No generals ever planned a campaign more thoroughly or with more relish than Michael and I planned our assault upon our unsuspecting victims. All ten of them - for Michael insisted Faith should not be spared - were to receive individual treatment, in addition to some group activities that my ‘tutor’ thought would be amusing, for us if not for them. Michael also suggested we keep the purpose of his visit secret for the time being, since he wanted to ‘get the feel of the place’, as he put it, before making them aware of what was in store.
‘Just till tomorrow afternoon, if you’re happy to do that,’ he said. ‘We can tell them then - and watch their faces when we do! I’d like to meet them today, however, so I know who’s who. Then we can start to decide exactly what we intend doing to them.’
Without further ado I rang for Alice and told her to ask all the females in the house - my wards and Mrs Hammond included - to attend me in the hall. A faint but insistent murmur some ten minutes later told us the party was assembled and we went out to meet them.
They stood in a long line, Irene Hammond on our left, then Victoria, Elizabeth, Cathy, Winifred Smith, Alice, Rose, Molly and Mary at the end - and not one of them was smiling. I realised rumours must already be circulating about my guest and the strange equipment being unloaded from his carriage, for as they stood before us they regarded Michael with mistrust and in some cases fear. The one exception was Elizabeth, whose expression was one of barely concealed hostility.
Blithely ignoring whatever suspicions they were entertaining, I explained that Sir Michael was to be our guest for a few weeks. I then introduced him to each of them in turn, starting with the governess since she happened to be on the end of the line.
‘So this is the famous Mrs Hammond,’ he said, with a faint smile. ‘Such a pleasure to meet you at last, madam.’
‘Famous, sir?’ she said cautiously.
‘Most certainly. The Duke of Alberthorpe has been singing your praises to anyone who will listen. Your victory in the FFF competition is being discussed by floggers the length and breadth of the country. Imagine how mortified I was to have missed it.’
‘Sir,’ the governess murmured uneasily, ‘I don’t...’
‘Do not be troubled, Mrs Hammond,’ I said soothingly. ‘Sir Michael is teasing, I am sure.’
I wasn’t convinced he was, in fact. Irene Hammond had made a strong impression on Percy, certainly, and he undoubtedly had recounted the tale of the competition to fellow floggers.
We continued down the line. The rest all curtseyed in turn and murmured respectful greetings, though a general lack of enthusiasm was evident. Elizabeth’s manner was positively chilly, though I could hardly take offence at her ‘Welcome to Bleekston Hall, Sir Michael,’ no matter how glacial the tone.
With the introductions over I sent the lot of them packing, then my guest and I retired to the library once more to continue our scheming. The more Michael divulged the more intrigued and delighted at the prospect I became. Inviting him here had definitely been one of my better ideas, no doubt about it. There were nine women not so far away who would soon be disagreeing violently with that notion, but that merely proved I was right.
I called them together again the following day straight after luncheon. They stood in a line as before, in the hall, and Michael began to address them. He lectured them sternly for fully twenty minutes on the need for modesty and circumspection in females and the dangers associated with frivolity and merriment.
‘Why,’ he said, by way of illustration, ‘yesterday evening I heard a maid actually singing as she went about her duties. Singing, I tell you! In truth, I trembled to hear it, so fearful was I for her soul.’
His tone suggested singing was amongst the very vilest of iniquities, ranking somewhere just slightly below murder, perhaps. One or two of his audience glanced at Molly and Mary, for there was little doubt the likely culprit was one of them.
‘Bad enough behaviour in a servant,’ Michael went on, in full flow now, ‘who can perhaps plead feeble-mindedness and lack of wit in her defence. How much worse then, in those with no such excuse - those expected to set an example to others? I was most shocked to hear laughter emanating from the classroom this morning; laughter shared by all those present, unless my ears deceived me. Need I remind you that a classroom is a sacred place, devoted to the shaping of impressionable, vulnerable young minds? Such ebullience is utterly out of place there.’
I watched the faces of his audience as Michael preached this arrant nonsense and noted a whole range of emotions. Irene Hammond looked somewhat apprehensive, Elizabeth was openly scornful, whilst Victoria and Cathy appeared puzzled, as though uncertain what all this had to do with them. The servants, interestingly enough, were reacting in a more appropriate fashion, as if they alone perceived the magnitude of the peril bearing down on them. Rose appeared more nervous than I’d ever seen her, Alice and Mrs Smith appeared petrified, whilst Molly and Mary simply looked glum, as though they had already resigned themselves to their fate - whatever it turned out to be.
‘I sense the devil at work here,’ Michael went on, in what I fervently hoped was his concluding address, as I was keen to get started on the practical aspects of the game. ‘Fortunately for you all, Mr Montague and I see where our duty lies. We will save your souls, no matter how great the toil. Through suffering you shall all be cleansed, you have my word on it. Through pain and tribulation you shall find salvation. Do you, frailest and weakest of all God’s creatures, now willingly accept this purification we offer? Speak up - do you welcome it?’
No one said a word. The only answer of any kind was a soft snort of derision from Elizabeth, who was making little attempt to hide her disgust. For myself, I wondered at all the Biblical references, for Michael was not, to the best of my knowledge, a religious man. As he addressed the females assembled before us one might take him for a fire-and-brimstone preacher at the very least, if not an evangelical bishop.
‘It is as I feared, Mr Montague,’ Michael said solemnly, turning to me. ‘They are already pinned beneath Lucifer’s cloven hoof and are unable to free themselves. Only we can save them now, sir. What say you - are you ready to begin the fight?’
‘I am, Sir Michael,’ I replied with equal gravity.
He nodded in a sober fashion. Now it was my turn to address our nine victims - and I was determined to be considerably less garrulous than my guest. ‘Go,’ I said. ‘Return in fifteen minutes wearing just your spanking outfits.’ Those ten words should suffice, I thought. But no one moved and I was obliged to expend an additional word, to my chagrin. ‘Depart!’
They went. And so did Michael, up to his room, to prepare Faith and collect his horsewhip. I went along to the study and selected a similar implement from my collection. Then it was simply a matter of waiting in the hall for the others. The fun was about to begin.
Michael had suggested a run for the opening ‘group’ event. A barefoot race, in fact, along the gravel drive to the gates and back, somewhat less than two miles in total. He had initially proposed they do this in their underwear, but I told him I had a better idea. I described the spanking costumes and he agreed they sounded ideal.
Faith, of course, did not possess such an outfit and as he brought her down the stairs I saw she was wearing just a short vest that barely reached to her navel and her loincloth. From her pained approach I guessed the chafer plugs were once more inside her and Michael soon confirmed this. ‘She has gone without shoes for so long a barefoot run is no trial for her,’ he explained. ‘The discouragers will put her on a par with the others.’
Her nine fellow victims appeared shortly thereafter, but then there was a further delay, for Michael expressed a wish to inspect them. Since he was my guest I was obliged to humour him, so I had them line up as before. Once again, he started with the governess.
‘Most impressive,’ he said, stroking the skin-tight fabric and murmuring in approval at the way it squeezed limbs and torso alike. ‘I assume this is your own design, Mr Montague?’
‘The concept alone,’ I said. ‘Mrs Hammond deserves all the credit for turning it into reality.’
He nodded. ‘Exposed buttocks, I see. Very practical.’ He slapped her bottom as if to prove his point. Mrs Hammond flinched, for it had been a hearty slap and unexpected into the bargain. Michael then pointed to her breast flaps. ‘I see you’ve incorporated inspection panels. May I?’
‘By all means, Sir Michael,’ I said.
He undid the buttons and folded down each flap in turn. The governess flushed red, holding herself rigidly while he stared at her breasts. Michael nodded. ‘Lord Alberthorpe wasn’t exaggerating, I see. He mentioned that you possessed spectacular tits, madam, and I’m delighted to say he was right. What other treasures lie within reach, I wonder? Ah, here’s another inspection panel - and one most conveniently placed.’ He unbuttoned the governess’s crotch flap and fastened it up in the raised position. I thought he might touch her there, but he refrained. Instead he stared at her a while longer, then moved on to Victoria, next in the line.
He repeated this for each of them in turn - the breast and crotch inspection, that is, although the rest were spared the slap on the buttocks. I expected a protest from Elizabeth but she took it in silence, staring straight ahead, her thoughts on the proceedings plain to see in her face.
Michael said barely a word to the others, with the exception of Winifred Smith. He took one look at the oversized breast flaps on the cook’s costume and murmured in disbelief. He did more than murmur when he unbuttoned them and her huge teats came into view. ‘Dear Lord!’ he exclaimed. ‘Some say you can’t have too much of a good thing, but I do have to wonder.’ He shot me a significant look before turning his attention to her groin and I guessed he would be dreaming up some rather special treatment for Mrs Smith’s bosom.
At last the inspection was completed and our victims were allowed to do up their breast and crotch flaps. Michael then proceeded to describe the race, telling them they must run the full length of the drive and back. Laggards, he said, could expect a taste of our horsewhips to encourage their efforts.
‘My man Rawlings is waiting there at the gates to see no one cheats,’ he added. ‘You must touch the gatepost before turning back.’
On that note of warning the party trooped outside, where Faith led them off. The others were gasping from the very first step as the sharp flints cut into tender soles. Although described as a ‘run’, no one was truly running, as the need for speed was tempered by the need to place one’s feet down with care. The best they could manage was a fast, ungainly stalk, rather like a heron in a hurry.
The field began to string out somewhat, with Faith well in the lead despite the chafer plugs. Victoria and Cathy were at the back and so were the first to feel the sting of our whips. Using a horsewhip takes a great deal of skill, for in the wrong hands they can shred flesh to ribbons. My wards were very fortunate in that both Michael and I possessed that skill, for we merely flicked them with the tips, delivering stinging nips to their buttocks. When they instinctively covered their bottoms with their hands we switched to their thighs and calves, so they did not escape the torment.
I didn’t think my two youngest wards were necessarily feebler than the rest, but certainly they were less used to physical discomfort than the maids, say, which put them at a clear disadvantage. Try as they might, they couldn’t seem to catch up and I foresaw a long painful ‘run’ ahead of them. It was not to be, however, for Elizabeth dropped back to help her sisters. Ignoring the flurry of stings her own rump promptly attracted, she took hold of their arms and virtually dragged them forward. In half a minute or so the trio had overtaken a struggling Winifred Smith and even went on to pass Alice, ten paces further on.
It was the cook who now became the whips’ target and soon she was wailing pitifully as Michael and I competed to see who could strike her white backside the most times. She was particularly unfortunate in that her buttocks were so large she could not ‘cover up’ in any effective manner. She did manage to put on a spurt, however, and pulled level with Alice, who drew our fire to some degree at least. These two stayed virtually level all the way to the gate and indeed all the way back again. Rawlings returned with us, so that there were now three whips in constant use. By the time they reached the house Alice and Mrs Smith were positively howling.
The runners all lined up on the steps for our inspection. Every single one was white-faced and panting from her exertions and clearly in considerable pain. Faith looked to be suffering exceedingly, which made her performance as leader of the pack all the more astonishing. Michael congratulated them on completing the exercise and promised them more of the same on the long, painful road to salvation.
‘You will come to thank us in time,’ he told them. ‘Believe me, this is for your own good.’
His assurances were met with fidgeting and unhappy looks all round. Only one of them was brave enough - or foolhardy enough - to challenge him openly, however. ‘You claim we are frail and weak creatures, sir,’ Elizabeth said angrily, ‘but we are certainly not weak in the head. We can recognise when someone has our best interests at heart and when his motives are entirely selfish and base.’
