Hall of Infamy (4 page)

‘…but that it was forbidden.'

Betsy let out a long and heartfelt sigh as the blaze of pain started to subside.

‘Now, bend over further, Betsy.'

She managed to fight the corset enough to let her grab her shins just below her knees.

‘A little better, I suppose,' Jamie said grudgingly. Betsy gritted her teeth as she sensed him raise the strap once again.

‘Ooh, ooh, aah!'

‘Stop whimpering, you silly girl.' Jamie's words were stern but his tone was tolerant, even fond.

After the belting, he had let her take the corset off and she now wore nothing but her woollen stockings. Betsy lay, sniffling, across her master's lap, as he sat on the chaise longue and applied cold cream liberally to her throbbing hindquarters.

She was usually less conscious of her behind than she was of her breasts but, right now, it was the other way round. The tawsing had not been the worst beating she had taken, but Betsy had an especial dislike for the split-tailed belt. It had been a new one, fresh from Mr Kimblewick the saddler in Hatherby. The strap was as thick as a finger, yet the leather was so flexible it felt like a whip. Betsy did not know how many strokes Master Jamie had given her, just that it had been too many. Her young master had taken his time, for time was his to take. The thrashing had been for his pleasure and he had made sure that he had taken it at his leisure. Betsy's part was but to bend over obediently and endure.

Still, there was pleasure for her in his touch now, and her sobs were sobs of relief more than of pain. There was something indescribably delicious about the feeling of the cold ointment as it soothed her scalded skin and, though she had made little sound through the belting, she could not stop some gasps escaping as he stroked.

‘Don't tell Miss Amelia about this, Betsy,' Jamie said with a chuckle. ‘Or that haughty little baggage will start expecting such privileges, too.'

‘Ooh.' A louder gasp escaped her lips as his fingers started to probe between her thighs. She had been expecting that. Though thankful that the tawse had been put down, she was not yet relaxed. Betsy could feel his hardness pressing into her belly, and it told her that he had not entirely slaked his lust with Miss Clara. Her work was not yet finished for the night. The only question was what form it would take.

‘Well, what a surprise!'

Although he could not see her face, she hung her head as if to hide her furious blush.

‘You are dripping, girl. Betsy, I declare you really are the most perverse little slut. One only has to lift a hand to you and you start gushing like spring.'

Betsy yelped as he withdrew his probing hand and gave her still-sore bottom a resounding slap.

‘Right, get down on the floor. I'll have you on all fours. I was thinking of buggering you, but it seems a pity to waste such lubrication.'

Betsy scrambled, eager to obey, kneeling on the floor. She dared a furtive glance towards him and caught a glimpse of his hands unbuttoning his flies, then her heart fluttered as he took out his member, stiff as a soldier and with a resplendently crimson head.

‘And anyway, I'm sure Miss Clara has the sweetest little virginal rose-hole, just waiting to be ringed!'

Betsy had been secretly relieved and pleased to hear that she was to be screwed rather than buggered. The tone of eager anticipation in her master's voice replaced relief with a hot surge of jealousy. But she was given no time to dwell on the subject.

‘Get your legs wider apart, girl,' he grunted as he got into position. Betsy complied and grabbed handfuls of the carpet. She gave a low groan as he eased himself into her, then a sharper cry as his well-muscled belly and thighs rammed into the tenderised flesh of her rear. Then he reached round and took a breast in each hand.

‘That's it. Good girl – let me right up.' He slid deep inside her. Betsy's groans turned to high-pitched squeals. With every thrust, she felt herself driven deeper towards complete delirium.

The relentless squeezing of her breasts wrung frantic cries from her lips, and even Betsy could not have said if they were screams of pain or pleasure. The only thing she still knew was that she had a problem. She could feel Jamie's climax coming, sense it building as his pelvic thrusts became less controlled. Unfortunately, the position in which he was taking her did not provide contact where she needed it the most. She was moaning with desire now, half-insane with pleasure-pain, but she needed something more to trigger her orgasm. She had received no permission to touch herself, and the thought of doing what she had to do unbidden was dreadfully daunting. But then, that fear just cranked up her arousal to an even higher pitch.

