Aboard the airship, Lord Charles Howard, March 29th 2010

 

A glance in the mirror showed Thrift’s face every bit as tired and sulky as she felt. It had not been a good night. Spanked three times until she had completely disgraced herself by squirting all over the floor, she had then been made to clear up, scrubbing the tiles on her hands and knees with her wet skirts pinned up at the back in order to show off her red bottom and keep her in mind of her behaviour. It had also been made very plain that had it not been for the departure the next day and the impossibility of Mrs Fitzroper travelling without a maid she would have been dismissed on the spot. Her task done, she had been sent upstairs to see to Mrs Fitzroper’s packing, still with her dress pinned up and with no drawers or petticoat underneath, her skirt still damp from her efforts to clean herself up. It had been long after midnight before she was finished, and when she had finally been permitted to return to her room she had discovered her suitcase open on the bed and her remaining set of underwear gone, either borrowed or simply stolen. Too tired to pursue Rachel and wary of complaining to Mrs Melcher in case she somehow managed to earn herself a fourth spanking, she had collapsed into bed.

It had seemed only an instant later that Rachel had pulled the bedclothes away to expose Thrift to the predawn chill, since when she had been engaged in frantic preparations for the journey. There had been no time to worry about her missing underwear, and so she had remained bare under her skirt, leaving her feeling intensely vulnerable as she helped to load trunks and suitcases into the small van hired to transport the luggage to the airship terminus in Hyde Park. She rode with the driver, a slab faced man of uncertain age who spent so much time admiring the swell of her chest that she feared for their safety, while the Fitzropers had gone ahead in a taximeter.

At the Empire Mast she had found her employers already aloft and herself with sole responsibility for loading their belongings. There were porters to do the heavy work, but they treated her with the same casual disrespect as had the driver, while the fresh breeze was fluttering her skirts with enough force to keep her constantly in fear of having herself exposed to the world. With everything finally stowed in the great service lift she had ridden up seated on a trunk, exhausted and relieved to be out of the wind. She stood up as the doors began to open, only to have a freezing blast hit her like a hammer, whisking her skirts high and revealing her bare belly and bottom to the porters, a brace of engineers and several of the airship crew. Some laughed, others made crude comments on the shape of her body, leaving her blushing furiously as she covered herself.

The lift head opened to the cargo hold of the airship via a walkway of steel lattice, through which the wind whistled with far greater force than at ground level. She stepped carefully across, determined not to look at the two thousand foot drop beneath her, but was unable to resist a glance that left her feeling sick and dizzy as she reached the hold. The porters were indifferent, swapping jokes and throwing her lewd, smiling glances as they loaded. Too flustered to worry about how the Fitzropers’ luggage was stowed, Thrift had gone to the tiny convenient facility set aside for the use of servants.

Only by telling herself that her suffering was in the cause of the Empire did she manage to carry on, adjusting herself in the mirror before moving forward to find the Professional Lounge, where the Fitzroys would presumably be travelling. The airship was huge, a new design, larger and more luxurious than any other and capable of reaching any part of the vast British Empire without touching down, and of circling the globe. She wasn’t even sure where she was in relation to the bow, stern, or the four great Collins Engines that powered the monster, but eventually managed to find her way forward. Mr and Mrs Fitzroy were standing at the window, admiring the view over London. They had chosen to wear black and yellow, so that they looked for all the world like two large, round bumble bees straining for the light, but Thrift quickly pushed the amusing comparison away as she curtsied.

‘There you are, Jones,’ Mrs Fitzroper snapped. ‘Whatever have you been doing, and where is my small valise? Really, you are the most stupid, wayward girl I have ever had in my employ. No wonder the Moncreiffs got rid of you. Now hurry along.’

Thrift went back the way she had come, muttering a few of the curses she had picked up in the Far East under her breath as she went. Now that she was aboard the airship she could not fail to reach France, where the Lord Charles Howard touched at Amiens and then Reims before continuing on her grand tour of the old European cities. It was tempting to find herself a snug place somewhere in the servants’ area and try to catch up on her sleep, perhaps even worth the inevitable spanking. She would then be sacked and replaced with a French maid, which was part of her plan, but not until they were safely on the ground. To act too soon might mean she found herself forced to return to England from Amiens, which would be disastrous.