‘Can you indeed, Miss Elizabeth?’ Michael said, in a quiet, dangerous tone. ‘I wonder. It seems to me that you have missed the whole point of the exercise. Clearly it needs to be repeated, to allow you to reflect further on these matters. Rawlings?’
‘Sir?’ the coachman said, stepping forward.
‘Run this young lady to the gate and back and do not spare the whip.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Elizabeth did not move, but simply looked at me. ‘Is it your wish that I should do this, uncle?’ she said stiffly.
‘It is,’ I said. ‘There are times when one should speak out, Elizabeth, and times when it is wiser to curb one’s tongue. This is a hard lesson, but I think a necessary one.’
She regarded me for some seconds more, then nodded. Her final response was cold as ice. ‘So be it.’
She started down the steps, but Michael had one final cruel trick to play. ‘Rawlings,’ he said, ‘bind Miss Elizabeth’s wrists in front of her. The clearer the target for your whip, the sooner she may come to see the error of her ways. I would hate to have to send her off to the gate a third time.’
Once Elizabeth had set off down that arduous track once more - with Rawlings’ whip, I couldn’t help but notice, already drawing tormented gasps from her lips - Michael ordered the others inside. ‘Let us hope no one else will be sharing the fate of Miss Elizabeth,’ he said, ‘who even now is suffering greatly in her search for enlightenment. I trust all of you feel the benefit of your recent exertions?’
There were vigorous nods from those present, with one exception - Irene Hammond gave no sign one way or the other. Michael obviously noticed this too, for he addressed her directly. ‘Mrs Hammond,’ he said, ‘can it be you entertain similar doubts? I find that hard to believe in one whose intelligence cannot be in doubt. Tell me, do you not feel a distinct lightening of the spirit as a result of your toil?’
She did not answer immediately, but cast an anxious glance in my direction. I couldn’t have helped her even if I’d wished to, however, for I had no idea what game Michael was playing.
Finally she spoke up. ‘I believe I do, sir,’ she said, in a quiet, uneasy voice.
Michael nodded slowly, sighing. ‘I feared as much. Madam, I say you are a liar, for you cannot possibly be feeling any benefit so early in your treatment. What you are truly feeling is sore of foot and more than a little resentful - am I correct?’
The governess did not answer him, but her guilty look and lowered glance spoke plainly enough.
‘Lying will not be tolerated, do you hear? You will now pay for your dishonesty: two dozen from your master with a further two dozen from myself - and I can promise you we won’t hold back. Might you have a cane to hand, Mr Montague?’
‘Canes are never a problem in this house, Sir Michael,’ I assured him.
I dismissed the others, who scampered off gratefully to their various sanctuaries, then told Mrs Hammond to lead the way to the study, where she would be taught the error of her ways.
‘We’ll be needing a frame,’ Michael said. ‘Rawlings can build it; he’s a handy sort of fellow and he knows what’s wanted.’
‘What sort of frame?’ I asked.
It was the morning after the race. Over the breakfast table Michael described what he had in mind - a strong wooden affair, not unlike a large door frame, but without the door. He stressed the need for robustness and that it should be firmly fixed to the floor.
‘We might want to dangle that cook of yours from it by her tits, old man,’ he said. ‘Can you picture that?’
I could, just about, and it was an astonishing image. I did wonder aloud where we might put such a cumbersome structure, however. I was thinking of the stables, but Michael had other ideas. ‘Let’s take a look at these cellars of yours.’
We took candles, for there was no lighting down there. A long passageway ran east-west, with rooms off to both sides, some larger, some smaller. It soon became clear this place was well suited to our needs, being dry and surprisingly spacious, though there was a fair amount of clutter that would need to be shifted before we could make use if it.
‘I confess, James, I’m extremely jealous,’ he said. ‘With a bit of work this place could be turned into a proper dungeon, torture chamber, cells and all.’
The room directly beneath the hall had a reasonably high, vaulted roof and Michael said this would be ideal for housing the frame. Across the passage was a larger room, though not so high. Michael named this the rack room and said if we couldn’t manage a proper rack (I assumed he was jesting) we could at least put a table in there.
Under the east wing was a very long, narrowish chamber, with oak roof beams. Michael rubbed his hands gleefully when he saw it, saying there was space enough to install a line for every female in the place, along with the wives and daughters of all my tenants if I so desired. He said he would get Rawlings to fit at least ten before starting on the frame. When I asked him what a ‘line’ was he merely chuckled and told me to wait and see.
The very first task, however, was to have the whole place cleared of rubbish and swept clean. Molly, Mary, Rose and Willy were started on this, with Rawlings supervising the work. Once that was underway Michael and I were free to amuse ourselves, so we decided to pay an unannounced visit to the kitchen. Winifred Smith was most surprised to see us there, but surprise turned swiftly to alarm when she was instructed to take off her clothes.
‘Oh sir,’ she warbled, even as she unbuttoned her dress with trembling hands, ‘I... I have luncheon to prepare and no Rose here to... to help me.’
‘You will have to do that later,’ I declared. ‘Sir Michael has generously offered to start you on your individual instruction and that is far more important. Do you not agree, Sir Michael?’
‘I do indeed, Mr Montague. The needs of the body are insignificant compared to those of the soul. Tell me, Mrs Smith, have you ever experienced a spooning?’
‘A spooning, sir?’ she said anxiously. ‘Why, n-no sir, I don’t believe I have.’
‘That is soon remedied. Mr Montague, we shall need a bench, if one is to hand. If not, a chair will do at a pinch.’
We searched around and found the very thing in the pantry - a narrow, sturdily built wooden bench set against the wall, used as a step to reach jars and other items stored on the top shelf. We carried it out and placed it in the middle of the floor, then Mrs Smith, who had just divested herself of the last of her garments, was instructed to lay face down upon it. Still uttering faint and ineffectual protestations about the need to bake fresh bread, she did so.
Michael then proceeded to arrange her plump round limbs to his satisfaction, bringing her knees and elbows out and down, her hands forward and her feet back, so that she reminded me somewhat of a rather corpulent white frog embracing a log. Satisfied at last, Michael took several shortish lengths of rope from his pocket and tied her down. He fastened her wrists and ankles to the bench’s sturdy legs, then passed a longer piece of rope around her waist and underneath the bench, restricting her movements even further. With all the preparations now complete, he stood back and perused our victim.
She was a tempting sight, I have to say. Her large round buttocks, elevated to some slight degree by her pose, quivered in anticipation of what might be in store for them. Her pendulous breasts hung down on each side of the bench, reaching almost to the floor.
Michael nodded in satisfaction. ‘Now we need spoons!’
We were, of course, in the best place possible for such items, for the choice was virtually limitless. We proceeded to arm ourselves with the largest wooden spoons we could find.
‘I’ll take the right side, Mr Montague, with your permission,’ he said, ‘while you take the left.’
We positioned ourselves one on either side and went down on one knee. Stools would have been more comfortable, but we were both eager to make a start. Without further ado, we each commenced beating our allocated buttock with the back of the spoon.
A spoon as a spanking implement is quite unique. All the force is directed at one point, yet the contact area, especially with utensils as big as these, is surprisingly large. Wheals are never raised in consequence, but the skin instead changes colour. Pink soon gives way to red and red to purple. Indeed, the bruising from such a beating can be quite spectacular. If the same spot is targeted throughout it tends to a circular form, almost like a red and purple flower in bloom. This is the reason, I assume, it is sometimes referred to in flogging circles as ‘rosy bum’.
As men are competitive by nature, it soon turned into a contest to see who could produce the most artistic adornment for the cook’s rear end. When finally we stopped, some fifteen minutes later, I have to say I thought my own rendition the more enchanting, with subtle and quite beautiful nuances of tone. Modesty prevented me from claiming a well-deserved victory, however, and we agreed on a draw.
Winifred Smith, as you may imagine, had remained neither silent nor still during this period. Her wails of dismay grew steadily louder as the beating progressed and she tugged at her bonds frantically, as though her troubles would all be over if she could but free herself. When we stopped she continued to sob for some time, partly in misery and partly in relief.
‘Time for a change, I think,’ Michael declared. ‘Do you see any other orbs that merit our attention, Mr Montague?’
‘Indeed I do, sir,’ I replied. ‘Should we now find stools to sit upon, or are you quite comfortable?’
‘Tolerably so, thank you,’ he said, ‘though I think a change of knee is in order.’
We shuffled forward and settled ourselves once more, then raised our spoons and began to beat her breasts. Since these are more tender than buttocks she was soon wailing louder than ever and pleading with us into the bargain.
‘Oh, please stop, sirs, I beg. It hurts... it hurts so much!’
‘It must be painful, I know,’ Michael said, in an off-hand tone. ‘Almost unbearable, in fact. But there is nothing to be done about that - you will simply have to bear it, for some considerable time yet. This is for your own good, madam, never forget that. Pain will purge you of sin, trust me.’
It was clearly not the answer she was seeking and she continued to beseech us most pitifully. Michael’s only response was to strike harder, compounding her difficulties. He was not a sympathetic fellow by nature and she would have been well advised to keep silent. Not an easy thing to do, of course, when someone is pummelling your bubbies as though seeking to beat them flat as pancakes.
We did stop eventually and again examined each other’s handiwork. I regretted - not for the first time - that my artistic skills were so woefully inadequate, as the image of Winifred Smith on her bench, bosom and buttocks resplendent with exquisite ‘blooms’, would make a wonderful painting. Watercolour would best capture those lovely purple tones, I thought; and what about Nude with Roses for a title?
Michael stood up and rubbed his knees, then gave me a sly wink. I took it he wished to play some final trick on the woman.
‘Mr Montague,’ he said, ‘is there a heavy strap to hand? I think we should give her forty or fifty hard swipes to finish - what do you say?’
I guessed that Michael had something very different in mind, in fact, and that this was merely a ploy on his part. Before I could answer our victim sang out once more, imploring us to show mercy.
‘Well,’ Michael said doubtfully, ‘perhaps we could find some other way to bring the session to a close. Would you be agreeable to a double-dibbling, by any chance?’
She did not understand, of course, and he was obliged to explain the term referred to a sexual act, namely penetration from both ends simultaneously.
‘Anything, sir!’ she cried, clearly desperate to avoid the promised beating.
And so we proceeded. As host, I again offered Michael a choice and he picked her mouth. He knelt down - grimacing in the process, I noticed, for his knees were already sore and stone tiles are notoriously unforgiving - and took out his cock. Soon Mrs Smith was sucking for all she was worth, no doubt thinking if she pleased him she would be spared a strapping.
As for myself, I have never been overly keen on public ‘performance’. Though I do not regard myself as a prude, I think the sexual act is essentially a private thing, best enjoyed by two people alone. Mrs Smith had been promised a double-dibbling, however, and I felt obliged to honour the agreement. I therefore reversed my hold on the spoon with the intention of using the handle as opposed to my cock. I decided to tackle her anus rather than her slit, as I thought that tighter sphincter might derive more benefit from the probing, a spoon handle being particularly slender. A quick trip to the pantry yielded up a smear of butter by way of lubrication and all was then ready.
As I rested my left hand lightly on her hip, Winifred Smith tilted her hips back, elevating her buttocks just as high as her bonds allowed. She was expecting my cock in her slit, of course, so it must have come as something of a shock when I touched the tip of the spoon handle to her anus and pushed it slowly into her. ‘Oooo!’ she warbled in consternation. ‘Ooooh... aaahhhh!’
I worked it in and out of her rectum with long, smooth strokes and she abandoned her oral servicing of Michael in the light of this sudden and questionable assault.