Finally as Jamie began to groan, she took the chance, lifting one hand from the floor and ramming the heel of her hand over her clitoris. It did not take much, which was just as well, because she did not have much time. Master Jamie was gasping. The orgasm seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her, spreading out in ripples of electrifying pleasure, wiping everything and everybody from her consciousness.

She came back to earth on the floor to find Jamie still entwined about her. His strong arms around her felt wonderful, and the gentle way he kissed her neck made the plump maid purr with pleasure.

‘Very nice.' He stroked her cheek gently. ‘You fuck like butter, Betsy. Only—' Betsy stiffened at the word, her warm glow dispersing, ‘—I was wondering. When, exactly, did I give you leave to frig yourself?'

‘Oh dear, oh dear, Amelia. What are we going to do with you?' Jamie sighed theatrically. ‘Mr Catchpole has come all the way from Hatherby to perform his office, and Mrs Pritchard tells me that all the servant girls have already been done. Yet you persist in this obstinate refusal. Tsk, tsk – you really do seem determined to make life difficult for yourself!'

Amelia glared at the young man, who had emerged from his room as immaculately dressed as ever, this morning sporting an emerald cravat and an embroidered silk waistcoat of gold thread on dark green. She and Clara had been roused a full two hours earlier by Betsy. Once again dressed in the costume of the previous evening, they had been set various demeaning tasks while he idled in his bed. It was not boot-cleaning that had provoked Amelia's rebellion, however.

‘I won't, I won't, I simply won't let that man—' she shook her head vigorously, as if unable to say the word, ‘—do
that
to my…' Again, her words tailed off.

‘Amelia, do be careful. Your face has gone quite purple.' Jamie turned to the housekeeper, who was standing stiffly at the door. ‘Mrs Pritchard, would you mind explaining what happens to the maids on those occasions they miss the barber's visits?' he said pleasantly.

‘I – am – not – a – servant!' Amelia said through gritted teeth. All the same, something about his calm tone chilled her. She glanced at the housekeeper and was mortified to see her sour smile.

‘Why, in that case they have to be sent into Hatherby, Master Jamie. To be shorn in Mr Catchpole's special barber's chair. He has straps and what have you, so that uncooperative “customers” can be secured, for their own safety. He says the razors are too sharp to work on anyone who might thrash around.'

‘Good lord,' said Jamie, ‘and is that expedient often resorted to?'

‘Oh, no, sir. The maids all try to avoid it most diligently. The barber's shop is on the high street and, well, when a girl is being shaved… Well, some of the commoner people tend to congregate and stare.'

‘Oh yes, he has a fine shop front window, I recall, but what about the blinds?'

‘Mr Catchpole says he can't draw them, for want of light, sir. That's why, when he comes to us, he works in the Whippery—'

‘All right, all right,' Amelia broke in bitterly, her resolve having been dissolved by this discussion. ‘If I must endure this outrage, I suppose I must. What purpose this indecent procedure serves eludes me, but I will not be gawked at by the collected labourers of Hatherby.'

‘I'm so glad you have changed your mind, Amelia. Mrs Pritchard, would you be so kind as to escort Amelia and Clara to the Whippery? Perhaps you might explain to them why we have to have the lower orders shaved this way.'

‘With pleasure, sir.' Mrs Pritchard gave Jamie a brief nod and opened the door for the cousins. Amelia followed Clara out of the parlour miserably.

‘We shave our girls strictly for hygienic reasons,' the black-clad woman said as the two girls preceded her down the nursery stairs. Amelia clenched her fists in impotent fury as the woman continued conversationally, ‘It's particularly efficacious in preventing pubic lice, which can be a problem amongst the commoner sort of girl, you see.'