A faint jolt signalled that the airship was no longer attached to the mast, and by the time Thrift reached the cargo area it was to find a locked gate with a burly porter stationed on guard. He flatly refused to move, entirely unimpressed by Mrs Fitzroper’s status, and Thrift was left to return to the Professional Lounge empty handed, fully expecting her fourth spanking since entering the family’s employ. Sure enough, no sooner had she once more announced herself to Mrs Fitzroper than she was told to come close to the large, round table at which her employers were now seated with a group of other passengers and to lift her skirt. Blushing hot, she obeyed, but while the men cast only sly glances towards her, none of the women took the least notice, save for Mrs Fitzroper herself, whose voice was raised in annoyance and also surprise as Thrift’s bare legs and bottom came on show.

‘Why do you have no underwear, Jones?’

‘I... I left it behind,’ Thrift stammered, unwilling to attempt a full explanation of the circumstances.

‘You are a stupid, slovenly, wanton girl,’ Mrs Fitzroper responded. ‘Imagine, going about with nothing on beneath your skirt, the very idea!’

‘I’m sorry, Ma’am,’ Thrift mumbled.

‘I should think you are! Now, stand still, with your skirts well up and push yourself out a little.’

Thrift obeyed, adopting the humiliating position so that her cheeks could be slapped with brisk, upwards motions that made her flesh bounce and jiggle. The sight of a mere maid being spanked was evidently too commonplace for the passengers even to interrupt their conversation, and as Thrift’s bottom warmed to the slaps a portly matron in blue was enlarging on her opinion of the peoples of Europe.

‘There is no race more detestable than the French,’ she was saying. ‘Throughout history they have been jealous of our achievements, and since they were obliged to surrender their colonies in order to pay off their war loans, they have been worse than ever. Why they should even be permitted into the country I can not imagine.’

Her companions nodding agreement, Mrs Fitzroper included. Thrift’s chagrin redoubled, not for her punishment, which she could hardly deny was just, but for their indifference to her. To be spanked was bad enough, but for her spanking to be regarded as so utterly inconsequential was worse by far. By the time it was over her resentment had risen to boiling point, but her bottom was warm enough to trigger her wanton feelings, leaving her feeling both mildly aroused and thoroughly sorry for herself as she was sent to sit out of the way where her presence would not inconvenience the Professional passengers but she could be called upon if needed.

With stewards from the airship company on call she found herself left to her own devices, with nothing better to do than stare out of the window. They had risen high and come well south of London, with the landscape below now a patchwork of verdant green fields and darker woods, with here and there the irregular shapes of towns and villages and the long, pale ribbons of the roads. The Channel was already visible, a sheet of distant silver in the bright sunlight, with the French coast a faint line on the horizon.

Her thoughts turned to her mission and what was likely to be necessary in Paris, prostituting herself for one man at the very least and possibly many more. The prospect put a lump in her throat and made her stomach churn, but it also made the warm feeling in her quim grow abruptly stronger. When Mrs Fitzroper had called her a wanton it had been meant to humiliate her, and it had. Yet it was also true, and the cause of her disgrace at Diplomatic School and subsequent entry into the Service. She was easily aroused, and once aroused had great difficulty controlling herself, but that did nothing to abate the shame of her behaviour, rather the opposite.

‘Jones. Jones! Jones, will you pay attention, you stupid girl!’

Thrift sat up sharply, having only realised the command was intended for her on the third use of the unfamiliar name. She came quickly to the table, curtsying once more as she spoke.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Fitzroper. I was daydreaming.’

‘You really are beyond the limit,’ Mrs Fitzroper replied, ‘something I intend to deal with properly once we have touched down, with a cane.’