‘Mrs Smith!’ he snapped, clearly not best pleased. ‘Have you forgotten about me?’
‘Oooo... ooooh!’
‘Madam, I am waiting!’
Suppressing a grin, I took pity on him and paused in my endeavours till she took him in her mouth once more. I slipped my free hand beneath her and rubbed her slit, especially her clitoris, to encourage her efforts. Soon she was slurping him greedily and pushing down with her hips against my hand in her search for increased pressure. At this point I thought it safe to resume the rectal probing.
Some considerable time and two orgasms later - neither of them mine - I accompanied Michael upstairs, for he said it was time for Faith’s daily study. His charge had remained confined to the guest bedroom for much of the time, taking all her meals there. She was only allowed out twice a day for exercise and that under strict supervision.
She didn’t seem particularly pleased to see us, I have to say, especially when Michael took from his case a leather-bound book, two short lengths of thin cord and what appeared to be a fly swatter. This latter object consisted of a piece of stout leather, perhaps three inches square, affixed to the end of a short stick. I presumed it was intended for swatting bottoms rather than flies, but soon found out it was for neither.
Michael said nothing to her, but merely nodded. She took off the simple shift she was wearing, followed by her vest and drawers. Naked, she sat on the bed, leaning back against the piled up pillows. She then drew her heels up close to her buttocks and spread her knees wide, placing the soles of her feet together. Michael tied one piece of cord around her two big toes and the second around both little toes.
‘This is supposed to keep her legs apart,’ he explained. ‘With some women it is very effective, but Faith is more supple than most. To be frank, I sometimes wonder why I still bother. Would you mind sitting just there, James, on her left?’
I went round and perched on the edge of the bed where he indicated. Michael handed the leather-bound book to his charge, took hold of the fly swatter and sat down on her right.
‘Hold her knee down, there’s a good fellow,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t like this and always tries to close her legs.’
I did as he requested, pressing her left knee down to the mattress, while Michael did the same with her right. She was a delightful sight, I have to say, with her little naked slit pouting prettily. Shaved crotches can be so very appealing, I find, and I wondered why the practice was not more widely employed in spanking circles.
‘Start at the beginning,’ Michael said to her. ‘Mr Montague may find Dr Winkler’s exhortations illuminating.’
With obvious reluctance Faith opened the book and began to read out loud. It was the first time I had heard her speak, apart from the odd word or two, and I was rather surprised. Her voice was soft and cultured, and it was clear she had been well educated. She read beautifully, in fact, though it was apparent she had little enthusiasm for the text.
The book, I soon discovered, was a treatise by said Dr Winkler - of whom I had never heard - on female deportment. The gist of the opening paragraphs seemed to be that young women should remain silent till spoken to, which seemed a most meritorious proposition to me. Faith herself seemed somewhat less enamoured of it, to judge from her listless tone, but then the reason for her lack of enthusiasm soon became clear when Michael began to strike her vulva with the fly swatter. He didn’t strike especially hard, but the assault was relentless. Slap-slap-slap-slap it went, an almost liquid sound, rapid and resolute. Faith’s voice faltered and I saw that her vulva was rapidly turning bright pink.
Page followed page. Dr Winkler moved on to the subject of the female brain, suggesting that women did not possess a mind in the way men understood the word. The more I heard, the more I liked and respected the fellow.
Faith was clearly having great difficulty maintaining her focus. Her voice was wavering badly now and I was obliged to use significant force to keep her knee down. I couldn’t imagine how Michael might manage this on his own.
At long last the chapter drew to a close and Faith put down the book thankfully. Michael stopped and reached to her groin, teasing the pouting lips and pulling them this way and that as he examined her. They positively glowed and she gasped as her master tweaked her sore flesh.
‘I normally end the lesson at this juncture,’ he said. ‘Faith becomes hard to handle after a chapter, for one thing. That’s not the main problem, however, for I could always get Rawlings or one of the other men to help. No, the real problem is my wrist, which always aches so much I find it hard to continue. That’s the drawback with prolonged, rapid striking, of course.’
He had a point. I find it curious that it is invariably the victims of corporal punishment who attract sympathy and never the spanker, despite the considerable physical discomfort we are often obliged to endure. Aching wrists, arms and even shoulders are an occupational hazard, yet we rarely receive commiseration, except from fellow floggers. This world we live in can be very unfair, sometimes.
‘A solution is readily available this time, however,’ Michael declared, handing the fly swatter to me. ‘Mr Montague, if you would be so kind? Faith, pray continue reading from the start of chapter two.’
She looked at him in trepidation. ‘Sir,’ she murmured, ‘have I not suffered enough?’
‘Chapter two, Faith,’ he said sternly. ‘Or would you prefer chapters two and three? I’m sure Mr Montague and I can manage that between us, if necessary.’
The young woman shook her head fearfully. She took up the book once more and began to read. I, for my part, raised the swatter and began to slap her as Michael had done, while continuing to hold down her leg.
In chapter two Dr Winkler went on to expound his theory that, lacking minds, young women were unlikely to gain enlightenment except through suffering - a hypothesis I was most happy to explore. Though I cannot be certain Faith gained a great deal of enlightenment in the next fifteen minutes, I can certainly confirm she suffered.
The clear out of the cellars was complete by the following morning and Rawlings led Michael and myself on a tour of inspection. The first thing I saw was that oil lamps had been installed in the rooms we intended using and also in the passageway. I have to say, I was most pleased with the work that had been done. The place looked clean and tidy, there were chairs and stools in all the rooms and the so-called rack room had been fitted out in addition with two tables, one large and one small. The trunk Michael had brought with him had also been carried down and was presently sitting on the large table.
We declared ourselves highly satisfied with the work done so far and Michael reaffirmed that the lines should be the next priority. Rawlings went off in the wagon with Foster, my groom, to fetch materials and so forth, including timber from the sawmill for the frame, while Michael and I proceeded to unpack the trunk.
‘I have to tell you, James,’ my guest said, ‘that what we did to your cook and to Faith is about as gentle as this game can get. With the stuff in here we can indulge in far more serious play.’
The first item out was a saddle for the bicycle - and a most unusual saddle too, for a thick wooden phallus protruded through a hole in the leather seat.
‘That looks mighty uncomfortable, I have to say,’ I remarked.
‘It certainly is,’ Michael said. ‘A ride around the lanes on this has brought a tear to many a female eye. Anal penetration of course, as you probably guessed from the forward inclination. What’s not obvious right now is that when it’s assembled the wooden cock is linked to the crank. Round and round go the pedals, up and down goes Henry Thomas here. Anyone riding the thing is giving herself a good deep arse-fucking into the bargain. Clever, what?’
Next he fetched out a cone. This was the largest and heaviest item of all, some two feet in height and a foot in diameter at the base. It was made of wood, carved from a solid piece of oak, with an iron hoop around the base to prevent splitting. The top twelve inches were sheathed in burnished copper and the point smoothed off so that it was not sharp, but rounded to the size of a cherry.
‘In case you hadn’t guessed,’ Michael said, ‘they have to sit on this.’
‘Good Lord!’
‘Indeed,’ he chuckled. ‘Riding the bicycle is almost fun in comparison.’
Other objects were brought out. There were half a dozen boxes and as many leather bags and Michael opened each in turn and showed me the contents. There were boxes of clamps and clips in all shapes and sizes, some made of wood, some of metal. One box contained long steel needles, whilst another held assorted candles. In the bags I saw harnesses, leather cuffs and collars, together with cords and ropes galore. One bag contained a selection of short whips - lashes, quirts and so forth - whilst another held gags, or so Michael assured me. Certain of these seemed most odd indeed, I have to say. I always understood gags were used to silence a victim, yet some of the items I inspected could in no way achieve that.
The last objects to come from the crate were breast clamps, or so I was informed. Some were made of flat pieces of wood, profiled to fit the ribcage, whilst others were no more than straight rods of wood or, in one case, steel. All had screw devices at both ends by which the upper and lower member could be drawn together, so that the method of use seemed obvious.
‘That’s everything,’ Michael declared. ‘All I decided to bring, in any case.’
‘More than enough, I would have thought. I feel rather like one of those fellows who ran the Spanish Inquisition.’
‘Having second thoughts about this, old man?’ Michael said. ‘Speak up if you are. I’m well aware that the reality of this game can be somewhat daunting to an innocent fellow like yourself.’
It had been a long time indeed since I had thought of myself as ‘innocent’, yet I understood what he meant. Though a flogger of no mean experience, I was certainly a total novice when it came to bondage and torture. Looking at the array of fiendish devices around me, I felt more than a little guilty at the thought of inflicting all this upon those poor, unsuspecting women upstairs. I had no choice but to proceed, for it would be sheer cowardice to back out now, but I did need to make it plain to Michael that this was just an amusement to me and that I felt a certain responsibility towards the nine females in my charge. Watching them suffer was one thing, but I had no interest in seeing them writhing in agony - indeed, such a thing was abhorrent to me. As with the beatings I handed out, there were limits beyond which I was not prepared to go.
Michael, when I explained all this to him, claimed to understand perfectly. He seemed somewhat amused, to tell the truth, and told me this game could be played at many different levels. Having assured me he would do nothing to any of our victims that I was not comfortable with, I felt considerably easier in my mind and was happy to proceed.
Rawlings returned around midday and commenced installing the lines. Naturally I watched with interest, though the answer to the mystery proved disappointingly mundane, a line being nothing more than a length of rope hanging in a loop beneath a roof beam. A simple pulley block was fixed to one end of the beam and an iron spike knocked into the wall directly below. Some ten feet from the pulley, a heavy iron staple was driven into the beam and one end of the rope was fastened to this. The rope then dipped down and back up again, passed over the pulley and was tied finally to the spike. That was all there was to it. I was a little disappointed, I have to say, and failed to see why Michael was so keen to have these contraptions rigged. I couldn’t imagine how they would be used, for one thing, but my guest refused to elaborate.
All ten lines were installed by late afternoon and Rawlings then made a start on the frame. As it promised to be very heavy as well as large, he decided to build it in situ, it being easier to carry wood and fixings down the cellar steps than the finished article.
After dinner Michael suggested we try out the lines, asking if I had any preferences as to which of our victims went first. It could be just one of them, he said, or all ten, or any number in between.
‘Three,’ I said, after a moment’s thought. ‘Why don’t you demonstrate it on the girls?’
I lost no time in sending for my wards. The five of us made our way to the cellars and along to the line room, as we had rather unimaginatively decided to call it. The noise of sawing and hammering from down the passageway was a little irksome, though I tried to ignore it. This became considerably easier when Michael ordered my wards to strip, for watching young women undress is never other than totally absorbing. I expected protestations - from Elizabeth, at least - but there were none. Red-haired Victoria, predictably, seemed actually happy to comply, for the hussy no doubt imagined sexual shenanigans must figure somewhere in all this strangeness.
Michael took hold of Catherine’s arm and Elizabeth spoke up finally. ‘Whatever you intend doing to us, do it to me first.’
She managed to inject an impressive amount of disdain into that single sentence, and Michael looked at her in surprise, then at me. I simply nodded.
Michael shrugged, smiling. ‘As you wish, my dear.’
And so it was Elizabeth who had the distinction of christening this place, though I doubt she appreciated the honour. Michael went to the first line and untied the rope from the spike. He lowered the loop almost to the floor and told Elizabeth to straddle it. When she had done so, he pulled on the rope to lift the loop up between her legs. As it touched her groin she stiffened. Michael tensioned it a little more, so that she was obliged to raise her heels off the floor, then he tied the free end to the spike once more, effectively keeping her in this position.