Amelia did not know the long high-ceilinged corridor that Mrs Pritchard ushered them down. Nor did she know to which far part of the hall it led. Even so, a feeling of dread crept over her as the girls' high heels clacked on the parquet flooring. For one thing, there was something ominously gloomy about the passage. For another, there was the word “whippery”, which hardly boded well.

‘The Whippery was built by the twelfth Marquis of Hatherby, nearly two hundred years ago.' The usually dour Mrs Pritchard became more loquacious with every step. ‘All the maids hate this walk,' she said with obvious satisfaction. ‘You girls will learn to fear it as much before too long, I expect.'

There were carved marble friezes on the walls now and Amelia glanced at them as they passed. To her horror, she realised that they skilfully depicted numerous figures, mostly rather plump-looking young women being bound to posts and benches. Some were being tied and stripped. Others were evidently about to be flagellated. Further down the passage, others were depicted actually being whipped. Amelia looked away again.

‘These bas-reliefs were commissioned at the same time as the Whippery was built.' It seemed the sharp-eyed Mrs Pritchard had noticed her interest. ‘There's nothing like them in the three counties. The twelfth Marquis was a man truly dedicated to the rod.'

There was a tone of outright admiration in her voice. Amelia glanced again at the reliefs and shivered. At the further end of the series girls were being taken down from their whipping posts and… Hurriedly, she looked away again.

‘In those days, the Lords of Hatherby could do pretty much exactly as they pleased.' Mrs Pritchard sounded regretful that such days had passed, even a little sad. ‘And the estates were vast. That's why the Whippery had to be so large.'

They were past the friezes now but shelves of massive black books lined the rest of the corridor.

‘These are the big books of Hope Hall. They go back nearly two centuries,' the housekeeper continued informatively. ‘You will see that they used to flog staffs of forty or more maids at a time. Not to mention footmen and stable-boys… Ah, me!' Amelia had never seen the woman so excited and enthusiastic. ‘How these walls must have echoed with their squeals!'

At the far end of the corridor there was a sort of lectern containing a huge open book. Mrs Pritchard paused to show them the names inscribed there. Amelia suppressed a smile as she saw the name of Betsy among those of the maids. Then her pleasure curdled for, at the end of the list of names, she saw her own and Clara's.

‘This is the current big book and this page represents the present week. When you are told to add a black mark you will do so, like this.' Mrs Pritchard took a pen from an inkwell which was set into the stand, and carefully drew a black cross next to Amelia's name. ‘The usual tariff is one dozen of the birch for each black mark, paid off after church on Sunday.'

‘But…' Amelia looked at the mark, then up at the still-poised pen, with horror.

‘That is for this morning's little tantrum,' Mrs Pritchard said with satisfaction. ‘Normally, you will be sent down here to inscribe your own fate. The contemplation engendered by this walk is considered salutary.'

Before Amelia could protest further, she turned to the side and threw open a set of large double-doors. Amelia and Clara stepped into the Whippery and both stood looking around in awe. What struck Amelia most was the elegance of the chamber. After Mrs Pritchard's commentary, she had expected the room to be larger. Not that it was small. The Whippery was circular and divided into two halves. One half had several semi-circular banks of seats of reddish oak with crimson velvet cushions.

‘Seating for seventy people altogether,' Mrs Pritchard said smugly. ‘Not that it needs to very often, these days.'

The second half of the room was made up of a small stage flanked by two tiers of more basic wooden benches, arching off at either side, and cut off from the platform by a door on either side. The whole of the Whippery was as light as a conservatory, despite the quantities of woodwork. More than three-quarters of the circular building was composed of tall glass windows, which started just above the level of the highest row of seats. Above these was a small wall, then another row of lights, this time sloping inward, to meet the base of a glass and ironwork cupola high above.

‘The stage faces south, to get the best of the light,' Mrs Pritchard said reverently.