There was a murmur of approval from the other passengers. Thrift’s cheeks tightened at the prospect of the beating but she hung her head meekly, repeating her apology while privately promising herself that she would leave the Fitzroy’s employment the instant her feet touched French soil. Spanking was one thing, the cane quite another, especially as she was sure to be made to touch her toes and it was likely to be done in front of the lecherous Mr Fitzroper. The Professional classes seemed to have no concept whatsoever of propriety.

‘You are to go to the Maisly-Smyth’s stateroom and collect the small valise you will find on the bed. It really is ever so kind of you, Mrs Maisly-Smyth. Jones is an absolute featherbrain, but good staff are so hard to find nowadays...’

Mrs Fitzroper’s voice faded as Thrift made her way across the lounge. A helpful steward revealed that the cabin she wanted was No104 on the deck above and she quickly found it, and the small, pink valise on the bed. Taking it up, she turned to find Mr Fitzroper coming in at the door, his bowling ball head split by a grin so blatantly lewd that Thrift found herself instinctively clutching the valise to her chest.

‘A word with you, my dear,’ he stated. ‘Do sit down.’

‘I, er... I need to get back to the lounge,’ Thrift protested. ‘Mrs Fitzroper will be expecting me, and if... if I’m not quick...’

‘You are likely to have that fat little bottom of yours smacked again,’ he supplied as Thrift trail off in embarrassment, ‘but that’s not really so very awful, is it? Not beside a dozen cuts of the cane?’

‘No,’ Thrift admitted, wondering if he was threatening her or about to try and bribe her into some indiscretion.

‘I am master in my own house,’ he stated, against the evidence Thrift had so far seen, ‘and you may find that by being nice to me you spend rather less time with a sore bottom than might otherwise be the case.’

‘What do you want?’ Thrift sighed.

‘Ah, ha!’ he responded, his grin growing wider still. ‘I see you are not without experience. Let us say then, that if you were to grant me certain little favours – nothing exceptional, just the sort of thing girls like you do for your sweethearts all the time – then I can at least reduce the number of punishments you suffer, although it must be said that in your case you do rather seem to bring it on yourself. Still, at the very least I think I can promise to have you let off that whacking, should you so wish?’

He stopped talking and slowly closed one eye in what was presumably meant to be a conspiratorial wink. Thrift hesitated, telling herself that she had no desire whatsoever to attend to the dirty little man’s penis and that the only reason she was considering giving in to his demand was for the advantages she might gain. Not only might she be excused her caning but once they were safely in France she could go to Mrs Fitzroper in a fit of supposed guilt and confess all, thus ensuring she was dismissed on the spot while gaining revenge on both the wine merchant and his ghastly wife. It was hardly a noble thought, she realised, but too satisfying to resist.

‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘What’s it to be, a little fun, or to have that saucy pink bottom of yours thrashed? It will be well thrashed too, let me assure you of that. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been to France, a common little thing like you, but they’re not the same as us, oh no! They think nothing of young girls going bare in public, and they’re in want of money too, most of them. For a few francs, which are worth a shilling or so each, Paradise can have you stripped naked in the centre of Reims, horsed up by one labourer and thrashed by another. How would that feel, eh? She might even give you to them afterwards, who knows? It’s not the same in France, oh no, and once our respectable companions are out of the way, well, who knows? Who knows, eh, Mary Jones, you plump little baggage, you!?’

He had been growing increasingly excited as he spoke, clearly enjoying the picture of Thrift’s public thrashing, and his hand had strayed to what was already a conspicuous bulge at the front of his trousers. She glanced down, still reluctant, but telling herself it was for the best, especially as for all she knew his description of the fate that awaited her in Reims might be accurate. At the very least she could play for time.

‘I suppose I had better,’ she said. ‘Yes, when we have time alone, I will...’

‘Oh no you don’t!’ he interrupted. ‘I know your game, you little tease, all promises and then no action, so you can enjoy the thought of poor Kingdom Fitzroper all in a sweat over you while you give your favours to the coal boy or some apprentice from the shops. Come on, show willing, damn you!’

As he spoke he had unbuttoned his fly, to pull a thick, brownish penis and a fat set of balls from within his longjohns.

‘Mr Fitzroper!’