‘Comfortable?’ he asked.
She did not deign to answer him, or even look at him when he approached. He drew her arms behind her back and tied her wrists with a length of cord from his pocket. He then knelt down and tied her ankles together in a similar fashion. That seemed to be that, for he then turned his attentions to Victoria and finally to Catherine. With all three of my wards astride their lines, bound at wrist and ankle, I assumed he was done; but then he returned to Elizabeth once more.
‘You may wish to watch this closely, Mr Montague,’ he said. ‘It’s the most critical part of the whole operation.’
He untied the rope and began to increase the tension still further. Elizabeth murmured, rising up onto her tiptoes, her back arching as she strained ever higher. The rope came down from the beam at a steep angle, both in front and behind, so that it pressed into her vulva and buttock cleft. The more Michael tensioned it the more deeply it cut into her, and she caught hold of the rope behind her back, pushing down with her arms in an attempt to relieve the pressure between her legs.
Apparently satisfied he tied off the rope once more. Victoria watched his approach with trepidation, though there was little she could do about it. Again he adjusted the line till she was straining upwards, grasping the rope behind her back in exactly the same fashion as Elizabeth. Then it was Cathy’s turn.
When all was done Michael turned to me. ‘This is known as “riding the line”. It’s not a comfortable position, as these young ladies have no doubt discovered for themselves, and their discomfort will increase steadily with time. How long we leave them like this is an important decision, therefore. Do you have any thoughts?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m entirely in your hands, Sir Michael. What would you recommend?’
‘As they are new to this, two hours, I think. Certainly no more than three. ‘
‘Let’s make it two, then. I’ll have some drinks sent down.’
‘Well, we don’t have to stay here the whole time, in fact. I suggest we take our ease upstairs and come back in an hour to see how they’re doing.’
‘That sounds most civilised,’ I said. ‘Drinks in the library, then.’
While we waited I attempted to learn from Michael precisely who Faith was. He was most elusive, declining to tell me her full name and saying simply that she was the ward of a friend of his, also anonymous. This secrecy, along with the fact that she was clearly no shopkeeper’s daughter or farm girl, led me to suspect underhand dealing. It wouldn’t be the first time some young woman had been cheated of her inheritance by being forced into a life of virtual or even actual slavery in this fashion. Though I disapproved of such machinations it was clearly no business of mine, and I could do precious little about it in any case.
As to whether he would achieve his declared aim of breaking her spirit, I had little doubt that he would. She was a brave enough girl - her courageous showing in the race was proof of that - but I learned long ago that pain can be a powerful persuader. I think I have never in all my life met so recalcitrant a pair of females as the Bailey twins, Peggy and Hetty, yet my grandfather tamed them in the end. It required a veritable plethora of punishments and the shedding of innumerable tears, but they were finally brought to heel. They settled down and married brothers from a neighbouring village, never again to terrorise the countryside with their wild behaviour.
‘Time we checked on our victims,’ Michael said.
We went down and I soon realised that all was not well in the line room. My two younger wards were moaning pitifully and even Elizabeth, who was certainly not lacking in mettle, appeared far from happy. None of them, it seemed, was able to stand still. They all shifted constantly, so far as their bonds allowed, presumably seeking a position that offered a modicum of relief. Their arms and legs were quivering, I noticed, and Victoria’s left leg in particular was shaking violently. All in all they were not a happy sight, I have to say, and I realised the line was a more fiendish punishment than its initial appearance suggested.
Michael went up to Cathy and ran his hands over her, squeezing her shoulders, arms and legs, especially her calves. He probed with his fingers, spreading first her labia and then her buttocks, peering closely into each cleft in turn. He nodded, saying nothing, and moved on to Victoria and finally to Elizabeth.
‘You are all making the same mistake,’ he said to them when the inspection was concluded. ‘You’re taking too much weight on your legs. Cunts and arses have to do their share of the work, even in so short a session as this.’
‘We’ve tried,’ Elizabeth muttered tightly. ‘It hurts too much.’
‘It will hurt a damn sight more if your legs give way altogether. You’re only halfway through and your calves are cramping already. Rest your legs now, is my advice, no matter how painful that may be. You would do well to heed it.’
As we mounted the steps once more, Michael said that he wanted to check on Faith and asked if I cared to join him. ‘I like to give her random thrashings,’ he said, ‘to keep her unsettled. And afterwards we can put that pretty mouth of hers to work, eh? I can promise you a tonguing you’ll never forget, James - I’ll even let you go first!’
He grinned as he made the offer and I began to suspect that Michael, unlike myself, had a penchant for performing in front of an audience. I declined as graciously as I could, saying there were urgent household matters that required my attention. He shrugged and said in that case he would see me in an hour’s time. With a wink and a wave of the hand, he departed.
I did not wait for him, however. Just thirty minutes later, wondering how the girls might be faring, I went down to the cellars.
If I thought my wards were suffering before, it was clear that things were now far worse with them. Cathy was whining and Victoria weeping openly. Elizabeth, brave as ever, was silent, though her harsh, ragged breathing told of her anguish. All three were shaking as though they had the fever, and they shifted and fidgeted more than ever, still desperately seeking the relief that eluded them.
Victoria was the first to notice me. ‘Uncle James!’ she sobbed. ‘Help me! Please help me!’
‘My dear,’ I said, somewhat taken aback, ‘I cannot. Sir Michael proposed you should remain here for two hours and I concurred. I cannot, as a gentleman, change that without his agreement, no matter how much I might wish to.’
‘How much time... still remains?’ Elizabeth asked.
Her voice was so hoarse and her desperation so evident I feared to tell her the truth. A lie would be no kindness, however. ‘Thirty minutes more.’
That provoked such piteous and heartrending cries I almost wished I had lied to them.
‘Uncle!’ Victoria wailed. ‘Please!’
I went up to her, drawn by the abject misery in that appeal. Though honour prevented me from letting her down, there was perhaps something I could do to ease her suffering, even if just a little. I put my left arm about her waist and lifted her up, taking most of her weight, if not quite all. She gave a thin, astonishingly high little scream and I feared I had hurt her even more. Then she let out a long shuddering sob of relief and I guessed that initial cry was simply a reaction to the pressure coming off her abused flesh.
She leaned her head against my shoulder. ‘Thank you, uncle,’ she sighed. ‘Thank you!’
There was one other thing I could do for her comfort. I slid my right hand down her belly and felt for her clitoris with the tip of my middle finger. I was careful to stray no further, for I knew the lower portion of her labia must be dreadfully sore from the chafing of the rope.
A murmur from her lips told me I had found that which I sought and I began to rub it, round and around in tiny circles. She began to sob once more, but in delight rather than woe. I brought her all the way to climax in this fashion, holding her up despite the growing ache in my arm and holding her after till she subsided, sighing with contentment. I did not want to put her down, but Catherine was crying now, demanding that I comfort her in turn.
‘It’s all right, uncle,’ Victoria murmured. ‘I can manage now, I think. It is only fair that you should help Cathy as you helped me.’
I lowered her, therefore, just as gently as I could. She stiffened and whimpered as the line cut into her tender parts, but despite the fresh onset of pain, again urged me to attend to her sister. Accordingly I went over to Cathy and performed the same service. She was considerably lighter than Victoria and I managed to hold her up right to orgasm and beyond, in spite of the now considerable ache my arm and shoulder were experiencing. Her sighs of gratitude at the end were no less gratifying and it was with reluctance that I set her down once more. Though Elizabeth had made no plea, it was clear that she too was suffering and deserved whatever comfort I could bestow.
‘How about you, Elizabeth?’ I said, when I stood beside her. ‘Do you not desire a little relief?’
‘I cannot,’ she moaned desolately. ‘I must not.’
I looked at her, standing there astride the line, torment clear in her lovely face. Her skin was sheened with perspiration despite the chill of the air and her marvellous body quivered with strain.
‘Because of Freddie?’
She nodded miserably and my heart went out to her.
‘I think he would understand,’ I said. ‘I think he would urge you to do anything that might ease your suffering even a little...’
‘Do not tempt me, uncle,’ she interjected, ‘for I would despise myself afterwards. Please... I cannot!’
Though I had nothing but admiration for her fortitude and her loyalty to my godson, it seemed to me she was denying herself something she needed desperately at this point. I racked my brains for some way to help her. And then it came to me - though it seemed a strange, crazed notion at best.
‘No, Elizabeth,’ I said quietly, for her ears alone, ‘I see that you cannot... but perhaps there is someone who could. Would she come, do you think, if you summoned her?’
My ward looked at me, startlement showing through the pain. Surprise gave way to thoughtfulness and finally she nodded slowly. ‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘Perhaps she might.’
‘I do hope so,’ I said. ‘It would please me more than I can say to see that young woman again.’
Without waiting for an answer I put my arm about Elizabeth’s waist and hoisted her up as I had her sisters. She too cried out and her eyes screwed tight shut. When she opened them again, some seconds later, her relief was clear to see. And there was something else besides - a look that was somehow different.
‘Thank you, master,’ she murmured.
‘Hello, Ursula,’ I said. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘In truth I cannot say the same, sir, remembering the strapping you gave my breasts.’
‘That was no more than you deserved, my dear. Slaves spanking masters is contrary to nature, and you were wrong to attempt such a thing. Belinda and the others might consider it no more than a girlish prank, but you and I both know different, don’t we?’
‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘I can see why you would think so, at least, and wish to punish me in a manner befitting the crime, as you saw it. But Cathy and Victoria? What have they done to deserve such dreadful treatment as this?’
‘Nothing that I’m aware of,’ I said truthfully. ‘But then I never claimed to be a fair-minded person like you. I indulge myself for no other reason than sheer selfish pleasure; but you knew that already, didn’t you?’
I reached beneath her as I spoke and began to work her clitoris with my fingertip. Sure enough, she was soon gasping and sighing as her orgasm built slowly, and crying out in a thoroughly abandoned fashion as the convulsions took her at the end. My left arm ached so much it felt likely to fall off, but that was a small price to pay for having Ursula’s softness pressed up against me as she sobbed in the aftermath. I could only hope and pray she would not be a stranger to Bleekston Hall, now she knew the way.
Some short while later Michael joined us. I think he must surely have guessed something had transpired in his absence, for my wards, though undoubtedly in pain, were not suffering as greatly as he must have been expecting. He said nothing, however, but proceeded to untie the cords around their wrists and ankles before loosening the ropes to release them from their trial. I helped Victoria up to her room, for she seemed the most badly afflicted, while Elizabeth and Cathy leaned upon each other.
‘Do you recall Ride-a-Cock-Horse, uncle?’ Elizabeth said to me as we met on the landing, having put the other two to bed.
I replied that I remembered every last wonderful detail and hoped to do so to my dying day.
‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘For that means you will certainly remember the soothing ointment with which you eased my pain afterwards. Do you have any still to hand?’
‘I do indeed: in my study. You wish to borrow it, I take it?’
‘I would rather you do it, for you have skill and understanding in these matters. And can I ask that you treat my sisters? To be truthful, I should be embarrassed to touch them in so intimate a way, even for purely medicinal reasons.’
‘I will,’ I said, ‘upon one condition - I get to treat you also.’
She flushed and lowered her gaze, but nodded nevertheless. ‘I accept your terms, though I hope you realise...’ Her voice tailed off and she shook her head. ‘No, that is petty of me. Can I beg you to fetch the ointment immediately? I know only too well how much they are suffering.’
