidly from side to side in his right hand.

‘Come on, you can do better. You must!'

Again, Betsy tried to bend further, fighting against resilient whalebone. ‘I'm sorry, sir, I can't.'

‘In my school—' the young man took a final swig and set the glass down on an occasional table ‘—there was a master, Mr Whitstable by name. He always used to tell us that there is no such word as “can't”.'

Betsy tried to stifle a little wail as she sensed him move into position at her side, and just a little to the rear.

‘Quite absurd, of course,' Master Jamie continued conversationally. ‘After all, how could he have said the word himself, if it did not exist?'

Betsy knew it was coming now, at last. She tensed herself and gripped her own legs as low down as she could manage, which was just above the knees.

‘What he meant, of course…' Jamie murmured thoughtfully. There was a sickening hiss, followed by a loud retort and white fire shot through Betsy's upper thighs, making her grunt as she desperately fought the need to cry out in pain. ‘…was not that “can't” does not exist…'

There was another hiss. Another even more explosive crack, and a stripe of flesh across the middle of Betsy's buttocks was on fire. The pain made her gasp for breath and desperately knead the fleshy thighs above her knees.