‘Don’t play the innocent with me!’ he snapped back. ‘I know what you girls are like, all coy and precious, but right little wantons underneath. Do you know how to pull on a man’s pego? I suspect you do, and more, so sit yourself down on the bed and get busy.’

‘But I must get back to Mrs Fitzroper,’ Thrift objected, but she had done as she was told, seating herself on the bed. ‘Oh, very well, but you must be quick.’

‘How am I to be quick if you take that attitude?’ he demanded. ‘Come along, titties out at the very least, and I’ll want a feel, but if you want me to hurry with the job you’d better pop me in that pretty mouth of yours.’

‘You are an absolute beast, Mr Fitzroper,’ Thrift told him as her hands went to the catches of her dress.

‘You may call be Kingdom, I think, as we’re to be friends,’ he said, and began to masturbate.

It was no easy matter for Thrift to expose herself, with more than a dozen fastenings to be undone and her corset adjusted before she could lift her breasts free of her dress. He watched every motion, drinking in the gradual revelation of her chest and smacking his lips in delight when both plump pink globes were finally bare. By then his cock was already half stiff, the glossy red tip of his helmet poking out from the meat of his foreskin with every tug.

‘My but you’ve got big ones,’ he drawled. ‘Get to work then, while I have a feel.’

Thrift gave a last, forlorn sigh and reached out to take his penis in her hand. He was quite big, not particularly long, but thick, like his body. Her hand barely closed around his shaft, and it was impossible not to imagine how it would feel to have the same fat rod stretching out the mouth of her vagina or even pushing in and out of her bottom hole. She told herself it wasn’t going to happen, but she was already pulling on his shaft, unable to hold back her need, while he had taken her breasts in his hands and was rubbing his thumbs over her nipples.

To her relief he had stopped talking, his mouth now pursed and his eyes closed in bliss as he fondled her. His cock was growing swiftly in her hand, the helmet now fully out, shiny with pressure. Thrift found herself wanting to take it in her mouth, but held back, determined to preserve what little dignity was left to her while making him come as quickly as possible. She began to pull harder, and to tease his balls with her free hand, tickling underneath where the fat sack of his scrotum bulged from his fly and squeezing them too. He gave a sigh of appreciation and moved in a step closer so that his erection now reared up over Thrift’s bare chest.

She could smell his cock, pungent and masculine, filling her with disgust but making the urge to take it in her mouth all the stronger. He pushed closer still, to lift her breasts and fold them around his erection to fuck in her cleavage as she let go. His cock felt hot against the cool skin of her breasts, while the motion of his rubbing was making his trousers brush on her now painfully stiff nipples. She gave in, telling herself that it made no difference whether she lost her dignity in front of him or not. After all, to him she was just a common maid. Her skirt came up and her hand had found her quim, rubbing urgently as she opened her mouth to signal that she was ready to be made to suck on his cock.

‘That’s better,’ he groaned, ‘but no nonsense now.’

He had taken her by the hair as he lifted his cock from her cleavage and pushed it at her face. Thrift took him in, her senses swimming with both shame and ecstasy as she began to suck on his penis. She had found the little bump between her sex lips, masturbating openly with her thighs spread wide and already fighting the urge to lie back on the bed and beg him to fuck her. Not that she had the choice, with his hand twisted tight into her hair and his cock now pushing deep into her throat with every thrust.She began to gag and tried to pull back a little, but he merely tightened his grip.

‘No you don’t, you little tart,’ he grunted. ‘You swallow.’

With that he came, the spunk ejaculating down Thrift’s throat to make her jerk and retch, her muscles in spasm where the head of his cock was jammed down her gullet. He cried out in ecstasy, holding himself deep as spurt after spurt erupted from his cock, until finally her body revolted and she went into a violent coughing fit. A mixture of spunk and mucus exploded from her nose, all over his trousers, then more, gushing out from around her lips as he finally pulled back a little. She was left gasping for breath as he stepped away, cursing at the state of his clothes, but Thrift was too far gone to care. A moment to recover her breath and she had laid back on the bed, masturbating freely in full view of the man who’d just used her, until she too reached orgasm.