‘You hope I realise what?’ I said. ‘That it is Elizabeth who is in need of treatment and not Ursula? Please set your mind at ease on that score, my dear. As tempting as the prospect may be, my finger won’t stray a fraction from the afflicted portion of your anatomy, I promise.’
She gave me a searching look. ‘When you try, uncle, you can be uncommonly kind and considerate.’
‘Don’t worry, Elizabeth,’ I said with a smile. ‘I’ll try not to make a habit of it.’
Later that night, as I lay in bed thinking over the events of the day - and what a stimulating and novel day it had been, to be sure - there was a soft knock at my door. It creaked open and a figure slipped inside. There was enough moonlight in the room to make out naked female flesh and I naturally assumed it was Irene Hammond, for she was the only person who visited me in this fashion whenever the desire for night-time frolics came upon her. The gods must have been with me that particular evening, however, for instead of greeting her as usual I merely chuckled. That I did not speak her name was incredibly fortunate, for as she drew near I saw it was not the governess, but Elizabeth.
Or was it? Ursula seemed a more likely prospect, I had to admit.
‘Good evening, my dear,’ I said, hedging my bets. ‘I sincerely hope our meeting like this is intentional and not merely a consequence of losing your way in the dark?’
‘Quite intentional, master, I assure you,’ she said, slipping into bed beside me. ‘I thought we might play a game.’
‘What, another game?’ I said. ‘Is there no end to them?’
‘I’m sure you sincerely hope not,’ she said, mocking me gently as she snuggled up close. ‘This one is very simple, in fact - you hide your cock inside me then I try to guess where it is.’ She rested her hand on my stomach and began to drag her fingernails round and around my belly button, her touch light as thistledown. I shivered.
‘Well, we could certainly give it a go,’ I said, surprised and rather proud how normal my voice sounded. ‘Considering how sore you must be in certain locations, however, the choices do seem somewhat limited.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’ She started to slide slowly down the bed, running her tongue over my chest, ribs and belly as she went. When she reached my groin, she took hold of my cock and licked the tip. ‘Perhaps it is too simple a game,’ she murmured. ‘We might get bored with it, I suppose, in an hour or two.’
Those were her last words, in fact, for with that she took my cock in her mouth and began to service me in a lazy, unhurried fashion.
‘I expect you’re right,’ I said thickly. ‘Two hours at the most, I should think. Or maybe three.’
The following day Rawlings announced that the frame was finished.
It was an impressive affair, eight feet from the floor to the top beam and six feet across between the two uprights. The timbers were fully six inches square, joined together with wooden pegs and long iron nails. The uprights were braced fore and aft at the bottom and the whole thing was fixed to the floor with steel spikes, so that it was immensely stable. Along the underside of the top rail and at intervals down the inner faces of the uprights, thick iron staples had been driven into the wood. The protruding hoops, Michael explained, allowed ropes to be attached at almost any position desired, which rendered the frame particularly versatile.
‘All that remains now is to try it out,’ he said. ‘Any thoughts on who you would like to start with?’
‘As a matter of fact,’ I replied, ‘a certain governess comes to mind.’
We elected to begin with a simple suspension and all-over beating - Michael’s words - and collected together the various items we would need. These comprised a short-thonged lash, four pieces of rope some three feet long, a pair of wooden blocks and four broad leather cuffs. These latter items came complete with straps and buckles by which they could be securely fixed to wrist or ankle and steel rings for the attachment of ropes or cords. We now lacked one thing only and that was our victim. Fortunately, that omission was soon remedied.
‘We shall not keep you long from your other duties, Mrs Hammond,’ Michael assured her when she had joined us.
The governess stood very still, staring at the frame as fearfully as any French aristocrat gazed upon the guillotine. It did rather resemble a shorter, wider version of that particular device, come to think of it, though without the all-important neck-severing blade.
‘Remove your clothes, madam,’ Michael said. ‘We need you naked for this particular treatment.’
She looked at me and started to stammer something. I shook my head slowly and whatever she was intending to say went unspoken. Spots of colour appeared on her cheeks as she stripped, though if anyone had cause to be proud of their body it was surely Irene Hammond. Michael had seen her in her spanking outfit, of course, but never totally nude. As she removed the last of her things and stood up straight, he was treated to the sight of my lovely governess in all her magnificence.
Michael gaped unashamedly - a breach of good manners, undoubtedly, but I didn’t hold it against him. My own reaction had been little different, the first time I saw her naked.
‘A veritable goddess, isn’t she?’ he muttered.
The flush on Irene Hammond’s cheeks deepened and she avoided our eyes. I have to say, I found her modesty most charming. Though she was trembling slightly, her arms remained dutifully by her sides in an admirable demonstration of self-control.
Michael turned to me finally. ‘Let us begin, then.’
He fastened the cuffs to her wrists and ankles and led her to the frame. Turning her around to face us, he had her stand upon the wooden blocks, which had been placed on the floor between the uprights, some three feet apart. They wobbled a little as her weight came on them and I was obliged to hold her waist to steady her. Ordering her to raise her arms Michael stood on a stool to attach ropes to hoops on the top rail, and from there to her wrist cuffs. He stepped down and secured her ankle cuffs to the uprights in a similar fashion, then we each bent down and took hold of one of the blocks.
‘On the count of three,’ Michael said. ‘One... two...’
‘Sir!’ the governess exclaimed in dismay.
‘...three!’
We whipped the blocks out from under her feet and she cried out as her weight came on her arms. She had not fallen far, in fact, for Michael had ensured there was little slack in the ropes. Her feet were still several inches clear of the floor.
‘Admirable,’ my tutor declared, walking around our victim to view her from all sides. ‘What do you think, James?’
I had to agree with him. Irene Hammond looked simply wonderful as she hung there in the middle of the frame, her shivering body a pale X, every inch of her visible and appealingly vulnerable. In her present position, we could do absolutely anything we wished to her and she was utterly powerless to prevent it.
It was clear that she appreciated this fact, for she looked at us fearfully, her marvellous bosom rising and falling rapidly. I thought that I had never seen her so disturbed and her anxiety was hardly alleviated when Michael ran his hands over her, feeling at breast and belly and rubbing between her legs, as though she were some slave he was looking to purchase in a Barbary market.
‘We should make a start, old man,’ he said, stepping back at last. ‘Since you wish to spare her significant pain, our time is rather limited. It’s not easy for her, hanging like this, with all the weight on her arms. Her shoulders will start to feel it soon. Will you beat her, or shall I?’
At my invitation Michael took up the lash. He did not strike especially hard, but the strokes came thick and fast, and the coverage was astonishingly comprehensive. He worked methodically over her entire body - torso, arms, legs, hands and feet - sparing her head and neck alone. He flicked the lash up between her legs, so that her vulva should not escape, and even grasped her big toes to force her feet down so he could beat the soles.
For perhaps ten minutes he lashed her without pause, while his victim squirmed and gasped under the stinging blows. Then he stopped and turned to me. ‘I need you to hold her for this last part, Mr Montague.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Hold her how, exactly?’
It turned out that he wanted me to pinch hold of her nipples and stretch her breasts forwards and upwards. As you may imagine, I was only too pleased to oblige him and Irene gasped afresh as I distended her teats in this fashion.
Michael then resumed lashing her, though he now concentrated on her bosom alone, beating the tops and the sides and especially underneath. Though he tried to avoid striking my hands it was inevitable the thongs would catch me from time to time. The pain, I soon discovered, was not excessive, but was surprisingly irksome nevertheless. I would liken it to being plagued by midges, whose pinprick stings seem unpleasant almost beyond bearing. Fortunately I was not obliged to endure it for long. It was five minutes at most, I would say, before Michael lowered the lash and announced that the session was over.
We took the governess down in the reverse order to which we had hung her up. The blocks went back under her feet, then the ropes were untied and finally the cuffs removed. She rubbed her wrists, which appeared a little red and chafed, and then her shoulders. I realised Michael was right - hanging by one’s arms for any length of time would not be easy. Finally she rubbed her nipples, which suggested I may have pinched a little too hard. Neither had Michael been especially gentle. From the neck down she was rose pink, with her breasts a slightly deeper shade. He had not missed a square inch that I could see. The governess put on her clothes and I escorted her upstairs, wondering what she had made of her ordeal. She did not appear unduly distressed, so I asked her how she had found it.
Her answer came as a considerable surprise. ‘I would have to say, sir,’ she murmured, ‘that I rather enjoyed it.’
‘Enjoyed it, Mrs Hammond?’ I exclaimed. ‘Surely you cannot mean that?’
‘I do, sir,’ she said. ‘I was most anxious at first, as you must have realised, but once Sir Michael said you didn’t wish to cause me any significant pain I became considerably easier in my mind.’
He had said something along those lines, I remembered, when explaining why we should begin the punishment with a minimum of delay. At the time it didn’t occur to me how important those few words might be to our victim.
‘When I heard that,’ she said, ‘I could relax a little. My shoulders were not too troublesome at first, though they did begin to ache somewhat towards the end.’
‘But what of the actual lashing itself?’ I asked. ‘That must have been painful, surely?’
‘Well... yes, it was,’ she said. ‘Painful, but stimulating also in a strange way. I’ve read there are people in the Scandinavian countries who bathe in steam and beat each other with birch twigs as a way of promoting good health. That always sounded most peculiar to me, but I think I understand it a little better now. Truly, it is a most invigorating experience.’
I was flabbergasted, I have to say. I hardly dare tell Michael our ‘victim’ had actually enjoyed her torture. ‘Any time you feel the urge to be beaten all over with birch twigs, dear lady,’ I said solemnly, ‘please don’t hesitate to ask. I would be more than happy to oblige, believe me!’
Though Irene Hammond’s reaction to her ‘torture’ was not at all what I had expected, it did have one positive result: I now felt much more comfortable about proceeding with the rest.
Next to receive the dreaded summons was Rose, the kitchen maid - and most dispirited she looked too as she came down the cellar steps. She was ordered to strip and was then subjected to the same breast and groin ‘inspection’ that the governess had faced, after which she was fitted with wrist cuffs alone. As Michael had decided to try her on the cone, this fiendish device was now placed on the floor midway between the frame uprights. The copper-covered tip was then greased with lard and our victim invited to sit upon it.
‘Sir, must I?’ she asked me tremulously.
‘This is why Sir Michael is here, Rose,’ I said, ‘to help you young women find salvation through suffering. Obey his orders, as the others have done, and do not shame me by questioning.’
She seemed most unhappy still, but condescended to move to the cone and squat over it. Michael spread her buttock cheeks, which drew a shamed murmur from her lips, and guided her down till the tip of the cone touched her anal sphincter.
‘Sit down, now,’ he said. ‘Right down. Impale yourself deeply.’
Gingerly she lowered herself a fraction more, till the tip just breached her. She murmured in dismay and looked up at me.
‘Push down hard, Rose,’ I said sternly. ‘Do as Sir Michael commands.’
Despite this specific instruction, delivered in a particularly firm tone, she made but little downward progress. Though Rose was no ‘back passage virgin’, we indulged in anal sex only infrequently, so the elasticity of her fundamental orifice left much to be desired. Her obvious nervousness was not helping matters, of course, and I imagined the sphincter in question must be clenched exceedingly tight at that moment.
I half expected Michael to rebuke her, but he simply went ahead and fixed her restraints. Ropes were attached to her wrist cuffs and from there to the very lowest point on the frame uprights, so that her arms pointed down at an angle. I realised this effectively kept her seated on the cone. Though she could straighten her legs to ease up and so relieve the pressure, she could not rise far enough to lift right off the copper tip. That was more significant than it first appeared, for her squatting position was awkward and strained. Her legs would grow tired and her body would begin to slump, forcing the cone ever deeper inside her.
It soon became clear that Michael was not prepared to wait. He told me to take hold of Rose’s left ankle, while he grasped her right. When he gave the word we eased her feet forward - just a little, but the effect was startling to say the least.
‘Sir!’ Rose cried out. ‘No, sir!’
With her feet slightly in front of the base of the cone she was no longer able to take her full weight on her legs. A proportion was carried by her torso, specifically by her anus pressing down on the cone’s tip; and the further we moved her feet, the greater this effect.
‘A little more, I think,’ Michael said.
We slid her feet another inch or two, at which Rose began to wail loudly, her face almost panic stricken.
‘Please sir, don’t! Don’t!’
She was trying desperately to draw her feet back and it took some considerable effort to hold fast to her leg. I had no real idea how deeply the cone had penetrated her and how much her sphincter was being stretched in consequence, so I was relying on Michael to tell me when he thought she’d had as much as she could reasonably bear.
‘It’s burning, sir,’ she cried. ‘Please, let go! Please!’
Michael glanced at me and winked. ‘None too happy, is she? Shall we take pity on her?’
Though we had agreed to go only so far, with Mrs Hammond we had definitely erred on the side of caution. I certainly didn’t want Rose telling me afterwards that she had enjoyed it! If this were a beating I was subjecting Rose to, her present facial expression and tone of voice would not deter me from further strokes. By that logic, she should be able to stand this a while longer. True, she did not normally protest so volubly, but I put that down to the novelty and uncertainty of the situation. Rose was well used to having her bottom thrashed, but not stretched in this fashion.
‘Another half minute, maybe,’ I said.
Michael grinned. ‘I think you’re developing a taste for this, old man.’
And so we kept her there, watching her torment mount as the seconds passed, hearing her laboured breathing and her frantic pleas for mercy. When I judged she had truly had enough we released her - but not before Michael scattered something on the floor around the base of the cone. I saw it was gravel, presumably collected from the drive.
Free of our grasp, Rose was able finally to draw back her feet and raise herself a little to ease the pressure. She squatted there, but now she had an additional difficulty to deal with, for the sharp stones cut into her feet, rendering her position even less tenable than before. All too soon her legs were shaking and she was moaning most pitifully.
At this point Michael reached between her legs and slipped two fingers inside her. She didn’t seem to mind in the least and I thought that anything would be welcome that helped take her mind off her troubles. Michael was soon frigging her in lively fashion, whistling a cheery tune as he did so.
We went up for some refreshment at noon, the two of us, leaving Rose in the cellar to suffer a while longer. Returning at half past twelve we untied her, releasing her finally from her torment. She sobbed with relief as she lifted herself off the cone on trembling legs, then gathered up her clothes before making the slow and painful ascent of the stairs.
Alice - shaking badly and as miserable as I have ever seen her - was barely any quicker coming down. At a word from me she undressed and was promptly subjected to the now customary fondling.
‘She has soft skin, doesn’t she?’ Michael remarked, as he squeezed and stroked the trembling young woman. ‘Just like a baby’s.’
I stroked and squeezed her in turn and had to agree she felt decidedly soft to the touch. I wondered why I hadn’t noticed it before, for the girl had shared my bed on a number of occasions.
‘It makes her an ideal choice for a waxing,’ he added. ‘We’ll have to shave her first, mind you. Getting candle wax out of a thick bush is nigh on impossible.’
Having decided Alice was to suffer the candle treatment, Michael thought we should christen the rack room. He pointed to the smaller of the two tables and told Alice to lie down upon it, though it seemed barely long enough to me, supporting her from shoulder to mid-thigh only. Michael seemed happy enough with the arrangements, however, pushing her legs apart before proceeding to tie her up. He bound her wrists to her thighs, then fastened her legs to the table legs with straps around her ankles and others just below the knee.
I then supported her head while Michael fitted her with one of his strange gags. It was in the form of a ring, some two inches across, bound with leather, and had narrow straps attached on either side. Alice was obliged to open her mouth very wide to receive the ring, which Michael placed just behind her teeth. He then brought the straps back over her cheeks and buckled them behind her head.
How any object with a hole through the middle could rightfully be called a gag was beyond me, for gags were intended to mute the wearer, surely? Alice could cry out, even if she could not speak in any intelligible fashion. No doubt there was some logical explanation to all this, but it eluded me for the present. Having secured her to his satisfaction, Michael went off, returning some ten minutes later with his shaving bag in one hand, a jug of hot water in the other and a towel draped over his arm. He proceeded to soap between Alice’s legs, then shave her most carefully. When he dried her off at last her naked slit looked utterly delightful - so much so I considered having every female in the house done in a similar fashion.
Michael now took two candles from the box, one no thicker than my finger, the other three times as big. He lit the thinner one, let it burn a second or two, then held it over Alice’s midriff. He tilted it slightly and a blob of melted wax dripped from the end and landed on her belly. Alice jerked and made a sound in her throat that was not a gasp, yet not quite a cry. Michael paused, then did it again; and yet again. In just a few seconds the blobs of wax had cooled sufficiently to solidify on her skin.
‘There are two main ways the temperature can be controlled,’ he said in a conversational tone, ‘the first being height. The closer to the victim one holds the candle, the less time there is for the wax to cool as it falls through the air.’
He picked up the thicker candle, lit it from the first and set the two of them down on the table edge.
‘The second way is to use a fatter candle,’ he said. ‘You will see that the pool of molten wax does not spill down the side so readily as with its thinner cousin. It remains close by the wick and is heated more by the flame in consequence. The fatter the candle, the hotter the wax and the more the victim will feel it.’
He demonstrated by dripping wax from the second candle onto Alice’s stomach. I saw that he was right, for she jerked more violently and her pitiful cry was louder.
With my instruction seemingly at an end - for the present at least - Michael fell silent and concentrated on the job in hand. Alice’s strange, distorted moans continued unabated as he dripped hot wax on her breasts and belly, her labia and her upper thighs. It started out as a mere random spattering of spots, but as the minutes ticked by spots coalesced to form larger spots, then irregularly shaped blobs. When finally he set down the candles her entire torso was virtually encased in a sheet of solidified wax. We then proceeded to remove these, a process not unlike peeling an orange. Though her bush had been shaved off, many fine hairs remained on her torso and these inevitably came away with the wax. Alice made almost as much fuss over this operation as the actual waxing itself.
Eventually we managed to rid her of most, if not quite all, of the stuff and Michael explained that a hot bath would complete the task. I thought this was the end of the session, but it seemed my guest had one more trick to play on her. He took out his cock - already erect, I noticed - then approached the table. He took hold of Alice’s head and tilted it all the way back, then put his cock in her mouth through the hole in the gag.
‘Ah!’ I said. ‘Yes. Now I see.’
It was less satisfactory than normal fellatio, I suppose, in that Alice could not service him with her lips. She could perhaps use her tongue to some degree, though even this might be somewhat limited. On the other hand, there was no possibility she could catch his cock with her teeth or, God forbid, bite him.
Michael pushed his cock slowly all the way in and Alice suddenly gagged. He kept it there a moment or two as Alice jerked and convulsed on the table, her eyes wide in panic, and then he withdrew a little way. He allowed her a few seconds respite, then put his cock in her throat again. He did it perhaps a dozen times in all, training her to accept his entire member using the normal method of repeated insertions.
Finally he withdrew altogether and we untied her and removed the ring gag. She was trembling, clearly fearful of us, probably thinking her torment was not yet over. I wondered whether we had gone too far with the girl, for she was anxious by nature and especially so in the face of anything new. On the other hand she had lasted eleven months at Bleekston Hall - and many women would not have, in her position - which suggested she was considerably more resilient than she looked. Either way, I resolved to keep a close eye on her at future sessions, ready to intervene if I thought she was suffering excessively.
Alice was excused, with a final instruction to send Victoria down to see us. My ward arrived promptly and appeared in better spirits than those who preceded her. She was ordered to strip, after which wrist cuffs alone were fitted. She was then tied to the frame with her arms straight up in the air. Her feet remained firmly on the floor, however, for there was to be no suspension this time. Michael ran his hands over her, as he had with our previous victims, which Victoria appeared positively to relish.
For my red-headed ward, Michael had chosen a treatment he called ‘clamps and clips’. He elected to use one of the more straightforward breast clamps - no more than two wooden poles (rather like sections of broom handle, some two feet long) connected at each end with threaded steel rods. The poles were slipped over her breasts, one above, one beneath, and the wing nuts on the rods tightened to draw them together.
It was a simple enough idea, but effective. Victoria’s breasts were squeezed between the poles till they bulged out rather as water-filled balloons might protrude when squashed. To judge from Victoria’s reaction this wasn’t quite as painful as it looked, though admittedly that might not be the case should the wing nuts be tightened still further. What happened next certainly made her jump, however: Michael attached metal clips to her nipples.
‘Aaahhhh!’ she gasped. ‘Uncle, please... it hurts!’
‘You think so?’ Michael said with a grin. ‘Just wait till we clip your cunt!’
She danced about on the spot as though trying to shake the things loose, but it seemed that only increased her suffering, for she squealed and quickly became still. Michael reached into his box of clips and began attaching them anywhere the fancy took him: arms, ribs, belly, the insides of her thighs. He left her slit till last - intentionally, I didn’t doubt - and she certainly squawked when he clipped that particular region.
With the box now empty he went around behind her and proceeded to whip her bottom and the backs of her thighs with a quirt. This soon had her dancing about once more, so that it was difficult to know which was hurting her the most, the whipping or the clips. He kept it up for fully fifteen minutes and was somewhat red in the face when he stopped finally. (Many non-spankers quite fail to appreciate the level of fitness required for this ‘sport’ of ours. Flogging, as a means of staying in shape, has a good deal to recommend it).
He then swapped the quirt for a soft lash. This was a new one on me and I examined it with interest, discovering that the numerous thongs were no more than lengths of silk thread. When I drew them through my hand they felt positively luxurious, and when I struck them against my palm the sensation was in no way painful. It was hardly surprising I had never come across such a thing before, since as an implement of correction it would be virtually useless. Michael had not selected it for that purpose, however, but rather as a means of removing the clips. He whirled the silken thongs round and around, never stopping, then moved close to Victoria to strike the clips. These were knocked free at intervals - causing my ward to ‘oooh’ and ‘aaah’ almost as much as when they were attached - and fell to the floor with a clatter. When the last was gone Victoria’s breast clamp was removed, after which she was untied and divested of the cuffs.
‘You can get dressed now, young lady,’ Michael said to her. ‘The session is over. We are quite done with you.’
Victoria didn’t move, but stood looking at the pair of us expectantly. Michael was busy putting the clips back in the box and seemed unaware of her scrutiny.
‘You want me to go?’ she asked, pouting just a little.
‘We do,’ I said. ‘Put your clothes on and run along, my dear.’
‘That seems hardly fair, uncle, I must say. Didn’t I take my punishment well? I tried to keep still, honestly - it’s just that those horrid clip things hurt so much and that first little whip stung cruelly. Was I so bad, Sir Michael?’
‘Bad?’ he said, turning to her. ‘No, child, I wouldn’t say that. You did rather well in fact, considering it was your first session on the frame.’
‘There you are, then,’ she said triumphantly.
Realisation dawned. I chuckled and turned to my puzzled guest. ‘She wants a reward.’
‘A reward?’ he said, clearly bemused. ‘You mean money?’
‘Not money. Sex.’
He blinked at me. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Never more so. Perhaps you would care to do the honours? It was your show, after all.’
‘You were present too, Uncle James,’ Victoria pointed out. ‘I think I deserve a reward from both of you, together.’
‘Good Lord!’ Michael said faintly.
‘No point arguing, old man,’ I said, as I recalled a favourite expression of Belinda’s. ‘Just close your eyes and think of England.’
His eyes were very much open, in fact, as he stared at my ward, taking in her ample charms. Watching him, I thought I recognised the precise instant when the idea of mounting her changed from somewhat scandalous to decidedly appealing. He tore his eyes away finally and looked about him.
‘Not very comfortable down here, though, is it?’ he observed.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Let’s take her upstairs.’
We used Victoria’s own bedroom. This was one occasion when I had no great objection to group sex, as Victoria was obviously keen to try it. The saucy hussy took to three-in-a-bed as the proverbial duck takes to water, and was soon bucking and squealing with pleasure as two mouths and four hands went to work on her simultaneously. Having two cocks inside her at once was no less enjoyable, though certainly less noisy, since her mouth was now fully occupied.
All in all, it was a most agreeable hour we spent, there in Victoria’s room. Who says that three is a crowd?
Our only failure - if indeed it could be called that - was with Molly and Mary. Before sending for them Michael prepared two identical cords, each precisely four feet long. To each end of each cord he attached a very special metal clip. He showed one to me and I had to admit it was most cleverly contrived, being made up of several pieces which pivoted one against the other. At one end of the clip were pincer-like jaws, whilst at the opposite end was a ring to which the cord was tied. Pulling the cord had the effect of forcing the jaws together - a truly ingenious design feature, for the harder one pulled the more securely the thing would grip.
The way Michael planned to use them could hardly have been more simple. The twins, having stripped naked, were made to get down on their hands and knees facing away from each other. Michael then clipped one end of each cord to the first sister’s inner labia and the opposite end to her twin’s. He told them to crawl forward to take up the slack and continue to do so till their labia were stretched at least two inches out from their bodies. His final act was to draw a chalk line on the floor midway between the two women.
‘Do you know what a tug-of-war is?’ he asked them.
In fact they did, for they informed us they’d seen one once at a fair.
‘Good,’ Michael said. ‘I want each of you to crawl forward and try and pull the other one over the line. Are you ready?’
They said that they were. They were both grinning, believe it or not, and I realised the fools imagined this was going to be fun.
‘All right, then,’ Michael said. ‘Go!’
There was an initial frantic scrambling for advantage, followed by a long, straining stalemate. Soon both of them were red in the face, gasping and grunting and getting precisely nowhere. They glared, teeth clenched in good-natured fury, labia distended to an astonishing degree. I had no idea whether this was normal - maybe all women could do this if only one pulled hard enough. Then again, it might be the Tavistock twins possessed exceptionally elastic skin.
‘Fancy a wager, old man?’ Michael said. ‘Ten guineas, say?’
‘You’re on,’ I said. ‘I’ll take Molly.’
If anyone was going to win it would surely be the dominant twin - but I already suspected there would be no winners here today.
‘Which one’s Molly?’ he asked.
‘I have no idea. I don’t think it’s going to matter, actually; I doubt we’ll have a winner here today.’
I was soon proved right. One twin might gain a small advantage one minute, only to lose it the next. After half an hour, with the pair of them in precisely the same position in which they started, we called a halt and declared the contest a draw. The cords were removed and the twins rubbed their slits, laughing and groaning and chaffing each other all the while. They agreed to forego their ‘treat’, being too sore for sex and they dressed and departed in remarkable high spirits.
‘As strange a pair as I’ve ever set eyes on,’ Michael remarked. ‘If I didn’t know better I’d say they enjoyed the experience.’
‘I’m certain they did,’ I said. ‘And yes, they’re unusual, right enough. Come on... I think we’ve earned a drink.’
The first round of individual treatments was almost complete. Only Elizabeth and Cathy still remained - the lines, we agreed, had been a joint exercise and as such did not count.
I discussed the various possibilities with Michael and we decided upon the bicycle. My wards had never ridden one before and we thought it was high time they learned. The next day, therefore, straight after breakfast, the four of us assembled in the courtyard. At a sign from Michael, Rawlings wheeled out the vehicle in question. The look on the girls’ faces as they beheld the phallic monstrosity sticking up through the saddle was an absolute joy to behold.
I had decided to kill two birds with one stone by combining their lesson with my morning constitutional. There was no shortage of routes to choose from, but I settled in the end on a favourite walk of mine. It was a six-mile round trip to the old Hanging Stone - an ideal distance for one’s first lesson in bicycle riding, I thought. The track was somewhat bumpy in places, true, but Elizabeth and Cathy would simply have to put up with the discomfort. Life is full of bumpy tracks after all, and learning to take the rough with the smooth is all part of growing up.
In accordance with my instructions my wards were wearing their spanking outfits this morning. I thought it might be necessary to encourage their efforts with a whack or two - or possibly a dozen or two - on their bare behinds, so I armed myself with a light bamboo walking stick for that very purpose.
As Elizabeth had volunteered to be the first to attempt the fiendish machine, Michael held the bicycle while I helped her to mount. The phallus had been liberally greased, but even so it was with some considerable difficulty that she forced herself down upon it, and she whined through clenched teeth as the thing pushed into her rectum. Being breached in this fashion was nothing new to her, of course, for the anal phallus we had used in Ride-a-Cock-Horse was of a similar length, though perhaps not quite so fat as this one.
At last she was settled: buttocks in contact with the leather saddle, feet upon the pedals and hands on the handlebars. She looked none too happy, I have to say, and I doubted her humour would improve once we were underway. This seemed likely to prove a sore trial by any standards.
Michael declined to accompany us, saying he’d been neglecting Faith’s training somewhat of late and intended to make amends with a long session on the frame. It was just the three of us, therefore, who set off shortly after nine. I steadied the bicycle, my right hand grasping the saddle post firmly, my left resting rather more lightly on the handlebars. Elizabeth pushed down on the pedals and wobbled away - excruciatingly slowly - whilst I walked alongside supporting her. The machine rattled and bumped across the cobbles, Elizabeth’s face registering trepidation and suffering in equal measure. Sure enough, as Michael had described it to me, the phallus rose and fell smoothly with every turn of the pedals, sodomising my ward in the process.
‘Uncle, I can’t do it!’ she gasped.
I assumed she meant she couldn’t balance the infernal contraption, rather than couldn’t endure having the thing in her bottom. I assured her she could and would in time, promising not to let go until she was confident. We went out of the yard and along the drive, then turned onto the track that led to the distant Hanging Stone. Cathy walked alongside, eyeing the machine unhappily, no doubt mindful of the fact it was her turn next. She carried my walking stick as my hands were fully occupied keeping Elizabeth upright. I did briefly consider asking Cathy to give her sister’s bum a swipe or two with the thing, but decided against it. Things were tricky enough without that, God knows.
It seemed to take an eternity to reach the Hanging Stone. Elizabeth’s torment increased steadily as the painful journey progressed, no doubt the result of the jolting of the wheels over the ruts (clearly my choice of route was more fiendish than I had thought). Her sense of balance did improve towards the end, however, so that I could let go briefly from time to time, whilst remaining ready to grab her should she topple over. She was still far from confident when we reached the changeover point, however, and I foresaw further bicycle riding lessons for my eldest ward in her quest for two-wheeled proficiency.
Cathy and I both had to help her dismount, and as Elizabeth lifted up off the phallus she cried out in pain. She sank to the ground on her hands and knees, groaning and shaking her head, and remained there a full minute.
‘So tell me, my dear,’ I said, ‘how does it compare with Dobbin?’
‘Worse,’ she moaned.
‘Really? Well, it’s over now - for one of you, at least.’
I glanced at Cathy as I spoke. She regarded me also, her pretty eyes most pensive. I’d remembered to bring along a small packet of lard, which I took from my pocket in order to re-grease the phallus, having first set the pedals such that the wooden cock was at its topmost position. Then it was my youngest ward’s turn to mount the fiendish machine. I again steadied the bicycle and invited Cathy to climb aboard.
She looked positively petrified as she stood on the pedals, I have to say, and it took considerable encouragement on my part before she lowered herself gingerly onto the upthrust prong. She warbled as it touched her anus, managing perhaps another inch of descent before coming to a dead stop. She hovered there, trembling, neither fully on the thing nor entirely off it. It was hardly surprising she was unwilling to proceed further, for Cathy was an anal virgin. It was no trivial undertaking I asked of her, to breach herself utterly with so large an article. But ask it - nay, demand it - I did. Short of pushing down on her shoulders, however, there was little I could do to hasten matters. I simply had to wait for Cathy to sum up the courage to do it for herself.
Elizabeth had stirred herself finally and spoke quiet words of advice and reassurance to her sister. ‘Best get it over and done with, Cathy dearest,’ she said. ‘The sooner we are home, the sooner we can put all this horridness behind us. Think of your very favourite thing in the whole world, and while the image is in your mind, sit down.’
Cathy nodded unhappily. She took a deep breath, gripped the handlebars tightly and began to lower herself. She managed perhaps half the distance before coming to a halt once more with an agonised gasp.
‘Just a little further, dear sister,’ Elizabeth said. ‘A very short way only, I promise.’
‘But it hurts so!’ Cathy moaned. ‘Lizzie, it’s burning!’
‘I know, my poppet, it hurt me too; but there’s no help for it, do you see? In the face of adversity we must be brave and strong - isn’t that what Reverend Wilkins is always telling us? And you must be very brave now, Cathy. Sit on the saddle and we shall be home in no time at all, I promise.’
Cathy seemed to gather herself and pushed down hard. She squealed and her body went rigid, but she achieved the desired result. Her buttocks now contacted the leather saddle. The phallus was wholly inside her rectum. Slowly, with myself supporting her on the left side and Elizabeth on the right, we set off back down the track.
Though Cathy tried her best to pedal, the movement of the phallus that resulted was more than she could bear, so the two of us were obliged to push her along while she freewheeled. Even so, her journey was a grievous one. The phallus might be stationary, yet it remained inside her still, stretching her anus dreadfully. The burning pain was terrible indeed, I didn’t doubt, for every bump and pothole drew a moan of sheer misery from her lips. Though our progress was far from speedy we eventually passed through Bluebell Wood and crested the low rise beyond to see Bleekston Hall in the valley below.
The last mile was dreadfully hard on Cathy, impaled upon that agonising spike. When we entered the courtyard and came to a halt I was obliged to lift her from the machine. Michael, who had come out to watch our arrival, appeared considerably amused by this and made some ribald comment or other. Elizabeth shot him a look that should, by rights, have consumed him with flames on the spot. I was half expecting some caustic response from her, but my ward’s lips remained firmly shut as she helped her sister indoors. That second ‘run’ to the gate had done the trick, it seemed: Elizabeth had finally learned that the wisest course at times such as these was to hold one’s tongue.
‘A sore-arsed a pair as ever I set eyes on,’ Michael chortled. ‘Not happy girls, those two.’
‘No indeed,’ I said. ‘I think you might struggle to find a happy female anywhere in the house, to be honest.’
‘No doubt about that. Let’s find ourselves a nice quiet corner and I’ll tell you what I’ve got planned for the next round. They’re going to get a damn sight unhappier yet, believe me.’
Michael stayed a fortnight in all; and I think I have never seen such relief on female faces as the day he announced his departure.
For myself, I greatly regretted his leaving. These last two weeks had been novel and enjoyable beyond all expectation and I had learned a great deal from him. I planned to acquire the necessary items for myself so that I could continue this most fascinating of pursuits. The frame and lines were already installed, of course, giving me a head start in that respect, but I could foresee that my Canterbury craftsman would be fully occupied for some considerable time to come making clips, clamps, cuffs and so forth - not to mention a very special bicycle seat!
I was with my guest in his room on the morning of his departure. Faith was there also, sitting on the edge of the bed, naked, wearing her usual unhappy expression. Michael ordered her to spread her legs, whereupon he pushed the discouragers into vagina and anus once more and tied her loincloth to hold them in place, after which he removed her ankle chain.
‘I need to have a word with Rawlings,’ he said, turning to me. ‘Can you keep an eye on her for a couple of minutes, old man?’
I said that I would and he went out. I watched Faith closely, for should she divest herself of the fearful things inside her there’d be nothing to prevent her making a run for it. Then, out of the blue, she spoke up.
‘Help me, sir, I beg you!’ she whispered. ‘They’re trying to steal my money - they say I can go free if only I sign some papers. Please, please, help me!’
I was considerably taken aback, to tell the truth, for this outburst was entirely unexpected. She looked utterly pitiful, hunched up on the bed, and I felt genuinely touched by her predicament. My suspicions had been correct all along: she was the victim of some unscrupulous person or persons who wished to rob her of her fortune. Reprehensible though this was to me I was powerless to intervene. She was here in my house as the companion of an invited guest - a gentleman - and was his responsibility and his alone. I had no right even to question him on the matter, let alone dabble in what was plainly no business of mine. She was watching me, desperation clear in her pretty eyes as she awaited my reply. I mused on the matter for several long moments, but thinking about it could in no way change the circumstances. My hands were tied by the laws of hospitality and gentlemanly conduct, and that was that.
It was with deep regret for her situation that I shook my head finally. ‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ I said. ‘I cannot help you.’
‘Of course Mr Montague cannot,’ a voice behind me said harshly. ‘And you were most unwise to ask him, child. Most unwise.’
I turned and saw Michael standing in the doorway. Obviously he hadn’t gone down the stairs at all, but had remained outside the door listening to what was said. I realised it had all been a ploy on his part, to catch her out in just this way. He was entirely within his rights in attempting to trap her in this manner, of course, though it was certainly remiss of him not to advise me beforehand of the subterfuge. In the execution of his plan he had committed a far more serious breach of good manners, however. He should have spoken up the instant Faith made her plea, instead of waiting long seconds for my reply. He was setting a trap not only for Faith, but for his host also, to see if I would agree to help her. Cold rage surged in me, and it took every ounce of willpower I possessed to remain silent.
Michael came fully into the room, glaring at Faith. As for his charge, she could not meet his eye but simply sat there, head down and hands clasped as though in prayer, trembling.
‘I thought she might try this,’ he said to me, tight-lipped with anger. ‘Clearly I’ve been far too lenient with her. Fortunately such a mistake is easily remedied.’
He rummaged in his case, taking out a cane and a length of cord, then pushed Faith back down onto the bed. He drew her feet together and bound her ankles swiftly, then lifted her legs straight up in the air and began to cane her buttocks. He struck forcefully, causing Faith to whimper and squirm under the cruel assault. Michael had not tied her hands, for it soon became clear he expected her to keep them beneath her. The urge to cover up in such circumstances is almost irresistible, however, and they inevitably crept out.
‘Hands!’ Michael barked.
She pulled them back guiltily as he rewarded her lapse with three or four brutally hard strokes, after which the beating continued as before. Her face was white, a twisted mask of pain and misery, whereas Michael’s expression was one of barely repressed fury.
‘I’ll teach you to go behind my back, young lady,’ he said, prodding her vulva sharply with the tip of the cane to underscore his words. ‘I swear to God I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.’
From his tone I suspected this would be a lengthy session as well as a hard one. Some twenty minutes later, when Michael finally stopped, I had been proved right on both counts. He had one further cruelty to inflict upon her, however: once outside her wrists were tied with a length of rope, the other end of which was fastened to the back of the coach. Faith was then informed she would walk the first five miles, discouragers notwithstanding, at which her face took on a look of utter fear and desolation. With that Michael nodded to me from the coach window, Rawlings clicked his tongue at the horses and they moved off.
I retired to my study after Michael’s departure and sat there for a full hour pondering matters. Finally I took out pen and paper and began to write. I doubted the two tasks I was setting Charlie Spikeman - that shady underworld character who had proved so useful to me in the past - would present him with insurmountable difficulties. Discovering the truth about Faith was merely a matter of asking discreet questions in the right quarters and greasing a palm or two. Abducting her afterwards would be harder, no doubt, though I felt sure Charlie and his band of rogues could steal almost anything if they set their minds to it.
As to what I would do with the wench once she was delivered into my hands... well, that remained to be seen. Perhaps she could be reinstated in her rightful position, whatever that turned out to be. Then again, perhaps not, for she had been enslaved once and might be a second time. Without doubt she was safer here at Bleekston Hall, where there was always room for a pretty young female, especially one trained to the lash, with a naked little slit and lively tongue to boot! The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that Faith should remain with me - purely for her own good, you understand.
Rescuing her from Michael’s clutches would create difficulties at Spanker’s Seven, of course, if the truth ever got out. One of us may well be obliged to resign - and if it was James Montague, then so be it. To be honest, I had been growing increasingly disenchanted with Percy and Jasper of late, for Jasper’s treatment of Irene Hammond at FFF and Belinda’s punishment beating at Percy’s instigation made me realise how much I disliked the two of them. In fact, it would be no great trial if I never spoke with either of them again. Nigel and Humphrey would not abandon me, I knew, for true friends stay true through thick and thin.
I felt not the least guilty at the thought of stealing Faith away from Michael. In putting my honour to the test - whilst a guest in my house, dammit! - he had stepped over the line. The fellow was clearly no gentleman, but was merely masquerading as one. He deserved everything that was coming to him.
A day or two later a letter arrived from Freddie. Knowing how anxious Elizabeth was for news of him, I sent for her, reading the missive whilst awaiting her arrival. Soon there was a knock at the study door and my ward entered.
‘A letter from Freddie, my dear,’ I said, ‘just this minute arrived.’
‘From Frederick?’ she said, eager and fearful at the same instant. ‘He... he is well?’
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘His future is settled: it is to be the church, apparently, and not the army as he feared. He asks permission to call on you.’
I handed her the letter. As she read it relief, joy and finally disbelief showed in her face.
‘Good news indeed,’ I said, when she looked up. ‘Should the course of love run true - and I feel it only fair to warn you we aren’t always so fortunate in affairs of the heart - but should it happen, it would seem you are to be a parson’s wife.’
‘Right here,’ she said faintly. ‘In our own village.’
‘So Freddie informs us. A small world, isn’t it?’
‘But... what of Reverend Wilkins?’
‘I spoke with him just the other day, as a matter of fact. He has come into a sum of money and is to retire, apparently. He plans to live with his spinster sister in Devon, he tells me, and walk the cliff tops in quiet contemplation.’
‘Come into a sum of money,’ she echoed, giving me a most searching look.
‘Indeed. Fate can be kind, on occasion. With the vicarage just a twenty minute walk away you will be able to call upon your sisters whenever you wish, and they on you.’
Though I knew she loved Freddie - or believed she did - and wanted with all her heart to be with him, the thought of parting with her sisters had caused her many a sleepless night these past months. (It was Victoria who made me aware of this, after Elizabeth had confided in her). The letter made it plain that her misgivings were groundless, for she could marry Freddie and still be near her siblings.
I remained the focus of Elizabeth’s keen scrutiny for many long seconds. Finally she nodded slowly. ‘It is not fate who is kind, uncle,’ she murmured. ‘You have arranged all this.’
‘Me?’ I said. ‘Good heavens, why ever would you think that? I’m sure it is Freddie’s father who deserves the credit. I’m just your wicked old Uncle James, remember?’
She approached and kissed me gently on the cheek. ‘Wicked, certainly,’ she murmured, ‘yet uncommonly kind and considerate at times. You’re a mystery to me, uncle, and I think I shall never understand you as long as I live.’
With that she departed, Freddie’s letter clutched to her bosom. I shook my head ruefully, for most decidedly I was getting soft. First Faith and now Elizabeth - I seemed to have made it my mission in life to come to the aid of females in distress. I suspected my grandfather would view such noble intentions with deep misgivings, but then I am not the man he was, and can never hope to be.
They were good deeds, however, and I felt I deserved a reward. I would give the very next female to walk through the door a sound thrashing, after which I would mount her, right here in this very room. Or perhaps I would do it the other way round and mount her first, variety being the spice of life. The odds were on Alice, of course, for as housemaid she was in and out of here all the time. I hadn’t had cause to beat her for some weeks, so probably it was high time I did. It was even longer since I had ridden her, come to think of it, and no doubt she considered it high time I did that, too. I couldn’t be absolutely certain it would be she, of course, for Rose, Irene Hammond and my wards all came to the study as the need arose. I found myself growing increasingly intrigued as to who it might be - and more than a little excited at the thought of what lay in store for her.
After a good ten minutes of waiting someone knocked at the door; and surely it was too bold a rap for Alice?
‘Enter,’ I called out. The door opened... and my unsuspecting victim stepped into the room. I couldn’t help smiling. ‘Mrs Hammond! Come in, dear lady. You cannot imagine what a pleasure it is to see you, truly!’
‘Why... thank you, sir,’ she said, a trifle hesitantly, my unusually jovial manner having alerted her that something was afoot. ‘I wished to speak with you about Guy Fawkes night. There’s to be a bonfire in the village which the girls are eager to attend. Is now a convenient time to discuss it?’
‘Not really,’ I said cheerfully. ‘A matter has arisen of far greater importance than bonfires. You are due a thrashing, in fact.’
‘A... a thrashing, sir?’ she said faintly.
‘Indeed. A sound one, to be precise.’
‘Have I done something to offend you, sir?’
‘Offend me?’ I said. ‘My dear Mrs Hammond, you are a constant source of delight to me. Nevertheless I intend to thrash you, after which I intend to mount you - right here on the couch.’ I patted the seat beside me and beamed at her.
‘Whatever you command, sir, of course,’ she murmured at last.
‘I’m so glad you understand that. My immediate wish is that you undress. My second wish is that you touch your toes and elevate your beautiful bottom in preparation for a lively whacking. My third wish... well, let’s just see what transpires, shall we?’
She began to unbutton her dress while I sat back to watch, as happy at that instant as I had ever been in my life, I think. For Irene Hammond, beautiful and voluptuous though she may be, was just one of nine women at my beck and call. Though Freddie would take Elizabeth away in time - a most painful loss, to be sure - the number would remain at nine, for I would be gaining sweet little Faith.
Nine women, and all mine! I know spankers who have but one or two, the poor devils. Indeed, there may well be men out there who share my predilections yet have no women at all on which to practice the noble art. One can only pity them and wonder how they manage to stay sane.
The governess divested herself of the last of her garments and stood before me in all her glory. Truly, she looked even more spectacular, more desirable than the first time I laid eyes on her all those many months ago. I knew I would never tire of looking at - and spanking, and bedding - this marvellous woman.
I fetched the medium tawse from the cabinet and slapped it against my palm. Irene Hammond winced at the sound before bending dutifully to touch her toes. I stroked her buttocks, running my hand over the smooth, generous curves, and felt her shiver. I took a single step back.
‘Madam, are you ready?’ I asked.
‘I am, sir,’ she said meekly.
I nodded. ‘In that case... we will begin.’